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[hymen-restoration-project]

Initiate Super Jelq Program

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[cringefaecompilation]

i don't think ashton is a selfish douchebag that thinks only his trauma matters for the same reason i don't think orym is a selfish douchebag that thinks only his trauma matters. i don't think anybody here is any more selfish or thinks they have more of a foothold in the argument than anybody else.

"they're just whiny and selfish" is such juvenile character criticism and every single character except fearne and braius has gotten it. if you mean you think they're unfairly biased, say that because it's far more condusive to an actual discussion than the former which serves as just insult-slinging.

[kingofdorkville]

dude "you got no use for a man you can't depend on" rio bravo would probably also say "i like to be dependable because that's the mark of a real man."

[swankpalanquin]

it's always interesting to me what parts make people laugh in movies that i like

[podcastenthusiast]

Not Astarion disapproving of me freeing the gnome slaves. My guy...everyone deserves to be free and it was like a second of extra effort.

[mostlikelyshutup]

watching a video about growing up poor and now im wondering if, in the individualistic culture in the us, if there is a more likely outcome of collectivism is smaller, poorer communities

[tobeholyistobeempty]

‘SO YOU CAN LISTEN….GOOD.’ | simon ghost riley

📊 result of my poll found here.

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni, (amt) engineer!reader, asshole!ghost but with motives, slightly stalkerish!ghost, ghost is a cocky bastard but reader is too, so much verbal sparring, enough tension to choke on, reader afab, ghost is a munch and has a unique way of saying sorry, oral f!receiving, religious undertones, fingering, enemies to something worse then enemies, dubcon bc consent verbally unstated, so much dirty talk it hurts, canon warped a bit.

A/N - this ended up being so much longer than i intended but dear god it needed that build up. ghost makes a real wild first impression. 12k.

Today was just another day. Just another day.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself as you grabbed your data pad from the terminal and made your way toward the front of the hangar — pulse thrumming, blood pressure undoubtedly a tad higher than usual. Perhaps today was just another day, but to say that it didn't hold slightly more merit than yesterday would be a fucking lie.

Today marks the date of your six month performance evaluation. Today is the day you finally find out if you nab that promotion or not.

And maybe you’re overthinking, maybe you’re nervous for no reason. Did this promotion make or break your career? Would not getting promoted singlehandedly destroy everything you've achieved and accomplished over the last however many years? No.

But it would definitely feel like a real kick in the ass given everything that you've done for this place since you got here.

The day you first got that damned data-pad, you should have known this job would be a complete shitshow. Still, you pulled up yourself up by your bootstraps and did your duties just like every other day — and that day like all the previous ones since you graduated. You’d been all over the world at this point, as an AMT you go wherever you’re needed and usually remain however long you’re needed for. But this transfer — to an unnamed, unmarked base in the middle of goddamn no where — is different then anything you’d ever done before.

The hours are different, the people are different, the pay is different. It was unexpected, but when their last head AMT simply vanished without a fucking trace — it seemed as though they scrambled, and took the next best thing they could find (or so you like to tell yourself).

It’s all a little…strange, to say the least.

And of course, there’s been talk about what happened to their last head engineer, speculations, but it seems no one actually knows for certain. It’s one of those things that everyone low rank whispers about, but no one high up with actual informative intel dares to speak on — which only made the chatter worse.

Along with your nerves.

Regardless, you didn’t have a choice, and the first day of your transfer was a baptism by fire — stepping into the aftermath of utter chaos they'd left behind.

Your job isn’t to save lives in the heat of battle, or to clear rooms, or to conduct stealth operations. No, your job is to repair aircrafts torn to hell and back and continue to keep them functional. It’s rather thankless, and often you'd find yourself overworked and under-appreciated — which, granted, goes hand-in-hand with your overall life summary — but the hangar at TF141’s main base was a sight to behold, and not in any positive sense. Neglected and battered machinery lay strewn about, with debris haphazardly scattered in every fucking corner imaginable. By the time you'd reached the actual aircraft's you were almost afraid to look at them — and for good goddamn cause.

TF141 has two main helo’s: MH-6 Little Bird and an AH-6J Little Bird. Upon first inspection of them, you’d almost thought they'd been through a war of their own — hastily patched together with little regard for proper repair. The evidence of prior negligence was glaring, and you were fucking fuming.

You'd expected some clean up, but not that much.

And to top it all off, you were given clear instruction by General Shepherd himself to keep your mouth shut and your head down, do your job and mind your own. On your way out of his office he informed you, surely out of the sheer kindness of his heart, that although he couldn't tell you what exactly happened to their prior head engineer, you could easily suffer the same fate if you weren't careful.

Which was more than enough to shake the very foundation of your so very deeply engraved attitude problem.

No matter how pissed off and irritated you’d been during your start here, you kept your emotions bottled up until you were back inside the privacy of your barracks and could freely let it explode. It's been a little maddening almost, the solace. You'd been here half a year and the only person you've had an actual conversation with outside of the other engineers is 141’s Captain, and that was only when he was looking for a debriefing on your recent repair work.

However, amidst the avoidance and the uneasy silence that you experience on a daily with the others, there seems to always be one fucking exception;

Ghost.

You'd seen photos and heard a lot about him prior to this assignment — the mysterious Lieutenant with a reputation that preceded him as if the Grim Reaper himself were present on earth.

But meeting him, being around him, well that was something fucking else entirely.

He routinely shows up at random hours, never muttering more than a few words to you before pissing off — disappearing into the shadows or taking out one of the birds. It’s always odd. He is odd. And the cryptic comments coupled with his rather bizarre reputation continue to leave you tangled between the dangerous desire to learn everything you can about the man, and the primal instinct to avoid him at all fucking costs.

Though, even if you had the choice, it wouldn't matter.

If and when Ghost decides to present himself to you, it is impossible to prevent it. His approach is as translucent as his namesake. You'd never fucking know he was coming, and if you did, it’s with purpose.

Nevertheless, you couldn't worry about him, or any of the other nonsensical bullshit today. You had other matters on your mind such as ensuring the hangar was in perfect condition for inspection later that evening. Price let you know rather early in advance that a hangar and aircraft inspection are part of your performance review — which clearly means the state of them would determine whether or not you passed.

There would be absolutely no room for error, and no one to complain to when it didn't go your way either. If this inspection failed, it would be the result of your own incompetence — and you were well aware of how that would be perceived. You didn't want to give any reason, any chance to end up like the former Engineer, after all.

So today is about one thing, and one thing alone, proving yourself worthy of that promotion.

With your data pad in hand, you began a quick sweep of the hangar, ensuring the guys hadn't made too much of a mess overnight or early this morning before you arrived. A few things were out of place, but for the most part, everything looked good.

Well, except for one thing — which was currently barrelling toward you at a dangerous fucking speed.

"Bloody fucking hell..."

Your data pad nearly fell from your grasp, your jaw dropping in disbelief as your ears rang — no, damn-near wailed — a deafening roar shattering the silence you'd just found yourself in, accompanied by the shrill whine of metal grinding against metal. You couldn't believe your eyes, your feet absentmindedly carrying you closer to the destroyed helo landing on the far side of the hangar, smoke billowing from its battered frame, obscuring the air with a veil of grey.

And as you got closer, you realized it only got worse — a door was missing, torn from its hinges, and half of the exterior was brutally ripped away. You didn't even realize you were clenching your hands into fists until you felt the glass of your data pad crack beneath your fingers.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re all but yelling as you take in the damage. "Today? Today. Of all goddamn days! Bloody ignorant bastards.”

As soon as those words were past your teeth, there’s movement from inside the cabin — heavy laden set steps — two iron slabs clanking against the metal floor, quaking the ground underneath your own feet, too. The air thinned slightly, but you didn't notice, too inebriated off your anger to think of anything other than cursing the hell out of whoever was inside.

You came to a halt in front of the now door-less opening, coming face to face with a pair of rich brown eyes peering down at you.

"Care t’repeat tha’?" A deep, low voice rumbled from under a faded, skull-faced balaclava. You swear the ground trembled as he jumped down. "...I'd like t’make sure I heard y’right."

You’d have to imagine he was grinning under that mask, and it only made your fucking blood boil.

"Ghost, why didn't you tell me-“

He cuts you off mid-sentence with a gesture of his hand.

"I need permission t’take out my own helo now? Huh.” A shake of his head. “Y’should know I was told to test your repairs. Bosses orders, sweet’eart. Take it up with him if you’ve gotta’ problem.”

"You-" your lips part, but words elude you. Due to his admission or the nickname he used, you aren’t entirely sure. "What?"

Ghost blinks, sight sweeping the empty hangar for a fraction of a second before fixing back on you.

"Y’heard me." He steps closer, smoke billowing behind him. "Or d'you need me t'repeat it again?" A pause, twitch of his lips. "I can speak slower, if you’d like.”

What a dick.

You pull your own lips thin, trying to trap the profanity desperately wanting to fly his way. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He just hums.

"Way I see it, y’got two options.” He starts, and you long to tell him to shove his options somewhere the sun don’t shine. “Get pissed off with me, which is futile, since I ain’t the one y’actually got a problem with. Or, y’can get back to work and fix er’ up before Price comes down in an hour. Your choice 'ere."

An hour. A fucking hour? Is he clinically insane? This is easily about three days of work. And that’s if the bloody stars align.

"You’re unbelievable.” Scowl laden, you frown at him, words dripping venom as you shake your pounding head. "How nice of you to give me the option of choosing. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude, truly."

A beat of silence, unreadable eyes flicking over you.

“S’that sarcasm, engineer?” And then, he takes another step closer.

It never gets easier — the way he fills the space, how much bigger he is when he’s this close, broad shoulders cutting the world around you down to just him. He could crush you if he wanted. You’ve never forgotten that.

Your lips part, but before you can get a word out he’s already speaking.

"Y'know," he peers down at you with a slight tilt of his head. "A simple ‘thank you' wouldn't be the end of tha’ world."

You deadpan, biting back the scoff threatening to escape. Thank him? He wants you to thank him — for blowing a helo out of the sky an hour before the biggest inspection of your life? No. He’s not insane. He’s out of his goddamn mind.

“Thank you for what, exactly?” You force the words out, fighting to keep the sarcasm at bay, to sound even remotely genuine.

It doesn’t help that he’s right there, close enough to reach out and touch. You’ve been through enough in your time with the military to handle pressure, but there’s something about him — the bulk of him, the way he commands the space around him, the fact you can never read his facial expressions — that makes it hard to breathe.

Not to mention the tac gear he’s always dressed in. Layered thick like it’s meant for a frozen wasteland instead of the stifling summer heat you’re currently experiencing.

“F’givin’ you a passin’ grade,” he says, like that means a damn thing to you.

This game is getting old.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about now?” Heat flares beneath your skin, frustration mounting. “If that was a test, then it was a goddamn shitty one. You didn’t fly it. You destroyed it.”

He steps in again, exhaling like you’re the one wasting his time.

“M’giving you an opportunity. Take it or leave it.” You’re ready to bite back, to tell him exactly where he can put his opportunity, but then— “How’re you s’posed to prove y’worth somethin’, when no one thinks you’ve got it in ya?”

For the third time today, he shuts you up. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. This is, without a doubt, the strangest, most infuriating first interaction you’ve ever had with anyone in your entire life.

“Wow.” That’s all you manage. You knew being one of the only female engineers here would put you at a disadvantage, but this? Blowing up the helo just to test if you can fix it? It’s beyond comprehension. “That’s great, Ghost. Thanks.”

He doesn’t blink—just steps closer again, crowding you until you have to tilt your chin up to keep his gaze.

“Lieutenant.” Flat. Unyielding. But there’s something about the way it drips off his tongue that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. It’s not a request. It’s a correction. “Say it.”

Oh.

Heat licks up your neck, pooling at the base of your skull, and you’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else entirely. You swallow hard, forcing down the lump wedged in your throat because technically he is still your superior, regardless if he holds power over your job or not.

“Thank you,” you start again, your ego turning purple. “Lieutenant.”

You don’t look, but you feel his head tilt. You’d bet your life he’s smiling.

"So you can listen." Warm air skims your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s coming from him or from the heat of the burning aircraft - but it stings. "...good."

And then, when he realizes you’ve most likely bitten your tongue in half at this point, he takes a step back. You watch him now, eyes like a laser as he turns and heads for the door without another word. And almost immediately after he vanishes out into the hall you take the opportunity to suck in air like you’re starved of it, not realizing how fucking tense you were until he was out of sight.

Leaving you with a burning helo, an hour of time to fix it, and a whole lot of fuckin’ irritation.

“You bastard.” You mutter under your breath, staring at the wreckage before you.

If there was another option, you sure as hell didn’t know it. But no matter how impossible this seemed, failure wasn’t on the table — not after the years you’d put into this, the money, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. You didn’t crawl your way up through this goddamn system just to crash and burn now.

You needed a miracle.

And for the next two hours in the hangar, chaos was the only thing you knew.

You’ve never worked this fast in your life. The moment you got down to business you started barking orders, pulling maintenance techs and engineers off other projects, shoving tools into hands and sending them where they’re needed. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to second-guess — the aircraft has to be back in the air, and it has to be now.

And within minutes smoke steeped the hangar, sparks bursting like firecrackers from stripped wires. Everyone’s locked in — shouts, curses, the groan of machinery being pushed and pulled back together reverberating. It’s frantic, relentless, like a pack of starving wolves tearing at a fresh carcass, and you’re right there in the thick of it, teeth bared, fighting to hold the whole damn thing together.

But the euphemism falls short, because this wasn’t just a carcass torn open, in need of some stitching. It was worse — much worse.

The helo wasn’t just damaged; it was obliterated. Every inch of it had been shredded to ribbons, from the engine to the exterior frame, internal wiring snapped and twisted beyond recognition. Whatever the fuck that maniac had done, he hadn’t just tested its limits — he’d taken a sledgehammer to it and kept swinging.

You’ve seen aircraft’s in bad shape before, but nothing like this. It was a wreck, a heap of smoldering metal and sparking circuits, and somehow, you’re supposed to pull it back from the dead. But there’s no time to dwell on the impossibility of it — not when you’re hauling replacement parts back and forth, hands slick with oil and sweat, not when you’re welding and soldering with the kind of precision that would make your professors weep, not when the only thing keeping you moving is sheer goddamn will.

And then, after what feels like hours, you hear it—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, the kind that don’t belong to someone who helps—but someone who watches.

“My, my.” You recognize the voice instantly—Captain Price. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

You practically fling yourself to your feet, dragging a sleeve across your forehead, smearing grime over skin already slick with sweat. You almost groan in exasperation, but you swallow it down, clenching your jaw, praying to whatever god might be listening for the strength to not say something about Ghost that’ll get you court-martialed.

“Sir,” you greet him with a respectful nod. “I was informed, rather late mind you, that there was a scheduled test flight.”

A beat.

“Test flight,” Price repeats, brow lifting with something you can’t quite name. “Right. Test flight.”

A sharp bark of laughter leaves him, short and humourless, shaking his head as his eyes rake over the half-patched wreckage sprawled before him.

“And this,” he turns back to you. “This is the damage from that test flight?”

You hesitate—just for a fraction of a second—before nodding, breath held tight in your chest. It’s useless, really. You both know there’s no universe where a few minutes in the air could inflict this level of destruction. Price might’ve ordered Ghost to take the bird up, to test your work a little more personally—but there’s no way in hell he told him to annihilate the goddamn thing.

You’d bet your entire career the bastard did not have permission to go this far.

“Fucken’ typical,” Price mutters, pulling off his cap as he begins pacing around the bird, taking in the carnage from every angle. “Damn near destroyed the thing.”

That’ll be your fault, you think grimly. You’re the one who gave him the fucking order, after all.

But you keep your mouth shut, trailing behind him as he circles the wreckage, eyes sweeping over the mess of half-patched repairs. When he stops short, turning on his heel so fast you almost stumble back, you know what’s coming before he even speaks.

“How long’s this gonna’ take to fix?”

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. Swallow, but your throat stays dry. It’s not hesitation—it’s knowing the answer is one he won’t like. You don’t even like it. Because with the kind of damage Ghost inflicted, there’s no way in hell you’ll have it ready for any type of inspection today.

“For proper repairs and testing?” You exhale, shaking your head. “Days. At least two, sir.”

You brace yourself for impact—for the reprimand, the frustration, the inevitable do better speech. But it doesn’t come. He only sighs, nodding once before readjusting his cap.

“Two days, then.” He’s already walking away, halfway to the hangar doors when he glances back over his shoulder. “Performance review postponed.”

Those last three words make your stomach churn, and then Price is gone.

“Goddamn it. Asshole.”

The curse leaves you sharper than intended, loud enough to carry across the hangar. You don’t care. How could you? The moment you’ve bled for—postponed—because one insufferable bastard decided to make a spectacle of himself. You want to scream, to hurl every goddamn tool in reach straight at his smug, masked face.

Instead, you inhale deeply, exhaling through gritted teeth before turning to the crew.

“Call it a night, guys. I appreciate the help.”

A few nod, murmuring about leaving their assignments to meet early and help with the rest of the repairs, but their voices barely register. You’re exhausted, and you need a fucking shower — so you just mutter some type of agreement and head for the door. You walk the path back to housing, hardly even noticing that it’s nightfall now. Price must have come later than planned, though you really have no idea the hour because in all honesty you weren’t keep track of time. Either way, your boots hit the threshold of the barracks before you even realize you’d made it inside, your full focus on forcing your mind to keep busy.

You head straight for the showers, not bothering to grab fresh clothes. If you stop now, you might start thinking again — about the disaster of a day, about him, about the sheer fucking audacity — and that’s the last thing you need.

You tear off your disgusting uniform in seconds. The water is scalding, but you don’t flinch. If anything, you lean into it, letting the heat work its way into your bones, washing away the sweat, the grease, the tension coiled tight in your shoulders. You brace a hand against the tiled wall, exhaling sharply.

Fucking Ghost.

Your mind takes over now that you lack distraction, and the name alone is enough to set your teeth on edge. He didn’t just make your job harder—he deliberately threw you into the fire, watched you scramble, tested you like you were some new recruit fresh out of training. And the worst part? He got exactly what he wanted.

You hate that you rose to the challenge. That you had to. You just can’t figure out why. Why he did it — where his motives are.

Steam curls around you as you drop your head, water hammering against your spine, drowning out everything else. Your breaths come heavy, dragging in and out of your chest like you’ve just run a goddamn marathon, so busy in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shift in the air, the faint tremor in the ground beneath you.

You don’t hear the footsteps until they’re too close to ignore, breaking through your sorrows, coming to a halt just beyond the dividing wall. For a long, heavy moment, there’s nothing. Just the steady rush of water, the sound of your own breathing.

Then—

“Y’done sulkin’ yet?”

Fucking hell.

You snap to attention, the sound of that voice like a gut punch. Verbal inflection so intense that only after a few conversations (if you can even call them that) you know you’d recognize it in your sleep, and it takes all of your willpower not to react with more than just the involuntary stiffening in your muscles.

You blink the water out of your eyes, trying to center yourself.

“Do you make a hobby out of sneaking in on people while they shower?” You ask, forcing your voice to stay light, to not betray the rush of heat in your chest. You should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known this wasn’t the end of the goddamn shitshow. “Or am I just that special?”

"Didn’t know I had t’make an appointment for a communal shower.”

God, that does something to you, and you hate that it does. He’s taking your attitude and he’s feeding it right back to you — and the taste of your own medicine has never been so bitter.

Then, you hear his boots against the floor again, his voice accompanying. “Seems there’s alot I don’ know about ya.”

And again. It’s that tone. The way it drags, measured, like he’s thinking out loud. Like he’s taking you apart in his mind piece by piece. Trying to figure you out.

And you—stupidly, impulsively—throw it back at him.

“I’d say we’re even, then.”

It slips out before you can stop it, and you know it’s a mistake the second the words settle. Because he stops moving. The air tightens. A beat stretches long between you. You take the opportunity to reach for your towel, turn off the water, anything to not feel so vulnerable — but it doesn’t help. Not when you’re suddenly so acutely aware of how close he is. How little space separates you.

How very little there is between you at all.

You swallow, forcing steel into your voice. “I don’t even know your name.”

Then, the softest sound — amusement, maybe.

“Not sure y’need to.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, pulling the towel tight around your torso. Of course.

“Not sure I want to.” You mutter, more to yourself than anything.

But he catches it anyway.

You hear the shift of his stance, another hum of amusement. “Coulda’ fooled me.”

And that does it.

You know you’re walking straight into the trap he’s setting, but you don’t care anymore. Your patience is gone, worn to the bone, and you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t get to glare him right in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

“Cut the shit, Ghost.” The stall door slams open as you shove it wide, padding forward until your bare feet nearly touch his boots. “Why the hell are you even here?”

You don’t expect to hit a brick wall, but that’s exactly what it feels like. He’s missing a layer of tac gear now, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargos, shoulder propped against the support beam like he’s been here all night. His gaze flicks over your face, your neck, the way water drips from your skin.

You fight not to pull your towel tighter.

“Cap’s orders.” He states, voice easy, right as rain. “Told me t’make amends.”

He has to be kidding.

“Make amends.” You repeat the words flatly, tasting them, turning them over in your mind like they might somehow make more sense on the second pass. “He told you to make amends.”

They don’t.

And when he nods — you huff a laugh, humourless.

“Right. And you thought the best way to do that was to sneak into the showers and stand there like a fucking serial killer?”

“Didn’t sneak,” he says simply. “Walked in same as you.”

You blink. You have this sick feeling he’s enjoying this. Enjoying every reaction you’re giving.

“Yet your intent is not the same as mine.”

He looks at the door, then back to you. “Ain’t it?”

You inhale sharply through your nose, hands tightening around the towel at your chest. You know better than to engage with this — than to let him push and prod and get under your skin. But it’s too late. He’s already there, and you’re too goddamn tired to claw him back out.

“Look,” you sigh, shifting your weight, fighting not to admire the bulk of his chest at your eye level. “Whatever Price told you to do, consider it done. Apology accepted. Now get the fuck out so I can forget this conversation ever happened.”

A long beat. You don’t know what kind of response you expect, but the way he just stands there considering you is somehow worse than all the possible outcomes you’d imagined.

Then, finally—finally—he moves. But not to leave.

Instead, he pushes off the beam, straightening to full height and moves closer. Not much, just enough to make you feel it — the shift in the air — the heat radiating off him.

“Y’sure about that?” His voice is quieter now, head tilting down toward yours. “Seem a little too wound for someone who’s ready t’forget about it.”

A huff. “And you seem a little too invested for someone who’s just here on orders.”

It's stupid. It's really goddamn stupid how he's able to do this, to turn your words into a rope he can use to drag you around the way he wants. You know that. But still, you’re useless in stopping the way your stomach keens as he leans closer.

"Y’gonna deny you’re still pissed at me?” He whispers.

You shake your head. “Never said I wasn’t still pissed.”

"Mhm." He nods along with it. "But pissed don't fully describe it, does it?”

"It’s an improvement from murderous,” you retort, as pointedly as you can muster. “Count your blessings.”

Another hum, eyes dragging slow over your face, like he’s searching for something. Or maybe just savouring it — the way you bristle under his scrutiny — the way your fingers twitch where they clutch at your towel.

“M’grateful for y’kindness. Truly.” It takes you a second to register it—the cadence, the words, the mockery. He’s parroting you. Throwing your own attitude from earlier back in your face. “But y’know, yeah? I only did what I did ‘cause I knew y’could handle it.”

You go still, pulse hammering in your throat.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ghost.” Your voice wavers, choked by realization that everything he does has motive. “And definitely don’t flatter me. Not now.”

A slow exhale, warm against your chilled skin, hooded eyes flicking to your ear like he’s considering something.

“S’not flattery. Just truth.”

And then— closer. Close enough that the breath between you is thin, almost nonexistent.

“M’not a good man, sweet’eart. M’a filthy, vile thing. But you—” a pause. He breathes in, your hair shifting with the exhale. “Mm. Y’good. Clean. I knew y’could take it. Needed Price t’know it too.”

Well, fuck.

Your head is spinning now, but even through the vertigo you realize your second mistake. You know it’s a mistake the moment it happens — rather, the moment before it happens — but when your head shifts, just enough that your ear brushes against fabric of his mask; you realize it’s the type of mistake you can’t come back from.

And so, you breathe him in. It’s reckless. It’s ruinous. It’s completely unavoidable.

“My gut is telling me you’re patronizing me.” You whisper; something softer, something you shouldn’t allow. A pause. Your lashes flutter. “But god, I can’t figure you out.”

And again, you don’t know what reaction you expect from him. Maybe you don’t expect one at all. It’s been an exceptionally odd 24 hours, so you’re certain nothing can surprise you at this point. But what you definitely don’t count on is the continued brush of his mask against your cheek, or the way your toes long to curl against the damp floor—

"Y’not suppose to." His voice is so deep you feel it in your bones. “S’don’t try too hard.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but you do know you should step back. You need to step back.

But you don’t.

You stay right there, still as the air between you, every nerve suffocated by the viscosity stretching between his words and yours. The scent of him—gunmetal, something dark and earthen—settles in your lungs like smoke; curling, clinging, refusing to leave.

And so, you breathe him in for the second time. A dangerous temptation. “You came here to make amends, didn’t you?”

The words leave you quieter than you mean them to, tinged in something close to breathlessness — something you wish to god you didn’t hear. Something you hope to god he didn’t hear.

Because atleast now, you can say you know how he is — how he listens, how he picks the quirks out of you and files them away for later — how he knows what to do with the things he finds in people, how to use them like leverage.

And you should be immune to it.

You’ve spent your entire career training for moments like these. All the military training you went through, tactical and aerospace alike. You’ve been thrown into war zones, fixed and pulled aircraft’s out of burning fields, run repairs under enemy fire with nothing but your hands and your own goddamn heartbeat when the situation called for it.

You know what fear looks like. You know what death smells like. You know what it means to be hunted.

And yet—this? You never saw this coming.

Never saw him coming.

“Y’want an apology?” He mutters, and you can hear the smirk in it. “Y’want m’to say I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a good start.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, the smirk in his voice lingering, curling at the edges of the silence between you.

Then, he hums. “How ’bout I do y’one better?”

You barely have time to process the shift before you feel it—his hand—rough, calloused palm grazing slow along the towel covering your hip.

“Let m’spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lower with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Get y’feelin’ just how much I mean it.”

For a moment, you forget everything.

All the reasons, all the lines. The ones he's crossing — or maybe the ones you're erasing with every second you let his massive paw of a hand touch you. God — you aren't supposed to want this. You don’t know even know him. Don’t know his name, what his face looks like. You don’t know anything about him except that he’s dangerous, and that he’s made you fucking ache.

You exhale — when the moment passes and you remember where you are — a long, almost shaky breath, and it doesn't escape you the way he notices. Watches you through those thick lashes, like he's enjoying the reaction he's been working so hard for.

You wish you could hate him for it.

“Make me feel it then,” you whisper, all pathetic and trembling and borderline wanton as his fingers find the end of your towel, and brush against goosebumped flesh. “Lieutenant.”

And for a moment, you think you’ve made your third mistake of the evening. His title slips out like a curse — and something in your chest roars with how much you mean it.

He's so goddamn cocky. So sure of himself and you hate that you're the one he's so sure of. But when you call him by his rank — when you push that sarcastic mouth of yours just a little bit further, you can feel his reaction instantaneously by the way he stalls — eyes glinting in the low light.

"She wants t’bring rank into this now, yeah?” And when you don’t reply fast enough, he replies for you. “Get in the stall, engineer.”

There's a thousand reasons this is a bad idea. A million reasons you should be saying no right now. But when he looks at you like that, with those eyes like fire locked on yours and practically daring you to refuse him — he has to know he’s not going to get it.

His hand comes up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Now.”

And that, is your fourth mistake of the night.

You turn, padding back into the stall you’d showered in only moments before — tiles still beading with diamond droplets, gleaming up at you as you step inside. You turn as he follows you in, crowding you against the wall, broad shoulders taking up all the width in the already cramped space as he shuts the door behind him.

And then, he’s on you.

It's so abrupt and so visceral that it takes your breath away entirely. Your hands go up automatically to catch his chest, steadying yourself when he slots his knee between your legs, pinning you against the wall. Your towel is barely clinging around you, and it’s a shocker it still is — but you forget about it when he starts dipping his head down.

"Feels good, don’t it? Bein’ told what t'do?” He murmurs, fabric covered lips grazing the shell of your ear. "M'bettin’ y’don’t experience this much anymore. Tha’s why you’re melting for it.”

And god, the fact that he’s right. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

Somewhere between your rank and your title and your pride, you’ve forgotten the last time you had someone looking at you like this. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to bite and scratch and insist that you're nothing like he's saying — but then a hand slips up around your throat, and the other down between the space separating your bodies, thick fingers catching the end of your towel — and your eyes flutter.

“M’not hearing any apologies.” You manage to mutter, just before those same thick digits find your inner thigh, working up higher.

You're deflecting. The both of you know it. The same pride that drove you to where you are is the same pride that drove him where he is. You think he’s going to call you on it, but then you realize he won’t. Not when the hand at your throat tightens just barely, not when his voice drips into your ear.

"Y’gonna feel em’ soon.”

And then, you do.

You feel the grazing of calloused flesh against sensitive, damn-near celibate flesh. There’s another sound. A low, wanton, filthy moan, and you’re about 94% sure it came from you as beastly fingers slide along your slick slit, exposing the extent of your need to his ego in its entirety — once, twice, curling toward your sopping entrance before you feel the thunder of his hum.

Mocking. "Christ. S’like m’workin’ a faucet, yeah?"

His lips are on your neck now, mouthing slow and deliberate along your jaw even while covered by fabric — and the whimper that slips out is pathetic, even to your own ears.

"Wha’s that?” He all but growls. "C'mon, use y'words f’me. Or d’you only know how t’spit insults?“

You do know how to use your words, actually — and they're usually good ones. You've got a sharp tongue, a mouth just as foul as your temper. So you don't know what to do when every curse, every name, every string of insults you keep in stock gets caught in your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but try not to gasp when his fingers slide up to your clit and swirl.

"Fucking hell." Your jaw goes slack under the hand that holds it. "You—really are vile—“

This whole goddamn thing is vile. The way he can ruin you like this — make you quiver like this — in moments without so much as a name or face to attach the memory of it to.

If he's vile, you know you're not much better.

"Yeah. Tha’s right. I know you’re feelin’ it." He murmurs, fingers circling your clit firmer, faster. "Look how y’squirmin’ for it.”

You have half a mind to spit in his face for that. You have half a mind to tell him to go to hell. You have a million other things you should be doing right now other than clawing at his chest just to stay upright as he brings you to the brink of ruin.

"T-there you go again—mmf—“ your words are so breathless it’s pathetic. “Flattering yourself.”

It’s a futile attempt at a rebuttal, a stupid one because you already know the response he’s going to have to it. Pathetic. You are squirming, and you want to hate him for it, so you do. Your nails bite into his chest, dragging, raking slow and hard as if you could tear through the fabric covering it. You know you wouldn’t. Couldn't. But it's still good enough for him to grunt, hand around your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp in response.

"S’not flattery. Just truth.” He parrots himself again from earlier, and you think you’re on the verge of losing your mind because you know him well enough now have to predicted it. “Y’fuckin need this, don’ you?”

It's not a question. He doesn't need you to answer, because you both know how it ends anyway. But god damn him and his words. Because his filthy mouth is the second most dangerous thing to ever happen to you — right behind his fingers. You need to reply. Need to answer. He's going to force a reaction from you one way or another.

But he doesn’t give you the luxury of even trying.

His fingers still with a suddenness that makes you cry out in frustration — silver platter feeding him exactly what he was fucking looking for.

"Mhm. S’what I thought." He murmurs, hand sliding from around your throat to the back of your head. “M’guessing it’s been years. Least’ a couple.”

And it’s then, that you get it.

You get why this man is feared. You get why he’s so fucking dangerous. He’s worse than the name you know him by — because you’re certain even ghosts aren’t this knowing. This brutal. This consuming.

And through the haze in your head, you try to think back to the day you first met him. There had to have been dark signs — omens in your skies — a warning.

Yet, you can’t think of one.

“F-fuck you.” You spit it at him, because it’s apparently all your mouth is good for. “Stroke your ego any harder and it might just fucking cum before I do.”

He laughs, and then you feel it. The grip tightening in your hair, the palm slapping at your inner thigh to work your legs wider.

“Judging by tha’ mouth, y’never been fucked right either.” He mutters, fingers slipping up the slick coating your thighs. “S’alright. M’here to apologize, yeah? I’ll pay m’penance.”

Bullshit.

He’s not going to apologize by any means — if the last however many minutes aren’t proof enough of that. This is punishment in its worst form, and even that’s not enough. If you want him to make it up to you, you’re going to have to take it.

"Get on your fucking knees, then.” You’re so unbelievably wired that you hardly even realize what you’d said. You hardly even realize when you continue. “And use that mouth for something other than self elation.”

If you thought this was dangerous before - you’re not sure what the fuck this is now.

If someone had asked you an hour ago if you'd ever considered you have a death wish of this caliber, you’d have laughed. If someone had asked you if you were capable of saying half the things you’re saying right now, you’d have laughed even harder. But the fact that they’re leaving your lips - your lips that are now trembling with the realization that you just ordered one of the most dangerous men in the world to kneel — is enough to make you dizzy.

But then, he does it.

He sinks to those knees, cargos sponging the cold showered tiles as he does.

And you don’t think— not really — not for a moment.

Because if you did, you might have wondered if your pride and your dignity are even worth the way he’s looking at you right now — like he wants to eat you alive. You might have wondered if you were dreaming, if this was even physically fucking possible — the nameless, faceless man who has scared people shitless with just his reputation, kneeling between your fucking feet.

“Fuck.” It slips out in an exhale, and you don’t even hear it.

He does, though.

And in response, he holds your eyes while pulling at the edge of his balaclava. Just enough to uncover his jaw and lips — thick, pillow-full lips cocked into the type of grin you’d have expected, but steals the remainder of your breath regardless.

“M’gonna’ spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow.” He rasps, pulling one of your thighs over his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

Oh, how you wish he meant that.

Because he isn’t. He isn’t the least bit apologetic when he pushes your back against the tiled walls with a heavy palm against your pelvis — he isn’t the least bit remorseful when he’s dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, nipping and lapping — and he’s certainly not the least bit sorry as he brings that filthy fucking mouth of his to your slit, and starts to devour you like he’s starved.

And this, you know is sin.

You know this, because you’ve never felt a mouth on you until now that made you think of god. You’ve never felt fingers dig into flesh with enough force to bruise the way his do — never felt anything that could make you forget who you are and where you are and everything in between.

It has to be sin, because no one could do this without an explicit knowledge of what sin tastes like.

There’s no other explanation for the way he can make you keen, arch and moan like this. No other excuse for the way you quiver as he curls his tongue and strokes you until you’re seeing white, just to suck on your clit with a ferocity that makes your stomach tighten and your hands shoot up to cover your own mouth.

“Feel it.” He husks against you, and the sound and sensation make your hips buck forward in response. “Relax an’ feel it.”

It’s not a request — it’s a demand. And you don’t think to defy him when he pulls your hands away, pushes you back, and buries his whole face against your pussy again like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You’re so dizzy you can’t even keep your eyes open. You can only hear your breath coming out in stilted moans and little cries of his namesake — the namesake that you realize the irony of rather briefly, but forget when your brain flatlines all over again.

Because he groans against your clit like you’re the best goddamn meal he’s ever had, and suddenly, you get how easy it is to fall. Fall into the rhythm — your hips moving in sync with the strokes of his tongue, your thighs closing around his skull. You want to scream. You almost want to cry. Your voice breaks with every sound you make, and you know your heart is only a few beats away from beating out of your chest by the way he grips your hips, pulling your cunt to his head before bringing a finger to your sopping entrance.

"Gonna’ stretch y’out a bit.” He rasps, and you aren’t sure if he’s saying it to warn you or to remind himself. “Breathe.”

You try, but then, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s happening — that thick finger pushes inside you, curling against your walls until you’re gasping and covering your mouth all over again.

And god, you aren’t going to be able to look at his skull mask the same way again. Not when you watch it’s shape shifting just slightly as he works his jaw, suckling against your clit with a hunger you can only describe as feral, eyes half-lidded as they lock with your own. You’re certain nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. It's a goddamn match to a bomb as he starts to work another finger into you, curling them in time with his tongue in a way you don’t think you’d have been able to come up with if you’d had a lifetime to consider it. You can feel that tension building — a tight coil of heat and pressure building low in your core.

Then, you feel his fingers inside you doing something odd. Something—

Oh, fuck.

You feel it before you can comprehend it — before you know he’s tracing the first letter, the shape of it hitting in just the right place that it makes your hips buck in response.

S.

Oh. Oh god.

You can feel him hum against you, like he’s savouring it — the way you’re clenching around his fingers as you realize what he’s doing. It takes everything in you not to scream, eyes squeezed shut and hand over your mouth — head back against the wall as you imagine the look in his eyes, how goddamn wicked it must be while he spells out the rest of his apology inside you.

O. Then, R. Then another. Then, Y.

“G-ghost—“ you know he must be able to tell you're almost gone, because when he hits the last R and your breath catches, his name a whoreish moan you try to smother against the back of your hand — he growls in satisfaction. It’s too much. You can't breathe because your climax is right fucking there, and you can’t stop it for a second longer. “G-ghost—m’gonna—ohgod—“

With a suddenness that makes stars burst across the backs of your eyes, he brings his free hand up, stuffing two fingers into your mouth to smother the sound and feel of his name as you cry it. He strokes you through it, pumping you with his fingers as your vision blurs into some indiscernible haze — a kaleidoscope of light and pleasure and everything you know you should never allow yourself to have.

And then, when you finally catch the breath it took to even say his name, he pulls away. Fingers slipping from your mouth and your pussy like a goddamn magician.

A ghost.

Then, he stands up, and you watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand like you’re all the goddamn nourishment he needs before he’s helping you get stable on your feet.

“M’sure y’feel it now.” He murmurs, lips so close to yours you can taste yourself on his breath. "M’a man of m’word, sweet’eart. Always make good on m’promises.”

You’re sure he can see it, the realization in your eyes when you come back down to earth long enough to remember what just happened. Remember that you weren't supposed to let it happen in the first place. That you were supposed to have better control over yourself — and you can guess he knows, by the way he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Guess I made m’point, yeah?"

He tugs his balaclava back in place, and you exhale.

“Yeah, you made your point.” He hums at that, and you tug your towel tighter. “But this—this can’t happen again.”

It takes him a beat to respond, and when he does, it’s simple.

"Of course.”

You don’t know why, but that response makes your chest tighten in a way it has no business doing. It would have been so much easier if he’d given you a smart ass smirk, or a biting response. It would be so much easier if he told you that you didn’t have a choice in the matter, but he doesn’t.

And so, you step closer to him, tilting your head back to keep his eyes.

“I mean it, Ghost.” You whisper. “I’ll take a pound of your flesh before I allow you to fuck with my paystub ever again.”

You thought, at this point, you’d have figured out some type of gauge on his reactions. But still, he proves you haven’t. You don't expect the hand coming up, cupping your jaw to hold you in place as his eyes drop to your lips. You don't expect him to lean in, and bring his own to your ear — and you definitely don’t expect the words that fill it.

“There’s a few things I wanna’ fuck. Y’paystub ain’t one.” He pauses, and you’re certain it’s because he’s enjoying the drumbeat that is now your heart rate. You’d just found your breath and he singlehandedly stole it again. “I’ll be watchin’ f’your enemies. T’let em’ know they contend with me.”

You think you get it then. The reason everyone looks at him the way they do. The reason they're so terrified of him in one second, and willing to take a bullet for him during the next. It's not even because he's trained to be a killing machine. Not because he can see what you're thinking before you even realize you are. Not because he'd walk through fire just to be close to hell.

It's because he's a man of his word, and even you understand the gravity of that kind of loyalty.

You exhale with a nod, and then he’s gone.

[nistarot]

(putting up a sign that says beware of dog hes hungry)

[twistedpink]

It's still May 5th in my timezone so I'mma try my luck and say 'codependent' with Diasomnia? 👀

CUTE!!! @bju3c0re

Codependent!Sebek’s the type of guy to be suffocating with his physicality- always grabbing for your hand with his clammy one, or rubbing his head into the fat of your cheek when he’s sleepy,, Something so childish and thoughtless definitely isn’t his doing, so it has to be your fault! He’s tried so hard to just pull up his bootstraps and get through the day without you; and every time he ends up collapsing in your bed. With all your “attacks”, life as a single knight is completely impossible </3 Please never stop him from being needy- the fate of the kingdom is at stake!!

Codependent!Silver can’t help but make you breakfast in bed- and lunch, and dinner. So long as you never have to get up, he’s happy :) Isn’t your boyfriend the best? He only wants you safe and sound in the comfort of his room and his clothes (even better if they’re too small and he gets some thigh action), is that too much to ask? Come to think of it, the mess of his bed’s starting to resemble.. A nest, so much so that you bring Lilia in to investigate- but he’s long since brushed it off, blaming it on your “honeymoon brain”; if that old bat isn’t seeing anything out of Silver’s ‘ordinary’, then you should totally just lay back and forget about it! (The cuddles are actually just measuring you like a snake to see how long you’ll take to digest. It’s too late for you) <3

Codependent!Lilia’s just absorbing you, like a sponge. His attachment’s an all-consuming, gnawing, constant thing that grabs you by the hip and just,, Won’t let go :/ It wouldn’t be as bad if he wasn’t so PETTY about it, but that’s just Lilia, and it’s what you fell in love with. Like any old married couple, you complain about it anyways <3 He’s the worst with stealing your identity,, Always using your cologne or toothpaste- to the point where people’d mix you up if he wasn’t so.. Him. Even with his signature charm, he’s determined to become a mini-you. Eventually. And maybe you’ll do him a solid by picking up his good habits? As a treat? <3

Codependent!Malleus’s the WORST!! A professional clinger of the highest grade! It’s practically treason with just how much he’s willing to lay down for you- all his thousand thread count robes, socks, and evening tea gloves? Yours. Makeup palettes, jewellery, maybe a pinkie? Don’t even TRY asking, because you already know the answer. He loves you so much it hurts, and he’d keep going even if it killed him. Because you’re worth it- he just hopes you won’t mind all the portraits he’s been painting behind your back.. He won’t forget you so long as he has eyes and hands to sketch your face.. After all, he’s obsessed <3

[no-144444]

one for leaving- d.ricciardo

꩜ summary: something changes...

꩜ pairing: daniel ricciardo x fem! reader

Daniel had always been around. 

Even as a child, you watched as he carved out his own immovable space in your life. He was persistent, he was fast, and he didn’t often take no for an answer. He was funny. Always laughing. Smarter than anyone realised. The first time he asked you out, he did it for your school formal, and he made a big sign, basically begging you to go. You never thought he’d liked you like that, and you were ecstatic. What followed was years and years of bliss. Years where you got to know him, learning every habit, every trait, every phobia, every fucking twitch of his lip, and what it meant. You pulled him out of McLaren, and you made it alright. You supported him at every race. You waited for him.  

So, you’d think you’d know him by now. You’d think you could… understand him, by now. Losing F1, it was hard, but you’d stood by his side, being the pillar of strength he needed, pulling him up by his bootstraps and reminding him who he was. Reminding him that he was Daniel fucking Ricciardo, and he had a lot more life to live beyond some silly cars. And that worked. 

For a while. 

Then reminders crept in, and the arguments started. You only wanted what was best, and you knew if he continued watching and staring and reminiscing, he’d be miserable. And you were right. A particularly bad day meant he told you your ideas for your (long overdue) wedding were stupid and silly, and you recoiled. He knew you were right to, and he knew this wasn’t your fault.

He just didn’t know how to tell you.  

“What’s wrong?” you asked, your voice cautious. That’s all you’d been for weeks… cautious. After the fight, Daniel had stepped away from you, and the distance was only growing. He sighed beside you. 

“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just busy these past weeks,” he shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. You fiddled with your ring. 

“Are you sure? If something’s wrong, you can tell me,” your voice was tender. More tender than he’d even heard it. He was quiet. “Please just let me back in.” 

Something snapped. He looked down, and you felt it. That terrible ache in your chest that had settled all those weeks ago finally opened, at the same time Daniel’s mouth did. “I don’t want to get married anymore,” he admitted, clasping his hands together as he evaded your gaze. It was almost pathetic. He was wearing a shirt you’d washed and ironed, he was sitting on a couch you picked out, having eaten food you’d prepared. 

And he didn’t want you. 

You nodded, attempting to soften the impact the lump in your throat would have on your voice. “Alright,” you slid the engagement ring off your finger and dropped it in his lap. “Anything else?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, emotions overtaking his voice. “I’m so sorry. You deserve so much more than this, than me.” 

You huffed, standing up. “Maybe that’s true,” you shrugged, picking up your plates and taking them to the sink. “But that’s not reality, and I hav- had you.”

“I just-” 

“I don’t really care for your explanation Daniel,” you sighed. “I’ll pack up my stuff during the week, alright?” 

“Alright,” he nodded, following behind you, stopping when he was just a foot away. “I’m sorry-”

“You don’t need to keep saying that,” you turned to him. “You don’t love me anymore, it’s fine.” 

“It’s not though, is it?” he mused, prolonging both of your suffering. “I’ve tried and I just… can’t. I don’t know why. I want to. I really want to, because I think you’re a great person. You’re funny, and you’re beautiful, you’re so smart, and fucking- I don’t know! I don’t understand why I can’t love you like I want to,” he crossed his arms, frustrated. “And it’s not because of you,” he assured you, but your self-confidence was already shot, so it didn’t matter, even if he’d blamed you. “I just… there’s something wrong with me.” 

“Sure,” you shrugged. “That’s fine.”

“Why are you so okay right now?” he asked.  You stared at him for a moment. Really stared. This would probably be the last time you’d see him upclose in real life. A sad smile made its way onto your lips, and you couldn’t hold back the tears in your eyes. “You’ve always been one for leaving Daniel, it was only a matter of time.”

navigation for my blog :)

redbull and vcarb masterlist

[shirefantasies]

Can I ask for a request?

For the fellowship men? So they get wounded and their crush have to nurse them? And she is total calm with that like "Hun your leg is bleeding you have to take off your pants so I can treat the wound" and she's total obvious and didn't get the longing looks she get oder when he ist flustered and shiver because she touch his skin. ("Sry for the cold hands")

I’ll do my best! Tried to vary up the scenarios a bit 😉 thank you so much for requesting 😌 Warnings: some blood & injury mentions, minor language, some suggestive jokes!

The Fellowship When Their Crush Cares For Their Wound

Aragorn

"Won't you please sit down?"

The tender urgency of your words finally ran a shock through Aragorn, who complied. Perhaps it truly was no good to continue pressing on at the detriment of the group.

"Very well. We rest!"

"That was not so hard, was it?" You asked him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Now, if you please." Pantomiming removing your shirt, you nodded his way.

Aragorn's brows furrowed, blue eyes fixing you with concern, questioning, as he sat and tightened his bootstraps.

"I saw that slash you took," you breathed, "let yourself be cared for."

Inhaling, he nodded, unlacing and shrugging down his tunic. Never had you made such a request before, but giving as you were, it made sense. Such nature was what inevitably drew Aragorn to you. Your touch was soft as you reached out to caress the skin above where he had been injured. Cleaned it just as gently.

"What?" You suddenly broke the silence, tilting your head and fixing Aragorn with an innocent bat of your eyes. You truly had no idea.

He shook his head, a smile playing upon his lips to swallow the wince of pain as you began wrapping his cut flesh in bandages. "Nothing. Only gratitude at the care of your heart and the ease of your hands."

You smiled back, sending Aragorn's chest leaping somewhere far deeper than the pain could reach.

Legolas

"You're bleeding."

"It is nothing, really," the elven prince tried to brush you off, but shaking your head, you stepped in front of him.

"Keep not your pride so tight about you," you chastised, hands upon your hips and a teasing look upon your face, "the dwarf can't see you. Come. Let me at least wrap it up for you."

Legolas's expression softened at your words, and with a slight nod, he followed. Wordlessly he removed his layers when you reached a spot off to the side, dark eyes never leaving you as he revealed the entirety of the wound, a slash near his collarbone. Unthinkingly, your hands went right to the area around it.

"Oh, Legolas, it's worse than I..." You paused, feeling him shiver. "I'm sorry, are my hands cold?"

"A bit," he replied with a bit of a smile, resting both of his hands over yours.

Flushing, you shake your head. "I am supposed to be caring for you."

Legolas just smiled at you. "Can we not have both? This is the least I can do."

"True," you teased, "I suppose it benefits us both, does it not?"

"Indeed," he nodded, "but mostly yet I know no other way to show my heart's gratitude."

Boromir

"I can hardly believe you!"

"Believe what? We are safe again," Boromir replied, a hand tightly clasping your shoulder.

"You are well aware what, you hero of a man," you shot back, waving a hand up and down his form, "now go and lie down for me already!"

"Oh?" His brows shot up at your words. "Is that how you like it?"

"No matter me, you've been wounded! Being surrounded upon all sides and grazed with arrows does that to a man. I saw the one that caught your side and while I'd like to hold you up as much as you need, first we'd best patch you up."

"Oh," Boromir said again, this time a bit dumbly as he lowered to the ground with a nod. His teasing tone quickly returned, however, "Yes, indeed, whatever you say. I forget what a great healer you are."

"Well, I certainly may not be the best, but there is no reason to burden oneself with wounds already inflicted. Not to mention it mostly got your back."

The moment Boromir exposed himself, he glanced back at you, catching the trace of your eyes over his skin. Your hands soon fell upon it, working quickly to clean and wrap up the bloody graze nice and tight. What surprised him, though, was the work of your hands after this, your fingers kneading the skin around it. Pleasure and pain rolled in equal waves through him as you did so.

"My apologies, does this hurt too much? I felt you start a bit just now. My brother just told me that we heal better if we're relaxed."

"And I believe that wholeheartedly," Boromir agreed with a smile, "please continue. I must confess I have never received such fine treatment before."

Giggling at his comment and eliciting a chuckle from him in return, you continued with a smile of your own.

Gimli

“Sit still!”

“I can still fight!”

“Like hell you will,” you shot back, stopping Gimli again with a hand across his chest, “I don’t care what you think you can do, you just could have been killed! Now stay there, please. I’m worried about you.”

Spoken considerably softer, those last four words were what halted Gimli’s protest the most, a glow of warmth and hope ringing out in his chest. His lips parted a bit in surprise. “Oh. Alright, then, do what you need.” For all his bravado, it had been a nasty case, his body slammed down so hard and his now-pounding head taking the brunt of the force.

“Thank you.” Reaching your hands up, you slid his helmet off first, tucking his hair behind his ears. You could feel the way he tensed up at your actions as you pulled one hand away to fetch your cloth. "Sorry, did that sting?"

He had to get out his head- all you were doing was taking care of him. "Not at all. Please-please continue." Perhaps his words sounded desperate, but Gimli barely cared when your hands were on him like that.

Speaking of which... You took firmer hold, tilting him by the chin to get a better angle with which to dab the warm fabric over the wound.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

Frodo

"Would you not like to do something about this?"

Frodo simply peered up into your eyes with his glistening blue stare, tilting his head inquisitively and tugging at his sleeves, which you then took a hold of.

"No, no, take this all off is what I meant."

"Take- take it all...?"

Hand crossing over your shoulders, you drew lines down in an impression of the chain Frodo wore, the impossibly heavy burden he bore burning into his skin at all times. "Surely you feel it. You must. Keep it on, I won't touch it, but please let me ease the pain."

Blinking, Frodo inhaled, nodded. "Very well. What will you do, then?"

"Just put some salve up there around where the chain is. Here, just take your shirt off a bit," you told him, fussing with his jacket but allowing Frodo himself to undo the top buttons of his shirt.

He glanced up, followed your gaze and saw it lie not upon the ring, but upon his, and visibly relaxed, a smile finally working its way to his soft lips. Nodding again, he sat back as your hand pushed the metal chain up from its place, spreading your healing concoction upon the opened skin. When your hand got lower, you could feel how rapid his heartbeat was thumping beneath skin and bone.

"Don't worry, really. All I care about is you." Did it pick up again?

"I am at ease, the first of such I've felt in some time. I cannot thank you enough," he replies with a shake of his head and a kiss to the hand you weren't using.

Sam

"Alright, Sam, open up your shirt."

"I beg your pardon?"

Shaking your head, you chuckled at his wide eyes. "I heard you got a nasty scrape, and if so, I've got just the thing for it."

Shock still swam in his green eyes, his fingers hovering over the buttons hesitantly as he glanced between them and you.

Flushing, you spoke once more, much more hastily as you held up the jar of medicine in question. "Oh! Er, well, if you'd rather someone else take a look, I can give this to Aragorn and he can-"

"No!" Sam cut you off, shaking his head. "No, no let's not trouble Strider, you're all right. Here we go."

Glancing back and forth, he sat down upon a rock and undid the top three buttons of his shirt, wiggling the fabric loose to reveal the wound you'd been told of. Your eyes wandered a bit before guiltily returning to Sam's; he smiled faintly as you dipped your fingers into the cool contents of the jar and reached back up to smear some on. Sam, surprisingly, did not flinch but he did shiver a bit.

"Oh, my apologies, I should have warmed it up a bit better first, shouldn't I?"

He sat up a bit straighter at your words. "Not at all, I can take it. Just...just startled me a bit is all. Don't worry your pretty head."

Merry

"Trousers off. Let's see it."

"Right now?" Merry loudly whispered, eyes going round.

"Yes, right now," you fussed, "or else you'll bleed out! Come on."

"Oh. Oh, the wound, yes. Bit of a close one there, wasn't it?"

You put a hand on your hip as Merry lowered into a seated position and undid his belt. "Had Boromir not been there with his shield, you could have lost your leg. What were you thinking?"

"Well, if you really must know," Merry shot back, shimmying his outer garments down to reveal a glistening red gash upon his right leg, "thought charging in might impress you."

He shuddered under the cleansing water you pressed against it, likely due to the cold. Your brow furrowed equally at the wound as it was at him, your eyes darting up to search his. "Impress me?" You replied incredulously.

"Yes," he agreed with a crooked, devious smile, "and with that first line of yours, I thought it'd worked."

Pippin

“Alright, take off your trousers.”

Pippin’s eyebrows shot up as his hands slid to his belt. “Is that what we’re doing? Well, all right then…”

Head tilted and brows furrowed in confusion, you fixed him with a look. “Of course we are, you got a huge gash above the knee. Lucky for you Aragorn harvested us a whole lot of poultice herbs the other day.” Your gaze slid between Pippin and your work of crushing the leaves as he sheepishly loosened his garments.

“Right, right, I knew that, yes. So the leaves are going to go down first, then?”

“Indeed,” you nodded, dabbing at the remaining dribble of blood before you began gently dabbing the poultice on.

Your eyes traveled back up to meet his, their deep green sheen bringing a shy smile to your face. Beneath your hand, he shuddered faintly.

“Sorry, does that sting?” You asked him, glancing again between your work and him.

Puffing out his chest a bit, Pippin shook his head. “Not at all. Not when I have the best nurse in all of Middle Earth to take care of me. Feels a bit good, in fact.”

Flushing, you gave a full smile at his words as you tied off his bandage. “Well, having the best patient helps, too.” Feeling a bit bold, you reached up and patted his cheek. “Let me know if you need anything else, alright?”

A wide grin spread across Pippin’s face. “Oh, I can think of something."

[leonsdolly]

Cherry Pies

Leon Kennedy x fem!reader x Ashley Graham

Synopsis: You propose the idea of a threesome to your boyfriend, but you accidentally get your feelings hurt during the act.

CW: nsfw 18+, p in v, threesome, ddlg/daddy kink, oral (both male and female receiving), face-sitting, unprotected sex, creampie, cum-eating, fingering, jealousy, implied age gap (mid 20s, early 40s)

WC: 4.5k

If there’s one thing you cherish in life, it’s Leon’s propensity for spoiling you. There’s no end to his love for his cute girlfriend; he’ll do anything for you, and if that means listening to you prattle on about your coworkers’ nightmare hookups or assembling a cozy country cottage for your Sylvanian families, so be it. He’ll swallow all reservations, not that he has any, for the sake of keeping his baby happy. He’s made it known that you’re the best thing that's ever happened to him, all pink and saccharine, like a sugar plum fairy. However, your latest request has him raising an eyebrow.

“Are you sure about this, babydoll?”

“Sure I’m sure!” Your eyes twinkle with excitement as you plop yourself on his lap with your arms around him. “I’ve always wanted to try it… and you like Ashley, right? You said she’s my only friend whose perfume doesn't make you sneeze.”

“Oh right,” Leon thinks back to the friend you’re referring to. He’s only met her once, but he seemed to approve of your friendship. She was well-mannered and indulged in your dramatic retellings of everyone else’s lives for him when he was just too busy licking the government’s bootstraps. “You sure you’re okay with this, baby? Won’t get jealous?” His voice is teasing but a glimmer of truth peeks out. You almost clawed his eyes out when he wolf-whistled at a character from one of the video games you played - the female mercenary in red. Your gel manicure (procured on his dime, of course) was fresh at the time and was the only thing preventing you from expressing your displeasure.

“Gosh, just let me have this, Daddy…” You give him the most precious puppy dog eyes you can muster.

“I’m just looking out for you, sweet girl.” He touches his forehead against yours so that he’s gazing straight into your eyes. “You can get feisty sometimes, you sure you won’t mind if I have my tongue in another girl’s pussy?”

His words deliver a current straight to your core like an electrode is attached to your clit. You lean in closer to nip at his lips, swiping your tongue across them. He chuckles and presses against you for a proper sloppy kiss, intertwining his tongue with yours. You slowly grind your hips against his lap, feeling his cock harden beneath you. His hands slip underneath your shirt, caressing your back and slinking forward to squeeze your tits as he continues to lap into your mouth.

“What if we didn’t fuck until then?” You cease all movement and pull back, causing him to chase your pretty lips with a slight frown.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me, doll.”

“No, it'll be fun!” Your eyes glint with mischief. “No sex until then. That way, you can channel all of that pent up energy into fucking Ashley and I properly.” 

“Baby, I’m already energetic when it comes to fucking you properly no matter how many times we do it.” He moves to kiss you again, but you dodge and press your finger against his lips.

“You’re just gonna blueball me?” His offended tone makes you giggle as you wrap your arms around him and snuggle into his chest.

“There's more to a relationship than sex, y’know.” You’re laying it on real thick at this point; it's utter shit coming out of your mouth, you know it, he knows it, and it's amusing all the same.

“Mhm, I know the girl who cries when my cock isn't in her mouth isn't saying this.”

“Daddy!” You tilt your head up, sticking your tongue out at him.

“I’m just saying. You know I’ll do anything for you, baby. If this is what you want, so be it. Just don't be surprised if I blow my load in two seconds flat and embarrass you in front of your friend.” He nuzzles against your hairline.

“You’re being dramatic,” you roll your eyes and hug him tighter.

T-Minus 3 days.

You shoo Leon away when his hands glide under your skirt in an attempt to touch your pussy.

T-Minus 2 days.

You send Leon a picture of your bare tits, nipples perky through the screen.

T-Minus 1 day.

You let Leon fuck his fist with your used panties wrapped around his cock.

D-Day.

Ashley comes over, all smiles and chirps while Leon is still away at work. The two of you gossip about everything and everyone over delicate glasses of chardonnay while occasionally brushing against each other’s bare legs. You’re clad in a white lacy bra with pale pink trim and white panties with a dainty bow in the same shade of pink - Leon’s favorite colors on you. Ashley wears a matching set in baby blue that brings out her eyes - your favorite color on her. You giggle as you do each other’s hair and makeup to perfection.

“Perfect,” you smile as you playfully tap the blush brush on her button nose. “My daddy likes blush on girls.”

Ashley giggles at this as she runs a hand over your bare thigh. “We’re gonna make Daddy so happy.” Oh God, she's a natural at this - you didn't need to coach her through the dynamics of your relationship with Leon. She knew exactly what to say and how to act - the perfect daddy’s girl. You chose her for a reason after all.

You head to the bed where you curl up against each other to wait for Leon’s homecoming. Ashley looks awfully pretty in the ambient glow of your bedside lamp - shiny blonde hair, smooth skin, cute tits that stand on their own without much help from a push-up bra. Oh, Leon’s going to eat her up. You mentally give yourself a pat on the back as you brush your lips against hers. She kisses you back, and your hand comes up to tweak at her perky nipple through the delicate lace of her bra. You press your breasts against hers as you both moan quietly into each other's mouths. The feeling of her tits rubbing against yours makes your thighs clench together - your pussy’s wet, and your boyfriend isn't even here yet.

Your kisses grow more heated as you continue to rub against each other. Her lips are so much softer than the ones you’re accustomed to, and they taste like cherry pies. You marvel at the way her tongue softly glides against yours like molten candy. You’re so invigorated by the sensation that you fail to hear the front door of your apartment unlocking and Leon’s familiar footsteps making their way to the bedroom.

By the time he reaches the bedroom, he's gobsmacked by the sight of his pretty baby having a makeout session with another pretty baby. You and Ashley finally pull away from each other to gaze up at him through subtle glittery eyeshadow and false lashes. “How was work, Daddy?” You crawl towards him, letting him catch a good view of your breasts, before kneeling at the foot of the bed where you reach your grabby hands out for him.

“Work was work,” he sighs contentedly as he takes your hands and bends down to kiss your forehead lovingly. You both look towards Ashley who’s observing your affections shyly from the corner of the bed. Leon smiles and reaches his hand out for her, urging her to join you in front of him. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

Once she has the green light, she crawls over so that she’s perched prettily on her knees next to you. He places a hand on your cheek, caressing it tenderly before using his other hand to do the same to Ashley. He bends down to plant a kiss on your lips and repeats the gesture with her. “My pretty girls,” he murmurs as his gaze grows heavy with desire.

His words and actions ignite the flame deep inside your core, and you can tell they’re having the same effect on Ashley. You start to palm him through his jeans, admiring the bulge that’s developing in front of your very eyes. You turn to Ashley with a giggle. “Daddy’s cock’s really nice… S’like, actually fun to suck.”

“Really?” Her eyes brighten as she beams up at Leon before helping you unbuckle his belt and slide his jeans down, revealing his hard cock. “Oh…!” She lets out a squeak. “You weren’t kidding…”

Your hand comes up to gently stroke his length as you pepper the tip in sweet kisses until precum’s beading from it. His eyebrows knit together as he inhales sharply. “Here, try it,” you giggle as you lift your head to let Ashley have a taste. She suckles on the head for a bit before you gently guide her head down his thick length. Her head bobs up and down while Leon groans in pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re just as good of a cocksucker as my baby is, huh, sweetheart?” Her response is warbled around his cock as she sucks more enthusiastically at his praise. She finally pulls off, leaving a string of spit connecting her to his sticky tip. It’s broken once you kiss her hungrily, savoring the taste of your boyfriend on her cherry flavored lips. 

“My turn, Daddy,” you sing-song as you open your mouth wide for him, making him guide his heavy cock inside and down your throat. You’re used to him, and your throat welcomes the familiar sensation as it clenches salaciously around his length. His grunts grace your ears, and you do your best to gaze up at him through your lashes - even though you’re used to it, the teary eyes and quiet gags always make their presence known.

“Good girl, my baby,” he breathes as you pull off of his cock leaving just the tip in your mouth. Ashley joins in, sloppily kissing and licking the side of his cock as you work the tip before mimicking her actions on the other side. You both giggle as you move up and down in tandem, sending vibrations through his body. He moans loudly as you slobber all over his fat cock before meeting each other’s lips at the tip where you hungrily lap at each other’s mouths.

Leon takes a small step back, gently pulling both of you off. “As much as I’d love to cum on my pretty girls’ faces right here, I don’t want to blow my load that quick.” He slips off his shirt and moves to lay down flat on the bed where he beckons you over to him for a kiss. As he intertwines his tongue with yours, he undoes the clasp on your bra, leaving your tits bare for him. Ashley shimmies over to squeeze them before licking at one of your pert nipples. Leon moves to take the other in his mouth, and you mewl at the sensation of both your breasts being sucked on. Your clit throbs underneath your panties, begging to be touched, so you oblige, snaking your fingers south to rub at it. 

“D-do you want Daddy’s cock or his mouth, Ash?” You moan as you try to gather yourself and prepare for the next course of action.

A blush crosses her already blushing cheeks as she chirps without any hesitation. “Mouth! Is that okay, Daddy?”

“Sure, come up here, sweetheart,” Leon has to grip the base of his leaking cock as he swears he could almost cum on the spot at the sound of you two deciding where to park your pretty pussies on him.

You help Ashley slip off her panties before she clambers over Leon to slowly position her dripping pussy over his face. He groans at the sight as he takes reign of her hips and guides her directly onto his waiting mouth.

“F-fuck,” her eyes immediately flutter at the sensation of his tongue lapping at her glistening folds. “Your daddy sure knows how to eat puss-” she lets out a high-pitched whine as his lips wrap around her dainty clit, sucking on it the way a real man should. Her moans are cute, endearing really. They’re melodious, her very own aria accompanied by Leon’s groans muffled into her cunt.

“Isn’t he the best?” You smile at Ashley’s nipple, her right tit is starting to free itself from her bra with all the thrashing she’s doing on your daddy’s face. You lean over to give her a giant smooch on the lips before sliding your own panties off and moving down to position yourself over Leon’s hard cock. Your poor daddy has been humping the air this whole time in an effort to chase some pleasure of his own - not that pussy-eating isn’t one of his favorite pastimes. You drag your pussy over his cock, letting your juices lubricate it properly, though it’s leaking so much on its own that the action is needless.

As you sink down completely on his fat cock, your eyes squeeze shut at the feeling of him stretching you open. While your pussy’s been trained to take this cock, the initial fit still requires some acclimation on your part. Kisses from Leon also help, but he’s a bit preoccupied with handing those out to Ashley’s little hole.

Leon’s moans reverberate through Ashley as you start to bounce up and down on his cock, meeting the firm muscle of his thighs with your plush asscheeks.

“How does it feel?” Ashley whines as the two of you reach for each other’s hands, interlacing your fingers together for support.

“S-so good,” you gaze at her with a heavy lidded expression as Leon plants his feet on the bed so he can drill his cock up into you harder, making you almost topple over. “Daddy! S’too much!”

He chuckles, and it’s like the vibrations are transmitted directly through Ashley’s tits and received by your mouth as your tongue laves over her exposed right nipple. You pull the rest of her bra down so you can wrap your lips around the neglected left one. You kiss each of her tits one last time before trailing your kisses northbound to her collarbones, then to her neck, to her jaw, to her soft lips.

“Oh God,” she cries against your lips. “Gonna cum, oh my goodness-” Leon’s obscene slurping intensifies as she whines louder before cumming all over your daddy’s face. Her face is cute as she cums, eyes crossing dumbly and pretty pink mouth forming an O shape.

Ashley shakily climbs off of Leon’s face as she watches the two of you fuck through the post-orgasm haze. You bend down to kiss Leon as he pounds into you, tasting Ashley’s pussy juices on his lips. “You taste so good, Ash…”

The blonde smiles wide, going loopy over your words and Leon’s tongue. You straighten up and lean back slightly so that your hands are anchored onto Leon’s thighs as he jackhammers up into you. “F-fuck, Daddy!”

“My beautiful girl,” he groans through his thrusts. “So cute, falling apart on my cock just like that. Look at those perfect titties bounce. Daddy loves watching you get fucked like this.” Your eyes tear up as the head of his cock continues to hit the jackpot inside you. Ding, ding, ding! Your moans grow erratic as you feel the build up in your tummy begin to consume you. Leon feels the familiar clench of your cunt, he knows his baby’s about to make a mess for him.

“Daddy, I-I…” You’re blubbering as the feeling in your tummy snaps, and you cum all over the cock that continues to pummel into you. He pulls you down to press kisses to your swollen lips and flushed cheeks as he admires your fucked out expression. He slows his thrusts down until his hips are still against yours.

Ashley pokes at your arm, giggling at your dopey smile. Her clit was throbbing while she watched you take Leon’s cock, and now it’s demanding the special treatment. She’s raring to go for another round, and Leon still hasn't finished yet. You swap places with her - you lounge on your side as your chest rises and falls from your previous orgasm. Ashley lays on her back as Leon hovers over her, spreading her plush thighs open so that he can slot his cock inside her twitching hole. The two of them moan in unison as he bullies his way inside and starts pumping in and out of her sloppy cunt.

“That’s some good pussy,” Leon groans as he leans down to kiss her feverishly through his thrusts. Ashley mewls into his mouth as she claws at his back with her acrylics, leaving scratches that would surely be visible tomorrow. It’s a wonder one didn't snap off. 

“Daddy!” She whines as the slapping of his balls against her ass echoes through the room. “You're gonna make me cum all over again… Can't wait to squirt all over your big dick this time.” 

He chuckles at this as he pinches her nipples. “Is that right? Gonna let Daddy cream this pussy?” Okay, it’s getting weird. He leans down to touch his forehead against hers. What the hell?

Your chest tightens at the sight though you shake your head, chastising yourself for feeling the familiar pit of jealousy brewing in your gut. You wanted this! Leon had raised his concerns over whether you would be alright with this arrangement, and you had insisted that it was what you wanted. You had reassured him that your possessive streak wouldn't rear its ugly head. Your brows furrow together as your bottom lip involuntarily juts itself into your signature pout as you watch them continue to kiss. You’re not being fair - you know that much; these are two people who are significant to you. They agreed to this because they thought it would make you happy. Do they have to look at each other so fucking tenderly? You trust them, love them, and now you’re about to set the entire apartment building on fire, trapping all of you in the flames of your hysteria.

The safe word you and Leon had decided on a long time ago bubbles on your lips, threatening to pop out any second now, commanding a halt to the evening’s activities. You’re an insecure little brat who spends her days whining for Leon’s attention like a mutt with serious anxious attachment issues. “Bingo…”

The second the word reaches his ears, Leon’s tapping Ashley’s thigh gently as he ceases his thrusting.

“Sorry, sweetheart… I need to check on my girl.” He pulls out of her squelching pussy with a grunt as he turns his attention towards you, taking you in his arms. “Everything okay, baby?” He strokes your hair as he kisses the top of your head. You sniffle as you shake your head.

Poor Ashley’s still lying on her back, legs spread for the world as she processes what just happened. She props herself up on her elbows and looks at you with the gaze of a friend who genuinely cares for your well-being. Both their looks of concern make you feel like a real insecure bitch, dramatizing your grievances as usual. 

“Are you okay?” Her soft voice floats over to you, increasing your guilt by tenfold.

Leon’s rubbing your back and whispering sweet words in your ear as he patiently waits for you to articulate the reason for your distress. You cling to him, burying your face in his chest before finally looking up at him in shame. 

“Didn’t… didn’t like seeing you guys like that…”

His expression is a mixture of guilt and confusion, but he doesn't seem completely surprised. He continues to stroke your hair soothingly as he speaks. “Baby, I thought you said this was going to be alright with you?”

“I-I…” Your eyes narrow in frustration, and your cheeks flush from the embarrassment of feeling a tantrum coming on in front of Ashley.

“You’re okay, no one’s mad at you,” he continues to reassure you by using his low, tender tone that was reserved only for you. “Use your words babydoll, help me understand what's going on in that pretty little head.”

You take a deep breath as you look into the eyes that know you better than anyone else, always analyzing your innermost thoughts. “F-fucking was fine, but holding and kissing each other like that is too much for me. You were looking at her like she's your baby.” You abandon all control of maintaining composure; accusatory whines are apparently spilling out of your mouth before your brain can even process them.

Leon freezes for a moment before letting out a singular sigh. “Doll, you’re my one and only baby… You’re always gonna be mine. I’m so sorry that I made you feel otherwise… Promise neither of us were thinking that.”

You drop your head down and keep it buried in his chest. You continue to cling to him, refusing to look at him but not wanting to let him go at the same time. A pang shoots through his heart as he ruminates over his actions. He continues using his gentle voice while tightening his arms around you. “Baby… My sweet girl… Guess we got a little carried away. Swear on my life I’d never want to do anything to hurt you.”

Ashley’s been observing your interactions quietly with a guilty expression. She sits up fully to reach her hand out so that she’s rubbing your shoulder gently. “I’d never do anything to hurt you… You’re my friend, and I love you lots… Pinky promise we weren't acting that way ‘cause we want each other or anything like that… Was just going along with the groove we set up at the beginning… Daddy and his girls….” She lets out a nervous chuckle as she bites her lip worriedly.

You turn your head slightly to peek out at her. “S’okay, Ash.” You can’t stay mad at her, she’s just too sweet and only wants to make her friend happy. You can't fault her for any of this, it just doesn’t feel right. So you focus your sour attitude onto Leon - after all, he’s the one who should’ve known how to conduct the situation appropriately, right? He's the one who shouldn't have flirted with the idea of cumming inside another girl while gazing into her eyes, right? Of course Ashley wouldn't have been able to think straight with a big dick like that scrambling her guts.

You push against Leon, trying to pry yourself from his arms, but he keeps his hold firm around you despite your anguish. “You're not getting away from me until I make this right, angel.”

“Don't wanna be near you,” your huff is slightly muffled as you continue to struggle.

“Baby.” Hurt seeps into his voice. “Please don't say that. I told you I was sorry. Look at me, sweet girl.”

You continue frowning into his solid chest. He keeps holding you close to him, doting on you like a little lamb - sweet nothings being whispered into your ear, kisses being dropped all over your head. He caresses your face, strokes your hair, rubs soothing circles all over your back, murmurs words of reassurance and love. The whole works, really.

Despite his loving actions, you continue to grumble against him like an agitated kitten. He never relents - he meant what he said, he's not letting go of you until he makes amends.

“My perfect baby, don't you know I love you more than anything in the world? Silly girl. You know I’d lay my life down for you without a second thought.”

He continues to coo and kiss at you until you’re back to melting in his arms. You finally look up at him with glassy eyes and a perpetual pout. “You really mean all that?”

“Of course I do.” He sighs heavily. “I should’ve made sure we established boundaries before starting this, honey. I’m sorry I upset you.”

“S’okay,” your voice wavers as you reach up to paw at his stubbled jaw. He kisses you, channeling all of his devotion to you through his lips.

“C’mon, dollface. This ain’t over yet.” He gently maneuvers you so that you’re laying flat on the bed next to Ashley. You reach out to lace your fingers through hers as she brushes her hair out of your face and presses a sugary kiss to your cheek. Both of you are spread-eagle for him, tits squished against each other as you wait for him to finish what he started.

He pushes his hard cock into you as his head falls back, relishing in the feeling of your velvety walls clamping down around him. He begins to rut into you, holding one of your legs in place against his shoulder while the other hand wanders over to Ashley’s cunt to rub at her clit. He strokes her clit for a while before plunging two fingers into her sopping hole. His fingers move in tandem with the way his cock pumps relentlessly in and out of you. You and Ashley moan into each other’s mouths as Leon groans and thrusts even faster at the sight of you two making out while he drives you both closer to your pleasure.

“C-can we do this again, Daddy?” You break from the kiss to look up at Leon with hazy eyes and your tongue lolling out.

“Yeah, can we,  Daddy?” Ashley looks up at him with the same fucked out expression.

“Of course we can,” Leon grins down at the two of you. “Next time, I’ll - shit - fuck the two of you while you’re on top of each other. Leave you guessin’ which hole’s getting my cock.”

He knows you’re close when he can feel your pussy squeeze desperately around him as your breaths grow more shallow. He turns your head to kiss your ankle bone as your leg is still propped up against his shoulder to allow him deeper access. His thrusts become faster and deeper as he aims to pummel into the spot that has you seeing stars. He makes sure not to forget about Ashley either, quickening the pumping of his fingers inside her as he also rubs harshly at her clit with his thumb - he’s getting carpal tunnel at this rate. Her chest rises and falls rapidly and her grip tightens around your hand as she nears her high.

Ashley’s the first to reach her climax. She cums all over his fingers as she practically screams in pleasure. Her pornographic moans cause your orgasm to hit you before you’re even truly aware it’s happening. Your pussy clenches around Leon’s cock as your back arches in pleasure which makes his thrusts stutter a few times before he shoots his cum deep inside you.

You writhe in pleasure as his load fills you up the way it should, the way it’s destined to. Leon musters up the last of his energy in pulling out and plopping next to you. His arm drapes over you, but not before slipping his fingers into your mouth to swallow the last bits of Ashley’s essence. Ashley moves down in between your legs to observe the way your boyfriend’s load oozes out of your battered hole. She gently laps at the excess cum seeping out of your folds, cleaning you up with kitten licks until your pussy is all neat and tidy again. She moves back up to snuggle against you, kissing you sweetly.

“We’re doing this again, right?” She mumbles against your hair as her eyes flutter shut.

“Definitely.”

[lieslab]

Enjoy the ride and let loose

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Vampire Chan X gn reader

Summary: A lonely vampire has been searching high and low for a new pet.

Genre: Alternate reality

Word Count: 2.1K

Trigger warning: Graphic details of blood, broken bones, brief mentions of a bar, drugs, alcohol, urine, vomit, blood, more blood, mainly blood.

A/N: Someone asked for a Chan request based off the Railway music video. So um... you know what? I have nothing to say for this. This was a written sin. My heart is fluttering and I don't even swing that way. I need to go to bed. Tomorrow, we can all touch grass together

_ _ _

Empty promises and eternal salvation from a man cannot save you. The last moments of your life speckled few and far between. Grimy memories faded between who you were and who you’ve become. The dim alleyway sparse with orange light, it wasn’t the best way to get home. 

Another night working your ass off at the bar. Overtime meant more money. Customers blended together. Drinks poured. Shot glasses chimed. Rims lined with lime and salt. Beers overflowing with foam. Spirits that quite literally possessed and inebriated everyone that consumed them. 

Not the best life, but the pay was too great to give up. So you went home when the blanket of night covered the sky. You poured, sloshed, wiped, scooped, and slipped your nights away as the keeper of spirits. Keeping tabs, shutting them, and opening another. You didn’t know what downtime was, but you knew about exhaustion. 

Four twelve hour days were kicking your ass. Days blended together. You barely remembered anything. Taking the alleyway home, collapsing on the worn floral couch, waking up soaked in the scent of someone else’s alcohol. 

The dingy bar, tough crowd, scent of tobacco and skunk. When white lines appeared, when the needles came out, you kept your head low. Just as your boss instructed you to. The less you saw, the better. 

Morally, your skin soaked with sin, but what else could you do? Life didn’t throw you the greatest hand of cards. You did what you could to get by. If that meant working your ass off, nearly collapsing in the middle of that alley on the way home, so be it. 

You picked yourself up by the bootstraps because nobody else was beside you. One more day. One more conversation from intoxicated customers. One more day of dodging empty beer bottles, dealing with screams from angry customers you cut off, and the pesky reminder from your boss. Keep your head down, stay quiet, if the cops show up, you’re just the bartender. Nothing ever happens there. 

The needles poking out the women’s bathroom trash said different. Puddles of half-digested fried greasy food littered the floor, only twice, on a good day. The men’s bathroom? You begged your boss to close it. No matter how good the drunken aim, urine missed the urinal and soaked the speckled underbelly of the flushable device. 

No matter how strong the disinfectant cleaner, the gloves provided little relief from the disgusting feeling of urine soaking your hands. It dripped off the gloves. Murky ammonia scented puddles haunted your dreams. If you weren’t consumed by the scent of booze, it was the ammonia and sweat. It never got old. 

Day five happened to be the day you met the devil. Half-asleep and stumbling in the alleyway, you narrowly dodged the dumpster behind a factory. Late at night, all the workers left hours ago. In a sleepy haze, the world spiraled out of control. 

You tipped left and over-corrected right. Your legs stumbled, your head jerked back, and a soft groan of annoyance filled the air. “Why does my goddamn house have to be so far away?” 

“It doesn’t have to be.” 

There was no time to spin around. Your eyes opened wider, just in time to find the silhouette of a hand shooting out to grab the bottom of your chin. Your eyes widened, your hand jerked upright to stop them, they grabbed your shoulder and then- 

Blinding pain. 

A sickening crunch. 

The morbid realization that your own neck could snap so easily. 

Your legs collapsed. 

An unknown laughter echoed in your ears. 

The night swallowed you whole and sucked you into its vortex. 

You didn’t make it to the sixth night of your shift alive. 

_ _ _ 

When you woke up, you were sure you were dead. An icy numbness harnessed your bones. It curdled your marrow, tucked away everything, and it stole your breath. The usual comforting stum of your heartbeat against your own chest disappeared. 

You scrambled to your feet, pushing out your hands to investigate your surroundings. Way up above, high window panels let in pale lighting, but other than that, darkness settled. It barely illuminated what you could make out to be some sort of cell. Iron bars, a heavy duty padlock wrapped around the door, and more darkness. 

Beneath your feet, a soft squishy material. Perhaps, a rubber mat? You brushed your shoe against it, trying to understand. Your sneaker scraped and then fell silent. You grabbed the bars and shook them, to no avail. 

“Easy there. You can’t get out of there if you try. Iron bars reinforced with iron, iron, and more iron.” A snicker laced an unknown’s voice. “Besides, you’re starving, aren’t you?” 

Step. Step. Step. Step. 

Chains rattled against one another. You searched around the area, not daring to push yourself too far against the bars, for fear of the unknown outside. A large white metal frame rusted away, coated with a thin layer of dust, it stretched in two different directions. Heavy footsteps wandered closer and closer until- 

Thunk. 

You didn’t recognize the man standing before you. You tried to comprehend everything about him all at once. The way his dark hair parted and framed his face. The single white eye and the other nearly dark as the night you fell victim to.

A large black leather bag dressed in small silver chains and a pair of handcuffs. He scrunched his shoulders up, relaxed, sucked in a deep breath, and smiled. “You must be starving, hm?” 

“Who are you?” 

“Who am I?” His lips tugged into a smirk. “Who am I? Who am I?” He chuckled, glanced over his shoulder, and grinned. “They want to know who I am. Should I tell them?” 

You took another step to the weathered bars. Across the way, similar cells sat, but they were a little different. The iron bars across your cell tucked you inside. On the opposite side of the hall, half-wooden stall bottoms were lined with thinner bars. 

Something shrieked and a pale hand jutted out. First one, then another, and then another. More and more lunged from the depths of darkness. Corpse-like fingers wiggled and grabbed air. Detailed veins coated the outside of their hands. Something groaned. Another soft shriek caused the man’s mood to sour. “Shut it! I didn’t ask if you were hungry!” 

“How many people are you keeping here?” 

He paused at your question and began to crane his head back towards you. “People?” You nodded, which led to another amused grin on his end. “Tell me, do you think your heart still beats with life?” 

“It has to be.” 

“And if it wasn’t?” 

Your head shook. Confused by the question and annoyed that you couldn’t get a proper response, you changed the question. “What’s your name?” 

“You can call me Christopher. As for you, my new little pet, I bet you’re starving. The new ones are always starving. Not many make it to this point. You’ve already beaten roughly ninety percent of those who have come before you.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he squatted, ripped open the zipper, and pulled out a dark pouch. With ease, he pushed it between two bars and tossed it towards you. It landed with a soft plot at your feet. 

Nausea filled your body at the sight. You could only describe it as a pouch full of blood. His eyes didn’t leave your body. Like a predator watching a prey, he observed your every move. “Better drink up while it’s still warm.” 

“Is this a sick joke?” You whispered. Confusion filled your eyes. You glanced at him, but from the look he carried, something in you knew this was something much darker than the anger of a drunk customer. 

“Drink up.” 

Behind him, another screech. He scowled, spun around, and grabbed the closest outstretched arm. Olive skin smeared with purple bruises in the faint sunlight. He snagged their wrist and began to squeeze it. 

“How many times do I have to mend your behavior? A new pet means being on your best behavior. You know what happens to those who don’t listen to me?” 

The hands began to retreat back into the darkness. When the only hand left was the one he held, his eyebrow furrowed. “Do not. Test me. Again.” He jerked the arm up and swung the wrist in a circle. 

Another sickening crunch caused you to gag. A faceless entity shrieked and jerked its hand free. The man glared for a few moments until he sighed and spun around. Another smirk appeared on his face as he sauntered back to your cell. 

“Where were we? Ah, yes. The blood. Drink up, you’re dehydrated.” 

“What’s wrong with you? Where am I? Please,” you uttered desperately, “I just want to go home.” 

“Home? In this state?” He laughed and shook his head. “This is your home for now. Monsters get lonely, you know? Every monster deserves a pet.” 

“Please,” you whispered desperately. You stepped closer and grabbed the bars. Not caring about the filth, you pressed your face against them. “I have a job and a life. That’s all I want. I won’t tell anyone.” 

“You won’t tell anyone I kidnapped you?” He whispered, thoughtfully. 

“Never.” 

Heterochromia eyes stared at yours. His face softened for a moment and he leaned closer. The scent of metallic blood hit your nose, but it didn’t stop you from trying to sway the stranger. 

“Promise?” He asked. 

He stopped your nod by grabbing your chin. “Interesting.” You stayed still, allowing him to run a thumb across your bottom lip. Nerves bombed your stomach and then dived back up like military helicopters. 

You didn’t pull away and you didn’t breathe. The soft pad of his thumb traced your lips again. “You know, I’ve always dreamed of someone like this. To have something, a pet, to share companionship.” 

You kept quiet, hoping it’d work out in your favor. Too busy studying his eyes and focusing on his face, you didn’t catch his second hand drifting towards the leather pouch. His sharp nail punctured another warm pouch. 

“Even monsters can get lonely.” 

For whatever reason, you clung to every word; a pastor preaching a convicting sermon, a sinner and a saint, a monster and a pet. Something pulled you to him, but you couldn’t explain it. Otherworldly and unnatural, it oddly felt comforting. 

“Open.” His thumb tapped your bottom lip. Your lips parted and his eyes lit up. “So obedient, just the way I like them. Stay like that for me.” His thumb went up and began to brush along the side of your cheek. “There you go. I won’t hurt you.” 

Before you could understand it, plastic filled your mouth. His other hand wrapped around your chin. You tried to jerk away, but you couldn’t. In an iron grip, he squeezed the bag of blood. The metallic taste filled your mouth and your face scrunched. 

“Shh. Just swallow. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. I know it’s weird at first, but trust me. This is for your own good. Come on, swallow for me. Come on, sweetheart.” An index finger slipped down your throat, trying to coax you into submission. 

You hesitated, but followed his instructions. “Ah, there you go. Not too bad, hmm?” 

When your eyes pulled away to look over his shoulder, he gently squeezed your chin again. Your eyes met his and your legs felt weak. “Don’t look at them. Look at me.” 

He squeezed the plastic bag more. Sticky liquid pulsed into your parted lips. Too much, some dripped down the corner of your mouth. It fell down your cheek, slid beneath your chin, and drifted towards your shirt. 

“Such a messy little pet. How cute.” His thumb stretched out before you could stop him. He caught the end of the trail, hooked his thumb between his lips, and sucked.

You should have stepped back. He let go of your chin. You should have pulled away, but instead, you didn’t move. You watched in awe. Those feelings of fear drifted away. You swallowed without being instructed. 

The fresh blood rushed through your brain and awakened something in your soul. Something ignited and that sleepy haze disappeared. The man’s dimpled smile stretched once more.  “I think we’re going to do great things together, little pet.” 

Staring back at him, you couldn’t respond. Caught in his trance, the moans of pain and shrieks of horror from the unknown bodies behind him, none of it mattered. It didn’t matter that you were sipping someone’s blood. 

You died in that alleyway, but in the middle of this abandoned prison, something deadly; and far more intoxicating than alcohol, bloomed in your bones.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

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[mercutio-the-velaryon]

A Close Reading of Viktor's 'ascended' Form

Disclaimer: These are very jumbled thoughts but I've been trying to articulate this for a while so I'm just baring it to the public flaws and all.

I am being dead serious when I say that Melvik is a lens of viewing that serves to recentre Mel as a major character and reassert her value in the hextech trio dynamic. I will be utilsing this lens to analyse Viktor's choice to make his 'perfected' beings carry Mel's attributes.

Immediately, I will preface by saying, that although I read Jayce and Viktor's relationship as romantic, this choice has nothing to do with Jayce, at least, not in relation to feelings of romantic jealousy or romantic insecurity.

So, what does it mean when Viktor wears Mel's white and gold? I think it shows that he views Mel as the epitome of Piltover priivilege and the personification of the social barrier he could not supercede through hard work and picking himself up by his own bootstraps.

The scene above where Mel seems to be singularly be imploring Jayce to militarise Hextech as defensive action is essential to understanding why Viktor views her this way.

In this sequence, Mel is originally conversing with Viktor and Jayce on an equal physical level until she presents her ideal plan of action then she stands straight and focuses more on convincing Jayce rather than Viktor. This is not an attempt to be cruel or malicious, though it very well be an expression of her irritation because in Mel's eyes Viktor's reasonable protest seems like a juvenile outburst. As a Noxian and a Medarda Mel is accustomed to war and bloodshed she does not want the carnage of such an event to bring Piltover to ruin. However, she is also painstakingly aware that losing a war would be a death sentence. The stakes are life and death, and I believe based on what I understand of Mel's character that she would not attempt to bypass Viktor's opposition in more normal circumstances. She respects him to an extent but not more than she respects her position, her legacy and not more than she fears the consequences of losing a war.

Additionally, I view the way she stands and directs attention at Jayce as a demonstration of how she is by nature of the social system always above him. That she and Jayce, are classist as is everyone conditioned and socialised in this system, and for them as citizens of Piltover, as members of the bourgeoisie, and the council their dismissal of Viktor is not that active of a choice, its a reflex, its a manifestation of their biases. Which is terrible in its own right. Viktor discovers in this scene, that Jayce can and will go over his head despite hextech being a joint creation because his social positioning is just higher than his is. It always was and it always will be. These are unchangeable factors and immovable dynamics.

That is to say, that I think Mel's show of power in this scene, her long-term investment in hextech as well as very likely witnessing her political maneuvers from a distance during his time as Heimerdinger's assistant has cemented Mel in Viktor's mind as the paragon of Piltover privilege.

I like to imagine this reaction to Mel's powers "the arcane stirs within you" as a twisted delight. Magic is a natural force, its wild and uncharted and its presence in Mel has this undoing effect, it perplexes her, to use it she physically exerts herself, it makes her bare her teeth. It's a side of Mel, Viktor would have never witnessed, in her struggle with this he finds a glimmer of kindredness that briefly enthralls him.

When he creates his ideal form, a white and gold, sleek and slim faceless robot with a gentle elegent gait and manner of movement and is seeking to conform the entire world to it, know that Viktor in his mind is equalising both himself and the rest of the world to what he considers the apex of privilege, therefore ridding the world of social hierarchy, difference and struggle.

The grand irony of this act is that he ends up bypassing the autonomy of literally everyone by subjecting them to this much like Mel bypassed him. Meaning, he hasn't rid the world of this hierarchy at all, he's put all these people beneath him and robbed them of choice and freedom.

Separate Melvik spiel:

Mel and Viktor's inherent relationship to each other through nature, disposition and as narrative foils is just so meticulous I can no longer genuinely view Arcane as a text without noticing the absence of an established personal dynamic between them. The groundwork for a romance is embedded in the text, their relation to each other is already by itself canonically quite romantic, all of their qualities and attributes are either contrasting or is eerily similar, everything about them serves to say something about the other within the constraints of the Arcane narrative (I doubt this will continue in game and in the follow up series). His admiration of her is tainted by his resentfulness at her position and the way she's wielded it. So many characters in media have kissed for less than that.

[dulcewrites]

I think the thing that shocks me the most about the discourse, if you can even call it that, around book Alicent vs show Alicent, is the idea that people think book Alicent had full autonomy over all her choices and she wasn’t a “victim” like show Alicent.

Now first, I put victim in quotations bc the way people who do not like her have almost bastardized that word. Alicent is a victim, and those things (rape, abuse, neglect) were done to her. That says everything about the men who did that do her and nothing about her. But people are hellbent on throwing Alicent, a woman in a violently patriarchal environment, being victimized back at people as if it is moral flaw of hers. Which is just terribly ironic bc the same folks who say Alicent “did it to herself” or “deserves what she is getting” also seem to think the crux of the story isn’t about generational trauma catching up with itself, how far people will go for power, or even how all girls and women are harmed - albeit to different degrees. But more the fact that Rhaenyra is the only woman to be harmed - and the only harm done is not getting the throne easily. Those same people wouldn’t be caught dead admitting that Rhaenyra is also a victim in the way they shit on Alicent for being. From the father who sets her up fail, to the baby daddy that’s been eyeing her since she was barely 18, to the uncle that grooms her. It takes away from the fantasy projected onto Rhaenyra if she too is surrounded by men that use her and she never escapes that.

Second, it’s funny how F&B gets heralded by some as this exploration of how history is skewed depending on who is telling it. But people can’t read between the lines (you honestly don’t even have to do that much work) with book Alicent. Showing 14 year old Alicent being preyed on, 16 year old Alicent being pregnant with her second child, and 18 year old Alicent being raped is somehow the show needlessly making Alicent a victim. But reading about a 13 year old bathing, dressing, and taking care of a king who mistakes her for the daughter he abused and neglected, and then that same girl, at 18, marrying another king that killed his previous child bride is just girl bossism on book Alicent’s part?

People hate conceptualizing the idea that (even book) Alicent is caught in patriarchal trappings bc to some that takes away from Rhaenyra’s plight…. Bc they can’t wrap their heads around several women *gasp* all going through hardships, and that ultimately people will respond to trauma differently depending on tools/knowledge they have at their disposal. Alicent neither being gleefully evil nor picking herself up by her bootstraps to somehow end years of patriarchal violence is not the neat box they want for her.

[connectionterminated13]

He also gives me the vibes of someone who would say back in my day unironically

henry would br the type of man to say "listen here wiseguy" if he wasn't so nervous all the time