#Yield curve

[jksherwood]

The Yield Curve as a Recession Predictor: Analysis and Future Implications - (Short Version)

The Yield Curve as a Recession Predictor: Analysis and Future Implications Introduction The yield curve – typically measured by the spread between long-term and short-term Treasury yields – has long been studied as a signal of economic turning points. In particular, an inverted yield curve (when short-term rates exceed long-term rates) has an uncanny historical relationship with U.S.…

[thepowerisyouth]

Current Federal Funds Rate Implies Imminent Recession through Yield Spreads

The Federal Reserve (especially lately) has many tools in its 'arsenal' to monitor & guide the pathways of our monetary system. The biggest, or at least most publicized of these-- is the Federal Funds Rate (FFR)

Sometimes financial news will mention "Yield Curves" or "Inverted Yield Curve"-- this is basically what I'm talking about.

The story is basically that the Federal Funds rate, and sometimes other treasury bond rates, can be compared to the long term T-Bond interest rates-- and predict an economic downturn ('recession/depression', they're just definitions).

Its called "Inverted" when a shorter term one (Like the FFR which is 13-week), crosses over the longer term one

I think there's a few 'official' studies that try and create some exact framework for understanding the issue. But its not needed, as the historical accuracy is pretty apparent using many different methods of tracking

I'll share 2 charts that I managed to make fairly quickly. Luckily these series are well tracked since the 50s. I didn't include every year I could (or every type of bond)-- mainly due to readability.

Grey lines are 'official' recessions.

As I said-- the accuracy is pretty apparent-- the Federal Funds rate (its the same as the 3 month T-Bill for weird math reasons) rises above the 1 year, 5 year, or other long term rates

And recession is imminent

[signode-blog]

Signs of Recession

In the complex world of economics, recessions are inevitable yet challenging events that can have far-reaching consequences on individuals, businesses, and entire nations. Recognizing the signs of an impending recession is crucial for making informed decisions and mitigating potential risks. In this blog post, we will delve into the key indicators and signals that economists and policymakers…

[hislop3]

Wednesday Feature: Recession Ahead?

Happy Hump Day! Advent has begun and soon, Chanukah will kick-off. ‘Tis the season or seasons. I will no doubt say this (or write it) many times over, but it always bears repeating, Happy Holidays to all! Yesterday, I wrote a post about Fitch Rating’s and their outlook for CCRCs/Life Plan communities for 2024. Fitch maintained the same dour outlook for 2024 as it had for 2023 – deteriorating.…

[jensfinancialblog]

The yield curve is upside down What does that mean for the economy?

In normal, boring, typical economies, investors demand higher yield when they lend out money for longer periods. There’s just more risk on a 30-year bond than a 1-year note. As a result, the typical yield curve slants up as it goes to the right. The longer the bond’s maturity, the more it pays in interest.

This is not a normal, boring, typical economy.

Since late spring, yields on short-term U.S. Treasuries have been higher than those on long-term Treasuries. For instance, right now, on the heels of a better than expected inflation report, the two-year U.S. Treasury yields 4.73%. The 10-year, by contrast, is yielding 3.86%, almost a full percentage point higher.

The last time the yield curve was this inverted was the early 1980s—on the brink of prolonged recession.

So what’s going on? The yield curve typically inverts when fixed income investors expect future economic conditions to be worse than they are now. If the economy deteriorates, the thinking goes, the Fed will have to reduce interest rates to promote growth. The market then prices long-term bonds to reflect this pessimistic scenario.

An inverted yield curve has preceded all five of the last recessions since 1980. Does that mean we’re headed into a slowdown?

Not so fast, say some economists. Nobel Prize winner Paul Krugman, for instance, says that an inverted curve reflects what market participants think about the economy—not necessarily what is happening. In an op-ed on Tuesday, he explained:

“But the meaning of an inverted yield curve is widely misunderstood. It doesn’t cause a recession. It is instead an implicit prediction about future Fed policy — namely, that the Fed will cut rates sharply in the future, presumably to fight a deepening recession. So the inverted yield curve wasn’t really independent evidence, just a market reflection of the same ‘recession is coming’ consensus you were hearing on cable TV.”

Krugman notes that everyone—from central bankers to Wall Street strategists—has been predicting a recession since the Fed started tightening in 2022, but that the slowdown has stubbornly refused to arrive. Does that mean it won’t ever? Probably not. But it may not be on the typical one-to-five timeline following an inverted curve.

The four most frightening words in finance are famously “It’s different this time,” but it may actually be a little different this time around. There are no signs that the curve is flipping to normal yet, or that we’re in even the earliest stages of recession. For now, investors can earn more on short-term notes than long ones—a boost for risk-averse, income oriented people.

[smolldust]

chat do you think I’m ready for my test tomorrow? I have not really studied all that much

[patchoulii-2hu-144p]

Relevant:

The term "soft landing" in news articles often peaks right before an economic shitstorm hits.

[radiantglobalfundd]

Fixed Income Arbitrage Strategies for Steady Returns

Introduction: Stability in a Volatile World

In today’s uncertain macroeconomic landscape marked by rising interest rates, inflation concerns, escalating geopolitical tensions, and persistent equity market volatility investors are actively seeking low-risk, yield-enhancing strategies to preserve capital while generating stable income. Traditional fixed income allocations, such as passive bond portfolios, often fall short in offering real returns adjusted for inflation and risk.

Enter fixed income arbitrage: a market-neutral arbitrage strategy that aims to profit from temporary pricing inefficiencies in the bond and credit markets while minimizing exposure to broad market swings. By leveraging interest rate spreads, yield curve dislocations, and credit anomalies, this strategy provides a reliable avenue to generate alpha with low volatility.

For institutional investors, including pension funds, sovereign wealth funds, insurance companies, and multi-strategy hedge funds, fixed income arbitrage is emerging as a safe haven investment offering:

Consistent risk-adjusted returns

Low correlation to traditional assets like equities and commodities

Customizable duration and liquidity profiles for matching long-term liabilities

Effective hedging mechanisms against inflation and systemic risk

Why Now?

With central banks like the U.S. Federal Reserve and the European Central Bank (ECB) adopting diverging monetary policies, the resulting interest rate differentials and market mispricings are creating fertile ground for arbitrage strategies.

At Radiant Global Fund, our dedicated Fixed Income Arbitrage Solutions are engineered to help institutional investors exploit these inefficiencies across global fixed income markets. Whether you’re navigating rate normalization or preparing for a potential downturn, fixed income arbitrage can act as a strategic ballast in your portfolio. What Is Fixed Income Arbitrage?

Fixed income arbitrage is a market-neutral investment strategy that seeks to profit from pricing inefficiencies between related fixed income instruments such as government bonds, corporate bonds, interest rate swaps, and repo agreements. This approach involves simultaneously buying and selling offsetting bond exposures, aiming to earn returns from the convergence or divergence of interest rate spreads, yield curve positions, or credit spreads, regardless of the overall market direction.

It is particularly favored by institutional investors, fixed income hedge funds, and multi-strategy asset managers seeking low-volatility, alpha-generating strategies with minimal directional market exposure.

Core Objective

To earn arbitrage profits from small but predictable price differences between related securities typically without taking unhedged interest rate or credit risk.

Common Fixed Income Arbitrage Strategies

Each fixed income arbitrage strategy targets a specific inefficiency within the fixed income market. The most widely used strategies include:

1. Swap Spread Arbitrage

This involves taking advantage of pricing mismatches between Treasury yields and interest rate swaps. Arbitrageurs look for divergences in swap spreads relative to historical norms or forecasted monetary policy shifts.

Example: Long U.S. Treasuries and short matching maturity interest rate swaps when spreads widen beyond fair value.

2. Yield Curve Arbitrage

This strategy focuses on anomalies between bond yields at different maturities along the same yield curve. It typically involves a long/short position on different points of the curve, such as 2-year vs. 10-year Treasuries.

Goal: Profit from the reversion of the curve to its expected shape or spread level.

3. Credit Spread Arbitrage

Traders exploit the spread between corporate bonds and risk-free government securities. This strategy aims to earn from either widening or narrowing of credit spreads, often using CDS (credit default swaps) for hedging.

Use Case: Long undervalued investment-grade bonds, short overvalued junk bonds.

4. Repo Arbitrage

Involves profiting from the interest rate differential between borrowing and lending in the repo and reverse repo markets. Often used by institutions to enhance short-term yield on collateralized assets.

Advantage: Exploits daily or weekly funding inefficiencies while maintaining low balance sheet risk.

Why It Works

Fixed income markets are massive, opaque, and often fragmented creating persistent inefficiencies across geographies, maturities, and credit qualities. These inefficiencies present opportunities for disciplined arbitrageurs equipped with advanced analytics, liquidity access, and real-time pricing tools.

Related Internal Resource: Explore How Radiant Global Fund Adds Value to see how we optimize execution, risk modeling, and yield enhancement for institutional clients.

Why Fixed Income Arbitrage Appeals to Institutional Investors

In today’s dynamic economic environment, institutional investors such as pension funds, insurance companies, endowments, and sovereign wealth funds are constantly searching for strategies that offer capital preservation, stable income, and low correlation to public markets. Fixed income arbitrage stands out as a powerful solution for achieving these goals.

1. Low Volatility, Predictable Cash Flows

One of the key attractions of fixed income arbitrage is its ability to deliver consistent, risk-adjusted returns with minimal volatility. Because this strategy is typically market-neutral, it does not rely on rising bond prices or favorable economic cycles to perform.

Institutional portfolios particularly those guided by liability-driven investing (LDI) frameworks benefit from:

Steady cash flows that match future liabilities

Defined duration exposure for better planning

Reduced drawdown risk compared to traditional fixed income or equities

Learn more about LDI strategies and fixed income innovation from BlackRock.

2. Diversification in Uncertain Markets

In periods of market stress or recessionary risk, traditional asset classes like equities and even long-duration government bonds can become correlated leaving portfolios vulnerable. Fixed income arbitrage, by contrast, is designed to:

Perform independently of market direction

Act as a non-correlated return stream within multi-asset portfolios

Hedge exposure to macroeconomic shocks

This makes it a critical diversifier for investors looking to smooth out returns and reduce reliance on beta-driven growth.

Explore our blog on Institutional Advisory Solutions for more ways to strengthen your portfolio resilience.

3. Exploiting Interest Rate Dislocations

With central banks like the Federal Reserve, ECB, and Bank of Japan actively managing monetary policy, the global interest rate environment is increasingly fragmented. This creates frequent dislocations and inefficiencies in:

Yield curves

Swap spreads

Credit spreads across geographies

These anomalies present opportunistic entry points for institutional investors using sophisticated arbitrage models and execution platforms.

See how Radiant Global Fund’s Fixed Income Arbitrage Services capitalize on interest rate volatility in global markets.

Key Risks in Fixed Income Arbitrage and How They’re Managed

While fixed income arbitrage is often perceived as a low-risk, market-neutral strategy, institutional investors must recognize and address several key risk factors that can impact performance. Effective risk management systems and robust operational infrastructure are essential to navigate these challenges and maintain consistent alpha.

1. Interest Rate Risk Even though fixed income arbitrage is typically market-neutral, sudden moves in interest rates especially in yield curve arbitrage or swap spread arbitrage can lead to temporary mark-to-market losses.

How it's managed:

Duration matching between long and short legs of trades

Dynamic hedging using interest rate futures, swaps, or options

Monitoring central bank policy changes (e.g., Federal Reserve, ECB)

Related Insight: Explore Multi-Asset Strategies for Volatile Rate Environments.

2. Liquidity Risk Periods of market stress can cause bid-ask spreads to widen, especially in credit spread arbitrage or less-liquid bond segments. In such conditions, exciting positions can be costly or delayed.

How it's managed:

Prioritizing highly liquid instruments like U.S. Treasuries, investment-grade corporates, and on-the-run securities

Setting pre-trade liquidity thresholds

Establishing liquidity buffers in fund mandates

Learn more about Bond Market Liquidity Trends from the IMF.

3. Counterparty Risk Executing arbitrage trades often involves repo transactions, derivatives, or short borrowing, which expose investors to counterparty default risk.

How it's managed:

Enforcing high-quality collateral agreements (e.g., tri-party repo systems)

Trading only with investment-grade counterparties

Ongoing credit risk assessments and margin calls

4. Model Risk Fixed income arbitrage relies heavily on quantitative models to identify pricing inefficiencies. Inaccurate assumptions or untested scenarios can lead to unexpected losses.

How it's managed:

Model validation by independent risk teams

Use of Monte Carlo simulations, Value-at-Risk (VaR), and stress testing

Regular backtesting across historical rate regimes How Radiant Global Fund Adds Value in Fixed Income Arbitrage

At Radiant Global Fund, we provide bespoke institutional fixed income arbitrage solutions that combine cutting-edge technology, deep market insight, and multi-market execution precision. Our strategies are purpose-built to deliver stable, risk-adjusted returns in a global context making us a preferred partner for pension funds, insurance firms, sovereign wealth funds, and multi-strategy hedge funds.

1. Real-Time Spread Monitoring with AI

We leverage machine learning algorithms to track pricing inefficiencies across:

Sovereign bonds (e.g., U.S. Treasuries, Bunds, JGBs)

Municipal bonds

Corporate credit instruments

Our proprietary fixed income arbitrage engine scans real-time yield data, repo market indicators, and curve distortions across developed and emerging markets, identifying high-probability trade setups before they converge.

Explore our AI-Powered Investment Infrastructure

2. Precision Hedging & Optimized Execution

Radiant’s execution desks utilize algorithmic tools and cross-venue liquidity mapping to:

Pinpoint optimal entry/exit levels

Implement duration-neutral hedging overlays

Structure cost-efficient trades using futures, swaps, and options

This ensures tight risk control while enhancing spread convergence potential, especially in volatile or dislocated markets.

Learn more about our Institutional Trading Capabilities.

3. Macro + Micro Risk Modeling

We integrate both top-down macroeconomic analysis and bottom-up bond-level insights to assess risk in real time:

Yield curve simulation models

Central bank divergence indicators

Monte Carlo and VaR analytics

These tools help us align each trade with rate expectations, liquidity conditions, and geopolitical scenarios creating a resilient, data-driven arbitrage framework.

Interested in our risk framework? View Radiant’s Risk Management Philosophy.

Case Study: Profiting from Central Bank Divergence

In late 2023, while the U.S. Federal Reserve paused rate hikes and the European Central Bank (ECB) maintained its tightening bias, a rare divergence occurred between U.S. and Eurozone bond markets.

Radiant's algorithms detected a widening swap spread between U.S. Treasuries and German Bunds. By deploying cross-market, duration-neutral trades, we captured this dislocation before markets rebalanced.

Result: => 11.4% annualized return => Minimal volatility (<2% std. dev.) => Delivered via our global fixed income arbitrage mandate

This performance underscores the power of combining global insight with precise execution.

Ready to Optimize Your Arbitrage Allocation? Contact our advisory team or explore the full range of Fixed Income Strategies offered by Radiant Global Fund.

Conclusion: A Core Strategy for a Balanced Portfolio

Fixed income arbitrage isn’t just a defensive play, it's a proactive, data-driven strategy designed for investors seeking capital preservation and steady yield in a world where traditional income strategies often fall short.

Whether you manage an endowment, a multi-asset fund, or a sovereign wealth portfolio, incorporating fixed income arbitrage through a trusted partner like Radiant Global Fund can significantly improve your portfolio’s risk-adjusted return profile.

[nanamisgirly]

cw breast obsession non-sexual, gentle dominance ig, soft intimacy.

my personal fav fantasy is husband!nanami coming home late. he's super exhausted and he finds you already sleeping.

he sighs in relief at the sight of your peaceful body lying on the bed, the moon light peeking through the curtains, casting a soft glow over you.

you're wearing a delicate crop top, yellow with tiny pink roses on it, thin straps slipping off your shoulders, and lace-trimmed triangles barely covering your breasts— shifted out of place in your sleep. it's Nanami's fav. because he got the chance to cup your tits easily from behind.

it's not in a lustful way!! he's not groping you with some filthy intent not always at least. he holds them in a comforting way, in a way that makes him exhales deeply the moment he slides into bed, feeling the stress of the day melt away as his large, calloused hand finds its rightful place. right over your chest.

it's comforting, the way they fit just right in his palms— they're not too big, not too small, just perfect. like they were meant to be in his hands, like he was meant to touch you this way. he likes the shape of them, the way they mold to his touch, yielding and soft, a stark contrast to the roughness of his palms. he doesn't squeeze hard, doesn't knead them like he's trying to work you up— just holds.

he loves how soft they are when you're relaxed, when you're warm and tucked into his arms, your body completely at ease. how they don't poke or demand attention. they're sitting there all plush and smooth against his fingers, unbothered.

he loves how your breasts change when you're lying down, how they spread just a little, how they lose that roundness but become so soft, so flat, almost like they're becoming one with his hands. he loves the way his fingers can rest along the curve of your ribs, feeling the gently rise and fall of your breath beneath them.

it's instinctual. reaching for you. holding you. owning you.

his favorite way to touch you is when you're on your back, his face buried in the crook of your neck—your floral scent invading his nostrils—'cause that's where he has better access to your tits. he likes to slide his hand up from your waist, fingers ghosting over your ribs before they settle beneath the swell of your breast— his thumb and index supporting the weight ever so slightly, pressing just enough to feel their fullness. and sometimes most of the times he gives the underside a gentle pinch, his lips twitching at the way your body shifts in response, even in your sleep.

and your nipples. god he loves them sooo much. he's totally obsessed when they don't poke or stiffen under his fingers, just stay warm and smooth against his touch, like they trust him enough to relax. he traces lazy circles over them, fingertips gliding over the subtle change in texture. he never presses, never pinches because he knows if he did, if he rolled them just right, they'd start to react. they'd tighten, harden under his touch, and sure—when the mood was for it—he loved that just as much.

but right now, it was only about feeling you.

and if you make some little sound of protest when he adjusts his grip— he simply shushes you, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, whispering, "go back to sleep, darling." and you do. because how could you not when you were so sweetly wrapped in his warmth?

(*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

[fear-is-truth]

THE GREEN EYED MONSTER — bruce wayne

MDNI ┆warnings: smut. jealous bruce

BRUCE WAYNE didn’t think of himself as a jealous man. jealousy was irrational, unproductive—a crack in control, and control was the very foundation of who he was.

“h-aah—bruce,” you arched beneath him, hands scrambled for purchase, one curling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck while the other clutched at his shoulder. his thoughts churned even as his body stayed attuned to yours. “bruce,” you whimpered again, half a plea, half surrender.

bruce’s mind stuttered, unbidden thoughts clawing their way back. that investor at the gala—what was his last name? langley? no, it was something else. didn’t matter. bruce could recall the man’s face with infuriating clarity.

but what burned brightest was the handshake: his hand lingering in yours just a beat too long, bordering on intimate. the subtle breach of etiquette set bruce on edge. then the man leaned in, voice dipping low as he murmured something meant only for you, the words drowned out by the clinking of champagne glasses and soft murmur of the crowd. your laugh had followed—light, polite, the same one you’d offered to so many others that evening. you’d likely forgotten the exchange entirely. just you being you—sweet, approachable. but the rasp of the man’s smoker’s laugh lingered in bruce’s memory, coarse and unwelcome, grating against his nerves like sandpaper.

muscles drawn taut, his hips moved on their own accord, driven by a dangerous mélange of frustration and lust. the next thrust was rougher than intended, forceful in a way that bordered on needy, and it stole a sharp gasp from your lips. you arched against him, body yielding with desperate eagerness that sent a shiver of triumph through him.

“nnngh��hah-”

could he make you sound like this? bruce wondered, his jaw tightening as his mind darkened. could he make you dig your nails into his back like this, leave those fleeting little crescent-shaped reminders?

his pace slowed, the haze of primal lust lifting as rationality began to reclaim its hold. his forehead pressed against yours, eyes shutting briefly before reopening. bruce tilted his head slightly, seeking your gaze. your pupils were blown wide, kiss-bitten lips swollen and parted, breasts heaving with every laboured breath. you didn’t seem to mind the newfound edge in him; if anything, it appeared that you enjoyed it.

could he make you shiver like this? could he have you matching his every thrust, cumming so many times but still craving more, your body pliant yet demanding?

“f-fuck,” he ground out, his sweat-damp forehead falling against your shoulder as he drove himself closer, deeper. until bursts of white danced at the edges of your vision, every nerve-end alight.

could he-

drunkenly, you reached for him, fingers weaving into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging just enough to coax a guttural groan from his throat. that simple action unraveled his jealousy, scattering it like ash on the wind. his mind snapped the answer into place with startling finality.

no, bruce decided. he couldn’t.

your head tilted back to fall on the pillow as he dipped his head, warm lips found the edge of your jaw, trailing up as he sought the delicate curve of your ear. you felt his teeth grazed your earlobe—a soft, teasing nibble. a sound escaped you, high and needy, and it must’ve sparked something in bruce because another thrust that made your toes curl in welcome to the glorious stretch of his cock.

eyelids fluttering open, you glanced up at bruce, the faint glow of the room casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face. his brows furrowed in concentration, hair curling damply against his temple, and above you, he looked godly—untouchable, yet entirely yours. you barely had time to drink in the sight of your lover before he tilted your chin toward him, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that stole your breath and any lingering coherent thought. there was a brief clash of teeth before it softened into the warm yet insistent press of his lips, the demanding slide of his tongue as though he had something to prove—not to you, but to himself.

he reared back before snapping his hips forward again, earning another stretched moan from your lips as you felt him nudge against your cervix. once more, his name slipped from your mouth in the form of a broken whine when he broke the kiss, dark gaze smouldering as he studied your face—drinking in every detail like a man starved, and the corner of his mouth twitched with a satisfied smirk.

you clenched around him, felt that pulsating warmth through the thin veil of slick and sweat. it wouldn’t take long for you to fall apart once again, not with the multiple orgasms he had bestowed upon you earlier and the frantic pace he was moving now. bruce drove into you one last time with a strained grunt, sheathing himself to the hilt.

you couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment your climax began or where his met yours—all you knew was the overwhelming surge that overtook you both, cresting like a tidal wave. your vision blurred, edges dissolving into brilliant white, and a broken cry slipped from your lips as your body trembled uncontrollably. your fingers clenched, digging into his shoulders, while your muscles turned molten, leaving you boneless and weightless, as if you were melting into him. the low, guttural sound he let out against your neck sent another shiver through you, tethering you to the shared euphoria that left nothing untouched.

the vice-like grip on your hips slackened, and you could feel his cock continuing to twitch and spasm as he thrust lazily inside you, grinding his cum as deep as it could go.

he should’ve felt satisfied, but instead, there was something else—a knot still twisting low in his chest. his jealousy had burned out, but in its place was something else, that made his heart ache.

“did i hurt you?”

“no. you were…” you paused, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his forearm. “perfect.”

a faint exhale left him, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. bruce pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than he usually did.

could anyone else make you look like that?

he didn’t have to ask himself. he already knew the answer.

[angelovi]

simon that just needs his frustrations taken out on his baby girl.

he storms into the house, slamming the front door behind him, not even bothering to take off his gear.

his steps are hurried and unsteady as he makes his way to where he knows you’ll be—the bedroom you two share every night. bursting in, his harsh demeanor falters, his gaze softening as he takes in your peaceful, angelic expression.

without wasting another moment, he gently guides you onto the bed, his hands tender as they cradle your soft cheeks.

"pants off. now."

you move quickly at his command, slipping off your pants and leaving yourself in just his oversized t-shirt and the delicate pink lace panties he had given you as a gift on your last birthday.

"oh, such a sweet girl..."

"arms up," he instructs

he slides your shirt off, revealing your skin marked with love bites from previous nights.

"so fuckin' beautiful. look at these pretty tits."

his lips trail over the soft curves of your chest, leaving gentle kisses, while his hand moves to caress and tease the other.

"you wear these panties just for me baby? i know they're your favorite."

he kisses his way down your torso, avoiding where you need him most and he knows it, and a smirk grazes his face.

"simon please..."

"use your words baby. be a big girl yeah?"

You quickly yield to the request, your voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper as a sense of desperation fills your words.

"fuck me simon."

"atta girl."

without a second thought he shoves you down further into the sheets, quickly unbuckling his pants and slipping himself inside you, too rushed to take off any more clothing.

"god you're so fuckin' tight."

he rams his hips into you, showing no mercy, only set on one goal: fucking you dumb.

"you'd be so pretty when you're round with my kids yeah? you up for that mama?"

You offer a quiet nod, your throat tightening as the weight of unspoken words hangs heavily in the air. The silence envelops you, and you choose to hold back, your lips sealed in uncertainty as you wrestle with the urge to say something, anything.

He can feel the way you grip him, a delightful tension building between you both, as anticipation courses through the air. It’s a familiar sign, one that tells him you're moments away from a culmination that has been building.

"cum for me princess. let me feel you."

simon shoves two fingers in your mouth to silence you, not wanting another complaint from the neighbors.

with a muffled moan, you let go, feeling pleasure take over every fiber of your body.

shortly after, he empties himself inside of you, ensuring that it sticks and you finally give him the kid you two have been dreaming of.

“i am so incredibly proud of you, my love. You truly are nothing short of perfect in every way.”

you feel his soft, warm lips kiss your forehead before you're lulled to sleep by his touch.

another basic story lol i need suggestions

[shujichii]

you were feeling particularly mischievous that day.

and when you were feeling mischievous, your lover had to be prepared— because a mischievous you sometimes had the tendency to be unpredictable.

he loved kissing you multiple times throughout the day— he'd lean into it subconsciously, even, be it on your lips, cheeks, forehead, the tip of your nose or the top your hair. because according to him, life would be devoid of any and all meanings if he could not kiss you.

so when you suddenly pretended to move away to reach for something just as he was about to lean in for a kiss, he paused midway, brows furrowing.

surely that wasn't intentional. ..right? right?

it didn't take longer than a second for you to notice the subtle distress on his face from the corner of your eye, and you were trying— trying— to not outright grin mischievously.

naturally, he had to confirm this strange phenomenon. so he leaned in again, only for you to take a step back, now "inspecting" the item you had just retrieved earlier.

now, this man was no fool. (a fool for you, though.) you had just dodged his kisses twice at the perfect time. he could swear he felt his world shift upside down.

why were you dodging like that? were you mad? was something wrong? did he—

then, he caught it; the twitch of your lips and the stolen glance. ah. so that's how it was.

his eyes narrowed, thoroughly observing you. yet, the playful gleam in his gaze was unmistakable now.

"doing this now, are we?" the amusement in his voice was all too clear.

you feigned innocence, tilting your head, yet not bothering to hide the curve of your lips. "hm? oh, i have no idea what you're talking about."

he took a step forward.

you took one back.

he took another.

and before he knew it, you bolted.

"hey—!"

your laughter echoed throughout the house as you ran, and he wasted no time before following right after. you were fast, impressively so— you somehow managed to weave through the furniture with ease, going as far as to swiftly place a chair in the way before he could reach you.

however, a man chasing after what was rightfully his was not to be underestimated.

he was, of course, fast as well. he could close the distance right now if he wanted to, but where was the fun in that? if you wanted a game, he would happily indulge you.

he pretended to almost catch you when his fingertips barely grazed your arm in an attempt to reach you, to which you responded with a shriek as you sped up, reaching behind the kitchen island.

"too slow!" you giggled, gripping the edge of the counter, ready to skid away any moment.

"oh, you wound me, sweetheart," he sighed, "depriving a man of kissing his beloved? how cruel."

"catch me, then." you challenged, your heartbeat thrumming with adrenaline.

he noticed the way your body subtly shifted towards the left.

so, he pretended to go towards the right.

and just as you moved away from behind the counter, he effortlessly changed directions, your brain failing to catch up with the sudden movement as a pair of arms snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, your back colliding with the familiar warmth.

"what—"

you were suddenly weightless as he spun you around.

"h-hey!— put me down!" you squealed, not being able to suppress the unrestrained laughter spilling from your lips.

"do you yield?"

"nah—"

he spun, again.

"FINE! fine! put me down now, you menace!"

he chuckled, gently placing you down, although his arms never left your waist. you turned around, slightly tumbling against his chest, before squinting your eyes at him.

"you cheated," you half-heartedly jabbed a finger into his chest.

"you cheated first by not letting me kiss you," he leaned down, his hands coming up to cradle your jaw as his lips hovered above your own. "and i'm here to fix that."

just as you were about to formulate a response, his tongue glided over your bottom lip— before capturing it between his own. he didn't rush the kiss, no, it was slow, deliberate, utterly thorough, like he wanted you to feel every ounce of that kiss and drown in it. and yet, the heat in it was unmistakable. his fingers slithered to the small of your back, pulling you closer until your body practically molded against his. a tilt of your head— and suddenly, he was kissing you deeper, swallowing your sounds that escaped between the kiss.

he finally pulled away, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he rested his forehead on yours, taking in the sight of your dazed eyes and the soft exhales leaving your parted lips.

".. that's unfair."

"you should know by now that i don't lose when it comes to you, darling."

and when he pulled you in for another kiss, it was anything but unhurried.

♡ gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, okkotsu yuuta, fushiguro toji (jjk), caleb, rafayel, sylus, zayne (lads), wriothesley, ayato, neuvillette, alhaitham (genshin), jiyan, brant, xiangli yao (wuwa), kyoraku shunsui, ukitake jushiro, ishida uryuu, hisagi shuhei (bleach), rengoku kyojuro, uzui tengen (kny), your favorite.

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

[maneskinwh0re]

sevika x brothelfemme!reader — “not your job”

cw: [n]sfw, dom!sevika, soft!sevika, mostly fluff :3

summary: thinking about having a long-term brothel contract with sevika. at the end of a particular booking when she has already made you cum like 3 times, she forgot to leave time for aftercare (actually forgot she was on a time limit, just lost inside you). so when she starts to apologize and frantically clean you up, you just kick her out SKDHAHDJA fic plot begins right afterwards…

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“come on, i’ll walk you out,” you say as you smooth out your dampened lingerie and throw on a matching robe, shielding your figure from the cold as well as your client’s wandering grey eyes.

“that’s not in your job description,” sevika counters as she zips up the fly of her cargos. you step closer to button her pants as well as buckle her thick belt, a sentiment that means more to her than you know.

whenever sevika asks, you always imply that helping her get dressed is a favor in your contract (you both know it’s not) and then your defense is usually followed by a teasing remark about her missing left arm. in reality, you use the closeness as an excuse to continue the intimacy after sex, a further connection between you two, but the secret remains unspoken.

“you’re right, it’s not in my job description. and neither is changing the sheets, but looks like i’m doing that too since i’m too embarrassed to let poor harley do it.”

“isn’t that their job anyway?”

“can you just quit arguing with me and get your ass out?” you bicker with a laugh, knowing sevika is just stalling at this point.

“thought y’ liked my ass,” she smiles smugly and tilts her head as she looks down to you, her flesh hand teasingly trailing up your curves.

you were gonna really make her feel like shit about not leaving time for aftercare, you just like to rub it in. the two of you know it’s all jokes, and have had a bounded contract for a while now. sevika isn’t a regular for anyone else, and you’ve recently stopped seeing any other clients…

“ha ha. i like it when it’s obedient,” you purr with a giggle, giving her behind a soft swat. “let’s go— the laundry room ‘s at the end of the hall anyway.”

“hmph, alright fine,” she agrees with a pout that is so cute, it almost makes you forget about her dominant nature that made you scream and beg mere minutes ago… almost.

when you get to the door, your trusted head of security opens it for sevika, and only when her flesh hand leaves its place on your lower back did you realize the warmth that was there as you walked the dimly lit hallway. it’s the little things that keep you both so connected, even if you don’t think to control them consciously.

you lean against the doorway, one hand on your hip as you smile up at her. when she leans in for a goodbye kiss, you turn your head away.

“ah ah, y’ know you gotta pay for that,” you say with a smirk.

“i think i just did,” she replies with a quirked brow, a prideful smile revealing the little gap between her two front teeth.

you only stare at each other, a silent competition to see who yields first to give in for a kiss.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” you finally break the silence with a sly smile and turn away to resume your shift.

“but i’m not booked for tomorrow…?” sevika thinks aloud, her eyebrows furrowing together as if her statement is a question.

you look back to her, your tongue running along the inside of your cheek and huffing as if trying to stifle a laugh. sevika staying away from you? yeah, right. like a moth to a flame.

“i will see you tomorrow, sevika.” you look up at her tall figure and place a hand on her chest to push her out the door.

in a quick motion, sevika shoves your hand to the side and pulls you in by the waist for a deep kiss. you reciprocate immediately— because how could you not? your hands grip her short hair and you feel the coldness of her labret piercing against your bottom lip. you can taste your earlier release on her tongue, recalling the lewd thoughts of when she-

“ahem.” the security guard’s lower pitched voice brings you back to the moment.

gasping for air, you push sevika off and wobbly move clear of the doorway. “alright, get outta here. before i call security.”

“oh, will you? i’m real scared,” she jokes, taking loopy, post-sex drunken steps down the stairs.

“i could kick your ass, sevika!” callum shouts into the cold night, then slams the heavy door shut before your patron could reply. you internally relish the sound of sevika’s deep laugh fading out on the other side of the metal entryway, indicating she’s finally walking home.

“thanks, cal,” you chuckle as you readjust your laced bralette.

“why don’t y’all do all ‘at off the clock?” callum turns to you, his tone is still light but with a tint of seriousness.

“what do you mean?”

“you know what i mean. that stupid smile will stick to your face the rest of y’r shift, hon. and it’s only ever there after your sevika is.”

you scold your coworker, waving him away before he notices your flushed expression. “oh my- s-shut the fuck up!”

‘your sevika’

…you could get used to the sound of that.

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alexa play casual by chappell roan !

a/n: had the plot idea a few weeks ago, dropping this fluff and running back to hibernate bc kinda been going through it lately lol BUT WE DOING BETTER NOW TEAM DW found some inspo to write :3

harley and callum are two oc’s i might add to an ongoing fic bc i actually ended up kinda liking this :)

- 🐝

taglist: @audr3yyyyy @mirconreadzztuff22 @wizard-pdf @archangeldyke-all @nhaaauyen @inthebrainofalamb <3