#THEY ARE ROASTING ME IN THE ASK BOX

[pixiestickie]

I'm afraid it's not a universal experience, Pixie. You are just a "kinnie" as internet people call it..

!! EVERYONE IS SO MEAN TO ME!!!!!!!!!!! AZUL HAS A POINT FOR WANTING JAMIL SO BAD !!! !!!! ITS NOT MY FAULT!!!!!!!!

[tennessoui]

soup update pls !!!!!

I am always willing to talk about soups and especially the recipes y’all sent me

I think I need a separate recipe box just for yalls recipes because holy shit every one I’ve tried is going to be saved!!!

A quick disclaimer is that most of the soup recipes I got were for many people and I am one people so there were a lot of leftovers and I also live in a house with roommates who like to freeze 2 things of raw chicken (big) and 5 containers of meal prep so there’s not a lot of room for ME and MY food in the freezer (it’s fine I’m fine I’m over it I’m fine)

So I’ve only made 3 soup recipes so far because I sort of have to eat all the leftovers before I can make new soups because I can’t really freeze any—but they’ve been so good! I made the broccoli cheddar anon soup, the potato/leek blended soup, and the moong dal palak recipe I was sent. they were so good and also so chewable my mouth thanks everyone 🙏

[exlibrisfangirl]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEL!!! LOVE YOU BESTIE!! ❤

Okay, so it's still 11:11pm on January 1st here in Pacific Standard Time, so my birthday is still tomorrow... but LOOKIT WHAT ANNA SENT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY EVERYBODY:

SHOULD I EVER HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO SEE JR BOURNE IN PERSON AGAIN I SHALL BE PROUDLY WEARING THIS SWEATSHIRT K THX BYEEEEEE

I love you, @angel-in-a-big-blue-box 😘

[safyresky]

SO HERES A SCENARIO

Today's cs facts where Jacqueline impersonates Jack and steals his vest reminds me of when she went as him for Halloween once.

AND THAT got me thinking about the idea where EVERYONE goes as Jack for Halloween( or for any occasion just to troll him). EVERYONE. EVERY SINGLE PERSON IS IN ON IT AND THEY ALL AMBUSH HIM IN A COCAPHONOUS YET VERY ACCURATE IMPRESSIONS ALL THE SAME TIME.

The image of him just getting jumped by everyone dressed as him is sending to A Place. And I don't know where that is exactly but I felt that I MUST share.

LMAOOOO it's like a lil nightmare for Jack lmao, mans can't have the spotlight bc everyone else is hogging it AS him AND making fun of him about it 😂😂😂😂

I've actually been working on a sort of what-if scenario for if the characters and such of CS were in the (frowns in disgust) series (spits the word out while speaking with such disdain) and it boils down to a really cool way about Jack getting a redemption arc and him being like "you know what. i'm worth it" and peacing out from the council the more scott is like "FUCK u man u SUCK" and refusing to acknowledge CHANGE and Jacqueline HAPPILY stepping in to upset Scott EVEN MORE. ANYWAY, she uses Jack's vest for her official Jack Frost 2: She's WORSE outfit and refuses to give it back (she's grown very fond of it)

so my mood for whatever reason the last week has just been "Jacqueline steals Jack's vest" and I'm here for it tbh

[darknight3904]

It Burns For You

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴘɪᴛᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ. ᴏᴏᴄ ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇᴇʟꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ. ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ!

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

Coriolanus is 12 when he sees you for the first time. Your red uniform is pressed perfectly and your school bag looks brand new. Your lunch consisted of a hearty-looking sandwich with roast beef and lettuce and a container of fresh fruit that had his mouth-watering.

"Do you want a piece? Our maid always packs too much and I can never finish it. You can have some if you want." Your voice fills his ears

A delicate-looking hand is holding a juicy-looking strawberry in front of him. He reaches for it and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to shove it in his mouth. Instead, he takes a small bite and thanks you for sharing.

"Don't you have a lunch today?" You ask

He doesn't. The school had said they would start supplying the students with lunches soon but how soon? Coriolanus had already been attending for a number of years and still nothing.

"I already ate it." He lied

"You're still hungry though. You can have the rest." You say with a smile as you push your fruit bowl to him.

"Is it your first day?" He asks

"Yes, my mother thought that my governess wasn't doing a good job so she had my father enroll me here. I miss being at home with my new kitten though. She has long white hair and she is the cutest thing in the whole world." You said

Coriolanus can't believe that you had your own governess, let alone a pet to call your own. He later learns from Arachne that your father became incredibly rich by manufacturing weaponry for the Capitol. Despite your inherent wealth, you've never flashed it around him.

You and Coriolanus are 15 when you discover all the lies he tells at school about his family. He had left his uniform jacket behind on his chair and you got his home address from Sejanus, meaning to give it back so he'd have it for tomorrow. Instead, you had discovered the Snow's decrepit-looking building and barely functioning penthouse. Coriolanus' heart nearly stops when he emerges from his room to see you and his Grandma'am sitting together as she compliments your shoes.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, ready for your judgment and teasing words

"I wanted to return your jacket, Coryo. You'll need it for tomorrow."

The red of the jacket in your arms matches his face as he ushers you to the door, trying to hide the fact that Tigris was preparing cabbage in the kitchen that would undoubtedly stink the entire place up with the scent of the Snow's poverty.

"Stop rushing me, your cousin invited me to stay for dinner." You say trying to stop the way he is leading you to the door.

"You don't want what she is making. Tigris is a terrible cook." He said

Tigris lets out a shout of disagreement from the stove and Coriolanus ignores it.

"How about, I go out and get something to add to the meal Tigris is cooking, and by the time I get back you change your attitude about me staying for dinner Coryo. "

And with that, you walk out the door and slam it in his face. He's rather stunned at your declaration but knows you're serious. He rushes around their home, trying to clean up what he can while Tigris laughs at his frantic motions. Then, just as he was debating whether or not he wanted to change out of his uniform, you return from your short trip to the closest market.

"I wasn't sure what Tigris is cooking so I got a couple of things." You say placing the bags on the table.

Coriolanus is sure you spent a fortune on what is in these bags. Fresh bread accompanied by a sickly sweet fruit spread and a block of butter sits in one while the other holds something else in a brown box. You take your seat next to him at the ugly little table he has eaten too many meals at and cut a piece of the bread for Grandma'am. He is worried when Tigris starts portioning out the cabbage she cooked on the stove. Coriolanus watches your expression as you take a bite but nothing that he expected happens. You don't knit your brows in disgust or get up to leave and take your fresh bread and mysterious box with you. Instead, you go back for a second bite and compliment what Tigris has done with the food.

He sits stiffly next to you and can barely accept the slice of bread you offer him. You excuse yourself to use the bathroom and Tigris reaches across the table and pinches his shoulder.

"Stop sitting like that, Coryo!" She scolds

"Like what?" He asks,aware that Tigris meant how oddly straight his back was.

"You're making her uncomfortable. You've been friends with her for years she isn't worried about what our home looks like." Tigris says

"She might not be but what happens when she goes to school tomorrow and talks?" He asks

He shuts up when he hears the sound of the bathroom door opening again.

"That was lovely Tigris. I've never had anything like it, I'll have to invite you all to my own home for dinner sometime. Our cook makes these pastries that are simply wonderful. They even get sold at local markets, which leads to this..."

His eyes widen when you finally unveil what was hiding in that second bag. A dozen expensive looking deserts sit in the brown box you brought, each one decorated differently.

"I hope I picked something everyone would like. I know Coryo mentioned that Grandma'am liked chocolate so I picked this one just for her."

Coriolanus feels a wide smile stretch across his face as you pass out your little desserts. His worries about you gossiping to their peers fade from view as he bites into what he thinks is a croissant. You laugh at his reaction and toss a napkin at his face which is most likely covered in the gooey fruit filling that was in his pastry.

He walks you back to your home that night and thanks you for making his night. He can't remember the last time Grandma'am had smiled from eating chocolate. You accept his thanks and gently tell him that he shouldn't be ashamed about his financial situation. He never gets to disagree with you though because a soft kiss is pressed to his lips followed by a rushed,

"Goodnight, Coryo! Thanks for the cabbage!"

He walks back to his own home with a jump in his step. Thoughts of you consume him as he smiles to himself, proud his first kiss was shared with you. He feels his heart burn with something that felt like it was going to come up and out his mouth as he finally made it back to his room, you officially had him wrapped around your finger.

Your room is flooded with sunlight the first time Coriolanus sees it. A soft, silky-looking bed spread sits atop one of the biggest beds he has seen as you beckon to your cat, Maisy to come and say hello to him. He looks at the oversized wooden dresser that sits against one wall. He sees the photograph of him and you that was taken a few weeks ago at your 17th birthday party nestled among little knickknacks. Books Coriolanus has never even heard of line your shelves as he you place a record on the player that sits on your desk. Soft sounds of a piano and the words from an unnamed singer fill your gorgeous room as he turns to you.

"Do you want to dance?" He finds himself asking

You accept and he leads you or well tries to. You're rather stiff and it turns out dancing is harder than it looks because he isn't any good at it either. You laugh as he trips over his feet and end up falling with him, landing on the ground entangled in each other. Your fingers brush his curls from his eyes as his nose brushes yours.

"What're you doing?" You ask quietly

"Nothing." He responds, his eyes flicking to your lips.

The moment his lips touch yours, a tingle shoots down his spine. This is a real kiss, not what you gave him when you were both 15. He cups your face and your hands are tangled in his hair as he deepens it. He felt his head spin as you moved against him, almost as if you wanted him to swallow you whole right here on your bedroom floor. A giddy feeling swelled in his chest when he pulled away for air.

"Coryo...what was that?" You ask

"I thought you'd know by now. That was a kiss, darling." He laughed brushing his thumb across your lip

"I know that...but why'd you give me one?" You ask

"Don't you know?" He smiles and places a chaste kiss on your lips "My heart, it burns for you, it always has."

Part 2 is out now!

Series Masterlist

[chaoticace2005]

Rules for the Hazbin Hotel, authored by Vaggie:

1. No drugs.

2. No fights.

3. No pranks.

4. No problematic language.

5. No murder (OR TERRITORIAL GENOCIDE WHAT THE FUCK ANGEL)

6. No smuggling in of drugs. Not by sticking them up your ass. Or by hiding them in a pizza box. Or by slingshotting them to the roof. Or getting someone else to. Not at all.

7. No sexual rendezvous with outsiders in the hotel. No SHOWING sexual rendezvous with strangers to people of the hotel either.

8. Make sure the pig/future pets stay in the patron’s room. (This includes eggs!!)

9. No singing Limit singing to once twice per day

10. Stop flirting with the bartender Angel

11. Don’t call Husk “Husker” unless he allows it.

12. No harassing the staff at all. This includes asking who tops.

13. Don’t suggest anything sexual/romantic to Alastor unless you want your head cut off.

14. NO CUTTING OFF PEOPLE’S HEADS

15. NO EATING PEOPLE

16. NO MAKING CHARLIE CRY.

17. Don’t ask me to put my spear “inside you” Angel, what the fuck?

18. Don’t turn the interior of the hotel into a swamp?! Keep it contained in your room if you must!

19. No stabbing staff or residents. No matter how much they look like bugs! (OR IF THEYRE NAME IS ANGEL)

20. Don’t try and stab bugs if they’re within 10 feet of another demon.

21. Don’t call anyone a “bitch” OR TALK ABOUT HOW MY NAME SOUNDS LIKE “VAGINA”

22. Limit Niffty’s access to sharp objects.

23. NO DEALS ALASTOR

24. No drinking. Limit drinking at bar.

25. No mentioning the Stock Market Crash of 1929. For everyone’s benefit.

26. Don’t blow a hole in the wall.

27. Try to keep roast battles OUTSIDE the hotel. (Or stop picking fights?? Please Alastor I swear to God…)

28. No spying on the hotel for outside sources or putting technology that can be used against us.

29. No evil laughing in the middle of the night, what the fuck Alastor?

30. No building weapons/war machines.

31. No eggs! (Fine the eggs can stay.)

32. Someone please keep an eye on Niffty. (And the eggs.)

33. Stop touching people ANGEL.

34. Don’t make other people storm off HUSK.

35. Respect boundaries.

36a. If Angel looks like he’s about to pass out/cry don’t comment. Let him do his thing.

36b. Don’t try to talk to Angel if he’s on the phone with Valentino. Honestly don’t even mention his phone calls with Valentino.

37. Please don’t call Lucifer “Daddy”

38. Don’t turn into a 20 foot tall demon-eating creature unless absolutely necessary.

39. Don’t cause angry loan sharks to show up at the front door.

40. NO EXPLOSIONS!

41. Rule #2, “No fights” can be broken if the person you’re fighting is Valentino. Or Adam.

42. Don’t lie to your girlfriend or hide the fact you were secretly an angel.

43. DONT TALK ABOUT PEOPLE’S TITS (or lack of)

44. KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING A BEDROOM ESPECIALLY IF SOMEONE’S HAVING MAKEUP SEX

45. Don’t give people makeovers while they’re sleeping, ANGEL!

46. Don’t pretend to eat someone’s pet, ALASTOR

47. Don’t die.

48. I never want to hear the words “cum-plete” again.

49. STOP HAVING FIGHTS ACROSS THE BUILDING LUCIFER AND ALASTOR!!

50. If Charlie is passed out on the couch LET HER SLEEP

51. No making bombs in the hotel Cherri!

52. Stop breaking rules and then saying it’s “FOR SIR PENTIOUS!”

53. Angel don’t try to shoot someone if they break spaghetti.

54. Don’t break spaghetti. Or “ruin” Italian food. Whatever the fuck that means. This apparently includes pineapple on pizza.

55. Don’t mention Valentino unless Angel brings him up first.

56. Don’t comment on Angel and Husk’s flirting.

57. Only call Angel “Anthony” if things are serious (or if you’re Husk)

58. Don’t use any of the nicknames Husk and Angel use for each other. This includes but is not limited to: “Whiskers”, “Legs”, “Kitty”, “Webs”, “Tony”, “Love”, and “Baby.”

59. It’s better not to question whatever facts Husk gives about his past.

60. Family dinners at 6 pm unless you can’t make it due to prior obligation. Game nights after on Sundays.

61. No hunting people for sport and NO KNIFE MONOPOLY.

62. Don’t attach knives to a roomba so you can have a “boyfriend” Niffty.

63. Keep Niffty away from Roombas.

64. Alastor, treat people with decency. Really, it’s not that hard.

65. No making giant ducks that breathe fire to chase people around the hotel just because they call you short.

66. Therapy. Everyone.

67. DONT HAVE SEX ON THE BAR WHAT THE FUCK GUYS?!

68. If Valentino enters the property you have permission to stab him.

69. “Hell is forever” is bullshit. You guys aren’t. You can do this.

[contact-guy]

lol THIS ENDED UP BEING SO LONG but it's such a cute story opening that I had to draw Watson roasting Holmes's messiness for the newspaper and Holmes skillfully maneuvering his way out of having to do chores. It's all canon, even the indoor sharpshooting, except for the bit about the cold bath.

canon text under the cut:

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents, especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into his common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes, Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something a little recherchè.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, and old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling at my expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they are history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never been able to gather the details. “I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account of this very singular business.

-The Memories of Sherlock Holmes: The Musgrave Ritual

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x dc AU - If the Internation Space Station orbits the Earth 16 times a day, then so does the Watchtower.

Danny’s on track to move out of his parent’s house and move to Gotham for college (He swears that Sam bribed the board to let him in- and she wasn’t even going to that university!) but the dorms don’t open for another three days and he cannot wait to escape. Seeing his parents try to perfect yet another weapon to use against him while he changed out the ecto filters on the portal was too much. He’s completely over the idea of staying when he already has everything packed and ready to go.

The solution? Take all his boxes into his haunt in the Ghost Zone, leave them there and then spend some time in camping in space. He’s already explored the Infinite Realms enough to be bored of it for a minute (not to mention he wants to avoid getting more ‘favors’ to do from Clockwork) and hell, he just wants to see some stars.

He grabs his tent, a sleeping bag and all the food and things he could need and brings it into the atmosphere with him. Keeping it all tethered to him, Danny stays in a fixed position above Gotham (Cause that’s where he’s going next, duh) and treats himself to some quality Me-time.

Only problem is that several times a day he has to make himself intangible while he lets satellites and things pass through. Easy enough and honestly pretty interesting to observe as a wannabe engineering student.

He doesn’t know when exactly it happened the first time- but it turns out the Heroes of Earth all congregated in a satelite office building? It was bigger than the ISS! What the heck!?

Going intangible but not invisible, the JL spot Danny and are incredibly confused how an ‘Alien’ teen just happens to appear in their meeting rooms disappearing at the rate (slowly but surely) of the Watchtower moving through space. Was that camping gear? How was he roasting a marshmallow? Did propane camping stoves even work in space??

16 times a day they get the opportunity to ask Danny a few questions. He mostly ignores them or gives them joke answers. Eventually Martian Manhunter phases through the Watchtower to join him.

They talk about how hard transition periods in life can be and having strained relationships with family. J’ohn returns to the watchtower on its next cycle and reports that the kid is just fine, being an adult is just a hard thing to do.

[luveline]

how about some domestic stuff of post-prison reid and stripper!reader??? that one fic broke my heart in the best way

Prison changes a lot of things about Spencer, so when you get back to his place after a quick run to the grocery store and find him packing away some of his things into boxes, you're not alarmed. “Spring cleaning?” you ask, stepping around him carefully where he's kneeling by the TV stand. 

“Making room,” he says. 

He must have bought something. You put your tote bag in the crook of your arm and bend a touch to kiss his cheek, his hair brushing your face. “You have so many things, Spence, you need a storage locker. You need two.” 

He feels blindly up your arm. 

You put the groceries away, wash your hands, and cut some veggies. You season them and put them in the oven to roast, calling Spencer to see what he wants with it. “You could have the leftover chicken, or I can make, like… anything you want, actually. Pork chops, or maybe forget that and we'll have pasta, I can frankenstein the– Hey, Spence? You listening?” 

You're not mad. He's always been prone to deep thought, but usually he isn't looking straight at you while you talk. “Spencer?” 

“You'll move in with me, right? If I ask?” 

You wring your hands. “You've asked me a hundred times.” 

“But this time, you'll say yes.” He's staring at you. He already knows. 

“You can at least pretend to ask me.” 

Spencer closes the box in front of him. “Please, move in with me. I can't spend that long away from you ever again.” 

“You see me almost every day when you're not working.” 

He shrugs, smiles. “It's not enough.” 

You sit on the couch. He leans over his box to hold your leg. Spencer's asked you a bunch of times, first because he worried about your safety, then because he felt it was a good option as his friend, and then again because he loved you. And you always said no because you didn't want to depend on him, and because some nagging voice in the back of your mind kept telling you he'd realise he didn't want you as soon as you got close enough. But it's been a long time since you thought that way, and his stint in prison emphasised how badly you need each other. 

“So, it'll be equal?” you ask in answer. 

“I'm not saying that. The rent is ridiculous, and you didn't sign up for that, and I have no idea where we'll put all your clothes. But it'll be half yours, absolutely.” He looks especially happy though apprehensive; he hasn't realised you don't need convincing this time.

“I want to bring my pink lamp for the bedroom.”

Spencer's smile changes his entire face. Puppy dog eyes turn thinner, his lips part, his perfect teeth like pearls. “I want you to bring the pink lamp. Bring everything. No one will ever understand our decor.” 

You sink down on the floor in front of him and nudge aside his box for a hug. He gives it to you, and, in a slightly uncharacteristic move for him, he cuts the embrace short to kiss you soundly, his hand on your cheek. He kisses you again and again until you're laughing into his mouth. 

“Does this mean you'll let me propose?” he asks softly. 

Your breath catches. He doesn't sound particularly put together himself, bringing his second hand to your face, holding your forehead to this. 

“I don't think it's something I have much choice in,” you say eventually, your smile audible and immovable. 

You get to say yes or no, but his wanting to ask is all on him. He's flustered you unexpectedly, and the quiet laugh coming from what feels to be the deepest recess of his chest tips you over. You dip down into his neck slowly, hiding away in the curve of his shoulder as his arms come heavy behind you. 

“All I could think was how much stuff I didn't get to say to you, or do with you,” he says. “If they couldn't clear my name, I kept thinking about how much time I wouldn't get back.” 

You breathe out in a rush against his neck. “But you're out.” 

“Yeah. I am.” He strokes your back. “Lucky me.” 

[thecuriousquest]

Dirt Bag (Daddy Loves You Part Two)

Yan!Step Dad Toji x Fem!Reader

Tag List: @issamomma @repostingmyfavs @murderofravens

Warnings: Yandere themes, NSFW, rape/non con vaginal sex, rape/non con anal sex, heavy spanking, possessive tendencies, guns, death threats, pot references, degradation kink, Daddy kink, all characters are 18+

Master List

Part One

My Ask Box is currently closed while I catch up on requests. Thank you for your patience and understanding.

—————————————————————————

OR

You guys do not get along with each other AT ALL, and he takes this out on you by being petty as fuck. If you’re not going to be his good little girl, then he’s going to be stern as fuck until you can get your fucking shit together.

He tells you this every time you try to argue about curfew, every time he sees you’re about to go out dressed in those snug jeans and a crop top.

Honestly, he couldn’t give a fuck about what you wear, but he’s petty, so he’s going to order you to go back upstairs and change.

You got a problem with it? It just means he gets to spend more time keeping you at home while arguing with you. Argue too much and he might just pull out a wooden spoon and smack your ass with it a few times until you back out of his reach and shoot up to your room about as fast as a bottle rocket.

Damn. The power a wooden spoon holds, huh?

It makes him feel bigger than he already is.

But he isn’t in the mood to argue when he sees you walking inside with a boy. Neither of you get even five steps in when he rolls his eyes and stands from the living room couch. Fuck, work was hell. Killing for money today was just awful. Now he has to deal with you and some fucking idiot?

He pushes you towards the stairs, roughly. You fall on the fourth step on your ass, hitting your elbow on the hard wood.

“What the fuck’s up your ass, old man?!”

He doesn’t even bother with you as he fixes his eyes on the asshole in his doorway.

“Out,” is all he says as he points towards the screen door that just shut a few seconds ago.

“Whoa, man, who even are you?”

He looks stoned. Of course he looks stoned.

“I said-“ he grabs his gun, the same one he took on his mission earlier. “Out.” He cocks the gun and points it straight at the guy wreaking of pot. “Now.”

And that sobers him up pretty quick because he’s out the door in less than two seconds.

You watch your step dad put his gun back in his waistband, and you scream at him.

“Why do you ruin everything for me?!”

His eyes finally turn to you, dark and cold like a moonless sky. He grabs you by your jaw, pulling you in close while keeping your ass on the steps.

“I hafta protect you from scum like that because you’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

That’s the only reason he gives you as he tucks you under one arm, keeping you close to his hip.

“You kick, I’ll start spankin’ you.”

But you don’t listen to his warning, so you thrash and beat on his bulky thigh through his sweat pants, never relenting until a firm palm comes down on the pocket of your jeans.

You elicit a guttural cry from the impact, feeling fire blossom across the cheek he just smacked.

“Oh, you asshole! Fuck you, Toji- OW!”

It only gets worse from there. He walks to his bedroom that he shares with your mother, and as he walks, he roasts your ass. The jeans make you feel like you have zero protection because it just hurts so fucking much.

“Toji!” you cry out as he throws you on the bed, bending you like one of those art dolls made for posing.

He manhandles you onto your stomach, giving you your real punishment as he tears your jeans off of you.

“You’ve been a real bad girl, ya know that? Disregardin’ Daddy like a fuckin’ bitch.”

And it’s so much worse now to feel his hand, which could be just as bad as a belt, bite into your supple skin. You break down, snot dripping from your nose as tears spill over your lashes. You grip the shitty comforter, kicking every once in a while when the burn gets so bad that you just can’t control your limbs.

“Toji, stop!”

All he hears is a demand, and nobody orders Toji around. Especially not his dirt bag daughter.

It takes a while to get you there, but you finally lower your head in acceptance, submission as you murmur “please, please” while crying so terribly.

And Toji can’t help but palm the meat of your ass, the doughy flesh now sporting a horrible scarlet.

“Damn, that’s gotta hurt, hon,” is all he says as he massages your raw skin.

You hear rustling coming from the bedside before there’s a presence in between your legs. You’re quick to try to turn over, but one large forearm across your lower back keeps you right where he wants you.

“This is kinda yer own fault, ya know? Such a filthy little slut.” He impales you, splitting you with his piercing cock. “Damn. So fuckin’ tight. Who would’ve known? Thought you’d be loose with the way ya act and dress.”

You feel like your soul has left your body, not even hearing your own screams as your step dad fucks you on the bed he shares with your mom.

“Stop it! I hate you!” you wail as you pound your little fists into the pillow.

Toji coos at you. “Come on, hon, don’t be like that. Want me to fuck yer ass instead?”

The shock of his words still you, and you whimper and plead for him not to.

“Then tell me ya fuckin’ love me so much. Tell Daddy ya love ‘em.”

This is the sickest kind of “love” imaginable.

Gasping for air through a sob stuck in your throat, you feel your stomach roil as you repeat the words he wants to hear.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Yeah? Yeah, love ya too, hon.”

The control he has over you is strangling as he bullies that little spot that has your hips bumping into the mattress. He reaches underneath you with one hand, supporting himself with the other. Just like that, he fiddles with your clit, pinching and twirling the puffy thing.

You stiffen as something builds and continues building until you just can’t keep still anymore. You let go of the tension, and Toji can feel your juices all over his thigh-slapping cock.

But Toji isn’t a nice man. No, Toji is a terrible man who kills people for money and fucks his dirt bag daughter until she breaks as a punishment.

He pulls out of your throbbing pussy and lets his wet dick nestle against your asshole. Your eyes widen when you feel him pushing inside.

“I told you I loved you!”

“Yeah, I heard ya. Daddy loves ya too, baby girl.”

He pumps deep inside of you, skin-on-skin contact so rough it sounds like clapping. Your freshly spanked ass so raw and bruised that you cry every time he pistons into you.

And finally, finally, the moment he’s been waiting for, you collapse into the bed in a heap of sobs and messy whimpers. Oh, it’s so good to watch you no longer hold yourself up on your elbows. With your face in the scratchy pillow case, he pulls you back by your pony tail and whispers the worst things into your ear.

“I’m all ya got, hon. Don’t worry. Daddy will take such good care of his baby girl. Yeah, no more bein’ bad for Daddy. Next time ya act up, Daddy’s gonna think you want it real bad in that cute little pussy and tight ass. Ya got me?”

And you’re so distraught you can barely respond, but you somehow find the capability to say, “Yes, Daddy!” because you fear what he might do if you call him anything else.

The laughs from above you confirms your suspicion that you made the correct choice in calling him “Daddy”. He pounds your fluttering little asshole, calling you “his bitchy little brat”, saying that you won’t be like that anymore though, telling you he’s going to be a lot more firm with you from now on because he doesn’t like the dirt bag you’re turning into.

And he’s starting with the friends and boys you hang around. Whispering in your ear that he’ll kill them all before he lets you officially turn into one of them.

You tighten up in fear, crying because doing that makes it worse for your poor, squelching hole. You nod along, agreeing with him for now.

And when your step dad is on the edge, he jizzes inside of your asshole, filling you up. When he pulls out, he’s fascinated by his white hot come spilling out of you, dripping between your scarlet cheeks, disappearing between the folds of your pussy.

“Atta girl. Knew ya could take it.”

A final clap of appreciation to your sore bottom has you sobbing a fresh round of tears.

He rolls his eyes and rubs your back, pulling you in close to him as he lays his head on the pillow. What’s even worse is that you’re so tired you actually fall asleep on his chest.

[moondirti]

cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton. 

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom. 

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause. 

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago. 

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing. 

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings. 

You wish he’d hang around more. 

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows. 

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke. 

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained. 

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in. 

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence. 

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.” 

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities. 

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows. 

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt? 

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative. 

A dead end. 

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends. 

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried. 

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas. 

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight. 

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still. 

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore. 

He’s jus’ taking the piss. 

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do. 

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command? 

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.” 

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it. 

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli. 

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh. 

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day. 

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling. 

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken. 

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?” 

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze. 

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room. 

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.” 

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor. 

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?” 

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.” 

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts. 

Then –

“You don' drink?” 

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested. 

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees. 

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.” 

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church. 

I’d murder for a whiskey. 

You mean scotch? 

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees. 

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout? 

Negative, sir. 

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did. 

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water. 

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid. 

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?” 

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line. 

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one. 

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it. 

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less. 

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side. 

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from,  too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you. 

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.) 

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise. 

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it. 

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.  

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile. 

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.” 

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?” 

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning. 

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon. 

You spit the first thing that comes to mind. 

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.” 

And still with the revelation of what you just said. 

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance. 

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards. 

“Afraid she’s not my type.” 

And that’s all he gives you. 

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin? 

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead. 

Fuck. 

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb. 

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy. 

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.” 

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves.  You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo. 

read at 3:25 am 

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood. 

“Didn’ know what you liked.” 

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart. 

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient. 

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin. 

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes. 

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush. 

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red. 

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant. 

Anxiolytic. 

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache. 

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him. 

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now? 

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud. 

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks. 

Atta’ girl. 

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars. 

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes. 

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door. 

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp. 

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder. 

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long. 

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.” 

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart. 

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once. 

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.” 

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him. 

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin. 

“Alright?” 

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be. 

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal. 

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.” 

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums. 

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.” 

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask. 

“We’ll be ready for them.” 

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team. 

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls. 

It’ll be hard not to miss it. 

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun. 

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you. 

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes. 

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command. 

What did he mean by that? Bad timing? 

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths. 

He can’t know. Can he? 

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun. 

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag. 

I’m good. 

You’re not. Drink. 

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak. 

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors. 

He doesn’t miss a thing. 

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless. 

He draws a deep inhale. 

He knows. 

“Didn’t finish, pet?” 

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid. 

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness. 

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into. 

“Turn around. Face the window.” 

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says.  Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour. 

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms. 

“Keep an eye out. Got it?” 

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine. 

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant. 

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves. 

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts. 

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone. 

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut. 

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?” 

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire. 

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–” 

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss. 

“We can be quick,” 

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.” 

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more. 

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world. 

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,” 

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”   

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper. 

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs. 

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust. 

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street. 

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.” 

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone. 

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.” 

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl. 

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat. 

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried? 

It was only a shadow. 

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it. 

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour. 

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss. 

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures. 

But your name is not for nothing. 

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green. 

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid. 

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you. 

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest. 

Sniper. 

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before. 

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you. 

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price. 

Never at you. 

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb. 

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed. 

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat. 

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back. 

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash. 

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns. 

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base. 

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else. 

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety. 

No, that’s not quite right. 

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate? 

You need a cigarette.  

Not embraced. 

Your eyes fly open. 

Simon. 

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers. 

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead. 

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.  

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine. 

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left. 

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf. 

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.” 

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will. 

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand. 

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.” 

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages. 

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards. 

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus. 

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here. 

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe. 

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like. 

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind. 

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out. 

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location] 

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill. 

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway. 

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach. 

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him. 

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema. 

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough. 

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down. 

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?” 

He takes a step forward. “Your head–” 

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound. 

“And Johnny?” 

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?” 

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated. 

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle. 

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel. 

“Sent on some other mission, then?” 

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde. 

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches. 

You think you know why. 

“It’s not your fault, Lt.” 

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you. 

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.” 

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness. 

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you. 

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that. 

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks. 

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon. 

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity. 

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.” 

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head. 

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.” 

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…” 

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless. 

“I still–” 

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls. 

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.” 

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.” 

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles. 

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-” 

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low. 

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava. 

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask. 

“You’re quivering.” 

“Huh?” 

His thumb swipes over your hole. 

“Oh–” 

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth. 

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit. 

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper. 

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper. 

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers. 

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall. 

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise. 

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him. 

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs. 

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia. 

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks. 

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex. 

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him. 

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.” 

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you. 

“Chocolate?” 

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon. 

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.” 

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

[evilminji]

Okay, But, >.> Listen...

So MAYBE, just MAYBE, I am an incureable RoFan Isekai nerd. Shut up about it, maybe. What're you a cop? Mind your business. BUT! And hear me out...

W...What would actually? HAPPEN if Danny went into a Visual Novel? Some Otome game? You know, aside from being vague flustered by and then DEEPLY ALARMED by these walking Red Flag Fruitloops that girls are supposed to find "dreamy" or something?

Like we know how MMOs work for him. And probably OTHER open world games? But a visual novel? Would it be like the Christmas Episode? Would he hear narration? Be stuck in static "scenes"? Or would it be like a cut together "only the interesting parts" movie that he's somehow IN?

Like?? At SOME point his curiosity is gonna get the best of him. He's gonna want to know what different video games are LIKE on the inside? What's Pong like? Tetris? Mario? One of those Mama's cooking games? Etc etc.

He probably hits up a game sale. Buys a box or two. Figures he can always resell um or just give them away for free. Might even use them for parts. Who knows. And?

It's kinda cool!

It's even SCIENCE! See? Tucker's in charge of notes. Sam's in charge of hilarious commentary and pizza. Jazz is keeping them from drinking and doing ghost shit (terrible combination, we never speak of What Happened(tm) again). And the Dr's. Fenton got distracted by making fudge and debating what games should be counted towards which categories.

They've made an afternoon of it.

And NOW? They've reached the bottom of box one. It was "Survive The Villainess! My Rose for You!" Or... judging by Sam's climbing eyebrows and growing scowl? A DEEPLY unpleasant porn game about school girls.

You could not PAY him enough.

Yeah, he DOES realistically kinda want to know what happens.. if.. like? You know... sexy games... like would he? Or does he just WATCH or...? *awkward cough* But! That's NOT for Family Science Night! And DEFINITELY not THAT game, THANKS.

He'll find himself an ETHICALLY SOURCED smutty game full of consensual boning. For PRIVATE TIME. Those test results are gonna show up like MAGIC and we WILL NOT be talking about them! Got it? Good.

Now what the fuck is he look at here?

Jazz is surprisingly knowledgeable. They are not allowed to ask. They respect it. The main character "wakes up" inside the body of a "villainess" and must survive. Turn her terrible reputation around. Avoid "death flags". Preferably romance one of the hot guys?

Uuuuuuuh... you realize Danny's in a committed relationship, right?

Sam and Turker allow it. But they reserve the right to blast his taste in Fantasy Guy's. Chose carefully, for their roasting shall be BRUTAL. Luuuuuv yoooou~♡

He wants a divorce. They're not even MARRIED and he wants a divorce. You see how they mock him, Jazz? The cruelty he suffers? He's taking the Blobs and moving to Frightknight's. They always warned him about you living folks and your fast ways, but he didn't listen! *continued dramatics* *is smacked with a pillow*

But actually going IN? The weirdly, vaguely European over the top EVERYTHING? Giant jewels and ridiculous, fancy dresses? The walking red flag Romantic Archtype Leads? He wants to PUNCH half these guys! This is ABUSE! Are people OKAY!?

Like? I feel like he'd stay way, WAY longer then he needed too? Just out of morbid curiosity? W-where is this plot GOING? It's so dramatic. Why is my dress MORE dramatic now? Why is everything so... Sparkly.

It would be? AMAZING and baffling and I would pay real money to hear their live commentary. "Why not simply judo flip the crown prince off the balcony, then take over the country, sweetie?" "Solid plan, honey! He deserves it!" Beautiful. Flawless. Sage advice really. Too bad Danny can barely walk in his five million bows dress.

It's the BEST Au and I might be a genius. Or deeply sleep deprived. Meh. We'll 50/50 it, six of one, half a dozen of another.

@hdgnj @ailithnight @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter

[exlibrisfangirl]

Rain

Alright, fine. You can have a teensy little hint of smut, as a TREAT...

As Chris settled into a rhythm and Derek’s pleasure began to build, the rain on the roof seemed to crescendo to match it.

Send me a word; if it’s in my wip document, I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in.

[bb-eilish]

𝒜𝓇𝓉𝒾𝒻𝒾𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁 𝐿𝓊𝓈𝓉

pairing: AI!Soobin x f!reader

warnings; swearing, pet names, dirty talk, multiple smut scenes, pining, nipple play, rough sex, phone call, praise, robo soobin, no condom use, creampie, jealousy/delusion, stalking, kissing, blonde soobin. (if i missed something pls lemme know!!)

summary; Your close friend’s new riches makes christmas forever memorable.

A/N: I read @writerpetals “artificial heart” and couldn’t help but picture soobin, please read their work it’s great!

𝓐 gasp is heard through the entire restaurant, you would care about the dozen eyes suddenly on you, but you can’t. Your closest friend, Yoon, has struck gold, she’s been working as a higher up at your guys’ office job for the longest time and has been very buddy buddy with the CEO. So when the former CEO retired she left the company to Yoon, who now has inherited a million dollar company!

“You’re kidding.” Your mouth is glued to the ground as she beams at you, “Isn’t this amazing? Just in time for Christmas too. I worked for so long and it finally really payed off. Now I just need to find you a present.” She thoughtfully looks at her food, the flame of the candle between you two lighting up her features warmly. “Heh, if only you could buy me a boyfriend.” You joke as you poke at the salad in your dish.

“Boyfriend hm? I see…” She smiles as you both carry on, dinner is filled with disbelief as she tells you just how much she has now and the gossip the old CEO told her.

///////////

“Merry Christmas, Y/n. Bring him in over here!” Yoon greets and then shouts behind her, the smile on your face twists into confusion. “What?” You’re confused even further when two men heave a box up the steps to your porch and slide in through the door. They drop it off by the tree and you gape. A box that’s at least 6’0 sits next to your tree now, the presents under it look much smaller in comparison.

Yoon’s smile almost hurts your eyes as she beams at you, “I think you’re gonna love it!” She goes in for a hug that squeezes the air from your lungs, “Yea, I bet I will. I hope you like your presents.” Your nerves flare at the idea of her not liking what you got her because of this unbelievably tall present.

“You seriously didn’t have to get me anything so big, I’d be happy with a card honestly.” She shakes her head at your modesty and smiles, “You deserve the world Y/n, don’t worry about it.”

“Coffee? We can open presents after I make some?”

“Sounds lovely, be quick or I might open your gift myself.” You giggle at her and go to put a K-cup into the machine. While waiting you can’t help but to admire your kitchen, it’s your favorite style and just the right size. It’s perfect and even better with the adorable christmas decorations everywhere. But sort of….empty. The decorations are nice and all, but ever since your ex left awhile ago it’s missing something.

The sound of the coffee squirting into your cup takes you out of your thoughts as you wait till it’s done and put a new one in. “Here, coconut french roast, just how you like it.” Bending over slightly, you pass her the hot christmas mug and go back to the machine. It’s just finishing up your cup.

“Alright, open this first.” You grab a small wrapped box and pass it to her, the snowflake paper contrasting to her red and back flannel pajamas. She pushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear before digging into the bright paper. “Oh my god, this is so pretty. Is this the one we saw in the window of that one store?” She asks in awe, “Hehe, yeah it is. Do you like it?” Watching her squeal makes you feel warm, she means so much to you and you can only hope she knows it.

“I love it, thank you so much. Here open this!”

You both go back and forth opening the presents until the last one is inevitably the tall one. It intimidates you as you step closer and dig a nail under the tape that’s stuck at the sides. You jump when she changes her mind about you opening it, “Actually, y/n. Turn around, I’ll let you know when to look.”

You arch a brow at her but turn around nonetheless, there’s the sound of paper, cardboard, and then a button. She squeals happily as she tells you to turn around. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you fidget with your fingers and swing around.

First you blink, and then again, and once more. A man stands there, a gentle smile on his face as he greets you. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. L/n. I’m Soobin, I hope I can be of service.” You hesitantly meet his hand. “Um, I’m sorry, I’m confused.” You eye both of them until he responds.

“I am your assistant, I was customized for you.” That honestly made your confusion worse as you look towards Yoon, she laughs as she begins to explain. “This is Soobin, your AI assistant. He cost a pretty penny but it was so worth it, once I saw how customizable he was, I knew he could be the one for you.”

“He’s a robot?” You ask dumbfounded, he smiles again. A very human-sounding chuckle leaves him as he nods. You eye him up and down not so subtly, his hair is almost a platinum blonde, it sits neatly styled over his forehead. He wears a tidy looking black knit sweater matched with jeans and sneakers.

"Looks real doesn't he? He can do whatever you like, he can cook,clean, grocery shop, even drive a car." She stops to take a step closer to you, leaning into your ear. "And he's made for you in other ways as well." She laughs before getting a loud notification. You stare at her wide eyed as she apologizes and leaves to go manage the company or whatever she said.

"Merry Christmas Ms. L/n. Would you like me to clean up?"

You peer around your living room, the ground is covered in hundreds of pieces of wrapping paper. "Uh, sure. Thank you..." You can’t help but eye him curiously as he gathers the paper and random boxes around you. You have to admit, he does look incredibly real. Especially when he bends over so fluently to grab at the garbage. He even breaths out a little while he does it as well.

“Where should I put these?” He questions when he’s done, it honestly scares you a bit as you were spacing out — thinking about him of course, he’s an entire robot.

“Oh uh, the trash cans are in the garage. That way.” You point to the correct door, he nods with a smile and is on his way.

The coffee in your hands grows colder as you watch him, you’d be worried about being creepy with how much you’re staring, but something tells you it probably doesn’t matter.

“All done. Do you need anything else Ms. L/n?” He stands before you with his hands crossed in front of him. “No, thank you for cleaning. You can…s-sit down if you’d like? We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other anyways.” He smiles again and you try not to pay attention to how you gulp in response. Soobin swings himself around and sits on the other end of your couch, looking at his hands as he outstretched them curiously.

“So, Soobin. I know you can do house chores, what else can you do?” This is the best small talk you’re able to conjure up at the moment, you’re acutely aware that he’s metal and wires. “Besides house hold chores, I can answer questions — as I’m connected to the internet — I know every language and am fully trained in multiple martial arts. I was programmed to protect you, as well as be a companion. I hope we are able to get along.”

He smiles at you once more, the dimples in his cheeks apparent as he does so. He’s so human it’s uncanny.

“Wow, that’s amazing. I’ve actually been a bit worried about living on my own. Is there anything else you can do?”

“Yes, I’ve also been programmed to know exactly what you are into sexually.” Your eyes basically pop out of your head in response, warmth settles over your skin as you let your imagination run a little too wild in the moment.

“O-oh. Well, uh, I’m going to take a shower, make yourself…at home.”

You scurry off to your bedroom, thoughts absolutely taken over by his words. You were very open with Yoon about what you were into, you’ve been friends for years so it was only natural that the subject was brought up multiple times. And now you have a robot assistant who looks like he was modeled after…well.. a model, and knows how to please you.

You’re going through your clean hamper, as you haven’t put them away yet, when a knock sounds from your door.

“Ms. L/n, since it’s 9:27 in the morning, shall I make breakfast?” His muffled voice still has heat settling over your cheeks as you respond.

“Oh, sure. You can make whatever you want, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” To be honest, you couldn’t think of a single breakfast food at that moment. Too much has happened in such a short time, you’re still a little stunned. Soobin hums and agrees and you go back to searching for clothes to wear.

////////////////////

You’re shower was 15 minutes longer than usual, Soobin was on the front of your mind and because of that you were in space for most of it.

The bathrooms warm and foggy atmosphere contrasted the rest of your house, it was cold but not annoyingly stuffy when you creaked the door open. “Ms. L/n breakfast is ready, I have made pancakes and french toast.”

“I don’t remember having frozen pancakes and french toast?” You mumble as you step into the kitchen to ogle the delicious food on your table.

“I made them from scratch, I hope you enjoy them.” He bows before turning around to handle the small mess he created. He made them….from scratch? He even topped it off with a few blueberries on the butter that sat on top of the stack of pancakes. The food looked like it was stolen right from a commercial.

“They look delicious, thank you, Soobin.” You say as you slip into your seat and pluck your fork from the table. “Of course.”

Cutting the pancakes was almost mesmerizing, as they were unbelievably pillowy and soft. The taste was so much better than you imagined as well.

“Soobin, oh my god. These are amazing.”

“Thank you, Ms. L/n. I’m glad you like them.” He smiles, it’s so human like it catches you off guard.

He leaves you to eat and only comes back to take your dirty dishes. Wow, he’s treating you better than all of your ex’s combined, it has your eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

That’s how the remainder of Christmas went, with you being surprised at how nice he was, even if he was AI and programmed that way.

“What do you do at night? Do I need to…uh…plug..you in? Or..?” He didn’t come with any plugs or anything so you’re a little confused if he has to recharge or something. “Oh, no. I sleep as well, it’s obviously not the same as human sleep, but same idea.” You open your mouth in an O shape as you nod.

“Well, goodnight, Soobin.”

“Goodnight, Ms. L/n. Merry Christmas!”

//////////

Sleeping was difficult the first night, knowing he was “sleeping” in your guest bedroom. You tossed and turned for hours before barely being able to slip fully away. Too bad that lasted an hour and now your alarm is blaring. The sigh you let out is almost pathetic as you groggily rise to your feet.

Your apartment is eerily quiet and you momentarily forget what’s missing. That is until the door opens and he walks in, putting down the groceries he bought on the counter.

Rubbing at your eyes you ask, “What are those?”

“I bought ingredients for dinner tonight, as I know what food you look. So, we’re having your favorite italian dish.”

“Oh, wow. Thank you, Soobin. Heh, do you know my social security number too?” You chuckle, “Yes, it is 892-“

“Okay! So glad you know that.” You nervously chuckle.

///////////////

3 Months have passed since you were given Soobin, he’s been unbelievably helpful so you’re grateful Yoon spent the money on him, because you did NOT have that much. Soobin and you have grown closer as well and you can’t remember what it was like without him.

“And I told him to fuck off because he literally tried to get with my sister.” Yoon grumpily exclaims as she tips her back to down another shot. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was, she was also like 17 at the time.” Your mouth falls open in shock as she nods her head drunkly. You yawn and go to rub your eyes, stopping because it took you so long to do your eyeliner earlier. “Hey, I’m gonna call Soobin to get me, do you want a ride home?”

She shakes her head with a smile before saying, “Don’t worry, I have a chauffeur now. Isn’t that so weird?” She giggles. You dig out your phone from your purse that sits on your lap, the dim lights of the club making the screen much brighter than you remembered. Squinting, you try your best to find your home phone number, turning down the brightness is useless because apparently it’s already all the way down. Finally you find the number and press it, it only takes a couple rings before he greets you with the voice you’ve grown very fond of.

“Hello, Ms. L/n. Are you enjoying your night out?” He’s as kind as ever, it brings a sappy smile to your face as you answer. “Yea, thank you. Could you pick me up by any chance? I took Yoon’s car so my car is still at home.” You yell into the phone, it’s so loud you wonder if yelling is even working.

“Yes, of course. I’m leaving right now.”

“Don’t you need the address?” Your eyebrows furrow.

“I always know your location thanks to your phone. I’ll be there in approximately 16 minutes.”

“Thank you.” You hang up and try your best to stay awake, you haven’t gone to a club in a little while and it’s becoming obvious. Even though the bass from the DJ is basically making you vibrate, you still try and fight off sleep.

“Hey, uh, Yoon. I’m gonna wait outside for Soobin.” You lean on your arm as your eyes droop.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the office okay?” She’s even smiley and go lucky when drunk, you seriously envy her.

“Alright, be safe. See ya tomorrow.”

The warmth of having to navigate through grinding bodies has nausea forming in your stomach, it only subsides once you swing open the door. The air feels refreshing as you stumble out. It was like a sauna inside, the cool air against your flushed skin has you shuttering out a breath of relief.

Glancing around you spot a bench to your left and oh does it look inviting. Sitting down, you pluck your phone from your purse to check the time, 13 more minutes. The bouncer on the other side of the door is busy talking, as well as the people in line but it all blurs into each other. God, tomorrow is gonna be a bitch.

Your head hangs low as a breeze flows up your dress, good thing your purse is settled on your lap or else the line of people would have a great view of your underwear. Time is warped in your head and you swear it’s been only a minute before someone is calling your name. Your head raises, higher and higher, until you make eye contact with Soobin. He’s so tall, you love how tall he is. He’s so attractive.

“Ms. L/n. Are you ready to leave?” He holds out a hand for you to take, which you obviously do because walking through the parking lot in this state in these heels would be impossible. “Yes, thank you, Soobin.” Your body can’t help but lean against his figure as you both make your way to your car.

While getting in you giggle to yourself drunkly, slouching over the center console. “Here, Ms. L/n. Let me buckle you in.”

“Y/n.” You smile.

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Y/n. Ms. L/n sounds like my mother.” You giggle once more, more heat spreading over your face if possible. Even more when the hand clicking your seatbelt drifts across your thighs. It confuses you, isn’t he AI? Isn’t he free from making human mistakes? Did he do that on purpose then? Your drunken mind has your memories a little fuzzy but he treats you like a girlfriend, now even down to the teasing touches. You’ll have to ask Yoon about that when you see her next.

“Soobin, can you help the hangover I’m gonna have tomorrow? I have work.” The car purrs to life as he presses the button and puts it in drive. “Of course, Y/n. I’m happy to help.”

The way home was strange, you honestly blame it all on the alcohol. Whenever you peaked over at him you couldn’t help but ogle, even if he was AI, he was unbelievably attractive. How did Yoon know your exact type, sure you talk about your sex and love life with her but she really hit the nail on the head. The way his blonde hair falls almost angelic like over his skin has completely stolen your attention.

The thoughts have your skin warming again and a slight heat being lit in your gut.

“We’re here, do you need me to unbuckle you?” He catches you off guard, you were still mid swoon when he started talking.

“Oh, no I got it. Thank you, Soobin.” He nods before stepping out of your car and circling around to open yours as well. Your legs are a bit wobbly, so when you take a tumble he’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist. You need to sleep, the heat inside you seems to be hotter and it’s really starting to affect you. You seriously just want him to take you right then and there.

“Here, you should eat. I’ll make you something.” He proposes when you’re inside, slumped over a chair. “No, it’s okay. I changed my mind, I just want to go to bed. You should too, goodnight, Soobin.”

“Oh, goodnight, Y/n.”

///////////

Regret. You truly regret dismissing Soobin’s attempts of helping your inevitable hang over. As you sit up in bed your head pounds annoyingly. It’s 6:09 AM, you work at 7:30, hopefully it’s enough time to reduce the pulsing in your skull.

“Good morning, Y/n. Are you feeling okay?” He asks you once you stumble out of bed and into your living quarters. “No, do you know if we have any pain killers?” You question, rubbing your face with your hands soothingly. A hand comes to rub your back as he answers, “I’ll get those right away, are you hungry?” You don’t know how he does it, but you can only concentrate on his hand as it rubs against your clothed back. Even the pounding in your head is an after thought compared to him. You manage to nod your head ‘yes’.

His touch is fleeting and leaves a subtle want in you as he opens up a random cabinet and searches for the medicine.

“Here, let me get you some water.” It’s really not your fault for how you feel, he was made to be specifically your type. The man of your dreams basically. He slides a cup of water your way, “Thank you, Soobin.” Your head tips back as you cram the pills into your mouth and take a swig of the water.

“How about we do something tonight? Just you and me? I really appreciate what you do around here.”

Even for a robot, he pauses, his eyes are wide as he processes your words before nodding. “Of course, I look forward to it.”

/////////////

You’re showered and fed by the time you get to your car, waving to Soobin as if he’s your house wife. You really hate leaving him, his presence has made your home so warm and comfy. Being single isn’t the most fun and he’s really made you miss being in a relationship. That is until you make it to your office and hear his voice. His makes Soobin’s somehow even nicer.

“Morning, Y/n. I heard you and the boss had a fun time last night. Wish you would’ve invited me.”

Sigh.

“Morning to you too, Hyun. Sorry, I didn’t know you would’ve wanted to go.” You swing around to face him, he leans against your door frame with his hands in his pockets.

“Maybe you could make it up to me? Whaddya say? You, me. Dinner tonight?” You were expecting this honestly, Hyun is constantly trying to advance this “relationship” as he calls it. He’s honestly like a mosquito. “Sorry, I can’t. I have plans with my friend.”

He only smiles and nods, “Do I know her?” His question catches you off guard, “Uh no, you don’t…” Sitting down, you turn on your pc and see what pages you have to edit today. But of course, it’s never that easy. “What’s her name?” You hold back the urge to smash your head into your keyboard.

Well, this is gonna be interesting.

“Soobin.”

A beat passes before his annoying laugh is heard, “That’s funny…that..that sounds like a guy’s name..” His laugh stops when you say “It is.”

“Oh, are you dating…?”

Your fists clench at that, “No, now I really need to get started.”

You wish it ended there, but it didn’t, not in your office, not at the printer, not even when you were walking to the bathroom.

Finally it’s time to go home, 5:26 and you’re so ready to do something with Soobin, without Hyun especially. You thankfully didn’t see him on your way out either, which was weird to be honest. He always makes a move on you in the parking lot. Maybe your constant rejection finally got through?

////////////

Driving home was not fun, you swear this one car was following you. They were far enough away that you couldn’t see who was driving, but you know they were following you. Instead of going straight to your house you took a small detour to get them off your ass. Which thankfully worked. The car comes to a halt as you wait for your garage door to open, as soon as you’re inside you close it immediately. Hopefully that creep didn’t spot you.

“Soobin, I’m home.” A beat passes and still no response.

You cock an eyebrow at the silence. Hanging up your jacket on your coat hanger, you find a note on the counter.

Be back soon, getting dinner.

-Soobin

A breath of relief leaves you as you read it. That gives you enough time to change out of your work clothes. The pencil skirt you’re currently wearing might look great but it does not feel like it. Your legs are chafing and you’re pleased Soobin isn’t here to witness you shuffle awkwardly to your bedroom.

Unzipping the skirt snd unhooking your bra had you melting on the spot, even more so when you put on your favorite pair of fuzzy pajama pants and a nice tank top. Taking off your makeup was the cherry on top, you could seriously just throw yourself on your bed and pass out. But you’re way too excited to hang out with Soobin.

Knock Knock

Your head snaps towards the echoing knocking. Soobin has a spare key so it’s not him. Nevertheless, you go to open the door.

“Can I help yo-“ Color drains from your face, why is he here? At your door step? With a bouquet of flowers no less?

“Y/n, I’m glad I found the right house. I wanted to talk to you.” He smiles at you like he didn’t show up on your door step like an abandoned child. “How did you get my address?” Honestly you regret asking, you didn’t want to know.

He laughs before answering, “The only way I could without asking and sounding creepy, I followed you home!”

Your jaw drops, “You..followed me..home..?” You’re sure you’re on an episode of punked or something, this can’t be real.

He nods his head, hand sticking out to pass you the bouquet of tulips and daisies. A moment passes before you hesitantly take them, awkwardly holding them up. “I know you said you had plans tonight, but I really think you shouldn’t hang out with this Soobin guy. After all, you have me and he sounds like a total creep.”

You’ve seriously had enough, you draw the line at him questioning Soobin’s motives and yknow, him following you home.The grip on the frail stems tightens and the stinging pain of thorns is second in line to the steam coming out of your ears.

“Okay, I’ve had enough. We are not friends, you are a major creep. You followed me home yet have the audacity to point fingers at Soobin. You’ll never even be half the man he is, now get off of my porch and don’t even think of even looking in my direction again.” Your teeth are sore after your word vomit from being clenched so tightly.

He’s expressionless until his eyebrows furrow, an almost confused look settles on his face. “I’m not sure you understand, you and me are meant to be. Soobin brainwashed you or something to think of me like this, I didn’t think it was this bad. Come here.” He goes to grip your free hand, his sweaty palm has a shiver of disgust ring through you.

“No, don’t touch me. Fuck off.” The flowers fall to the ground as you try to pry his greasy fingers from your skin. The sound of something closing is lost on your ears as blood rushes by them from the sudden adrenaline.

“I’m trying to help you , Y/n. I know you love me.”

Tears prick your eyes , you’re totally overwhelmed and starting to panic.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” That voice didn’t come from the man desperately trying to kidnap you, it was from him.

“Soobin, please help. He won’t let go.” Relief floods your system and your knees almost give out when he steps forward. “Let go of her.” His voice shocks you, it’s stern and low, you try to not think about how hot he sounds.

“Oh, you’re Soobin? You’re the one corrupting my love.” Hyun let’s go to turn around fully, trying his best to look intimidating. It’s not working, Soobin is a solid foot taller than him. Hyun doesn’t seem to be aware of it though as he goes to poke a crude finger into the hard chest of your friend.

Soobin remains calm and it shocks you, AI or not, Hyun is unbelievably annoying.

“Do I need to help you leave? Or can you do it by yourself?” Soobin steps closer, a gulp sounds from Hyun and you have to stifle a giggle.

“This isn’t over, Y/n is mine.” He says before scurrying off to his car.

“Soobin, oh my god. Thank you.” You breath out a shuddered sigh as you basically fall into his embrace. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone, let’s go inside and eat while dinner is hot, Angel.”

You nod your head before pausing, what did he just call you? Better question, should you change your underwear? Because oh my god, that was hot. Angel is a special name for you, almost all of your ex’s called you that in bed. Hearing it leave Soobin’s mouth has something stirring inside.

“Uh, okay…” You swallow.

The house feels so much nicer when Soobin is home, so much more lively.

“What movie should we watch?” He asks, removing the takeout from the plastic bags. While thinking, your eyes drift down to his hands and notice how his veins protrude every time he grabs something, you follow one until it disappears under his skin.

“Y/n, are you okay? Did he hurt you at all?” Your friend asks concerned.

“Huh? Sorry, I’m fine, thank you. Do you wanna watch the first Harry Potter movie?”

“Absolutely, I love that movie. Here, take this. This is your fried rice, this is your egg drop soup, these are your crab rangoons, and this is your chow mein.” The food is hot in your arms, almost too hot, as you both walk towards your couch. You happily set the food on your coffee table.

////////////////////

Harry Potter was captivating for the first 30 minutes, then Soobin became a little more interesting.

“Are you serious? I had no idea.” Your stunned face has him throwing back his head in laughter.

“Yea, it’s true. Maybe try using google?” He teases.

“Oh shut up…” You push his shoulder, something catches your attention as you do so. His eyes. You’ve never been so close to really study his eyes before. To test out your theory you put a hand on his shoulder, his eyes change into a darker brown with a tinge of red. Like a chocolate covered strawberry almost.

“I didn’t know your eyes changed color?”

“They’re mood changing, do you like them?” He smiles at you.

“I really do, they’re kind of red right now, what does that mean?” You lean in and pull down his lower eyelid to get a better look.

“Heh, it happens when you touch me” Your eyes go wide, hearing that makes you aware of how close you are and how your hand is still on his face. Harry Potter is only a sound in the background as Soobin grabs the hand touching face, and holds it.

The feelings you’ve been holding in feels like water boiling over the sides of a pot. The way he holds your hand, his gaze of red that’s becoming more apparent the more you look at one another. “Soobin…” Your voice is breathy and you’re not exactly sure why you said his name, it just felt right.

“Angel..” He replies, leaning closer. The name once again does something to you. Your heart might beat out of your chest if you’re not careful. You peak at his lips once more, the natural pout he has is calling you and you can’t take it anymore. Meeting him halfway, your lips shyly meet. It feels amazing though, you’ve been wondering what it’d be like to kiss him for so long now.

The kiss deepens as you both gain confidence, his free hand comes to settle on your waist.

The need for air stings eventually, it pains you more to pull away but you must. It only lasts for a second as you briefly make heated eye contact again, your lips slam together in a lust filled kiss. It’s messy and has the hand on your waist tightening it’s hold and pulling you even closer into him. Your own free hand makes it to his cheek.

His tongue makes its way into your mouth, this is so unlike the first kiss you shared. He was hesitant but now it’s completely different. The heat in the air is getting to you as you let out a whine.

“Soobin, I need you, please.” Your voice is pathetic as you beg for him to do something.

“I didn’t know you’d be so needy so fast…Angel.” The name has your heart skipping a beat and your thighs itching to rub together, Soobin smirks at your reaction. The hand holding your own gently lets go in favor of pushing you back against the couch. Your shirt has ridden a bit at the bottom, the cold-ish polyester against your exposed lower back has you jolting a little.

“You think I didn’t notice how you reacted to that name? Angel, you’re so cute, y’know that?” He hovers over you, leaning down to messily kiss down your neck, a hand moves from next to you to up the sides of your shirt.

The want you’ve been hiding has you already clenching around nothing as he rests his weight on you, now you’re able to feel how mouthwateringly hard he is. Which honestly confuses you, but he was also made for this so you don’t question it too much. You’re not sure you’re even able to right now, the way his hands feel on your skin, as well as how he’s working your collarbone like it owes him money.

Times like this you’re glad you don’t live in an apartment, the desperate noises he’s already pulling out of you would be tricky with such close neighbors.

“Can I take off your shirt?” He sweetly questions, tearing away from your skin to look you in the eyes. His eyes are a deeper wine colored red you take note as you nod your head. Soobin dips back in to kiss you again before removing the offending clothing.

In pure desperation, you raise his own shirt enough to feel his skin on yours. It’s addicting and you don’t stop raising his shirt until he gets the memo and grabs the back of it, pulling it over his head. The sight has you practically drooling. He’s toned, not too muscly, but just enough that it catches your attention.

“This is so cute on you.” He breathes out, tugging lightly on your bra before continuing, “But I really need to take it off.” You nod and clench when his hands warmly drift up your back to the clasp.

Your nipples instantly harden at the cool air and especially how he’s looking at you. His gaze lowers to your chest and eyes your nipples stiffening, without a second thought he latches on to one and sucks. His tongue occasionally flicks over it and it has your back arching, breathy whines leave your mouth as one of your hands ends up gripping the strands of hair at the back of his head.

“Soobin, please.”

“You sound so pretty for me. What do you need Angel?” He asks, an inch above your wet chest.

“I need to feel you, I’ve been waiting so long for this.”

That causes him to smirk, “You’ve been thinking about me? About us?”

You nod, heated cheeks on display. “How could I deny you, Angel.” He says before unbuttoning your jeans, he slips the zipper down and shuffles them off your legs. Now it’s time for him to undo his belt and nothing could break your attention away. The outline of him is obvious as he works his belt and pants.

“Ready?” He questions as he grips himself.

You nod as a finger slips up and down your slit, it has your hips bucking into his hand. He adds another and is thoroughly enjoying how wet you are for him. His fingers settle on your ever-growing clit and wow, your imagination does not compare to the actual thing.

He scoops some of your slick up and spreads it along his shaft, a couple veins shine because of it and it almost has you coming already. “Soobin.” You whine impatiently, a light chuckle leaves him as he guides himself to your entrance. One last glance is shared between you two before he pushes in, the initial sting has your fingers gripping the fabric under you, while a gasp leaves you both.

It’s a delicious feeling really, the fullness of him mixed with the pure intimacy of it all. He bottoms out and waits for you to adjust to him, “Y-you can move.” You’re already out of breath, the wind being knocked out of you when he simply pushed in.

For the first few thrusts Soobin is relatively quiet, it isn’t until he sets a good pace that the sounds rip out of him. “Fuck, you’re so good for me, Y/n. I knew you’d be.” His hands grip your hips to stop you from scooting upward every time he thrusts, the grip tightens every time you clench around him as well.

“From the second I saw you, I wanted to have you like this. God, you feel amazing. So tight and wet for me, you’re perfect.” The praise hurtles you closer and closer to finishing around him.

He breaths out and pushes himself to sit on his knees, your legs are thrown over his shoulders messily as he picks up his pace. The sound of skin hitting skin and your own whiney moans mixed with his gruff and gravely ones fills the room. Soobin takes it a step further and grinds hotly into you a few times. Pleasure fizzles in your abdomen and you know you don’t have long.

The way his hair sticks to his forehead, and how his skin is damp is a sight you’ve been waiting for. How gone he looks as he plunges himself inside you, deeper and deeper. You probably look pretty fucked out yourself, knowing you. His sneaky fingers trail down to your clit and his thumb doesn’t let up, even when you start spasming a bit.

“Soobin I’m so close.” Your face nuzzles into your arm as the growing feeling is close to exploding.

“Look at me.” You can’t hear him very well thanks to the blood rushing behind your ears so he takes it upon himself. His pointer finger and thumb grip your chin to move your head accordingly, his eyes meet yours again and the band snaps within you. Hips buck into his and your back arches, your eyes clamp shut as the euphoric feeling spreads from your pelvis to your limbs and abdomen.

He keeps going until he can’t anymore and stills. Loud groans are heard as he finishes in you and you hope you never forget how he sounds.

“Don’t worry, you can’t get pregnant from me.” He huffs out, which causes a laugh to leave you at the timing of his words.

/////////////////////

“Hey, Soob. My work is having a ‘bring your partner to work’ day today. I keep forgetting to ask you about it, do you wanna go? I’d like having you there.” You grip his arm in a hug as you ask.

“Sounds fun, I’d love being there with you. I’ll get dressed.” He smiles, giving you a sweet kiss before he departs.

The ride there was nice, Soobin just naturally relaxes you. Usually going to work sucks but he makes it better.

“Ok, here we are. I’m on the 6th floor.” You shut your door as does he.

“Wow and here I thought you were the CEO.” He jokes , taking your free hand in his. You side eye him with a joking glare. “Keep it up and I’ll make you take the stairs.”

Walking onto your floor was interesting, couples littered the desks and it was odd to see. Usually your floor is quiet and honestly…boring. The atmosphere was less gray and you liked it.

“Wow is this your office?” Soobin eyes the room with wide eyes.

“Yeah, do you like it? I think it represents me pretty well.” You grip a seat and drag it over to your chair before patting it. He obliges and sits down, peering at your computer screen as you turn it on and already get to clicking stuff.

“I will be right back, I have to get what I printed. I don’t like constantly staring at a screen so I print out my work, so wait here, k?” He nods and leans on your desk. You take a moment to admire his outfit , mainly his hair. It sits dreamily infront of his eyes, sometimes you honestly wonder how he’s able to see.

The printer soon comes into view and you can spot your paper on it as well. The second it’s in your hands you spin your heels and book it, not fast enough apparently.

“Y/n, wait up, let me walk with you.”

There’s no way. You’re hearing things. Turning your head around, you peak over your shoulder to incredulously gaze at Hyun, a soft slimy smile on his face.

“Can I help you?” You don’t stop walking, he unfortunately catches up to you though.

“Well, I was just wondering if you wanted to go to dinner tonight. Couples day has me in the mood for some…company. Ever since my girlfriend left me 5 years ago, y’know? And I think we’re the only ones here without a partner, so it’s a match made in hea-“ You finally enter your office and see Soobin wiggling a pencil in the air, that paired with Hyun’s reaction to Soobin even being there has a fierce giggle threatening to spill out.

“What’s he doing here? This is partners day.”

You sit down next to Soobin and he possessively reaches out for your hand, never breaking his glare towards the intruder.

“Well, Hyun, if you must know, he’s my boyfriend.” Your unimpressed stare doesn’t falter as he processes this information.

“You can leave now.” Soobin deadpans, getting up to shut the door. Hyun doesn’t get a word in before your boyfriend shuts the door in his face. You both share a look before he comes to sit down, patting your back soothingly.

You really thought it ended there because he didn’t bother you for the rest of the day.

That night when you’re perched on Soobin’s lap, lustful kisses being pressed onto the skin of your neck, is when you unexpectedly get a phone call. You’re literally humping his bulge when it happens. “Who is it?” He asks, feeling you up regardless.

Peering over his shoulder, “Mm, just a random number. Should I answer it?” You smile flirtatiously at him. He catches on and leans back to grab the phone, giving you a wink before you press accept.

“Hello?” It takes your boyfriend a millisecond to get back to his antics, but this time his hands are on your ass, guiding your movements over him. His eyes tinge pink before settling for the usual red they usually are during certain escapades.

“Is this Y/n? It’s me Hyun.” Soobin halts, you both stare at each other in shock. His eyebrows furrow, he goes back to what he was doing, now, with a purpose and you can definitely feel the difference. The wine red of his eyes change once more, this time a deep purple.

He nips at your neck and it’s starting to become difficult to speak coherently.

“H-how did you get my number?” His hands knead your ass and the button of his jeans hits your clit, you try to cough away the gasp that escapes you but you’re sure it didn’t help.

“I got it from the office’s-“ You don’t hear the rest because Soobin has decided to turn around and drop you on your bed. You giggle at the way you bounce before remembering you’re on the phone, you laugh out a “sorry, what?” before remembering who you’re talking to.

“Are you okay, Y/n?” The more Hyun presses the more clothes you lose. Your boyfriend pops open your pant’s button and fly before tearing down the pants from your legs, your shirt next.

“Y-yea I’m fine. Is there something you need, Hyun?”

You thankfully weren’t wearing a bra, Soobin seems very grateful. His bites and sucks has your underwear dampening even more and an insatiable need falling over you. Hyun says something but you can’t make it out. The man on top of you takes the hand holding your phone and sets it on your comforter, plucking the device from your grip and throwing it into your pillows.

“Got you all to myself now. God, you’re so wet.” He slips off your ruined underwear and slides a few fingers up and down your wetness, getting them ready for you.

The first breach of his middle finger is satisfying, but not as much as his cock. You’ll get that eventually though.

It doesn’t take long for him to have added another and to slam them into you. His fingers are long and slender, they have your thighs clamping together. Which Soobin is having none of, his free hand forces your legs apart and your clit throbs from the feeling.

“Soobin, please fuck me. Need you so bad.” Your hands settle on his lower abdomen, slightly scratching the skin. “I love when you beg for me, love when you beg for me to fuck this tiny little cunt.” Your lower lip trembles at his words and you mentally prepare yourself. Soobin isn’t usually this dirty, but you’re not complaining.

The man teases your slit, sticking in his tip and hissing when your walls beg him to keep going. But he pulls out in favor of swirling his head around your, now, wet clit. “You love this don’t you, baby?” He huffs out. Before you’re able to answer, he pushes in, you throw your head back and enjoy the feeling of his veins and ridges gliding along your gummy walls so perfectly.

“There you go, baby, you like it when I fill this cute cunt up with my cock?” Nodding and whining wasn’t cutting it this time.

“Use your words.”

“Y-yes, I love it.” Your hands reach for his shoulders, trying to stay coherent for a little longer.

“I know, baby, I know.”

His thrusts pick up momentum and soon his hips are smacking into you. “You’re mine, aren’t you, baby? All mine, no on else’s.” His pelvic bone grazes your clit and you’re finding it hard to speak. All that comes out is babbling and needy whines and moans, “That good? Am I fucking you that good?” You nod furiously, hoping he’ll take that as an answer.

Just like the first time you had sex, he takes your legs into his hands. But this time he presses them to your chest and groans at the sight of you so exposed for him. The way your cunt takes him so effortlessly does things to him.

Soon, he notices the way you clench, and how your breathing becomes quicker. Suddenly, a moan that does not belong to either of you echos. His eyebrows furrow but when he makes eye contact with your pillows he understands. He tries not to stop his pace too much as he leans forward to rummage for your phone.

His lips curl in a devious smirk when he sees the call is still going.

“You enjoying this, Hyun? How I fuck my girl? Do you wish you were here instead of me? Getting to see and feel how fucking wet she is, how tight her little cunt is? What it looks like when she’s full of cum? Call her one more time and I promise you it’s not going to end well.” The only thing that’s heard is a gasp and a choked moan before Soobin hangs up. He exhales before he grips your thighs and jackhammers his hips into you.

“Coming, fuck, I’m coming.” You practically yell, legs shaking as you release all over his cock. The added wetness and the way there’s a white ring forming around his base pushes him over the edge, he spills inside you, hips stuttering to an end.

“Hopefully that helps get him off your back, but I’m happy to do this again if it doesn’t.” He smiles, leaning in to capture your lips.

“You okay?” He questions, pulling out, wiping his forehead with his forearm as well.

“Yea, I am. I love you, Soob.”

The sentiment and the nickname has his dark brown eyes swirl with light pink. “I love you too.”

———————————————————

TAGLIST : @tyunlovie @kyrkitten @rencarnationofangel @jimin2014 @starstruckluminarytale @soobsfairy444 @fathersoneric @ethie @rlvslouis @gyulz @woniebae @rjsmochii @wtfjongseong @boba-beom @mybabywearschanel @chiefturtlebonkghost @bergandysam @qluvrv @genshinsoobs @bucketofhiros @dilfjohhny @meikoo

if i didn’t tag you it’s bc tumblr couldn’t find your blog!!

[ramp-it-up]

Nice and Tight

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader x Chris Evans

Word Count: 1.6K.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. RPF. SMUT, Explicit description of graphic sex. Read at your own risk. Threesome, Praise kink, Spit roasting, double penetration, anal sex and play, allusions to oral sex (f receiving), Daddy kink, Sir kink, allusions to Dom/ sub dynamics, voice kink if you squint, dirty talk, size kink, competition but also compersion. Not Beta’d. All errors my own.

A/N: This is in response to an ask about the best kink. I couldn’t pick just one. Part four of The Fit and the Feel Series. Let me know if you liked it by interacting: like, comment and reblog!

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

This night wasn’t turning out the way you thought it would, and this conversation was taking quite the different direction.

“I really think that we should take that drive up to Box Hill this weekend. We can get some fresh air, exercise, and continue this adventure on top of the knoll.”

Henry looked down at you and winked.

“What do you think, Dove?”

Henry responded to your silence with a frown and a slight tap on your jaw. You looked up into the twinkle of his cerulean eyes.

“Don’t be rude.”

Your eyes welled up with tears and you gulped, and your body clenched in response.

“Ah….shitttttt, Baby Doll. Fuck. So good.”

Chris groaned, finally joining the conversation.

“You have her mouth full, Cavill; give her a bit of a break. She’s a good fucking girl entertaining us both like this. So good and gotdamn tight.”

Chris was filling your ass full of his cock as you sucked Henry off. This is what you asked for. Your tears were the result of trying to breathe around Henry’s huge member as Chris fucked you slowly and steadily from behind.

The pull and the drag of Chris’s cock against your delicate walls was everything as he carefully took you apart and Henry got you back together.

You loved exactly where you were, between these two gorgeous men, and anywhere they wanted to take you to do this again was alright with you. They were unexpectedly tender and attentive, doing exactly what you requested. You weren’t mad. At all.

They were being so nice and yet so nasty at the same time.

You tried to hum an affirmative ‘Yes, Sir,’ as a response around Henry’s girth, causing his hips to stutter, and then surge forward, impaling himself further down your windpipe.

“Bloody hell, Dove. That mouth is so good. Throat so fucking snug.”

He reached down, encircled your neck with one hand to feel the bulge of himself in your tight column. He slowly pulled out and watched you cough and splutter when you took in air again.

“So lovely with your face like this…”

Henry admired you as Chris continued his débauched act behind you. You clenched again at the praise and Chris’s stroke. Your eyes glazed over with pleasure as Henry’s other hand lightly slapped and pinched your nipples, eliciting pornographic gasps and groans from you.

“Sound so gotdamn… fuck Baby Doll. Gonna make me fill your ass…”

Your eyes rolled back at the thought. Although you had prepared all day for this moment, you couldn't believe that you were actually here, paid homage to by two of the most attractive men in the world.

“And you’re absolutely gorgeous with your face all fucked out.”

You smiled and Henry gave you a filthy kiss, then lifted you carefully by your arms as he moved underneath you and between your legs.

You shuddered and moaned as his hairy body slid underneath yours, the stimulation almost too much.

Chris stilled and throbbed as Henry looked deep into your eyes and nodded, placing his hands on your waist as Chris’s hands on your hips guided you onto Henry’s cock.

“Now be a good girl, Baby Doll, and take both of us.”

“Yessssss!”

Your plaintive cry made both men clench their jaws in efforts to hold back from tearing you apart. Instead, they were oh so careful. Henry’s hand positioned himself just so as to allow you to sink onto him while keeping Chris inside you.

“Holyyyyyyy…”

Chris swore and dropped his head as your tight canal became even tighter with the intrusion of Henry on the other side of the thin bit of tissue of your perineum. He tenderly kissed

your spine as they both let you set the pace of your ruin.

You buried your face in Henry’s curls as he looked down to see the phenomenon of you three joining together. You were in nirvana as they became fully seated inside you.

When Henry looked back into your eyes, his were full of admiration.

“You are such a wonder, Dove.”

Remarkable.”

“Ohhhhhh!”

You clenched around both of them and they groaned, but stayed still as you started to move.

Beginning to rock back and forth between them, you felt the pounding of their engorged members stretching you out.

“P-please Daddy. Sir. Oh! Please move. Use me. Fill up my holes. Please please please.”

You started begging wantonly and Henry’s look changed as his eyes dilated. He took hold of your chin as Chris gripped your shoulders from behind.

“You sure that’s what you want?”

His voice was commanding, deep and smooth, like Cap.

“Y-y-yes. Please!”

“You don’t have to beg Baby Doll.” Chris slapped your ass.

“But damn if it isn’t ruining me. Keep up if you can Cavill.”

Chris pulled you up and away from Henry’s kisses, stretching your torso and giving access to your breasts to the Englishman as the Bostonian held your arms behind your back.

“Fuck you, Christopher Robin. You keep up with me.”

“No. Fuck me. Use me. I want all your cum. Both of you. I want it all.”

You felt like a queen.

“So be it.”

Henry responded with a broken voice that nearly broke you. The eye contact alone was so intimate.

Chris started going harder and Henry

matched his relentless pace, not brutal but insistent.

Soon they established a sinful rhythm that had you trembling between them. When one slid in to the hilt and the other slid out to the tip, causing your body to open and clench simultaneously.

Two sets of hands were everywhere all over you and you had one on Chris’s ass and one on Henry’s chest, feeling their sweat soaked skin and receiving surprisingly tender kisses and sweet praises from their lips. They were wrapped around you and throbbing inside you.

It was like you were one.

“Give us what we need, Dove. I can’t hold it much longer.”

Henry’s pleading eyes did something to your heart.

Chris was licking the sweat that slid down your neck. Then his earnest voice started begging, making your heart rate rise even higher.

“Yes. Please Baby Doll, you haven’t cum since we were eating you out. ‘S’been too long.”

You chuckled, because that was just a few minutes ago, but your laugh got caught in your throat as you saw Henry’s eyes shift behind you. Then, in tandem, Henry grabbed your ass to spread it wider and Chris reached between you and Henry to find your clit. It didn’t take long before you were cumming multiple times, screaming like a banshee, and not sure where one orgasm began and the other ended.

“Oh so beautiful Dove, yessss. Give.”

You took in Henry’s blissed out face and turned to give Chris a lewd kiss, sucking his tongue as Henry’s hands roamed your body and his eyes took in the scene. He was speechless as he watched and listened and felt.

“Shit, Baby Doll. You’re a marvel. S-s-so fucking hot.”

Chris spoke, groaning his praise into your ear, as he emptied his hot load inside you then held you as he slowly softened. He gently pulled out as you continued to ride Henry.

You whimpered and fell forward on Henry’s chest, trembling from the sensations.

“Careful now. Keep my cum inside you.”

Chris was marveling at your stretched out hole, plugging you with his fingers as you slid on Henry’s cock.

“Yes, Daddy.”

You made out with Chris as Henry watched, but then called your attention to him.

“Gods, Dove. This cunt is so magnificent. You. Are. Indeed. Magic.”

You sat up again, regal on the throne of Henry’s cock. You started to ride, feet up on the bed to aid your movement.

“Heavens…Dove...!”

“That’s it, Baby Doll. Rock his world. So fucking sexy.”

Chris’s fingers gently circled the rim of your wrecked anterior hole as Henry ravaged your cunt. The sensations were everything. The sights, the sounds, the smell of your sex with these two was a heady drug.

You could become addicted.

The sight of Henry in ecstasy, head thrown back and moth open whole Chris cooed on your ear was enough to send you over the edge again.

You bathed all three of you in the results of the most intense orgasm you’d ever had when you felt Henry’s warm spend wash over your walls.

“Fuck. Look at that.”

Chris’s eyes were glued to you.

“Your body is amazing, Baby Doll.”

His sky blue eyes were full of awe.

You collapsed on top of Henry again and Chris left you wrapped in the burly man’s arms. You heard the shower start in the bathroom as Henry kissed the top of your head.

“I’m in trouble, Dove. I’m afraid I’m hopelessly lost to this feeling…”

This tenderness was unexpected. You expected a night of rough domination, but received worship instead.

Before you could respond, Chris pulled you away from Henry, and carried you bridal style into the bath.

You wrapped your arms around Chris’s neck and burrowed your face into it. You didn’t want reality to intrude.

“I never thought that sharing you would finally make me fall…”

You let what Chris said sink in and walked into the shower when he put you down, not looking at him as you immersed yourself under the strong, hot spray of water. You didn’t think, just let the warm water wash over you and bring you back to earth.

You felt proximity and heat, then opened your eyes to see two sets of earnest blue eyes gazing at you in adoration.

Oh shit.

“We’ll give you anything you want Baby Doll.”

Chris’s voice was deep and soothing.

“Anything. What do you want of us, Dove? More sex, or something…more…?”

You looked from one man to the other and reached for them. Their hands were on you again, threatening ecstasy as their bodies awakened.

No, this night didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.

The question was, what were you going to do about it?

What do you think? Is reader more partial to one of these beautiful men or the other? Or is she down for both? 🤔

Let me know!

[oepionie]

—"🍳KITCHEN BLUES"various

💭masterlist | 💬ao3 link

sypnosis: you wouldn't really call yourself a chef. at most, your culinary abilities were barely above average. even so, when your boyfriend becomes overworked, you take your chances and cook something up for him. here's to hoping you don't burn down the entire dorm!

⊹ [ cw ] — slight mentions of injuries, ramshackle's oven is set on fire◞

⊹ [ tags ] — FLUFF.GN! READER | protective jade, lighthearted mentions of marriage in ruggie's part, leona's back muscles whsg, jamil calls you قلبي 'Albi' (My Heart)◞

⊹ [ character/s ] — trey, leona, ruggie, jade, & jamil

⊹ [ w.c ] — 1.5k+◞

You stare blankly at the ingredients set out before you. The words on the recipe you printed seemed to blur together. Rice noodles, honey, smoked paprika, roasted almonds—you had your job cut out for you, huh?

You turn to face your partner who was dozing off on the rickety couch at Ramshackle, a thin blanket haphazardly thrown atop his body. He looked to be in deep sleep, not minding the worn-out scratchy leather texture of the couch one bit.

Tensed shoulders and fatigue laced his muscles; both evidence of the strain he's been putting on himself as of late. With an ache in your heart, you return your focus to the sizzling pan. Making him lunch was the least you could do to help.

Halfway through preparing the bento, you heard the old couch creak. Your boyfriend finally wakes, he calls for you with bleary eyes and a hoarse voice.

"Prefect?"

✩— TREY CLOVER:

"Oh, you're awake?" You rush over to him, dropping the lunch box onto the counter. Concern laced your features as you pressed a palm against his flushed forehead. Trey sat up, the blanket slipping off his torso and pooling around his hips.

"Mhm. Is something wrong?" Trey chuckled, resting his forehead on your shoulder.

"Yeah. This fever of yours is worrying me." You grumbled as you reached for his glasses on the adjoining coffee table. You slipped it onto him and gave him a quick kiss on the nose.

"The unbirthday party is coming up, and you know I have to work extra hard." Trey sighed, rolling his stiff shoulders. Nodding, you silently slipped back into the kitchen to retrieve the bento box. Once you returned, you handed it over to him.

"I know, but I hope you still take the time to rest every now and again." Trey tucked the box under his arm and drew you into a hug. You melted into his embrace, savouring the warmth you'd been missing these past few weeks. He's been so busy that the only affection you've received from him was the ocassional peck on the cheek.

Ten seconds into your little respite from the world, Trey pushed you away with a hand on your shoulder. He sniffed the air, brows pinched.

"Is something on fire?"

"Sevens-! The tarts!"

You clutch a plate of charred black tarts in your hands, head bowed down in shame. Trey chuckled and took a piece of the inedible lump, turning it around in his hand.

"This reminds me of Lillia's cooking."

"You're not helping!"

✩— LEONA KINGSCHOLAR:

Leona sat on the couch, tail swishing lazily in the air while he watched you work around the kitchen. His emerald gaze swept over your apron-clad body, noticing the honey smeared on your cheek.

Once you finished, you walked over to him with the meal on a tray.

"How was the spelldrive training with the freshmen?" You asked, taking a seat on the floor beside him. He raised his arm to use his elbow to remove the honey off your cheek.

"It was shit." Growling, Leona pushed himself off the couch. He stretched his arms, groaning as his muscles ached from the burn. He was turned away from you, giving you full view of his back muscles straining against the fabric of the tight black shirt he had on; you averted your eyes, suddenly feeling very warm.

"See anything you like?" He grinned and flexed his arms. You squeaked and jumped back, embarrassment written all over your face. "Leona!"

He chuckled as he pulled you off the floor and onto the couch next to him.

"A-Anyways…Epel told me you stormed out in the middle of the game?" You stammered, avoiding his gaze and changing the subject. You scooped some food from the containter and fed it to him. Leona took the spoon in his mouth, chewing it throughly.

"Damn right. None of those idiots could fly straight if their life depended on it." Leona scoffed. You lifted the tray up so he could slip his head onto your lap, face tucked into your stomach.

"I see. I guess they couldn't keep up with you, huh?" You mused, running your hands through his hair whilst feeding him a bite of food.

The flavours and spices melted across his mouth, each ingredient flawlessly blending together. Leona relaxed against your form, satisfied, your food and pampering making him feel like a king.

"Who can?"

✩— RUGGIE BUCCHI:

"Is that food?" Ruggie piped up, wrapping himself in the thin blanket. He was shaped like a taco roll, with only his head sticking out from under the cover. You chuckled and nodded, taking the food you prepared into your arms.

As you brought out a platter of doughnuts along with the bento box, his tail began to wag. You approached him carefully, taking care not to drop the stacks of chocolate doughnuts. Unbeknownst to you, Ruggie was debating whether or not to marry you on the spot.

"Of course. You just looked so exhausted yesterday, I wanted to help." You said, frowning and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Ruggie gulped, his cheeks flushing at your sweet gesture.

"What did I say about slowing down every now and then?" You grumbled, frowning at him.

"W-Well, I kinda lost track yesterday; I swear I won't do it again," Ruggie replied sheepishly, folding his arms behind his head. In truth, you were kinda right. His limbs were killing him with how sore they were right now.

"You better! I can't keep scolding you about this again and again!" You shook your head and sighed. After giving him the platter of doughnuts, you began slipping off the apron you were wearing.

"Shishishi. You sound like a worried spouse." Ruggie snickered, shoving two doughnuts into his mouth. You dropped the apron in your hand, eyes wide at the implications of what Ruggie just said. Snorting at your flustered state, he continued teasing you.

"Spare me! I'm sure you'll have plenty of time in the future to scold me." Ruggie's voice suddenly lowered to a whisper, the playful edge to it gone. "I should prolly start putting off money up for a ring now…"

"Wh-What?!"

✩— JADE LEECH:

"What might this be?" Jade appeared behind you, his towering form pressing itself against your back. An arm wrapped around you, pulling you snug against him. His hair remained dishevelled and out of place, his physique still sluggish and lethargic. Jade, contrary to popular belief, was not a morning person.

"It's just a simple little bento I'm preparing…Azul told me you skipped out on dinner last night so I um-" Feeling flushed under his intense yet drowsy gaze, you struggled to finish your sentence. "…decided to cook something up for you."

Jade hums, grasping your hands in his own. He instantly pauses as he feels the texture of scratchy woven fabric beneath his skin. The eel looked down to see your hands covered with sloppily placed bandages and bandaids.

He stared down at your damaged hands for a minute, an unsettling smile creeping up his face.

"Who did this." Jade stated firmly, a dark, pointed expression on his face. His fingers rubbed soothing circles over your palm, patiently waiting for your response. "I need names, my pearl."

You fiddled with one of the bandages wrapped around your finger.

"No one did this. I'm just not really the best person to put near a kitchen knife or a pan with boiling oil." You laughed sheepishly, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Jade chuckled alongside you. All previous apprehension from him seemed to fade away.

"I see. I appreciate the gesture however I wish you were more careful." Jade leaned down next to your ear, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

"Allow me to take care of you first, these bandages are in dire need of a change."

✩— JAMIL VIPER:

"Albi?" Jamil groaned, raising his arms to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. He sat up and instantly regretted his decision when his head started spinning; he could already feel the start of a migraine. You rushed over and shushed him, pushing him to sit back down on the couch.

"Are you okay?" Frowning, you plopped the box open and scooped up some food for him to eat. Jamil leaned forward to take it into his mouth, humming at the taste.

Yesterday's events began to resurface in his mind. He was given a potionology assignment to complete alongside Kalim.

Everything was going smoothly until Kalim made the decision to add some sugar to the cauldron for unknown reasons. The cauldron exploded and Jamil ended up getting hit with the fumes, breathing it in. Which was probably the reason why his head felt like it was being split open.

"A bit. If my memory serves me well, the effects of this potion should wear off in a few hours." He mumbled, allowing himself to get fed by and spoiled by you. You smiled and reached for a napkin to wipe down the corners of his lips. "That's good. Is the food to your liking?"

"It tastes great." Jamil compliments, taking the box into his own hands. "Thank you for looking after me; is there anything you want me to make for you?"

"That curry you gave me the other day! It tasted so good!"

"Of course." Jamil smiled at you. Regardless of the numerous hijinks he has to deal with as Kalim's retainer and Scarabia's vice dorm leader, you've always been an anchor of support for him; holding him firm when everything appears to be sweeping him away.

A/N: This was a request! Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!