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hogwartsfirebolt · 6 months

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the game’s the game

“What was going through your mind when you spotted the Snitch?”

Two camera shutters go off like lighting, but Draco doesn’t blink. It’s almost the end of the season, and he’s done a press conference every week. He’s used to them.

“Fucking finally,” he answers, and the journalists all laugh. They think he’s joking, and he can already imagine the articles they’ll publish tomorrow pronouncing him cheeky and funny, but he means it wholeheartedly. Six hours in the sky, drenched all the way through his pants in rainwater, and facing the very best player in the league? He had half a mind to jump off his broom if only to have the game end somehow.

“This is the second time you face PU and well, Harry Potter, this season,” says another reporter, a young, pretty woman with her hair pinned up and a reverent tone when she speaks Potter’s name. Like everyone. “Are you expecting to encounter him at this year’s Cup? And if so, how does that make you feel?”

Draco breathes out hard through his nose. Across the room from him, sitting at his own table against the wall opposite, Potter’s doing his own press conference. He’s wearing a hat backwards, the light blue of his team hoodie contrasting with his golden-warm skin tone. He has a hand to his chin, rubbing his short beard in thought at some question he’s being asked. Probably about just how sweet it had been to snatch that Snitch right from under Draco’s nose. He’s earnest and so gorgeous Draco can’t stand the sight of him.

“The game is the game,” Harry’s voice carries, clear and chesty, deeply masculine as he says his favorite little quote that means absolutely nothing and that fans have been yelling and tattooing on their bodies the whole season. “We don’t take any victory for granted. Coach has been running us to the ground, she won’t stop until we have that trophy in Puddlemere, and we’re doing our best to make her proud.”

“Oh, I’m certain we’ll face them at the Cup,” is what Draco answers at last. “Honestly? I think no other team comes even close. We’ll face them, and then we’ll bring the Cup home to Appleby. As Potter himself likes to say, the game is the game.”

All the cameras around him go off, the sound of Quick-Quills scrabbling and the reporters’ scandalized gasps at his use of Potter’s quote. He grins, puts his olive green Arrows cap on and stands to leave. He needs a fucking shower.

Later on, he’s sprawled on his hotel room couch, drying his hair with a towel and watching a replay of the game on the enormous television, making mental notes about his own flying, his mistakes, the times he dove too soon or hovered too low. When the screen follows the blue jersey with POTTER 7 emblazoned across the back, he looks closely, trying to spot mistakes but knowing he won’t find any. Potter’s probably the best flier of the century, and Draco loves Quidditch too much to lie to himself about that.

He’s admiring one of Potter’s physics-defying feints when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, his heart takes up a gallop, and he has to press a hand to the center of his chest with a frown.

“Calm the fuck down, Malfoy,” he mutters. It’s a disproportionate reaction and he’s irritated with himself for it. It’s not as though it’s the first time. Or the tenth.

He pauses the game with a flick of his wand and makes his way to the door, through the archway that separates the TV room from the kitchenette. A quick look at the archway across the suite to make sure the bedroom is as he left it, and he’s at the door, taking a deep breath.

Potter’s grin is huge when Draco opens. He’s foregone all his team outwear, and is now in a familiar, worn leather jacket and a black sweater. His hair is wet, as though he rushed after his shower so he could get here quicker. Draco opens his mouth to say something, but before he figures out what, Harry pushes inside, turns around and presses him against the door, big hands gentle on Draco’s waist. Draco’s heart hasn’t gotten the “this isn’t the first or tenth time this happens,” memo, and is still running a marathon inside his chest, so he says nothing.

There’s a plastic bag in Potter’s hands. Dinner, probably, he usually brings dinner when they meet after a game. His wide smile reveals white teeth, a crooked canine that Draco knows is a baby tooth that never loosened. Round, stylish glasses cover the most intoxicating green eyes Draco has ever seen, and they’re shining with tonight’s victory. And Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.

“The game is the game?” Harry asks, amused, already leaning in, the hand on Draco’s waist moving to wrap the whole way around him and pull him close.

“Just some stupid phrase I’ve heard from a dickhead,” Draco answers, but the words hold the shape of a smile and are uttered right into a kiss there at the end.

It’s always a race at the start. They're both high from the game, still in that mindset, and it’s a competition to see who can undress quicker, who can make the other harder, who can earn the first moan and coax the first orgasm of the night. But after that first one, after Draco’s jaw aches dully and Potter is softening between his legs, everything slows down a little. Potter helps him up and they share the tacos Potter brought, watching the last minutes of the game they played earlier with Draco’s legs up on Potter’s lap, where he’s massaging his knees, his quads, making sure he’s not achy from kneeling for him.

“I really fucked that one up,” Potter comments. His tiny self on the screen just pulled out of an impossible dive at what looks like a 90 degree angle. He sounds earnest, which is the only reason Draco isn’t kicking him right in his beautiful face.

“I hate you so much. Only you would call that a fuck up.”

Potter hums, his massaging hands moving from Draco’s calf to his heel, his thumb pressing into his sole. On the screen, tiny Draco swerves a Bludger aimed to his head, and his teammate Owen is flying to him to make sure he’s alright.

“That guy is so into you,” Potter points out.

“I know. We fucked all through rookie year.”

Potter turns to look at him so fast it must hurt his neck. Draco raises an eyebrow, confused at the strong reaction.

“What?”

“I — I don’t know,” Potter says, suddenly sheepish. His hands haven’t stopped moving over Draco’s foot. Potter’s skin is dark, but Draco can still make out the blush spreading across his cheekbones. “Isn’t it weird? He’s a teammate.”

There’s something he’s not saying. It’s evident in the way he bites his bottom lip, in the way he obviously wants to look away but is too ridiculously brave to actually do it. Draco’s heart thumps inside his chest, so hard he’s sure it must be audible to Harry too.

They’ve never named this thing between them. The first time they did it, after the quarter finals one year before, with Potter’s ill advised kiss that ended with them fucking in the showers of the stadium after Potter had wiped the damn dust with Draco on the pitch, they agreed to keep it quiet, and that was the last they discussed of it. It’s going on fourteen months since then, and they’ve done it at least once a month, when the league brings them to nearby towns, and sometimes when it doesn’t and they take a quick midnight Portkey to each other to blow off some steam.

Draco had never in his life been as well-fucked as he’s been this past year, and he definitely doesn’t want to lose it. Potter’s always been honest and open with him, vocal in bed about how much he wants him, filthy in his occasional text messages when they’re apart, but he’s never given any indication that he wants anything other than exactly what they have.

“It’s not weird,” Draco says slowly, unsure of what to think of this exchange. “We stopped a while ago. I was clear that I didn’t want — that I’d rather we stayed friends and teammates, without any complications.”

“Right,” Potter says. He sounds relieved, and Draco feels like he’s three steps behind the conversation they’re having. He’s about to ask, but Potter’s fingers on his calf smooth over an old knot and he groans instead, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion.

“That feels great,” he says, and Potter repeats the motion.

“Yeah. I think you pulled it when you made that X turn.”

The turn he made to try to beat him to the Snitch, he doesn’t say. How he had enough awareness to know Draco attempted it while diving for the Snitch himself is beyond comprehension, but Draco has long accepted that Potter is simply insane about the game. He notices everything, considers everything, takes every risk. If he weren’t a player himself, Draco knows he would be following Puddlemere and Harry wherever they played for the entire season, wearing a pale blue jersey with the number 7 on it.

“Probably,” Draco says, closing his eyes and groaning again when Harry keeps pressing the same point. After a moment, he feels something softer brushing his calf, and opens his eyes to find Harry bent over his leg, kissing a path up towards his knee. He can’t help the embarrassing little sound he makes, and Harry’s laugh is a puff against his skin as he keeps moving up, breath warm on the wet trail of his kisses up Draco’s thigh. In the background, the presenters are going crazy over a feint Harry pulled, the sound of the audience carrying all through the stadium and out of the TV speakers.

Harry has made his way high up and is kissing Draco’s birthmark, a brown, apple-sized beauty mark an inch below his groin when he lifts his head to ask, “Why didn’t you want to?”

Draco can’t believe he’s using his mouth to speak at that moment. He licks his lips, trying to make sense of the question.

“What? What are you even — ?” He tries to sit up a little, but Harry moves over him instead so they’re eye-level without Draco having to move at all.

“With Caddell. Why didn’t you want to keep seeing him?”

“Owen? Why the fuck are we talking about —,” Draco lets his head drop down onto the cushions again, a sigh punched out of him. Harry takes pity and leans forward to kiss him, lips soft over Draco’s, knowing exactly how to coax his kisses out of him the way he likes best.

“I just want to know,” Harry whispers against his lips. He’s breathless just from touching Draco, from rubbing his legs, from kissing him. Fuck, this is insane.

“I like him, but it wasn’t very exciting.” Draco says. He closes his eyes as Harry begins to kiss down his neck, and tries to really think about it, because he’s not even sure himself. “I wasn’t willing to risk our teamwork when what we had wasn’t even that … electric. I don’t know. This sounds insane.”

Harry shakes his head, his beard rubbing against Draco’s collarbone. “It doesn’t. I get it.” He bites on the delicate skin connecting neck and shoulder, licks a path down his chest. “I get electric.”

“Fuck yes you do,” Draco says, nonsensical, but he feels he can’t be blamed when Harry is brushing his lips over his nipples, broad hands moving around Draco’s body to secure a grip over his ass.

“Is this?” Harry asks, mouth nearing the V of Draco’s hips, the edge of the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “Electric?”

Draco swears, fingers running through Harry’s hair and finding a grip, hard. “If you don’t put your mouth on me right now I swear I — yes.”

He spreads his thighs to accommodate Harry between them, one hand gripping Harry’s hair and the other curled around the cushion over his head. It is electric, the way Harry knows exactly which buttons to push, sliding a finger inside him while keeping him on his tongue. He’s a prodigy in this too, the star player who knows every move in the playbook that is Draco’s body.

It feels like no time at all, no effort at all before Harry is pulling back, dragging Draco closer by the waist and working himself inside. The feel of it, the sound of them together, the look into Harry’s open gaze, his sweat dripping onto Draco’s chest and his hands underneath Draco’s back, holding him, pulling him onto him, have Draco nearing release almost too fast for his liking, but the night is young and it’s been so long that he lets himself go, a cord snapping in his core, eyes open as he watches Harry watch him come apart.

“Come on,” he says once he’s come down, lifting his hips, shifting his weight onto his shoulders. “Show me what you got, Potter.”

Harry groans and leans forward, kisses Draco’s jaw and his neck, and drives his hips faster. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s back, moves with him as much as he can in the tight embrace, and remains close as Harry meets his own peak and tumbles down the edge.

They lie together for a couple minutes afterwards, panting into each other’s skins, basking in the afterglow.

“Some pro-athletes. We have the stamina of two eighteen year old virgins,” Draco mutters into Harry’s hair after a while, and feels Harry’s chest rumble with his laughter. The room is cast in the warm glow of the foot-lamp that stands beside the sofa they just fucked in, exactly like two eighteen year old virgins having the chance to touch for the first time in their lives.

Harry always goes boneless and slow after a good lay, so Draco eases him off his body with tenderness, a gentle hand to Harry’s chest, followed by a kiss.

“Let's go to bed, yeah?” He whispers.

Harry groans. “I don’t want to move.”

“That’s too bad, because I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Some idiot drove me to the ground on the pitch today.”

He stands up and shakes out his legs, testing the soreness of his muscles. There’ll be an ache tomorrow, but nothing he can’t handle.

Despite his complaint, Harry is already standing up too, coming up behind Draco, a hand finding its way to the flat of his belly, his forehead on Draco’s shoulder as though he can’t bear not to touch him for even a second.

“Bed it is,” he declares against the skin of Draco’s shoulder, sounding halfway asleep already. Draco huffs a laugh and pulls him towards the bedroom, pausing at the kitchenette to grab two glasses of water that he watches Harry drink in three gulps, a couple drops sliding down the sides of his mouth, into his beard and down his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“What?” He asks when he catches Draco watching him, and Draco shakes his head and pulls him to bed. He’s so handsome it’s genuinely upsetting sometimes. Draco thinks he’d throw a tantrum about it daily if it weren’t for the fact that he gets to touch him.

They try their best, but they don’t manage a second round before their eyes fall shut, tucked into each other like two hands cupped under a stream of water, tumbling into a satisfied, exhausted sleep.

Harry wakes him with a kiss before daybreak, the last of the night chilling the room and puckering Draco’s skin.

“Do you have to go already?” Draco asks, one eye still closed and a hand curled possessively around Harry’s bicep, not entirely on purpose.

Harry shakes his head, kisses him again with a gentleness that is meant to go nowhere but extend this kiss, warm and sweet.

“I thought we could talk.”

Draco is nodding before fully grasping the meaning, but even once he does he’s not tempted to back away. Must be the night, still cocooning them, must be Harry’s arms around him that are making him brave, but he’s not nervous anymore, not now that he’s remembered what they’re like, together.

“It is electric,” he says, suspecting that’s what Harry wants to talk about. “It’s always electric with you.”

The smile blooms slowly, lighting up Harry’s face from within, his beautiful eyes, unhidden this early in the morning, his glasses still on the bedside table. Harry sits up a little, clears his throat. It seems like he’s been gearing up for this, he’s squaring his shoulders the way he does before trying a dangerous feint, before performing a play that will have Draco biting dust. This insane, wonder of an athlete. Draco forces himself to shake the last of the sleep away, to focus on him, on what he wants to say.

“I know that … so many of us want you,” Harry starts. “On your team, on mine, the whole league, actually. But I —”

He looks like he’s stating an absolute truth, like he has irrefutable proof, and Draco is taken aback. He knows some of the guys find him attractive, but that’s not the same as being wanted. He shakes his head. “What? Where did you get that?”

“I’ve talked about it with the guys, but that’s not the point,” he adds hurriedly when he sees his eyes widen. Draco hasn’t said a word to anyone, not out of shame, but out of sureness that they were sneaking around, that they were making it a point to hide. Apparently, he was wrong. Harry continues, “What I want to say is … I know we’ve not agreed on anything, that you’re free to want others, be with whoever you want to be with. I thought that you knew where I stood, that if you weren’t saying anything it was because you didn’t want the same thing I did, but it’s been brought to my attention that if I’ve not made an honest offer, I can’t assume you’re saying no.”

Draco’s heart is hammering inside his chest, inside his throat. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but if he’s right, it seems Harry is saying …

“I don’t want this to be a once a month thing. I want to bring you home, I want you to meet my family, and I want the guys to know that I’m saying no to all the people they set me up with because I’m taken and completely uninterested in anyone else. Are you … is that something you want, too? I know you might have better offers, but I – ”

The covers crinkle under Draco’s knees as he sits up, throws a leg over Harry’s body so he can fully sit on his lap and brings him forward by the neck.

“You beautiful idiot. What could be a better offer? Why would I care about any other offers when I have the best one right here?”

They’re kissing, and Harry’s gasping, and Draco’s frenzied heart pounds against his sternum. He nods into the kiss, feels dizzy with how much he wants what’s being offered. Fuck. There’s nothing he wants more.

Harry pulls back a little, whispers: “Does this mean we’re — ?”

“Yes, fuck. It’s — The game’s the game.”

“What — That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Shut up. It’s your quote.”

Then they’re laughing into a new kiss, and it’s not the first, or even the tenth time they’re together like this, but Draco’s heart still goes crazy for this man, for his unlimited talent, his openness, his electric company. Quarter finals are coming up, then semis, then they might meet again on the pitch and Draco might lose and throw a strop and want to tear the hair out of his head over the beautiful Quidditch Harry plays, and then they’ll get to go home and celebrate a victory. No matter who takes the trophy. That’ll be the game.

Read On Ao3

#quidditch rivals but ohh they’re secret lovers bet NOBODY saw that coming #kinda unsure about the tone shift at the end but ITS LATE I’m sorry ok #I just wanted earnest Harry which is MY FAVORITW THING #drarry #drarry fic #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #my writing #mywriting

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redtsundere-writes · 1 month

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Tyrant's Favorite | Sukuna Ryomen

Part 1: Ear Cleaning

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

Tags: MDNI. +18. Murder. Blood. Cannibalism. Sukuna Ryomen Is The Warning Itself. Nudity. Sexual Display. Vaginal. Fingering. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst.

Word Count: 1936 words.

A/N: From popular demand, I'll post the fic here too. Enjoy! :3

Sukuna walked through the corridors illuminated by the dark sun that ruled among the kingdoms. His long, heavy footsteps made the marble floor rumble under his weight. His sharp profile, tattooed shoulders and large body, contrasted by the reddish sky of the cursed land, terrifying any small human who encountered him. He was a king who could control anything thanks to the terror that his large body and absolute power conveyed. He had the power on his hands to kill whatever and whenever he wanted like an omnipotent god, but he liked to watch his rats run from one side to the other to obey his mercy. It amused him to play with his servants to the point of making them cry, tremble or, in extreme cases, commit suicide. He had plenty of servants, so he could afford to kill as many as he wanted. The poor uniformed humans trembled if his dark eyes rested on them. They all tried to dodge him at all costs to avoid performing tasks that involved being near him, especially cleaning his ears.

Being a monster with senses sharpened to the max, he hated having his ears touched, but it was necessary for him to clean them to have his five senses ready for any battle. He is not someone ticklish, but his ears are the most sensitive part of his entire body. He could clean his own ears himself, but what kind of almighty, omnipotent king would clean his own ears when others could do it?

His eyes navigated through the long and endless corridors of the terrifying castle where he lived with all his subjects. The king's home was a place where darkness, cold, and uncertainty dominated the atmosphere. Even though it was surrounded by luxuries, it felt more like a secret attic than a castle fit for a king. Silver chandeliers, red candles parading on the walls and furniture upholstered with exotic fabrics from around the world decorated each room that was commonly surrounded by portraits made by hundreds of artists who feared for their lives.

His predatory eyes sought out the first poor servant that crossed his path. He heard the bristles of a broom being scrubbed against the floor. Sukuna spotted a small figure sweeping one of the guest rooms. There you were, humming a song softly from your childhood as you made the broom dance from side to side. You were so focused on your task that you didn't notice the king standing dangerously close to you. As you turned around, you suddenly bumped into his imposing body, giving you a mini heart attack. Dressed in elegant robes, gold rings on each finger and with a wicked grin on his face, he was looking at you as if you were a despicable creature he could get rid of in the blink of an eye.

You are the youngest and most inexperienced servant in the entire castle. You had not been living there for more than two months, so your direct interactions with the king had been few. Sukuna saw you from head to toe. He remembered you perfectly from the day he met you. Your neatly combed pigtails with two white bows showed off your innocence, the corset accentuated your small waist and the long brown skirt covered your promising legs. He accepted it, you were cute. Other than that, you were a disgusting human like everyone else, but there was something about you that caught his attention. Sukuna didn't know exactly what it was that you had. For the time being, he would continue to treat you as you deserved for being a nasty rat. Immediately, you knelt before your majesty. Your head rested in your hands against the freshly swept floor, your fingers barely touching his feet because of the closeness.

“Are you having fun?” Sukuna asked, sarcastic.

“No, my king,” you answered quickly, avoiding making eye contact.

Sukuna placed one of his bare feet on your back. The oppressive weight crushed you against the cold floor. You prayed inwardly that your bones wouldn't start to creak. You bit your lower lip and closed your eyes tightly to avoid letting out a moan of pain. Having satisfied his need to make the new maid see who her master is, he removed his foot from your agonized back. You took a deep breath to fill your lungs with air again.

“To my room. Now,” he ordered without deigning to look at you before leaving the room. You remained on the floor, slowly catching your breath. A metal taste touched your tongue. You bit your lower lip so hard that it was bleeding.

This was the first time he ordered something directly from you. Usually you followed Uraume's general instructions like everyone else. You sat up slowly to regain what little balance you had left. You followed him to his room as he had ordered. Your heart was going to burst out of your chest from how nervous you were. As your small steps echoed like a pleasant trickle in the gloom, the servants came out of their hiding spots to quickly sign you in. They wished you the best of luck and that you would make it out of his room alive. That only put more pressure on you.

You entered your majesty's luxurious room. Your eyes were fascinated to see so many extravagances in one place. Crystal chandeliers, rugs made of exotic animals and gold decorative pieces. All the furniture was precisely designed to suit his majesty's tastes and everything was neatly arranged. Unlike the rest of the castle, his room was a museum full of expensive artworks that the average person could not even imagine existed.

The great fearsome monster was reclining on a red satin-covered divan. His eyes were closed, his four arms crossed over his broad chest and his legs barely touched the floor due to his impressive height. You approached him carefully so as not to ruin his peace. Next to the divan was a wooden cabinet with all the necessary tools to groom him thoroughly.

“Clean my ears,” he ordered in a gruff voice, cocking his head over the rest for you to begin immediately. “You better do a good job,” he threatened you. You swallowed dryly because it would be the first time you would touch his majesty and if you did it wrong, the last.

You took out the necessary instruments to carry out the task. You knelt in front of his head. As expected, the king smelled exquisite. It was strong, woody, and addictive. His pink hair was soft to the touch, but you tried to avoid touching it so as not to muss it. You dedicated yourself to cleaning the outside of his ear with a swab, concentrating on the helix and the back of the ear. Your hands were delicate around his sensitive ears and the friction did not bother him because it was minimal and warm. Sukuna's body began to relax as time passed. If he didn’t focus, he could fall asleep.

Sukuna felt a shiver run down his back as you stuck a small wooden spatula into his ear to remove the excess earwax that prevented him from hearing well. You carefully dug so as not to hurt him. You could feel his discomfort in the way he squeezed his eyelids with each movement you made.

“Let me know if I get too deep, my king,” you said with a shaky voice.

“Just do your damn job,” he answered grudgingly.

You continued cleaning his ear little by little. The task was not as complicated as you thought, but you could not let your guard down with a king who can decide your fate with a snap of his fingers. After wiping the outside with absorbent cotton, you were finally done with the first ear. Sukuna was falling asleep until you asked him if he could lie down on his opposite side so you could proceed with his other ear. He did so with a grunt of annoyance, as he was very comfortable on that side, while the couch creaked under the weight.

You took a deep breath. All you had to do was repeat what you had already done, and you would finish the task alive. You watched mesmerized as Sukuna's tattooed chest rose and fell from his steady breathing. Sukuna let out a whimper as soon as you stuck the spatula in too far. You already felt your throat being slit for a simple mistake.

“Be careful! Can’t you do something so simple?” He grumbled.

You apologized immediately and continued on your task as you lowered your head in fear. “Damn humans,” he thought with a frown. As soon as your magic fingers touched his ear, he got over his anger and returned to the oasis of relaxation where he left off.

Sukuna let out a yawn as soon as you finished. A proud smile of your own escaped your lips. You had survived your first direct order. You glanced at the time on the large gold clock hanging over the door. It was getting late, and you had to get back to the kitchen soon to help with the dinner preparations. You returned the utensils to their respective places and got up to politely leave the place.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sukuna asked you as he got up from the couch to move to his giant bed. “Massage my head,” he ordered once again. You nodded obediently.

His majesty's bed was lined with the softest fabrics in the world. The silk pillows were engraved with the flags of the kingdom, the blankets were of pure wool and the mattress appeared to be made of goose feathers. Sukuna's heavy head was on your comfortable lap. Your soft thighs were softer than her own pillows. Your magic fingers massaged his temples in circles. You could hear him purring subtly like a contented kitten, even though he was physically not as cute as one.

Before long, Sukuna was fast asleep. Seeing his eyes closed and his light breathing, you decided to go with the other servants to continue your work. As soon as you got off the bed, he left his heat provider on his side. Before you could continue your way to the exit, you heard that terrible voice behind you.

“Who told you could leave?” You froze in place and turned to face him. His red eyes looked at you with disdain, more on the terrifying side. “Come here,” your heart did a backflip when you heard that command.

More than an order, it ended up being a warning. He pulled you by the white apron to capture you in his four strong arms. The warmth of his body and yours merged, causing the temperature to rise between you. Your body began to sweat from nerves. You didn't know what his intention was with you. You had never been with a man like this before, let alone a tyrant twice your size. All worry disappeared from your mind as he began to stroke your body slowly, taking care not to scratch you with his long black claws.

Slowly, you could feel on your back as his majesty fell asleep. Sukuna did not snore as you thought he would. He let out a fainter, quieter sound, it was almost like a kitten with a stuffy nose. His arms around your waist and shoulders, his heavy breathing and comfortable chest encouraged you to fall asleep. “His majesty's orders,” you thought so you wouldn't feel so guilty about falling asleep.

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world0fmadness · 3 months

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⋆ ˚｡⋆ ✩ ˚ KMF1

max verstappen x kmfdm member! reader

featuring: kmfdm fans being a little possessive of reader and max loving his gothic girlfriend

faceclaim: assorted but mainly lucia cifarelli

୨୧ are there any other kmfdm fans in the f1 community? timeline is all wrong obviously because kmfdm has been around for years and i know the tattoo part is a bit unrealistic but just imagine it’s a little smaller and just… shut up <3

reading music recommendations: stray bullet by kmfdm - take it like a man by kmfdm - murder my heart by kmfdm

ynln: sweet show in monaco tonight! thanks to everyone who came out, c u again soon 🕷

loveuyn: more hot yn pictures, let’s gooo

> kmfuckmeyn: her eyes in the first picture… mph

maxverstappen ✔️: amazing show!

❤️ liked by ynln

> iluvf1: max, what are you doing here? 😭

> kmfdmsux: who tf is this?

> ynsteponme: why did mother like his comment? she only usually likes sascha’s comments…

> kmfuckmeyn: someone hit this man with a broom until he leaves, i don’t like the look of him

> ynloveme: relax you guys omg 😭

saschakonietzko ✔️: yah… i’m sure you gave a very special thank you to that one very special person who was there ;)

❤️ liked by ynln

> ynln ✔️: you know it <3

> steponmeyn: sascha… who? where? when? why?

kmfdmsux: such an amazing show! can’t wait to see you guys live again someday 🖤

ynln: taking a short break from touring! loving the stray cats in monaco <3

steponmeyn: and the whole ass man? whooo?

loveuyn: who is that? is it trent?

> steponmeyn: we need to be rid of this trend x yn ship, he is literally married

kmfuckmeyn: can anyone identify the hands and legs?

> kmfdmsux: literally, we need to put a hit out on whoever that is!

> ynloveme: we’re never beating the possessive fan base allegations…

saschakonietzko ✔️: ah… wonder who that is with you?

❤️ liked by ynln

> steponmeyn: sascha FUCKING TELL US 😭

maxverstappen and ynln: soon to be mr and mrs verstappen 🖤

loveuyn: oh he came to set the record straight 😭

> steponmeyn: LITERALLY, MY GIRL! NO ONE ELSES

oldf1lvr: IM SORRY WHAT?

danielricciardo ✔️: congratulations mate! knew it wouldn’t be long before you put a ring on her finger

❤️ liked by ynln and maxverstappen

> maxverstappen ✔️: thanks mate, for everything!

❤️ liked by danielricciardo

maxontop: i don’t know who she is but i’m moving this side of max she’s bringing out 🫢

> f1forlife: no but literally! he seems so confident in these pictures…

lovememax: these pictures just altered my brain chemistry… i want them both

charlesleclerc ✔️: you’ll be wearing redbull gear to the wedding i presume?

> ynln ✔️: absolutely not

> maxverstappen ✔️: you heard the lady! no redbull at the wedding

❤️ liked by ynln and charlesleclerc

> redbullracing ✔️: 😔

lovemyf1dilfs: who is this? they’re hot…

> steponmeyn: kmfdm fans 🤝 f1 not knowing who tf the other is dating despite both being famous because these fandoms are so different

steponmeyn: max, what’s your favourite kmfdm song?

> maxverstappen ✔️: murder my heart!

❤️ liked by ynln and saschakonietzko

maxverstrapon: do i need to go back to sleep? this can’t be real right? he didn’t just announce that he’s engaged when no one even knew he was in a relationship?

> iluvf1: well, the other drivers knew…

maxverlvr: omg… this explains why he’s seemed so much happier the past few years…

lewishammy: max… i’d like to apologise, i wasn’t familiar with your game…

landontop: why do these white bread men get the baddest bitches 💔

kmfdmsux: oh that ring is so cute… i still don’t know if he’s good enough for mother but at least it’s cute

> steponmeyn: right? i’m glad he actually knows her personality so well 🥹

saschakonietzko ✔️: can’t believe you’ve actually gotten yourself tied into a knot! congratulations yn and max

❤️ liked by ynln and maxverstappen

> maxvertappen ✔️: thanks sascha!

> ynln ✔️: thank you sasch 🖤

kmfuckmeyn: we lost her to a m*n who drives in circles lol what the fuck

> ynontop: hope he dies ( not really )

> loveuyn: we’re never beating the obsessed with yn allegations…

> maxverlvr: you mf’s are crazy holy shit 😭

maxverstappen and ynln: officially mr and mrs verstappen ln!

comments on this post are limited

charlesleclerc ✔️: best cake i’ve ever had

> maxverstappen ✔️: that’s all you have to say?

> charlesleclerc ✔️: oh right! congratulations max and yn

> maxverstappen ✔️: 🙄

iluvf1: max having a more gothic wedding instead of a traditional all white church one 😭 we love to see it

danielricciardo ✔️: congratulations mate! beautiful ceremony

❤️ liked by ynln and maxverstappen

> maxverstappen ✔️: thanks mate ❤️

steponmeyn: okay… whatever… maybe they’re a little hot together, but only because yn seems to be really bringing out his personality

sebastianvettel ✔️: congratulations max and yn! very nice wedding setting - sebastian

❤️ liked by ynln and maxverstappen

> maxverstappen ✔️: thank you sebastian!

> oldf1lvr: of course the bug loving dilf would like the wedding in the woods lmao 😭

saschakonietzko ✔️: congratulations you two! great wedding

❤️ liked by ynln and saschakonietzko

> ynln ✔️: yeah… you only drank yourself to a point of wanting to make out with all of max’s friends <3

❤️ liked by maxverstappen and saschakonietzko

> saschakonietzko ✔️: ;)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨୧ ˚ NEW ADDED BONUS ˚ ୨୧ ⋆｡˚ ⋆

kids deserve good music

#max verstappen x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 smau

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rookthorne · 7 months

Text

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧'𝐬 𝐒𝐮𝐧

The first port of call, whether you intuitively chose it or not, was always going to be Bucky — rain or shine, he was there to lift your spirits, and at that moment, you needed it more than ever.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✾ Tattoo Artist!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✾ 1.8k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✾ Fluff, angst, comfort ✾ If you want a big hug and a kiss on the forehead from Bucky? this is the fic for you.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✾ I have missed these two, and I know they've been wanted for a little while as well.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ✾ No Milk Today by Joshua James and The Forest Rangers ✾ Crash This Train (Acoustic) by Joshua James

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ✾ @buckybarnesevents Alternate June-iverse 𝗖𝟰 — Tattoo Artist AU — Masterlist ✾ @buckybarnesevents Build a Bucky Bingo ჻჻჻ Forehead Kiss (February) — Masterlist ✾ @sweetspicybingo Sweetheart Bingo — Heart Of Gold — Masterlist

𝐈𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐮𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You hadn’t meant to make your way to 107th Ink — truly, you hadn’t.

After the exhausting trials and frustrating moments that spanned the entirety of the day, you aimed to make your way back home and sit yourself down on the couch with a pint of ice cream to wind down, your favourite movie playing on the screen while you ate your fill.

But no. On autopilot, your instincts took you straight to the soon to close shop and parked your car out the very front.

Through the decorated glass that spanned the front of the shop, you could see Sam — the newest addition to the crew, and Steve. Both of them milled about and performed various duties to close up shop for the night. Peter appeared from a doorway, a broom in hand to sweep the floor.

You suspected Nat had a hand in making the boys work hard.

A deep breath made your shoulders rise and fall, then, a small sniffle startled you, and you realised with a jolt that you had started to cry. The fresh burn of tears on your waterline only made you more frustrated — it began a replay of all the events of the day in your mind, from everything going wrong to just plain horrid, bad luck.

The quiet clinking of your keys was quiet next to your stifled sobs, and you made your way haltingly to the front door of Bucky’s shop, his haven — the epitome of his pride and hard work.

While you approached, Steve looked up from whatever chore he was doing and smiled, though it was wiped from his face before you could muster something that resembled a smile back. His deep frown only made you whimper, and he made towards the door with a fast jog.

His lips moved as though he was saying something to Sam and Peter who startled at his hurried movements, before the door swung open with a loud clink from the bell, and he rushed over. “Sunny? What’s happened, sweetheart?”

You furiously blinked back the tears, but it was to no avail. “Just– Just a bad day, Stevie, I’m sorry, I–”

“Nuh-uh, you’re not apologising.” The warmth from his body when he pulled you into his chest was soothing — an all-encompassing embrace. His arms squeezed you against him before he tucked you against his side. “C’mon, let’s get you to Buck.”

The awkward shuffle to the shop entrance made you laugh as your feet stumbled, and Steve smiled heartily as he pulled open the door to usher you inside. Both Peter and Sam looked up from their chores to greet you, but they blanched in unison with worry before Steve shook his head at them.

You could barely manage a smile at them through the silent tears that still streamed down your cheeks.

“Sunny, love,” Steve said, pointing towards Bucky’s booth, his other hand resting on your shoulder where he squeezed reassuringly. “He’s just through there, sweetheart.” Louder, he called, “Buck! Your girl is here.”

The soft footfalls from your shoes couldn’t be heard over the music playing on the overhead speakers. Before you reached Bucky’s door, you looked at Steve over your shoulder. “Thanks, Stevie.”

He smiled at you sadly and nodded. “Anytime, sweetheart. Go on now.”

Your hand pushed open the familiar door to reveal Bucky’s booth. The walls were a deep burgundy, populated with frames of various artworks by the man himself as an ambitious teenager, to the more refined, finessed works of a seasoned artist.

There was no need to look for your love — Bucky was sitting on his wheeled stool with a stricken expression, lips pulled downwards in a frown and brows pinched as he took in your glossy eyes. “Baby? What–” The stool clattered backwards with the speed he stood up, and you sobbed as he hugged you. “Oh, baby girl, c’mere—you’re alright.”

Bucky held you tight, one hand splayed over the small of your back, and the other rubbed up and down between your shoulders. The soft brush of his lips over your forehead tickled, but he never ceased the constant reassurances and soothing words; how he was relieved you came to see him instead of going straight home to wallow.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, still sniffling as you rested your cheek against him. “I didn’t mean to butt in–”

“No, that’s enough,” he interrupted. “‘M here for whatever and whenever you need me, sweetheart. I promised you and that will never change.” There was another kiss pressed to your forehead — you couldn’t voice just how it filled you with an unwavering sense of comfort.

“But–”

“That wasn’t up for discussion, baby—now lemme hold you, I know you love hugs.”

You sighed, defeated. “Okay.”

His lips pressed harder against your forehead, a firm kiss that trailed to your temple and back; the cycle repeating on itself. The creak of his leather boots sounded while he rocked the two of you gently side to side.

Moments passed in his embrace, when he suddenly said, “Why don’t I cheer you up a lil’? Then we can talk—I just wanna see my girl smile again.”

In lieu of an answer, you squeezed your arms around him, and he took the initiative to walk you both towards the padded, tattoo chair. The papers that were scattered over the base of the seat were piled neatly onto his equipment cabinet, and he hummed along to the song that played from the speaker connected to his phone as he moved around.

“What are you going to do?” you asked, watching him curiously.

“I am gonna make you smile,” Bucky teased, a smirk on his lips. “It’ll be a surprise. But I need you in my lap, alright?” Without waiting for your reply, he jumped up onto the chair and hung his legs off either side — a tattooed hand slapped the space between his thighs in an invitation to sit. “C’mere.”

With only an ounce of hesitation, you moved to sit between his thighs — your back pressed to his chest and his chin sat tucked in the juncture of your neck and shoulder. The stubble from his beard tickled your skin, making you giggle quietly. “There’s my girl, huh? Alright, it’s a good thing you’re wearin’ a dress today.”

You looked at him quizzically over your shoulder. “What–?”

“I’m gonna draw on your thighs, jus’ somethin’ small,” he murmured while he dug through the draws of his supplies. There were glimpses of paint brushes and pens, fine line points to broad, chiselled markers — each labelled neatly and organised according to colour. “I thought my idea was fittin’ for my baby girl, given she’s my Sunshine.”

Tears sprang to your eyes again from his earnest words. “Buck–”

“Shh,” he hushed. “Lemme treat you, I wanna make you smile again. Close your eyes for me.”

“Okay,” you whispered, and you fluttered your lids closed. The hard press of his muscled chest against your back as you leaned into him earned you a kiss on the cheek. It was easy to give in to the warmth that consumed you in his presence, the way he brought peace to your constantly whirring mind — how, even on your worst days, he could make everything better by just being there. “I trust you.”

Another soft kiss was placed on your temple in reply.

The sudden strange sensation of ink on your skin felt remarkably ticklish — the tip of the marker danced over your thighs, moving in long, wavy lines, to short, finer bursts of movement. Bucky continued to hum softly to the song that played on the speaker while he worked.

There was no distinct way to decipher just what Bucky was up to, or what vision he was bringing to life in that moment, but you were content to just sit there in his company.

Until the sensation ceased on that thigh and began on the other. “What are you–” The movements froze while you squirmed.

“No, don’t look just yet, sweetheart,” Bucky scolded. “It’s a surprise.”

An exaggerated pout played on your lips to truly sell your displeasure. “I don’t like surprises.”

He chuckled. “I know, I know. This will be worth the wait, though, baby.”

The way time froze while you basked in Bucky’s attention and warmth made it seem like forever passed, when finally, he pulled the pen away from your skin, and cleared his throat.

A beat of silence hung in the air while he seemingly admired his work. Then, “Okay, open your eyes.”

The sudden exposure to the bright lights overhead made you wince as you focused your eyes. “Damn, it’s bright,” you said sarcastically, and Bucky chuckled. His hands rubbed up and down your arms to ground you.

Slowly, you lowered your gaze to your thighs and found them both decorated in the delicate, beautiful petals of a pair of sunflowers. The saturation of the golden yellow blooms stole your breath, and the tinges of orange in the shadowed strokes of the pen made the contrast unlike anything you’d ever seen, the beauty forever unmatched.

The deep, sage green bud of each flower smoothly transitioned into the softer, vibrant parrot green of the stalk and leaves. “Holy–”

In the background was a symmetrical, matching, fine filigree of swirls that if you looked closer, you could make out the patterns of rose thorns. “Oh, Buck,” you gasped, your hand flying to cover your open mouth.

Bucky’s hand rested just below the bottom of the left design. “One day, I want to get this on my own skin—so I have my sun with me, always.”

You were unable to speak or articulate a single word in your awestruck state. The meld of colours became blurred by tears of gratitude.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Bucky whispered. The pad of his thumb brushed over the skin of your cheek to collect the trailing tears, and he hugged you tightly. “I’ve got you.”

Eventually, after you made it back home with Bucky, you expressed your distress at losing the artistry that decorated your thighs, only he smiled and winked. It left you puzzled and confused. “What are you up to…?”

For the umpteenth time that day, Bucky’s lips brushed your forehead in a kiss. His breath was warm as it fanned over your skin, and he said simply, “Don’t you worry that pretty head a’yours, baby.”

The plan of which he kept under wraps came to fruition only a couple days later, to your utter glee. You woke up late that morning and padded into the kitchen to make breakfast, when something in the living room caught your eye.

You backtracked the few shuffled steps and blinked sleepily, trying to focus on the wall directly in front of you, and it almost bowled you over with the shock of what you found in your sleep-addled state.

Hung high on the wall was a frame made of ash wood. Within the frame was a sketch — beautifully and masterfully rendered — of a pair of sunflowers side by side, entwined with the thorny stem of a rose.

An identical recreation of what Bucky created for you to lift your spirits.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #SweetSpicyHearts #BaBB2023

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 month

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): crime scene clean-up, swearing, grief & difficult conversations, discussions around canon-typical violence, smoking, brief suggestive themes, brief drinking, angst

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Twenty-Three of Ink & Needle

Price and Simon make a pact. Simon talks to Evie and Amelia. Walsh dispenses a clue.

Chapter Twenty-Two // Chapter Twenty-Four

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Come and find her. – KW.

Come and find her.

Come. And find her.

Find her.

Simon stares at the little piece of paper in his hands. It’s so small. Confetti in his palm. Something that could be easily overlooked like trash that collects near a storm drain.

But it’s not trash.

It’s a taunt. A warning.

And it’s all for Simon.

Instinct tells him to crumple the note in his fist—to dismantle by destroying. Burn it. Maybe. Shred it into even smaller pieces until it truly resembles confetti.

But what party would he throw to sprinkle the remains? There will be no cake or gifts. No sunshine or clear skies. It will be a funeral, and the shredded paper is the dirt tossed by the mourners.

Dust, really. Like the soul. Smaller than dust. Insignificant.

“You need to go home, Simon.”

Captain Price’s voice used to be a balm to Simon—a place of safety. The words from Price’s mouth do nothing but drag Simon back to reality even as Simon attempts to claw back to the darkness that are his thoughts.

“Go home and do what?” replies Simon, not looking in Price’s direction.

Come and find her.

“It’s not healthy to stay here,” sighs Price.

Simon snorts. “What part of my life as ever been healthy.”

Price flinches, and Simon immediately regrets his words. Captain knows every horrific detail, every open hand and closed fist, of the fangs and masks and gore and screams that are Simon’s history.

It is ugly and foul.

Price used to fuss over it, trying to drive Simon to talk to someone about it all. He did—once. More than once, but it didn’t do much but reaffirm everything Simon already knew.

That life can be cruel, and we are only defined by our choices.

And Simon has always chosen to be different.

“Staring at that note won’t help things. It won’t help us find her faster,” says Price, his voice low and soothing like it always is when he’s trying to be gentle.

Simon takes a deep inhalation, calming the raging desperation thudding around in his chest.

It’s a torrent. A downpour.

“I want to help,” is all Simon says in reply.

Price takes a step closer, and leans in a bit, lowering his voice. “I know you do, Simon. And I value that help. But trying to figure shit out here isn’t the place.”

Simon stares into Price’s face, frowning. He lingers there a moment before glancing over Price’s shoulder.

There are new people in the room. Price called them up after Johnny found the note and presented it to Simon. They move about the space like phantoms, their eyes cast downward, minds geared toward the task of cleaning up the mess that is Evie’s home.

Evie, who came to Simon’s door rain-drenched and desperate. Simon is glad she didn’t try to seek out the authorities. What the fuck are police going to do about this? Nothing. That’s what.

But Price will do something. And so will Johnny and Kyle.

They have his back. They fucking care about you because they care about Simon. He has people in his corner.

“Excuse me.”

Simon and Price glance toward the man addressing the two of them. He’s a little younger than Simon. In his hands are a broom and dustpan. Beside him stands another man holding a trash bag. Simon scowls and the man blanches slightly.

“The glass,” he mutters, nodding at Simon’s feet.

The glass. The broken patio door. Blood.

Simon clears his throat and steps back, glass crunching under his boots even as he and Price move to a different part of the room. The two men start sweeping it up while two others lift and deposit the bodies of the estate agent and her assistant into body bags.

All the color from their faces have melted away, leaving behind a grayness that only comes when there is nothing left to salvage. While neither of the women currently being placed in body bags are you, Simon is grateful that you’re not one of them. That is enough to hope even if everything inside him doubts.

Positivity isn’t Simon’s thing. But the fact that you’re not here could only mean that Walsh wants you elsewhere. He wants Simon to come seeking. He wants Simon to have hope, and for that reason alone, Simon still clings to the idea that you’re not gone.

But maybe you are.

Time is crucial. It is scare and fleeting and slipping away as the seconds tick by.

“This is my fault.”

“Simon,” chides Price, ready to defend him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” growls Simon. “Walsh is after me, and I know that. I kept—” Simon stops, his unoccupied hand forming a fist.

Price frowns. “You kept what?”

Instead of shutting down, Simon trudges forward. “I kept seeing him. Or thought I did.” He glances down at the note and then at the darkening pool of drying blood. “Should have trusted my gut.”

“You can’t linger in the past, Simon. It happened. You made choices. Walsh made choices. That control is gone. We can only move forward.”

Simon remains silent. Price is right, even if Simon doesn’t want to admit it out loud. Shit happens. Plans go wrong. You can’t always predict what the enemy will do or how they might deviate from the information you have. You have to go in with the knowledge that things might change at the last second.

Adjustment is crucial.

Adjust and survive or stay stagnant and die.

“By moving forward, that means I go home,” says Simon slowly.

Price inclines his head. “It is.”

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t accept it.”

“And what will you do, Simon? Search every building in the country? And what will you do after? Head for the continent?”

“I’d destroy everything and everyone if that means I get her back safely.”

Price’s jaw twitches. “Or you might just get her killed.”

Simon’s head snaps in Price’s direction, venom on his tongue, but it’s Price’s glare that stays his harshness. Even though he’s no longer under Price’s command, the training doesn’t leave. Instead of lashing out, Simon takes a calming breath, but it does little except settle the sharpness that wants to emerge from his lips.

“I’m helping with this. I won’t budge,” affirms Simon.

Price nods. “I know, Simon. Didn’t say you wouldn’t be.”

Simon turns toward him fully, lowering his voice. “You told me to go home.”

“For now,” corrects Price. “We need to clean up here, and then we can talk. This isn’t the place.” Price shrugs. “Not like I have all the information in front of me.”

True, but Simon isn’t happy. His body desires movement. It desires action. The storm inside him wants to be released, and its target is Walsh.

“I have to talk to Evie,” murmurs Simon, almost absently.

Price clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Want someone to go with you?”

“I can.” Simon and Price glance up as Johnny comes to a stop in front of them. “I’ll go with you, Lt.”

Simon nods as Kyle approaches with a couple of binders. “She might want this. It’s all paperwork.”

Kyle holds the stack out to Simon but Price reaches for it. “We should make copies. Take a look just in case.”

“I’ll do that now,” nods Kyle. He turns toward Simon and lightly punches his arm. “We’ll find her. Bring her home.”

Kyle departs with a brief nod toward Johnny.

Price clears his throat. “Go home. Take Soap with you. I’ll call when we’re ready to meet.”

“You got it, Captain,” says Johnny, all confidence.

Simon appreciates it. He does, but his heart is close to exploding—a volcano in his chest that he isn’t sure is heartburn or an incoming heart attack.

Price says goodbye by giving Simon’s shoulder another squeeze before walking away to chat quietly with the woman supervising the cleanup.

“Come on, Lt.”

Simon used to correct Johnny after retirement, but he no longer has the heart to. It almost feels normal—like Simon is back in the field and not a tattoo artist with awards and accolades. It is a strange sensation, and Simon is surprised by how his mind and body are at odds with the feeling.

They step around shattered glass and overturned furniture. They walk around the darkening blood that’s starting to congeal. Simon doesn’t even glance at the hammer or the gloved hand that lifts it from the floor.

And it’s not Simon who drives. All the control he likes to have his gone, and it is Johnny that takes the wheel, guiding them back to London as if they’re just two mates on a weekend holiday.

It’s not until Simon is stepping into his flat and Bravo greets him that reality comes crashing into him like a hollow point on impact.

Johnny sighs heavily and drops onto the sofa. Bravo doesn’t go to jump into Johnny’s lap or to seek belly rubs. The German Shepard takes up post next to Simon. He sits rigidly, one paw tapping at Simon’s thigh as the dog tries to get his attention.

“I’m ace, Bravo,” he murmurs, reaching out to scratch between Bravo’s ears.

The dog whines softly but he drops his paw, accepting the scratches before padding over to Johnny. He jumps onto the couch and starts stomping all over Soap until Johnny is laughing and aggressively rubbing Bravo’s belly.

As Bravo settles, Johnny turns his attention to Simon. “You good, Lt?”

Simon shifts in Soap’s direction. He glances around, realizing that he hasn’t moved away from the door. He lingers like a ghost who can see everyone but no one sees them.

“Yeah. I’m good,” coughs Simon, his legs moving mechanically. He plops down onto the sofa next to Johnny and then sighs heavily. “I need a smoke.”

“Have some sitting around?” asks Johnny.

“Nope.”

Soap nods. Keeps nodding. “I’ll go grab some. There a shop around here?”

“On the corner,” answers Simon, eyes closed as his head tips back to rest against the top of the sofa.

“Up for a walk, Bravo?” asks Johnny.

Bravo barks and then jumps out of Soap’s lap, padding over to his leash.

When Johnny returns, the two of them sit on Simon’s balcony facing the back street between the buildings. Bravo is below them, sniffing the little stretch of grass there. He’s a dark spot amongst the green, moving back and forth as if he smells something interesting.

Johnny bought enough packs to give them both lung cancer. Soap isn’t one for smoking, but he joins Simon in it anyway. The two of them sit in the cold silence, the chilly air unable to penetrate the inferno that burns within Simon.

“When do you want to talk to the friend?” asks Johnny, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Tomorrow,” sighs Simon.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to say to Evie. Looking her in the face is going to be difficult enough, but explain? No. Fucking no. That shit is a mess.

Johnny’s foot taps absently like he’s listening to a song in his head. “You want me to talk? Or you want to do it?”

“I’ll do it,” replies Simon immediately.

This is his mess. You are his woman. And you are Evie’s friend. This has to come from Simon or no one at all.

Johnny inclines his head and takes another drag on his cigarette. He grimaces. “These are fucking nasty, Lt. How do you do it?”

“Rage,” replies Simon dryly.

Johnny cocks an eyebrow and then bursts out laughing, falling onto his back as he clutches his stomach. The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches with amusement.

Coughing, Johnny turns on his side in Simon’s direction. Bravo comes to a stop in the grass, his noise pushed into the dirt like he’s stumbled upon a scent.

“What is it, Johnny?” asks Simon as Soap stares at him but doesn’t speak.

“She cute?”

Simon blinks. “Who?”

“The friend.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I’m only asking,” replies Johnny, all innocence.

Simon shakes his head, this time smiling naturally. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You know I like a pretty face,” says Johnny, ashing his cigarette.

“Don’t make me blush, Johnny,” teases Simon.

The fire beneath his skin dims from an inferno to a small campfire. This banter is comforting to him—a reminder that there are people out there who care for Simon as more than just a previous coworker. Johnny cares. Kyle cares. And fuck—Price cares to the point that sometimes Simon thinks he has a loving father.

“Oh, aye, Lt. Been lusting after you for ages.” Simon glances at Johnny before snatching his cigarette from his fingers. “I’m smoking that!”

“You hate cigarettes, Johnny,” chides Simon, taking a long drag and finishing it off. “And you’ll have it off with anything that moves.”

“Not anything,” mutters Soap, sitting up fully.

Simon puts out the cigarette and takes another from the pack. “When did you last get your dick wet?”

Johnny’s lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Johnny,” says Simon, almost sing-song.

Soap mutters something and Simon punches him in the arm.

“Fuck, Lt. Yesterday.”

Simon shrugs. “Knew it.”

“If you’re gonna fucking ask about it, you’ll listen.”

“I’m good, Johnny,” replies Simon, holding up a hand for silence as he goes to light the new cigarette.

“Kyle and I were—”

“Not interested.”

“This beautiful blonde cornered me and I couldn’t say no. Lips like that—”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“She pushed me up against the wall. Dropped to her knees—”

“Johnny—”

“Never finished so fast in my—fucking hell Simon!”

Johnny clutches the back of his head where Simon lightly swatted him. “Said I didn’t want to know.”

“Then why’d you bloody ask!” exclaims Johnny, this time grabbing Simon’s cigarette from his fingers. He tries to puff on it but promptly grimaces, offering it right back to Simon.

“Absolute wanker,” mutters Simon.

“Favorite wanker, Lt.”

Simon snorts and reaches behind him, grabbing the whiskey bottle and setting it down between them. There are no glasses, but it’s not necessary. Johnny grabs the bottle and removes the screw lid, taking a swig directly from the bottle before holding it out to Simon. He takes the offered whiskey and Simon gulps down more than he should in one go.

He offers it back to Johnny. “Don’t fucking flirt with the friend, Johnny.”

Soap inclines his head and raises the bottle in salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Simon.”

The two of them sit on the balcony until the whiskey is gone and the sun has long since dipped below the horizon. Bravo stays in the living room, curling up on the sofa with Johnny.

Simon stares at his empty bed. It’s still unmade from when he hastily got out and answered the door.

Sighing, Simon heads into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He cranks it until it’s scalding. The heat is a nice distraction, and for a while, Simon pretends that you’re not gone. That you’re with him underneath the spray.

From memory, Simon plucks out his favorite moments, lingering in your sweetness. It’s not just the physical Simon smolders in. Everything about you is like a drop of lifeblood. Simon lingers on your smile, and on the calmness you bring him when you’re nearby. He dreams of your touch and the way you wrap your arms around him. The scent of your shampoo fills his nostrils.

That only leads to lustier thoughts, and Simon has to pull back before he goes too far.

When the water grows cold, and your hands are not there to warm his skin, that is when Simon breaks.

Everything is a flood. Everything fractures.

What are dying stars but beautiful confetti. Dust. Specks bursting outward to settle in forgotten places.

Simon is dust.

No—less than dust.

Atoms.

But lesser than that.

Nothing.

Infinite nothing.

His tears become one with the cold water. His shaking becomes one with the icy chill that makes his skin shiver. Simon’s nails dig into his skin. Blood blossoms in the moons. Drip onto the tile.

Simon sits on the floor of the shower until every tear is down the drain.

He doesn’t recall falling into bed. Or when he drifts to sleep.

It isn’t until Simon wakes that he’s realized he slept at all.

There were no dreams. Just blackness. Hardness.

But he hears Johnny, and Bravo’s nails against the wood floor.

It is reluctant duty that drags Simon from bed.

“Made breakfast. And tea. And coffee,” shrugs Johnny, offering a greasy piece of bacon to Bravo.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that,” sighs Simon, loading his plate with a little bit of everything.

Johnny ignores Simon and talks to Bravo like the dog is human baby. Bravo eats it up like it’s the best thing that has ever happened to him.

Simon drops into a chair. His stomach grumbles and then he’s eating. The eggs are still warm, and the coffee is still hot. He zones out, grabbing seconds and then thirds.

“Have appointments today?” asks Johnny.

Simon shakes his head. “I rescheduled everything back a week. Wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone.”

Usually, Simon hates leaving his shop and moving bookings around, but it can’t be helped.

Johnny nods and inspects the empty skillet that held scrambled eggs. “Still planning on chatting with the friend today?”

Simon swallows down a half-chewed piece of toast. “That’s what I said.”

“Just checking, Lt.”

Simon’s fork pauses. His tone was harsh. “You still coming with me?” asks Simon, softening his tone this time.

“Aye. I’ve got your back.”

Simon clears his plate and finishes off the last of the coffee before he and Johnny head over to Amelia’s. They decide to walk, bringing Bravo with them. Simon fiddles with a cigarette the entire way but never lights it.

“You still want to do this today?” asks Johnny, lingering at Amelia’s door.

No. He’d rather turn tail. Be a coward in this.

Instead of answering Johnny’s question verbally, Simon knocks three times on the door. It’s mid-morning, and Evie’s daughter should hopefully be up by now.

For a moment, there is no sound on the other side, but then Simon hears footsteps—then the turning of a deadbolt.

The door opens, and Simon’s heart falls into his stomach.

Evie stands there, Lillian in her arms. When she sees Simon, her expression changes from neutrality to hopefulness. Her gaze lingers on Simon before shifting to Johnny. That brightness—that joy—fades as time passes.

She is looking for you. And you are not there.

The whites of Evie’s eyes redden, and Simon knows what comes next. As if sensing her mother’s changing mood, Lillian begins to squirm, her own tiny face bunching with a coming tantrum.

“Oh shit,” mutters Johnny, reaching for the baby just as fat tears begin to slide down Evie’s face.

Evie surrenders Lillian to Soap immediately as if all the wind has been knocked from her lungs. She deflates, one hand grasping the doorframe like she’s about to faint. The baby starts to whine, and Johnny panics, holding the infant out before him like he’s never held one before.

“Fucking hell, Johnny. Support the head,” mutters Simon as Evie takes a step back, her other hand pressing to her chest.

“Evie?”

It’s Amelia. She comes rushing forward, grasping the woman’s shoulders. She glances at Simon. Then Johnny. Then little Lillian.

“Give her here,” instructs Amelia, reaching for the infant.

Johnny passes Lillian off and sighs with relief. Amelia cradles the child in one arm and uses the other to support Evie.

Evie is gasping for breath. Chest heaving. Nearing a panic attack.

“Is she…” but Amelia trails off.

Simon understands.

“We don’t know,” replies Simon, because it’s true. And the truth is best, even if it cuts deep like sharpened steel.

Evie chokes and Simon continues on, wanting to crush the rising panic on Evie’s face. “She wasn’t there. Which means that she’s probably still alive.”

Evie is shaking her head. Amelia’s face reveals nothing.

“Go on,” prompts Amelia.

Lillian still wiggles and whines but she’s not nearly so loud now.

“Your estate agent and her assistant are dead. Nothing appears stolen.”

Except you.

“But she’s gone?” asks Evie. Her voice is so strained Simon is surprised the woman can talk at all.

Yes, is what Simon wants to say. It’s what he should say. But all of his words are stuck in his throat.

“Yes,” answers Johnny for him, and Simon could sigh with relief on not having to say the words out loud. “But we’re looking for her.”

“She’s alive?” asks Amelia. She places a hand on Evie’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

“Until we know otherwise,” replies Johnny. “Yes.”

Amelia and Evie both relax even if the tears remain. Johnny was always better at talking to people than him. It’s why Simon rarely did it. He was either too blunt or didn’t know how to comfort. Johnny knew how. He always has.

“We should tell them,” murmurs Amelia to Evie.

“Tell us what?” asks Simon, curious.

Evie shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Then I will.” Amelia steps back and gestures for them to come inside.

Bravo stays next to Evie’s side all the way to the couch. When the woman sinks down on it, Bravo rests his head on her knee. Soap remains standing, as does Simon.

“British Intelligence came,” begins Amelia, and Soap’s eyes widen.

Simon doesn’t look at Johnny, but from his peripheral, he notices the slight turn of Johnny’s head as his friend glances at him. Price has to know by now. Simon didn’t tell him, but he’s likely putting all the pieces together once he looks at the documents Kyle is making copies of. Archie’s name is probably all over them.

There isn’t any hiding now.

Amelia sighs. “They were asking about Archibald. The circumstances around his death.”

“When did they arrive?” asks Simon.

Johnny remains quiet, his gaze still darting between Simon and Amelia.

“Yesterday,” answers Amelia.

Evie slouches forward, dropping her head into her hands.

“Is that it?” asks Simon, cautiously.

Amelia glances at Evie, her mouth turned downward into a frown. It’s not one of disappoint. It’s stress that’s creeping into her features. With a sigh, Amelia places Lillian into a rocker. Amelia grabs the edge and lightly presses down, the contraption moving in a slow bounce that quickly soothes Lillian’s irritation.

“Asked about potential enemies.” This time, Amelia’s sigh is much deeper. “It’s a strange question. Archie is incredibly kind. There isn’t anyone I know of that holds any ill will toward him. Everyone liked him. Everyone admired him.”

She chews on her lip. “I don’t understand.”

Evie sniffles. Rubs her hands over her face. Glances up. “Why her?” she rasps. “What did she ever do to anyone?”

She didn’t. It’s all me.

The muscles in Simon’s shoulder tense. Walsh likely killed Archie because it suited his goals. If anything, Walsh executed him and moved on without another thought to the bloke. Walsh might have no idea that you are Evie’s friend or that Evie is Archie’s widow. The connection might not be there for Walsh at all.

The only person Walsh cares about is himself. The man has goals, and he fulfills them to whatever ends necessary. If that means taking out one or many, Walsh will do it without thinking twice. Evie might not even be on his radar.

But you?

You are.

All because of Simon. Not because of Archie and his connection to Evie. Walsh wants revenge. He wants Simon to suffer.

It is Simon that betrayed Walsh. Because of Simon’s actions—because of everything he did to take the man down—Walsh only wants you to for the simple goal of getting back at Simon.

When Johnny says nothing, and Simon remains silent, fresh tears fall from Evie’s eyes. “Maybe we should call the police, Amelia. We can’t handle this.”

“The police—” interjects Johnny but Evie continues on like he didn’t say anything at all.

“Thank you, Simon. Thank you for going. But we need to get the authorities involved.” Her hands are shaking even though she tries to hide it.

“No,” says Johnny sharply, one hand slightly raised.

Amelia and Evie both jump, turning toward him.

Johnny closes his eyes and sighs, dropping his hand. When he opens them again, his tone is softer. “Simon called the right people to handle this. Local police can’t do anything.”

Both women frown, but Johnny continues.

“Simon,” begins Johnny, lingering for a moment before continuing, “used to be military.”

Amelia nods. “I’m aware. Known for years.”

Johnny frowns. “Do you know what he did?”

Amelia blinks. Shrugs. “A bit.”

She doesn’t know much. In fact, Amelia knows very little. What she does know is that Simon sustained a bad enough injury for them to force his retirement. Amelia doesn’t know why or how.

“Johnny here used to be on the same team as me. We were sent all over the world on international missions. Our targets weren’t grunts on the ground. We went after those who wanted to do terrible things to a lot of people in the worst ways possible.”

Simon doesn’t elaborate. Amelia and Evie don’t ask for clarification.

“I’m no longer in, but Johnny is. I called our captain, and he’s the one handling this.”

“Why?” asks Evie. “Why would you need to call someone like that for this?”

“Does this have to do with Archibald?” asks Amelia.

“No,” says Simon sharply before Johnny can answer.

He has to put this right. He needs to speak the truth even if it pains him. “It’s someone from my past. Someone I made an enemy of.” And then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

An apology is all Simon can offer. He has no comforting words for them because he has none for himself.

Evie glances away, her hand a fist that she presses against her mouth. There are no words spoken after that. She places her head on Amelia’s shoulder and the four of them lapse into silence.

It is Johnny that eventually wanders into the kitchen. He makes tea—poorly—but Simon accepts it anyway. He sits in an armchair, staring out the window as Bravo comforts Evie.

The two women don’t ask or tell Simon and Johnny to leave. Simon doesn’t know if Evie blames him. He wouldn’t mind. It’s deserved. But Amelia? That might hurt. Simon is loath to ask so he stays quiet.

Johnny carries the conversation. He speaks quietly to Evie and Amelia, asking them all sorts of questions that he’ll take back to Captain Price. Simon wants to suck it all in, to absorb the questions and trauma and hold it in his stomach to digest.

He’s seen worse. Done worse.

It is late by the time Simon and Johnny depart. It’s not true night but the sun is lowering, the sky awash with a reddish-purply glow. The walk back is utterly silent. Johnny and Simon linger with the sounds of passing cars and the occasional bark of a nearby dog.

Simon’s thoughts are elsewhere. Everywhere but his own head. His mind is there—processing, but there are no connections. It’s spinning static.

But Johnny is present. He is a solid presence beside Simon.

And it is Johnny that grabs Simon’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt before they reach the exterior door to Simon’s building.

Frowning, Simon glances up, scanning the street, muscles poised for action. He expects someone to fall from the sky or for Walsh to appear with weapon in hand. Simon will take that if it means getting you back.

“Stay here, Lt,” murmurs Johnny from the corner of his mouth.

The crease in Simon’s brow deepens but Johnny is already moving, leaving Simon on the pavement as he approaches the door. Simon’s gaze follows every step, and when Johnny reaches out to grab something white off the door, Simon doesn’t know he’s moving until Johnny turns toward him, a bit startled.

“I told you to stay,” snaps Johnny but there’s no venom in it. Only concern. Pity. And Simon hates that.

Simon’s response is not to speak but to snatch the thing out of Soap’s fist.

It’s another envelope. White like the last one. No postage like the last one. And there on the front in handwritten scrawl is Simon’s full name.

It’s exactly the same. A twin from the one found at Evie’s home.

Was Walsh here? Has he been watching Simon all this time? Is he here even now, lingering in a nearby building to watch Simon’s reaction to whatever is inside?

“Simon,” warns Johnny, but he’s not listening.

He needs to know—to fucking know.

Simon tears open the envelope and withdraws the small piece of paper.

It is thin. Wispy. Almost translucent.

The words are even thinner—as if the paper was kissed by smoke.

There are seeds that cannot sprout unless they are burned first. A friend told me that.

Simon told Walsh that—when Walsh thought Simon was an ally and not an enemy. When Simon was a plant and gaining information that would turn Walsh’s entire operation upside down.

I think of it often. I think of you. Isn’t it interesting that some living things must first burn before they can grow? What a gift that friend gave me. What a garden you and I are.

“Simon,” comes Johnny’s voice, but he’s not listening.

Everything is narrowing down to a point. He is fracturing all over again.

It rained that night. I burned like the seed. The sky watered my skin. I germinated. I flowered. I grew. What a gift. We are gardens now. The two of us.

“Call Price,” whispers Simon.

“Lt?”

“Call Price, Johnny.”

Simon knows.

He knows.

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partycatty · 7 months

Note

You're my favorite writer and I'm a Sucker for Johnny Cage x Himself from Mk11.... please?

okay, so lovingly, i don't feel comfortable directly writing johnny x himself... but i can do you one better?

johnny cage > two for one

the timelines collapse, leaving you in the face of new era and previous era johnny. you're not quite sure how you ended up in this situation, but their hungry stares are undeniable.

warnings: smut.. idk theyre frotting bro idk what else to say. ur rubbing their schmeats together. kissin tips. lockin cocks. diddlin dongs.

notes: THIS IS MK1 JOHNNY ("johnny") X MK11 YOUNGER JOHNNY ("cage") X READER!!! NO DILF HERE!!!

[ masterlist ]

a swirling tornado of sand interrupted your meeting with liu kang and his recruited earthrealmers, pulling into view several faces you had not met before. one of which being a man bearing a large chest tattoo of "JOHNNY," and you could only assume it was his name. as well as him came others you were later taught were counterparts to some of your companions, namely thunder god raiden, monk kung lao, and a mortal liu kang. a part of you was filled with dread for now knowing not one, but two johnnys.... johnnies? another part, though, was intrigued, if not horribly flustered.

as time went on, you had to spend more and more time around these newcomers as well as your people. your johnny was always clinging to you, or lingering near you but dear god this new johnny was like a lost puppy with a raging boner. his comments, flirtatious advances, and feather touches were driving you up a wall. he was testosterone humanized.

you couldn't deny that your johnny was dizzying in essence, from his charisma to the way his form hugs his clothes deliciously. but, dear lord, this new johnny was a hunk. he was huge in every way imaginable, and you tensed up when they were both in your presence. this all came to a head when you were attempting to work on your reports, but the alternate timeline johnny - the one in which you've started calling "cage" out of formality - couldn't keep his hands to himself. this particular instance, you were trying to inspect a map outstretched on the table, and cage was looming directly behind you, placing his hands on either side of you and effectively trapping you against the table. you tried so hard to ignore it, but his musk and faint cologne made your eyes gloss over with desire.

that is, until johnny strode over to the scene and ripped cage from your proximity, aiming an accusatory finger in his face.

"listen man," johnny was irritated, perhaps suspiciously more than normal. "lay off, yeah? she's trying to figure out how the hell we can send you back to whatever timeline you came from."

"don't you touch me," cage snarled in response, squaring up. he was only a couple inches taller than johnny, but his size was almost double. "i'm a star."

"and? so am i!" johnny shouts back with a groan. as the bickering picks up, you couldn't help but watch in amusement. but then, the insults become less funny when johnny grabs cage's purple sunglasses and stomps on them with a huff. cage frowns.

"ladies-" you interject, standing between the two brick walls of men. "you're both pretty." and so, the two men feel obligated to listen to you. you shoot a glance at johnny, silently scrutinizing his behavior. instead of just taking your scolding, johnny grabs you by your upper arm and drags you into a broom closet. god damn, they wore the same cologne. the closeness was nearly too much, combined with johnny's admittedly sexy scowl.

"why are you letting him manhandle you like that? you don't know him." johnny asks under his breath, towering over you as he holds your arms.

"what do you care?" you're almost offended at his tone, but then it all clicks. johnny's defensive of you, protective. hell, he's jealous... of himself. this realization makes a smile bloom on your face, and johnny immediately knows what you're beginning to understand.

who said you could only choose one of them?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

all it took on cage's end was one sultry stare, and he was sauntering toward the broom closet and locking it behind him. it was incredibly hard to think straight when both men's hands were groping and grasping at your body. in any other universe, you'd be dazed and confused from seeing double, but in this universe you're heated and dizzy from the two hard-ons rubbing into your body. one clothed cock was fitted and gently rutting into your hand, being johnny's. his needy groans and pants were swallowed by your own mouth as you made out with his plush lips. cage settled for your ass, grinding against it with equally needy grunts and breaths that haunted the back of your neck. when you pulled away from the kiss, you noticed johnny's already fucked out expression, his swollen lips parted as he tries pathetically to catch his breath.

"pl... please," he breaths out, voice barely audible over your gentle whimpers and cage's groans. "you don't know how long i've wanted your mouth on my... fuck." his head lolls back as you wrap your fingers around his cock, feeling it throb and twitch hungrily.

"make us feel good, baby," cage grumbles, slapping the side of your thigh. "on your knees, come on." obeying like a dog, you drop to your knees with a harsh bump, but you'll worry about the pain later. cage is already unleashing his cock from the constraints of his pants, palming himself through his boxers. johnny does the same, but couldn't bring himself to wait any more as his dick slings out of his slacks, nearly slapping your cheek when he twitches.

you decide to play the cruel game, denying johnny of what he's borderline begging for, his wet eyelashes fluttering at the sight of you on your knees for him, and... other him. speaking of which, you turn your head and wrap your lips around cage's cock, hollowing your cheeks and gently sucking down on his weeping tip. bobbing your head only a couple inches to tease, cage groans and watches johnny writhe for release.

"what's the matter?" cage taunts a slackjawed johnny. "jealous?" johnny bites down on his lower lip and nods wildly, cheeks flushed and averting eye contact. "hey, hey, ah-" cage tuts. he reaches over and grabs johnny by the neck, angling his face forward. "look at me while she sucks me off." and so johnny does, desperately whimpering and gasping as he watches cage's expression contort when you take his cock fully in your mouth, gagging as you reach the base. his other hand reaches down and holds your head in place, your lips burning from the stretch of the thickness. sure, they were both packing, but cage's was thick while johnny's was long.

your fingers found your cunt, swiping three available fingers across your folds and gathering the wetness before searching for johnny's cock and stroking as best as you can from this angle. his precum mixed with your slick allowed you to slide across easily. your head and torso were angled toward cage as you stretched your arm to jerk johnny off properly. both are now breathing heavily, and you only get to look up for a moment to notice cage's hand around johnny's neck, their intense eye contact having you wonder if you were even needed. clearly you were though, as they're both tensing and moaning at your pleasure.

fighting against cage's hand on the back of your head, you pull off of his cock with a pop and swap your attention, now jerking off cage while blowing johnny. the sudden onslaught of wet warmth makes johnny whine as he bucks into your throat, catching you off guard as you gag once again.

"ngh - sorry," he pathetically apologizes, only looking down at you for a moment. if he looked for any longer, he might just cum there and then. "m'sensitive."

"yeah you are," cage snarls, eyes clenching shut as he focuses on the pleasure. "god, you've got yourself a fuckin' whore in this timeline, don'tcha? you like sharin', johnny?" cage grabs your hair and tugs it lightly, and you hum an agreement against johnny's dick that makes him gasp as he nods along. johnny's warm, wet tip is seeping precum that places a salty taste on your tongue while it traces every vein.

cage's purring degrading comments and praises are lost to your hazy mind, too focused on pleasing the cocks in your face. you manage to pick up a few things about how good you look like this, and how cute they make them in this timeline. of course johnny would be attracted to himself, of course. this, thankfully, gives you an idea.

"hold on," you remove your lips from johnny and he involuntarily bucks into your face at the loss of pleasure. "can we try something?"

the two men exchange dubious glances, but their low lids and parted lips tell you they'd agree to anything you'd ask of them right about now. they nod simultaneously and you rise with a grin, wiping your mouth. each hand finds a dick and picks the stroking up again, trying to keep them heated and eager. one thing you pick up on quickly is that for as much smack as they talk, they're both desperately close from a few touches alone, bucking and whining into your hands. cage's cocky attitude has washed away and mirrored johnny's as they both submit to your touch. just as you feel them getting desperate, clawing at any part of your clothes or skin they could make contact with, you tug them together. cage leans against the wall, and johnny leans against a large equipment crate, gripping the corners.

you guide their dicks together until their undersides brush up on each other, making them both jolt in surprise. clasping your hands in a wide hoop, you resume your stroking, this time with both of their cocks trapped in your grasp. the messy mixture of fluid creates a wet noise as you glide up and down their touching cocks. johnny, as always, can't contain his desire and begins to rut into your hand, rubbing against cage's dick in the process. cage picks up on the idea, and the two men rub their cocks together as your hands stroke around them.

"holy-" cage slaps a hand over his eyes, groaning as his head tilts back. it's clear in all of his time, frotting was never something on his list. neither for johnny. "this... it's too much, doll."

"god - ffngh... it's supposed to feel like that," johnny interjects breathlessly, hips bucking up sloppily. his chin touches his chest as he hopelessly chases his high. "come on, no way you've - ahh - never done this. keep-keep moving-" a sharp hiss escapes his throat when you rub your thumb over his slit.

their thighs clench and their bucking becomes wild and it could be clear to anyone that they're extremely close. you also realize that they're entirely getting off on each other, whining every time their tips catch on each other. cage tightens his grip on johnny's neck and clenches his thigh with his other, while johnny is death gripping the box as he shakes and writhes.

"you can do it," you mutter encouragements to the men as their thrusts stutter. "talked so much before, where is it now, boys? you were doing so good..."

johnny couldn't take another second of the pleasure mixed with your praises, and with a final jolt, his thighs twitch as he cums, shooting ropes of his semen on both your hands and cage's cock. the cum coating his own cock got cage going just enough to finish shortly after, both of them spasming as semen drips down your hands. there was so much, and it felt so warm against your skin as they both whimpered and groaned curses and praises aimed at you and the other man. you lean down and place your lips around their tips, attempting to catch the final spurts as they dripped out. licking up their shafts to collect what you could, they simultaneously hiss at the overstimulation of their sensitive dicks, twitching and trying to pull away from your ruthless grip.

"alright, alright, fucking hell..." cage whines, pulling away with a harsh tug. his breath feels far away, impossible to recollect as he watches johnny shield his face with his arm, skin flushed and sweaty as his dick continues to throb in your hand.

they both reel seeing you lick your fingers, placing them in your mouth and sucking gently, lashes fluttering at how good - and similar - they tasted. johnny finally catches his breath and is the first one to properly speak up.

"someone's probably looking for us," he breathes, trying to fix his dress shirt with sweaty palms. "we... we should get back out there."

"right," you hum as your fingers are pulled from your mouth. "we were... in the middle of fixing all this."

"i dunno," cage smirks, crossing his arms. "i kind of like it here. i got two pretty things to keep me busy."

"don't make it weird," johnny groans, head lolling to the side as he stretches. "don't do that."

"how is that weird?" cage puts his hands on his hips.

oh lord, here they go ahead. maybe another round would shut them up.

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #johnny cage #mk1 #johnny cage x reader #johnny cage smut #mortal kombat smut #mk11 #marley writes ☆

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