#HI FROST I HOPE YOU FUCKING SEE THIS

[abs0luteanarchy]

it’s been a. while since I’ve drawn like non robots so uh here lady

[envy-of-the-apple]

Sun Eats Moon

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Word count: 9.1k

Part two: Earth Kills Moon

Part three: Moon Starves Sun

Synopsis: Your boss takes on Gojo Satoru as his newest client. Much to your relief, he doesn't seem to recognize you.

(Warnings: noncon, dubcon, rough sex, oral sex, bullying, harassment, one mention of choking, penetrative sex, afab!reader, coercion, forced relationships, implied baby trapping attempt, hint of pregnancy kink)

You wanted to quit the second you read the name. 

You should have. It would have been so easy to hand in your two weeks, tell your boss that you just couldn't. Or maybe you could have convinced one of the other paralegals to take your place. 

It's pathetic. Almost a decade had passed and you still felt yourself slink into the girl you once were, rolling under his thumb, utterly helpless. You should be better than that. You worked so hard to reach where you are now. 

You were different now, you told yourself over and over again. You were older, smarter. Besides, it'd been a decade, would he even remember you?

It's Higuruma who notices your restless fingers. You shouldn't have underestimated him, despite how exhausted he looks, nothing goes past your boss. He asks about it when you two are seated in a beige room, waiting for the client. 

"Is everything alright?" 

You're still staring out the window. How high were you? 16 stories, maybe even higher. Resentment, you can feel it rise up your throat, build throughout your body. Of course, he has fancy cars, pretty buildings, and limitless money. Men like him will never know what it's like to have nothing. All men were born equal. What a fucking joke. 

Higuruma shifts, and you jolt out of your thoughts. "Yes," you console, "apologies, I'm just tired." 

The lawyer hums, and you're not sure if he believes you or not. Before he can say anything, the frosted doors open. The rest of the legal team comes in, sitting at the long table you and Higuruma inhabited. 

He comes in last. He'd always had a liking for theatrics. 

Not much had changed within a decade. He was taller, bigger. He'd switched out of his high school uniform, opting for something more business-friendly. He still made heads turn. Became the center of attention. 

It's his smile that throws you. Sincere, real. Lingering on his face like extravagant jewelry. Hard not to notice. 

You react better than you anticipated. You don't shake or tremble or cry when he passes you. You just squeeze your fists, bunching your skirt in your palm. It helps. 

He sits down, right at the end, so everyone can see him. One foot elegantly crossed over the other. When he tilts his head, his soft white hair threatens to shift over brilliant blue eyes. 

"Well, I'm sure you don't need me to explain why we're all here." A few chuckles resonate from the small group. "Let's just do our best and hope nothing gets too out of hand."

His eyes slide over to meet yours, and you steel yourself for his eyes to widen. For something wicked and cruel and nasty to sink into his face. 

Nothing. 

Gojo Satoru maintains that same smile. The blaring sun. Painfully innocent. His gaze lasts barely a second before moving to the next face, and the next, and the next. 

"I look forward to working with all of you."                                     

𖤓

If you could describe Gojo Satoru in one word, it would be: celestial. 

He's like a shining star. Brighter than the sun. Everywhere he went, he was bound to attract attention. Much like how the Earth is drawn towards the sun, people are drawn towards Gojo Satoru. It's the natural order. 

But, if an insignificant planet resists the Sun's gravitational force, it'll get crushed. You learned this the hard way. 

Gojo had always been in your class for years. The third year was no different. Despite the commonality, you two never talked to each other. You had no reason to. Until the vending machine gave you two cartons, and you suddenly remembered from an overheard conversation that Gojo liked chocolate milk too. 

"Want it?" You hold it out to him during lunch break. He was in the middle of a boisterous conversation with his friend. They did intimidate you, but you had no reason to be scared. It's not like they were bullies.

Gojo's sunglasses dip down. He eyes what you're holding in your hand, before his gaze drifts back up to you. 

"The machine gave me extra," you supply, "do you want it?" 

"Oh, sure," he says after a moment. Your hands brush. "Thanks." 

You nod, and then you walk back to the cafeteria. It was meaningless. A favor between acquaintances. He was helping you more than you helped him. You didn't want to carry chocolate milk around in your backpack. You forgot about the interaction within a few hours. 

𖤓

The meeting ends hours later. When you stumble home, it's barely evening but you can still feel the stress creeping through your legs and arms. 

You go straight to your laptop. Fumbling through the keyboard, desperate, searching. 

He's famous. Of course, he is. In his mid-twenties, but already a multi-millionaire. The head of an extremely elite family. Your eyes scan picture after picture after picture. Photos of him drinking with models in skimpy bikinis. Fancy cars. Huge houses. Private jets. Gojo Satoru: the man behind Gojo Co., Gojo Satoru and supermodel Menza hinted at relationship, Gojo Satoru, Gojo Satoru, Gojo Satoru, Gojo Satoru. 

You pull away when it starts to burn, when the rage and sorrow become too much. He has everything. Everything he could want. He made you go through hell for months, and yet he never got punished for it. The universe rewards him with lavishness you'd never be able to touch. 

It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair. 

Through your blinds, the sun happily shines. 

𖤓

You don't notice it until it becomes painfully unbearing.

Gojo calls you by your name now (until that day you bet he didn't even know you existed). He's like a ghost, constantly appearing out of nowhere to sling an arm around your shoulder, eager to chase off any of your friends to talk to you about things that don't matter.

He constantly offers to walk you home (and then Gojo ignores your refusals and does it anyway). It stays like that for a few days, never bordering beyond friendliness. You think he's harmless. Maybe he just hasn't had someone genuinely do a nice favor for him. Besides, you're flattered by the attention. Even you can be swayed by the pull of Gojo Satoru. It feels nice to be wanted. 

You reason it'll just be for another week. A week later, you two will be nothing but acquaintances, sometimes exchanging quick smiles during class. 

It doesn't truly dawn on you as to what he's doing until he comes out and says it. 

"What?" Because you must have misheard him. 

"We should," he says, not even bothering to repeat himself, "I mean, we're practically dating already. Let's just make it official." 

You stare at him. As always, he's utterly beautiful. The light of the setting sun makes his skin glow gold. Whenever he's walking you home is one of the rare times he removes those sunglasses. His eyes are like jewels, pretty things that you wish were yours. 

You laugh. It's high and panicky because you still think he's joking. He doesn't laugh with you. You stop. 

"Oh-oh, I'm sorry Gojo-I wasn't-I didn't think. I'm just not...interested in dating anyone right now. It's not you! I think-I think you're great, but it's just the wrong time, and school is getting so much busier and-" you keep rambling, coming up with excuse after excuse because you're convinced Gojo would cut you off with an awkward laugh, tell you it's fine. 

He doesn't do either, letting your flounderings get more and more pathetic. His smile had dropped. You can't read his expression anymore. 

Eventually, you grow quiet, standing with him in that silence. When that gets too much, you timidly tell him to have a goodnight and walk home. He doesn't follow, staying rooted to the sidewalk where you left him. You're not running away, you tell yourself over and over again. And yet, you can't help but feel relief as soon as you can't feel his eyes. 

Don't resist the Sun. It'll crush you. 

𖤓

It was something minuscule. 

Barely considered legal work. The case would most likely be finished in a couple of weeks. The defendant had nothing on Gojo Satoru, at least from what you and the other paralegals could see. You highly doubted it would even go to court. Higuruma always had a knack for bringing anyone to the table. Gojo would be let off from whatever he did without a hitch. No punishment. Just like always. 

"Word of advice, don't think about what happens in the private sector," Higuruma says, over whiskey. 

The firm was celebrating another victory at a fancy bar. You were still stewing over the face of that young woman's face when the judge ruled in your client's favor. She looked heartbroken. You can still remember the sleazy smile your client had given her. 

"It's a job," he says, "do it. Boost your resume, and get out." 

He takes another dainty sip of his glass. Tonight, the circles underneath his eyes seem even darker. "You're a young kid. Do something else with your life." 

When he offers to buy you a round, you accept. You think about that night sometimes, and you wonder if Higuruma wished someone else would have given him that advice when he was younger. 

Do the job, and get out. Easier said than done. Especially when the job involved Gojo Satoru. 

Associating with him was dangerous, you knew that firsthand, especially when he was interested in something you had. You'd left, but that wouldn't save you. The space of decades would not help. 

Burn Gojo once, he won't forgive you. Burn Gojo twice? You don't think there's anyone alive who did that. 

Over the coming days, you expect something from him. It's a nagging feeling in your stomach. The delayed response to a gunshot. Dread. You expect him to snap. Push. Break. 

He never does. Gojo remains pliant, the same to you as he remains to your boss. There's no additional touching, no disgusting nicknames, no scathing looks. Nothing. 

You don't get the confirmation until a week later, when Gojo stops you near the elevator. 

"Higuruma's...assistant, right? Sorry, never got your name," he says, and you steel yourself because the two of you are alone and here it comes but if you yell loudly enough maybe-

"He asked for some paperwork, and I finally found it for him." Gojo hands you a stack of sheets with a cheery smile. "You won't mind giving that to him, will ya? Thanks!" 

Just as quickly as he arrives, he leaves, shoes clicking down the hall as he goes. You can only stare at his rescinding back, the palpable feeling of relief nearly making your knees buckle. 

The best news you could have possibly received. Gojo Satoru had completely forgotten about you. 

When you got home later that evening, the rain was heavy, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. 

𖤓

You don't have proof it was him. 

It's unjust to accuse people of things they didn't do. You lack any evidence. It could have easily started by itself. You'd always been meek and timid. People were bound to take advantage of that. 

But the timing was just too perfect for it to not be caused by him. 

In the weeks following the incident with Gojo, school went from tolerant to hell. It started small, at first. Tiny. Unoticable. Insignificant. Some people (Gojo's lackeys, you'd later realize), would nudge you as they passed you by the halls. They apologized, mid-laugh, and in the beginning, you truly thought they were sincere. Then, the nudges turned into pushes, then shoves. That's when you knew you had a target on your back. 

At first, you found it kind of hard to believe. Bullying? It sounded so childish. Something reserved for petty middle schoolers. You were in your final year of high school. You were already an adult. You laughed it off, for a bit. Mostly because it was so ridiculous. Only when it starts becoming more severe, more apparent that you were his target, do you start taking things more seriously.

There was no proof, but everyone knew it was Gojo. And being on Gojo's bad side wasn't something people were willing to risk. One by one, your friends started to disappear, reducing their involvement by sending strained smiles during passing period. The more stubborn ones who were more adamant about staying by your side were chased away too. They'd skip school for a few days, before coming back and completely ignoring you.

Teachers and staff were no help either. Why would they? Gojo's family held them in the palm of their hand. The most your homeroom teacher would do was avert his eyes whenever something was thrown at you for the third time in class, and quietly remind students to settle down. 

You fell on the ground with an embarrassing thump. A chorus of laughter, and a mocking 'sorry' is all you hear from the crowd. Other students step over your scattered papers, giving you looks of sympathy but never bothering to help. You'd call them cowards, but you know you'd do the same.

Instead, you focus on collecting your papers. You avoid the lump in your throat. The tears that threaten to break over your waterline. It's humiliating, being stuck on the floor like this. It's only Wednesday, but you already feel like breaking.

Hands, scarred, move past you, collecting the rest of the sheets. His face is carefully blank as Geto Suguru neatly tucks his share all in one piece before handing it to you. You give your thanks. He ignores it. 

“Are you hurt?” Geto asks, his voice barely loud enough to hear.

You think you scrapped your knee during the fall, but other than your pride, you're fine. You shake your head. Geto sighs. It's not out of relief.

“That's good,” he says anyway.

You found it ironic that Gojo's best friend is the only one who bothers to help you these days. It makes sense, in a way. It's not like he'll send his goons to Geto, instead. In this solar system, Geto Suguru is the only person unaffected by Gojo's solar flares. 

You work in relative silence, collecting the mess that fell out of your bag. Geto hands you the last of the supplies, idly watching as you tuck them away.

“Take my advice,” he says just before he leaves, “give in.”

He stands up. Geto Suguru has always been taller than you, but now the difference feels even worse. When he looks down at you, a flicker of pity lingers in his eyes. It's gone before it can mean anything. 

“It'll only get worse from here if you don't.”

Worse, he had said. God, what could be worse? You were already at rock bottom. All you have left is your dignity. Something you intend on gritting your teeth to keep.

You quickly learned something about Geto Suguru: he knew his best friend. 

Friday. The end of the worst week of your life has finally arrived. The week after is break, and then maybe Gojo will move onto some other hyperfixation, and finally leave you alone.

Classes were out. You were done, free to run home and cry the entire week away. And then, you noticed, your locker was open.

Smashed in, was a better term. Completely, irrevocably, destroyed. It looked like someone had taken a wooden bat to repeatedly smash in the metal until it cracked open like an egg. 

You don't want to look, but you have to. The busted door is barely hanging on its hinges when you push it open. 

It's worse than anything you could think of. 

Your books, textbooks, journals, are all torn apart and written on. All the contents of your bag have been thrown around. Your assignments, your notes, your pens and pencils. But it's your laptop that makes your throat stop. Smashed, broken without any hope of being salvageable. Your everything was in there. Why why why would he do this to you? 

This wasn't bullying. 

This was abuse. 

Fuck pride. Fuck dignity.

You were so tired. 

Despite the hell his lackeys put you through. Gojo Satoru himself never bothered you. In fact, you hadn't seen him all week. He doesn't make himself impossible to find. You know where his group hangs out after school. You're barely holding yourself together when you hear his voice. His pretty laugh. You don't care about how you look, close to breaking, your voice high-pitched and shaky. 

"Why?" 

Your voice catches his attention. He falls into silence, just like the rest of the group. Gojo surveys you for a moment. There's a scoff, a hint of amusement before he waves off the rest of the group. 

"Get lost." 

They comply, dispersing in multiple directions. For the first time, in a long while, you and Gojo are left alone. You and Gojo are left, alone. 

"Well?" he tilts his head, completely bored. 

"What do I have to do?" You ask desperately, "What-what do I have to do to make this all stop? Please I'll-I'll do anything, just-just make it-" 

It's all too much. You can't hold your sobs in, bursting into tears as you fumble through your words. He tuts in mock pity. You flinch when you feel his hand against your cheek, but he doesn't let you shy away. 

"Anything?" He asks when your sobs simmer into hushed whimpers, "Really? Anything?" 

You blink, looking up at him with rough teary eyes. He's grinning, wide and manic. Your heart drops when he lowers himself to whisper in your ear. 

"Anything, right?" 

You nod once. He sighs in pure delight. His breath tickles your cheek. 

"Get on your knees." 

You jerk back, but Gojo doesn't let you go far, a hand on your shoulder, keeping you rooted on the spot. At your look of pure panic, he only laughs a little. 

"I-I-Gojo you-" 

"And call me Satoru now. Since we're gonna get to know each other a lot better," he interrupts with a chiding grin, ignoring your wide eyes. "What? I thought you said anything, right?" 

He's asking, but it's clear you don't get a choice anymore. His grip on your shoulder is tight, close to crushing skin and bone. You're trapped. No, you were trapped the moment you talked to Gojo Satoru. 

To think this all started because of two cartons of chocolate milk. 

You relent when his grip gets too painful, sinking down to your knees. The grass is cool, and you know it will leave damp spots on your skirt, letting everyone know what you did for him. 

"Good girl," he coos, and you shudder at his hand petting your hair. Like you're some precious pet. To him, maybe you are. How could anyone think of treating a human like this? You should be grateful he does it for you, instead of demanding you to pull him out. Still, the jiggle of his belt makes you wince. You turn away, not being able to bring yourself to look. Only when the tip of his cock reaches your peripheral, do you look back. It's big. You should have expected it, considering his height. It's already leaking, a bead of precum that makes you shudder. He moves forward and you instinctively grip his thigh. 

"Gojo I-" 

"Nuh-uh. Satoru," he ununciates, "Satoru. You gotta' start listening to me baby, or else we're gonna have problems." 

You look down at the grass. Green, soft. 

"Satoru." 

His eyes flash in satisfaction. 

"Open up, pretty girl." 

The last of your fight disappears, sinks into the soft grass. You swallow, once, before you take him. It's a slow, torturous process. He's too big, your jaw is already starting to ache. Satoru barely notices your discomfort, sighing in contentment when you start to gag on his cock, reaching down to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. 

You make a muffled gurgle and he tilts his head down. His sunglasses fall forward, two pretty eyes stare at you. 

"What? Don't act like this is your first time-" he stops himself, mid-thought. 

"Wait...this can't be your first time, right?" 

If you weren't humiliated enough. You can't even lie, averting your eyes to avoid any further shame. 

"Poor baby," Satoru says, all too delighted, "lemme' walk you through it. Gotta' suck on it, just like a lollipop-that's it-use your tongue," he encourages, still gripping his cock in his hand, like he was feeding it to you. 

You can feel your mouth open wider. Tears stream down your face, not just from your pride, but also from pain. Satoru lets you take him in like this for a few more moments, just enjoying your warm mouth. 

"There we go," he breathes, "take-fuck-take all of me." 

But Satoru isn't known for his patience. You've barely taken all of him in yet before he grabs your hair to fuck your throat properly. You choke, sputtering all over his cock. He barely pays you any mind, his head thrown back as he rams himself down your mouth without a care in the world. 

"Y'know, our first time together could-could have been nicer," he says through gritted teeth, the heat was starting to get to him, "but you just had to go and mess it up, huh?" 

If you were stronger. If you were braver. You would have rejected it. Screamed. Fought. At the very least, you would have denied his delusions. But you weren't strong. You weren't brave. You were weak. Stupid. This was all your fault. Had you just given in the moment he asked, this wouldn't be happening to you. Or maybe, he'd be a bit nicer about it. 

He hisses, gripping the back of your head before something warm and disgusting fills your mouth. Above you, Satoru lets out a shameless groan, a mix of your name as well as a curse. He releases you then, finally letting you sink to the floor. You fall forward, resting on your hands and knees, panting, trying to regain your breath, some semblance of sanity. You can still taste him. It's salty, a sickly tang. You spit as much as you can on the grass. It doesn't help. 

He kneels, getting down to your level. With the way he's silently watching you, you know he's waiting for the right answer this time. 

Don't resist the Sun. It'll crush you. 

So, you drop your gaze down. You take in a deep long stilted breath. 

"Yes, Satoru," you say, voice quiet, pliant, "I'll go out with you." 

His demeanor drops in just a second. He smiles, painfully innocent, like you hadn't spent the last few moments choking on his cock. He cups your face with both hands and you wonder how he could look at you like that, gently, as though you weren't covered in tears and his cum. 

(You still feel it drip down your mouth. Tonight, when he finally lets you go home you'll cry for hours in the shower, hoping the water will wash away all the shame you feel. It won't.)

"Finally!" He exclaims, laughing, light, happy, elated, "I'm so glad you finally came around. I was starting to think I was ugly or something." 

 You stay like that for a while. Underneath him. You let his hands run up and down your body, like he's feeling the space that makes up you. Soon, you'd realize Gojo Satoru liked to touch things that were beneath him. A thought muddles it's way through your numb brain. You bring yourself to look at him. 

"Satoru?" you ask. He sighs in satisfaction, stroking your hair. 

"My laptop...it's broken." 

You didn't know what else to say. It sounded accusatory, even to your ears. Righteous. You wondered if he heard it too, if he'd do something about it. 

Satoru only scoffs.

“that old thing?” You flinch. It was a gift from your aunt, you highly doubted he cared enough about the sentimental. He hugs you closer, almost like a snake, constricting you within its scales before it devours you. 

(You think the worst part is that he didn't even deny it.)

“I'll just get you a new one, baby.”

He walks you home later that evening. When he demands a kiss, you comply, numbly pressing your aching lips to his. 

The sunset is pretty today. 

𖤓

It's not a particularly hard case, but Gojo has a knack for keeping those who work for him busy. Higuruma had asked you to stay behind, once again. The two of you were stuck alone in the office building, a room that Gojo had graciously supplied. 

You were milling through a stack of papers when someone new walked in. You didn't recognize her. She was tall, pretty, sparkling jewelry littered her neck and wrists. Your eyes drifted up and down her outfit, something that definitely wasn't business-appropriate. A part of you wants to ask where she got that lipgloss from. 

"Oh," she tilts her head, surveying the two of you with pretty eyes, "is Sato not here?" 

You inwardly cringe at the nickname, but choose not to show it. Higuruma is the one who saves you, in the end. He speaks on both of your behalf. 

"Mr. Gojo isn't here at the moment," he says, "feel free to wait." 

She does as she's told, plopping down on a seat right next to her. Higuruma goes back to ignoring her, dutiful in everything like he always is. You, on the other hand, don't like the way some of the other associates eye her legs. When you wordlessly hand her your jacket, she gratefully accepts. 

"Thanks. I love your bag, by the way," she cheerily says and a part of you feels bad for her. 

Minutes pass. She crosses her legs and then uncrosses them. When she crosses them again, you have to look up from your paperwork and ask if she's feeling alright. 

"Just nervous," she admits, "I-I haven't seen Sato since our...last meeting." 

Everyone in the vicinity knows this wasn't a casual business meeting, you don't get why she's avoiding the elephant like that. Probably to save face. It's clear from her behavior that she wasn't expecting so many visitors, so perhaps this situation is new for her. You found it strange that a booty call would be called up to an office building, especially when people were clearly watching, but you doubted Mr. Gojo cared about that. He was always shameless in that regard, uncaring about anyone's reputation, even his own. That's why he's in this legal mess in the first place. Besides, you were part of Gojo's Satoru's legal team. Part of your job is to be discreet about his extracurricular affairs. 

Gojo Satoru hadn't changed at all since high school. Why would he? His personality has gotten him this far, after all. The Sun would never change, it's a constant sphere of fire. You wouldn't want him to change. You were banking on his stagnant nature to slip by. You couldn't imagine if he did change, improve himself, and realize how horrible he'd been to you. How would you be able to keep yourself together if he pulled you aside one day and tried to apologize? You'd break. Things are better the way they are now. Let Gojo Satoru indulge himself in all this lavishness, forgetting about the people he's tortured. It's better this way. 

You glance over at the girl. She's young, maybe a couple of years younger than you. You can see the flush on her cheeks. The clear swooning. A part of you wonders what she'd think about that man if you ever told her what he did to you. What a monster he is-

"There you are!" Mr. Gojo strides in, just as silent as always, making himself known when he wants to. 

The girl jumps up, her eyes lighting up in pure excitement as she practically drags herself into Mr. Gojo's arms. He places an arm on the small of her back, scarily close to touching somewhere inappropriate as she chatters away. They disappear off to wherever rich men like him go. 

It's so quick. You must have imagined it because, for a second, you were sure he'd glanced back at you. 

𖤓

By now, everyone knows you're Satoru's. That means, like him, you're untouchable. 

You're not celestial. If Satoru was a star, then you were a stray meteor he'd found hurtling through space, and he couldn't resist forcing it to revolve around him. In exchange for suffering through his solar flares and radiation, he protects you from bigger planets that are all too eager to smash into you. The one relief is that no one seems to bother you anymore. You haven't been shoved around, pushed, or prodded. Sometimes, you receive glares from Satoru's old ex's, but it's more tolerable than burnt homework. 

Satoru has officially chased away all your friends, but he's more than happy to keep you company. You sit next to him in lunch now, quietly listening as he prattles on to the rest of his friends (you recognize some of them, the ones who messed with you, they never seem to hold your gaze for long). You used to study on campus alone, right after school let out. Now, you still do it, but with Satoru watching. It's hard to concentrate with his wandering fingers and wet lips. 

He takes all of your firsts. You don't give them to him, much less, he demanded it of you. The first time he fully takes you is far less romantic than you'd ever hoped. It was on his bed after he'd practically dragged you over to his house that night. You went home the next day covered in marks that took nearly a week to heal. A little while after that, Geto came to talk to you again. For the second time ever. 

"Here." He offers you a packet. Pills. You're confused for a moment until you realize Satoru didn't wear a condom. 

"Thank-" 

"Don't," he cuts you off, "Don't thank me." 

He says it with so much hate that you think it's directed at you. It isn't until years later that you realize the disgust was towards himself. 

There are theories that the Moon once had color. 

It wasn't just white. It was green and blue, and red. 70 million years ago, it could have been much like the Earth. It didn't have a strong atmosphere, however. The gaseous layer was slowly stripped away. The sun didn't help. With no atmosphere, the unfiltered solar radiation slowly began to bleach the once colorful celestial body a dull white. Before long, the sun had created the moon to be its image. Now, the only color the moon has to offer is the sun's reflection. 

When the moon was out, you often stared at it, reveling in its beauty. Now, trapped in between Satoru's arms, you find its skeleton a bit too haunting to look at. 

Three more weeks. Just three more weeks. 

Graduation is coming up soon. You already had your college picked out, far far away from this backward town. From his conversations, Satoru was planning on going to some high-end college in Tokyo. With the way he kept looking back at you, you had a feeling he was planning on dragging you there too. 

You were intelligent enough to keep your mouth shut about your plans. Satoru never asked, so you guessed he assumed you would let him bully you into whatever he wanted. He was right, so far. It's not like you'd ever argued with him. 

Your parents were the only people who knew about your plan. They were excited, albeit for the wrong reasons. 

"I'm so glad to see you're this interested in higher education," your mother beamed, "why the sudden change?" 

You look at your mother's face. People have told you that you share the same smile. You wonder if she'd keep smiling if you ever told her about what Satoru's been doing to you, the bullying, the harassment. 

You can't. You won't, because you can't bear to see her give you the same pitiful look your classmates give-the one Geto gives. You don't want her to see you as something broken. 

"I'm just starting to think I might go into law," you finally say, "definitely need college for that."

On Thursdays, you have to sit inside the gym during Satoru's basketball practice. You wait on the bleachers, reviewing notes, and listening to the squeaking of sneakers. Satoru's good at the sport. You know last year they won a few tournaments. Whenever he scores a point, he gives a cheer, turning back to see if you saw it too. In those moments, you remember he's just a kid. He's your age. You can feel the envy. There, but too insignificant to do anything. He pleasantly lives his childhood, even after he stole yours. 

Practice ends, always a little later than it's officially supposed to. Coach gives the final whistle and then Satoru is jogging back to you. Your things are already neatly packed into your bag. His breath is barely ragged, you can smell the hint of sweat as he kisses you on the lips. You can feel eyes on you, same as always. It's getting easier to ignore the gawking. After all, you're Satoru's now. 

"Miss me?" he asks when he pulls away. He grabs your stuff before you can, hauling your backpack away. To others, it may look like he's being a sweet boyfriend. To you, it's another leash, tugging you to where he wants to go. You're not sure how Satoru sees the action. 

You clamber out of the bleachers, following him without a word. Usually, Satoru would walk you home. You'd share a kiss with him on the front porch. And for the rest of the day, he'd finally leave you alone. 

He grabs your hand, shooting you a wink when you lightly jostle into his body. Instead of heading out the door, Satoru turns his gaze towards the empty locker rooms. The light's automated. It flickers an unsettling white, casting a sick glow along the tiles. You are barely through the door before Satoru's pinning you against the lockers, kissing you as aggressively as he can. 

Your hands immediately find their way to his shoulders, squeezing. It's not enough to hurt him, but it grabs his attention anyway. He lets up a little, relaxing into your touch. 

"Sorry, baby," he says not sounding apologetic at all, "just be good f'me, okay? Need you." 

He's pent up, you realize and you look at the door. School's out. The campus is nearly empty. But people are still around. And the door he just shoved you through doesn't have a lock- 

Oh, wait. Would it even matter if someone came in and saw you? Everyone knew you were Satoru's. 

Three more weeks. Just three more weeks. 

He's trailing down, dropping to his knees. He flips up your skirt, pushing aside your panties, and attaches his hot mouth to your pussy. He's ravenous, today. Sucking on your clit like he can't bear to do anything else. You gasp, immediately assaulted by the shocks of pleasure running up and down your back.

You press against the wall, arching your back, giving him even more to suck on. He hums in approval, his voice getting lost in your wet folds. You're practically dripping now, and Satoru, with all his debauchery, gladly licks it all up as you writhe and whimper above him. Your thighs grow tighter around him, threatening to crush his skull if both his hands weren't carved into the fat of your thighs, squeezing. 

Your initial panic is washed away, crumbled by his insistent tongue and fingers. You whimper out his name again as his tongue circles your clit and two fingers continue to move in and out of your sopping pussy. You're crying now, tears of pleasure and brokenness floating down your cheeks. Despite how blurry your vision is, you can see Satoru looking up at you. 

"Getting close?" he's breathless, but there's still a hint of playfulness in his voice, "gonna sing, pretty girl?" 

He gives a particularly hard suck on your clit and you're gone. You seize, throwing your head back as your legs shake from the force of your orgasm. It's a scream, so loud and shameless. Satoru gives a groaned pant, lapping up your aftertaste, making you jolt from the overstimulation before he finally gets to his feet. You watch as he haphazardly wipes the remnants of you with his sleeve before he's kissing you again. 

"Always so sweet f'me," he purrs, biting at your lips before he fumbles with his belt. His cock is already red and strained. He pants, head shifting to fall at the crook of your neck as he lines himself up and sinks into you with one full thrust. 

You whine a mix of a sob and a hissed moan. He hushes you with a stilted breath, barely keeping himself together as he pumps himself into you. Both of you are sweating now. You can feel the beads draw down your neck. He licks at your clavicle, biting when he starts to get more aggressive. When it's too less, he hikes your thigh over his waist, keeping it there so he can go even deeper. 

"Fuck, I'm crazy for you," he slurs against your skin. You can barely pay attention to his words, barely keeping your own voice in check, "’would do anything for you, pretty girl." 

He raises his head, looking you in the eye. His sunglasses have been tossed on the floor. You can his beautiful eyes, two cosmic galaxies of blue. You could stare at them for hours, discovering each variant of cerulean, naming each one. You bet each day you look, you'll find another shade. They're so pretty.

You wonder how pretty those eyes would look floating in a jar. 

"'Toru-!" you gasp when Satoru rocks himself into again, even faster. The name you accidentally gave him when you're too fucked out to comprehend language makes him laugh in pure delight, his smile uncontrolled, delirious. 

"Right here, baby," he moans into your sweaty skin, hand reaching down to rub your clit, "your ‘Toru's right here. Just where you need him." 

His fingers move under your shirt, squeezing at your tits, exploring, roughly grabbing at your chest. The sensation makes you wince. Your walls draw even tighter, choking his cock. 

"Too-too much, 'Toru, p-please." He growls at your begging, burying his face in your neck again. He nips at your damp skin, you flinch. 

"I gotcha' baby," he breathes, "just-just lemme-" He presses on your clit. It's all you need. 

You come with a sob, your pussy squeezing, milking Satoru for all he's worth. He's not too far behind, hips stuttering before he whines in your ear. Something warm fills your cunt. 

You flounder, sagging against the wall. Satoru's the only thing that keeps you upright as you fight to catch your breath. He isn't in any better shape, panting just as hard as you are. He lifts his head, pressing his damp forehead onto yours. There's a dreamy smile on his lips. A look of absolute adoration. 

"I love you." 

You look at him. There's nowhere else to look.

"I love you," he repeats, leaning forward to kiss the corner of your lips. His lips trail down, caressing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. It would almost feel nice, but you can only stare straight ahead. You can see the dull green lockers in the distance. You can smell the mold in the damp locker room. You can feel Satoru's cum slowly seep out of you, trailing down your thigh. 

Fuck three weeks. 

You needed to get out, now. 

𖤓

The only reason you went is because you were told Gojo Satoru wouldn't be there. 

His assistant had off-handily mentioned that he had a meeting on the other side of town. Very last minute. The building as a whole would be empty, just a skeleton crew and a couple of security guards to keep the place running. It made sense, it was 8 pm- long past any proper business hours. 

Higuruma could have easily gone, but it's clear the sleepless nights have been getting to him, or the stress. His paralegal is more than qualified to act like a middleman between him and Mr.Gojo's associates. It's an easy mission. Just grab a few things, and get out. 

Gojo Satoru wasn't supposed to be there. 

And yet, there he was, leaning against the door, blocking you into the room. 

His assistant had always been a mousey thing. Tonight, however, he'd been extra ansty, looking around the room. Babbling out excuses as to what was taking him so long. Now, when he can barely even look at you, you realize he was just a distraction. 

"You're off the clock, Ijichi," Gojo finally breaks the silence, "take tomorrow off too, okay?" 

His assistant quickly nods, keeping his head down to flit out the door. You can't even bring yourself to be mad at him. Gojo always had a habit of singling out the weakest, crushing them within his fist, unless they bent or broke. 

The door shuts with a click. 

"You know, I didn't even recognize you at first," he starts. He takes a small step forward. 

You take one back. He puts his hands up. 

"Okay, don't be like that," he sighs, exasperated, "It's been what, 10 years? How you've been?" 

He steps around you, barely brushing against your shoulder to get to his desk. He reaches down, grabbing a wine bottle and two glasses from a cabinet, setting both down on mahogany wood. 

"Wanna drink? Technically, it's against company policy to serve alcohol in the building but I won't tell if you don't." He grins. It looks bloody. 

He looks so casual, the man who's haunted your nightmares, leaning against a desk in a building he owns. Your heart's beating in your chest. It's so loud. You wonder if he can hear it too. 

When you don't respond, he rolls his eyes. 

"Figures." He pops the cork. "You were always such a stickler for the rules." 

"What do you want?" You ask, your tone weaker than you'd liked. 

"What? Don't you wanna catch up? I missed you." You flinch at his words, looking away. "A paralegal, huh? Gotta' say, wasn't what I expected, but it fits you." It sounds condescending, but you don't poke the bear, opting to stay silent. 

He seems to take an issue with that, regardless. 

"Are you mad? If anything, I should be the one upset at how you just ran off like that. After all that time we spent together too. I didn't even get a breakup text." 

 His last words, send a chill up your spine. A warning. Staying here any longer would be a mistake. 

You go to move. 

Satoru's faster. 

Your head slams against the wall. Hard. Enough to hurt. You struggle anyway, clawing at the hand that's gripping your throat, the body pinning you down. Above you (he's gotten so much taller now), Gojo tuts in disappointment. 

"I tried to be nice and look where that got me. You tried to run again," he muses, like he's disappointed, "I shouldn't be surprised. You've always needed something with a bit more teeth." At his threat, his hand on your throat tightens. You freeze. 

It's barely choking you, but it's enough of a warning. His other hand is playing with the end of your blouse, feeling the fabric. You can feel the tears start. They're a familiar taste. Only this time, they're twinged with bitterness. 

"Don't do this," you whisper, "Don't-don't-" 

"Yeah, I don't think you're in any position to make demands right now." He's grinning, but when you look into his eyes, you can see the anger. A fire that has burned for a decade. At that moment, you realized Gojo Satoru had changed. Now, he was better at hiding how he truly felt. 

You should have quit the moment Higurama got him as a client. 

Gojo's dragging you over to the desk, haphazardly pushing away the stuff already on it. The computer, the bottle, the wine glasses all fall to the floor with a deafening crash as he shoves you down, splaying you across the table. He follows you down, leaning to meet your lips in a frenzied kiss. It's different than all the other times he'd kissed you. He'd lost all the inexperience, more keen on making you stay put and bleed. When you try to turn your face, pushing at his chest, he only growls. A large hand grabs your chin, keeping you in place for him. 

When he pulls away, there's a hint of blood on his plush lips. It's not his. He licks it up regardless. 

You're full-on sobbing now; barely in sucking air as your body shudders and jolts. You don't expect comfort, least of all from him, but he's cooing, wiping away your tears. 

"Missed this," he purrs, ignoring the way you weakly push at him, "'guess that was my mistake. I was expecting you to be different. Nah, you'll be the same crybaby you always were. That's how you managed to slip under my radar." 

He buries his face into your hair, sighing in contentment as you shiver underneath him. His lips graze the crown of your head, a complete juxtaposition to his words. 

"Scream all you want. No one's here, baby." No one's gonna save you from me.

 Still, you try anyway. Your hands grip his broad shoulders, digging in your nails until he hisses. 

"Fuck maybe you have changed." He rasps, fiddling with his belt. "You're bitchier now." 

"Gojo-Gojo what are you-" He bites on your bare clavicle. You squeal, stilling underneath him again. 

"Satoru," he insists. You slump over the desk as he takes both your hands, wrapping his leather belt around your delicate wrists. You wince when he twists it into a knot. The leather bites into your skin. The fight dissolves just as rapidly as it arrived. He hadn't even lifted a finger against you. You were just that pathetic. 

"Satoru," you breathe, waving your flag of defeat. He hums, licking at the bitemark. You can feel the heat bloom on your skin. They'll be a mark tomorrow, and much like Satoru, it would go away so easily. 

"There's my good girl," he groans, cold hands fiddling with the buttons on your blouse, opening it up until your bra pops out, "I know I should be more mad, but I've always had a soft spot for you. Guess things will never change, hm?" 

His mouth dips down, tracing your collarbone to your breasts. He wiggles down your bra, letting your tits spill out and into his hands. He squeezes one while taking another in his mouth, swirling the bud with his tongue before devouring. His moan is barely muffled by your tits. Yours is clear, high-pitched and breathy. Satoru always had no problem being shameless. And he often dragged it out of you too. 

He's mouthing something against your skin, but you're too distracted by his other hand, slinking down your waist, pushing up your pencil skirt, letting it bunch around your hips. In the moment, you chastised yourself for wearing something so easy to get rid of, but it wasn't like you were expecting for him to be here, to bring you down just like he did when you were in high school. It's not like you were expecting to fall. 

Satoru feels around your pantyhose, running up and down your thigh, searching. He squeezes the sheer fabric, before he rips a hole into it. You gasp, jerking at the action. 

"That's-"

"I'll buy you new ones," he says, voice muffled by your tits. The conversation feels familiar. 

He bypasses your panties immediately, finding your pussy with practiced ease. You're already soaking. At this, he raises to look at you. You can't keep eye contact, timidly looking away. He laughs. It sounds sickenly affectionate. 

"You're so cute." He purrs just as he leaves another mark on your chest. Your tits bounce under his attention as he pushes two fingers into your tight sopping hole. Your back curls, arching off the desk as he starts pumping his fingers in and out of you. Disgust grows within you, not at him, but at yourself, for letting yourself get this low. This desperate. 

It doesn't stay for long. He's cruel like that, moving in a way that makes you forget your humanity. His fingers get even faster, digging into your cunt and curling somewhere deep inside, hitting a spot that makes you gasp. You're reduced to whimpering moans by the time he finally stops, fingers exiting your pussy with a wet noise. He brings them to his mouth, sucking on his fingers, eyes rolling to the back of his head at your taste. 

"Fuckin' sweet," he moans, taking his fingers out with a sickening pop before wiping the drool on your heaving tits. 

Your eyes float to the window. The moon is out, you blearily realize. It's a blood moon, a rusty red. Once every 3 months, it'll lose its heavenly glow. The innocent milky white will get shadowed by the Earth's rusty atmosphere. It'll regain its color eventually. The Sun doesn't like to be overshadowed. 

Something hard and blunt slides between your legs. You're barely given a second to comprehend it before Satoru grabs you by the hips, filling you up with one thrust. You yelp, a semblance of his name on your lips, but it's shrouded by the moan you give out. 

He stays like that for a bit. You should be grateful he is letting you adjust to him. His cock is sickenly familiar to your walls. Satoru's hair brushes your cheek as he leans up to whisper in your ear. 

"How many?" he sounds like he's gritting his teeth, barely in control, "how many guys have you let fuck you since you ran?" 

You blink, wondering if he's seriously asking, but you can hear the seriousness in his tone. Even now, he's concerned with the wrong things. He's always been petty like that. 

"You," you say because there's no point in lying, "it's only ever been you." 

You say it like it's a curse, because to you, Satoru had cursed you. He'd stolen something you'd never be able to enjoy, devouring it, keeping it for himself. A part of you will always hate yourself for letting him do that, just like a part of you will always be his. 

Satoru deflates, as if he's relieved, easing his face into the crook of your neck, placing an almost loving kiss on your shoulder. He starts slow, slowly drawing his cock out, just until his tip is barely still in, before he pushes himself back into your hole. His pace is slow, controlled. It's different than when he was younger, more eager to get himself off more than anything. Now, it's like he's enjoying the intimacy, the feeling of your walls squeezing him. The wet noises. He's barely affected. Unlike you, writhing underneath him, close to falling apart. It's his length that gets you, forcing your pussy to stretch just to fit him. His cock hits everywhere, all at once, an endless torture of pleasure. 

It takes you a while to get your brain back together, to collect the mush, and realize that Gojo isn't wearing a condom. 

"S-Sato-" You try, just when he spreads your thighs apart, pushing them close to your chest so he can get deeper and kiss you at the same time. His hand slips down to your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles and you feel yourself getting even closer. You squeeze your eyes shut at the onslaught. 

"Try again," Satoru huffs, "What's my name? I know you know it, pretty girl." 

"'Toru," you beg because it's all you have left. Your breathless gasps make you sound even more unconvincing but you still manage to stutter out, "I'm-I'm not on anything, so-so please-" 

"That's okay," he mutters, though it's clear he's half-listening, "I'll take care of you and the baby."

"No-I-I-can't-" 

He drops his leisure pace in exchange of shorter, faster thrusts. His cock barely leaves your pussy, grinding in your hole as his breathing starts to get a little less controlled. 

"I'll make sure it takes this time too." 

Your eyes open, and you forget your panic to stare at him. You think back to the pills 18-year-old Geto had handed you. Always discreet. You'd...you'd always thought they were Satoru's idea. 

He hits something inside you, right then. You implode, crashing and burning as you gush around his dick. He's not kind enough to ease you through it, ramming his cock even harder inside your battered pussy until he's hunching over you with a shudder. You can feel his cum settle deep inside your womb. 

You stay like that for a few moments, not saying anything. It feels like hours before Satoru is moving again, drawing his softened cock out of your overstimulated pussy. You can feel the cum drip out of you too, spilling onto the desk, but you don't think Satoru's too mad about that. He flicks your clit a few times, watching your hips jerk and you give an exhausted whine. 

He kisses your breasts. He kisses up your jaw, before finding your lips. Dazed, you find yourself kissing back in reluctant acceptance, your body aching for any semblance of gentleness. 

"I love you." 

You look into his eyes, and you realize he's right. Gojo Satoru loves you, and this is how a man like him loves. He meant it, all those years ago, just like how he does now.

Satoru loves like the Sun. Too bright. With enough heat to burn your soul away. It's why you ran. 

"I love you," he repeats like the phrase doesn't kill you each time he says it, "so you're never leaving me." 

"Not ever again."

There are theories that the Moon once had color. 

It wasn't just white. It was green and blue, and red. 70 million years ago, it could have been much like the Earth. It didn't have a strong atmosphere, however. The gaseous layer was slowly stripped away. The Sun had eaten it. With no atmosphere, the unfiltered solar radiation slowly began to bleach the once colorful celestial body a dull white. Before long, the sun had created the moon to be its image. Now, the only color the moon has to offer is the sun's reflection. 

If Satoru was the Sun, then perhaps, you were the Moon. Stripped of your color. Unable to create light of your own. Reflecting only what you're given. 

How foolish of you to think you could ever escape his radiation. 

[mynameisjag]

For @ace-in-disgrace and their prompt: Danny gets mistaken as the love child of the disasters known as Wolverine and Deadpool.

Okay, it was not Danny's fault, he swears!

He was just experimenting with his ice, playing around with some of the younger yetis in the Far Frozen for fun. So shaping his ice to cover his hands to copy the paws of the others and seeing how well he could cut through solid hard frozen ice was just a game. The rough housing was to be expected, everyone tossing each other to see how far they could be thrown was fun.

Being picked up and tossed at the right exact moment a portal opened up was not fun or expected and he blamed Clockwork. The entity had to be responsible somehow for him not being able to enjoy a day of hanging out with Frostbite and the others.

Landing right in the middle of a what looked like a swat happening in an abandoned warehouse, armored people instantly aiming their rifles at him as he stood up wasn’t even surprising given his luck.

Fair though, he was currently looking more on the feral side to match his playmates then his normal ghost form.

“Hey, what’s with hostility? Can’t someone just pop in somewhere without-“, and he was shot in the shoulder, cutting his sentence off, “rude.”

It was just a regular bullet, so it was easy for his form to just…push it out and heal the hole up.

One of the men reached up to touch a device attached on his ear, “Unknown possible mutant has breached the facilities, age around 12-15, regeneration showed, animal like features-“

“You know it’s really rude to talk about someone like that to their face, no manners at all.”

“Unfortunately satirical.”

There was a crash from above as red and yellow forms busted through the glass, the guns swinging their aim at the two men landed.

“Sassiness is always welcomed!”, the red man had his own guns out and was already firing as he talked.

Danny had decided to dodge over to a pile of crates as all the attention was on the new intruders, eyes wide as an arc blood barely missed him as the one in yellow unsheathed long blades from his knuckles.

He glanced at his own hands, he couldn’t make a working gun from ice but…concentrating…he slowly watched as ice built up into copies, looking very much like it was growing from his skin.

An armored body was flung his way and he instinctual reacted…there were now two halves of a one man and he was covered in the viscera.

He froze…did he…oh…oh no…he had to go, he had to go now.

“Ope, looks like someone's first kill! Look at you Jack Frost,” the red guy with guns was now standing above him on a bigger crate, waving down at the teen, “awe, tiny puppy claws!”

Danny took a swing at the crate, watching as it collapsed and the man fell, laughing the entire time he went down.

He quickly turned to run, only to run into a wide chest where he promptly bounced off and landed ass first on the floor, “What in the-I have literally ran into steel walls softer then you.”

Claw man snorted as he reached down and picked Danny up by the scruff, “You alright kid?”

Said kid just hissed at him.

Claws was chuckling, “Cute, now put back your claws, I think it’s time for a chat.”

“Is it finally our turn for the found family and misunderstandings trope,” the red man was back and had swaggered up to the other two, an arm being thrown over his partners shoulders, “Hi, there and welcome, I’m Deadpool and this is Wolverine and we’re your new dads.”

“No.”

“No?”

Danny smiled, all sharp teeth, “No,” and promptly went invisible and intangible, escaping out of the warehouse while he could, leaving the other two behind.

He had to find a portal home.

Wade went limp, using Logan as a brace, “But I wanted to pull a ‘Batman’…”

The response was a snort and Wolverine sniffing his own hand, growling as he took the child’s scent in, “Don’t know what your talking about but, I can track him down, we probably need to before more of these fucks show up and get their hands on him.”

Hope you enjoyed it!

[emmyrosee]

helloooe i don’t know if u write for gojo (i’m new in your blog and haven’t seen gojo posts lately or maybe i haven’t scrolled far) and saw that your looking for angsty requests, can i request angst as in the different levels of gojo and reader, that gojo is so powerful and that the world constantly needs him so he can’t give reader enough attention, in a way actually hit them both in their relationship?

if not, it’s okay, i hope you’re doing fine!!

GOJO ANGST MY BELOVED-

---

"If you leave, you will come home to an empty house."

The warning falls confidently from your lips, as if premeditated and ready to be released into the air at any given trigger. Satoru stops getting his shoes on and turns to face you. Your eyes hold nothing but exhaustion, eyes under your bags dark and the lifelessness in your face sends a shiver through him. Had you looked so worn out all day?

"What... did you just say?" He whispers, brows pinching in the center in betrayal.

"You heard me. If you leave me right now, without a second thought of my regard, you will come back to nothing from me but my scent and this memory of us."

Thirty seconds ago, he smearing frosting on your nose and when you pushed him away, he’d peppered kisses over your face and fingers dug in your sides. Thirty seconds ago, you'd been interrupted in your baking by the man who would move mountains and swim oceans for you, only for his phone to ring just seconds later, calling him away like it always does.

Thirty seconds ago, he was kissing the laughter from your lips. Now, you’re threatening him.

You're cruel for this predicament, this choice and this bomb to be dropped on him mere seconds from him leaving for who even knows how long. But it doesn’t matter to him. You knew what you were getting into, and it’s not his fault he’s needed more often than not.

You should love him no matter what. As he does you.

He swallows thickly, "don't do this. Not right now."

You shrug, "this is your choice. Not mine. You know my terms.”

Bile rises up his throat and his hands tremble before fisting themselves into a little ball, "this is your choice, you doing this right now when I need to leave-"

“You always need to leave. I’m just sick of it.”

Now, Satoru just feels himself getting angry, "is this ultimatum really necessary right now? You couldn't have waited three damn days-"

"I think you're optimistic in guessing you'll only be gone for three days," you chuckle, crossing your arms over your chest. He sees the hurt in your features, but he merely shrugs it off as he continues to put on his shoes. “I’m not kidding, Satoru,” you warn. “You leave. I leave.”

“Then leave!” He shouts, hating the way tears sting at his eyes, “do it! I dont need you! You think I do? I’m Gojo Satoru.”

He does. Good fucking god he does, Satoru needs you like he needs water, craves food and forces breath into his lungs, he needs you like he’s paid to and loves you more than himself.

But you can’t know that. Even if not knowing it will drive you away.

You just your lower lip out and shrug, “then leave. Gojo Satoru.”

In desperation, he searches your eyes for something, anything to call your bluff, anything to tell him you’re lying, you won’t leave him. But your eyes tell him nothing, your eyes are closed off and protecting yourself from his venom.

He balls his fists and takes a sharp sniff through his nose in an attempt to ground himself.

“Maybe I will.”

He opens the door before slamming it shut behind him, the vibrations rattling his bones and making him feel even weaker than he was before. He knows that you might slam the door in a not too dissimilar way in but a few hours, cupcakes abandoned and bags packed into your car, leaving your keys in the mailbox and leaving his life for good.

All he can do is hope otherwise.

But in all the lies he can tell himself, that’s one he’s having a hard time believing.

[gutsby]

Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

[mockerycrow]

Frozen Fingertips [2/2] (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist - part one

Summary: Ghost struggles to keep you alive through these harsh times.

A/N: I’m so glad you guys enjoyed part one!! i did not shrink the font of this one because i realized that it may strain some peoples’ eyes. this is not as angsty as i wished it to be, and it isn’t as long as i hoped. i apologize. tbh i don’t like this, but i hope y’all enjoy

[WARNINGS: Descriptions of developing hypothermia and frost bite, delirium, near-death experience(s), angst to fluff.]

THE BLIZZARD WAS not stopping and it didn’t show signs of stopping any time soon, which honestly terrifies Ghost because of your awful condition. Despite his previous efforts, you quickly slipped back into a delirious state of developing hypothermia—a state you weren’t completely aware of, but you knew something was wrong. You could vaguely acknowledge the way that you were fading in and out wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t like you could do anything about it. What you hated was the painful tingling and the weird.. harsh cold entering your lungs every time you took a deep breath. You’re so warm, yet your lungs burn cold.

You only saw times in glimpses—what you thought was likely a matter of hours, expanded across a matter of a few days. The harsh blizzard was unwavering, it’s snow falling from the sky harshly messing with the radio signals. Ghost would sit by the window with his personal radio on his vest, along with the emergency signal radio he had stowed in his pack. He would get small glimpses of other peoples voices—Price’s would come through occasionally, luckily long enough for Ghost to update him about their situation and their whereabouts, your condition; but Ghost was never able to provide an update about an exact location. The windows were frosted over and even when they weren’t, all Ghost saw was endless snow and pine trees far as the eye can see, until they eventually faded from view due to the snow coverage. Every time Ghost suddenly becomes aware of his breath, he can’t help but glance over at you; wrapped up in two sleeping bags, sitting way too close to the fireplace—sometimes shuddering, and sometimes.. not moving at all. His heart drops to his stomach when he doesn’t see your breath in the air. He calls your name loudly, firm and demanding and when you don’t answer, he scrambles from his position by the window. “Fuck,” He utters. “Fuck!”

Ghost ignores the pain in his knees when they harshly bash against the ground as he kneels next to you. He grabs your face by your cheeks, startled by the hue of blue on your lips. “Bloody bell—wake up!” Ghost snarls, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. He holds his breath until he sees your chest slowly yet shakily rise—and then you exhale very slowly, and clearly with amounts of trouble. Relief floods Ghost’s veins, but it’s quickly replaced by frustration and panic. You gasp quietly before you begin to shiver uncontrollably again, and taking Ghost completely by surprise; you open your eyes. Your eyes are glazed over, your eyelids puffy. “[Name]?” Ghost questions, his eyes staring hard into yours, silently noting your dialed pupils. “[Name], can you hear me?” If you do, you don’t make coherent indication. Your tongue darts out and wets your lips before you croak out, “I gotta pee.” Ghost huffs and shakes his head, his hand shooting up and laying on your chest—which is covered by many thicker layers, so disregarding Ghost’s hand, it’s not very likely you could’ve gotten up without help, anyway. “You went an hour ago, yeah? You need to stay layin’ down.” You groan and despite your arms being tucked into your multiple covers, something moves against the fabric as if to swat Ghost’s hand away. Ghost can’t help but swallow nervously; he isn’t stupid, he’s aware you’re in one of the stages of hypothermia, he told Price as much. He’s been able to keep the frostbite at bay, but he’s running out of firewood. It’s snowing way too damn hard for him to even pick up stray logs and sticks laying around. Your slowed heartrate, increased urge to urinate, slow cognitive functions, slurred speech, cold skin—blue lips..

It’s not looking good and Ghost doesn’t want to think about that, but that’s all he can see of you right now, so how could he not? And it’s hard both mentally and physically to stay in this cabin, seeing you deteriorate while he himself is getting absolutely fucking freezing. Ghost has had to shed a layer or two just to keep you alive. He can’t deny the way the cold air is scratching at his skin, seeping through his balaclava and into his jaw, nearly making his bones hurt. Ghost clenches his teeth as he shudders for a moment, eyes fluttering closed just long enough to gain his composure. Fuck. Ghost doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t want you to die here, not like this. Not in a run-down abandoned cabin with shitty insulation, where frostbite is nipping at your fingers and where the cold is finally getting to Ghost’s head. He grits his teeth and sits back on his ass normally with a gloved hand to his head, his vision absolutely swimming. “Stop it,” He grunts quietly. “Hafta stay up.” Ghost takes a deep breath and grunts as he pushes himself to his feet, his boots booming against the wooden floor as he walks over to the area where the firewood is kept. He grabs a few of the pre-cut logs and he makes his way over to you and the fireplace, tossing the logs into the ashes, slowly refueling the dying embers. Ghost sniffles a little under his mask as he grabs a piece of paper and takes out a lighter, lighting it on fire before quickly tossing it into the fireplace to make a better fuel source. He crouches near the growing fire, taking his spot by your feet. Ghost sucks in a shuddering breath and rubs his upper arms, and he can’t help but take another glance at you. You stopped trying to get out of your warm enclosure of blankets, but your eyes were darting around the room slowly, unfocused and hazy.

Ghost’s chest clenches for a moment and he walks back over to your shivering form, and he already did it, but he presses his fingers against your lukewarm skin—nearly cold. Your eyes flutter again and then they vaguely glance in the direction that you think he’s in; which you’re almost right, but a few inches off. You try to speak but a quiet choked noise leaves you, your breathing shaky—finally from fear this time. Ghost puts his finger to his mask in a shushing motion, trying his best to keep you calm. “You’ll be alright, yeah? Gotta wait until the storm’s done brewing out there.” He attempts to reassure your delirious brain, but you can only make another “out of it” noise before your eyes flutter shut once again, you losing consciousness. Ghost feels an ugly and dreadful feeling deep in his gut, scratching at his veins, climbing them until his fingertips are cold both due to the temperature and panic. Ghost has always insisted he doesn’t panic, and he hasn’t—until now. Not until he fears the storm won’t pass over and help won’t arrive until you’re frozen and stiff under your fear, despite his desperate attempts to keep you warm—and alive. Ghost doesn’t want to admit it, but fuck, he’s terrified to fall asleep because out of the two of you, what if he’s the only one who wakes up?

Ghost’s eyelids flutter for a moment before he inhales in a sharp manner and his spine straightens up, his hands clenching together for a moment. “M’not going to fall asleep.” He mutters to himself as he takes his place next to you on the floor and holy hell, the floor is cold—so he silently scoots closer to you and wraps an arm around your body, and Ghost uses his other arm as a pillow. Your chest very slowly rises and falls, and he finds comfort in the sight of a sign of you being alive—you’re still here with him, and that’s all he needs.

Ghost is awoken from a banging on the cabin door. He jolts ever so slightly, but he’s immediately hit with chills, his limbs trembling. Fuck, he fell asleep. His eyelids feel like sandbags and and he can’t stop fucking shaking—and he feels so heavy.. so tired. “Ghost!” A familiar voice yells outside of the cabin. His arm wraps around your form tighter when he doesn’t immediately recognize the British accent behind the door, he grunts as he clumsily sits up and pulls you closer, his trembling hand grasping as his hip, taking out his service pistol. The door opens as he attempts to aim it, his weak and low voice hissing out, “I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out—“

“Ghost, it’s Price. We found you. Put the gun down.”

Ghost blinks slowly as he looks at the figure who slowly approaches, two others trailing behind—and it is Price—with Gaz and Soap. Ghost sharply inhaled and his arm lowers, the pistol slipping out of his grip. Gaz rushes over to him and your limp form, taking off his gloves. “We got you, Ghost. We got you.” Price assures, but his lips are pressed together as he watches Gaz. Ghost’s head rolls back for a moment, blacking out for a few seconds—Soap’s hands catching his head before it hits the floor. “They’re alive,” Gaz grunts out, leaning down to pick you up bridal style while keeping all of the layers around your body. “Barely, but we gotta get ‘em both to warmth. Now.”

When Ghost finally comes to, the first thing he notices is the smell—it doesn’t smell like rotting and burning wood; his lungs don’t burn with every breath and he can keep his fingers. The second thing he notices is the ache within his throat and his limbs, and the third thing he notices is that he is not wearing his mask. He still feels heavy, but it’s not the kind of heavy where you want to sleep forever heavy. It’s a.. comforting heavy. Someone laying on top of him heavy. It takes him a hot second to open his eyes, and another second to adjust to the harsh lights of the hospital room—oh, wait, they’re not that bad, his head just hurts. Ghost notices someone laying their head on the bed on top of Ghost, their arms under their head as a cushion. He blinks blearily as he doesn’t register it at first; the hospital gown, two IV drips for two separate patients, and the bandages covering your fingers—it’s you. His eyes widen and he lets out a quiet noise, causing you to lift your head up immediately and look at him with the most vulnerable look you could ever have, your eyes wide and bulging like when a child doesn’t know whether to believe the adult in front of them. “Ghost?” You ask, and fuck, your throat croaks. Your vocal cords sound like they’ve been torn apart and reattached, croaking with relief and pain. He swallows thickly and he nods for a moment, unable to find his voice. Your eyes soften for a moment before you whisper to him. “Hurts to talk, huh? Me too.”

Then don’t, said his silent gaze. Yet, somehow, you manage to catch on his memo. Wordlessly, you reach up to one of his hands—covered in scars and calluses, but you don’t mind. Your hands are similar as you nervously glance at him, grabbing his wrist and turning it over so his palm faces up. Ghost eyes your movements, but makes no move to stop you. You take one of your pointer fingers—the one that isn’t bandaged—and you trace letters into his hand slowly.

T H A N K Y O U

Ghost meets your gaze, and you have tears in your eyes. His hand is grossly limp as he grabs the hand you were moving away, and he instead pulls your hand closer to his face for a closer inspection. The bandages concern him, so he looks at you again. You reach for the clipboard you left by his feet and you place it in his lap, pointing to the part of the medical report about your frostbite blisters. Ghost inhales deeply for a moment before his fingers tap against your hand—rhythmically? Oh, it’s morse code.

Ghost is tapping SAFE over and over while looking at you, to reassure himself—and you. You nod in response and offer him the smile he’s been waiting to see and you tap back to him, SAFE.

[lovebugism]

omggg im craving a halloween themed , rockstar!eddie x shy!reader at a halloween party , matching costumes and everything & he sees a ton of guys hitting on her & is like ???? my baby?

here you go lovie! hope you like it! — eddie takes his girl to a bar on halloween and gets jealous when guys hit on you like you're not already his (shy!reader, rockstar!eddie, established relationship, 1k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

The world didn’t know you before today.

You’ve been just Eddie Spaghetti’s girlfriend for so long — but now you’re Eddie Munson, up-and-coming rockstar and lead of Corroded Coffin’s girlfriend. The title carries a certain weight with it. You wear it with pride, but it weighs you down just the same. 

What’s weird about tonight, though, is you’re not sharing Eddie with the rest of the world like you thought you would. He’s having to share you, because everyone and their goddamn brother’s been all over you all night. 

Apparently, your coquettish rendition of The Bride of Frankenstein is making everyone else as crazy as it’s making him.

“God, go save your girlfriend, Munson,” Gareth jokes across the booth, laughing into his drink as he watches yet another guy stop you at the bar. “At least one of these assholes is gonna steal her from you.”

“She’s not property, dude. She can’t get stolen,” Jeff scolds from beside him, then flashes Eddie a sheepish glance. “But, yeah, the odds aren’t in your favor, Eds.”

Eddie pays no mind to his friends’ teasing — or the anger swirling like fire in the pit of his stomach. 

“Nah. She’s alright…” he mumbles into the rim of his glass. The whiskey burns his throat going down. It doesn’t match the flame rising in his chest at the sight of his precious girl talking to some douchebag dressed like Elvis Presley.

He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t think you weren’t a hundred percent fine. These bozos aren’t trying anything with you — hell, they can barely make conversation with you. You’re just entertaining it because you’re the sweetest thing on the earth.

It’s laughable more than anything.

He’s humored by it all. Not jealous. Definitely not jealous.

“Yeah, who’s the famous one here, again?” Jeff’s girlfriend jokes. She’d left to go to the bathroom with you but came back alone when you got stuck with dollar-store Elvis. She points to the rest of them with a long, manicured finger. “It’s you guys, right? Because I can’t really tell.”

“Fuck off…” Eddie grouses, forcing a grin while the rest of them laugh.

You return then, with a drink in hand and a frown on your face at the sight of your suddenly grumpy boyfriend. “You okay?” you wonder quietly, smoothing down your skirt when you slide into the booth.

The boy moves over to make room for you. “‘M fine,” he answers with a mumble that makes you assume otherwise. 

You reach a hand to his face, smoothing fluffy curls behind his ear. His cheek is warm against your palm. His faded seafoam Frankenstein paint job smears on your wrist.

“‘M sorry for taking so long. Some guy stopped me on the way over. I didn’t wanna be rude.”

Eddie shakes his head. Not a single part of him blamed you.

“It’s okay, babe. Not your fault.” 

He’s full-on beaming now. Just because you called that asshole “some guy.” It feels good to hear you say that, to know that that’s all he is to you — just some fuckin’ guy. You won’t remember him later, if you still do even now.

Honestly, you’ll be lucky to remember your own name at the end of tonight.

“He get that drink for you?” Eddie asks, nodding to the frosted glass in your fist.

You shrug. “Yeah. He bought it, but I watched the bartender make it, so it’s fine.”

He nods, proud and sparkling with it. “Good.”

“What is it?” Gareth wonders, squinting across the table.

“An Old-Fashioned.”

“You hate whiskey,” Eddie laughs, licking the alcohol from the plush of his bottom lip.

“Well, yeah, but he asked what I liked, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just told him your favorite drink,” you ramble, all mousy, as you drag the falling sleeve of your corset back up your shoulder. 

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment, still a bit overwhelmed by the attention.

Eddie’s grinning something fierce beside you. His chest swells with so much pride he thinks he might burst.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest fuckin’ thing?” he singsongs with a rosy grin, wrapping the ripped sleeve of his arm around your shoulders to pull you closer. 

Then he kisses you. Like, really kisses you. 

It’s deep and intimate and sloppy. He opens your mouth with his and slithers his tongue inside. He tastes like bitter-sweet alcohol. You get drunk on him accordingly. 

The rest of the table gags.

Your lips click audibly when Eddie pulls away. His smile glistens with a mixture of your saliva, lips a deeper shade of pink and slightly swollen. You wipe your chin with the back of your mouth — some of Eddie’s face paint comes with it.

“Where’s he now?” the boy asks with a mischievous squint in his deep chocolate eyes.

You shrug, totally uncaring and just wanting to be kissed. “I dunno.”

“Still at the bar,” Gareth answers for you, snickering to himself. “Giving your girl the sex eyes.”

Your face screws up in disgust. “Sex eyes?” you repeat, nose scrunched.

The group laughs.

“Think you can get him to buy you a round? You know, for the table?” Eddie asks you. His fingers trace shapes on your bare shoulder. You have to fight back a shiver.

“You want me to go talk to him?” you gape, like you must’ve heard him wrong.

“I want you to go get us drinks, sweet thing. Work your magic, you know?”

He’s not in the most right headspace right now. You know this. He’s still high on the post-show adrenaline and mellow on the alcohol.  He’s jealous and in love with you and aflame with hatred for bootleg Elvis Presley. He gets rash when he’s raging, risky and unpredictable — a deadly concoction.

“Eds…” you hum quietly, brows scrunched like the idea pains you. “I don’t wanna make you mad…”

“You won’t make me mad, sweet thing,” Eddie assures, squeezing your shoulder. He presses a sanguine peck to your waiting mouth, then his voice gets all low. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll reward you after.”

He smacks one last kiss to your buzzing lips.

You blink at him until your senses return to you. You slide out from the booth and saunter back to Some Guy, who’s seemingly been waiting on your return this whole time. 

There’s a sudden sway to your hips now, but it’s not for him. 

It’s for Eddie.

The boy with the wild hair back at the booth, missing splotches of his face paint and wearing your lipstick knows this too.

[strangersteddierthings]

Beg You to Love Me

"I'm surprised you even remembered, Harrington," Eddie shrugs, hoping he comes off as aloof as he wants to, instead of shaky and unsure like he feels. He was sitting atop the picnic table, arms behind him trying to look as unaffected by Steve's presence as he can, but he's been thrown for a loop ever since Steve emerged from the woods instead of Robin Buckley, like he was expecting.

"Of course, I remember. I- I've never forgotten," Steve whispers, head down and fists clenched at his sides. He looks more like a child being wrongfully scolded than a man defending himself.

The words pull a scoff from Eddie, though. Never forgotten? What the fuck ever. "Right. Something to hold over me, then, if I'd stepped too far out of line? Mutually assured destruction?"

Steve's head snaps up and he looks horrified, which Eddie will admit to almost believing. Steve doesn't seem like the type to join the drama club but his acting's pretty fucking good. "What? No! I would have never- I would never have said anything about us to anyone."

"Right. Sure. Of course. Your own reputation to think about there."

Something like hurt flashes across Steve's face before it frosts over. This is the face he's used to see on Steve. Cold and distant. "I- whatever, man. I don't even know why I thought..." but Steve doesn't finish his sentence. He just shakes his head and turns his back on Eddie, heading back the way he came.

He doesn't know why that sparks a rage from deep within him. "Yeah, that's right. Tuck tail and runaway again!"

"I ran away?" Steve shouts back, turning sharply on his heel to glare at Eddie. "You think that I ran away?"

Eddie just spreads his hands to the empty clearing as if to say 'look at all this room around me you've never occupied'. "You weren't here, were you?"

"Because you told me to not be!" Steve stomps back to Eddie but stops a couple yards away.

"Like fuck I did," Eddie argues back, because he didn't tell Steve to go away. He'd told him-

"'If this isn't good enough for you, there's the fucking door.' That's what you told me," Steve quotes, "I thought it was pretty fucking clear what you wanted."

"Yeah, I fucking thought it was clear what I wanted," Eddie snarls, lunging from the picnic table, closing those last few feet to get into Steve's face. "Yet here we are!"

"Don't act like this is my fucking fault. Like you weren't the one who forced it to be my fault. My decision-"

"Yeah, it had to be your damn decision! You were dragging it out-"

"-because you were too much of a coward to do it your-fucking-self-"

"-acting like you were. Acting too good to actually slum it with the trailer trash-"

"-so of course I made the choice that was best for me. Because I deserved more-"

"-like what I had to offer you would never be good enough for the goddman King-"

"-than just being your hookup when I wanted to be-"

"-like I wasn't good enough to be your friend, much less-"

"-your fucking boyfriend!"

"-your fucking boyfriend!"

The contrast of this sudden silence that falls following their screaming match that ends with identical sentiments is jarring. Eddie feels wrong-footed and lost. Confusion and hurt mixing in him that he can see reflected on Steve's face.

"What?" Steve is the first to break the silence, drawing into himself. Arms crossing to hold himself at the elbows as he takes several steps back, as if to be able to see all of Eddie will clear the confusion he's feeling.

Eddie just stares back, slack jawed for a moment. That's. What. No, wait. Really, what? "What what?"

"You- you said 'if this isn't good enough for you, there's the fucking door'. How was I- I thought you- you were breaking up with me!" Steve cries, "you. You said that to make me pick, because you knew I wanted more and you didn't. That's- you were breaking up with me!"

Eddie's in just as much disbelief. "No, you broke up with me! I said if this isn't good enough but, like, I meant if I wasn't good enough. And you left! You walked out because I wasn't good enough to be with you!"

Steve looks stricken and he claws harder at himself, sort of folds into himself like he's going to be sick. "No. No no no, that's- then that means I- it's all been my fault. No no no no."

Eddie stares wide-eyed and frozen as Steve talks to himself. Eddie kind of feels nauseous. There's no way that this is possible. That these last two and a half years of heartbreak have been because of miscommunication. That they both thought the other was breaking up with them and neither actually wanted to.

"Why didn't you- Why didn't you say something?" Eddie asks.

Steve laughs at that, sounding a bit hysteric. "Me!? Why didn't you! I wasn't- I wasn't going to beg you to love me like I had with my parents. You were the one who told me I shouldn't have to do that!"

Yeah. He had. When Steve had broken down and cried on his bed, in his arms, wondering what it was he had done to lose his parents' love. Eddie told him it wasn't his fault, never would be, and that he would never need to beg for love from someone who does love him. It was the same advice Wayne had given him when he'd taken Eddie in.

"I already thought you were wanting to break up. You were being so distant, I thought..."

Steve sucks in a deep breath and nods, "Yeah. Yeah I was. I was scared of scaring you away. Of being too much. Because I- what I felt for you was a lot. I was afraid I'd chase you away if I continued to be so clingy. I pulled back, to reign it in but. Fuck. Fuck!"

Eddie drops to a squat. His legs feel like jelly and he can't keep standing. He squats and looks down so his hair becomes a curtain separating him from the reality of the situation, if only for a moment. Fuck is right.

He's spent his junior and first senior year being pissed at Steve. Hurt by him and what he thought happened. And it's- if Steve's being honest, it's all been for nothing. If they both wanted a deeper relationship, they could have had it. They might still be boyfriends if Eddie hadn't been so wrapped up in his Munson Doctrine. He'd been convincing himself Steve was embarrassed of him, and was working on breaking off their- whatever they were. But he hadn't been.

He's thought such terrible things about Steve over the years. God, what has Steve thought of him over the years? No. He doesn't want to know, actually. That's not what he cares about right now.

He lifts his head to see that Steve's plopped himself onto the ground, sitting cross legged, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

"Steve. Steve!" He calls Steve's name out until he looks up, looks at him, "why'd you come out here?"

He laughs again, slightly less hysterically, and he's shaking his head like he can't believe what he's about to say. "I. Fuck, I was coming out here to beg you to love me."

"No you fucking weren't!" his tone is filled with disbelief.

"I was," Steve repeats, sounding amused and heartbroken at the same time. "I really, really was. Graduation's coming and I know you want to get out of Hawkins the second that happens and I'm. I was running out of time trying to get you to notice me again, so I was going to beg."

Notice him again? As if Steve doesn't haunt his every waking thought. As if he doesn't dream of Steve every night while his eyes seek him across the halls and in their few shared classes like he's the goddamn night sky and Eddie is a sailor lost at sea needing the north star to guide him home. Eddie's never not noticed him, and he thinks he has to come out here and beg? "When someone loves you, you don't have to beg."

"Yeah, I know," Steve sighs, defeated, which lets Eddie know that Steve does not, in fact, know. He looks away from Eddie, down to his lap.

Fuck, it's like every fantasy Eddie's had of them making up and then making out has been handed to him on a silver platter and he's blowing it. His words are too vague, too easily misinterpreted. Again. He falls forward on to his knees, hands catching him so he's on all fours like an animal. "Steve. I mean it. You don't have to beg."

"I get it, Eddie," Steve huffs, not looking at him. Not actually understanding.

Eddie starts to crawl the distance between them. Steve looks up then, probably to see what the fuck Eddie was doing with the shuffling sounds and the chain on his belt clacking. Eddie watches Steve's eyes go wide, mouth dropping open to a small 'o'. "See, the thing is, Steve," Eddie says, pulling himself up to be just on his knees to shuffle the last few inches closer. Steve leans back to keep his eyes on Eddie's face, which opens his lap up. "You said you know, but I don't think you do." Eddie brings his hands to rest on Steve's shoulders and Steve lets him. "You don't have to beg." He uses his hold on Steve's shoulders to balance himself as he swings a leg wide, to straddle Steve, then shifts his weight to repeat the process with his other leg before settling himself into Steve's lap. Steve's hands land on his hips and Eddie isn't sure if it's intentional or a reaction to Eddie plopping himself in his laps but he's going to believe it's the first one. "You've never had to beg with me."

Steve sucks in a sharp breath and then he collapses into Eddie. Steve's hands on his hips slide up and pull him into a hug, as close to Steve's body as he can get, while Steve shoves his head under Eddie's chin, into the junction of his neck and shoulder and breaths him in like it's the last breath Steve will ever take. "We're so stupid."

"Yeah," Eddie agrees, as he lifts one hand to hold the back of Steve's head while the other drops to rub soothingly at his back. "Yeah, we are."

They sit in the dirt, the closest they've been since that summer between '81 and '82. They should probably talk about. They're going to have to, if they want this to work. Full sentences with no hidden meanings, even though the thought of that kind of vulnerability makes Eddie skittish. It's going to be difficult, but it'll be worth it. Steve has always been worth it.

Eddie wants to say 'I love you', just to get it out, in the open, and not just implied, but there's a different first step to take. One that's actually a little easier. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Me too," Steve whispers, "I'm sorry. I should have-"

"Shut up," Eddie cuts him off, voice quiet and soft as he can be. "This is, and I cannot stress it enough, a we situation."

The huff of laughter on his skin from Steve feels like the start of something. A new beginning, a start over. A re-do.

A goddamn miracle.

Later, they'll drag themselves apart and up. Make it to the back of Eddie's van in the school parking lot to talk. Going to either's house feel too much, too soon. Their big fight happened at Eddie's home, and Steve's house isn't warm enough for the kind of comfort they want to share.

They'll have a talk. Filled with long pauses, stumbling over words and fears and insecurities because this is the hard part of a relationship. Getting it all out in the open so they can learn if they'll even work. The fear that they aren't going to be compatible anymore looms but doesn't deter. They both want a second chance, to give it a real shot, by the end of that first talk. But taking it slow.

They'll discuss what went wrong the first time (diving in without talking about anything certainly played a big part) and how to avoid that.

But that's later. Right now, Eddie just holds Steve, and Steve holds him back, and it certainly feels like the beginning of something good.

-

@i-less-than-three-you @nburkhardt @afewproblems

[cupidkenji]

If you think I'm pretty

Pairing: Homelander x afab!reader CW: fingering, praise, slightly OOC homie, threats of captivity (he says hes gonna keep reader in the penthouse that's it I promise it's not genuine), cursing, sub!reader, porn without plot (I think this is applicable), they're in a relationship before this, reader says 'John' cause moaning homelander is funny as fuck Summary: Being a perfectionist, you're unsatisfied with a recent test score. Homelander has a cure for that. Disclaimer: reader is always thought to be chubby/fat but there are no physical descriptors here, just an FYI WC: 1,955 Genuinely idk I'd like to apologize for this. I fell out of my Criminal Minds hyperfixation like months ago and haven't written since so I'm really rusty. This is 100% a self-insert but reader is gn and not described other than the fact that they're AFAB. Also this was only proof read once so please point out typos if you see them <3

Your mother used to scold you for being too hard on yourself. Her face is virtually the only thing you can picture as your screen burns your eyes a bit. It’s too early for the high brightness of the device, having woken up before the sun could reintroduce your eyes to light. You’d set yourself up to wake slightly after midnight, intending to check the score of a huge test you’d taken months ago and simply go back to sleep in a matter of minutes. A rather stupid plan, in hindsight. You were questioning now if you knew yourself at all. Your phone had nearly been in your hand when you felt the cold burn of anxiety in your lungs. This test was a huge fucking deal. You were a hardcore perfectionist on top of that, trying with countless futile attempts to surrender your idea of the model score. You just needed to pass, not get your professor to memorialize you in marble for your pure genius. You’d gotten up instead of turning on your phone, brushing your teeth and making your bed before pacing the room slightly while you thought. Essentially, you were just allowing the mantra of ‘cope’ to bound back and forth between your ears for a couple minutes. You weren’t sure if you wanted to cope with the disappointment of a lesser score, or you were telling yourself to come down a couple pegs and be happy with getting by. The repetition of the word soothed that icy-hot feeling that had festered from your lungs to your fingertips, and you checked.

You were fine. Not the score you wanted, but you were fine. 

Mentally you writhed against the slump of your shoulders, but the weight of this self-inflicted shortcoming hit harder than you were capable of defending yourself from. The long sigh you let out was all frost as the tension left your airways. How underwhelming. You laid down on the bed you’d made not ten minutes ago, hearing the window slide open a few seconds into your pity party. You normally left it unlocked for him, knowing if anyone else attempted to enter your home, he wasn’t far. He told you himself that he seemed to have tuned into you specifically; swearing he’d be able to hear you on the other side of the city if you needed him.

“It’s way too early for you to already be having a bad day. The sun’s not even up.” He was closer now, fully sealed into your space and approaching you with comfortable footsteps. You never fully got over the irony of seeing America’s greatest hero flying through your window in sweatpants. “What’s wrong?” You always noticed the subtle way he changed how he spoke around you. In every interview or interaction you’d ever witnessed of his, he’d spoken like a character. For a man who hated having his words scripted, he spoke the same as every cookie-cutter movie he’d starred in. He didn’t talk that way with you, something you hoped was subconscious. A demonstration of the safety he felt around you.

You shrugged in response to the question. You acknowledged the trivial nature of your feelings, knowing you probably reeked of sadness to him but attempting to downplay it anyways. “Bad test score.”

He sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, allowing you the space to remain sprawled out. “Doubtful.” He laughed slightly as he said it, shaking his head and smiling. He looked at you, his eyebrows furrowing minorly. “What’d you get?”

“A four.”

“What were you hoping to get?”

Your voice was barely audible as you spoke, knowing he would pick it up but also trying to spare yourself the rush of immaturity hearing yourself speak would bring. “A five.”

He sighed - a sigh full of endearment that his eyes reflected as he looked at you. You told him once that his eyes were the first thing you’d noticed. It was sunny the day you’d met, and they looked practically ethereal. You’d seen such chaos reflected in them even from day one. The masses called him ‘soulless’ often, but you couldn’t understand such an accusation from anyone who had ever seen him. His eyes were practically overflowing with soul, every time you looked at him it was all you saw. They were capable of incredibly dangerous things but they were so entrancing. He was so fucking enticing. 

You broke the eye contact, but he nudged your leg and moved his head to try and follow your eyes. “Hey-” He called for your attention, so you looked back at him. “You know that’s a good score, right?”

You smiled small at him. “No- I know. I’m just…I don’t know- strict with myself.” You found it hard to put into words. You knew you’d done well, but the ability to feel pride felt withheld from you. Like your eyes bore into it but your mind refused to distribute the feeling it brought to something tangible.

“I think you’re just too much of a fucking perfectionist.” His hand was splayed across your upper thigh from where he sat. No matter which part of you he touched, he had a grip that made your head spin. He was so sure of himself, the strength demonstrated from such an unassuming form never lost the novelty that it’d held when you met him. “Can’t let yourself admit when you did good.”

You tried to be dismissive, but it was hard to fake anything with a man like him. “As if you aren’t, John.” His jaw got the slightest bit tighter at the use of his name. Such a miniscule action that easily dodges the eyes of people who aren’t looking. You couldn’t really imagine not looking at him.

“I’m serious.” His face was still relaxed, but the expression in his eyes had shifted. His pupils dilated and his full attention was on you. “You did good.”

The only con of being with somebody with abilities such as his was the lack of secrecy. You used to laugh with your friends about how grateful you were for the discrete nature of arousal when living without certain body parts. That went out the window when you started seeing him. He knew the second anything shifted within you. He had every perversion you’d ever dreamt about practically categorized by the time your two month anniversary had rolled around. One of his favorite pastimes was casually working a turn-on into conversation and just watching you squirm.

You fought the urge to pull away from his hand, feeling your stomach drop slightly at a declaration like that. “Thank you.” You looked away from him again. Something you knew he didn’t really like but choosing to try and save face over anything else. 

“Yeah…I don’t know.” You could see his focus on the topic increasing by the second. His disposition was happy, but he held serious and almost threatening undertones. He tightened his grip on your thigh and you looked at back to him, hesitantly following the silent command to keep your eyes up. “I think you should say it.”

“John-” His assertiveness was starting to get to you, it always did. You sat up on your forearms to be a little more level with him but he moved his hand from your thigh to your stomach and pushed you back down. The thought of having to lay there and explicitly state that you did well on your test felt like a kid having to write in repetition on a chalkboard in detention. 

He was looking down at you, the eye contact making you slightly dizzy. His face was kind, it almost always was when he was around you, but the conversation was derailing. “I just think it’s important that you understand this.” He was so good at making you want what he thought was best.

You inhaled, swallowing your pride and licking your lips. “What do you want me to say?”

That familiar, condescending smile was starting to creep onto his lips. “Just tell the truth.” His eyebrows raised slightly in a silent prompt. “Say you did good.”

His hand was descending from your stomach, making it’s way to the hemline of your underwear. You hadn’t bothered to change out of what you were sleeping in, only now realizing the vulnerability of it. You held your tongue for a moment, breathing out a quiet “I did good.” 

He tore the only fabric between his hand and you off your body as easily as ripping a sheet of paper and leaned in a little more. “Say it again.”

“John-” You said it as barely an exhale as he skimmed his hand over you. You hadn’t even registered just how sensitive or how wet you’d gotten in the few minutes you were talking to him.

“I don’t know why you act so fucking noble. You should be running Ashleys around in circles or giving interns your coffee order. Not any of this testing bullshit that you’re too good for anyway.” His tone elevated to that mocking, cocky tone that swept into the most shame filled crevices of your mind and tugged the most deprived parts into the driver seat. He thumbed at your clit while he spoke, increasing and decreasing the pressure whenever he felt like it and effectively snatching any remaining ability to form coherent thought from your grabbing hands. “You’ve been chosen by a God, honey. You can do anything, I can give you anything.” He got breathier as he spoke, seemingly soaking up the desperation you were excreting and matching it in a tenfold.

You felt two of his fingers enter you effortlessly and you couldn’t stop yourself from gripping his arm. You always felt the power imbalance most in times like these. A feeling like pulling an angel away from heaven just for yourself, combing through it’s wings with your fingers or trying to lap up a fraction of that status in a wildly inappropriate disregard for the natural roles of nature. He was so much more than you, but he just wanted you to feel good. You swore under your breath as he started circles on your clit. He never got hand cramps, never got tired. He would go until you couldn’t anymore.

“That’s it.” He had barely said it, more just exhaled the assurance under his breath. You were close, you’re sure he could feel it. “Gonna move you to my penthouse. Keep you braindead and needy.”

 It shouldn’t have hit you the way it did. Considering who he was, he could easily fulfill that promise with nobody at Vought even thinking twice. It was the way he said it, the way he acts. Always needing control and always right. The most powerful man alive spent his time fantasizing about control over you, and your stomach twisted in disgust at how badly it got you off.

He slowed his movements as your high declined. He was breathing heavy, but your heart was beating like a drum. He had the smallest smile on his face like the sound gave him a sense of satisfaction. You rose to your forearms, this time with no protest from him, and watched him stand up. He held the back of your head with the hand that wasn’t nearly dripping and kissed the top of your head. It was chaste and quick, but the domesticity of it made your throat ache. He uttered something about getting a towel to clean up, stating he’d be right back before exiting the room. 

You rushed the words out before he could leave. “But you didn’t-”

“Next time.” He just waved you off. “I just thought you deserved a little reward.”

[kissforyouu]

Heyo ^^ could i request bf jungkook that won’t stop squeezing and slapping his gf’s butt >~< and today’s my bday 🎉

your boyfriend won't stop touching you !

pairing : jungkook x reader

genre : established relationship , fluff , touching

warnings : basically the entire ask 💁🏽‍♀️ , perverted jk , this is rlly rlly short 😭

a/n : HEYY happy birthdayyy :) hope u like it! sorry if i posted this kinda late🥲

unedited.

ting! ting!

you rise up from your chair, giddily walking in your kitchen to take out the new batch of muffins you had just made.

you put on your oven gloves, taking a small glance at your fully baked muffins still in the oven. you bend forward, pulling the oven door down to grab the hot tray. taking hold of the tray, you pull it out of the scorching hot oven—

slap!

"what the fuck, kook?" groaning, you turn your head around to look at your boyfriend who had his hand on your ass cheek.

"i almost dropped the tray. watch what you're doing." you glare.

jungkook's lips form a pout, but continuing to rub your ass cheek.

you huff, turning around and settling the tray on your kitchen counter. jungkook stands behind you, maintaining a close proximity.

you carefully pull out the cupcakes from the tray, placing them on a plate. you grab the pink icing you had made earlier, beginning to frost. meanwhile, jungkook had his chin resting on your collarbone while his hands fondled with your ass.

mm, you didn't mind. in fact, you push your cupcakes and icing a bit farther, then leaning forward to lay your upper body on the counter and give your full weight to it. next thing, you stick your ass out, giving jungkook room to do whatever.

a sound of satisfaction leaves him, hands immediately flying to palm both your cheeks. jungkook rubs his left hand on your hip meanwhile the other presses his thumb hard onto your cheek.

his fingers caress the inside of your right thigh while the other hand wraps around your waist, his body leaning into yours, crotch tightly pressed against your ass and his chin on your shoulder. jungkook also squeezes your thigh, nails digging hard onto your flesh really hard.

"ow, kook! that hurts!" you try to wiggle yourself out of his grip. but too bad, your boyfriend is too strong.

"i know you secretly like it." he mumbles, patting the now probably reddened area a few times, then rubbing it and scratching it with his nails.

"you're so annoying, baby." is all you say before you finally free yourself from the strong man's grip. grabbing onto the now iced cupcakes, you happily walk to your living room that's right in front of the kitchen.

sneakily, but not so discretely, jungkook manages to deliver a hard slap onto your right cheek. you jolt up, glaring at him as you sit on the sofa, settling the cupcakes on the coffee table. jungkook takes his usual seat next to you then leaning forward to grab one of your cupcakes.

"pretty." he murmurs at the cupcake, then shoving the entire cupcake in his mouth. you giggle, leaning in to wipe some of the icing off his lip.

"you're so messy." you lightly tap his lips, "see! here too!" you wipe the icing off his cheek, then putting your icing covered finger in your mouth.

"messy, huh?" jungkook smirks, "you're one to talk." he cockily smirks.

fuck him. you look away, embarrassed, knowing exactly what he's referring to.

you grab the remote to switch on netflix and play some random show. you look at jungkook, who's munching on your cupcakes, as you slowly crawl your way upto his lip. your head was on his lap, lips formed to a pout as you just let yourself relax to jungkook's caresses on your head.

he strokes your hair, massaging your scalp while rambling about some story at work. you listen to him in awe, unaware of the hand that's creeping it's way towards your ass.

realisation hits you the moment you feel his hand separate your asscheeks through your booty shorts, hand dipping in between to cup your clothed core.

"kook! you're a freak!" you shout, slapping his thigh to get his attention. your boyfriend fake moans instead, giggling in between as he leans in to give you a few kisses.

"mhm, of course, baby."

you roll your eyes, turning your upper body to the side so that you'd be facing the television. jungkook leans forward to cuddle his upper body and your body, head resting on your arm. he'd plant small kisses on your arm in between the show.

he just loves you so much. your personality, face, body. the way you talk, laugh, smile, cry, yell. jungkook was in love. and utterly obsessed with you. and your ass.

you feel his pointer finger and ring finger sneakily hook under your shorts to pull it up, pressing the material tightly against your core and making your ass bare. you moan at the small friction on your clit.

you could quite literally feel your boyfriend's silly smirk. you just wanted to rip it off of him. but he's so right. you loved it when he touched you.

the rest of the evening was spent with the both of you cuddling on the sofa while watching TV (and jungkook's hand constantly squeezing your ass)

[theemissuniverse]

COMEDIC RELIEF! FEM!READER INTROS WITH MK 11 CAST PART 1

SUMMARY : You are a powerful Earthrealm warrior with the ability to pick up peoples fighting styles. (Basically Shujinko.) and shapeshift into them. You were once a part of the Black Dragon and dated Kano but left.

WARNING : Suggestive dialogue.

A/N : This was fun. I missed doing this.

ROMANCE FLIRTY DIALOGUE

Kung Lao

Fujin

Scorpion

Kitana

Nightwolf

Shao Kahn

Probably more that I forgot. main character wants to f with everything tbh

FATALITIES

Rock, Paper, Scissors

(Y/N) will shape shift into Scorpion first. She’ll throw the spear at the opponent and yell “Get Over Here!” She’ll pull you over towards her. She’ll shape shift into Sindel and use her scream, making all the skin pull off her opponent. Then she’ll change into Liu Kang and preform his bicycle kick to go right through her opponent.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

(Y/N) will change into whoever her opponent is. Then hit her opponent in the face repeatedly saying, “why are you hitting yourself?” The manically laugh and do a spin kick to kick their head off.

FRIENDS

Kung Lao

Scorpion (one sided on her side)

Nightwolf

Noob Saibot (one sided on her side)

Kitana

Liu Kang

Cassie Cage

Fujin

ALLIES

Sheeva

Sub-Zero

Raiden

Jax Briggs

Johnny Cage

Jacqui Briggs

NEUTRAL

Rain

Mileena

Jade

Erron Black

Kabal

Baraka

Kotal Kahn

ENIMES

Cetrion

Frost

Shao Kahn (one sided on her side)

D’Vorah

Geras

Kano

Skarlet

Sonya Blade

Shang Tsung

Kollector

Sindel

DIALOGUE

(Y/N) #1 : Who’s hotter? Kung Lao or NightWolf?

(Y/N) #2 : Shao Kahn.

(Y/N) #1 : There’s no hope for you.

(Y/N) #2 : Okay round two. Who’s hotter? Kitana or Sonya?

(Y/N) #1 : Skarlet.

(Y/N) #2 : Dear god, what is wrong with you?

(Y/N) : Is it hot in here or is it just you?

SCORPION : It’s me.

(Y/N) : I can’t tell if you’re going along with my flirting or if you mean that literally.

(Y/N) : *shape shifted into Scorpion* Get over here!

SCORPION : How many times are you going to say that?

(Y/N) : *back to normal* Until it gets old.

(Y/N) : *imitating Smoke* Where there is Smoke there is fire!

SCORPION : I do not say that.

(Y/N) : One of you ninja freaks do.

(Y/N) : *shape shifted into Sub-Zero but with Scorpion’s voice* Get over here!

SUB-ZERO : I do not say that.

(Y/N) : *back to normal* It’s not my fault you don’t got a cool catchphrase.

(Y/N) : Come on, Kuai, don’t give me the cold shoulder. Ha! Get it? Because you got frosty powers?

SUB-ZERO : Yes. I get it, (Y/N).

(Y/N) : Cool. Glad we’re on the same page.

JADE : You and Johnny Cage are a headache.

(Y/N) : Yeah but I’m the funny one right?

JADE : By the gods…

(Y/N) : You’re cute when you get all fiery.

JADE : I am not nor will I ever be interested,

(Y/N) : Are you Outworld women conceited? I was trynna be all girl power and compliment you.

(Y/N) : 50 bucks says I beat you.

RAIDEN : I do not wager money.

(Y/N) : If you’re broke just say that.

(Y/N) : Come on, Raiden! Hook me up with Fujin.

RAIDEN : I will not play matchmaker with my brother.

(Y/N) : So you’re broke and not a matchmaker? What are you good for?

LIU KANG : Are you ready for training?

(Y/N) : Not if Kung Lao isn’t here.

LIU KANG : You know you’re the only person to utter that.

(Y/N) : Double or nothing!

LIU KANG : *laughs* I have already beaten you twenty times, (Y/N).

(Y/N) : So??? I will be the last one standing!

(Y/N) : Is it hot in here or is it just you?

LIU KANG : Didn’t you use that line on Scorpion?

(Y/N) : Give me a break. I can’t keep track of everything I said.

(Y/N) : Do your bicycle kick into Shao Kahn. He won’t leave me alone.

LIU KANG : I pity that you have to deal with that.

(Y/N) : The chosen one pities me? I must be dead meat.

(Y/N) : I’m not the bad guy anymore, Sonya.

SONYA BLADE : You were with Kano. Bad guy still stands with you.

(Y/N) : Yeesh. If you want to fuck him, go ahead.

(Y/N) : *shape shifted into Sonya but with Kano’s voice* ‘Ello baby, did you miss me?

SONYA BLADE : That’s not funny.

(Y/N) : *back to normal* Don’t be jealous cuz you can’t do the voice.

KUNG LAO : How come you haven’t trained with me?

(Y/N) : I’m scared I’ll hurt you.

KUNG LAO : Oh, sweetheart. That’s just not possible.

KUNG LAO : You dated Kano?!

(Y/N) : Are you judging me, Lao?

KUNG LAO : I just didn’t know your type was losers.

KUNG LAO : It seems like all the men want you.

(Y/N) : I know right? I’m a total catch.

KUNG LAO : None are better than me.

(Y/N) : You know the Darth Vader thing you got going on is kinda hot.

NOOB SAIBOT : I will bring you to death.

(Y/N) : Okay on second thought….

NOOB SAIBOT : Your fighting is impressive for an Earthrealm woman.

(Y/N) : Why thank you dark shadow thing.

NOOB SAIBOT : That doesn’t mean you can beat me.

(Y/N) : Come on, Bi-Han. We were buddies, remember?

NOOB SAIBOT : I tolerated you. I do not like you.

(Y/N) : We’ll that’s just hurtful.

(Y/N) : Come on. Say it. Just once.

KANO : *sighs* Throw a shrimp on the Barbie.

(Y/N) : Aww. You do still love me.

KANO : That bloke still hitting on you?

(Y/N) : You know how many men I have lined up? You’re going to have to be more specific.

KANO : The one with the stupid hat.

KANO : Your last chance to come back to me.

(Y/N) : I’d rather be with Shao Kahn than you.

KANO : You got yourself a death wish.

MILEENA : Come dance with me.

(Y/N) : How about no?

MILEENA : Then I’ll make you.

(Y/N) : I’m kinda into the whole vampire thing.

SKARLET : I am no vampire you mistake.

(Y/N) : Ouch. That wasn’t even necessary.

JOHNNY CAGE : You and me would make the hottest couple in Hollywood.

(Y/N) : I’d rather die than be caught dating a white American man.

JOHNNY CAGE : Death over dating me? Seriously?

(Y/N) : Now that I think about it, Takeda is kinda cute.

JACQUI BRIGGS : Don’t even (Y/N).

(Y/N) : What? I said I was thinking it.

JACQUI BRIGGS : Don’t say it…

(Y/N) : Okay I won’t….your dad’s kinda hot -

JACQUI BRIGGS : Stop it!

(Y/N) : To what do I owe this displeasure?

D’VORAH : The Kahn wants you. Alive.

(Y/N) : The Kahn will be disappointed then.

(Y/N) : *shape shifted into Shang Tsung* Your soul is mine!

SHANG TSUNG : I sound nothing like that!

(Y/N) : *back to normal* Sure you don’t…

SINDEL : You are too weak for Shao Kahn.

(Y/N) : And yet…he wants me more than you.

SINDEL : A fatal mistake he has made.

KITANA : Tell Kung Lao I am not interested.

(Y/N) : Because you’re going to admit your undying love for me right?

KITANA : *laughs* You amuse me, (Y/N).

CASSIE CAGE : So do you like girls or boys?

(Y/N) : I like whatever looks good.

CASSIE CAGE : That is such a ‘you’ answer.

CASSIE CAGE : Come on, admit it. You like him a little.

(Y/N) : He keeps sending human hearts at my door. No!

CASSIE CAGE : Who knew Shao Kahn was a romantic?

(Y/N) : You know you want me.

JAX BRIGGS : Tuh. Not exactly my type.

(Y/N) : What I gotta do? Get a cheap blonde wig?

KABAL : Fighting me won’t make you gain all my moves.

(Y/N) : That is literally how it works.

KABAL : Ah shit.

SHAO KAHN : I will kill all my concubines just to have you.

(Y/N) : Why doesn’t anyone normal want me?

SHAO KAHN : You did not deny me.

SHAO KAHN : Earthrealm is wasting your power.

(Y/N) : Let me guess, you have better use for it?

SHAO KAHN : More than you know.

(Y/N) : Tell your scream queen wife to leave me alone.

SHAO KAHN : Her jealousy is its own weapon.

(Y/N) : How the hell did the tyrant want me?!

(Y/N) : Stop sending me human hearts in a box. It’s weird.

SHAO KAHN : What would you like for me to do?

(Y/N) : Not send me human hearts???

(Y/N) : How come you’re not my mentor and Raiden is?

FUJIN : Because we wouldn’t be able to go through one lesson without you flirting.

(Y/N) : I can’t help it if you’re hot.

(Y/N) : I’m ready to be blown away Fujin. Get it? Because you control the wind. And stuff…

FUJIN : Yes, (Y/N). I get it.

(Y/N) : Good. Let’s tussle.

(Y/N) : 50 bucks says I beat you.

FUJIN : Are you sure you want to lose all your money?

(Y/N) : Oh you think you’re the funny one here?

FUJIN : Ignore Shao Kahn’s advances, (Y/N).

(Y/N) : You say that like I’ve been hanging around with him.

FUJIN : After finding out about Sindel, I don’t know what to expect.

FUJIN : Your power is most impressive.

(Y/N) : *giggling* I take that like you’re flirting with me.

FUJIN : You take everything I say as me flirting with you.

NIGHTWOLF : You are a powerful warrior, (Y/N).

(Y/N) : *giggling* You make me blush, Nightwolf.

NIGHTWOLF : Show me what you can do.

(Y/N) : If your name isn’t Nightwolf then what is it?

NIGHTWOLF : I will never hear the end of it if I tell you.

(Y/N) : Aw. Don’t be shy, Nighty.

OTHER INTROS MENTIONING YOU

LIU KANG : (Y/N) says she likes you better than me.

KUNG LAO : Smart and beautiful. What doesn’t she have?

LIU KANG : The sense to realize I am the better one.

SHAO KAHN : I will have (Y/N) and take over Earthrealm.

KUNG LAO : Tuh. Don’t think you’re her type.

SHAO KAHN : Says the one who gets rejected for Liu Kang.

LIU KANG : You know…(Y/N) doesn’t seem like your type.

KANO : She wasn’t personality wise but body wise she was.

LIU KANG : You are truly insufferable, Kano.

SINDEL : That pretender has gotten under your skin.

SHAO KAHN : I don’t need you of all people to tell me that.

SINDEL : That rat will die where she stands.

SCORPION : Your ex will not stop showing her affections for me.

KANO : She’ll fuck anything with a pulse.

SCORPION : She dated you. I expect that.

RAIDEN : (Y/N), keeps asking about you.

FUJIN : Really? What has she said?

RAIDEN : Do not fall for a mortal, brother.

JOHNNY CAGE : We all know you wanna bone (Y/N), dude.

NIGHTWOLF : I can’t tell if you’re (Y/N) impersonating Cage or if that’s really you.

JOHNNY CAGE : Really? We act that much alike?

JADE : How are you friends with (Y/N)?

KITANA : She’s not as bad as you think she is, Jade.

JADE : I highly doubt that.

FUJIN : Stay away from, (Y/N).

SHAO KAHN : I am not threatened by an air bender.

FUJIN : You should be.

SONYA BLADE : (Y/N) is not your friend, Cassie.

CASSIE CAGE : Can’t you put your beef in the past? She’s cool.

SONYA BLADE : Once a black dragon, always a black dragon.

TOWER ENDING

I’m pretty much a badass so it was expected that I was the one to defeat Kronika. There was one thing I wasn’t sure about. The hourglass.

Changing history would mean the relationships I’ve made along the way would be forgotten. And I would go back to being the evil bitch in the Black Dragon.

In the new timeline, I made it exactly how it should be. Liu Kang and Kung Lao heroes. Shang Tsung, Shao Kahn, and the others casted away like they never existed.

Everything was supposed to be peaceful.

I started to feel a newfound boredom. Because there was no chaos and I made everything perfect, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The people I’ve once cared about had no recollection of me and I didn’t know what to be. The only reason why I was one of the good guys was because of the people that were near and dear to my heart.

So I did what I do best, I played the bad guy.

And damn does it feel good to be the bad guy again.

A/N : part 2 or mk 1 next?????

[taintedcigs]

✦ STRAWBERRIES & CREAM | steve h. x reader ✦

wc: 2k+

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ !!smut, smut smut!!, MINORS DNI!! swearing, nicknames (sweetheart, baby, princess, etc.) p in v, praises!! lots of praises! degrading if u squint really really hard but not really!! slight dom!steve, but mostly soft!dom!steve, sub!reader, kind of a breeding kink, creampie, steve is v horny, aftercare!! shitty aftercare bc i suck at writing endings JUST OVERALL FILTH MINORS DNI!!!

summary: you make steve a strawberry cake, and steve wants to return the favor.

authors note: FIRST TIME WRITING STEVE SMUT IM EXCITED!! im so very sorry about the shitty ending and the shitty aftercare, i had shitty men so i cannot write good aftercare OKAY!!! nah im jk hope yall enjoy it, PLS PLS leave me some feedback they r my joy and hope!! ALSO COME TALK TO ME IN ASKS, OR SEND ME PM IM V FRIENDLY I LOVE TALKING TO PPL okay that's it enjoy!! mwah xo, em💌

steve loves it. he absolutely loves when you do something for him, he adores the pretty smile you give him when he tells you how much he loves whatever it is you did for him.

but he can't help but get horny, so fucking horny when you do something for him. anything. when you bring him coffee at work, he's hard as a rock. when you take care of him after a stressful day, he's grateful, so grateful, but his bulge is tightening his pants.

and right now, when he sees you in your tight little sun dress as you're holding out a strawberry cake, his favorite, he knows he's about to explode.

he groans, actually groans as you dip your finger in the frosting holding out your fingers in front of his lips, his cock is strained in his pants, he needs you, and he needs you now.

his gaze remains attached to yours as he sucks on your finger, the rich flavors engulf his mouth, and he makes a popping sound causing you to rub your thighs together with the way his gaze devours you.

'what d'ya think?' you give him a small smile, excited for his feedback as you spent the entire day working on steve's favorite cake.

'tastes so fuckin' sweet, darlin' he murmurs as you giggle, looking up to him all doe-eyed, and steve swears you're doing it on purpose.

'do you like my surprise?' you ask, your eyes are lit up with hope and steve is putty in your hands, he adores the way your face is covered in flour, and he's quick to swipe it away, admiring your features.

'i love it, baby, you made this just for me?' he teases, his soft hands cup your cheeks, and you nod quickly, melting into his hands.

'mhmm, just for you stevie.' you murmur as you plant a kiss into his palm, and it's so soft, so fragile that steve feels perverted by the way he's thinking about you.

but he's desperate, so fucking desperate that all he wants to do is bend you over the counter and thrust into you till you scream out his name, making you cum over and over again while he watches your pretty face contort.

'wanna taste some too, stevie.' you whine as you point towards the cake, steve's pants tighten at what you're insinuating and he bites his cheek, his fingers dip into the frosting as he holds it in front of you.

you are quick to take his hand in yours, licking the frosting as you suck on his finger, all while holding your gaze with his, and you can almost see his pretty chestnut orbs become dark and lustful.

'you have no idea what you're doing to me, princess.' he sucks in a breath, 'fuck.' he almost groans and you look up at him all innocently.

'my pretty girl.' he murmurs as his lips crash into yours, they taste like strawberries and cream, he's gentle but rough, and so very needy.

'need you baby, need you s'fuckin' badly.' he groans into your lips, 'stevie...' you whine, pleading.

'what does my pretty girl need?' he cooes. 'you. need you inside.' you whine, so needily, so prettily that steve has no choice but to take care of his girl.

before you can comprehend it steve is quick to bend you over the kitchen counter, pressing your head on the cold counter with one hand while the other one is quick to unzip his pants.

'i got you, baby... i'm gonna give you everything you fuckin' need, princess.' he flips up your dress, groaning at the sight as he gives you a rough slap on your cheeks, making you yelp.

'shh, princess... you can take it, mmm? my good lil' girl can take it.' he lays a messy kiss on your back, giving you another slap as you whine again.

'p-please... need more, need your cock, stevie...' you plead, and steve pouts. 'such a needy lil' baby, are ya?' he mocks, and you nod, you want— need him.

his tip is leaking with pre-cum as he gives it a few tugs at the sight of your ass cheeks being covered with his handprints, he smirks, smugly. 's'fuckin' gorgeous...' he murmurs, he tugs at your lacy panties, dragging them down your thighs.

he's slow to kiss every inch of your thighs, he spreads them apart, placing sloppy kisses in your inner thigh from the back as your breath hitches, 'stevie...' you murmur.

'you say my name so pretty.' he praises, 'tell me what you want, doll.' he's teasing now as his lips come close to your pussy lips, but never close enough that you get what you need.

'p-please, stevie, your hands, your mouth, your cock, anything...' you plead, doe-eyed, and steve knows he could never say no to you.

'pretty baby, you know i would never say no to you if you begged for me like that, hmm?' he cooes, standing up now, cowering over your figure, his eyes are glazed with lust, you can't see him with your ass pressing onto his hardened cock, but from the tone of his voice you know how worked up he is.

his fingers are rough as they pinch your clit, causing you to whine. he slips one finger into your soaking folds, going deeper and deeper as you cry out, begging for more.

'is this what you wanted, sweets?' he murmurs, his lips are on your neck, sucking, nibbling, marking you in any way that he can.

'yes, yes!' you whine, steve's fingers are fast as they work in and out of you, his mouth is on each part of your body, almost. you can feel his thick cock, pressing harder against your ass, and it is driving you crazy, you need him inside of you.

'n-need more, stevie. need your cock.' you plead.

'does my good lil' girl want my cock inside?' he cooes, mockingly, making you nod frantically, 'yes, please stevie, please!' you cry out.

'what my pretty girl want, she gets.' he murmurs as he lines his angry tip along your entrance. he holds his cock with one hand while the other has a tight grip on your waist, then to tease you further, he starts tapping his leaking tip against your aching clit, letting out a hum.

you whine at the movement, feeling empty. 'such a pretty fuckin' sight, my gorgeous girl.' mewled groans escape his pretty lips, without letting a whine escape your pretty lips again he thrusts his hips into you in a quick movement, causing you to gasp at the feeling.

with both of his hands, he grips your waist, sheathing his cock inside of you slowly and more steadily now, bending you over further as he works his cock inside of you making you moan and whimper beneath him.

'f-fuck, princess. i'll never get used to how well this tight cunt takes me." his voice is raspy.

"so fuckin' warm.' he groans, his head thrown back as you feel your tight cunt stretch with each of his movement.

he sinks deeper, and deeper into you, burying himself to the hilt, making sure that you feel every ridge, every inch of his cock.

he brings one of his hands against your head, pressing you further into the counter as he thrusts further into you, causing you to suck in a breath when his ridge pushes against your clit again.

'harder, stevie, p-please...' you cry out and steve groans at your words, the way you beg him for more makes him squeeze his eyes shut with pleasure.

'my needy fuckin' girl.' he groans as he removes his cock from your warm pussy, and it almost causes you to whine because of the emptiness, begging for him to fill you up, but before you can steve pushes his girthy cock inside of you again, deeper, and harder.

all the thoughts leave his head, the only thing he cares about now is how you are bent over beneath him, begging for more, crying out his name as your ass jiggles each time he holds a tighter grip and shoves his cock inside of your tight hole.

all he cares about is how warm and tight your cunt feels, and all you care about is how well he fills your hole, so big, and his cock is ridged in all the right places that make you scream out his name.

he's not slowing down as he keeps up his thrusts, he wants you creaming his cock, screaming out his name as he fills your walls with his load.

he wants to ruin you and put you back together all at the same time, he wants you desperate, begging to him to let you cum, over and over again, until your clit is so sensitive that you cannot handle it anymore.

the room is filled with steve's curses and his praises, 'takin' me so well sweets.'

'such a good lil' girl for me, aren't ya?' and the sounds of your skin slapping against each other.

'need to cum, stevie. can i please cum?' you plead, whining still, and steve tries to slow down to not let you cum, but he can't help himself, his movements are still quick and he cannot control his pace when you teasingly arch your ass against him, causing your tight cunt to engulf around his cock, he throws his head back in pleasure, eyes squeezed shut.

'f-fuck, baby, doin' so well for me, you can cum for me, babygirl.' he cooes as he bites onto your shoulder to hold himself from spilling his load into you. 'cum for me sweets, cream my cock.'

'i wanna feel you, princess. i wanna feel every fucking inch of this sweet pussy.' he groans as he strokes into you over and over again.

your warm cunt clamps around his cock, steve feels you release through his cock as you cry out for his name.

steve can't hold it in anymore, your pretty whines, the way you moan out his name, and the 'o' shape your pretty little lips take as you orgasm around him is enough to get him to empty his balls inside of you.

's-shit baby, can't hold it in much longer.' he curses.

'cum for me, stevie. wanna feel your warm load inside me.' you whine, praising him, and he groans loudly.

with a final thrust of his lips into your soaked warm cunt, he spills his seed inside of you. you can feel his cock pulse inside of you, it's warm and fills your hole to the brim.

steve groans loudly, and it's so blissful to your ears, he's so beautiful when he's loud and whiny, you think to yourself as your head is filled with nothing but steve.

he collapses on top of you, putting all of his weight onto you, hugging you from behind as you can hear his heavy breathing, still cursing as he praises you.

'my good lil' girl, pretty lil' baby.' he murmurs as he kisses your shoulders, when he's sure that every single drop of his cum is inside of you, he finally slips out.

he turns you around to face him, and you collapse in his arms, feeling dizzy, you hum. 'you're s'good, stevie.' you murmur weakly and it causes a smug chuckle out of steve, he gives your forehead a soft kiss.

'let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart.' you gaze up at him as he picks you up, carrying you with his strong arms.

his honey-glazed eyes are mesmerizing as they look down on you, you adoringly admire his features. he's so pretty after he cums, his beautiful hair lays messily on his forehead, and he has the most adoring gaze.

'wanna take a bath with me? so we can clean you up, pretty girl?' he asks, and you nod. 'mhmm, please.'

he carries you to the bathroom, and you let your hands run over his face, admiring his beauty marks and his always-perfect hair.

'so pretty.' you murmur as steve places you down, running the shower as he chuckles at your comment.

'thank you.' he hums as he places a kiss on your forehead, it's gentle and filled with endearment.

'for what?' you ask, confused.

'for the cake, for the coffees, for all the little things you do for me. and for caring about me, always.' his hands are soft as they cup your cheeks.

'i love you, pretty girl.' he murmurs.

'i love you too, stevie.' you giggle as your lips softly graze against his.

[theostrophywife]

Can I get a FIC abt the reader being Theodore’s gf and best friend and she’s embarrassed and alone in her dorm bc of cramps and they are REALLY REALLY bad and he just comforts her and they snuggle and he gives her his hoodie and fluffy!! (I’m dying from my cramps in my bed rn 🙏 I need comfort from my book bf)

heart shaped bruises.

pairing: theodore nott x reader.

song inspiration: toothpaste kisses by the maccabees.

author's note: i'm so sorry you're in pain, love. hope this makes you feel better 💗

Bloody fucking hell. 

You clutched your stomach, doubling over in pain as another wave of cramps crashed into you at full force. An anti period pain potion. That would be your first invention after finishing your education at Hogwarts. For now, you were forced to endure the pain and misery sans magic. 

The clock on your nightstand rang obnoxiously, rattling the various barrettes and books stacked atop the table. The alarm meant that Charms would be starting soon. With a rather hard smack, you silenced the clock and buried yourself underneath the covers. 

There was no way in hell that you were going to make it to class today.

You couldn’t even get out of bed, let alone walk to the other side of the castle. No, you were staying right here. Cocooned in the safety of your blankets so you could wallow in self pity in peace. 

Apparently, suffering in silence was too much to ask for because the minute the alarm finally stopped, there was a knock on your door. 

“Go away,” you yelled, the words slightly muffled by your goose down comforter. 

“Y/N?” A familiar voice called from the other side of the door. “Are you alright, love?”

Tears pricked the back of your eyes. No, you were definitely not alright. Your uterus was an active war zone, your emotions were a poorly assembled rollercoaster in an abandoned theme park, and to top it all off, you had a raging headache like someone had taken a bludger to your skull. 

But you couldn’t say all of that. You didn’t want to freak your boyfriend out. 

“I’m fine, Theo. Just feeling under the weather.” You clamped your eyes shut, trying to block out the migraine. “Go to class without me.”

There was shuffling from the hallway before your door swung open, revealing a very concerned Theo. He took in the sight of you in bed, your cheeks flushed and your eyes red from crying all morning. Theo was by your side in three strides. 

“What’s wrong, dolcezza?”

“Nothing, I’m just not feeling well.” A fresh set of cramps chose that exact moment to pummel your lower abdomen, making you wince in pain. 

“That’s not nothing, darling.” He knelt beside you, taking your hand. “Tell me what’s wrong, Y/N. I hate seeing you in pain.”

Your eyes watered again. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Of course not, love.”

“It’s these cramps,” you said slowly, shifting to face him. “I’m on my period and it’s just really bad today. Usually I take a pain relieving potion, but even that’s not working this time around.”

Theo’s face softened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You averted his gaze, flushing. “I guess I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“It is a big deal,” said Theo. “Everything that has to do with you is a big deal to me. I hate thinking that you’ve been suffering through this all alone.”

“I just didn’t want to bother you with something so silly.”

“You could never bother me, Y/N.” Theo gently pulled back the covers. “If anything I’m the one bothering you right now. Scoot over, darling. Make room for your Teddy.”

“But you’ll miss Charms.”

“I’ve skipped for less. This time it’s actually important. You need me. I’m not leaving you.”

You smiled softly and made room for Theo. He instantly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a snuggle. The familiar scent of sea salt and smoke felt like a warm hug in itself. Theo stroked your hair and kissed your temple. 

The cold air seeped in through your frosted glass windows, chilling you to the core. As much as you loved the ominous charm of living in the dungeons, this was one of its disadvantages. You shivered in Theo’s arms, cuddling closer for warmth. 

Your boyfriend radiated heat. You had no idea how when it was near freezing in your dorm. Theo liked to say he was hot blooded. You were just grateful to have your own personal heater. 

“Are you cold, darling?” 

You nodded, resting your head in the crook of his neck. “A little.”

Theo shifted beside you. He tugged at the hem of his hoodie and pulled it off in one swift move. “Arms up, love.”

You sat upright and did what you were told. Theo slipped his hoodie over you, smiling as the plush fabric swallowed you whole. It was warm and smelled like him. You wanted to drown in it. 

He kissed the tip of your nose. “It looks good on you, but don’t think that it gets you out of cuddling.” 

Theo pulled you to him, snuggling you from behind. He twined your legs together, making you giggle as his leg hair tickled the back of your thighs. You intertwined your fingers and kissed the back of his palm. 

The cramps may still be wreaking havoc on your body, but at least now you had Theo to comfort you. 

“How are you feeling, babe?” 

You turned, smiling. “Better now that you’re here, Teddy.”

Theo grinned and pressed a gentle kiss against your lips. “Get some rest, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

[firehose118]

Let me get a taste

{ao3 link}

“Hen asked if we’re fucking,” Tommy says as he sits down at their table with his cake.

“Uh, what?” Buck asks. There’s no way he heard Tommy correctly.

“Hen asked if we’re fucking,” Tommy repeats. He gestures between them with his fork. “You and me. Well, I guess technically she and Karen both asked. They ambushed me to ask about my intentions.”

He takes a bite of cake and eats it slowly, moaning at the taste, just to be an asshole and rub it in Buck’s face that he can’t have any. Buck sometimes wishes he was the kind of person who found that annoying, but he likes it when Tommy does stuff like this; teases him and plays with him just this side of mean. Really likes it. And Tommy knows it.

“What’d you say?” Buck asks, a little dazed, caught in the fantasy of licking frosting off of Tommy’s lip.

He wants cake so badly. It’s bad enough he had to skip the mac & cheese at the buffet, now this? The cake on Tommy’s plate looks soft and fruity. Fuck keto. Fuck bodybuilding. It’s not fair.

Tommy licks frosting off of his fork and Buck salivates. “I told them we’re taking it slow. You’re setting the pace, and I’m just trying to keep up.” He lifts an eyebrow and savors another bite of cake

Buck laughs. “You made it sound like we’re fucking like rabbits.”

“Mhmm,” Tommy says around the cake in his mouth.

“And you… also said we’re taking it slow?” Buck’s eyebrows pull together in confusion.

“I did. They’re gonna have a hell of a time figuring that one out.” Tommy smiles as he takes the next bite of cake, obviously proud of the trick he’s played on their friends.

“You might be evil,” Buck teases.

“You love it,” Tommy says, scrunching his nose. “And anyway, it’s none of their business. You’re not a teenage girl in 1954, going out with some biker from the wrong side of the tracks. You’re a grown man. You can suss out my intentions for yourself. I’d hope you know by now that I didn’t agree to a second date at your sister’s wedding just to get in your pants.”

“I do know that,” Buck assures him. Their sex life is pretty active—very satisfying—but they’ve spent far more time talking, working out, cooking, and even cuddling than they have with their dicks out. It’s probably the most well-rounded relationship Buck has ever had. He feels respected. “You’re a total gentleman.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I have to admit,” Tommy pitches his voice down, “seeing you in that medal… I’m feeling a little less than honorable right now.” He gathers the last bite of cake onto his fork.

Buck feels a thrill run through his body at Tommy’s words, but he’s watching that cake with rapt attention. “Give me the last bite,” he says. He sounds pleading even to his own ears, so he doubles down. “Tommy, please.”

“No,” Tommy deadpans. “If you’re gonna break ketosis, you’re gonna do it with someone else’s cake.”

“I don’t want someone else’s cake, baby, I want yours.” Buck goes for charming, flirty, seductive, but he’s desperate. He hasn’t had any carbs in days and the cake smells so good. He’s about to launch himself at Tommy and take that last forkful of cake himself.

“Mmm, lucky me,” Tommy purrs. “Pretty boy wants my cake all to himself and here I am, just trying to keep up.”

Tommy pops the cake into his mouth just as Buck lunges at it. His hand lands on Tommy’s empty plate.

“Evil!” Buck gasps, laughing.

“You love it,” Tommy repeats around his mouthful of cake.

“I really do.”

Tommy barely has time to swallow before Buck is kissing him; open-mouthed and honestly a little too dirty considering where they are and which homophobic captains are still around. Buck is chasing the taste of cake and frosting on Tommy’s lips, on his tongue, and he can’t help but moan as the flavors swirl and burst to life in his mouth: vanilla and strawberry and Tommy. He’s never tasted anything better.

Tommy pulls back before Buck starts licking the sugar off of his teeth. He presses a hand into Buck’s chest to gently push him back into his seat.

“Easy there, Evan. We’re still in public.”

“We got medals for breaking the law.” Buck’s eyes are dark, hungry. Now that he’s had a taste he wants seconds, thirds. Tommy’s been teasing him and all Buck wants is to get his mouth back on Tommy and never come up for air. “We can do whatever we want.”

Tommy laughs. “If only that were true. Save your appetite, though. I might have some cake you can eat at home.” He smirks, eyebrow raised. “If you behave.”

Buck smiles, wide and flirty. “Is it keto-friendly?” He leans closer again.

“All protein, baby.”

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: eek not a request but an idea that wouldn't leave me alone! thus... we embark on a mulan-esque story that i hope u will enjoy <3 big thank you's to @strangerstilinski who listened and helped immensely as i whittled a hunky idea down to a plot

word count: 2.9k

synopsis: Someone in the Illryians Mountains has been making a name for themselves— a bastard like Azriel and his brothers, ruffling the feathers of a war camp's Lords. But they seem to have no loyalty to the fighting legion, or much to anyone for that matter. fem!reader

— CHAPTER ONE :: STRANGERS

Frost was everywhere.

Despite all the eerie memories that tainted them, the Illyrian Mountains were hauntingly beautiful, even Azriel could admit that.

Pine trees stretched up tall, their timber trunks hidden beneath the snow-leaden branches. It was a sea of swirling frost. Snowflakes eddied down from the frozen sky, a soft blanket of white draped across the landscape.

He was sure that some, maybe the likes of Feyre and her artist's eye, could see that beauty easier than he could.

Beautiful, Azriel thought bitterly, but fucking freezing.

Normally, dealing with the likes of the war camps that riddled these mountains was left to Cassian. He had that raucous, fiery way about him that was far better suited to it. Enough pride to challenge the warriors and more than enough eager attitude to back his taunts if need be.

But Cassian was currently very much occupied— and highly unsuited to crack the whip against some rowdy Illyrians in his current state.

Azriel couldn't help the smile at the thought of when he'd last seen his brother.

Freshly mated Cassian looked as though he had tiny hearts circling around his head at all times. He resembled a puppy following his nose, always that wicked grin on his face as he trailed after Nesta. His adoration was impossible to miss.

Cassian had more than earned the time off. He deserved to celebrate properly, to have a couple weeks with no badgering worries, with no bickering Illyrian warriors to deal with (beyond his usual two).

So, as a mating gift to his brother —and partially to escape a house filled with intolerably mated couples— Azriel had taken over his duty temporarily. To oversee the war camps he detested so much.

Today, he was to investigate the rumoured stirrings amongst the camps and assess the level of threat it posed. More often than not, these sorts of stirrings were simply whispers of rebellion but nothing more.

There was an easy fix; a visit from one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history, or even from Rhys himself. It always made the Illyrians a little nervous and those whispers of a coup would sweep away with the wind in a matter of time.

This time, however, the network of spies that operated under Azriel had not come back spinning such rumours.

Instead, there was talk of Lords with ruffled feathers. Lords with bruised egos due to a single bastard warrior, rising in the ranks and not playing by the rules.

The familiarity of the situation was almost too ironic, Azriel thought. He had half a mind to tell Rhys what he had learned and leave them to it. Cauldron knew these brutal camps needed a bastard to challenge their ways from time to time.

But still, there was always the potential for such a warrior to pose a threat in the future. Azriel could not leave a possible danger to brew. No stone left unturned.

The snow beneath his boots was beginning to melt.

He had been standing in the cold and peering up at the war camp ahead, barely seen through the heavy snow falling, for too long now. Snow was gathering on his wings, tendrils of ice shooting through their sensitive membrane. Find the bastard.

Shaking off the snow, he began to walk.

—

Gods forsaken males and their egos.

The bone in your forearm ached, having taken the brunt of your initial fall in the mud. It's covered in it too, the muck of the ground that always seemed to linger. Always a layer of dirt beneath your fingernails. Truly, one of the many incredible appeals of the Illyrian mountains was never actually being clean.

You'd probably hate it more— if it didn't do such a good job of masking unwanted scents.

But right now with a jagged cut that tears up your left arm, all the way to the elbow, you're cursing the mud. It's likely festering with uncountable grim diseases. You'll have to flush the wound to properly clean it before it begins to heal.

That means water. That means energy that you don't particularly feel like summoning to fetch it. You cast your glance to the window.

Outside, the Mother's Kiss howls loudly.

The southerly chilled wind current that Illyrians don such a precious name is quite fitting for their backward ways — to expect a kiss from your mother to have such a sting on the face.

Tonight, the current seems particularly fierce. The windows of your shelter rattle in warning. A storm had blown through camp rather unexpectedly and you'd caught the worst of it, tangled up in a snarling fest against Brudam.

Brudam, who is responsible for the current state of your arm. Your lip curls at the mere thought of the arrogant male. Your wings bunch up tightly and you huff quietly to nobody.

He'd caught wind of the broth you had made that had filled the stomach of three ravenous bastards in the camp. It had been just enough to keep them on their feet. Tonight, you know that one hot meal might very well be the difference that helps them survive the night.

But Illyrians are a tough breed— and they don't take kindly to people giving handouts, as Brudam had put it.

You preferred the term leveling the playing field.

As if Brudam and his Lord father had ever experienced to ache of starvation. Ever had to sleep in the snow with nothing but their own wings for warmth against a blizzard.

Another deep pain twinges in your arm and you hiss, drawn out of your thoughts. If you have to pick your wins, you can at least admit you're glad he had only found out about the broth— and had seemed none the wiser to the healing tonics you were slipping the freshly-clipped girls.

It ached to see them and their quivering wings. The way the muscles in their backs buckled when they tried to spread their wings, a cut too deep into the wrong nerve. It ached to see it, yes, but beneath that pain was an ocean of bitter and furious fire.

But your righteous anger would not help these girls.

You were not the most proficient healer and the tonics you were attempting... it was hard to say if they would make any difference in saving any females' wings.

You were gathering knowledge as best you could though, scraping together herbs that scarcely grew in the frozen climate. It was a poor imitation of something that might work.

Whether it would be enough... that was up to the Mother. But you had to try.

You assess the wound on your arm once more, wondering about the reserve of water you had in your small hut— whether you could both clean your wound and have enough to hydrate.

Another glance out at the wintry snowscape outside. You grimaced. If you didn't, you would have to bear the blistering chill of the Mother's Kiss to get more.

Weariness weighs on your bones. You hadn't been prepared for the fight, hence your almost embarrassing injury, and it drained you more than you expected.

You stand with a sigh and drag your feet toward the tiny cauldron filled with melted snow collected earlier in the day. It hangs over the fireplace, the embers within long since snuffed out. Your motion stirs them up.

For a moment, you stare into the fireplace. The water in the cauldron shimmers. The shelter creaks around you, bending in the wind.

It's covered in soot, marred by the flames that usually lick it from beneath it. The lip of it, however, is still clean enough to see your own reflection. You peer into it.

And in that reflection, you find a tall figure with massive wings looming above their shoulders standing behind you.

Your heart spasms in shock and you have to swallow your gasp of surprise. Your eyes dart up, frantically hunting for a weapon. You grab the closest object you can, your hand closing around a kitchen fork. And before they get the chance, you twist and lunge, arm raised.

The floorboards groan as your boots slam into them, darting forward to attack. But the male dodges you easily, your strike passing through empty air.

You don't stop, turning and striking for him once again. The male sways back again easily to avoid your swing and you scowl.

Quickly feigning one way, you watch as his hands, weaponless, move to defend his gut — and you change direction, fast. Neck exposed, you snarl as you sink the fork deep into his shoulder.

The male hisses in pain.

You falter for a moment at the noise but it's a mistake. His hands move so fast you barely see them, gripping your wrist that holds the fork and twisting it down to the ground, immobilising you from using it.

You snarl again and tug against him fruitlessly. A swell of panic begins to rise within you as you tug again, again, again. His hold doesn't falter.

"Stop," The male commands you quietly.

This time when you tug, he opens his fingers and you fly back onto your ass, wings flaring out a moment too late to catch yourself.

You expect him to trudge forward, to beat an attack down on you now that you're less defended, but he doesn't move from his spot.

In fact, you realise as you stare at him, cheat heaving, he hasn't attacked you at all.

His weapons, which there are many of them, stay strapped to his side, glittering against the snow's reflected light. You spot the siphon on his hand, a churning sapphire colour — and clock the matching one on his other hand.

This was not just any Illyrian warrior in your home.

Faintly, your panic subsides as you realise that if this male meant to hurt you —to kill you— he very well could have done so by now.

You let your eyes trail up, taking in the face so hidden in shadow, and recognize that the darkness swirling around him is not ordinary shadow.

The revelation has you sitting up a bit straighter, the bindings around your chest pulling tight. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

What do you say to one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history —one who served on Rhysand's inner circle, friend of the High Lord of the Night Court— when you've just stabbed him with a fork?

As if your thought had reminded him, the male —Azriel, you know his name to be— shifts and reaches for the utensil still sticking out of his shoulder. He yanks it out without a noise of complaint.

Then he says, "Considering your choice of weapon, it's no surprise Brudam cut up your arm."

You scowl at him but at a closer look, you can see that his expression isn't condescending. No, with his raised brows, he almost looks... impressed.

"I wasn't expecting visitors." You bite back defensively.

Azriel's eyes dance with amusement. He throws the fork onto your table with a clatter. "That's how you greet visitors?"

"Uninvited ones, yes."

His amusement fades, the planes of his face shadowed and yet still handsome. Like most Illyrians, there's this incomprehensible sense of elegance to him, an alluring pull tied to his very demeanor.

But looking at him now, even in the dimness of your shelter, you could see Azriel went beyond to type of beauty that usual Illyrians had. An unparalleled grace, an unmatched Adonis.

He is the most beautiful male you had ever seen—and you had just stabbed him with a fork.

"Sorry," You mutter eventually when he doesn't say anything.

You shift onto your knees to stand, your hand coming to cup beneath your elbow— the ache of the injury had begun to bleed back in now that you weren't focused on fighting off an intruder.

"You're forgiven." He says. You can see lightly, through the dimming light, the faint blood on his neck you've caused.

"You fight well," He comments, with the air of a compliment. Something like amusement is in his eyes when he says, "Even with your unusual choice of weapon."

You glare at him as you climb to your feet and all but collapse into a chair. You don't even have another to offer to him. Buried beneath your leathers, your chest aches in pain — a reminder that it's been bound for far too long. You ignore it and tilt your chin towards him.

"Why are you here?"

You're actually sure that even if you offered Azriel a chair he wouldn't take it, given how stiffly he stands before you. He takes a moment to answer, his gaze flitting around the small room you both stand in. Calculating, categorizing.

"There were rumours of a warrior turning up trouble here."

He fixes his hazel-eyed gaze on you. You steel yourself beneath it. "A couple days in your camp and it became clear who the outlier was."

A couple days? For some reason, you can't believe that he's been surveying this place without detection from anyone. Another glance at his shadows, the dark masses that hang around his shoulders, and you can believe it a little more.

Besides, it's hardly as though the Lords would deign to tell a bastard like you anything important.

You clench your jaw but don't say anything.

"Brudam mentioned you feeding some warriors." Azriel continues, his tone unreadable. Though something, you couldn't tell what, glittered in his eyes. "Not very in the spirit of Illyrians."

You scowl at him again. Even if he had once faced these conditions before, you wondered if his time away, spent Cauldron knows where, had softened his memory.

"It's not against any law."

"No, it isn't," Azriel says. His eyes narrow. "But making healing tonics without a Healer's jurisdiction and selling them to young females is."

Your heart stops for just a moment. How could he know that? The last batch you had dropped off had been over a month ago.

Without thinking you snarl back, "I'm not selling them, you prick."

Something blooms on Azriel's face, surprise and a hint of smugness.

Your mouth snaps shut as you realise what you've done. You curse yourself. Slumping back in your chair, your wings sag with you and you let them droop onto the floor, uncaring. He could very well be here to kill you, given the knowledge of what you had just admitted.

For a long moment, there's just silence.

You stare at the floor and wonder which version of the High Lord is true; the Court of Nightmares whose power ripples through these camps and keeps them in line. Or the rumours of a softer side, a dreamer.

You wonder, more importantly, which of those this male before you is friends with.

Something in the floor creaks when Azriel finally moves. He crosses the room swiftly to the fireplace and gathers two logs from the stack of firewood beside it, tossing them onto the pile of ash.

You watch, perturbed, as he hunches over the fireplace for a quiet minute— and when he pulls back, a small flame is burning on the wood. It dances on the log, entrancing and amber-coloured.

Heat begins to fill the room. You pick your wings up and stretch them towards it, grateful for how they begin to warm. You hadn't quite realised the extent of your chill until right now.

It's such a kindness that hasn't been shown to you in many years. Surprise and silent gratitude bloom in your chest.

Azriel turns back to face you. You school your surprise away.

"What's your name?" He asks, his voice gruff.

It's been a while since anyone asked that either. Bastard. Mongrel. Imposter. There are a thousand other words that have become your name whilst growing up here.

You can't tell him your name. In the same way you can't tell anyone here your real name without revealing too much about yourself.

So you shorten it and tell him that instead.

Azriel nods. Doesn't repeat it, doesn't blink at your hesitance. Instead, he just says, "Like I said, you fight well. You could be better though."

You frown at the backhanded compliment, something in you sneering at the jab at your fighting skills. Worse, you know he's right.

If you had weapons suited to your size, exercises that focused on your agility more than your brute strength... There's a good reason you have to work twice as hard as every other warrior in camp.

Azriel looks at your arm, no longer bleeding and beginning to stitch itself up. Shit, you really need to clean that first.

"Clean that and get a good night's rest." He orders, not meanly. Then he crosses the space of your shelter in a few paces of his long legs, heading for the door.

"You—" The question dares to come out of you. "You're not going to turn me in?"

Azriel pauses, one hand, one scarred hand you can now see with the fire going, on the door. So, the rumours of that were true.

"No," He says lowly. He sees you staring, and as if on command, the shadows swirling around his shoulders dart down to cover his hands. They and the doorknob in his hand disappear from sight completely.

You evade your eyes back up to his hauntingly beautiful face. His expression is stony, unreadable. He stares at you for a long moment, the dancing fire reflected in his hazel eyes.

"I'm going to train you."

[NEXT PART: ALLIES]

[anarcoqueer1994]

I need more of Eddie telling the band! Need it! Fix my brusied heart! Fix Steve's bruised heart! Tell me that he's everything! He is everything!!

Part 1 here.

Hope this fixes it <3 I'm going to admit my toxic trait is being angsty and not always being the best at fixing it. But I hope this is good. Thank you for reading!!

"Dude, what was that?" Gareth finally breaks the awkward silence between the 4 of them. They all look at Eddie.

He presses his palms to his eyes until he can see little white dots when he opens them again to stare at his three best friends. He feels like dirt. Actually less than dirt. He cared so much about what they would think of his dating Steve, that not only did hurt his favorite person in the whole world, but he did not even trust his friends enough to give them a chance. He finally lets out a sigh before saying "That was me fucking up. Like royally fucking up.".

"You going to explain, maybe?" Jeff asks, slowly putting the pieces together but confirmation from Eddie would be nice.

"I, um, I mean Steve and I have been seeing each other for the past 6 months, since Spring Break actually." Eddie finally says, holding his breath, waiting for a response.

"You guys have been seeing each other for six months?" Garreth parrots back in disbelief.

"Yea. He's my boyfriend...well he was. I actually don't know now." Eddie says sadly.

"You have been together for like half a year, and you didn't tell us, why?" Caleb asks, confused in why Eddie would hide this.

"I don’t know, man. It's just, in high school we would talk so much shit about people like Steve. And I know Steve better now, so I know how much of a great guy he is but like he is still an ex-jock. And I was worried about, you know." He mumbles.

"You were worried what we would think. Man, what is wrong with you?" Jeff laughs. "Eddie Munson isn't supposed to care what people think, even your loser friends."

'Besides, if you say he's good, we trust you, okay?" Gareth adds. "But I do have a couple of questions."

Eddie can't help but smile at his friends, even though his stomach still hurts thinking about the look on Steve’s face from a few minutes prior. But he indulges Gareth. "Ask away, I guess I owe you guys."

"Does he treat you alright?" Gareth asks simply.

Eddie nods softly. "He treats me better than anyone I've ever been with. He's always so soft and gentle with me. I swear, he looks at me like I'm something special, and I don't know why. Sometimes I don't think I deserve it."

"Do you love him?" Gareth follows up.

"God, more than anything." Eddie says with out hesitatation.

"And do you think he loves you?" He asks simply.

"I know he loves me. He tells me ever day." And not just with his words, but with his actions too. Steve shows Eddie he loves him every day with all the little things does for him.

"Then why are you still sitting down here, dude?" Gareth asks. "You better go and fix this before you lose him." He says it likes its the most obvious thing in the world.

Eddie hurriedly nods. Gareth is right. He has to talk to Steve, like now. He practically jumps up from the table, nearly tripping as does.

As he runs past his friends and up the steps, he looks at the cupcakes Steve had sat down on the small table by the steps. They looked homemade, a little messy but perfect. Steve had piped little silly hearts on them all, and in the center were little frosting dice. He can't help the way it makes his heart skip a beat. Steve was ridiculously romantic, and Eddie loves that.

He continues up the steps, two at a time, hoping Steve and the kids are up there, but they aren't. He frantically makes his way to door, only to see them sitting in Steve’s car through the window, still in the driveway. He's relieved.

As soon as he opens the door, all their eyes shoot up. He can see the look on Steve’s face, obviously trying to hold back tears. Even now, Steve is trying to be strong with the kids. Their eyes though looked like they could kill Eddie, even Dustin. He fucked up badly.

He nervously makes his way over to Steve's open window. When he gets there, Steve doesn't say a word, doesn't even look at him, just stares forward. Eddie tries anyway. "Stevie, can we talk...please? Alone?" He looks at the other 4 in the car.

Steve squeezes the wheel harder. He knows if he talks, he will start crying. And he doesn't want to do that in front of Eddie. Fuck, this hurts so bad. It felt like when Nancy called him and his love bullshit all over again. He is bullshit...he is nothing. Just a washed up ex jock, who is just there when people need him. He doesn't get the happy ending, the true love.

Dustin speaks up "You're an asshole, man. Go away." Not even Mike speaks up to defend him. Who does though, surprises him.

"He's not...." Steve whispers, unable to speak any louder. Steve can't see it, but Eddie sees all the looks of pitty shot at him. Eddie knows Steve shouldn't be defending him, but he is.

"No, Stevie. I am. I am an asshole. And I'm so sorry. Please can we talk?" Eddie begs.

Steve lets out a sigh before turning to the "kids." "Go on. It's fine. Go and clean up your shit so Mrs. Wheeler isn't mad." He tries to say in a straight voice.

They reluctantly get out but still shoot Eddie dirty glances as they head in. Eddie nervously walks to the passenger side and gets in.

"What do you want to talk about?" Steve chokes out, still not looking at him.

"What I said in there wasn't the truth. Steve, baby...I am so sorry. I did not mean it..." He tries pathetically.

Steve's hands are shaking as they stay rested on the steering wheel. He finally turns his head to look at Eddie. "Then why did you say it, Eddie? If you didn't mean it, why did you say it?!" His voices cracks, as a little tear escapes, running down his cheek.

All Eddie wants to do is reach over and wipe it away, but he thinks better of it. "Because I'm an idiot, sweetheart." He replies softly. "I shouldn't have hidden us, but today everyone was ganging up on me, and I got overwhelmed...and it just came out. You are not nothing, baby."

"Come on, Eddie! There had to be some truth to it, or it wouldn't have come out. I am not an idiot." Steve says in his bitchiest voice, his wall going up, trying to protect himself from more hurt.

It feels like a punch to his gut. Eddie really made Steve believe their could be some truth in his words. "Steve....I promise you, I was just being some vain asshole, too worried about my reputation as a cool metalhead." He says, knowing how lame it sounds to say out loud. "How could I, Eddie "the freak" Munson, possibly have ended up with the prettiest boy in school."

"What you said was fucked up, you know..." another tear escaping, but the punch is gone from his words.

"I know...I know. I am so sorry, princess. I'll do anything to make it up to you." Eddie pleads softly.

Steve gives him a sad smile, anger melting away leaving only hurt. "I'm just having a hard time believing that I'm not nothing...I mean, you didn't want to tell your friends. And like, I know I can be a little much sometimes, and overbearing. And I'm sorry if I embarrassed you...."He whispers. He feels like nothing, like bullshit, like trash. He isn't endgame, he's never anyone's endgame.

Hearing Steve Harrington apologize for being embarrassing makes Eddie feel like he is in some alternate dimension, maybe he never left the upside down. But more concerningly, to hear Steve sound so small, broke him. Steve was the bravest, sweetest, bitchiest, protective, hottest person he knew but right now, Steve felt small. And it destroyed him to know he caused this. He caused Steve to feel unimportant...unloved. and he had promised himself that he would never do that to him.

He reaches over and grabs Steve's hand, squeezing softly. "God, baby, you have nothing to be sorry for. I am the one who was so self centered, that I did the worst thing I have ever done. I hurt you." He moves his other hand to Steve's cheek, and to his relief, Steve leans into, doesn't pull away. "I somehow made the person who is everything to me, feel like nothing. And that just won't do."

"Eds..." Steve whispers.

"Stevie, I promise you, I will spend everyday trying to make it up to you."

"You...you don't have to...." Steve says softly, sadly.

"Yea, I do. Because Steve, you are everything. You are it for me, sweetheart. There is not a single day I will let go by without you knowing that. I will never let anyone, including myself, make you feel like you are nothing." Eddie leans closer, resting his forehead against Steve's.

By this point, tears were freely falling down Steve’s face. But now he's smiling, even laughing a little. "You are such a sap, Eddie." He jokes before leaning in and placing a tiny kiss against Eddie's lips. "And I love you so much."

Eddie feels a million times lighter as he keeps holding Steve. "I love you too, baby. And you are everything...you are everything....you are everything. " He repeats as I to make sure Steve understands how true it is, not leaving any room for doubt in Steve’s head.

Thank you for reading again! Also side note, did not want to drag this out but definitely see the others eating all the cupcakes downstairs, leaving only one and Steve and Eddie share it.

Tag list (you all are so sweat) There are more but the max mentions was 50. I will reboot and add more

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