#AND there's no plexiglass between them

[toxifoxx]

[yeyinde]

appetite | Alpha!Simon Riley

it's been decades since Alpha!Ghost had a rut. something that's probably for the best, really. his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug. it's best kept tucked away, secured under lock and key.

but then he finds you. and you're all alone. unclaimed, on the verge of heat. poor thing. it triggers a voracious rut. decades worth of want spilling out over you. you're it, he knows. feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. he'll have you—now, forever. non-negotiable. where you go, he will follow.

but you run from him. stupid girl. didn't anyone teach you not to run from a starving wolf?

dubcon. size kink. size difference. a/b/o dynamics: knotting, rut. breeding kink. spit kink. implied virgin!reader. obsessive behaviour. possessive!Ghost. semi-public sex. reluctant reader bullied into submission lmao. forced bonds. implied kidnapping. basically, you're hunted down and fucked by Alpha!Simon who growls in your ear about how he's waited his whole life for you. and lucky him. he finally found you

AO3

It's been years, decades, since he had a rut. 

(Broken Alpha. Ruined.)

Trauma, they tell him, will do that. Sever the drive in the back of his head, the one that rears—vicious and angry—each mating season, bringing with it the urge to breed. To claim. Own. 

A form of self-preservation. It pitches a plexiglass of protection between him and his instincts, not letting them merge. Join. Done so because to be in rut, to want, to need, is vulnerability. It costs hypervigilance. Turns man into beast. Animal. 

This bodily reaction makes an alpha extend themselves, like an overarching limb, to shield the omega they pick as a mate. Bearing their own neck to save another. 

Naturally, they say, if he couldn't help himself, how could he ever hope to protect a fragile little omega? 

They tell him it could be as permanent or temporary as he allows. Healing, they say. Time. Laughable, really. And utter nonsense because Ghost is fine. 

Trauma tampered. Revenge sought, found. There's no one out there who could ever harm him, and still—

His last rut was before the mission that buried him alive. That turned him into the living dead. A mockery of man. Frankensteinian beast. 

It's not something he cares much for, anyway. From what he remembers of his youth—vague snippets of memories, disjointed, blurred sensation; a profound need, an urge, to sink his cock into something, to plug them up, to bite—ruts have always been a nuisance. In the way. An annoyance that took time away from what he'd rather be doing. 

And as Johnny enters his—skin pallid, waxy; cheeks flushed, eyes darkening like a brewing storm on the horizon; snapping at anything that breathes, whining like a dog, miserable and hot, all the time (ahm’a bleedin’ furnace, s’what ah’m)—he finds he doesn't care very much to go reclaim what he lost. 

No skin off his nose. Nothing to concern himself with. 

Besides. Omegas know better. 

Even before he lost himself, dying, rotting in a tumulus, pretty little omegas with their soft hands and bashful smiles always went out of their way to avoid him. Miserable alpha. His scent alone wards them off—burnt leather, charred bones; sarcophagus dust, dirt—and he found himself alone during his burgeoning ruts more often than not. 

No pretty little thing to tender the sweat on his brow, or bend over and present for him—offering up a sweet little cunt he got to bury himself inside, tie up nice and tight on his knot. 

It was usually his hand. A bottle of bourbon. A printed porn stash he swiped from Tommy, who nicked it off their old man—

And when he did find a partner, it was always transactional. Hand to hand, an exchange of money. All clinical and detached. Empty. Fucking into a concept instead of a person; a vacuum eating away at his soul because he knew, then, that they wanted to be there almost as much as he did. 

But what choice did either have when their home was the rotted gullet of a dying beast?

(Simon told them to stay away from shitty men like him, who broke bones in the throes of his heat, snapped his jowls at anything that got too close, and had to be chained to the bed like an animal during it—)

Nothing to miss. Nothing to mourn. 

And it's not like he doesn't get the urge. Wanting to sink his cock into something warm, wet, is as recurring as a sweet tooth. A prickle in the back of his head after he devours his dinner that says, dessert might be nice. 

He can fuck, but his knot never pops. A worry the doctors had—unsure what the consequences would be in the long run for such a virile, young Alpha already experiencing nature's version of erectile dysfunction so early in life. 

(“pity the poor omega who has to deal with that rut,” they whispered. “might not be much of anything left of them when he's through.”)

Inconsequential now because he's pushing forty and his last rut was a false trigger. One dragged out of him by drugs and torture. The last true rut, natural and instinctual, was when he was eighteen. 

It's doubtful he'd suddenly be cured at his age. 

This is what he tells Johnny when he asks, pries. Broken fuck, ain't he? Unmated. Can't knot. Piss poor excuse of an Alpha. Doesn't he think it's—

“a shame,” Johnny grouses, words muffled slightly by the way he's hunched over the cheap plastic table in the canteen. His fingers dig harshly into his temple. “Alpha like you—” it's enunciated in clipped Queen's English, the barb makes Ghost scoff. “—ack! a waste. ma mam would be livid. no grandbabies t’show off? sacrilegious.”

—funny. If he's being honest. Laughable:

because for as long as Ghost can remember, he's always had a predilection to ruin his favourite toys. slaking his unquenchable lust on their tender skin, biting down to the bone, sipping on their marrow—

not really the sort of thing omegas today go for, is it? 

his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug—

Instead, he shrugs. “hardly.” 

“yer no’ missin’ it?” 

“missin’ what, Johnny?”

“knottin’, ye surly prick.” He jeers, then, jabs his elbow into Simon's arm. “a bonnie omega to stick yer prick in. ain't missin’ th’, no?”

“no,” Simon gripes. The last thing Price needs is another order of protection against his Lieutenant. But to humour the alpha in an early stage of rut, he jabs out, hollow and full of wretched derision. “i can barely remember what it felt like. must be heaven, though. is that your plans for tonight, Johnny? gonna go and knot some sorry omega?”

It's meant to prod, poke. Sharp barbs aimed at Johnny's threadbare control, the same one held in place by a fraying, unspooling knot. Alphas in the early stage of rut are considered safe enough to be around. Not yet mindless drones, hosts to an ugly little parasite; a being forced to obey a single, instinctual drive to mate, to gorge themselves into a post-rut stupor. 

Safe. Or so they say. 

But Ghost knows what Johnny's feeling in the same sense as a phantom limb. A broken, fragmented memory. So, he twists his mockery in deep. All in jest, of course. 

And Johnny pales suddenly. Wavers in his seat. The affirmative comes after a bout of contemplative silence. A jagged, choked yeah slips from his Sergeant’s mouth as he drops his head to the table, and groans. Miserable. 

“go fuck yerself, Lt.”

Simon intends on taking Johnny up on that offer, lazying out on the futon with his hand stroking lazily along his flaccid cock, thumbing through the latest series of snapshots Johnny—ever the photographer—snapped up during his previous rut. Images of pretty omegas dressed up in fine silk, blood-red lingerie, and coy little grins on their faces, a vixen pastiche of demureness. Jejune appeal in all its coquettishness.

Innocent sluts—Johnny's preferred type. Ones who'll bat their eyes at him, nervous and full of faux modesty, while they rock back and forth on his face, tugging on his mohawk to make him lick their cunts just the way they like. Sweet, like candy. Dressed in sin. 

He likes to take before and after photos of them—often with the pretty models unaware (adds to it, aye, Lt?). Ones with them batting their eyes at him, soft and shy in all their twee delight, and then fucked out, ruined and chewed up like a broken toy when he finishes with them. Bitten off more than they can swallow. Cheeky brats sobbing for mercy on his bed. 

Likes, even more, to send them to Ghost. A little tease. One he has no compunction about partaking in. Enjoying to his heart's content. 

Or—

Intended to, of course. Because what ends up happening is this:

Price calls just as he's getting into the new series sent to his phone—the tear streaks streaming down this omega’s face are particularly appealing, bound in intricate Celtic knots (Johnny, the artist), and gagged with their own panties—and tells him he has a job for him. 

Something simple. Discreet. And local, too. Bears have been sighted in town—a mama and her cubs. Dangerously close. 

The prelude to the phone call is a clipped take care’a it before the line goes dead. 

Ghost doesn't need to pack much—he can't remember the last time he unpacked his duffle bag, anyway—and stays in the recliner until the mission file comes in, idly stroking his thumb across the pixelated, tear-streaked face of the omega in Johnny's clutch. Moussed. Messy. They make the prettiest picture, don't they? Drool dripping down their chin, a spillover from what the lacy, white panties couldn't catch. 

Flesh peppered with jagged circles, bite marks. Johnny knows better than to claim them, and their neck is bereft of his teeth. Smooth. Unblemished. 

To claim is to bond. To bond—

Well. 

His earliest recollection of a relationship is his parents’. His mum, tied and trapped to a man she wanted no part of, but stuck. Unbondings, divorce, were rare during that time. Unheard of. Even now. 

And under his old man's influence, he's always seen claiming as ownership. As possession. A lingering remnant he’s told is wrong, but can't shake. Can't change. It glues in the fibrils of his mind. A rotten, pulsing scab that no amount of sanctioned reconditioning can ever seem to get rid of, to scrape out of his skull. 

(one he knows would be there no matter what because his sole purpose is exsanguination; bloodletting— 

in his warped desire to protect the things he cares about, he ends up smothering them in the end. a child holding a firefly too tight in its chubby fist.)

But Johnny knows better. Good Catholic boy. Knows to keep a muzzle on himself when he sucks desperate kisses into the small omegas' sweet neck, breaking apart the blood vessels of their scent glands, soaking himself in their musk—potent pheromones of a needy omega in heat. Aching for a bite. To be held down and conquered. 

It's wrong, they say. This ugly mass sits inside his chest like a foreign body. Scandalised eyes drilling into the side of his head like he's a monster for thinking this way. 

And he is. 

(always has been)

But he knows better. Knows to keep those uglier, rotten parts of himself hidden away from prying eyes. Got good at it, too. Enough that they let him into the brothels time and time again. 

Still—

He can remember the closest he'd come during a rut to biting a shrill omega who screamed in his ear until his head rang, ached. Nearly did it, too. Teeth razoring over their jugular, pinching delicate skin. 

Clarity came like a gunshot when he tasted blood. Chiselled a hole through his delirium, broke up the haze, and snapped his jaws up tight, locking them as he finished with a muffled growl, tongue swirling over his teeth for another taste. Another drop. 

His ruts have always been messy. Bloody. Got him banned from several centres, brothels, where they offered up betas drenched in the artificial musk of an omega in estrus. Ones resilient enough to withstand the harsh coupling of an unhinged Alpha in need. 

He had a problem, they said, with treating their workers like chew toys. Biting to break skin, drilling in deep enough to scratch his teeth on their bones. 

Deranged, they hissed. Fuckin’ mental, mate. Stay the hell away!

Some are just prone to violence. Need to be half-sedated before they can mate without ripping their partner to pieces. Ghost has always been that sort. Aggressive. Hard to control. Rabid. 

His appetite is bigger than the expanse of their skin. He sometimes thinks he could eat the whole world and still starve. 

He hums, thumb sliding to cover the omega's neck. Trapped in his hand, his clutch. They're cute when they're ruined like this. Begging. Whimpering. 

His cock gives a half-hearted twitch. His work phone chimes, signaling the end of his leisure. 

shame, he thinks, squeezing his hand until the metal dents, the screen cracks, splinters. Pops. Hairline fractures split across their distorted, tear-stained face. He closes his fist over it until it breaks. Goes black. 

really. such a goddamn shame. 

Some things are just not meant to be—

—but they have a habit of falling into his maw, anyway.

It's a simple set up. 

Man—

beast, monster, thing

—with his empty, growling stomach and teeth made to bite, tear, goes out hunting for a meal. In that search, he finds you. 

You, Persephone personified: damned (eternal), standing beneath a spruce tree. Limned, halo gold, in the waning sunset's bashful kisses, you lean on the rough bark, idling your timelessness away. 

Postcard beauty. Pinup demure. Alluring. 

(creature of sin

and oh, do you reek:

The air is saturated in the tantalising scent of honeybush, roasted hazelnuts, and clove. Saccharine—almost nauseatingly so—but with a hint of spice, black cardamom, cinnamon. He drags in lungful after lungful until it tangles deep within his chest, nearly suffocating. Smothered in this earthy sweetness. Drowning. Drowning—

the perfect dessert)

It unleashes something in him. Chips at the lock buried deep in his mind, cudgelling through the hinges until they pop. Rusted, slick with oxidising oil. It peels back from the gate, unveiling this gaping, ravenous chasm, polluted and gangrenous, rotten down to the marrow. Noisome. Noxious. This frothing pit sloshes, geyser-like, and greedily foams at the maw, the mouth, aching for a taste. Something to quench this gnawing hunger. 

This bottomless abyss hadn't seen light since he was eighteen, and—

The hollow space where his rib once sat throbs, aches. phantom bone. He holds his chest with his hand, feeling for the gap, the chasm, stolen from him. Ripped away, taken.

By you. you—

—so,

it's only fair that he steals something back. 

(quid pro quo, or something, right?)

You greet him with a small nod when he wanders close, eyeing him warily under the black rim of your ballcap. Tense. Small hands curl into fists, partially hidden under the rain-soaked windbreaker nearly two sizes too big. It smells like you—honeyed milk, molasses; lilac, lavender and warm bread—and he fights the urge to pull his mask down, to shove his misshapen nose into your neck, and breathe it in right from the source. Drinking, feasting, on it. 

This want is visceral. It coils in his guts, bubbling in his veins. His musk—heavier than yours, pungent—beads along his scent glands, mushrooming into the air like a fine mist. 

Your nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, eyes skewering into you, taking in everything you have to offer. The rucksack left at the bottom of the tree, stained with dirt and leaves. A sprig of Saskatoon berries peeks out from the lopsided flap. And—

Ah. 

Foraging is off-limits in this area unless granted a permit. One you don't seem to have based on the skittish way you keep avoiding his eye.

His scent thickens, tainted sour with faux suspicion, and you wince, ducking your chin, tucking it close to your chest, hiding from his spearing gaze. 

All it does is give him a voyeuristic view of your fragile nape, your vulnerable neck. 

His teeth ache. Jaw clenched up tight. 

It looks so bare. So naked. 

(Be a shame to keep it that way forever, wouldn't it?)

“Hi,” you stammer, seemingly oblivious to the musk you leak into the air, into his lungs. Forcing some sense of staid indifference into your tone. Like being here, out in the middle of the forest is normal. “Did you need something?” 

On the verge of a heat like this, wobbling where you stand—

He wants to chew you up. Spit out the pieces on the pavement. Drink from the gash he'll rip into your jugular,

quench this unbearable thirst. 

He doesn't know how you made it out here as long as you have, smelling like you do, and the thought burrows through the haze spuming, clotting, on the fringes of his muted periphery. Anger is an icy deluge of white water raging through his veins. 

Under the mask, the remnants of his scarred lip curls. His hands close into tight fists. Balled up. He feels the tension crackling along his muscles, his body. Coiled spring. Ready to leap—

But:

There's clarity. Focus. Where he was meant to become a mindless monster, driven by instinct, he instead feels the pieces of himself snap back into place. Missing puzzle pieces. It shifts. Settles. Locks. 

He wants you. Will have you. It's non-negotiable. Ironclad. You just—

Belong to him, don't you? Pretty little thief. And wandering around like this, reeking like you do, you must want him, too. Need him. 

(protect, protect, protect—)

Honed in, drilling into your face to catch every expression that flickers past, he sees the moment you take a sniff, when realisation blooms in the inkpools of your gaze that you are less than an arm's length away from a starving predator. Supple, soft. All plush flesh seated seamlessly against brittle bone. Fragile. 

“hi,” he echoes, and it sounds hollow. Garbled. Like he's speaking underwater. Thinks, for a moment, that he's buried again. Drowning under the crushing weight of dirt. His own tumulus. Suffocating. Choking on dirt—

But you twitch. Feral little thing. It breaks him out of this nightmarish obtundation; shaking the cobwebs loose. He tracks it like a viper. Attention narrowing, shrinking, into nothing but the way you move. Smell. You anchor him in his place, keeping him stable amid this horrific onslaught of emotions that rip talons down his chest. 

“I–” you breathe in again, lashes fluttering. Strains of silk batting over your etiolated cheeks. You breathe him in. Deep. He sees your chest grow, expanding with his air. His musk. Has to bite down on a growl before it forms, the lash of a whip in his throat. Aching. 

There's something spellbinding about you—caked in a layer of grime, briny sweat clogging your natural scent; wild and untamed. Uncharted wilderness, untouched by man and their dirty hands. A corrie after a rain shower. Snow melt. He wants to bathe in it. Carry it with him wherever he goes. 

As if scenting this thickening desire, your eyes widen. You take a step back, swallowing audibly when he follows. Marionette on strings. Your shadow. 

“I should go—”

And he knows he can't let you do that. 

Won't. 

He hums, a fickle, brittle thing in the far reaches of his chest. 

“Go?” he flicks his hand toward your bag, head cocking to the side in a mockery of contemplation. “Don' think you got a permit for that, do you?”

“A permit…”

He has you. Your eyes lower, falling to the badge on his chest. Game Warden. You stare at it, eyes widening. Swallowing thick. 

With you distracted, he leans in. Curves his body over you mockingly, like he's bending down to whisper a secret in your ear. Cupping a pretty little firefly in the palm of his hand. 

When his shadow falls over you—dark and damning—you flinch back, fists trembling under the hem of your jacket. Brows furrowed, knotted tight. Your lower lip wobbles. You try to hide that, too, by sinking your teeth into your flesh until it floods white under the strain. 

He wants to pry it apart with his own teeth. Take the bruised flesh into his mouth until you start to drool, whining from the abuse he inflicts on you in a mockery of a kiss. 

(wants to tear through it, taste your blood on his tongue—)

“An’ I don't reckon tha's a good idea, pet.” 

You shiver when he places his hand on the truck above your head. Boxing you in completely, nothing to spare—not even an inch. 

He hums at that, cock giving a vicious jerk inside his trousers at the almost impossible dearth between your sizes, at the way he swallows you up in an instant. Has to take a deep breath to steady himself, to keep the inkblack tendrils swirling, gathering, at the edges of his periphery from bleeding in. This starving murder of crows. 

When he speaks again, it's low. Deep. Kittenish licks from the tongue of a tiger; abrasive, rough. Mocking baritone of a shifting canyon, a mountainside, before it buries anyone alive under rubble. 

“Not reekin’ the way you do. Might ‘ave every alpha in a one square mile radius frothin’ at jaws for a taste. Ain't safe out there.”

And it's definitely not safe with him. 

He watches, transfixed, the moment this clicks. When your eyes waver between the hard bulk of his body—spread out, laxed; plumage unfurled—and the noisy clatter of the town just within reach. It's this thicket that cups your scent, that protectively curls over you, and keeps the Alpha's prowling about the market square from sniffing you out. A beaten trail. Hidden desire path no one was supposed to wander down. 

Except the bear problem in the woods, infringing on town, and him, the gun bolstered on his thigh still hot from his warning shots into the bush.

(lost little Lamb—

wandered too far from the herd.)

You take another step, cautious. Small. It brings you flush against the tree. Your polyester jacket whines at the friction. He can see indecision play out on your face. Oscillating between the badge on his uniform shirt, the gun on his massive thigh, and the clamour of muted noise from the town just within reach. Alphas prowling. Their acrid scent is unmistakable even through the dense foliage spreading around you.

It's an impasse. Neither option affords you much choice in the long run—it's either stay here with him, with the heady scent of want, of an Alpha on the incipient cusp of a voracious rut; or risk yourself in town. There are police officers patrolling. Ones who can sedate an alpha who gets too out of hand, but still. 

The mimesis of desire pooling around you might send you into heat sickness. That, or you'll get in even more trouble for fleeing a pursuing officer. Resisting arrest. Jail time, certainly. 

The pendulum wavers. Your knotted fists wobble. 

Then—

Your eyes leave his chest, the gun, trailing over his shoulder. Widening in surprise at whatever is there in the distance. 

He ought to commend you, really. The rouse is quite believable—

But: 

“Not bad,” he murmurs, leaning down further. If you won't jump, he'll push you—

He sees his mistake as soon as it happens. 

As he bends, you drop. Waiting until his attention seemingly drifts elsewhere, to when he's distracted and off balance. Lured in by your faux attempt at distraction. 

And it might have worked on a lesser being, but all Ghost has ever been is raw, unadulterated instinct.

He lashes out as soon as you move again, palm curling over your wrist in an instant. Snapping jowls of a defensive snake. Shackled. Locked. He tugs—

But the movement costs momentum. You use this against him, going limp. Forcing him to take the brunt of your weight on the spread of his fingers. Tricky little minx. His mouth breaks out in a feral smirk, tugging harshly on scars, on burns. Stretching skin. Distorting it under the mask, ugly and vicious. 

Your scent plumes up around him, sickly sweet. His jaw aches, gums itch. He wants to bite, snap his jowls around the scruff of your neck, chew on your skin until you sob out his name—

In seconds, you twist. Swinging your body back in a beautiful pivot, clumsy as it is. You're all animal now. Reckless in your pursuit to escape. Throwing out pheromones at him—purposeful, he realises a moment too late. 

And it works. Distracts him long enough for his grip to slacken. Your arm slips out of his grasp, and you're on your feet in an instant, darting through the thicket in a maddened dash to escape the heavy, starving alpha and his burgeoning hunger. 

Escape, or—

Weighed down by the afterbirth of his sudden rut, a prickle of his old self buoys, brims, from beneath the mess. He shouldn't chase you. Should leave you alone, call someone—Price, perhaps. Bark out between a clenched jaw that he needs a tranquiliser and chains. Will have to break Simon's teeth to stop him from biting into you like a man starved, famished. Tie him to the back of his pickup truck, drag him to the edges of the forest. Knock him out. Knock his teeth in. 

Anything.

Because they said this might happen. The doctors’ who poked and prodded. Therapists—all mandatory, non-negotiable, when he signed his name on the dotted line—murmured about unravelling. His self-control snapping like a twig. Sense of self retreating. All hiding away, protecting itself from the torrent of chemicals flooding his hindbrain. A heavy, unrelenting accumulation of a decades-long bout of rut celibacy all washing over him, all at once. 

Said to lock himself up if it happens. Chains. Shackles. Nuts and bolts. Heavy tranquiliser. Immediate sedation. 

And in Price’s office, in that messy filing cabinet he keeps, is a folder. A playthrough of everything that's supposed to happen if this happens. 

(“but that won't happen, will it, Simon?” 

and he'd rolled one massive shoulder in an easy, effortless shrug. 

“no.”)

The failsafe is that he's meant to call in if it does. Precious seconds of clarity, cognisance, enough time for him to dial the number, to bark out the order. To be hunted down, rounded up, and thrown in a pit. 

where he belongs. 

He should. Should. It's the book. Rules. Coloured in red ink. No option to negotiate. 

But as you slip through the dense foliage, angelic gold against the phthalo green bosky, the knot in his shoulders abates. Uncoils. In this sense of ease that permeates within him, he finds that he's shockingly cognisant. In full control. The plexiglass shatters, and in the ruins he finds purpose. 

You smell good. Too good. Any alpha will scent you in an instant, will claim you. Take you. It makes something in his broken, moulted head shift. Crack. He can't let that happen. Has to protect you the only way he knows how—

To wrap his paws around your throat before any other Alpha has the chance to sink their teeth into you. To claim you. 

All his. Little Persephone tucked tight against his ribs where you belong. 

And if the way the air clots with your cloying smell—heady, potent; the unmistakable ripeness of an omega in heat—then you must want him to chase you. Want him to follow. 

(escape, or—

a game.)

He tracks your movements, honed in on the rustle of the underbrush. When you're out of sight, Ghost flexes his hand, curling his gloved fingers over the leather on his palm. There's an itch in the back of his head. Festering. Rotting. He wants to reach in, rake his claws down the mass, shred it to pieces, but it affixes one simple truth inside of him: 

you need him. want him. why else would you run in the opposite direction of help if you didn't want him to give chase?

And so, he does.

You're a crafty little thing. To throw him off of your trail, you leave scent markers on the tree trunks you pass, doubling back to run in the opposite direction. 

It might have worked on someone else, but Ghost has spent half of his life buried in this thicket, and knows better than to follow smells in the forest. A vacuum, a great chasm; it plays tricks with sounds. Distorts scents wafting through the canopy, mingling with the natural loam, the disturbed humus underfoot. 

Instead, he hums at your cleverness—his smart little omega—and shifts his gaze to the forest floor, roaming over the footprints sinking into the soft soil, the peat and moss. A breadcrumb trail leading right to you. Broken twigs, crushed bushes. 

Ghost follows it. Places each foot down carefully, nose angled upward to catch the fresh wave of your heat leaking through the tangled furze. It beckons him forward. Calls out to him. 

(come, come, come—)

This lost little lamb needs a shepherd. 

He intends to give you just that. 

(—find me)

The path you cut through the forest is a twisting sawtooth meant to throw him off your trail. Traps laid out in tall tussocks, weaved through sweetgrass all drenched in your scent. Pieces of your clothing torn at the hem, the shorn fabric pressed on pine needles and tangles furze. 

These breadcrumb trails—a neat nest of wile, it seems—are cunning, he'll give you that. 

Even with his eyes to the forest floor, he finds himself throwing a wayward glance in the opposite direction, snagged in your webbed subterfuge. Somewhere between the visitors centre and the first trail meandering into the thick taiga, you seemed to have realised that your boots leave indents in the mor. He follows the deep impressions in the podsol until he finds them shoved under a Saskatoon berry bush. Another dead end. 

Clever little thing, aren't you?

But even when strays from the path, he's right on your tail. Confident in his scenting abilities. His prowess has always been tracking down wily little rabbits when they try to flee, picking them off in stasis from high above. The layout might have changed—his perch closer to the ground instead of a deer stand—but his eyes are just as keen. Your winding trail is ingrained in his mind. A long loop through the eastern trailhead, and he knows, instantly, that you'll try to throw him off at the placard where the west trail branches off through the dense conifers, and the east meanders downslope to the hidden stream where hunters like to trawl. 

He feels a pinch of pride simmering low in his guts. Anyone else would have lost you three pitfalls back. He's enraptured by this pursuit. Smitten by you. Your clumsy little escape. Your sweet little ploys. He wants to chew into you, let his teeth leave jagged scars, false starts, on your bones. Permanent. Starlight—dusting meteor showers in milk white. 

Ghost’s belly gives a tremendous growl. He huffs at the ache clawing against tissue, ravenous and unbearably empty. 

He'll have you soon. All to himself. 

The thought makes fresh blooms of pleasure spume from the rot in his chest, prickling through the layers of muskeg and peat, etiolated little sprout. Germinating in wet gangrene. Feasting on necrotised flesh. 

He swipes his hand over a honeybush, catches the lingering scent clinging to the leaves. You must have fallen here. Tangled yourself in the furze, overcome by your heat. 

Poor thing. Tired already. 

He holds his hand up to the fading gossamer of twilight trickling through the dense canopy, clenching the lingering remnants of your scent in his fist. It's fresh. He wants to tuck it in his pocket, carry it around with him. 

He finds you in a small clearing, bent down with your palm resting on the trunk of a tree. Nails digging into the rotting bark, desperately struggling to catch your breath. Your heat is a wildfire. It scorches the earth. Burns his nose. 

You're no longer on the cusp of it anymore, but in the throes. 

His rut, he finds, isn't too far behind. 

Perfect synergy. Meant to be. You call to him, and the gaping, gnarled chasm inside of him answers with a growl—

Before you can blink, he moves.

He falls over you, felled timber. The earth shakes under his indomitable weight. Palms slam into the rough bark of the gnarled spruce you've taken respite against, boxing you in. 

You fall against it with a gasp, hands pushing against his broad chest as he backs you into the tree. Little fists pounding on his sternum, mouth pinched, twisted in a snarl. There are pieces of bush caught on your clothes, tangled in your hair. Leaves. Sticks. A spot of dirt on your nose. 

It's mesmerising. 

The ballcap falls first. Morning sunlight over a boscage in bloom. Pitfalls, ravines. The canyons of your eyes quiver; this new topography shifting, sliding. Tectonic beauty in muted midnight. 

He wants to reach in, feel these granite walls of yours with his bare hands. Clamber up the colluvium, the scree, until he reaches these rugged peaks gleaming at him, angry and feral, in fading twilight. 

Time is endless. There's no limit to how long he has to know you—drink from your rivers, feast on your valleys; find all the hidden nooks, the crannies, shaded under the towering monoliths of your body. Chart your couloir. Defile your flume. Bathe in your estuary. Tangle himself inside your dells. Tame your chaparral. 

Fastidiously. Expertly. Until no part of you is unknown to him. 

Your chest heaves, mouth open as he crowds you further. Pressing into you. Over you. 

He wedges his broad thigh between your legs, presses it tight against your pussy. Your thrashing stills when he touches you, when he angles his knee up, up—

There. Through the layers of clothing that separates his bare skin from your cunt, he feels the heat bleeding out against him. The wetness from your sodden panties. Undeniable proof of how much you want him. Need him. 

 “All wet f’me?”

“Fuck you—!” You spit, angry and feral, but you arch into his touch, pushing your pussy onto his thigh. Aching for friction. 

It makes him hum. A low growl caught in the back of his throat. 

“Reckon I'll be the one fuckin’ you, pet.” 

And he will be. This is fact. 

You shudder, brows notching together in a vicious glare. “I don't want you.” 

It's hissed between the sliver of your clenched teeth. Full of heavy conviction. Forging truth out of lies—

And that's all it is. A lie. A fallacy. 

(and even if it wasn't, unlikely considering the way you arch into him, needy despite the disdain dripping down your brow—he really just can't find it in himself to give a fuck; he'll make you want him—)

Ghost leans down, muzzle pressed against your neck. He inhales deep, audible. Chest expanding, lungs swelling. Full of the aroma bleeding out of your pores. Proof of just how much you do, in fact, want him. Betrayed by your own body. 

He huffs out, paints the air with his derision. “Is that so?” 

Ghost drags his hand down the solid line of the tree, dropping it to rest against the jut of your hip. He ducks his head, watching. Staring at the way his palm nearly swallows you up when he rests it over your waist. Spanning nearly the entirety of it—hip to hip. 

It bludgeons into him. Knocks the air clean from his lungs. 

He's always had a hunger for things he can cup in his palm. The barrel of his rifle. The hilt of a knife. Your wrist in his hand. The curve of your hip. 

His gloved fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. Pads ghosting over your skin. Warmth bleeds through the leather, an unmistakable tell of your heat reaching its first equinox. It'll be all fire, all smoke, from this point onward. Desperate. Feral. 

Groaning deep, wanting, he pushes into you further. Chest rumbling. Eager. 

It takes a great deal of effort to pull his hand away. To bring it up to his mouth, fingers hooking over the edge. 

The fight in you abates—marginally—and you watch him with a keen look of suspicion dancing in the moulted dirt spread over your nullah. Wary. Anticipatory. 

He fights the urge to laugh—deep and delirious—and instead works on prying his mask down over his crooked nose, his mangled mouth. Letting the hem snap under his chin, kept there. Bearing himself to you for the first time. Naked. Exposed. 

Your eyes widen, trailing down the jagged lines, mauled ridges of scar tissue. Drinking in everything he offers in the fading embers of a summer twilight. 

He grins—a rivened, ugly thing—when you let out a heavy, quick breath, and your hips drop, rutting your sopping cunt over the wide heft of his thigh. Gyrating subconsciously. Quietly pleased by the way he looks—as maimed, as beastly as he is. He lets you. Lifts his knee, pressing his cap tight into the bark, and bumping the top of his flexing quadriceps at the apex of your groin, right where he knows your clit sits. 

The breath you take is pulled in through clenched teeth, biting on the rind of a moan. Its shapeless silhouette ducks, hides from sight. 

He lets you have it. Lets you run. 

But it's not without recompense. 

With his upper lip curled, he sinks his teeth into the leather tip of the glove above his middle finger. Letting you see them for yourself—these thrawn teeth he'll bury into your neck. Claiming you entirely as his. 

Your pupils start to eclipse your irises. Lagoons of liquid black blotting over rugged peaks. 

Ghost slowly tips his head back, dragging the glove with him. Eyes setting along his lashline, he drinks in the sight of you swallowing thickly, your gaze darting between his teeth, his mouth, and now—his bared neck. Voracious, greedy, in the way you feast on him. Drilling into the stretch of skin slowly unveiling itself to you. 

The muscles in his neck flex against rimy skin. Adam's apple bobbing with his slow swallow. 

You follow it all, but your gaze seems to fix itself on the brawny arch of his neck, falling—and then glueing— to the thick vein protruding from his flesh, pulsing with the steady rhythm of his heart, and the small, swollen bump of his scent gland beneath it. 

Hunger, he finds, paints such a pretty picture on your face. The greedy, anfractuous glances a bludgeon into him; so heavily affixed with desire that the shake of your head when he pulls the glove free, letting it dangle from between his teeth, and drops his hand back to your skin, is minute. Meaningless. 

You want him as much as he wants you. 

The clause in this, the axiom, is ironclad. Irrefutable. Bound in brass when you shiver at the touch—feverish skin on feverish skin—and arch into his palm for more. Panting through clenched teeth, each hiss striking against that fraying coil leashing his threadbare control. To distract himself from the unspooling knot, the ache in his gums, he charts the first inch of skin he passes with his thumb, committing the sloping plains of your body to memory. The jut of your hip, the stutter in your breath when he runs the rough pad of his forefinger over the slope of your underbelly. 

It's easy to marvel at the sheer enormity of his size compared to yours. Simon hitches his thigh firmly into your clothed cunt, nearly lifting you up off the ground. You teeter on the tips of your toes, falling forward into his chest to stabilise yourself. Little fists curling into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles tight against his the last rungs of his ribcage. Your head lifts, a glare chiselling into the soft fields of your face. 

You hiss something at him—feral and scathing. He drops the glove, leans down to meet you in the middle, and eats your feeble protests from your lips in a bruising kiss. Scorching. His teeth knock into yours. Tongue lashes out to catch the vitriol dripping from your fangs. You make a noise in the back of your throat, and he swallows that, too. Devours it all. 

It's a vicious kiss. All teeth, tongue. Bullying. He lets you sink your teeth into his tongue, huffing into the seam of your lips when you coo, victoriously, at the first drop of blood spilled. 

In retaliation, he sets his hands over your ribs, and lifts you up off the ground. Making you gasp. Mewl. Your legs kick out as the back of your head catches on loose bark, raining it down over your shoulders in flakes. He doesn't stop kissing you throughout. Eyes half-mast, still open, as he drinks in the sight of yours rolling back in your head when his thigh, one the width of both of yours—fuckin’ hell—catches the perfect angle on your clit. 

Loose-limbed, caught, you have no choice but to wrap your ankles around his waist, curl your arms around his broad shoulders. Clinging to him desperately to remain grounded, held aloft. 

His hand falls down, cups the back of your thigh, fingers spanning the entire curve of your cheek. Held tight in his palm. He bucks into you—quick, hard. Letting you feel the unmistakable bulge of his stiffening cock, leaking spend already in the tight confines of his trousers. This groin, inner thighs, already sticky with the mess dribbling out. 

You fall apart at this. Head tipping back, crown thudding against the truck of the tree. He has your lower lip between his teeth, and it pulls, skin stretching until he huffs out another breath, mocking, and unhinges his jaw, letting you go. 

Mewling, whining low in the back of your throat, you clumsily rut your cunt into the hard press of his cock. Eyes hazy, liquid, with your blooming heat. 

Its approach is quicker than he thought it would be, and he hums, tongue rolling over his teeth to catch the lingering taste of you. Under his hand, your skin burns. Singing with the urgency of your desperation. He answers it with a grunt, falling forward to smother you under his weight. 

There's a flash of clarity in your eyes when they crack open. Brief. Fleeting. He feels your sluggish attempt to push him away, to free your hands from between your chests, and he has to dip his head to stifle another groan. It feels good to have you under him like this. Covered entirely in his bulk, his shadow. 

His hand pulls away from your flesh, snaking between your bodies to catch your wrists in the palm of his hand. Only one swallows them up, and the easy way he subdued you—effortlessly—has him nearly coming undone in his trousers. Untouched. 

“Fuck, want it bad, don't you?” he snarls, hips bucking into you. Chasing pleasure. He pulls your hands out, lifting to arm to trap yours in the shackle his fingers make high above your head, and—

It's devious, this. 

Somewhere in the loosening agency of his self, his autonomy, he knows this is becoming dangerous. Something that ought to be stopped before he rips into you with a rabidness that promises nothing at all will remain intact when he's finished. When he's had his fill. He needs to clear his mind. To get away from the way you fit against him so perfectly. Tiny in his wicked embrace. 

Like you were made to fit between his ribs. His teeth. 

He gnashes them together, trying to stem the ache in his gums. 

He wants to fuck you. Needs to—

But as ripe as you smell to him now—tender melon, warmed honeycomb—he knows that you're not yet ready to take him. 

Ghost steps back, letting your feet drop to the soil below. With the sparse inch of space between your bodies, he breathes in the lingering scent of your breath—sharp, burning; imbued with a heady thrum of adrenaline electrifying your nerves—and finds the musk a near-perfect pantomime of ozone. The arid tang in the air just before the air. A lightning strike. It rolls over his tongue, tastes of wet pennies in the back of his throat. Heavy with anticipation. 

Something he feels very keenly as well. An eagerness he hasn't met in decades. Absolutely famished for it, for this familiarity of want. Potent desire. 

He mourns the loss of the way your ass fits in the cradle of his hand when he pulls it free, fingers trailing over the feverish skin of your hips, your belly, as he goes. He doesn't stop until he comes to rest on the button of your trousers, eyes flickering down to catch your gaze. Purposeful, now. Intent clear. 

Nothing is stopping him from taking. Your protests are paper-thin, dissolving the moment it touches the dense blanket of humidity in the air, but he wants your submission. Wants to see your resolve break, crushed by your own hand. 

The gossamer wings of a butterfly, crumpled up in your palm, and offered to him for the taking. How sweet—

You seem to realise his intentions when his thumb dips below the hem of your pants. Just a tease. Brushing against the soft skin he finds there with the curve of his nail. 

Your glare is instant. The sharp tug of a drawstring pinching tight between your brow. Mesmerising as it closes over your lax expression. A fierce snap. He wants to pry it apart. Wedge himself between the seam. Create a gap wide enough for him to fit. 

“I won't beg,” you grind out, acidulous. Firm. 

He huffs, quietly amused by the fight still sparking in you despite the evidence of your arousal, your want of him, evident in the stain at the seam of your pants. His other hand rests on the trunk of the tree above your head, boxing you in when he leans closer. Taunting. “That so?” 

You don't respond, but your glare sharpens, mouth tugging downward in a harsh frown. Displeasure sparks in the air. Cutting into him like fine glass shards. He lets it graze his naked flesh, the warning ghosting over him in needlepoint pinpricks. Entirely too captivated by you to notice the sting. 

Your ire is a heady, tangible thing dripping down your brow, slashing over your cheeks. Anger, however misguided it might be, paints a pretty picture over your face. Darkens the inlets nestled in the corner of your eyes. Drenches the ravines, gorges in a startling chiaroscuro. Limns the alpines, the valleys, in a halo of golden starlight. 

He wants to drink it down. Hold your fury in the palm of his hand—

Crush it between his fingers. 

Because despite the dissent, your desire cuts through, and hews the air in a thick tapestry of want. 

mutinous, teeth bared, but your eyes burn, rage against the prison walls, and scream, please—

His fingers dig into the bark above your head, catching flecks of sap between his nails. Knuckles turning white under the flaxen hair dusting over them, strained. The grip is unintentional. Unconscious. He keeps thinking about you beneath him. The heat of your thighs around his waist was a mere tease. A morsel when he wants a meal—

The pressure in his knuckles grounds him. Cuts through the phosphenes blanketing the edges of his vision, smothering the clarity, the cognisance, that lingers in the centre. Threadbare as it is. 

There’s an ache in his jaw. 

(the need to bite—)

He pulls it off, and shoves his hand tight between your thighs, cupping your cunt in his palm. Feeling the heat bleed through the gusset of your pants. The touch is harsh. Firm. He bullies his fingers into your flesh, letting out a mocking chuff when he feels the fabric dampen.  

“Somethin’s’ tellin’ me otherwise.” 

Your hand lashes out, grabbing the thick of his wrist. Holding firm. It should be a warning, but the obvious gap between your middle finger and thumb makes him groan instead. 

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?” 

You twist away from him when he leans down, chin ducking to your shoulder. Hiding. Denying him your mouth, your taste. This meagre measure of control you grapple for is easy to give. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear instead, letting you run. Flee. For now. 

His voice is thick when he continues, husky. He pitches it low, lets it swirl into the seashell coil of your inner ear, earning him a shiver in response. Your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. Holding tight. 

“‘m a lot of things, pet—” rucked gravel, sodden with his derision, spills into your ear. Your shudder makes him want to bite, to maim. “Wrong ain't usually one of ‘em. But you'll learn that soon enough.” 

Your breath hitches. Expression morphing, shifting. Changing into something adorably beleaguered as he encircles you like a tiger, eyes drilling through the tussock, aimed directly at your head. With his body boxing you in, coiling over you like a hideous shadow, he has you trapped, caught. Little lamb writhing between the paw of a tiger.  

You seem to be keenly aware of this. Your eyes are shrewd, searching, as you probe around for any escape route, but he's a bulwark around you. Inescapable. 

Finding none, you suck in another breath, and slowly lift your chin, glancing up at him through your lashes. The look on your face is—

Enigmatic. 

Something changes in the morphology of your mien. Fracturing. Cracking. 

“Yeah?” You breathe, soft and goading. Your hips buck into his hand, rutting shallowly against the tops of his fingers. Unconscious. Like you just couldn't help it. 

And he supposes you can't. 

A fine sheen of sweat has been building since he took after you into the forest. Gathering around your temple, your hairline. The harsh reminder of your festering heat, once dammed by your raw disdain for him—hatred, he'd say, and doesn't the thought just make him want to laugh; you're all bark, no bite, and he knows he'll have fun breaking you in, breaking you apart—but flooded over by the primal drive to mate. 

And he's perfect for you, isn't he? 

Hideous bastard that he is. It's a sharp juxtaposition to your prettiness, your earthly beauty. 

Under the spinel sky, you break. The hand on his wrist tightens, your hips flexing into his palm. Seeking friction. Needing pressure. Needing him. And pissed off about it. Delicious. 

“Prove it,” you snap, irritation blanching the corners of your eyes arsenic white. Edging into a frenetic desperation hot enough to burn the threads of your resolve. But there's a gleam of reluctance pushing through the syrupy murk folding over you, heavy molasses. You want to give in, but there's something about him, his appetite, that makes you hold back. That makes you visibly sick at the sight of him—

Unfortunately for you, he has no such compunction to shelf his barbarity. To leash his desire, to muzzle the overwhelming urge to crush you under the weight of his accumulated need. It's decades of listless apathy. Divorced from anything resembling human emotion at the root. Carved out, scraped off bone. He was left to stagnate. A misfortunate creature submerged in a bog, dead but unable to rot. 

The deluge of his savage, bestial hunger rages in his veins. It's corrosive, vile, and—

unrestrained. 

Ravenously esurient. He wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go—

but first: 

he needs to eat. 

His meal is a feast, it turns out. Simon gorges himself until he's full. Promises that he'll stop as soon as he's satiated. 

(but he's lying to himself, and to you, because he never is—

never will be.)

Tears pebble along your lash line as he feasts on your sopping cunt, licking at your fluttering rim, slurping up your slick. Your clit is pressed tight against the crooked arch of his nose, sliding and catching on the jagged ridge each time he moves his jaw to dig deeper inside of you as if he's trying to taste the seal of your womb. You pant, whine. The noise muffled half-heartedly behind your palm. Teeth sunk into your skin, lodged against your bone. 

Angry rivulets rain down your cheeks, dangling like fine beads, gems, on your jaw. He wants to taste them next, as soon as he fills his gullet with the earthy tang you release. 

Your tears remind of that pretty omega Johnny sent to him—a brat, he'd said; the best, Lt—and it churns in his stomach, dredging up something awful. Terrible. He wants to make you weep harder. Wants you sobbing, begging. His own little brat to take over the knee whenever he wants—

But that's where the uncanny resemblance ends. 

You're not a brat. No. You're a headache. The kind that will have him written up, sat like a bad dog in his best suit, as they level him with charges, and orders, and the like. The sort of thing that even the old man wouldn't be able to string him out of—not that he would. Price is three days away from a much-deserved retirement to the mountains and sitting on his hands to keep from snatching up the pretty conservation officer who moons at him whenever he passes by. 

He won't be much help to get Ghost out of trouble. That leaves only Gaz and Soap. And while he's sure they can swing it, he doesn't really want to be under their ahh, guess ye/ya owe us one, Lt/Riley. 

So—

It stands to reason then that he should have you tamed before dawn. Shackled down, locked up tight. Only right considering he's the best in town to keep bears at bay. Do you really want to deal with a mama grizzly and her defenceless cubs? Or a starving male clumsily pawing his way out of hibernation? 

Probably not. 

So. So. 

He pulls back, rests his chin on your thigh. 

“Gonna be good for me, pet?” He asks, lowering his tone considerably until it catches on the gravel below. 

He's not surprised when you hiss through a cloud of tears. “Go fuck yourself—”

Ghost tips his head, suckles your clit into his mouth. Tongue laving over your flesh. Blunt teeth pressing flat against the swollen bead, a tease. You tense, gasping. Hand pushing his head back, back—

“Don't, don't—” you're mewling, nails raking over his scalp. Hips bucking, pulling back. Struggling to get away. The bite marks along your thighs weep fresh blood in your struggle, filling his nose with the heavy scent of iron. 

They serve as a harsh reminder of what he can do with these jagged teeth of his. 

He chuckles, mouth still closed around your clit. The vibrations have you choking, spine curving into a beautiful arch. 

Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still. Trapping you. He's not quite done with your cunt, yet. And all this wriggling is something he can do without. With his hand pressed to your hips, he notches the other down your thigh. Tracing his index finger over your soft skin, dragging it close to your outer lips. Catching the tacky slick drying on your flesh with the tip. 

Tiny fists rain down over his shoulders. Urging him forward, eager for more. Selfish, spoiled little thing. 

What a monster he's made—

“Patience, pet,” he coos, mocking and mean. Likes the way you react to the patronisation in his tone. All taut shoulders, shaking fists. Bearing your teeth at the slight, the stinging barb. Shaking in an amalgamation of embarrassment and shame. 

You seem to like it when he's a little awful to you. A little mocking. Cruel. 

“Shut up—!” You hiss, lips curling as you glare down at him. “I'm not your pet—”

He ignores you. Bends down to sniff at your cunt instead, and finds his answer is the white hot desire he can taste in the back of his throat when he breathes you in. 

His fingers pry apart your folds, and he greedily drinks in the sight of your drenched hole, clenching down on nothing. Poor you. His heart thunders in his chest, rages. He wants to sink inside of you—impossibly deep—until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases to exist. Rolled into a single being, atoms merged. Bodies fused. He wants to take everything from you. All of it. Eat it out of the cup of his hand like pomegranate seeds, let the skin get stuck in his teeth. 

He wants to devour you whole.

(to eat—)

Settles, instead, for pawing at your cunt. 

Pressing the width of it against your slit, feeling the heat of your core on the palm of his hand. Branding himself with the intensity of your desire. Another scar among many. An uncountable number of jagged asteroids cratering along his flesh, making a home out of a ghost. A shell. 

Reinforced, too, by the absurdity of how terribly contrasted his flesh is to yours. Monstrous. His scarred hand rests over your pussy, encompassing it entirely with extra digits to spare. Folding each finger on top of the other to wedge between the basin of your thighs. And as his gaze comes to rest on the way he swallows you up, he is struck by the garishness of his hand—hideous scar tissue, burns—falling over your pretty cunt. 

Sinful. Frankensteinian beast palming the sweet pussy of a pretty, human woman, and—

Fuck. 

His cock twitches, spits out a thick glob of pre-cum.

Ghost has never wanted to ruin something as badly as he wants to ruin your cunt. You. Mess you up so badly that everyone will know you belong to him, and him alone. To brand you with the tattoo of his teeth on your mons; force a claiming bite on the pillowy skin above your clit. His ownership bracketed between your thighs, at the very apex of your hip bones. Buried into tissue right under the bulge of your womb. A fecund valley for him to lay waste; for you to grow beauty from the rot, the ash. 

Cinder scraps over his nerves. Fells his resolve in a brutal sweep. 

He comes undone at the seams, unravels. 

Simon curls his fingers into a loose fist, passing the rugged peaks of his bone over your soft flesh. Gathering slick on thick, scarred knuckles. He holds it there, folds pried apart by his hand, content to luxuriate in the softness of your flesh, the scorching heat.

Possessively, he unhitches his thumb from the coil of his fist, and swipes it over your clit. More slick leaks out as you keen. 

“Sweet omega like you should ‘ave been claimed by now,” he rumbles evenly despite the sour twist in his guts at the thought. “Might not ‘ave ended up ‘ere, would you ‘ave? Beggin’ the first alpha you see to fuck this sweet little cunt.”

“Begging?” 

“Practically gaggin’ for it, weren't you?” And even though the words are his own, they sit in his gut like a stone. An angry knot tangled in his intestines, snaking its way up his gullet. Bitter. It's quelled by the sight of your bare neck. Ripe for his teeth. And his alone.

But even if you had a pretty ring made by another alpha, Simon knows that wouldn't have stopped him from taking you, anyway. Biting over the claim. Breaking it between his teeth. Precious, loving union shattered by his crooked greed. He'd have relished in it, too. Basked in the way you sobbed as he tore your alpha into pieces. An obstacle turned into a pretty effigy at his feet. Wicker pyre burning to keep him warm.

(he'd have caught dinner for you, too; hunted caribou, moose, and roasted it over the open flame. Fucked you under the blume of orange. Let the fire lick across your skin as he sunk in deep—)

He rocks back on his haunches. Mood labile, quicksilver, as his rut grows. Festers. 

You deny it, breathless, as he slips the mountainous peak of his bent middle finger into your hole, stretching your rim around the scarred cartilage. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Rapid, quick. Wanting. It draws him in. Makes him want to spit on your pretty pussy, and then break you apart on his cock—

“Such a needy cunt, eh? Starving for a good knot, ain't it?”

You hiss out your protests, but clench tight around his knuckle. He chuckles, and it's liquid. Wet rot. Lungs polluted, spitting nocuous, black smoke into the air. 

“I'm not—”

“You are.” 

He pulls back, pursing his mouth, and spreads your lips apart, opening you up wide and vulnerable to his prying eyes. Saliva puddles on his tongue. He gives you a moment to clue into what he's about to do, your fingers tightening, nails digging into his scalp as you do on a shallow gasp of disgust. Then, brutish, he leans forward, and spits. Lets the glob hit your clit, and he has to hold you still when you jerk, cringing away from him, snarling out your displeasure.

“You're disgusting—”

The protests are weak. Your knees tremble, giving away the growing slickness gathering on the insides of your thigh. 

He hums, watches as it oozes down between your folds, over your fluttering hole, before it falls to the ground between your legs. He lets his hand fall back over your cunt, middle finger gathering his spit. Rubbing it around your pebbled clit. It's done detachedly, perfunctory. A means to an end with hardly much concern for your pleasure. Not yet, anyway. 

You've given him nothing in return yet. 

He intends to change that soon. 

As you grapple with the harsh reality he presents to you—one of ownership, humiliation, and pleasure on his whim—he drags his finger down, sliding it between your soft lips until he reaches your hole once more. Petting around the drenched entrance slowly, softly, humming under his breath about how wet you are. 

Your hips drop, greedily chasing after his finger. You won't ask—not yet—but he likes the way you rut against him: all hateful, spiteful. Like you can't decide on what you want more—to bash his head in, or keep it locked tight between your thighs. Sweet thing. 

“Need me, don't you?” He sinks his finger in. Nearly whites out at the pressure, the tightness, he feels. Soft, wet. Squeezing him in a vice as you yowl, whimpering into the stretch like it matters. Like his thick, scarred finger is the most you'd ever taken before. Sweet girl. So naïve. 

He drinks in the sight of your flesh forcibly being parted around his knuckle, matting the wisps of blond on his skin as it leaks down to his wrist, until that, too, is pushed up into you. His whole finger now engulfed in the wet heat of your body as you squirm around the stretch, pulsing around him like a heartbeat. 

He groans when he tastes your discomfort on the back of his tongue. 

“Don't worry, lovie. M’gonna take good care’a you.”

You watch him with slitted eyes as he pushes you down to the forest floor, glaring over your shoulder as he adjusts you the way he wants. Maneuvers you around like a little toy. Forearms braced against the trampled grass, knees sinking into soft moss. Thighs spread. Cunt bare, drenched. Ready to be claimed. Taken. 

He drops to his knees, shuffling close from behind you. His hand drops to your lower back, pressing your torso down further into the ground below. His cock aches between his thighs. Heavy, fat. He reaches down with his other hand to where it droops, smearing pre-cum over his inner thigh. He catches it in his fist, flushed the colours of a fresh bruise—angry red, purple—and strokes along the sensitive skin of his shaft, dragging it up and over his engorged head. Pre-cum weeps from the tip, drools long strains down to the forest floor. Puddles thick between your knees. 

A prelude, perhaps, for what's to come. When he has you tied like a bow around his knot, milking all the pent-up spend from his heavy, full balls. 

It's been decades since he had this—

(“shame.”

he concurs.)

Simon pulls his cock up, taps it against your pebbled clit. Drinks in the sight of you keening, cunt gushing more slick out of your empty hole, dribbling down your thighs. Mingling with the mess he already started making. 

It shocks him how good it feels just to tap his cockhead on your pretty pussy. To drag it through your slit, teasing it against your fluttering hole that drools copious slick over him. 

He wants to make a mess of you. Fuck your pussy until you cum, until all you can feel is the split of him inside of you. Filling you. Ruining you. 

Until all you can think about is the thick drag of him against your stuffed walls. Empty without him plugging you up. Desperate for his cock, his knot—hungry little slut just for him. All for him.

He presses the head of his cock against your rim, letting it catch. Holding it there. A tease. Just a little taste. 

Likes when you whimper, head hanging between your shoulders, fingers curling into the moss below. You make such a pretty picture like this—the expanse of your back bare for his eyes to roam, locking on the dimples of your hips, the curve of your waist. The plump shape of your ass inviting him in—eager for a bite. Your flesh looks bare, lonely, without his mark. The contrast of his own inked palm—fingers webbed with faded lettering, some slogan he picked up in his youth. Hands etched in black. Lines bleeding, bulky. The unmistakable tremble of an incipient artist’s first brush of a needle on real skin. Jagged, garring. Ugly. He lets his hand rest against the small of your back, groaning at the way it looks. 

Sinful.

You're made for soft silk and a fluffy bed. Head resting on a plush cushion instead of your arms, forehead braced over the uncomfortable squeal of your polyester windbreaker that he didn't even have the courtesy to let you take off. No. Just trousers. Panties. Pushed haphazardly down your legs, left in a pile by the spruce tree so he could throw your ankle over his broad shoulder, feasting on your cunt. 

There's a spot of dirt on your asscheek. The curve of it is scraped from the bark, red and raw. 

The glare you aim at him from over your shoulder is venomous. There's a smear of moss on your cheek. 

You're made for epsom salt baths. Being tended to by a besotted alpha who treats you like fine china, only to be taken out on special occasions. Brushed, always, in a fine layer of dust from disuse. Sweet, tender lovemaking under the waning summer sky. Your alpha apologising for ruining you like this, for making you take the brunt of his rut. Poor thing. Gentle kisses, and hands clasped together. 

He can see it so vividly in his eye. So viscerally that it almost feels like a crime when he glances down at his cock, the weeping, engorged head almost comically too big for you. The thick of him could easily swallow your cunt up if he flattened his length against you. Covering you wholly by his girth. 

It's a thought that makes his hand tighten, and nearly chokes him on a moan. 

Even his thighs bracketing the backs of yours is hideous to look at. Bigger, broader—there's a considerable gap on both sides of his legs that he thinks nearly his whole fist can fit there, notched against the outside of your thigh, covering the expanse of his own. Garish. 

He can't wait to lay you down on your belly, lock his thigh tight on either side of your own and rut into you like that. Crushing you under his weight. Swallowing you whole. Until anyone misfortunate enough to wander by thinks he's fucking the cold ground. 

His thumb strokes along your fevered skin, collecting the sheen of sweat building up on the pad. Rubbing it in. He feels it too. This unrelenting swelter. A cage, pushing down from all sides. Inescapable. 

The only way to quench it is on you. In you. 

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” The words are mangled in his throat, thick with want. 

Your shoulders tremble. In worry, he thinks. Scents the air like a viper, letting your emotions curdle in the back of his throat. “Just get on with it—”

He meets you in the middle of that taunt, teeth against your throat. 

Ghost pushes inside with a groan, eyes rolling back at the way you swallow him up. Stretching around the considerable girth, fluttering around him. Pulsing like a heartbeat. 

It's heaven. 

Nirvana nests between your thighs, bracketed by rings of blood. Red. Absolution imbued in tender flesh, parting perfectly around his cock in a loving embrace. 

You haven't confirmed it for him, but the tightness of your cunt around his fingers, the heady scent of discomfort burning the back of his throat when he buried them inside of you, make him mutedly aware that you're inexperienced. A fact he pockets for later because if he thinks about being the first alpha, the first man, to ever claim you, take you, then he might lose his mind, he might fall down that yawning chasm that reeks of damnation, of brimstone and ash, and never recover—

So, he doesn't. Won't. 

Can't. 

His pace is slow as he feeds you the fat length of his cock, eyes drilling into the way you swallow him up. Rim stretching taut, flesh paling under the strain of taking him. With one hand anchored against your hip, holding you tight, and the other curled over your shoulder, fingertips resting on your collarbones, he slowly, slowly, sinks inside of you, bottoming out with a deep groan. 

The outstroke drags with it an iron scent in the air. He huffs, nostrils flaring. Greedy for more. There's discomfort leaking from your pores. His girth is more than you can conceivably take, even with the preternatural help from your heat, leaking slick down your inner thighs in thick rivulets. 

He holds himself there, breathing—heavy, tremulous—through his nose. His hands shake. The pressure, the pleasure, is indescribable. It coils in his guts, spumes liquid bliss in his veins. The way you feel pulsing sweetly around him is—

Equilibrium. 

Every misfiring synapse inside himself is slowed. Imbued with a potent sense of ataraxia. His mind comes to a standstill. Thoughts looping over themselves, tangling into the gossamer threads of control floating in stasis. Unmoored. You unravel him. 

It's further proof that you are his missing part. His ruts in the past have been calamitous. Snarls wrenched from the trenches of his chest; a gluttonous feast—a sacrifice to Hēdonē. Violent, vicious. 

But this—

It's drinking ichor from the vein of Anteros.

There's a crack in the back of his head. The sound of everything, all of it—

Falling into place. 

His hands tighten. Tighten some more. He holds you, sure and firm, keeping you nestled in the anchor of his embrace, unable to run, to flee. You're his. Settled. The caveat is ironclad, bound in permanence. 

And Simon moans. Deep, and low. The noise jutters out of his chest, and seeps into the evening air. Fine mist, crystallising in front of him. Phosphenes of ice cemented his decision, gluing to his cheeks. The nape of his neck. 

His ears burn. 

“Fuckin' hell, sweet thing,” it's a guttural growl in the hollow of his throat. “Where ‘ave you been all my goddamn life?”

It's a nauseating confession, one scraped out from the vacancy between his ribs. It peppers the air in a soft, saccharine kiss. Makes you shiver beneath him, gasping in lungfuls of loam, dirt in your throat. 

He grunts. Stills. He doesn't want that for you. Ever. Would rip off his own limbs before he ever let you feel the crushing weight of dirt congealing inside of your lungs. 

The way he arches over you is damning. Nauseating. He curls his arm around your shoulder, your chest, traps a heaving breast in the palm of his hand, holds tight. The other falls from your hip, closes over your mons. Greedily feeling your slick, hot sex pulsing wildly around him when he passes over your clit, toying with your stretched, swollen rim. It's perfection, this. 

He pulls you up, up, leaning back on his haunches until you're balanced on your knees, nearly sat on his lap. Taking him deeper than before. He drops his head back with another moan when he feels your slick gather, dripping down to coat his balls. 

Everything about you is just—

Perfection. Absolution. 

Your hands fly up, curling over his forearm, mewling when he pinches your nipples between his middle and ring finger. 

“C’mon,” he rasps, leaning forward to press his face into your nape. You smell sweet. “Play with ‘em for me, pet.” 

Nails bite into his skin. You whimper. Squirming around on his lap. But you do as you're told. Slowly, slowly, reaching up. Touching yourself the way you like. Fingers ghosting over your flesh, brushing across your nipples. Pulling, petting, the way you like. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, watches. Devours. Commits each movement to memory. Every sound, every breath. Everything. 

He keeps a slow, languid pace like this. Content to just feel you pulsing around him, listening to the slick, wet squelch of him filling you up. Over and over again. A lazy rut. 

It's unexpected, he knows. You've been bracing yourself this whole time, fingers digging into the podsol, spine tightening up. Waiting for the savagery to befall you. 

When it doesn't come, he feels your quiet acquiescence come in a soft breath. In the way you slowly drop down to meet the deep rut of his hips. Taking your pleasure, pulling him in deeper. There's an edge to your voice, one still dipped in threads of discomfort, a waning pain that rings out, shrill, in the satin spill of moonlight over the indigo forest. 

It's good like this. Tender. Not something he'd have ever imagined for himself, and the reality of it is dizzying. 

Reedy, he groans. Nuzzles his misshapen nose into your scent gland. His gums pulse, ache—

But he ignores it. Swallows it down. 

He's not sure what compels him to do so. Spellbound, maybe, by this unnatural softness that spools silken threads between you. Sutured in tenderness—so unbefitting of the man he is. The monster—

His hips stutter. Jerk. 

“Simon—!”

You whine into it, arching back. Sweat gathers, drips down your spine, smears into his chest, belly. Matts the thatch of hair running in sparse, patchy clusters down the thickness of his midsection. A bountiful spring fattened him up. Made him soft and pillowy over his abdomen. Something you can't seem to get enough of—pressing the flat of your back against him, leaning into it. Groaning when his arm shifts, boxing you in. Crushing you to him. 

Wily little kitten, purring so sweetly in his lap. 

He draws lazy circles over your clit, grunting with each clench of your cunt. You're soft in his arms. Malleable. He slides his hand up from beneath your breasts, catches your jaw in his palm. Fingers spanning from cheekbone to temple and, oh—

Doesn't that just make him preen. 

He drags your chin to the side, catching your mouth in a sickening kiss. All tongue, teeth. He wants to taste, to devour, every part of you. Bones and all. 

It's a fight, though. You tense in his grasp, lidded eyes snapping open, wide and around. Cheeks bulging between his fingers when you twist, trying to pull away. 

“Don't—I don't want to—” he bites the protests from lips. Messy, sloppy. He flicks his tongue over yours, wrapping it around you like a satiated snake burrowing in after a heavy meal. “Don't—f–fuck—”

It earns him a nip. Teeth digging into his bottom lip. Drawing blood. 

He huffs into the seam of your mouth. Only fair, he supposes, and then pulls you down—hard, fast—onto his cock. The air is punched out of your lungs, flooded into his esophagus. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he warns, bucking into you. It's harder this time, deeper. Tempo increasing. Growing. He feels himself thicken. Knot fattening up. Each piston of his hips seems to knock something inside of his head loose. Common sense, maybe—

The fraying knot of his self-control winding tight. Pulling taut. 

He huffs again, feeling himself slip. Lost in the sensation dripping down his spine, the unified pleasure blooming in the pit of his stomach. 

The air plumes with the thickening tang of your arousal—all sweet, spice. You can take it, now, he knows, and tries not to growl when you hiccup his name wetly into the air. 

The muscles in his thighs bunch tight. Corded and powerful. He arches up, up, forcing his cock deep inside your cunt, splitting you apart. Rutting desperately, edging into something animalistic. 

It runs a knife along the thin skin of his hindbrain. Come out, come out, come play—

He moves you again, pulling his hand away from your jaw and pushing you back down the forest floor. He stays glued to your back. Tucks his arm under your chin, and smothers you under his bulk, groaning when your thighs give out, sliding on the sweat-slicked moss below.

“Simon, ah—” your voice tapers off into a breathless cry when he pulls his hand free from beneath you, wrapping it around to join the other. Holding on, clinging to you. Keeping you locked tight against him, under him. You can't move at all like this—

The swell of his knot bumps against your stretched rim. He presses the brunt of his weight into each thrust now, spurned on by the needy way you yowl into his forearm, drooling all over his skin. Begging for it. 

“Please, please, please—”

Your body is jostled forward with each harsh buck of his hips as he gives you everything he has, feeding his cock into your sopping cunt over and over again. Eager now to fill you up, to flood you with his cum. Make you swell with it. Overstuffed. 

Perfect little omega, you rut back into him with each thrust, taking his thick cock to the root. Mewling sweetly when his knot begins to catch. Too much, he thinks. It might just wreck you for good—

pomegranate seeds splitting over your teeth, blood red juice leaking from the tear. spilling into your mouth. just a drop. just a drop, and Persephone is all his

—Perfect. 

He teeters on the edge of ferality and control. Spinning, spiralling. Loosefooted on the wobbling chossy. Coming undone in a magmatic end—wicked heat, ashes, brimstone; he catches fire, and smoulders you under his heat. Letting the flames lick across your skin until you whine his name, desperate and needy, in the back of your throat. The thrill a bludgeon against his skull, spilling pleasure, bliss, in the broken hole you wrought. 

You tighten like a vice around him—tight, tight—and he pistons into you, burrowing deep. Deeper still. Until you thrash around beneath him, soundlessly screaming his name into the dark forest. Begging for mercy, mercy, please—

He won't. Can't. 

He can't get enough of the way you feel wrapped around him like this. Silken, whitehot. Tight. Tight—

It squeezes the air from his lungs. Static in his head—

And then you let go. Pulsing, throbbing around him. Pulling him in deeper, blanketing his mind in white noise. In nothing but magmatic pleasure. 

“Fuck—!” He snarls, almost angry. Vicious. Chasing after his end in the aftermath of yours. Instincts are at war within him, banging against his skull. Demanding recompense. Paid it's pound of flesh. 

It's what he's promised. What it's owed. 

(and he always keeps his promises, doesn't he?)

Most describe their ruts as mindless, driven by instinct. No control. But Ghost has never felt more present, more alive, than when he sinks his teeth deep into your nape, nearly choking, drowning, on your blood.

For the first time in decades, he feels the crater inside himself, suffused with spare, broken parts, seal when you yield with a mangled yowl of his name, raw and fractured as it splits between your teeth. Pretty pussy swallowing up his knot when he bullies it in deep, locking you together.

pretty little lamb—

a perfect fit between his teeth.

His rut is a voracious thing. 

Ghost has you on your back for the second and third round, heels resting on his shoulders as he bucks into you. Makes you stare at him—don’t look away from me, pet—as he commandeers your body with an ease that seems to break apart all demurrals as they form, rendering you sweet, malleable, beneath him to do with as he pleases. 

And you are, aren't you?

So fuckin’ sweet. 

(“gonna give me a cavity,” he rasps, thick with pleasure, into your ear. he has you on your belly now. holds you down with his weight, crushes your chest against the soft moss below, thighs squeezed tight between his own. you can barely make a sound with his forearm digging into the dirt right above your crown, swallowing you whole under his bulk. 

(owns you like, he finds. no one would be able to see you beneath him if they wandered by. encompassed wholly by every iota he has to give—

he cums like that. nose buried in your crown, moaning low, scorched, in the back of his throat as you twitch beneath him, unable to move at all—)

It's early in the morning when he finally finishes, when his rut begins to slowly recede, and a fresh bloom of clarity yawns over his periphery. Moonrise peppers soft kisses over his aching shoulders as he glances at you curled up against his side, sleeping soundly. Exhausted by the hours and hours of mating, fucking. Taking him, his knot, drinking down everything he has to offer. 

The sight that greets him is gnarled fingers wrapping around his rotting heart, affection peeking out between the brackets of his ribs. His appetite for you is dizzying. Unquenchable. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at you without wanting to crawl inside your body. To reshape your tender flesh around his bulk until it is indiscernible from himself. 

This want is agony. It's dread, desire. Greed. 

His shoulders bite back in protest when he reaches up to drag his dirt-crusted nails through the prickly hair on his scalp. As dawn slowly unfurls across the midnight blue aether, he knows he'll have to leave soon. Can already feel the creeping heat gnawing in the pit of his belly. His rut starting anew. The scant hours he has of mental clarity, moments meant to eat, to feed, and regain strength for the next marathon of fucking, are needed to feel out his next move. 

He glances at you again, and feels the same covetous tug in his chest as he did before, when he was thickly entrenched in the urge to mate. But as the burnt orange of the sun smears hazy fingerprints across the moulted sky, he sees you in a new, cleaner light. You're young. Much younger than he is. 

It's something he ought to worry about. To feel some shred of shame, of despondency over shackling you to himself—a defective alpha with more scars than morality—when you're in the burgeoning bloom of your freshly untethered youth. All jejune beauty outclasses nature itself. Snow melts on the alpines, trickling down to feed the valley below. Life itself—

But you are his. 

The ugly rings around your throat—mangled tissue swelling in the morning dawn, caked in a thick river of blood—all signify that you belong to him. And while it's a little extreme as far as claiming bites go—one would suffice, but he buried his teeth in you over and over again, biting down on both sides of your neck, your jugular, your nape; inner thighs, mons, wrists—it’s proof enough that you are meant for him. Made for him. 

His pretty omega. 

The rest doesn't matter. He ought to feel shame, but instead he luxuriates in it. Stares down at you with a needy sort of possession spuming in the putrid remains of his chest, mapping out the marks he put on you. And the ones he'll add to later, not stopping until covered in the perfect impression of his crooked teeth. Tattoos of his ownership all over your body. 

Mutual, of course. There's a scant patch of skin, restive and empty, above his heart, save for a fine, jagged line from a serrated dagger. He'll have you bite down on the flesh until your teeth meet inside his muscle. Scarring down to the bone. He'll go, then, to the man who inks him up whenever he has the whim to desecrate scar tissue, and have him etch midnight black against fine silver. Permanent, forever. Always. 

And anyone who kicks up a fuss—stupid as they might be—he’ll sort them out. Prove to them that you are meant to be his. 

(unshakeable:

his spend leaks out of you, drying, tacky and thick, on your thighs. under the sleepy citrine of the dawning sun, it's tinged pink, and looks just like pomegranate juice.)

Ghost rolls his shoulder, and reaches for his discarded trousers. He's covered in a thick layer of dirt, and reeks like soil. But the thought of being buried alive is miniscule compared to the want of being buried inside you again. The urge. Insatiable. He groans with it, cock throbbing already. 

He leaves you naked. No point in dressing when he plans on going home and sinking back inside of you before midday, anyway. An unneeded obstacle, really—

The clearing is close to his truck, and he sets a leisurely pace, yawning into the dawn, as he gathers you into his arms. Carrying you to it as you drool on his chest, brows pinched at the soft jostle of him trudging through the thicket until he reaches it. 

He's not in a rut when he stretches you out in the back seat, spreading your sticky thighs around his hips, sinking inside, bottoming out just as you come to, waking up with a gasp. 

The intense fucking from before lingers in the air. You're soft, molasses; arching into his chest, whimpering out the name he hissed into your nape only hours ago, folding into him with a somnolent submission. It won't last, of course—

You're a vicious little thing, and his back and chest twinge with the rivers you carved into his flesh when he didn't move the way you liked. Wolfish, aren't you? Spitfire hiding under the soft pelt of a slain lamb. He wants to devour you, bones and all. 

He takes his fill of your malleable concession, rutting into you with a sluggish ease. Mapping out the starlight sparking in the depths of your glossy eyes. Magnetic. It pulls him deeper. Unravels him at the seams. 

His hand spans the expanse of your jaw from ear to ear. He holds you like this, thumb buried in the tender embrace of your soft tongue, and begins to understand the reason behind Johnny's niche appetite when you toy with his flesh, coquettish and sweet, suckling him in—pretty seductress—and then mewl when he pushes in too deeply, bringing crystalline gems to corners of your eyes. 

Angelic innocence. The type that demands he prostrates himself at your altar, let his bones be picked clean when you so wish it. And he'll give it to you—body, blood, tissue; all of it. The entirety of him, however broken, shattered the fragments might be. 

He promises it all to you without a word, drilling holes in the gaps of your eyes, chasms wide enough for him to fit. When he cums, it's to a songbirds sonata. Your moans are a whisper, your pleasure swallowed down as it ghosts over his lips, clenching around him like a vice. Pretty bow. He doesn't hold back—groans, baritone; woodsmoke, into the gathering symphony, filling you to the brim. Thick, copious. He wants it to stick. To root. 

When the blood sputters back to his head, he gathers you in his arms once more. Keeps you seated on his lap—shush, pet; s’alright, jus’ close your eyes an’ I'll ‘ave us home in a bit—as he starts the old pickup, and puts it into drive. One hand on the wheel, knuckles blanching white in the glimmering sunrise; sparse forests of muted blond catching, limned in the coruscating light. The other is placed on the small of your back, holding your belly to his. 

Quietly, your body eases. Melts. You press your face into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric, and nuzzle into the heady scent of his sweat, his musk, still clinging to his shirt. Signing, soft and twee, in the cup of his embrace as you slip back to sleep. 

He drives home like this. Mind a quiet place for once. Silent in its contentment, it's comfort. There's an itinerary still left to do, but he pushes it back for now, gaze roaming the dense green of the forest bracketing the road. 

You'll like it, he knows. There's a fen on the outskirts of his territory, a little pond where wild rabbits have been known to make burrows. Deers, elk. Bears. They all come and go. You'll amuse yourself in the untamed wilderness of his abode, drawing delineations of your own as you carve out places in his home just for you. 

And as he makes the turn to his hidden driveway, this buried sanctuary, he can't help but glance down at your crown, and think—

Persephone, finally home.

He finds your identification in your rucksack, nestled underneath the contraband you smuggled from the park—mushrooms, berries, bark, feathers—and sears your name to memory. Every part of you will be unravelled in the coming days, pulled from the depths of your being until it's all ingrained in his head. A gaping chasm chiselled into bone just for you. All for you. 

Your address is a rental. He'll have to call them later today to cut your lease. Your job, too. They'll need to be notified on both your off time for his rut (and your burgeoning heat), and to update your contact information. 

But that's later. Now, he just wants to get home. Sink down into his bed with you beneath him, and fuck you until sundown all over again. Stain the house with the scent of you. With the potent tang of your coupling. 

It's yours too, after all. Should smell just like you. 

And when you wake up later to him fucking his tongue into your drenched hole, fingers toying with your pebbled clit, Johnny will be busy packing the rest of your things into the pack of his pickup truck. The majority of it is already stacked on the porch, waiting for you to rearrange it all in your new house. Lease cut. His name added to your contacts as spouse, husband. Address updated. Marriage certificate laying on the table, only one line unsigned. Waiting for you. 

Maybe it's too fast. You'll certainly protest like it is, bearing your teeth and hissing at him from across the room about too much, too fast, slow down, you don't even know his last name—

(“Riley,” he grouses, arms folded over his broad chest. Eyes burning in the cresting twilight. “S’your last name now as well, pet.”) 

Fast—sure. He might think so too for a brief moment when he as you purring against his chest, submissive and docile after he fucked the fight right out of you, bullied you into agreeing to everything—it's for the best, after all. No one could ever protect you like he can. 

Made for each other. Reinforced when he presses your fingers to the soft spot where his last rib once hung—

(“stole it,” he murmurs into the seam of your lips. “right from under my nose. only fair that i get to steal somethin’ right back, ain't it?”

the look on your face is rapturous when you press your hand to your side, eyes widening when you feel the extra rung—)

He's had decades of waiting. Waiting. And now that he's found you—

He's never letting go. 

You're it, he knows. Feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. He'll have you—now, forever. Non-negotiable. Where you go, he will follow. 

(after all, there's something about three-headed dogs and their bones—)

[lushrve]

hockeyteam!141 x figureskater!reader

cause who doesn't want the image of these boys all sweaty and bloody in hockey gear (also i haven't mastered writing in a scottish or manchester accent yet so don't come for me)

you’re a figure skater, something you’ve devoted your whole life since childhood to. over the years, you’ve honed your craft, becoming one of the best in your area. you do well enough at competitions; not olympic material, but skilled enough to bring home a state title every now and again. you take pride in the way your body glides across the ice, painting pretty pictures with each scrape of the blade of your skate. it’s methodical, structured, clean. if you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you’re dancing on clouds.

it’s a small town and there’s only one ice rink for miles, so of course you run into the local hockey team practicing and warming up for matches. you don’t know most of them (don’t care to, frankly), but some are more notorious than others.

the team captain and center, price, the tactical mind behind their victories. from the few games you’ve watched them play, you can tell that he calls the shots. you watch as he sits on the bench, watching his teammates rush back and forth across the ice. it’s like he sees beyond the game. sometimes, you see him close his eyes, like he’s seeing a play take shape in his head, before calling out to the others and making it happen. they always listen, his booming baritone too compelling to disregard. (that voice made you feel something too, but you didn’t want to admit it.)

then there was a defenseman, simon. you just knew him as “riley” by the last name emblazoned on the back of his jersey. but if you listened closely (and you did), his teammates called him ghost. it didn’t take you very long to find out why. ghost was a large man, all broad shoulders and hard lines. he preferred the silent approach to taking down an opponent, slamming them against the boards before they could even register the sound of his skates scraping the ice. he played dirty, your eyes often meeting his when the referee threw him in the penalty box. (he winked at you once as he cleaned some blood from his lip, fresh from a fight. you pretended not to notice.)

left wing belonged to johnny, a scottish man they called soap. he got his nickname from his assist record, always coming in to clean up what price or ghost or another teammate had fumbled to lead his team to victory. he was quick on his feet, but brutal. while ghost was the primary muscle, soap wasn’t afraid to get physical if someone was coming between him and a goal. soap was also mouthy, chirping in his thick accent across the ice to get in the other team’s head. half the things he said, you don’t understand. hell, the other team probably didn’t either. but the tone was what mattered. (he leaned over the plexiglass after a solid win, personally inviting you back to their next home game. you blushed crimson.)

right wing was kyle. by far the prettiest one on the team, you thought. he’d take his helmet off as he skated back to the bench, running a hand through his sweat-soaked curls. the sight of him was like a work of art, a canvas brutalized by the nature of an aggressive team sport. he wasn’t as quick to get physical as the others were, but the moment everyone dogpiled on the ice, he was right there in the fray, throwing punches that landed just as loud and hard as the rest of them. the way he moved on the ice almost reminds you of your routines, careful and choreographed. he knew exactly where he was going, and he always hit his marks. (you wondered if he always moved like that, wondered if he danced through life.)

ghost and soap approached you after a win, coming up into the stands after they’d stripped themselves of their gear. while soap looked a bit smaller after shedding the heavy padding, ghost didn’t. still a hulking wall of muscle. “oughta sit in the stands mo’ often, birdie,” soap chirped, a smug smile on his face as he leaned on his hockey stick. “y’r like a good luck charm fer us.” you blushed pretty, averting your eyes and missing the way the two men looked at each other. you’d do just nicely, they thought. ghost cleared his throat, your eyes snapping up to him like he’d commanded it. (he could’ve. you would’ve obeyed.) “when d’you skate again?” he asked, arms crossed over his expansive chest.

“y’ve seen us in our element. now we wanna see you in y’rs.”

[the-californicationist]

he washes your hair

Injured in the line of duty, you can't even manage to wash your own hair. Captain John Price decides to help you out.

MDNI/18+

TW: hurt/comfort, injury

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50663425

The medics did the best they could to patch you up, but the damage was extensive. The terrorist’s pipe bomb had exploded against your back, slamming shrapnel into your arms and shoulders, tearing your flesh and breaking your left collarbone. The doctor had tried to put your arm in a sling, but you couldn’t raise either arm above the midpoint. As you dragged your body back to your quarters, you did your best to get undressed, but you were now stuck, sitting on the floor, crying a bit from the pain and frustration of your injuries. 

There was no one to help you. You were stuck out here with the task force, but Soap and Ghost were still deep in enemy territory on recon. Gaz had gone with Laswell to find the weapons shipment that she’d promised you, and the only one left in the makeshift house-turned-base was Captain Price. 

You told yourself you’d do the same thing for him if the tables were turned, but it didn’t lessen the shame at all. You called his cell, 

“Cap?”

“Sparrow? What’s wrong?”

You never called him like this. Not at this hour. But, knowing you were injured, he picked right up. His voice was full of concern. You could picture his blue eyes shining with his worry. 

“Nothing…” you paused, “Well, I…”

“Gonna die of old age before you tell me, soldier.”

You smiled, biting the bullet,

“Cap, I need your help. I’m stuck in here. Can’t move my arms.”

“On my way,” he hung up. 

You waited, listening for his heavy footsteps. Eventually, you heard him in the hall. He knocked on your door.

“Come in,” you said, turning your eyes to the floor, unable to meet his gaze, full of shame. 

You were sitting there, in nothing but the shirt stuck around your arm and a pair of panties. You’d been successful with the rest of your outfit, proud of yourself for using a coat hanger to take off your bra from the back clip, but now you were trapped, unable to move even a little without being in excruciating pain.

“Poor little bird. Broke your wing, hm?” Price smiled down at you, his tone so different than his usual sarcasm.

“I must look pretty pitiful for you to be so sweet about it,” you rolled your eyes, “Go on, have a laugh. I’m a muppet who trapped herself in her own shirt.”

He didn’t say anything. Price walked over to you carefully, bending down so he could reach you, his hulking body darkening your vision, casting his huge shadow over you, almost protectively. He snaked his hand under the collar of your shirt and guided it up and over your head, careful not to disturb your bandages. 

Shirtless, now, and in just your underwear, you moved to cover your breasts, wincing as you made the attempt, your shoulder angry at the bent angle. 

“It’s alright, birdie. Let’s get you up,” he set your arm back into its neutral position and guided you to your feet. 

“I’m so sorry you had to come,” you whispered, shameful to the point of pain. 

Price guided you to the bathroom, his strength making you feel weightless. You were dizzy from it. His warm body felt like a salve on your wounds. 

He didn’t ask for permission when he stripped off your panties, kneeling to pull them off of your legs, letting you step gingerly out of them, one by one. You steadied yourself on his huge shoulders, the agony too high for you to complain any longer. Your breath caught in your chest when a sharp spike of hot pain shot through your chest. 

“Ah! Christ,” you gritted your teeth. 

Blue eyes looked up at you from below, looking like a man in prayer, looking up for his gods, for a sign. 

“Alright, Spar? Here, sit. Sit down,” he guided you to the side of the shower-tub combo, placing you between the open plexiglass doors. 

“Captain, I…” you tried to make your excuses again. 

“Shh,” he wiped some of your dried blood off of your cheek, and furrowed his brow at you, “No more of that. That’s an order, Corporal.” 

“Yes, sir,” you grimaced, trying to turn on the water. 

“Stop, birdie. Let me help you.” 

You were too tired to fight him. He turned on the water for you, and he started to remove your bandages. Your wounds needed to be cleaned and the bandages replaced. You weren’t sure how the medics expected you to do that by yourself. You thought the captain might be willing to stay, so you tried to be good, tried not to be a burden to him. 

“You know,” he commented as he waited for the water to warm up, reaching for clean towels, “Laswell called. She said you saved those two girls, the ones in the upstairs room.”

There had been a mess of civilians on this last mission, and you had blocked the bomb with your body, trying to shield them from the blast. 

“They made it through?” You wanted to be sure.

He nodded, smiling,

“Sure did, little bird. You did good. Made us proud,” then, he corrected himself, staring at you with fiery intent, “Me. Made me proud.” 

You smiled back, 

“Thanks, Captain.”

“C’mon, let’s get you clean,” he took off his shirt and you gaped in awe. 

His body was huge in the small bathroom, enormous shoulders bulging off of his heavy frame, and his core was thick but the top of his abs were sticking out, suggesting a well-fed but strong man. He was covered in dense hair, laying straight and flat against his skin, unshaven and untrimmed. No one to trim it for, you supposed.

“What are you doing?” You asked, shocked by his undressing.

Price unbuckled his belt, the metal clinking as it dangled, and started to take off his pants, using his toes to pry off his boots from the heel,

“Can’t wash yourself, and I can’t reach you from out here. Gonna jump in and help you,” he paused, looking at you carefully, “That alright, birdie?”

Your nickname was your favorite thing you’d ever gotten from him. When he used it, in his thick accent, it made your heart race. 

You nodded, resigning yourself to be as professional as you could, averting your eyes.

He chuckled, rich and deep,

“Might as well have a butcher’s now, love. Gonna be up close and personal.”

You looked at him then, accepting his challenge. But, as your eyes raked over his nude form, you saw his skin flush pink, a little more self-conscious than he let on. 

“I know, I know. Old dog like me, I’m nothing to look at. I promise, I’ll just wash you and get back out. Sorry about all the…” he made a general motion toward his cock, which was hanging heavy and half-hard at the sight of you, “Can’t help that you’re a pretty bird.” 

“John, you’re plenty to look at,” you grinned, blushing right along with him. 

For once in his life, John Price didn’t have a snappy response. He just checked the water again and helped you stand up, guiding you into the shower and repositioning the head so that it wouldn’t hit you directly. 

You let yourself soak under the stream, eyes closed, hearing him shut the door behind himself. You felt him steady you with a hand on your hip as he used a gentle washcloth to clean blood off of your skin, careful not to touch your wounds. 

“Turn ‘round, love,” his voice was so low, you almost couldn’t hear him. 

You turned toward him, watching him stand before you, breathing heavier, trying his best not to stare at your chest. It was easy at first. As he cleaned your face, his touch soft and platonic, he stole a few glances down. But, as he began to take care of your collarbone and chest, he lost his nerve a bit. At one point, he stopped mid-swipe, trying to clean blood from you and then watching as a long, thin rivulet ran directly over your nipple. 

You smiled, and he saw you, chuckling again.

“Got me. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Captain. Just a natural response.” 

He pulled back his lips from his teeth and ran a wet hand down his face, looking exasperated,

“Do you want…I mean, do you mind if I…” he let out a labored sigh, shaking his head. 

“You can, John. I…” you waited until he could look you in the face again, “I want you to touch me, if you want to.”

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, not really to you, “Look, I don’t want you to feel - ”

You leaned forward, a bit unsteady, and kissed the skin on his sternum, feeling the hairs on your lips, his wet skin sticking to you as you pulled away. 

“Little bird,” he was warning you. You could hear it in his tone. 

“Kiss me, John. Please?”

“I can’t. I can’t because I won’t stop. I don’t have an abundance of self-control. Not after a mission. Can’t be trusted.”

“I trust you,” you looked up at him, praying back to him, hoping he wanted you like you had wanted him over these last six months. 

Price leaned down, holding you steady, and kissed you very chastely. You kissed him back, not chastely at all. He moaned, pulling away,

“Don’t, Spar. I can’t…You’re injured.”

“Yeah, injured. Not dead.”

He smirked, unable to keep the grin off his face. His cock was as hard as a stone, and it was long enough to rub against your belly as you stood together in the small space. 

“Let me wash your hair. I’ll think about it, birdie…you little minx,” his last comment was said under his breath, full of hungry desperation. 

He turned you around again, and he reached for the shampoo, pouring out a quarter-sized amount into his calloused palm. Rubbing it together in his hands, he ran it through your scalp, massaging it until it foamed, making sure to take care of the ends. Then, he held you while you stood under the spray, letting the warm water soak your tresses, running the suds down the drain. 

As he prepared to wash your body, Price took a deep breath. He stayed away from your wounds, but as he started to wash your trunk, he hesitated to soap your breasts. 

“John, it’s okay.” 

He smiled at you, 

“Just enjoying you, little bird. Might not get another chance.” 

“I’ll make sure you get plenty of chances.” 

He was on you then, gently caressing your breasts and nipples with the soap, rubbing his body on yours, washing himself as he cleaned you. He ran his hands over your ass cheeks, down your legs, making sure to take care of your whole body as if it was his.

“Alright, all done,” he sighed, “Let’s get those dressings replaced, and I’ll take you to bed.”

You raised your eyebrows suggestively. He exhaled, smiling down at you in disbelief, his voice deep and ragged,

“Fuckin’ hell, birdie. Keep teasin’ me and I bloody will take you to bed.”

You smiled, laughing with him, enjoying his warmth as you leaned your body against his, letting the soft spray from the shower protect you both, cocooned together, safe and sound.

[chelseeebe]

cold as ice

sooo it’s been a long time coming.. steve’s grand return to my blog!! now i’m not really one for hockey romance or wtv but i saw this one picture on pinterest and it just spurred me on to write this.. whatever this is

18+ mdni! smut. violent themes. eddie is r’s brother though descriptors are not used so take that relationship as you want! steve harrington x female reader. hockey au.

the rink is cool, the clattering sounds of skates and sticks hitting the ice fill the arena.

it’s too early for steve to really give a shit about practice, waiting for the moment he’s allowed to crawl back into bed again.

the arena’s usually empty at this time of the day, not many people were keen to watch them scream at each other over failed passes.

but today, you sit in one of the seats, quietly watching as they warm up.

steve’s still fairly new to the team, only recently drafted, though things were looking a whole lot better if he knew you’d be showing up to practice regularly.

“who’s that?” he nods, sliding up to the small group congregated at edge. he’d just assumed you were somebody’s girlfriend dragged to practice.

“munson’s sister,” jason smiles, thumping him on the back, “don’t even think about it man.. not gonna happen.”

steve’s features crumple, confusion echoing his face, “well why not?”

they laugh, sharing a knowing look between them, a joke he wasn’t in on. tommy steps forward, clapping his hand on his shoulder, pitying almost, “you think we haven’t tried? eddie doesn’t play about her.. i wouldn’t even bother.”

his eyes travel back to your solemn spot in the bleachers, cocking his grin to the side.

he wasn’t one to ignore a challenge, and he certainly wouldn’t be now.

-

lucky for steve, the only reason you’d tagged along to practice was to use the rink after the guys had left. making use of the quiet hour between them practicing and the public flooding in.

he was smart, waiting for eddie to leave before sliding his skates back on, venturing out onto the ice to interrupt your peaceful routine.

“hey,” he calls from across the ice, slowly making his way over without startling you. “what’re you doing?” moving alongside you slowly.

“practicing,” you reply rather bluntly, ignoring him to spin around the cool rink, speeding off into the distance.

steve grits his teeth, just about skating fast enough to catch up, wrapping his arm around your waist and knocking you back into the plexiglass, all in one fell swoop.

“oops,” he smirks, mere inches from your face, “i tripped.”

you smile, a contained, coy grin that you’d hoped wouldn’t boost his ego too much, turning your face away from his.

“i don’t think we’ve met,” laying on the charm thick and heavy, just as he meant to go on, “i’m steve, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“i know who you are,” narrowing your cold eyes, “eddie told me you’re bad news.”

steve’s not shocked, not one bit. eddie hasn’t been particularly welcoming since his arrival, though he’d put it down to new team rituals or whatever.

his throat vibrates, humming his response, “i’m sure he did.”

how rude of eddie not to return the favour and introduce you to him too.

“i’m gonna ask you out,” poking his tongue into his cheek, “and we can either do it the easy way or we can do it the hard way, it’s your choice,” quirking his head to the side.

“steve,” you warn, dropping your gaze.

“so you choose the hard way, that’s fine,” keeping his hand firmly on the plastic, pinning you in place, “what’re you scared of? eddie?” blowing the air out of his mouth, “he’s not gonna know.. don’t worry.”

you hum, taking your bottom lip between your teeth, “he’ll kill you,” jutting your chin out, “i don’t think you want that.”

the words melt off of his tongue, resembling butter and all things sweet, “for you, i’d risk it,” a true smooth talker, knowing exactly what you wanted to hear.

your eyes roll back, dipping your chin, presumably to hide the flush he’d bought to your cheeks. worked every time.

“we can have dinner,” finding enough pride to meet his gaze again, forcing faux reluctance into your tone. he’s aware that it’s all a game, he’s rolled this dice a thousand times and knows exactly how it’ll land.

“tonight,” ordering, not asking, “i’ll pick you up, yeah?”

your lips purse, “fine,” the bright lights shine from your eyes, highlighting the flustered glow of your cheeks, “eight o’clock,” a feeble attempt to gain some control over the moment.

steve gleefully releases you from the makeshift cell he’d held you in, slowly moving backward along the ice, “wear something pretty for me,” flashing his teeth in a over bearing grin, darting off of the rink before anyone had the chance to spot you together.

-

he’s there at eight on the dot, nonchalantly eyeing the door, playing off the excitable beating in his chest.

you don’t emerge until the time on his dash reads 8:09. perhaps another attempt at flipping the ball into your court or maybe you were just late.

steve didn’t mind either way.

he leaps from the chair, making his way around the car before you even got to the road, opening the door with a grin.

“you look great,” he purrs, hanging onto the door as you step inside, lingering inches from his face, cocking your head to the side to thank him before sliding in.

he’s almost vibrating on the drive over, fingers nervously tapping the soft leather wheel, no doubt making himself look insane.

the drive seemed too long now, having chosen a restaurant out of town in fear of prying eyes that would guarantee he would never see you again.

you’re unconcerned with the food, hanging onto his every word, lapping up the barrage of compliments just dripping off his tongue.

“eddie can’t be that bad, can he?” steve asks, completely naive to the lengths your brother would go to keep him away.

you laugh into your glass mid-sip, flashing him a look that can only be taken as a warning. “you don’t get it,” mocking in the way you shake your head, “he’d eat you alive,” a scathing review of what he was getting himself into.

“i think you’d be worth it darlin’,” flashing his teeth in that trademarked steve harrington grin.

but it works, ducking your head behind your glass though it fails to conceal the crinkle by your eyes. a dead giveaway that his syrupy words were working.

“y’think?” emerging from behind the transparent glass.

“i do.”

steve had an abundance of confidence, maybe too much depending on who you asked. but it didn’t half work in his favour.

you were putty in his hands and he hadn’t even finished his spiel yet.

“you talk a lotta shit, steve harrington,” biting the inside of your cheek.

“but you like it, don’t you?”

your mouth twitches, biting at your bottom lip, reluctant to nod but you do anyway. relinquishing any and all last embers of self-respect you were desperately clinging onto.

-

he’s already eager to get you out of the restaurant and back into the passenger seat of his car.

there had been no doubt in his mind that he would win you over. what was a disgruntled older brother to him anyway?

nothing more than a tiny blip that steve could rather easily ignore. especially when you were the reward.

there’s inconsequential chatter on the journey back, words full of nothingness while all his mind can fathom is the feel of your lips against his.

he pulls into the tiny lot in front of your building, though you don’t get out, stewing in the passenger seat, waiting for him to make a move.

so he does.

steve leans over the console, his forefinger and thumb encasing your chin, tilting your face toward his. you take your lip between your teeth, stopping him before he can smash his lips to yours.

“you have to promise me..” you murmur, gazing into his eyes though they remain on your lips, “eddie can’t ever know.”

he hums in anticipation, almost drooling with excitement, “yeah.. i promise,” before moving in to finally touch you.

your finger jabs into his chest, mere millimetres away from sealing his fate, “i mean it, steve.. never ever.”

“never ever,” he echoes, still waiting for your permission to close the gap.

your head nods slightly, “oka-,” interrupted by his lips mashing with yours, taking your bottom lip between his teeth, adamant to not waste any more precious time.

your hand rests against his heaving chest, barely curling around the fabric, just enough to keep him close.

steve breaks away first, just to look at you with lovesick eyes. he knows that this will inevitably only end one way, but that’s okay. if being with you in the meantime is the prize, then the eventual fallout is negligible.

“shit,” he breathes, keeping the distance small and easily shortened, “you’re so beautiful,” fully meaning it but really only saying it to watch you squirm again.

“stop it,” abashedly hurrying to connect your lips again, noses knocking against one another with your careless action.

you taste like sweet wine and spearmint, delicate with the way your tongue swipes over his bottom lip, a soft murmur escaping your throat when his hand finds your thigh.

a welcoming new addiction, one steve wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to escape. ever.

-

being secretive meant a lot of days holed up in your apartment. unless of course both of you were needed at the ice. that’s when shit got really fun.

every single person on that rink truly believed your eyes were on them but only steve knew who you were actually looking at.

eddie was completely non-the-wiser, ignorant to the fact you and steve arrived just minutes apart, blissfully unaware of the violet markings trailing down your neck.

the thrill of having something to hold over him. no matter how loud he’d scream at steve or how hard he’d knock him down, steve knew that at the end of it all, he was going home with you.

personally, steve thought the tension was

palpable. that every single person in this building could tell that he couldn’t wait to get home to touch you again.

one particular eve, sprawled out next to you in bed, as you had been for days at this point, steve jumps up, grabs the clunky polaroid camera and starts coaxing you out of bed.

“come on,” he orders, wrapping his fingers around yours, “i got an idea.”

tossing his jersey in your direction, just barely catching it before it fallls to the ground again. “take this off,” running his fingers around the hem of your shirt, “and put this on,” he barks, already helping you lift the fabric over your head.

you grab onto his hand, furrowed brows, “what’re you doing?”

“i wanna take a picture,” having already noted the polaroid camera that sat on your shelf. he’d been thinking about it for weeks, only just comfortable enough to ask.

you hesitate but do as he says says anyway, letting the jersey fall around your body while steve watches with his jaw detached.

he nods towards the bed, in quiet amazement as the jersey falls around your bare thighs, riding higher when you move.

you lay back, steve crawling onto the mattress behind you, knees pressed together as he looms above. so perfect, sprawled out on the bed with his jersey on.

he gives no warning before snapping the picture, grinning to himself behind the plastic camera.

“i wasn’t looking,” you frown, grabbing ahold of his wrist before he can take another.

“that was just a practice one,” he coos, looking at you rather than through the viewfinder.

what he truly wanted was a picture that only the two of you would ever see.

“can i?” asking cautiously as his large hand lays on your knee, waiting for that small nod before spreading them apart, closing the space between you.

his hand skirts upward, brushing your thigh until it meets your core, keeping his eyes trained on yours for approval.

“yeah?” steve repeats, the camera still poised in his other hand.

you nod again, chest heaving as you allow him to manoeuvre your body, relinquishing full control over to him.

steve’s thumb traces the lace fabric, grazing your clit and down to your quivering hole. shuddering breath fills the room but you don’t contest it, relaxing into the mattress instead.

his finger hooks around the fabric, yanking it to the side, your soaked cunt waiting below.

“okay?” he reiterates further, dropping the camera onto the bed to pull his boxers, cock aching and starved, leaking with anticipation.

“please,” finally using your voice, a desperate, strangled cry that makes his cock twitch.

steve’s vision is clear, he knows what he wants from this. something that only the two of you will know had happened.

guiding his tip to your eager entrance, gently nudging inside as you wail softly, fingers grabbing at the disheveled blanket underneath.

he scrambles for the discarded camera, wanting to take the picture before completely losing it. the tension is palpable, longing for him to move while he’s adamant on getting the perfect shot.

“a-alright honey,” steve stammers, tugging at the hem of the jersey to cover where your two bodies meet.

the shutter clicks, your two bodies intertwined perfectly and yet completely unknown to anyone that may ever see that picture.

it takes everything in him not to scrap everything and just fuck you into the mattress. a couple more photos and he’d be satisfied.

something about this entire situation was getting him off anyway, your warmth enveloping him, squeezing and trembling as you wait patiently.

“please move,” you beg, a divine temptress with your hooded eyes and wetted lips.

he does so, agonisingly slow, causing your jaw to go slack, pinging perverted thoughts to his fuzzy brain.

his thumb finds your bottom lip, resting on the skin before you get the hint to wrap your lips around it. it’s taking everything for him to not cum right now, his fingers shaking on top of the button, pointed perfectly to capture his thumb between your lips, fingers caressing your warm cheek. cutting off just before the camera meets your eyes, no identifiable features, just in case.

the camera lowers as his hips still roll slowly, your composure slipping away with each gentle thrust. steve thinks that he could’ve asked for anything at this point and you would’ve let him. too drunk, too in-love to really think about it.

but he doesn’t push it, one more picture, just for him.

your cunt, keeping him inside, a picture to be hidden and cherished.

using his fingers to bunch up the soft cotton of his jersey, perfectly framing the meeting point of your two bodies. he fills you to the hilt, drawing a sweet whine from your plump lips.

barely stable enough to snap the picture, hands trembling the entire time before tossing the camera to the side, a flurry of polaroids lay framing your body. to be ignored until after he had made you cum a couple times.

steve thrums his full attention to you, your body even. his fingers still gripping his borrowed jersey, using the fabric for leverage as he thrusts faster, choking on his moans, overcome with the intensity of your cunt squeezing around him.

“so good,” he stresses, further spreading your legs to move closer, staying stood on his knees to watch your expression contort and change with every slam of his hips.

his hand leaves the jersey, disappearing between your soft thighs to find your neglected clit, drawling the sweetest mewl from your lips, eyes squeezing shut with the new found pleasure.

“oh my god steve,” moving your hips against his in slow rhythm.

you’d done something for him and now he was due to repay you fully, thumb circling gently around your sensitive clit, neglecting his own climax to ensure you got there first.

steve thighs burn, the feel of your heels digging into the dimples on his lower back were the only thing keeping him upright.

“c’mon honey,” he coos, ducking his head to watch you wriggle, thighs squeezing together as the sweat begins to pool on your temple.

falling apart at the seams with every nudge of his cock against your sensitive spot, trembling as the waves of your orgasm threaten to spill over.

steve can tell, can feel you tighten around him, desperately clawing the soft blanket beneath.

“that’s it baby,” in a gruff low growl, still teasing your poor clit, “you sound so pretty,” drinking in every delicate whine that left your soft lips.

“shit,” you cry, moving your hips against his in perfect rhythm, your eyes stuck shut as he smirks to himself.

steve’s pace stutters, a mixture of expletives and throaty groans fill the room, moving to clasp onto your hip instead. a mixture of ecstasy and desperation overcome his bones, helplessly rutting into you as you tremble.

“oh.. uhh,” he groans, fingernails leaving tiny crescent moons in the plush skin of your hip, “f-fuck baby, i’m gonna cum,” desperate to unload while you writhe beneath, overstimulated after your own orgasm.

his fist wraps around the base of his cock, leaving your warmth just before he cums, thick ropes of his release paint your stomach, no doubt his jersey too.

it could be cleaned, but seeing you come completely undone in the bright blue shirt again wasn’t guaranteed.

the room is stifling, clammy skin no longer sexy but irritating as he gathers the forgotten polaroids, collapsing breathlessly next to you, sharing one pillow as your sticky bodies mesh.

“oh god,” choking on your words, harshly thrown back into reality, “i don’t think i wanna see those.”

steve tuts, holding the small pile above your faces, “you’re amazing.. i like that one,” flashing the image of your lips wrapped snug around his thumb.

“euurgh,” you complain, “you can keep that one.”

his eyes roll back as he flicks through, tracing the outline of where your two bodies meet, “that one’s my favourite,” turning his head to watch your grimacing face.

your fatal flaw was your humility, not wanting to own how earth-shatteringly beautiful you were was really his only issue.

“you can keep that one,” you murmur, coming to face him, “actually, you can keep them all.”

steve ponders for a moment, taking in the soft curve of your lips, the way your eyes seemed to fill with stars when you looked at him.

“thank you for doing that,” completely sincerely, “i’m gonna keep that one in my wallet,” showcasing the one where your two bodies met, entirely undetectable to any poor soul that may open his wallet.

“you’re so gross,” shoving the stack of pictures out of your site, rolling out of the bed as you go, “i’m gonna shower.. you coming or are you just gonna perv at all your weird photos?”

“say less,” steve beams, leaping up, dragging you along towards the bathroom with a chorus of shrieks and giggles.

-

steve shuffles in the soft dawn light, reluctant to leave the warm cocoon of your bed for the icy rink and brutish behaviour of his teammates.

he groans while getting ready, it never getting any easier to leave you comfortable in bed.

the doorbell shrieks from the hall, your eyes meeting in a panic.

fucking eddie.

“eddie,” you frown, leaping out of bed, “he’s early,” scowling at the clock, “he wasn’t supposed to be here until seven,” gritting your teeth as you pull discarded clothes back onto your body.

steve looks at the window, a little far down to throw himself out of it before his eyes dart back to the bed, wondering if he could shove himself underneath.

you spin as the door pings again, shoving steve to the other side of your room, “just stay in here and don’t say anything, okay?” rushing out as your bedroom door slams shut.

the door opens and eddie waltz in, shoving the last of his bagel into his mouth as he makes his way into your apartment.

“you’re early,” you scold, worriedly looking around the messy room, praying your brother wouldn’t notice.

“was getting breakfast.. thought you’d be ready,” he mumbles through chews, eyes leaving yours to also glide around the room, at the clues of there being another person in this apartment. “is someone else here?” eddie asks, finding steve’s sneakers left neatly by the door.

“no,” you rush, furrowing your brow, “i’m the only one that lives here eddie,” only half-a-lie. steve hadn’t moved in officially, but it was pretty damn close.

eddie smirks, noting the two mugs sat in the sink waiting to be washed, “no? are you sure about that?”

“what’re you even talking about? i’m not in the mood for this,” sighing heavily.

“i don’t care if you’re dating someone,” he laughs, “you can tell me, you know?”

“i’m not.. you’re just, you’re being stupid,” standing with your arms across your chest, disapproving of his early morning nonsense.

“alright.. alright,” shaking his head, “whatever. if you don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine.”

you think fast, tempted to pull the fire alarm just he’d have to get the fuck out.

“i’m not coming today, i don’t feel great so.. you should go,” eager to usher him out of the door and far, far away from all of the shit you’d mistakenly left out.

he does as you ask, walking towards the door but not before stopping right before steve’s shoes, “nice shoes,” unable to keep his snarky remark to himself of course.

your eyes fall down to the large pair of sneakers sat by the door, obvious that they weren’t ever meant for you, “they’re.. they’re.. can you just leave please?” pushing him through the door, dismayed by his lack of care for your embarrassing time.

“see ya tomorrow?”

“yeah yeah tomorrow.. bye,” abruptly closing the door in his smug face, relieved to not have witnessed your brother beat your boyfriend to death just yet.

steve breathes a silent sigh of relief at the door clicking shut, unsticking himself from the wall to make his way to your bedroom door, only waiting for your signal to come out.

“oh my god, oh my god,” you exclaim, barrelling into the room, “too close,” steve’s hands catch your frantic shoulders, slowing down the panic in your eye.

“i know..” he affirms, keeping you steady, “but he’s gone, okay? it’s fine.. he doesn’t know and now next time we’ll just.. we’ll be more careful, yeah?”

your breathing slows, nodding along with his calming words, “okay.. okay,” leaning into his palm as his hand caresses your cheek, “you should go, i don’t want you to be late.”

what did that matter if you weren’t okay? hockey would come and go but he was intending to keep you forever.

“you gonna be okay? i’ll be back as soon as we’re done,” thumb tracing the indents by your mouth, wishing he could just bundle you along with him.

“yeah.. i’m okay, go,” breaking free of his clasp though your palm stays atop of his hand, nodding encouragingly.

so reluctantly he does, leaving you for a frosty morning on the ice. a couple of hours of really testing his ability not to pummel your brother into the ground.

“why’re you late?” eddie spits, damn near slobbers, standing from the bench to approach steve, without an ounce of intimidation in his body.

steve just scoffs, “two minutes.. you’ll survive,” ignoring the stiff man to shove his bag into his locker, slamming the door shut to find eddie’s stoic face just inches from his.

“you’re always fuckin’ late,” his eyes falling slowly to the floor, a disconcerting expression overcomes his features.

through gritted teeth eddie bites, “fucking asshole,” grabbing steve by the scruff of the neck and subsequently throwing him violently back into the lockers. his spine and head, colliding loudly with the metal, a groan escaping his lips at the sudden searing ache.

“what the fuck?”

“stay the fuck away from her!” bellowing into steve’s face, completely unnecessary for the distance between them.

the bridges connect in his head, albeit slowly. realising that ‘her’ was in fact you.

his shoes.

he’d kicked them off by the door last night like he always did, without much thought about the consequence of your brother spotting them.

steve shoves him backwards, unpinning himself from the lockers, letting his anger take over.

“so fucking what?” pushing him further back, “you gonna punch me because i’m dating your sister?” using the opportunity to gain an advantage over eddie, towering above with his brows furrowed.

���no,” eddie growls, “i’ll fucking kill you for dating my sister,” already lunging towards steve, fingertips scraping his shirt as he’s tugged backwards by a both very impressed and yet very frightful jason.

“calm the fuck down!” jason hollers, though his pleas fall on deaf ears as eddie scrambles through his hold, reaching out for steve’s static body.

holy fuck.

you’d told him it’d be bad, and yeah, maybe he had expected a black eye or a bloodied lip but he hadn’t prepared himself for this.

a rage so deep, so visceral that even tommy was ushering steve out of the locker room, a fearful glint to his eye that steve had never seen.

“fuck man,” tommy exasperates, holding his jacket between his fingers, “didn’t think you had it in ya..” amazement rippling through his voice, “you should definitely go though.. give it a couple days and.. he’ll be alright.”

steve wasn’t sure that was true.

a couple of days surely wasn’t enough for that anger to subside. he wouldn’t put it past eddie to creep through the window and strangle him in his sleep.

but he goes nonetheless, a slow, contemplative drive back to your apartment. wondering if this was even the best place to go. you’d be wondering, confused why he didn’t come back. you at least deserved to know.

the door cracks open almost instantaneously, revealing your tear stained face accompanied by your wobbling lip, appalled at the sheer sight of him, “what did you do? steve? what the fuck did you do?”

[loaksky]

Hi I was wondering if you wrote or if you will write a part 2 to neighbour Ellie x reader, cause I would love to see how their relationship will progress and maybe there can be a bit of jealous Ellie and insecure reader, in like maybe they meet their exes or something like that

neighbor!ellie x sunshine!fem reader, hurt + comfort / fluff / smut MDNI!! or we’re beefing!! / established relationship, wc: 5.2k

synopsis: things between you and ellie seem to be going great! that is until you pay her a visit at work to drop off lunch and find that the threads that tie her and an overfriendly coworker tangle too much for your liking.

content warnings: language, slightly mean!ellie makes a return, reader isn’t necessarily insecure, but a little unsure of the circumstances, 18 + content / filthy make-up sex that consists of: brief shower-sex, scissoring, fingering / oral (reader & ellie!receiving), thigh-riding, so much kissing and mushy feelings.

author’s note: in love with this idea ! been mulling over how to expand on their relationship & i feel like this is a great segue ! hcs below; leave some more scenarios for existing couples (emt!abby, collegebff!ellie or others) and i’ll answer them ! (also not proofread well like usual lmao)

main masterlist | tlou masterlist

jealous!ellie & jealous!reader are SO different, but i feel like the outcome would be so…YUM.

feel like you’d be more reserved about being jealous.

like lately, it seems like things between you and ellie seem like they can’t get any better.

the two of you spend so much time together, whether it’s having picnics in the park with some pastries you make, testing out recipes after close at your cafe or having sleepovers at one or the other’s apartment.

ellie’s lowkey obsessed with you and at times it makes you blush because after the initial stages of feeling your relationship out, you find that ellie’s extremely vocal and outright with her affection for you.

and for the longest time, you don’t question it. don’t really say much because ellie’s particularly good at reassuring you even if you don’t ask.

it’s why you think you’re overreacting when you decide to surprise her and bring her lunch on a random afternoon in the middle of the week.

the top half of her coveralls hangs around her hips, dirtied white tank exposing tanned, inked flesh and lean muscle when you enter the lobby.

she’s leaning against one of the tool carts with her arms crossed over her chest, gaze unwavering.

when you trace her eyeline, you realize there’s another girl nearby bent under the hood of a shiny red car.

she says something imperceptible and suddenly ellie’s throwing her head back with a laugh, sound muffled by the sliding plexiglass.

“hey, receptionist is on break, can i help you with something?” a mechanic is poking his head into the lobby from an adjoining office.

“uh, i’m here for ellie?” the mechanic’s glancing through the glass into the main garage before standing from his rolling chair to dust his hands on his coveralls.

“yeah, she’s supposed to be watching the front,” he laughs. “too busy flirting with her lil girlfriend to pay attention.”

he doesn’t notice the way your face falls or how you almost drop the little canvas bag altogether.

you chance another glance at the two, find that the girl has emerged from under the hood and you swallow hard because god, she’s so fucking pretty.

doesn’t help that seeing her and ellie side-by-side makes you wonder if the two of you look that good together.

they look like they were made for each other and they even share similar interests! you don’t know a damned thing about cars and ellie’s gaze nearly glazes over every time you’re talking about your recipes and coffee pairings.

“uh, actually,” you stop him. “i don’t think she was expecting me, so i’ll just drop this off.”

he pauses.

“you sure? i can get her real quick, she’s not busy.”

ellie still hasn’t clocked you, so you shake your head.

“it’s fine,” you assure him. “i’ll talk to her later.”

he merely shrugs, meets you halfway for the canvas bag, and you’re quickly ducking out of the garage.

“babe?”

ellie’s right on the dot, you realize, when you hear her through the cracked sliding door to the balcony.

you’ve just finished watering your plants and now you’re jotting down a quick brainstorm for the upcoming spring launch.

through the window, you see ellie kicking her shoes off at the entrance before assessing her surroundings and poking her head into your bedroom for good measure.

“babe?” she calls out.

you stand, tucking the little notebook under your arm before sliding back inside.

she seems to light up when she sees you, crossing the living room to meet you halfway.

“hey, els.”

you’re letting her engulf you in a hug, arms wrapping around your waist as she buries her face in the crook of your neck.

“missed you today,” she hums, rocking your weight from side to side.

“missed you too,” you say gently.

ellie’s pulling away a short distance, finger bumping under your chin so you’ll look up at her.

“why didn’t you say hi when you stopped in today?” she nearly pouts. “zack came in when we were slow and said that someone dropped something off for me.”

you shrug, unable to tell her that insecurity was rearing its ugly head and you didn’t know how to deal with it in that moment.

“my girl didn’t wanna eat with me?”

“sorry,” you mumble, burning up under the heat of her gaze. “i couldn’t stay long.”

her brows are furrowing, hands coming up to smooth your hair from your face and brush over your shoulders.

“everything okay, babe?”

you nod once, then twice.

“yeah, why wouldn’t i be?”

ellie’s watching you closely, fingers cupping your neck.

“talk to me,” she encourages softly. “did something happen?”

you swallow, shake your head, and put on your most convincing smile before leaning up to give her a peck on the lips.

“m’okay,” you tell her.

she doesn’t look convinced, but she also doesn’t wanna pry.

changes the subject instead.

“so does this mean, you’ll swing by and actually hang out with me soon?” she asks, body relaxing when you start smoothing over the wrinkles in her coveralls as a distraction.

you nod, smile widening when she starts peppering kisses all over your face.

for a little bit, you forget about ellie’s coworker and you forget about the comment that zack made, but then you’re popping in again almost two weeks later.

they’re shoulder to shoulder in the body shop, looking at something under the hood of a silver pick up truck. ellie’s engrossed, but the girl’s fullblown staring, paying no mind to whatever ellie’s explaining in the engine bed.

makes you sick to your stomach thinking that if ellie so much as chances a glance, their noses could brush.

“hey receptionist is— oh.”

it’s zack, the same mechanic from last time.

he’s wiping his hands on an old towel as he emerges from one of the bays.

“ellie!” he shouts past the propped open door.

she nearly jumps out of her skin, parting from her coworker as she throws a cross look over her shoulder.

“your girl’s here,” he announces.

ellie’s straightening up, craning her neck even more before her face splits into a bright smile.

she’s abandoning the girl by the truck, jogging across the body shop to duck into the lobby.

“hi, angel.”

your cheeks warm when she slides her arm around your waist to pull you into her.

“gonna go on lunch break, don’t wait up,” she calls & you’re sparing the girl near the truck a glance.

her name’s emma if the stitching on the right breast of her coveralls is anything to go by.

she makes a show of taking you in from head to toe before her gaze cuts to zack and they seemingly share a wordless exchange.

oh.

you have no clue what to make of that, but ellie’s steering you from the lobby and out into the crisp air.

it’s still a little chilly outside, but you’re wearing one of ellie’s favorite sweatshirts and she’s shrugging on a hoodie hanging from a coatrack by the door.

“my truck?” she offers when a chill rips down your spine.

you only hum.

when the two of you are settled, her in the driver’s seat and you in the passenger’s, she’s taking the little bag with lunch containers and setting it on her dash before pulling you towards her to eliminate every inch of space between the two of you.

“whaddya doing?” you sigh out a laugh.

“i missed you,” ellie says simply.

“ellie, you slept over last night,” you squeak out a breathy laugh when her ice cold hands slide under the warmth of the red fleece. “we saw each other this morning.”

“so?” she replies petulantly. “wanna be with you all the time.”

you’re wearing a turtleneck underneath the sweatshirt so she’s nosing along your jaw before pressing a few soft kisses there.

“you’re so clingy recently, els,” you giggle, arms winding around her neck.

“duh.” and your belly flips when she doesn’t even deny it. “you’re so fucking cute and i just wanna keep you in my pocket all the time.”

that earns her a full-hearted laugh and you really begin to wonder why you let that girl with her stupidly perfect blown out hair and stupidly rounded ass and the most stupidly pretty face ever make you question your ellie.

you live in bliss for the duration of her forty-five minute break where she does a whole lot of eating, but not necessarily the food you made for her.

the windows are equal parts fogged and frosted by the time she’s done with you and you’re shimmying your jeans back up in the back seat of her truck as she shrugging the top half of her discard coveralls and her hoodie back on again.

“you didn’t even touch to food i made you,” you whine.

“i’ll eat it on my ten,” she assures you, and your toes curl when she wipes her lips with the back of her hand.

“liked what i had for lunch better,” she says so casually, your cheeks are on fire.

“ellie!”

“definitely need dessert when i get home,” she insinuates, leaning her weight over your blissed out body.

she plants a kiss on your mouth before climbing back into the front seat.

but, in the lobby, when she’s bidding you a farewell with another peck on the lips, promising she’ll try to come home early, you notice emma’s eyes again. they’re searing, laced with obvious annoyance.

ellie’s returning to her duties and you’re ducking into their restroom for a moment to splash your face with cool water.

ellie’s never given you a reason to doubt her, has been a perfect girlfriend since the beginning, but you can’t help yourself.

especially not when you’re ducking out and you hear it.

“so i’m not the only one surprised that her girl looks like that?” you think it’s zack, but you can’t be so sure.

“i dunno, she’s hot, but they don’t really match,” another voice sounds. “especially since her last…thing was with emma.”

and, wow, fuck, you hadn’t been expecting that.

“damn, i forgot about that,” maybe zack says. “it was at the party mel and them threw, right? when they fucked?”

you’d wanted to give the benefit of the doubt. maybe they’d been a thing once upon a time, kissed on occasion, but hearing it put so crassly makes you feel like you’re gonna throw up.

the bell’s tinkling hard against the glass when you throw the door open.

and perhaps the situation with finding out about ellie and emma goes hand-in-hand with the way ellie experiences her jealousy.

maybe the fact that ellie still works closely with a previous situationship and is obviously on friendly terms with makes you withdraw a little.

you’re spending a lot more time at your cafe, readying for spring launch and brainstorming new recipes.

you don’t want to bore ellie, especially when you’ve been so in your head about everything lately, so you’re putting in more hours, coming home late at night.

truthfully, ellie’s devastated because she misses her girl :/ why are you always so busy suddenly?

so when a familiar face comes poking into the cafe a few weeks down the line, your eyes are as wide as saucers.

“wow, alex, is that you?”

she’s an ex who’d moved abroad for work a few years back. and the break up had been amicable enough, but she’d moved on and so had you.

the only contact the two of you keep is the occasional comment on social media and a text or two during the holidays.

she’s grinning ear-to-ear.

“what are you doing here?” you ask incredulously, setting the rag down on the bartop to round the counter.

you’d been in the middle of prepping to close up shop when the bells chimed against the glass.

“visiting my parents for a few weeks,” she answers. “thought i’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”

“great, i’m doing great,” you assure her with a warm smile. “what about you? how’s germany?”

“definitely miss the food here sometimes, but you know,” she shrugs and you’re letting out a laugh. “and...julia’s pregnant.”

and your brows are shooting up, arms wrapping around her middle.

“alex, that’s so exciting!” you cheer. “congratulations.”

her cheeks are red when you pull away.

“yeah,” she says softly, eyes gentle. “i’m so excited.”

and you’re glad to hear that things are working out for her, that she’s established herself well and she’s building the family she’s always dreamed of.

“and you?” she asks.

“what about me?”

“are you seeing anyone?”

it’s your turn to warm, fidgeting under her expectant gaze.

“i am,” you confirm.

her smile widens

“that’s great,” she says genuinely. “i’m glad. i hope they make you happy.”

and it really makes you draw into yourself for a moment because ellie does. she makes you so fucking happy, you don’t know what to do with yourself sometimes.

“yeah,” you hum. “she’s great.”

the two of you end up catching up a little as you close, and she even takes you up on your offer of visiting again for a tasting before she leaves!

and this is most likely what sends ellie over the edge.

at first she didn’t know why you were suddenly so distant, knew you were dedicated, but didn’t know why you were so invested as of late.

recently, it’s been her popping into your apartment, but being disappointed to find that you’re not even home.

and the days that she does catch you, you’re pecking her on the lips and rushing out the door.

makes ellie question if there’s something she should be paying closer attention to.

honestly, she’s just really worried that she did something wrong, so as she’s trekking up the sidewalk to approach your little cafe with a bundle of cute flowers around 10 in the evening, she’s feeling a weird sense of deja vu.

finds that the open sign has been flipped and that the lights are dim, but nearly trips over her steps when she peers inside and sees you behind the counter.

you’re not alone, a tall figure leaned up against the bartop, obviously deeply interested in whatever you’re animatedly talking about.

you’re still wearing your apron, hair falling from its hold and a lump is lodging its way into ellie’s throat.

tugs gently on the handle to see that it’s locked and the motion catches both you and your company’s attention.

god, whoever you’re with is an absolute stunner and ellie’s swallowing hard as you round the counter and flit through the tables to come let her in.

“els, what are you doing here?” you ask, smiling softly.

barely registers what you’re saying because the girl you’re with has straightened and there’s something so put together and elegant about the brunette that makes a pang of insecurity begin to coil in ellie’s stomach.

“wanted to see you,” she says simply.

“oh,” you reply. “we were just finishing up here, i would’ve been home in like an hour.”

and that leaves such a sour taste in her mouth because a lot can happen in an hour, in forty-five minutes even.

“great, i’ll walk you home,” ellie says, tone pinched.

your brows furrow and you’re opening your mouth to ask ellie if everything’s fine, but alex is placing a casual hand on your shoulder to remind you she’s there and ellie can’t help but zero in on the way her slender fingers curl.

“alex,” she introduces, offering her other hand.

“ellie,” your girlfriend bites back, glancing at alex’s outstretched palm before glancing back up at her.

there’s a twinkle of knowing in alex’s eye as she nods thoughtfully.

“heard a lot about you,” she says simply.

ellie merely hums.

and god, you’re mortified because you’d spent the entire night raving about ellie even though alex was supposed to be giving you feedback on launch ideas.

you’d told her how kind and great ellie was. instead, here she is, ice cold and glaring.

“well...” alex turns her attention to you. “i really appreciate tonight, everything was phenomenal.”

you preen under the praise and ellie’s rolling her eyes, fist tightening around the stems of the flowers.

“of course, anytime,” you assure her. “thank you for visiting me again.”

and seeing the two of you side-by-side, ellie feels so small. because you’ve always been so pretty, so out of her league and the two of you look like a match made in heaven.

“always,” alex replies, and ever the instigator, she adds, “text me when you get home?”

“i will,” you tell her, brushing past ellie to lock her out. “goodnight, alex, be safe!”

she says something in return that evades ellie’s hearing, but she’s far too livid to even tune in.

you’ve barely locked the door behind her when ellie’s voice cuts through the tense air.

“who the fuck was that?” she asks sharply.

you turn on your heel, brows dipping because ellie’s rarely let her anger get the best of her.

“ellie, what are—”

“i asked you a question,” she says firmly.

you roll your lips, gaze downcast because such a good moment has been obliterated by ellie’s fiery temper.

“we dated a few years ago,” you answer honestly. “she was back in town for the next few weeks and i wanted to do something nice.”

ellie lets out a humorless laugh.

“so i’ve been worried sick for weeks because you wanna ghost me when you’ve really been parading around with your ex?” ellie huffs.

and okay, wow, you hadn’t really expected that from her because your ellie is usually relatively level-headed.

“this is only the second time i’ve seen her, ellie,” you argue. “we were friends way before we even dated and it was a clean break up. we were just catching up.”

ellie’s tossing the bouquet of flowers, now crushed by her unrelenting fist, onto the nearest table top.

“just catching up, huh?” she mocks. “so a romantic set up, just the two of you, is just catching up? you said not to wait up for you because you’d be caught up with work. good to know that screwing your ex is—”

“this is work,” you bite back. “i’ve been trying to get my bearings for this upcoming launch and she was kind enough to put up with all my crazy ideas and all my rambling,” then quietly, “given ninety percent of it was about you.”

“what, you couldn’t ask me?” ellie huffs. “you know i’d help you if you wanted me to!”

“i didn’t ask because i know all this shit bores you,” you say weakly. “alex was just being nice.”

that shuts ellie up, douses her anger like a bucket of ice cold water on a fire. and now she feels like a piece of shit because she hadn’t known that you felt that way.

“and she’s engaged,” you add, pulling away from her when she takes a step towards you. instead you busy yourself with gathering your spread and all the silverware. “they’re expecting a child.”

and fuck, ellie wishes she’d slowed down. wishes that she hadn’t talked out of her ass.

“i didn't—”

“you’re one to talk, ellie,” you add coldly. “you work in close proximity with a girl you used to fuck regularly. you’re still friends with her, and it’s obvious to every single soul imaginable that i’m just an obstacle to her and that she’s still interested. but i didn’t say anything even if it fucking ate away at me because i know you. you’ve never given me a reason to doubt us.”

that knocks that wind from ellie’s lungs because she hadn’t realized that you knew. just wanted to sweep it under the rug because her and emma were never serious and she didn’t want you worrying.

“wait, angel, i’m sorry,” ellie says. “i—”

you shake your head.

“whatever, ellie,” you whisper. “i have to close up.”

“c’mon, babe, don’t—”

“i don’t wanna talk about this anymore,” you cut her off. “i’ll be home soon, but i wanna be alone right now.”

when you get home and see ellie’s sneakers by the door, you take in a deep breath and try to mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable conversation, but instead, you’re met with the smell of your favorite take out and a soft murmur from your vinyl player in the living room.

when you make it to the end of the corridor to peer into the kitchen, you see ellie taking down a few plates.

she’s glancing over her shoulder, body seemingly relaxing when she finds you standing in the archway of the kitchen.

“hey,” she greets softly, and you belatedly realize that her voice is hoarse.

“hi,” you reply.

“wanna eat first?” she asks you, but you don’t answer, too busy analyzing her.

you put two and two together; figure that she’s been crying if the red bags under her eyes and the dying flush on her cheeks is anything to go by.

she takes a step towards you and you seem to snap out of it.

“wanna shower first,” you tell her.

you hear her gulp.

“okay,” she says.

and you hate this. you hate being upset and you hate that she’s upset and knowing that ellie cried makes you wanna cry, so you’re taking a step towards her.

she’s glancing at you.

“shower with me?” you offer timidly.

ellie’s pushing off the counter, nodding eagerly.

and truthfully, ellie had every intention of keeping her hands to herself, but then you were asking her to help work the soap down your back.

then you were turning to face her to rinse under the stream of the showerhead. the sudsy water’s making its way down the column of your throat and the curves of your body and ellie’s tongue is so dry, she feels like it could crack in her mouth.

her hands settle on the narrow of your waist, right over the swell of your hips as she presses open-mouthed kisses on your shoulder.

“i’m so sorry, angel,” she whispers, hands sliding to rest against the small of your back.

you give in even though you’re still in your head, arms looping around her neck as she brushes your hair to one side and starts paying a lot more attention to the spot right behind your ear.

“s’okay, els,” you assure her softly. “i’m sorry, too. i was being a brat.”

your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of her neck, breath hitching when she grabs a palmful of your ass and breaks away from your neck to catch your lips between her own.

“you don’t know how much i love you,” she murmurs between kisses, sighing brokenly when the plush of your tits presses against her sensitive nipples.

you moan when one of her hands slides down your front and gently brushes over your clit.

“ellie,” you whimper.

“let me show you?”

your head is lolling back when the pads of her calloused fingers circle your entrance to gather the slick that’s accumulating there.

you nod.

“yeah, yeah, ellie, please,” you choke.

she’s reaching behind you to turn the shower off, ducking outside of the tiled space to grab your towel.

and she’s slow, meticulous as she dries you off, mouth watering when the cool air of the bathroom makes gooseflesh ripple over your smooth skin.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” ellie whispers, standing behind you in the mirror. “so fucking perfect and all mine.”

your eyelids are drooping shut as she discards the towel, hands wandering as her teeth sink into your neck.

“oh, fuuu—”

ellie’s jostling you back into your bedroom. when she’s about to push you back against the mattress, you’re spinning so that she’s falling against the unmade duvet, taking you with her.

and ellie’s gaze is glazing over when you spread her legs to reveal a pussy slick with need and a clit so swollen, it makes you salivate.

“what are you doing?” she whispers, fingertips denting the fat of your thighs.

“wanna ride you, els,” you whimper, climbing to straddle her heat. “wanna take care of you.”

one of her legs stretches to settle over your shoulder and you’re kissing her calf as your clits bump.

“fuck,” ellie chokes when you start rolling your hips. “fuck, wait, angel, just—”

the slip is delicious, obscene sound of your combined arousal echoing through the room to mingle with ellie’s throaty moans.

ellie’s used to watching you ride her strap, used to fucking you and giving you everything because it’s one of the things that makes her the happiest, but, fuck, she could get used to this.

“you gonna cream all over my pussy, ellie?” you whine, pace relentless as you ride her.

she lets out a breathy laugh.

“you feel how wet i am?” ellie gasps, thumb coming to nestle between your heat. the friction feels so fucking good against your clit, has you throwing your head back as you fuck her. “god, you’re fucking delusional if you think i’m not a hundred and ten percent obsessed with you.”

“oh fuck, ellie, your pussy feels s’good,” you whine, eyes watering when her other hand settles on your hip to guide you.

“does it, angel?” she moans breathily. “only you can get me like this.”

“you’re so wet, els,” you marvel. “your cunt’s so soft and so...so—”

“it’s all yours,” she whispers shakily, hips jerking because she’s close. “all yours, angel.”

and she’s crying out when you slip off of her, hands grabbing for you desperately.

she’s throwing her head back against your pillows when your lips latch onto her clit.

“oh, shit,” she moans. “wait, wait.”

but you don’t wait, in fact, your ministrations quicken, tongue lapping at the slick that gushes from ellie’s cunt.

“fuck, angel, i’m gonna—”

the broken moan that leaves ellie’s lithe body has you clenching your thighs. and you think she’s gonna cum, but her palm is firm against your forehead to push you away gently.

her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head when a string of spit webs from your chin to her clit.

“m’not cumming before you do,” she swallows. “this was supposed to be about you.”

“it is,” you assure her. “all i care about right now is making you cum.”

“jesus, you’re actually something else,” ellie sighs shakily, combing a tattooed hand through her damp locks.

you’re making a move to close in on her pussy again, but she’s pushing you onto your back, settling her achey cunt over your thigh as she circles both of your wrists in one hand.

“let me take care of you and you can do whatever you want with me for the rest of the night,” ellie promises, sloppy kiss turning into her licking into your mouth.

her fingers waste no time finding your folds, pads eager against your bud before dipping lower to tease at your entrance.

“how could you think i’d want any other pussy other than yours, angel?” she whispers against your mouth as she stuffs you knuckles deep. “this is all mine, you hear me? all fuckin’ mine.”

you nod, squirming against where she’s still got you confined with a bruising grip around your wrists.

“s’all yours, els,” you whimper.

“just like this pussy’s all yours,” she husks, hips rolling over the swell of your thigh. “would never fucking dream of giving myself to anyone but you.”

and god, ellie knows all the right things to say to have you winding tight.

you’re arching into her, jaw slack and eyes crossing as she hits that spot inside you that has you feeling fucking boneless.

“c’mon, angel,” she encourages you. “just once all over my fingers, then you can do whatever you want to me.”

the squelch has ellie’s thighs shaking as she rolls her hips, knuckles curling hard inside the warm heat of your needy pussy.

“don’t stop, els,” you beg her. “i’m gonna—”

she’s freeing your wrists, climbing from your thigh to settle on her knees at the end of the bed.

“wait, els, i’m gonna—”

and the moan that leaves you can be heard by the entire apartment block, no doubt, because ellie’s sucking your clit past her lips and eating you out like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do.

the shit she’s murmuring against your folds is filthy, has you trying to squeeze your knees together because ellie’s that good.

“ohfuckohfuckohfuck,” you cry out when she adds a third finger.

it’s all it takes because a few moments later, your back’s arching all the way off the bed, thighs vibrating as she continues to toy with you through your orgasm.

“that’s it, angel,” ellie whispers. “ride it out.”

your chest heaves through the final waves, a sheen of sweat making your dewy skin look like it’s glistening under the lowlight of your bedside lamp.

“you did so fuckin’ good for me,” ellie says gently, standing naked between your parted legs as your arm drapes over your eyes in embarrassment.

“stop hiding,” she scolds, climbing to straddle you.

her hands are wandering, smoothing over every available expanse of skin as you cover your face and shy away from her.

she’s shocked when she pries your arm away and finds tears welling in your eyes.

“babe,” she calls incredulously. “why are you—”

“we wouldn’t have been in this situation if i wasn’t so immature and just talked to you about it,” you hiccup.

ellie’s face is falling, pulling you up to wrap you in her arms.

“babe, stop,” she whines softly, rocking you as a shudder rips down your spine. “i should’ve said something and i definitely shouldn’t have acted the way i did earlier. if anything i was immature.”

“you’re such a good girlfriend, ellie,” you whimper. “and i’m...i’m sorry, i—”

“hey, hey,” she stops you firmly, peeling away from you to thumb at your chin. “don’t do that.”

and you feel like such a big fucking baby as ellie repositions the two of you so that she’s leaning against your headboard and she’s pulling you against her sweaty chest.

“i’m sorry, ellie,” you choke again.

“stop apologizing,” ellie croaks, and you realize that the emotions are welling inside of her as well. “none of this was your fault, angel. i should’ve been honest and just told you, but i was scared.”

you’re still hiccuping, ear pressed over her heart.

“you’re my first real girlfriend in a really long time, and it doesn’t help that you’re so grossly out of my league, and—”

“ellie,” you chide.

“i don’t wanna mess things up with you,” she admits softly. “especially after the way we started.”

“i’d never hold that against you,” you swallow.

“and that’s what makes it worse. i know you wouldn’t even if you should,” ellie whispers. “and then today, i saw you with someone else and it made me so fucking mad because the two of you look so good together. it made me feel like i don’t deserve you.”

“els.” and you’re crying harder now, arms winding so tight around her waist, she feels like she’ll burst.

“i’m sorry,” ellie says gently. “you’ve always been so fucking good to me and—”

you’re leaning up, kissing her to shut her up before she starts crying and she’s cradling your face like you’re the most fragile thing.

“i love you so fucking much, ellie,” you tell her between kisses. “let’s just...let’s just put this behind us, okay?”

she nods, pulls from your lips to nestle her face in your neck.

“i love you more, angel,” she murmurs against your skin. “you don’t even know.”

neng © 2023

[mayghosts]

Hi! 🎉 Could you write a fanfic with KK harvey? The song could be hurt my feelings by Tate McRae. Some tropes I had in mind are enemies to lovers, sports rivals, forced proximity. They could get all up in each other’s face on the ice and be so mad and play rough with each other and then confront each other in the locker room when everyone’s left and it ends up angsty with them getting all close again and LOTS! of teasing as well. IDK just an idea I had it would be lovely if you wrote it !!🙂‍↕️

HURT MY FEELINGS

SUMMARY: request!!! Reader plays for Minnesota and has a long running rivalry with Wisconsin player KK Harvey. (Brad Frost is Minnesota head coach)

WARNINGS: head injuries, fighting, slightly explicit

AN: kicking off the 500 celebration with a bang!! I hope this is everything you wanted and more 🫶

YOUR POV

Adrenaline pumped through your veins as the crowd seemingly got louder by the minute. You knew this game was going to be crowded, you just weren't expecting it to be this packed. Pressing your lips together, you looked at the girl positioned across from you. Blonde curls peaking out from the bottom of her helmet, the number four plastered across her back. You felt your adrenaline spike harder when she made eye contact with you again.

Glancing into the crowd, you immediately spotted her. Fling or girlfriend, you weren't sure, all you knew was that KK was fucking her. Wearing an official team jacket, you watched as she cheered from behind the glass. This only made your blood boil, you blamed it on your general hatred of the girl. You readjusted your grip on your stick before the whistle blew.

Brad always told you that you don't have to prove anything to anyone. That you “play best when you’re unattached.” However, Brad has never had a long running rivalry with someone who always gets to be the good guy in the eyes of the media. He also has never had multitudes of fan edits made about the “sexual tension” between him and his rival during the last game they played together. Brad is not rivals with KK Harvey.

So you took Brads words in one ear and out the other. Every other game this season, you swore to yourself that you would keep your emotions under wrap. Play as the machine you were scouted to be. The quick, calculated, and cold player the media raved over in articles. However, today was different, and it barely counted anyways. Just another pre-season game.

The puck went to Wisconsin first. The first period was mainly uneventful. You avoided KK, letting the rage simmer in your stomach. However you could feel your disposition slipping as you entered the second period. This girl Claire had been all over you. Constantly bumping and trailing you, giving you no space, you let it slide during the first period. But with Wisconsin pulling ahead at the start of the second, your patience was wearing thin.

You could tell Brad wasn’t pleased with your perfromamce this game either, especially this period. Changing plays last minute, pulling dramatic stunts to try and dirch Claire. He knew you weren't playing how he wanted, you knew you were benched if you didn’t close the growing point gap.

You rocketed down the ice, keeping the puck close to you before firing it to your center Taylor. A perfect pass, you watched as she fired it into the net. A perfect goal. Brad would like that. You kept your speed, as you went to circle behind the net.

The collision was hard. You heard it before you felt it. Claire had come fast from the other side of the net, smashing you into the boards. Your head hit the plexiglass hard. Crumbling to the ground you landed on all fours, your vision blurred as you felt hot blood stream out of your nose.

The arena silenced at the blow of the whistle. Claire stood frozen in front of you. You stood fast, dropping you stick, before ramming your fist against her face cage.

Immediately everything swarmed. The crowd was on their feet, yelling anything and everything. KK was immediately on you, roughly pulling you off Claire as you yelled at her. “Dont fucking touch me Harvey!” she glared at you hard, her grip softend slightly as she steered you away. “You always need to be the Godamn hero! You just can't- stop, I said don't fucking touch me!!” You squirmed out of her grip, knocking her hands away. Blood dripped of your chin onto the ice as Maggie immediately came between you two. Her mouth was moving but you couldn't hear a thing she was saying, tears brimmed in your eyes as you suddenly felt all the air leave your lungs.

Crumbling into Maggie, your head pounded as she helped you off the ice. You spent the rest of the game in the health office with the lights off.

We lost by two points.

Stepping into your team lockeroom, you were met with a freshly showered and clothed KK Harvey. Clad in loose grey sweats and a black nike sports bra, she sat on the bench across from the door like she was expecting you. Her hair was still wet from the shower and she had a look on her face that you assumed was irritation.

"Oh hell no," you muttered under your breath as you immediately turned to leave, pulling the door handle. To your dismay, the door did not open. "What the fuck did you do to the door Harvey?" You pulled harder at the door which did not open. “I didn't do shit to the door, you were the last one who touched it!” you groaned closing your eyes.

“Why are you even in here? Shouldn't you be out with you team? And your girlfriend?” She was quiet, just watching you as you stated back at her. “What? You want an apology or something?” She slumped over letting her head fall into her hands

“Is the door really not opening?” You rolled your eyes at her, “what do you think?” “You don't have to be such a bitch you know? I was only here in the first place to make sure you were okay-”

“Since when have you cared about my health?” “Can you not fucking interrupt me. Please.” “Oh my god I'm going to kill myself. You are so stuck up!” You stood up, walking towards her. “When was the last time you didn't get exactly what you want? You have the media, the fans, fucking everyone, wrapped around your finger. I'm SO sick of it!” She immediately stood up to meet you, stepping just a bit too close for an argument. The height difference left you slightly craning your neck to look up at her. She was silent for a moment.

“How bad is your head?”

“...Feels like its going to explode.”

You were silent again. You looked over her shoulder refusing to look her in the eye, but you could feel her blue eyes tracing your face.

“I’m not sorry.”

“I know.”

You flicked your eyes up to hers. Neither of you stepped away, clinging to whatever remained between you.

“Want me to turn the light off?”

You swallowed hard, “Yeah, please.”

As she flicked the light off, you collapsed against the couch. KK gingerly sat on the opposite edge.

“I’m sorry the media isn’t nice to you.” Once again you found yourself wanting to poke her eyes out. “KK that's not your fault-” you paused. The nickname slipped out a little too easily. You had never called her anything besides Harvey. You could feel her looking at you in the dark room, you knew what face she was making too.

"I know its not my fault, but I've had opportunities to say something to make it better and I haven't. You are my biggest competitor on the ice, you always play a tough game. But that dosen't mean I hate you or that you're a mean person...You're mean or cruel, I know your not."

You were quiet for a moment. "I'm just so tired of everything." You wanted to die as soon as you heard your voice tremble. To be fair you had kept the tears in through the whole incident and through your long discussion with coach after the game. You were planning on crying when you got back to your dorm. Crying infront of KK was a low. Desperately you looked up, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes.

You felt her scooch down the couch to sit next to you. Gently, she grabbed your wrists as you let her pull them away from your face. "Don't do that you're going to make your head worse." She didn't let go as she softly held your wrists, her eyes surveying your bruised hands. Letting your head lull to the side, you could make out the faint outline of her face, the curve of her nose, and the glint in her eyes.

“Sorry.”

"Don’t be.”

She slowly runs her thumb over your forearm, her eyes tracing the veins in your left arm. You watched her face as you softly tucked a stray piece of wet hair behind her ear with your other hand. She peered up at you.

“I really want to kiss you right now.” 

You felt the butterflies in your stomach explode at her words. Climbing into your throat and clouding your brain.

“Yeah?”

“-and I know I can't because you're obviouly concussed and you've had a long day and I-”

Her words trailed off as you cupped her cheek with your right hand. Tracing your thumb under her eye.

Gently, she pulled you closer to her. Your knees connecting with hers. You both lingered for a moment, just a breath away from changing everything.

She kissed you like she loved you. Soft and sweet, nothing mattered at all except for her lips and her hands still holding your wrist. Gradually she pulled you ontop of her and you slowly pushed her into the couch.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you pulled away. Her eyes raked over your face like she was trying to commit it all to memory. “God you're so fucking pretty” you slowly made your way to her neck, sucking purple marks into the exposed skin. She hummed at your actions, dropping her head to the side, her cheeks dusted a light pink. You settled your head on her chest letting your eyed droop shut.

“I wish we talked more.” your voice came out as almost a whisper. You felt her place a kiss on your head as she responded, “lets talk tomorrow okay?”

“Nothings gonna change, you know? I really like you Caroline.”

“I know baby, I know.”

“G’night Caro.”

You fell asleep as she gently traced patters on your back and she followed soon after.

Taglist: @ayannatv @smiths-fan--13 COMMENT BELOW FOR 500 CELEBRATION TAGLIST

[brucewaynehater101]

I really need more stuff on some Joker Junior angst, along with Jason finding out about Joker Junior. Even better if you wanna pull in the whole Red Hood (Joker/Jason) Attacking Robin (Jason/Tim), both times when Robin was 15 years old and was supposed to be with someone/somewhere safe.

Hmm... I agree that more content about that would be fabulous. I especially love JJ fanart (there's some really cool ones on TikTok).

Fuck it. Here we go:

TW: torture, Joker Junior, violence, blood, flashback, dissociation, derealization, hallucinating(?)

Tim hands fly to his throat in a desperate attempt to rub away the urge to giggle. He's biting his lips hard enough to bleed in order to prevent them from twisting into a panicked grin.

He's pinned to the floor by a man using one of Joker's alias.

Just like old times, eh?

A snicker slips out at that, which only seems to enrage the man in red.

"Something funny, Placeholder?" The voice modulator in the helmet does nothing to hide the clear disdain and wrath curling through Red Hood. His grip tightens over his holsters, but he doesn't pull them out quite yet. The crimson helmet just glares down at Robin.

Red, red, red. He'd look so much better in Green.

Fuck. Note to self, Tim. JJ likes Red Hood.

Robin locks his face down at this revelation to keep a calm facade. He could try to dislodge the knives holding him hostage, but not with the perpetrator towering over him like this. "Nope. My bad, Hood. Got a little distracted. Where were we?"

The crime lord takes a few steps forward until he's next to the trapped bird. Somehow, he makes even the action squatting appear menacing. "This is the part where I torture you. Where I cut off a little bird's wings so you'll never fly again. Maybe then, B will learn."

Robin watches as Hood draws another knife. The crime lord twirls the blade between his fingers and tilts his head. There's a considering glint evident in his body language.

In a sick mockery of comfort, Red Hood trails the knife down Robin's cheek. It's too close to Joker's signs of "affection" after a round of shock treatment.

Junior shudders.

The leather jacket starts to morph into a lavender lounge coat and Tim blinks rapidly to clear his vision.

A sigh of relief escapes his lips when he's able to see Red Hood again.

The crime lord pauses. He tilts his head once more. Tim can feel the gaze studying him, but he's not sure why. He can't tell if the man is genuinely curious or if he's inspecting Robin like a bug trapped in plexiglass.

When the knife leaves his skin, Tim feels his shoulders lose an inch of tension.

"Don't get too comfortable. I've got a few questions before I snap your legs."

Tim can feel a jolt of pain flash through his legs at the claim. He grimaces at the notion of months off field.

Hood leans back onto his heels, fortunately giving the younger teen some space. It doesn't seem intentional, but it's better.

"You've been Robin for two years now?"

When Tim initially refuses to acknowledge the question, Hood raises the knife. Robin sighs and gives a nod.

The man hums and brings the hilt of the knife to his chin. The weird thinking pose blares an alarm in Tim's brain, but he can't quite piece together where he's seen it before.

"About eight months ago, the clown disappeared."

Phantom feelings of electricity run through Tim's body. His muscles twitch under the memory.

Red Hood leans closer. "Where is he?"

Tim can hear -

"You know better than that, Junior. Where's the smile for your old man?"

A desperate giggle bubbles up Tim's throat.

"Come on, son. You wouldn't want to make your mother sad, would you?"

Joker leans over Tim Junior with a wicked grin. He grips a blade and gestures to Junior's lips. "Do you want your dear old Dad to teach you to smile? Again?"

Junior shakes his head frantically as trembling lips split open in a facsimile of a smile. The motion pulls at his stitches scars.

Scars?

That's not-

Junior's smile starts to fall.

Red Hood Joker crosses his arms. "What the fuck are you smiling at?"

Junior still has a smile on his face (it can't drop), but his eyebrows furrow. "Dad?"

Joker flinches back.

Amethyst cloth flickers to bronze leather and then back again. Forest green hair morphs into a cherry red helmet. Junior watches it peer behind its shoulder before Joker's face turns back to him.

"Batman isn't here."

A cackle erupts from Junior's lips and dissolves into a fit of giggles. Joker peers at Tim Junior in confused horror. The kid turns his head more towards the man. A smile stretches and pulls the corner of his lips, highlighting the faint scars.

Junior Tim hears the man take a startled breath in.

"Batsy isn't Dad. Dad-"

Tim frowns as his gaze drifts away from the man. "I killed Dad. He's dead."

He pouts exaggeratedly before Junior dissolves into a fit of giggles. "Bam!" Both of his hands point an imaginary gun Red Hood's Joker's way. "Bam! Bam!" The hands recoil back as if actually shooting the man.

Tears start to stream down Junior's Tim's face. He fights to bring his lips away from a grin.

"Fuck." He's still grining. "Fuck!"

Red Hood, the cause of all of this, is just staring at Tim. He's observing the teen try to bring himself back to sanity inch by stupid fucking inch.

Tim's eyes dart around the room. He takes a deep breath in and, on the exhale, list something he sees. "Chair. Blender. Staff. Kni-"

Several more deep breaths in and out as he ignores all the knives in the room. "Light. Jacket. Cape. Couch. Lemon. Counter."

His hands paw at his utility breath as he keeps breathing. He grasps one of the sour candies and works on opening the wrapper. He pops it into his mouth and continues the breath exercise.

Red Hood is silent as he watches Robin pull himself back into reality.

It takes several more minutes before Robin's breaths return to normal. He lays there looking at the ceiling absolutely drained and done with this whole situation.

Finally, Tim turns his gaze to the crime lord.

"Can you just kill me already or get the fuck out?"

Red Hood responds by pulling off his helmet.

Tim blinks. Sighs. Then starts up his grounding techniques again.

[luveline]

Hiii!!! Love your Eddie and Roan ficlets! I was wondering if you could write one about the first days of Eddie taking care of Roan, maybe you could do like Eddie having like a flashback or something like that while he's with Roan, and he remembers the first days he had Roan with him (and Wayne) That could be super cute!!

eddie and roan — eddie remembers the early days

“She doesn't want her.”  

“What do you mean, she doesn't want her?”   

“That's all she said, Wayne. She doesn't want her. I can have her. Can I have her?” 

Eddie thinks you're sleeping until you stroke his arm gently. “What are you thinking about?” you whisper. 

Roan doesn't stir. She falls asleep in his arms less and less now, but there were days where it was the only place she'd rest. The curve of his arm is deformed, he says, fit to her body. Or, reformed. Made how it was meant to be, to hold her near.

“Nothing,” he whispers back. 

“Liar. I know you're thinking about something, Munson. Is it the campaign?” 

He shakes his head. 

Wayne just looks at him. Really looks at him, the longest they've ever been in silence with one another since Eddie's dad dumped him and left. “Kid…” Wayne shakes his head. “Eddie. This is your life.” 

“But I can't just–”

Wayne holds up his hand. Not high, but enough to make Eddie stop. “You have to live with every decision you make…” 

Eddie squirms. Doesn't know what to say, or do, all he can think about is his baby in a bassinet waiting for someone to pick her up. “She's mine, right?” he asks. 

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

Eddie shifts the weight of his girl off of his chest and offers you a smile he knows from experience will reassure you, one parts living, three parts teasing. “What're you worrying about?” 

“Yeah. She's yours.” Wayne isn't a man of many words, but he's certainly a loving one. He hasn't hid that. He probably never will. “If you want her or not, let's go get her.”

“Of course I want her.” 

“Do you?” 

“You're quiet tonight,” you say. You worry at the inside of your lip, eyebrows lifting delicately at their beginnings as you bring your hand to his cheek. Slowly, like a soft drag, you pull your knuckle down his face. “If something’s wrong, I want to know.” 

“Nothing’s wrong. M'just thinking…” 

If Eddie didn't want Roan, it didn't really matter to Wayne. As far as he was concerned, Roan was a Munson the second she was born, and if Eddie didn't want her he would've taken her himself. Too old for a baby, he would've begged to have her rather than let her fall into the system. 

But Eddie did want her. He wasn't sure of everything, didn't know if he would be a father worth having or if he were even capable of raising a baby, but he wanted her. Lonely and stupid, dumb and broke, he wanted his girl. 

“Her mother was nice.” 

You tuck his hair behind his ear. “Who's?” 

“Roan's.” Eddie doesn't remember much about her beyond that. “But she didn't want to be a mom.” 

“It's just not what I pictured, Eddie. I'm sorry. This is me leaving her on your doorstep. Take her or leave her, do what you want, but I don't want her.” 

These days, Eddie doesn't want an apology. He didn't really want one then, but he wants one for Roan. His big girl, her dark head of hair pressed to his side and her dribble wetting a patch on his shirt, Eddie thinks of all the stuff that makes her her and he can't believe anyone could walk away from that, but he supposes she didn't know a thing about Roan or what she was going to be. 

Amazing, and brilliant, and beautiful. 

How could she not know that? 

Eddie only had to see Roan through plexiglass to guess how much he was going to love her. He didn't even need to hold her, but when he did, there wasn't any doubt. Not a lick of it. This was it for them, he wanted her and he chose her, and if he needed to, he'd fight for her. Badly, with poor coordination. He'd get mean if he needed to. 

“Well… I guess it's her loss.” You speak tentatively; this is unfamiliar territory between you. “It is, I mean. Her loss. I… oh, Eddie, I'm sorry.” 

“I'm sorry,” he says, holding the tiny bundle of his brand new daughter in terrified hands. “I'm sorry, babe, I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do with you, are you hungry? God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” 

“It's alright, Eds,” Wayne says. “You got it. When you panic, she panics. So calm down.” 

Wayne explains himself better later on. It wasn't that he didn't want Eddie to take her, the opposite, he thought it was Eddie's duty as a father. As family. And Wayne would know about duty, looking after his brother's kid for no reason other than blood. He barely knew Eddie when he got ditched on his stoop, but that didn't stop him from bringing him in, getting him changed, and giving him the trailer's only bedroom. So Eddie doesn't know a thing about this baby in his arms, but she's sure as hell his to look after. A crop of dark, soft curls sprouting through the cradle cap and eyes swelled with newness, he'd joked that he can see the resemblance and Wayne tsked. He can't tell if his uncle is happy or mad lately —it's the same with the baby. Everybody's always glaring at him. 

“I'm calm.” 

“You look like you're gonna pass out.” 

“Why is she crying like she's in agony?” he asks. 

“‘Cos she knows you're worried!” Wayne laughs and slides in next to Eddie, snug in the corner of the kitchen beside a tower of formula and all the new baby bottles. What Eddie had for savings is well and truly gone. “You can do this, Eddie, I promise. Lift her head a bit and try again. She's hungry. She'll latch.” 

“I can't–” 

“Come on.” Wayne stands at his side, unflinching. “Deep breath.” 

Roan latches. (Crazy to have named her, weirder to have been allowed to bring her home, no questions asked. He showed his ID and she was his to love forever.) She stops crying, eyes barely open but watching him with the most innate kind of curiosity. 

She won't remember this moment, but Eddie will. 

“Hey,” he says quietly. “That's better. That's better, huh?” He lifts his eyes to Wayne's. “She's cute.”

“She's beautiful, Eds.” 

Eddie takes one of Roan's hands to knead her fingers. “I'm not sorry,” he confides to you. “I wish Ro could've had everything, but I think she's doing just fine now.” 

“Fine? Baby, she's had everything she ever needed right from the beginning.” You lean up to press a smacking kiss Munson style against his temple. “She's got you.” 

“I've got you,” he says, quiet and sweet as he meets her curious gaze. “Got you, sweetheart. Everything's gonna be okay.” 

He strokes a big tangle of curls away from Roan's face and smiles like he did then, as though he's seeing her properly for the first time all over again. 

[godspeedviper]

The Arkham County Jane Doe - Crane x Reader x Hannibal (18+)

𖤐 Requested by Anonymous: Hi, could you maybe write a fanfic where both Dr. Crane and Hannibal are obsessed with their patient ( maybe in a mental hospital) and actively isolate her from other patients? After she tries to escape, they make it clear they won‘t allow it unless she stays with them in some form. With smut in the end?

𖤐 Type: Oneshot || Hannibal Lecter x Fem!Reader x Jonathan Crane || Smut || Crossover

𖤐 Word Count: 2,605

𖤐 Rating: Explicit || Spitroasting || Manipulation || Obsession || Threesomes || Asylums || Doctor/Patient Relationship

𖤐 A/N: Hope I got this one right! Apologies for taking so long with it, it's been the most challenging request I've written thus far. Thanks for trusting me with it!

When Hannibal first laid eyes on her, she was standing in a secure hospital room wearing what appeared to be just a men's XL shirt, plain, and some socks, all covered in dried blood and dirt. She was found in a shed on a vast property at the edge of Arkham county, held captive along with two other young women, who had originally gone missing from Franklin, Maryland. However, nothing was known about her in particular. No one had reported her missing, unlike the other two victims, and neither of the two knew her name. Most perplexing of all, she herself claimed to not know her identity either. With the perpetrator still in the wind, it was up to Hannibal to try and coax information from her in hopes of solving the case. She was his patient now. His, and only his. 

  When Jonathan Crane first saw her, she was dressed in a cream colored Arkham Asylum patient uniform – which consisted of a pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, matching gripped socks, and a white t-shirt underneath – the standard for all the non high risk patients. She was a puzzle, and he wanted to crack her open and reach inside 

to consume 

to taste 

to know.

  Unfortunately, he would have to be sharing her with the BAU as she potentially held vital information to an open case. He watched as the FBI’s chosen psychiatrist stepped into his office. Dr. Hannibal Lecter was a man unlike any he’s ever encountered. Crane was accustomed to being the apex predator within Arkham’s walls, both amongst staff and patients alike. He didn’t like the confidence with which the other psychiatrist paraded himself around the office like he owned the place. Crane especially didn’t like the bold familiarity with which Dr. Lecter approached his favorite patient. It was far too close for Crane’s comfort. She was his and his alone… or so he thought. 

“Hello Jane.” Dr. Crane watched, and listened, as Dr. Lecter interacted with his patient through the security footage. 

“Must you call me that?” she replied. 

“Until we can find out your name, yes I’m afraid I will have to call you that.” He smirked and leaned forward, closing the distance between them and obscuring Jonathan’s view of her from the security camera, positioning himself between her and the camera’s line of sight. 

  What a cocky bastard. Crane thought to himself. He took a sip of his coffee and leaned closer to the monitors to get a better look at their interactions. I wonder what he’s afraid of… Jonathan made a mental note to take some time to customize a batch of fear toxin to use on Dr. Lecter at his earliest convenience. The rest of the session was uneventful to the untrained eye, but Jonathan’s psychiatric expertise compounded with his raging jealousy was causing him to make mountains out of molehills. He spent the remainder of the week visibly distracted as the envy consumed him. He would have to move her to higher security to ensure that any upcoming “sessions” with Dr. Lecter wouldn’t be so cozy. 

  The next time Dr. Lecter met with Jane Doe he had to go past additional security clearances and into a whole other room. This time she was behind a plexiglass window with a phone on the wall, similar to prison visitation. He frowned, surely this was wrong. How could they treat a victim like a prisoner? Like a suspect? The whole objective was to establish rapport and glean insight. How could he when she was now being treated like the people who harmed her? No, this simply wouldn’t do. Hannibal sat down and picked up the phone, his eyes quickly scanning the room to find where the security cameras were situated. 

“Hello again, Miss Doe.” he gave a warm smile and then he leaned in to whisper “I’m going to get you out of here, I promise, but you must do as I tell you.” 

She mouthed a desperate ‘ thank you’ and relaxed her body in relief. 

This only escalated the situation. 

   Hannibal was able to convince Jack Crawford and Co. to plead a case with the Arkham board of directors to reduce security clearance on their Jane Doe. In two weeks he was face to face with the board alongside Dr. Alana Bloom, Dr. Frederick Chilton, and even Jack Crawford himself, all threatening to pursue a transfer closer to Quantico unless they stop treating her as one would a suspect or dangerous patient. Dr. Crane was present at the meeting, and subsequently yielded, only to have her transferred to an entirely new wing of Arkham in a few weeks under the pretense of using alternative treatment methods for her benefit. For months, the two psychiatrists continued to battle for dominance over the case of the Arkham County Jane Doe, to the point that even Freddie Lounds and Vicki Vale caught wind of it. The two journalists began hanging around the asylum trying to interview as many people as possible regarding the situation. Soon it became more than that, writers began flocking in from all over, from the Gotham Gazette to the Daily Planet and even a few true crime youtubers tried to throw their hat into the ring. 

“Why is Arkham Asylum so keen on keeping the FBI out of this case?”

“What is the extent of the BAU’s knowledge on the living Jane Doe?”

“Don’t you think all this back and forth, all this bureaucracy, is just hindering the investigation?” 

“Isn’t this just another dick measuring contest between bureaus to see who can keep the glory?”  

  The two men continued their game of chess – with Jane Doe as their queen, their objective – with laser focus, but alas great minds think alike, and as such it was like trying to fight their own shadow. Both men were incredibly intelligent in more ways than one, and both were more than willing to fight dirty. As their rivalry intensified, so did the cracks, and she knew it would only be a short time before an opportunity presented itself. She was playing them both like a fiddle and not a single person had caught on, not the two doctors in question, nor the rest of the asylum staff, not even the FBI were alerted to her manipulative tactics, and all she had to do was sit back and let them consume each other. All remained on track until the 6th month of her capture, when one of the journalists tried to bribe their way into the asylum. This rang a few alarm bells for Dr. Lecter’s case partner, Will Graham, causing him to confront the doctor with his theory.  

And so Hannibal Lecter set up a very special dinner. 

“What brings you here today Dr. Lecter?” Jonathan Crane tried to feign disinterest, but this was so out of the blue that he couldn’t help his curiosity. He fixed his eyes on the man sitting across from him waiting to catch any minor movements that would aid his understanding of the present situation. Hannibal sat tall in the guest seat in Jonathan’s office, hands folded neatly in his lap, his legs crossed at the ankle below.

“It seems we have a problem.” Hannibal almost purred. 

“We?” replied Crane, raising a brow inquisitively. 

“Yes, it concerns our mutual patient.” Dr Lecter smirked. He let the information sink in and he watched with rapt attention as the mad doctor before him shifted his body from curious, but defensive, to fully alert and open. “I would like to discuss this with you over dinner tonight if that is possible. These walls have ears.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jonathan hummed in agreement. 

  After the journalist’s attempt to break into the asylum, the Arkham County Jane Doe was moved to an extra special cell deep within the bowels of the madhouse. She was given a new set of clothing, bright orange, for the high risk patients. It was for her own safety, they said, but her gut instinct doubted it. The cell was completely padded, it had a bed built into the floor, entirely padded as well, and a small toilet with a minor covering sat in the furthermost corner. It would all be comical if not for the gravity of the situation. She would never escape from here, there wasn’t even a window. An eternity seemed to pass her by in that strange little room before the monotony was broken by the sound of the heavy door being unlocked from the outside. However, she didn’t stir, she remained in the makeshift bed with her back towards the door, she already knew who was about to come in there was no one else it could be. 

“There are very few people within Arkham that even know of this room’s existence.” Said the voice, it was Dr. Crane. “And even fewer still can access it.” 

She could hear the smile in his voice, yet she still refused to turn around. 

“It is a real privilege to be here.” Said a different voice, and this one caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on attention. The voice belonged to none other than Dr. Lecter. This time, she almost feared turning around to greet them. 

The heavy door closed behind them, making a sort of suction sound as it sealed shut. Both men stood in front of the door with their hands behind their back and hungry smiles spread on their lips like wolves overlooking helpless prey. She lay there, frozen, unsure of how to react as she began to hear the men pacing around the room, circling her like vultures. The two were entirely in sync, a stark contrast to the rival dynamic they had for the past 6 months. Their voices blended together into one and they even finish each other’s sentences. A malicious alliance. 

“You know, it takes quite a lot to pull the wool over my eyes…” 

“...but to do that to both of us? That takes serious skill.” 

“We’re impressed darling, really, we are.” 

“That’s exactly why we have decided to give you a choice.”

At this, she finally perked up, sitting at the edge of the bed to finally face her two captors. 

“There’s that lovely face.” Said Jonathan with a cheeky smile. 

“What are my options?” she asked. 

“You can stay here at Arkham, under strict surveillance until the brass solves the case and figures out what to do with you.” Jonathan then turned to look at Hannibal, who spoke without missing a beat. 

“Or you can give us some information, and we will then take care of you… If you wish." His smile was hungry and wolfish. 

“And what must I do to earn your good side?” she asked, there was something missing in this whole equation. “You two wouldn’t go through all this trouble just to offer me this for nothing in return.” 

  The pair of psychiatrists stepped forward, flanking her on each side, each man looking like a mirror image of each other. Both tall, lean, with stark chiseled features and stoic expressions that revealed nothing and everything all at once. Without warning, Hannibal sat down on the bed beside her and pressed his mouth to her throat, worshiping her soft skin with his lips. Jonathan eagerly joined in, resting his head on her shoulder and mirroring the other’s actions on her throat. She gasped in surprise and then straightened her back, lengthening her neck, and leaning into the action as much as her body would allow. She felt a hand grab her inner thigh, pulling her legs apart, while another slipped under the top of her asylum uniform, sliding up her torso and reaching for her tender breast. Her head lolled back and her eyelids fluttered as her skin grew hot. She heard them speak but she could no longer tell who was who, it was as if the three of them were slowly melting into one. 

“We’ve seen how you look at us.” 

“Surely you must’ve been anticipating intimacy with at least one of us.”

“You were going to seduce us, and now we get to seduce you.” 

A rhythm was soon established, set by the frantic beating hearts and breathy wanton moans. The whole room seemed to almost pulsate with energy as the sexual tension was ratcheted up exponentially. The ebb and flow was abruptly stopped by three simple words. 

“I want you.”

Even she was taken aback by the sound of her own voice, let alone her choice of words.

“Which one?” came the reply.

“Both.”

  Neither psychiatrist wasted any time in disrobing their patient, any regard for professionalism or ethics had been left outside this door along with their dignity. In this room, they were all mad. Despite their haste, she felt as if nothing would ever be fast enough to quench this burning desire in her core. Once fully nude she lay back on the bed, eagerly waiting to be taken advantage of. Both men were visibly hungry and hard. Their hands moved on instinct alone as neither could tear their eyes away from the nude figure before them, she captivated their attention like hypnosis, they were powerless in her grasp, she who manipulated them both and preyed upon their competitive jealousy for her own benefit. Freeing his member from his slacks, Hannibal ruthlessly grabbed the back of her head with one hand and his length in the other. She salivated at the sight and wrapped her lips around the head. She could just barely hear him curse beneath his breath in another language. Suddenly, Dr. Crane’s hand grabs onto her hip, pushing her up onto the bed on all fours. Once in position, he got up behind her and spread her thighs, using his hand to guide himself into her from behind. She whimpered against Hannibal’s cock in her mouth as she felt Crane spear her open. The warm ache of being stretched by him simply spurred her on. She slowly widened her jaw, taking Hannibal deep while Crane set a punishing pace. Hannibal gripped a fistful of her hair while Jonathan grabbed onto her hips with both hands. 

  The heavily cushioned room acted as soundproofing, muffling the lewd sounds of flesh against flesh and desperate, animalistic moans as the trio selfishly chased after their own orgasms. The fact that she was fully nude while both men were still clothed made her blush all over. She belonged to them both, and each man stood his claim. Her throat tightened around Hannibal’s cock as she tried to scream. She was utterly overwhelmed, her mounting orgasm causing her to rock back against Jonathan’s hips in search of that sweet release. It didn’t take long before she was seeing stars, but neither man had relented. The overstimulation was beginning to ache and she was reduced to a twitching, whimpering mess. 

“No no,” She heard them say. “You owe us this. You played us, and now it’s our turn to have fun.” 

The sweet torture did not last much longer, and she soon felt Dr. Crane coating her insides with his own release. He shakily bucked against her as he finished, paralyzed by pleasure, he let himself grow soft inside her. Dr. Lecter came soon after, spilling his seed down her throat and holding her head flush against him, forcing her to obediently swallow it all. 

“Good girl.” He gasped. 

“We’ll take good care of you.” Said Jonathan.

“You won’t want for anything.” Added Hannibal. 

She merely nodded in agreement, accepting whatever terms as long as it meant safety and pleasure in their arms. 

Ao3 || Guidelines || WiPs || Ko-Fi

[gegefangirl]

So. Boys technically don't stop growing until they're in between 23 to 25 years old, right?

Andrew and Neil are 19 and 20 in aftg, which means they still have 4 to 6 tears before they are done. Now, can you imagine if both of them hit a grow spurt somewhere before their graduation and grew like a foot?

Can you imagine Andrew Minyard with one more foot of space to shove muscle on? Neil would never get anything done in the gym ever again, and the whole student population of PSU would be scared shitless because Andrew is already dangerous at 5 feet, but now he also has a longer reach, but also... 6ft tall Andrew with all the muscle? There are heart eyes in the crowd.

Neil's growth is basically all legs, which, to both his and Kevin's delight, means Neil is even faster on the court then before and even more of a problem for any opposing backliner that can't use his tiny size against him anymore. Also, the rate of balls that Andrew doesn't block during practice doesn't change much, but the reason why he doesn't block them sure does (nobody talks about the time he almost got brained by one because he got really distracted before he got his helmet back on after a pause. The longer reach means nobody wants to be stuck with a pissed Andrew in a plexiglass box).

(this would all be made even funnier by Aaron not growing at all)

[merceyca]

France VS USA

Kevin and Jean face each other on the court as rivals once more

The roar of the crowd was deafening even through the plexiglass surrounding the court. It was the second quarter and scores were tied. France: 2, USA: 2. Kevin hadn’t scored either of their goals.

‘You’re taking it easy on me,’ Jean accused, the French rolling off his tongue.

It made Kevin huff a breathless laugh as he responded in kind, ‘Am not.’

And he wasn’t.

Every time Kevin made himself open for Jeremy or Neil, Jean was there. He was an immovable wall standing between Kevin and any chance at victory, and France’s coach knew it, subbing Jean off and on in tandem with Kevin so they were always on the court together. It made Kevin want to both laugh and cry with frustration.

Neil’s smirk was visible from across the court. He wanted this win as much as Kevin did, but there was clearly too much enjoyment to be found in watching Kevin suffer at Jean’s hand.

Play came to a halt when one of the French strikers was fouled. Kevin glanced over long enough to ensure Andrew was okay before letting himself lean against his racquet for a moment.

‘Are you growing weary, your majesty?’ Jean asked.

Kevin poked gloved fingers through the grate of Jean’s helmet and pushed him away. ‘I can’t help it. You exhaust me,’ he said.

Jean hummed, smiling as he switched to English; borderline treasonous, under the circumstances. ‘Pierre was calling you a goat this morning. Perhaps it is time to retire.’

It took Kevin a moment to compute the insult in his addled, sweaty state. ‘I think he meant the GOAT. Greatest of All Time.’

‘If that’s what you need to tell yourself, go right ahead.’ Jean tugged the strings of his racquet tighter before getting into position. It looked like gameplay was soon to resume, but Jean had to get one last quip in. ‘We all see the grey at your temples.’

The words lit a fire in Kevin’s belly once he finished translating them in his head. Suddenly, Kevin was laser-focused on every slight shift of Jean’s body, prepared to use every tell he knew against his backliner friend.

When the whistle signalled, Kevin was off like a gunshot. He raced into the clear just as Andrew caught the penalty shot and fired it down the court to Kevin. Kevin caught the ball, taking his ten steps before he glanced over his right shoulder for Neil and found him in perfect position, his backliner thoroughly in his dust.

Kevin passed to Neil left-handed just as the shadow of Jean caught up and slammed into Kevin’s side. Their sticks crashed together, sending shockwaves up Kevin’s arm. Jean’s, too, if his grimace was anything to go by.

Jean had learned how to play Exy cleanly with the Trojans, but that didn’t mean he was a good sport. Some things never change, and Jean-Yves Moreau’s bad temper was one of the few constants in Kevin’s life.

They both looked up as the stadium flared red with Neil’s goal, bringing the score to 2-3 USA’s way.

Jean huffed in annoyance at Kevin’s grin. ‘Your little protégé is showing you up.’

‘I know,’ Kevin replied, ‘but I was never going to get around the best backliner in the Olympics.’

[intriga-hounds]

have sivi and baz met the sauce packets yet?

sivi met them a week ago and was like ew, don’t touch me. he might change his mind when they’re able to run and play with him in the yard.

baz has only interacted with them with either me holding them or with barriers between them. he likes them when i’m holding them, hates them when they’re running around on their own. he’s not allowed to interact with them and i have plexiglass zip tied to the bars to keep any accidents from happening.

renly LOVES them but doesn’t understand how to play gently/calmly with them outside so she only gets to be with them for a couple minutes at a time.

ponzu still doesn’t like dogs looking into the puppy pen, so i’ve made sure the boys know pretty well that they’re not allowed to. sivi dgaf, but baz is like 👀 “wut goin on in there…don’t like that.”

renly has to be kept out of the room with a barrier or she WILL try to go in the pen to play with babies.

[haileybeehappy]

Making Music

Word count : 3k

Warnings : Oral sex (fem receiving) Calling Harry sir, dom harry, I don't know much about music production tbh, p in v sex, spanking, unprotected sex, wrap your willy silly!

Summary: Harry recording back tracks and extra vocals and he pulls you in with him and fucks you in the recording booth. Using your moans in the songs

Harry said he had a quick session today and he wanted you to join. Just finishing up some back tracks on his next album and paperwork stuff. It wasn’t uncommon that you came to the studio with him, you would work on your writing as he worked on his music. Your fingers gliding back and forth on your keyboard as he is in the booth, his voice soothing you down to your bones.

It’s just you and him in the small office like room, your feet swung up onto the edge of the sound board and he is in the booth. Headphones perched on his head one ear exposed so he can hear himself and you. “Okay love just click the button on the computer,” you push your body back and press the button that commences the recording. The track plays through his ears as you watch him through the plexiglass window. Grasping at the extra headphones plugged into the end of the soundboard and slide them over your head. Securing them onto your ears. His voice riding and falling to match the chords and lyrics. Adding depth and layers to the beautiful song. You glance back up at him and his eyes are on you already. You smile at him and he smiles back. His dimples poking out, a light blush filling his cheeks. As he finishes out the song, holding your eyes in his gaze the whole time he nods to signal to push the button again.

“Again?” You ask through the intercom. He nods in confirmation as you quickly reset the recording as he has showed you many times before and press the button to start again. His eyes close as he hits notes that are at the peak of his vocal range. The veins and tendons in his neck bulging slightly. You look at him with a smile on your face. His curls moving and shifting as he shakes his head. As the song came to a crescendo you could basically see his veins vibrating at his pulse point. The sight causing a heat to ignite between your legs. You’ve always loved his neck. His shoulders. His collar bones. His arms. Everything about him really. But you that soft spot in his neck really gets you going in a different way.

Maybe it’s because the whimpers and groans that escape his neck as you kiss at the small birthmarks. Or that when he’s sheathed inside of you, your mouth bites and sucks at the skin till it’s red and bruised. Maybe it’s because you find your hands settling there often when his mouth is on yours, rubbing at his soft skin and scraping through his scruff.

The song falls to an end and your eyes are still intently trained on him. The slick between your thigh pooling. Getting yourself riled up at just the thought of him was not a new experience. You’re not very good at hiding the symptoms either. Your legs are crossed tightly, blush spread across your cheeks and eyes blown with lust. Harry steps out of the booth, leaving the headphones hung around his neck as he quickly finds the seat next to you. Pulling up to the computer, only glancing in your direction before flipping the headphones back atop his head and listing back to the track. His head bobbing to the tempo, bought lip pulled between his teeth. You roll your chair close to his and rest your head on his shoulder. The music pumping through your own headphones as you close your eyes and listen to his voice. Feeling his body against yours, you grasp your arms around his waist and breathe in his scent. His hands wrap into yours and his thumb rubs back and forth against your skin. Causing goosebumps to travel up your arms. The contact against him making the pulse between your legs uncomfortable. You start to wiggle in your chair. Adjusting your position. Shuffling your legs back and forth before Harry looks back at you.

“You okay lovey?” He asks. His voice distant because of the headphones. You stop yours off your head and drop them to the sound board. He pops his ear out.

“Yeah just uncomfortable I guess,” you shrug. Pulling your legs up onto the chair and wiggling some more.

“Can I fix it?” A laugh echos through your head.

‘You’re the one one who can fix it,’ you think to yourself but just shrug in response.

“I don’t think so, just been sitting to long I guess,”

“You guess?” A small smile on his lips. “Tell me what’s going on,” he reaches out to you and pulls you chair to him. Slotting you and the chair between his thighs. You roll your eyes and drop your head back.

“It’s stupid,” you whisper

“It’s not stupid if it makes you uncomfortable love,” his fingers rubbing at the exposed skin of your ankle. The smirk on his lips replaced with concern. “Just tell me please,” you sigh.

“Harry really, you’re just gonna laugh,” he shakes his head at the accusation.

“I promise,”

“I’m horny,” you whine as you tuck your face into your knees. Your voice muffled by the fabric of your leggings and your body.

“What lovey?” He asks again. His voice dropping to meet yours.

“IM HORNY!” You all but yell. Lifting your head so he can look you in the eyes. His eyes widen and his mouth opens in surprise and then slowly a smile makes its way to his lips and his eyes crinkle. You narrow your eyes at him and pull your lips into a snarl. “You promised,” you whine as a small chuckle leaves his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I really am,” his hands grab your legs and pull them onto his lap. Running his fingers up to your thighs. Grasping your legs hard. Fingers massaging into your thighs. “You’re so cute baby,” you hide your face behind your hands.

“Leave me alone,” you groan. He runs his hands to your hips.

“I can’t leave you alone baby, gotta fix your problem huh?” You shake your head.

“Just go back to work,”

“Can’t go back to work knowing my girl needs me,” he pulls your hands from your face. Grasping your chin in his fingers. “Can I help you please?” You just answer him with a nod. “Words love,” he demands. His lips a breath from yours.

“Please Harry,” before you can finish saying his name his lips are on yours. Swallowing your breath with his. Your hands grasping at the sides of his head. Your thumb rolling over his pulse point. You pull back and move to place kisses on his neck. As you get to your coveted spot he pulls you onto his lap. A yelp leaves your mouth, his hands find your ass and starts kneeding it as you place kissed across his throat. Placing kisses on every inch of exposed skin. The groan he releases as you begin to move your hips over his causes your eyes to roll back behind your closed lids.

“Hold onto me love,” you wrap your hands around his neck and he stands. Your legs cling to his waist. “Good girl,” he whispers in your ears. Causing pins and needles to shoot down your spine. Before you could ask what he’s doing his lips find yours and he pushes the both of you into the booth. Your back hits the wall and he pulls you down so his bulge rubs against your center. Slowly moving your hips against his, pushing and pulling you against the wall. Moans squeak their way past your lips and he continues to devour you. He slowly lowers your feet to the ground. Placing one last hard kiss on your lips. “Hold on a minute baby,” he turns and leaves the booth. Clicking a few things on the computer and making his way back to you.

“What did you just do Harry?” You ask accusingly.

“You know what I just did,” he smirks. He then drops to his knees in front of you. Pushes your body back so your back meets the foam carpeted wall of the sound booth and then hooks his hands into the waistband of your leggings and slowly pulls them down to your ankles. You look down at him as he pulls the fabric completely off your legs. Your shoes already discarded under your chair by the soundboard. “Gonna make you feel so good baby,” he begins kissing at the inside of your knee. Slowly making his way to the soft spot of your inner thigh. Pausing to suck at the sensitive skin. Causing dark red welts to trail behind. You’re doing everything you can to not close his head between your thighs. The tickling sensation soon replaced by pleasure as your knee finds residency on his shoulder and he placed a light kiss on your clit before licking a long stripe through your folds. Causing your head to drop back into the wall and you raise yourself onto your tiptoes to get closer to him. Moans are wracking through your body as he continues to lick through your folds. His nose occasionally bumping your clit, your hips twitching at the teasing sensation.

“Harry please,” you sigh out. His mouth leaves your core and he looks up to you.

“Tell me what you need baby,” you let out a groan. He loves hearing the foul words leave your mouth. He always makes you beg. Tell him exactly what you need even if it makes you blush like no other.

“Your mouth,” you moan out as he begins to leave a hickey on the most sensitive soft part of you thigh.

“I’ve been using my mouth honey,” he smirks against your skin.

“You didn’t let me finish,” you laugh out. “Your mouth, on my clit Harry please,” the words rush out of your mouth. He dives down and lays his tongue flat against your folds and slowly trails up to your clit. Very very slowly wrapping his lips against it and sucking lightly. Your hips jerk to his face and you all but scream his name. “Oh fuck Harry please,” you whine finally reaching down to pull at his hair. “Harder please Harry,” he moans at the stinging sensation. The vibrations against your clit almost sending you over. He quickly pulls back.

“What else love,” he breathes heavily.

“Your fingers please Harry,” he adjusts himself slight so he can guide his hand between your legs without letting your leg fall of his shoulders. His fingers dive into your hot center and he reattaches himself to your clit. “Fuck yes right there,” you whine as he instantly finds the spongy spot inside you. And his fingers move over the spot gently while he continues to suck at your clit. As you find yourself reaching your peak your hips jerk against your face. “Yes Harry right there oh my god Harry yes please,” you moan out as you teeter on the edge. His other hand gives you two pats on your ass. Signaling you to come. You let the orgasm wash over you, your body goes limp and he holds you up with one hand on your waist and raising his elbow. He continues to suck on your clit, slowly releasing the pressure as you come down from your high. His fingers slipping out out you and going to wrap around the other side of your waist and lowering you to the ground.

“Oh fuck such a good girl baby, came so hard for me,” he groans as you settle yourself onto his kneeled legs. His fingers coming to your mouth. You pull his slick soaked fingers into your mouth through ragged breaths and clean yourself off of him. Swirling your tongue around the two digits in your mouth. “Good girl,” he whispers as you close your eyes. You sit there and breath each others breaths. Till your heart rate comes down and your head stops spinning.

“Gonna fuck me now?” You ask as you bring your eyes to meet him. A mischievous look in his eye as the words leave your mouth.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he joke. The two of you untangle your limbs and stand up. He moves to pull up your shirt, pulling it off your frame. Your hands go to unclasp your bra but his hands come over yours and quickly flick off the bra with one hand. A move he took months to master. Laying in bed clasping and unclasping your bra while he held you.

“Your turn,” you say as your hands go to undo his belt. He makes quick work of stripping off his top and then quickly pushing the pants down once your fingers are don’t figuring with his button. Before you can get a good look at him he spins you around and pushes your front against the small podium/music stand. Your breast squished against the cold wood, his hands slowly drifting from your shoulders to your hips. He kneads your ass with one hand while he uses the other to line himself with your entrance. As his tip begins to rub against your folds it occasionally bumps against your clit. You push yourself back into him hoping to sheath him inside you. He replies with a sharp slap on your round bottom.

“So needy,” he growls as he completely bottoms out in one move. Leaving himself pushed against your cervix as you adjust to his size. It’s like he was made for you. Filling you just enough to make you sore the next day but not painful. The moan you let out as his finger snakes around and begins to play with your clit is almost pornographic. He slowly begins to move as the sounds you release become louder. “Fuck you always take my dick so good love,” his voice releases into your ear.

“I’was made for me,” you say. His frame raising off your back and hand slipping from your clit. You whine at the loss but it quickly turns to a moan as he begins pumping into you with malice. His hands grabbing and pulling at your ass cheeks. The tip of his cock pushing against your cervix over and over. Your hands grasp the edge of the podium till your knuckles turn white. “Fuck Harry yes,” you repeat his name over and over as if you’re chanting a song. The small grunts and whimpers he’s making drowned out by the sound of his skin hitting yours. His hand leaves your ass and he buries his fingers in your hair. He entwines your hair between his ring clad fingers and pulls ever so slightly. You whimper out, “Harder.”

“My baby likes it rough huh?” You nod your head pulling your own hair. A moan following. “Likes to be fucked dumb huh?” He hasn’t slowed. His thrusts becoming sturdier. You can only moan in response. He then slowly comes to a stop. Leaning down so his tattooed chest is pressed against your hot back. “Fuck your self on my cock baby,”

“Yes sir,” you submit as you begin to slowly push yourself and pull yourself off his cock. Once you catch a rhythm you speed up your pace. His heavy breaths turn into small moans not leaving his throat to little gasps leaving his lips. Until he’s fully moaning out. You let go of the podium with one hand and slip your fingers over your clit.

“Oh fuck baby,” Harry whimpers. “Such a good girl, playing with your clit while you fuck yourself on me. So good for me,” his words pulling the orgasm from deep inside you. “So good at fucking yourself on my cock baby,” his hands finding themselves back on your hips and starts to pull you back on his dick even harder. Your orgasm breaching as you flutter around him. “Come for me baby, come all over my cock,” he demands as he begins pounding back into you. His name falls from your lips in broken syllables as your body wracks in pleasure. Your walls tighten around him in spasms. The pressure on his dick bringing him over the edge and his thrusts slow and become uneven and sloppy. He comes inside you, watching the white liquid push out of you as he continues to fuck you through your orgasms. He doesn’t stop until it physically hurts him to keep going. He pulls you up slowly and slips out of you. You turn to look at him and he places a hard kiss you your lips. You spin your body around and grab at his face.

“Thank you Harry,” your voice hoarse with sex.

“Of course love,” his hands lay to rest on your hips. Squeezing at you as he calls you love.

“Can we go home now?” You smile. He returns the gesture and nods.

“Yea let’s clean up and I’ll close out,” leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But I wanna listen to that before we leave,” you points to the mic. You laugh and slap him in the chest.

“That can wait till we get home. We both know if you listen to that we’ll be here all night,” he shrugs knowingly.

“Fine I guess,”

- - -

A few months later his new album comes out. As you sit in his lap head resting on his chest as the music pumps through the large sound system in your shared living room. The second song of the album starts.

“Can we go home now?” Your voice vibrates through the speakers. Your head shoots up to look at him in the eyes. A familiar track begins to play. One you were there while he recorded.

“Harry!” You laugh

“Just wait there’s more,” he smiles. Raising his brows.

“Harry no!”

“You said I could!” He defends himself.

“I didn’t think you would,” you laugh even harder. Because of course he would. Why wouldn’t you think he would?!

“That’s on you,” he pulls you to him by the fabric of your shirt (his shirt if we’re being honest) as he places a kiss on your lips.

“I guess,” you sigh as you seperate. Then your own moans are back tracked on the song. Not quite loud enough and to really be heard. And the pitch is changed but you definitely recognize it. Your eyebrow raise and a wide smile stretches across his face.

“Harry!" is all you can say which grants a large belly laugh from him.

[reineydraws]

Okay, so I know the last time you mentioned/said anything about your hockey au was months ago, but I was bored at work and started thinking about it.

100% when the Straw Hat Pirates got a goal, Zoro skated too fast to the plexiglass and fell through (not in a shattering way, but in a 'the glass/plastic wasn't sealed correctly') and just continued his celebration from his seat on the ground

Smoker is definitely a referee because that man is Done. Referees basically have to corral grown men who get into fights like kids, so the dislike is usually mutual. Smoker absolutely despises the Pirates, but Luffy sometimes would poke him with his stick and go "hey sorry for yelling earlier 🥺" (an actual thing between a ref and, of course, a Canadian). This causes Smoker to have mixed feelings about these idiots. He will not let a single person know that he's a little soft around them.

(Poor Tashigi is that one ref that all the hockey players skate into or something. Fans are usually alright with her so when she makes a call, they all just accept it because she's been knocked down already.)

And I don't know how far into the manga/anime you are, but the part with Koby and Helmeppo makes me think about how one of them notices something suspicious within the hockey (or even Olympics, which might be more plausible) world, so they go into a form of investigative sports news

I had way more on my mind, but I have no idea where you are in the series (either through hard, truthful labor or through One Piece info osmosis)

omg i love that ur thinking abt this. 😭💖 i have a lot of projects on my plate rn but rest assured i have a note for the au that just keeps getting longer abt more stuff to draw. 😂

i love all these! i also love how hockey fans find my au and tell me these lil hockey anecdotes; they're so fun. :') i was so charmed by the apology thing that i looked it up and then drew it aha.

aw, tashigi 😂 and yes about koby and helmeppo!!! i was thinking about them doing exactly that with the olympics, and that there would be some corruption there at the top.

re: spoilers, i don't mind them! i'm kind of all over the place 'cuz i just read whatever fic, google liberally, watch the anime as it comes out with my brother, and i just started properly reading the manga too. 😂 so just send those hc's over if you want to! i'm happy to read 'em.

[shewritesallnight]

Cell Block Tango [BSD]

YN is sick of listening to Dazai’s and Fyodor’s prison mind games. Locked away underground, she yearns for a distraction and decides that it’s time for a special game of her own. But can she keep control while playing against not one but two demons…

Rating: 18+, NSFW

3.5K words

a/n: Spoiler alert for anime fans but if you are up to date with manga translations then it’s nothing new. For the sake of this fic we are gonna pretend that the prison suits are two pieces rather than the jumpsuit. We are also sticking to the manga version of the prison, not the hamster balls :p

There was a dull throb at the back of her skull and she was pretty sure she was about to have an aneurysm. That or she was finally going insane. It had been bad enough that she was stuck in Meursault; but being trapped in a box between two maniacs made her mind spin.

How she got in this mess, YN wasn’t entirely sure, but she was willing to bet Chuuya’s entire wine collection that it had to do with one of Dazai’s little schemes. She had hoped to never find herself again playing pawn to the former Executive once he disappeared from the Port Mafia.

Apparently, that was just wishful thinking.

The Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia and the Demon Fyodor faced off in front of her. Sitting in ridiculous plexiglass cells like Hannibal Lector; and she had been graced with the misfortune of being stuck next to both, completing their little block in the shape of a U.

She had tried, when she first arrived, to question the males; an attempt at getting some idea why she had to be thrown in here. To no avail.

At some point, boredom pushed her to start a guessing game between the two of them to see who could recognize songs as she hummed the tune.

Dazai was up to date with the most current pop songs and seemingly a fan of country music. Fyodor was calling out titles before she even got to the second note of anything remotely classical or rap related.

She wasn’t sure if he called out the latter so quickly because he enjoyed the songs or he just didn’t want to hear them.

Once the conversations evolved to apparent mind reading, she left them to their devices. For all she knew they were absolutely bullshitting and toying with her mind as a form of entertainment.

She wouldn’t put it past them.

How long had they been going at it? Was it days? Weeks? It was so hard to tell in this place, though she had no doubt her two prison mates would know.

She craved stimulation, a new book, real music, or a conversation with a normal person. Hell, she was ready to attack a guard for a change of pace. Though they rarely came around save to drop off food and when they did, they remained silent and out of reach.

No doubt a stipulation to prevent any secretive communication to the outside world.

"97,462."

"4,475."

YN groaned, slamming her pillow over her face to drown out the ceaseless stream of numbers. It would put her out of her misery, if she suffocated herself with the pillow. Better yet, would be to suffocate the two of them.

She giggled into the fluff, building the scenario in her mind but frowned when her imagination came to Dazai.

The suicidal maniac would probably enjoy it.

"Uhg," with a huff, she dragged the pillow down from her face and onto her chest.

Her breath stuttered. A delicious jolt shot down her spine at the feel of the pillow brushing over her clothed nipples.

Were the prison uniforms that thin?

She tugged the pillow down another inch and her toes curled at the friction. She chanced a glance towards her cell block mates, still locked in their staring death match and spouting off numbers at a rapid pace.

Maybe they wouldn't notice. Or maybe she wanted them to, her face flushed at the thought.

Maybe she really was going insane.

Either way, it would be a much needed distraction and if it threw those two off their game while working off some frustration, even better.

Decision made, she returned her pillow behind her head and settled against the sheets. As a test she brushed her thumbnail over a nipple and keened.

Fuck, that felt good.

She slipped a hand under her top to cup her breast, gently squeezing, and groaned. Her other hand traveled down to rub over the clothed apex of her thighs.

Once. 

Twice.

Three times, just to feel the delicious friction.

She moved to tug on the band of her pants.

"What do we have here?" "What do you think you're doing?"

Her body froze at the overlapping voices. Caught, like a deer facing off with two wolves. 

She flicked her eyes first to Dazai then across to Fyodor. The duo had their gaze burning into her. She could only imagine her appearance to them. One hand hidden beneath her shirt with the other poised to slip beneath the fabric of her pants.

"I-i,” she paused. 

Honesty was out of the question, there was no way she was going to tell them that she was so bored that she accidentally made herself horny with the idea of them watching her masturbate.

A half-truth then, just enough to placate them.

She cleared her throat before speaking again, “While your little numbers game has been stimulating. I crave a more carnal distraction.”

Not breaking eye contact with the Russian, she slid her hand into her bottoms. YN bit her lip to keep from moaning when her fingertips brushed against her clit.

Was the base of his neck turning red or was that a trick of the prison lights?

"Tell me, Bella," her eyes darted to Dazai, "who brought about these carnal desires?"

Neither of them.

She hadn't been thinking of anything but the sweetness of release.

Lies.

Both men were at the forefront of her mind. It was no secret that the two of them were quite handsome in their own aggravating way. It wouldn’t be the first time she had thought about-

Annoyed, she huffed out a quick, "The both of you seem to be skilled at guessing games, why don’t you figure it out?”

She knew she made a mistake when his eyes darkened.

Holding her gaze, Dazai spoke to his rival. "Shall we find out which one of us makes her pant like a common whore?"

Heat rushed to her face.

"Seems a pointless competition when we already know who it is."

Dazai’s eyes cut to Fyodor and she felt the tension settle around the three of them. 

Taking advantage of their distraction, she took the time to take in the two figures. Dazai had a prominent tent in his pants. While Fyodor sported a large bulge; his very real flush had darkened at his neck, she wondered how far down his chest the color spread. 

It was intoxicating.

The idea of these two men arguing and turned on because of her. She felt a rush of wetness at her entrance, slipped a finger in, and moaned.

She didn't notice when she became the focus of their attention again or that Dazai had pulled his cock from his pants. Nor did she notice how Fyodor tugged his bottoms down mid-thigh and started rubbing at his own.

She was lost to the brush of her finger against her inner walls until Fyodor cut through the haze with his words.

"Myshka, look at me."

She looked up to Fyodor and sucked in a breath. He leaned back on his bed with one hand, the other working around his cock. From what she could see, the tip was the same pretty red color and smeared in precum. 

Dazai had stood, now leaning against the corner of his cell, fully facing her. She had a clearer view of his cock and could see his fingers run across the prominent vein underneath.

He looked delicious and she clenched at the view. She wanted to wrap her lips around the head and swallow him down till she felt him at the back of her throat. 

As if reading her mind, Dazai smirked. He picked up the pace of his hand when a small sigh fell from her lips.

"Do you imagine my fingers replacing yours? Reaching places you can only dream of?" She whined, eyes closing to get lost in the scene.

Yes, she wanted it.

"She would prefer my tongue working her open, tasting her until she screams." 

"F-fuck," she stuttered at Fyodor's words, curling her finger and imagining his tongue in her. 

She couldn't decide which scenario she liked better, riding his face until her body gave out or seeing Fyodor below her, worshiping her cunt from his knees. 

Dazai clicked his tongue, “It would take more than your slimy appendage to ready her for me. Don’t you think Bella?”

He tapped his tip against the plexiglass. “Let’s see how well you prepare for me. Add another finger.”

Shimming off her bottoms, she kicked them to the floor of her cell. Following his instructions, she slipped in a second finger. It was tight and she knew it wouldn’t be enough to let him in. 

Breathlessly, she began scissoring her fingers, stretching herself.

The feeling was glorious.

She wondered how he would feel, hot and heavy inside her. She’d be lying if she said she never thought of it, of him taking her against the wall at headquarters. It made her whimper, adding in a third finger.

The action wasn’t lost on her audience.

“So desperate for my cock that you can’t even wait for directions. How impatient of you.”

Muffled profanity slipped from Fyodor’s lips as she raised her shirt to her collar, exposing her breasts, to pull at her nipple.

She couldn’t hear their harsh breaths, but she could see them falling apart. Dazai’s forehead fell against the wall, his hips thrusting forward to fuck into his hand. 

Fyodor had leaned forward over his legs, one hand still working his cock while the other fondled his balls.

They continued talking, feeding off each other and the display of her body before them. Speaking into existence all the sordid little fantasies she kept tucked away in the back of her mind.

She would have thought they really did have the ability to read minds if they hadn’t spoken of other darker desires. Words that sat heavy in her core and pushed her that much closer to the edge.

She had never seen either man look so disheveled; and she had never wanted anything more than to be in the same cell as them. To hear and feel their words across her skin as they pounded into her.

“N-nhg” Her teeth clamped down on her lip to prevent the syllables from escaping, a name hanging on the tip of her tongue.

She hissed at the pain but was thankful for it.

When did she start to lose control?

There was no way she was going to give into their twisted antics. She would not say either of their names. No matter how badly she wanted to give in.

She struggled to muffle another moan, pleasure building at her center. A thought drifted across her mind, maybe she could tip things back into her favor.

If they wanted her to call out a name, she would.

It would have to be someone they both knew. Someone who would affect both men.

Someone like- oh.

Like him.

She teetered on the edge, palm grinding against her clit-

“Come for me,” they uttered at the same time.

-and she free fell into oblivion.

“Ah-h-Ango!” she cried out, eyes rolling back as her back arched off the mattress. 

Her thighs trapped her wrist while her walls fluttered around her fingers; barely registering the sputtered choke and subsequent snarl in the background.

She collapsed to her mattress, liquid and loose, and took several deep calming breaths then turned towards her audience. 

Dazai’s cum dripped down from where it splattered against the plexiglass, he looked pained. His hand next to his head in a fist.

A quick glance to Fyodor revealed his hands were covered in his release, a displeased look on his face as he watched her.

Pulling her fingers from her core, she made a dramatic show of slurping and sucking the digits clean, tugged her shirt down, and turned her back on the two.

With a flip of her middle finger towards the demonic duo, she pulled the blanket over her body and settled in to sleep.  

BONUS:

There is a saying, that if looks could kill...

Ango had never understood those words more than in that moment. 

He felt the crushing glare from the two demons on the monitors as if they were in the same room as him. Suddenly, he was very glad to have them locked away.

All the wall monitors of the intelligence room were focused on the three cells, as they had been, since the moment the prisoners had taken their first steps into Meursault.

Sure, he had expected to witness some private moments but to witness that and for YN to call out his name at the end.

There were alarm bells going off in the back of his mind but it didn’t matter. He never dared to dream that she could- that she would- 

His pants felt tight, uncomfortably tight.

Ango could feel the burn of all the eyes in the room, pointedly not looking in his direction.

The triple agent’s face was in flames, a hand covered the bottom half of his face. Trying and failing to maintain a sense of normalcy after the show.

And what a show it was.

The servers would have to be wiped. It could complicate things if he was implicated in whatever Dazai had planned.

Yes, they would have to be wiped. 

But Ango wouldn’t put it past his former friend to have a secret message slipped in. Dazai’s heart rate would need to be compared to the video and decoded. Just in case.

Ango would have to take a copy of the video home to thoroughly examine it.

Fun Fact: Ango was the one to arrest YN. Babygirl knew what she was doing when she fed him to the wolves 💅

❥• ➥ I do not give permission to repost or claim any of my work. Reblogs are much appreciated!