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ilikeevilblondes · 3 months ago

Text

Breaststroke

18+ MDNI!

Summary: Joel, single dad extraordinaire, is struggling to teach his daughter how to swim. You end up teaching Sarah over the course of a few weekly swimming classes. One fortunate day, Joel accidentally stumbles upon a rather intimate situation involving you in the shower rooms after hours. He’s about to leave, but right before he can, he hears his own name spilling out in a desperate moan from your lips.

TL;DR: It’s more fun to stay in the YMCA (shower rooms) (because that’s where Joel fucks you.)

W.C: ~7.7k

Warnings: Singledad!Joel x swimmingteacher!reader, softdom!joel, accidental voyeurism, mutual masturbation, blowjobs, praise, fingering, unprotected p-in-v, shower sex, pull out and pray, implied age gap, Joel’s got that daddy humour (no outbreak!)

Note: waiter! waiter! some plot with my porn, please! sorry, you freaks, mama had to stretch the narrative before the rawdogging. and sorry for the late upload, the flu was not gucci. hope y'all enjoy as always, though! and if you got any reqs, feel free to send them my way 🤓

@pedrospurplerain

According to HealthyChildren.org, most children in America begin to learn how to swim by their fourth birthday. Basic abilities like floating and treading water can be ingrained in their motor skills at that point, and by the ripe age of five or six, most children will have been able to freestyle across any urine-defiled public pool.

Joel sighed as he watched his five-year-old angel scream and hiss at the local YMCA pool, refusing even to dip a toe into the chlorinated abyss.

“Sarah, pumpkin, you’re not a cat.” He sighed, pinching his curved nose bridge.

Sarah merely shot him a dirty look, the dirtiest a toddler could muster. She crossed her arms over her chest, the bright orange inflatable armbands around her upper arms squeaking as she did so.

“I don’t wanna go in there, daddy.” Sarah humphed.

Joel shook his head, looking up at her from where he sat in the shallow area of the gym’s pool. His little treasure, bless her heart, was stubbornly standing over the ledge and peering down at him with both fear and unwavering defiance.

“Y’gotta, pumpkin.” Joel ran a hand through his wet hair.

Of all the dads in the world, Joel would not say he was among the worst percentile. He certainly tried his best to do anything and provide everything for his little girl; working as many shifts as he could to pay for her school (his kid somehow, thankfully, didn’t get his brains and was starting first grade ahead of schedule), moving into a ‘nicer’ neighbourhood, and spoiling her with all the stuffed toys and lego sets her little heart desired.

Being a single dad wasn’t easy, to put it simply. Joel would’ve thought, owing to karmic nonsense, the universe could have been a bit nicer to him for the measly crime of forgetting to teach his daughter how to swim. But there he was, staring up at a child more hydrophobic than a rabies survivor.

“Can we go home, Daddy? Please?” Sarah stomped her little foot down onto the tiled floor.

“We will, sugar, I promise. Just, not until you at least try to step down here.”

Sarah shook her head wildly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” She said, more decisively.

“Says who?” Joel raised a dark brow.

“Me.”

“Remind me again, pumpkin, are you the adult or the child in this relationship?”

“You’re the one in the kiddie side of the pool, Daddy.” Sarah giggled, revealing a toothy grin.

Joel sighed through a smile. God, this kid was too smart for him. She was gonna be the death of him.

Mumbling something to the effect of ‘smartass’ under his breath, Joel treaded to the end and hoisted himself up, towering over his three-foot-nothing daughter and dripping chlorine-infected water down onto the ground.

“You wanna switch places?” He crossed his arms over his broad, bare chest, nodding his head toward the pool.

“Nope!” Sarah smiled.

Joel was about to give up for the day and take his troublemaker home only to return the next weekend, when he suddenly felt a tentative finger tap his shoulder.

He whipped around to see a girl, much younger than him—and much shorter, too, dressed in the standard red lifeguard one-piece uniform.

“Sorry to intrude,” You began, biting your lip. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Joel blinked, not realising he had to reply to your remark like a normal fucking human would. Instead, he opted for the less popular, uncivilised caveman method of furrowing his brows and blinking madly.

He was too distracted by the way your swimsuit clung tightly over your body. Too mesmerised by the droplets of water sliding in slow motion down your curves. Not to mention that disarmingly pretty smile of yours.

God, he’d been too single for too long.

“Hello!” The reason for his singleness beamed up at you and waddled closer. “I’m Sarah.”

Your smile stretched wider as you bent down to meet her eye level and introduce yourself in return. Sarah repeated your name back to you delightedly, like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

After making a comment about how ‘cool’ her floaters were, you straightened up and met Joel’s coffee-brown gaze.

“Anyway.” You absentmindedly tucked a stray piece of wet hair behind your ear. “Um, well, I overheard your situation. And, uh, just wanted to let you know that the gym hosts free introductory swimming lessons every Saturday afternoon. I teach the classes, actually, and you and your daughter are more than welcome to come, mister…?”

By some miracle, Joel was able to move his mouth and properly communicate this time.

“Miller. Joel Miller.” He managed to say without so much as a stutter, smiling politely at you and sticking out a hand.

You took his hand in yours and shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Miller-Joel-Miller. That Italian?” Your laugh was a sweet sound and, at risk of being completely predictable, music to his ears.

“The only Italian in me, sweetheart, is from the canned ravioli we had for lunch today.” Joel chuckled. “And we’d be more than happy to come, wouldn’t we, Sarah?”

To punctuate his claim, he flashed Sarah a look.

A frown cut into her soft features, but she relented.

“Yes, we would.” Sarah sighed dejectedly.

“Great! Um. Here’s the flier.” You produced a colourful leaflet and held it out to Joel. He took it. “It has the times and details and, uh, that’s my phone number on the bottom, there.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Joel pocketed it. “We’ll be there.”

“I look forward to seeing you two then.” You smiled again.

Joel would’ve fallen to his knees if you had stayed longer with that damn smile of yours. But you turned around to speedwalk towards the other side of the pool, blowing your whistle and reprimanding a bunch of teenagers running across the slippery poolside.

And if he thought the front of you was stunning, he was quickly shown that your back view was just as providing.

“You’re staring,” Sarah observed, tugging at his arm.

Joel cleared his throat.

“Let’s go home, pumpkin.” He ruffled her hair, much to a fit of giggles, and led his daughter away from the outdoor pool.

—-------

Saturday afternoon did not come quickly enough.

After a week of late nights spent finishing drywall and early mornings making Sarah’s lunch—because there was no way in hell she was going to eat whatever junk-filled shit the American school system provided in cafeterias—Joel was tired, to say the least.

By three o’clock sharp, he had arrived at the pool with his daughter dressed to the nines in a robot-themed swimsuit and bright green goggles that suctioned so hard into her little face that she looked wide-eyed and cartoonish.

And when four o’clock had rolled around, Joel was happy to report that his daughter had finally worked up the nerve to get in the pool. With your help (and some floppy-haired assistant coach), Sarah had also managed to do some basic swimming manoeuvres without clinging to the side for dear life and frothing at the mouth.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Joel approached you after the session had officially ended, and Sarah was dried off and warm. “Just wanted to thank you. And, uh, Coach Bryan for, you know…”

“No thanks necessary, Mr Miller.” You winked, then bent down to Sarah, who stood beside her father. “You did great, Sarah. Really.”

Sarah smiled sheepishly. Joel chuckled at her bashful demeanour and ruffled her hair affectionately.

“Same time next week, Coach?” He asked.

“Yes, sir.” You saluted him and walked off toward the shower rooms, a towel around your shoulders and a spring to your step.

Joel shook his head, smiling, and took Sarah home in a better mood than he had been that morning.

—-

Joel quickly learned that the swimming lessons were beneficial to both him and his daughter. Sarah was speedily conquering her fear of water, and Joel was… well, Joel spent a lot of time talking to you when you weren’t in the pool. And afterwards, too, when the rest of the kids had already left and there were no other parents to chat your ear off.

“You’re taking a gap year?” Joel mused after one particularly smooth sailing session, taking off his sunglasses and hanging them on the hem of his shirt.

“Yep. Just taking a break after college so I can figure out what I wanna do in life.” You shrugged. “Is being a contractor any fun?”

“Well, sweetheart, I doubt you’d like it very much.” Joel smiled, glueing his eyes to yours with steely resolve.

He was not going to look down at your body this time. He was not going to ogle the tight fit of your one-piece. He was better than the average man.

Besides, you were definitely too young for him. Possibly even young enough to be his daughter. You’d likely recoil in disgust and horror and, possibly, contact the local authorities to capture him, the creepy older man, if he were to ever make a move.

“Eh. I was open to the idea.” You laughed, shaking your head. “But I guess it’s dominated by big, strong hunks like you, huh?”

“I mean, I—” Joel began, but cut himself off upon realising what you had just said.

He blinked. Did you just flirt with him?

As if sensing that Joel was getting somewhere other than friendly banter with her swimming teacher, Sarah jogged up to the two of you.

“Daddy, I’m hungry. Let’s go home!” She pulled at his wrist.

Joel cleared his throat, offered you a quick goodbye, and led his daughter outside back to their car.

—-

“I promise it’s funny.” Bryan nudged your shoulder, giving you a very indiscreet once-over.

Joel was shamelessly eavesdropping on your post-lesson conversation as he towelled Sarah’s unruly hair nearby. Not to be nosy, of course, just to find out whether he was your boyfriend or not. Out of pure curiosity, really. No ulterior motive whatsoever…

“I somehow doubt that.” You hummed, no amusement evident in your unimpressed tone.

“Okay, so, there’s this ginger, a brunette, and a blonde—”

“I’ll stop you right there, Bryan, is the punchline, by any chance, ‘breaststroke’?”

“Well, shit.” Bryan sighed.

Joel chuckled to himself, giving Sarah one last tousle with the towel before settling it over her shoulders.

He concluded you either hated your boyfriend, or he wasn’t your boyfriend at all.

Joel preferred the second option.

—-

“I’m just getting some water. You okay with the kids?” You pulled yourself out of the pool, glancing at Bryan.

“Yep. All good here,” He called back.

With a nod, you draped your towel over your shoulders and made your way towards the deck chair that held your things.

It seemed that the heavens were smiling on you that day, too, because none other than Mr Miller himself occupied the chair beside yours.

And what a sight he was.

Sun-bathing, his sunglasses resting over closed eyes, and his broad, bare, tanned chest exposed to all.

“Having fun there, Mr Miller?” You smiled, taking a seat on your chair, bringing your water bottle to your lips.

Joel lowered his sunglasses and very discreetly let his gaze travel down your body.

You bit back a grin. He always thought he was so subtle.

“Absolutely, coach. Need to set a timer, though, or I’ll end up medium well-done.” Joel sat up, facing you.

You snorted at his dad-humour.

“Tan looks great.” You commented, wiping your brow with your towel.

“You think?” Joel smiled, reaching for the can of soda on his side table and taking a sip. “Thank you very much, sweetheart.”

“No problem at all, Mr Miller.” You licked your lips, your gaze momentarily caught on his … form-fitting trunks. “Well, I better get back to it.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want to keep your boyfriend waiting.” He pushed his sunglasses back up his aquiline nose.

“My—oh! Oh. Bryan? No. Ew,” You held back a gag. “No. No. God, no.”

Joel chuckled.

“I think you may need one more ‘no’ to prove your point there, darlin’.”

“No.” You played along. “Him and I are strictly friends. Besides, he isn’t my type.”

“He isn’t?”

“I like my men like I like my cheese.” You shrugged, standing up.

“Don’t say smelly.” Joel laughed.

You opened your mouth but decided to leave your preferences shrouded in mystery as you began walking off.

Well, until you threw him a look over your shoulder, catching him in the act of staring at your ass, but pretending not to notice.

“Aged.”

Joel choked on nothing while you innocently walked away like you hadn’t just made a heavily suggestive remark.

—-

“Daddy? Can I go talk to Amanda for a second?” Sarah asked, her gaze flickering over to a plait-wearing blonde girl nearby.

“Yeah, okay, sugar. Be quick, though. Tommy’s coming over soon.” Joel squeezed her shoulder before letting her run off, her wet flip-flops squeaking against the tiled poolside as she approached her friend.

Joel shook his head and smiled. He was so proud of his girl for overcoming her phobia. Maybe he needed to treat her to ice-cream one of these days–

“Hi, Mr Miller.”

After craning his head, Joel found you standing behind him. Bright-eyed and wearing that same, impossibly tight, lifeguard swimsuit. Thank God for nylon.

“Hey, coach.” Joel offered you a lopsided grin.

“I just wanted to say, I’ve been really impressed with your daughter over these past few weeks.”

“She’s a fast learner.” Joel moved beside you, still facing Sarah and her little friend but keeping his eyes trained on you. “Unlike me.”

“Does she get it from your wife, then…?”

Joel couldn’t shake his head faster. “No wife.”

And there went his eyes, dragging down your slightly wet body. Christ, it was like you jumped straight out of a Baywatch episode—keep it together, Miller!

“Oh.” You coughed. “So that’s why all the moms flock around you.”

Joel let out a short laugh. “I think you’re exaggerating, sweetheart.”

You took a quick glimpse at the hoard of middle-aged women unabashedly staring at the wide-shouldered man next to you before returning your sights to the wide-shouldered man himself.

“I don’t think I am.” Your lips pulled upward in a small smile. “Well, anyway. Just wanted to catch you before our final lesson next week.”

“Our final lesson’s next week?” Joel sputtered out, sounding way less calm and collected than he had intended.

“Yeah. Unless you want to learn how to swim, too.”

“I think I’m all covered in that department, darlin’.” Joel smiled. “But thank you. For everything. I know this whole shindig is free, but I just wish there was some way I could repay you.”

You clicked your tongue and, if Joel caught that correctly, lowered your voice.

“I’m sure we can find some way for you to pay me back, Mr Miller.” You said innocently, but your half-lidded eyes told another story.

Before he could so much as utter out the first syllable of a reply, Sarah came darting back.

“Okay, Daddy, let’s go!” She took her father by the hand and spared you a glance. “Bye, coach!”

Joel tried to hide both his shock from your very obvious innuendo as well as his disappointment from his daughter’s very poor timing.

He rubbed a hand down the lower half of his face and nodded at his daughter. “Let’s go then, pumpkin.” He gripped her hand and turned to you with a slightly dazed smile. “I’ll see you next week, sweetheart.”

“That you will, Mr Miller.” With a quick wink, you spun around on your heel and made your way toward the shower rooms.

—-

As fate would have it, barely half an hour later, Joel found himself sighing unhappily and looking down at his daughter as he attempted to contain his frustrations.

“We just got home—what do you mean, you left your goggles at the pool?” Joel said through a deep exhale.

“Sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean to forget them.” Sarah shuffled her feet, her eyes locked on the floor in front of her and her fingers twisting the bottom of her t-shirt.

Tommy stuck his head out from the kitchen, one hand clutching a can of Bud Light and the other braced on the doorframe.

“Yeah, Joel, she didn’t mean to.” He piped in, unhelpfully.

“Shut up, Tommy,” Joel grumbled, shooting him a quick glare.

His brother just smirked and took a sip of his beer.

Joel sighed and turned back to Sarah, pinching his nose bridge. “Look, pumpkin, it’s fine. I’ll just drive back to the pool and get ‘em for you, okay?”

Sarah frowned. “Will you be back in time for dinner?”

“Yeah, Joel, you better be. You’re the one making it.” Tommy let out a dramatic huff.

Joel ignored him.

“Won’t take but a hot minute.” Joel ruffled Sarah’s unruly curls and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head before turning away toward the front door.

“Say ‘hi’ to sweetheart for me, if you see her!” Sarah smiled up at him.

Joel paused mid-step, his shoes halfway on.

“Hi to who, now?” Tommy leaned closer.

“That ain’t her name, pumpkin.” Joel chose not to look directly at Tommy as he huffed out another sigh and yanked his shoes fully on.

“Ain’t that what you call her, though?”

“Now, who are you callin’ ‘sweetheart’, Joel Miller?” Tommy wore a shit-eating grin on his face.

Joel decidedly ignored him, believing it to be the best course of action.

“Watch my kid, Tommy!” He called as he stepped out of the house.

—--

The pool area was mostly deserted by the time Joel returned to it, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the lengthy stretch of lane-roped waters.

Joel walked a slow lap around the perimeter of the pool, scanning the tiles and lounge chairs and the lone lifeguard tower for any sign of Sarah’s goggles.

Nothing.

Turning around, Joel’s eyes landed on the entrance to the womens’ locker rooms. He huffed out a heavy sigh, running his hand through his grey-flecked hair. He would have preferred to not snoop in there in fear of startling any lingering guests, but he decided that there wouldn’t be anyone this close to closing time on a Sunday and, moreover, didn’t want to come home empty-handed and disappoint his daughter.

So, on he went.

The locker rooms were quiet when he tentatively stepped inside, the scent of chlorine and cheap soap clinging to the air.

Fortunately, it seemed that he was the only one in its vicinity.

And, even more fortunately, Joel immediately spotted Sarah’s bright green goggles lying by its lonesome on a bench near the showers.

Gotcha.

He was ready to make a beeline for them and head quickly home, but upon taking a few steps forward, Joel’s ears caught the distant sound of a shower running.

Turning his head toward the source of the splashing sounds, Joel’s eyes immediately noticed a swimsuit hanging precariously off the shower curtain rod.

But not just any swimsuit. It was a red one-piece with what appeared to be ‘lifeguard’ in bold, along the front.

It was your swimsuit.

You were in the shower.

Joel pursed his lips. Just his fucking luck. Of course, the inappropriately young girl he tried not fantasising about for weeks was the only other person there.

Mentally chastising himself for even entering the locker rooms in the first place, Joel pivoted sharply and began making his way toward the exit.

He didn’t get very far, though, because, after two intentionally light steps, he heard his own name drifting from the steaming shower.

“Joel…”

He stiffened. Evidently, he was caught. He’d have to apologise profusely and somehow testify that he was not, in fact, a perverted Peeping Tom—

“Joel,” You sighed, followed by … shit, was that a moan?

And at that moment, Joel realised that, alongside the splashing of water echoing from the stall, there was the unmistakable clap and squelch of—

“Joel! Oh… fuck,” Your breathy moan carried easily down the short hall.

You were fucking yourself to the thought of him.

Shit, shit, shit.

If Joel were a better man, he would already be in his car, driving home. He would have forgotten this encounter had ever occurred, tucked it deep into the depths of his mind, granted you a curt farewell for the final lesson the coming week, and proceeded to never see you again.

But Joel wasn’t a better man.

Judging by how quickly his dick came to life to rest, half-hard, against his thigh in his swim trunks, Joel was an awful person.

Well, he couldn’t come home nursing a semi, now could he?

Yeah. Reaching down to pull his throbbing cock out of his waistband was the right thing to do.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he leaned against a corner and slowly slid his fist down his stiffening length.

“Joel! Fuck, your cock feels so good!” Your pitchy whine floated down the room, amplified by the generosity of the tile acoustics.

Joel’s dick twitched in his hand.

Out of habit, he tightened his grip around his base and fucked up into his fist, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending it was your tight cunt he was jutting in and out of.

And it wasn’t hard to pretend, either. What with the sinful noises you were making a few stalls away, and the desperate pleas of ‘that’s it, Joel, fuck me harder!’

With pearls of precum dribbling down his tip and smearing along his hand with each thrust, Joel felt himself near his release. Judging by the increasingly airy quality of your whines, you were facing the same predicament.

Joel continued to fuck his fist, picturing you in various filthy scenarios.

You, slowly wrapping your dainty hand around his hard-on and eagerly taking over.

You, on your knees, choking on his cock.

You, tits smushed against tile as Joel fucked you with reckless abandon under the hot torrents of the showerhead.

Ramming brutally into your greedy fucking pussy, watching as his come-soaked dick disappeared in and out of your tight channel—

“Fuck!” Joel cursed aloud after a particularly enthusiastic thrust.

Suddenly, the water stopped. So did your noises.

Joel stilled. Oh, shit.

“Hello?” Came your voice, meekly. “Is … Is someone there?”

As silently as he could, Joel released his hold on his cock and carefully tucked himself back in his trunks.

Shit. What was he going to do?

Almost immediately after he regained his decency, the shower curtain slid halfway open with a faint metallic rattle, and you cautiously peered out, hiding most of your body behind the vinyl barrier.

“...Mr Miller?” You said, uncertainly, as if half-convinced he was some kind of dreamlike apparition.

Joel cleared his throat and took an instinctive step back.

“Uh—yeah. Just, uh… goggles. Sarah’s goggles.” He stuttered, holding them up weakly. “Her goggles. She left them here. The goggles.”

“Well, thank god you clarified that.” You smacked your lips, a sarcastic bite to your tone. The snarkiness soon faded from your expression once you added, with knitted brows, “you’re in the womens’ showers.”

“Yeah, I—” Joel winced. “I know.”

Silence.

After a moment or two, you opened your mouth to say something else, but the words died in your throat as your eyes fell on Joel’s trunks.

More specifically, the raging bulge making itself known in his lap.

“You’re hard.” You stated, your cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.

Joel’s eyes shot wide open. He glanced down, too, and sure enough, he was hard. It was almost as if he was fucking his hand to the thought of you only moments before. Oh, wait, that’s because he was!

To preserve the last shred of dignity in Joel’s inexecusably shameful body, he threw his hands over his groin and attempted to stammer out a valid excuse.

“Sorry, sweetheart—” No, he wasn’t. “—I, um… well, you see, I…”

Your eyes found the faint traces of precum on his right hand.

“Were you … jerking off to me in the shower?”

Yes, yes, he was.

“Frankly, darlin’, I think the better question here is, were you jerking off to me in the shower?” Joel coughed.

Your eyes trailed over his body, lingering again on where he covered his hard-on.

“I was.” Your stare found his. “Your turn, Mr Miller.”

Joel sucked in a breath through his teeth. There was definitely no backing out now.

He nodded slowly. Reprehensibly.

Shame churned within him as he desperately wished for the ground to open up at his feet and swallow him whole, possibly even spitting him back out into the fiery pits of hell where he so clearly belonged after what he had done. Unfortunately for him, the earth, indifferent to his suffering, remained stubbornly solid beneath him, leaving him stranded in his own mortification.

“Look, sweetheart, I can’t express how sorry I—lord almighty.”

Instead of letting him scramble to finish whatever bullshit he was cooking up, you decided to pull the shower curtain all the way back.

Joel gulped, taking in your newly-exposed bare body, from the soft curve of your breasts to the thickness of your thighs to the seam of your … fuck, to the seam of the same pussy you were probably fingering just moments before; glazed in glistening beads of water under the cool fluorescent lights.

You were fucking gorgeous.

So gorgeous, in fact, that Joel felt his cock fully spring to life at the sight of you, standing naked and dripping-wet from the rain of showerhead.

“Let me… let me help you out.” You bit your lower lip, your eyes hazy.

“H-Help me out?” Joel breathed, staggering backward, his hands still persevering to conserve his modesty.

You slowly approached him, stopping when any semblance of personal space was lost, and dropped down to your knees.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Joel heard himself swallow.

“Don’t you want this, Mr Miller?” You looked up at him, your eyes pleading and almost doll-like from that angle.

While waiting for his response, your hands softly wrapped themselves around his, guiding them away from his lap to meet his tenting swim trunks head-on.

Joel, meanwhile, was busy trying to convince himself this wet dream of a situation was really happening whilst simultaneously refraining from spending his load in his trunks, because the vision of you, bare and waiting patiently on your knees, looked downright sinful.

“Doesn’t matter if I do.” Joel shook his head slowly, not registering the fact that his grip on the goggles loosened to a point where they fell to the floor in a dull clatter. “This… this is wrong.”

“The way I see it,” You hummed, your hands finding gentle purchase on his hips. “I’m naked. And already wet. And you’re…”

Your eyes flickered down to his bulge and wet your lips. Upon seeing this, Joel’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Ain’t there some—some rule against, I don’t know, a coach fraternising with a parent in this way?” Joel furrowed his brows, distractedly taking your chin in his hands and tilting your head upwards.

“No.” You eagerly let him direct you, moving at his will.

“You sure?”

“Positive.” The corners of your mouth pulled up in a small smile.

“What if someone comes—yeah, fuck it, I ain’t gonna keep pretending like I don’t want this.” Joel shook his head, his eyes dragging over you unabashedly.

“Oh yeah?” Your smile only widened.

“Go on then, darlin’.” Joel purred, his voice a low and rough timbre, his eyes overtaken with want. “What was it you said a while ago…? Help me out.”

With his less-than-reluctant approval, you tossed him another heart-stuttering wink, slipped your fingers past his waistband, and pulled him out.

And, fuck, you were not disappointed.

Joel was big, to say the least; in both length and girth, and you may have felt your cunt quivering at the mere thought of the possibility of taking him inside you later, but you were quickly overtaken by need upon seeing the drops of precum spilling from of his head.

With a hand wrapped around his base, you stuck your tongue out to lick a stripe up his length, tasting the salt of his skin and his arousal.

At your actions, Joel inhaled a sharp breath.

“You gonna finish what you started now?” Joel mused from above you, closing a fist around your grip on his cock and bringing it closer to your parted lips. He gently tapped your cheek with his free hand. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”

And you gladly did so, taking his tip into your mouth and swirling your tongue around his head like a fucking lolipop.

“Fuck,” Joel gritted his teeth, tossing his head back against the wall.

Taking his expletive as a sign to continue, you proceeded to hollow your cheeks and take his length deeper, as deep as physically possible without making you choke.

“That all you can take?” Joel tutted, caressing your cheek.

Much to your determined efforts, you only managed to fit a little more than half of him in your mouth. Because, fuck, was he big.

You whined around his cock in response.

“Shh,” Joel murmured. “‘S okay. ‘S okay, sweetheart.”

His deep brown gaze met yours, and for a second, you could have mistaken the emotion swimming in his eyes as affection.

“Nice and slow, hm?” Joel said through a satisfied exhale, his brows furrowed at the sensation of being enveloped by the warmth of your mouth.

His fingers threaded through your hair, coming to grasp at your roots, but remained stationary, waiting for you to make the first move.

You looked up at him through your eyelashes and held that eye contact as you began moving your head back and forth. Seeing his eyes briefly flutter in pleasure, you flattened your tongue against the underside of his cock, feeling it twitch as you continued your movements.

“Fuck, sweetheart. That’s it.” His grip in your hair tightened.

You started to bob your head up and down at a quicker pace as you sucked him greedily, your hand moving in deft strokes along the stretch of his length your mouth couldn’t entertain.

Joel cursed under his breath and guided you on and off his cock in a steady rhythm as he fisted your hair.

And, fuck, he let himself thrust into your mouth once or twice, but upon hearing you gag, resolved to let you take charge of the speed entirely.

“Sorry sweetheart,” Joel breathed. “Sounded pretty chokin’ on my cock, but I guess I went too far, hm?” He sighed, caressing your cheek again.

You moaned with his cock heavy on your tongue, signalling your eagerness to die of asphyxiation from a fucking blowjob, and begun to take him even further into your mouth, feeling his head touch the back of your throat.

“Shit, darlin’.” Joel groaned. “That’s a good girl. Taking it so well.”

A strangled sound escaped from your otherwise occupied throat as you continued to deepthroat a man old enough to be your father.

Truly realising the situation you found yourself in, you felt a needy sensation thrum from in between your legs. Whilst continuing to bob your head around his cock, your hand went to trail down your front and relieve some of that tension you ached to be rid of, rubbing your clit furiously.

“Oh, my poor girl.” Joel cooed, seeing this. “Come on, now. Up you get,” He gently pulled you off his cock (wincing at the loss of your mouth) and up to stand in front of him.

“Not good?” You breathed, resting a hand on his chest while his hands settled on either side of your waist.

“No, sweetheart, it was very good.” Joel dipped his head down so his mouth was less than an inch away from yours, every word releasing as a warm breath against your lips.

And then he leaned down to capture your mouth in a desperate, hungry, horribly sloppy kiss, licking into you and no doubt tasting his own arousal on your tongue.

You didn’t even register he was walking you backward until your back hit the shower wall.

“Just wanna fuck you now,” Joel mumbled, his half-lidded stare drifted down your bare form before flickering back up to meet your eyes.

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” You smirked, pulling him back into another frenzied kiss.

Joel smiled against your lips.

“So mouthy,” He tutted in that authoritative, paternal voice you’ve heard him use before, in between eager kisses. “I’d like to teach you a lesson, sweetheart, but I’m afraid I’m too fuckin’ impatient myself right now.”

At the sound of that, you clenched your thighs together.

The slant of his mouth trailed down your jaw to your neck, sucking and biting at your wet skin, humming in pleasure as he did so. Simultaneously, his big, calloused hand made their way from your waist down to your lower abdomen, and lower, still, until you felt his fingers ghost over your slick entrance.

You gasped.

“Mr Miller–”

“‘Joel’, darlin’. It’s ‘Joel.’” He mumbled against your neck, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. “Heard you moanin’ it in here a while ago, I’m fairly certain you know how to pronounce it.”

“Joel,” You obliged, biting your lower lip as you felt Joel’s fingers meander nearer to your core.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You don’t have to… you know,” You glanced down in between both your bodies.

Joel followed your gaze and saw his own fingers hovering close to your aching mound.

“Think I do.” He clicked his tongue. “Need to get ya ready. Wouldn’t wanna hurt that pretty pussy of yours when I… well, to put it bluntly, darlin’, I don’t wanna hurt your pretty pussy when I’m fuckin’ you in a little bit.”

“Oh,” You breathed.

“Yeah,” Joel hummed, nudging your cheek with his nose. “That sound good to you, sweetheart?”

You nodded almost too avidly.

“Good,” Joel sighed, his fingers skimming over your aching cunt and just barely dipping inside your folds. “Just relax, darlin’. I gotcha.”

That was the last of the preamble before you felt one of his fingers slip inside, dragging up and down against your walls.

Normally, if left to your own devices, you were barely satisfied with a singular digit of your own. But here you were, gasping and clenching around just his middle finger.

Content with your reaction, Joel kissed your neck and slipped another finger to crook alongside the first in an even rhythm that began to spark a familiar warmth in your gut.

“There we go.” He mumbled against your skin.

“Fuck,” You whispered as you felt his thumb settle on your clit.

You felt Joel smile against your pulse point. And then, with his other big hand, he gently held your face and titled it to the side to pepper kisses along your jaw.

“You can take another, can’t you? Yeah, you can.” Joel hummed, and before you could respond, you felt a third finger slip inside, stretching you wider.

Your eyes squeezed shut as Joel’s fingers curled inside you at a faster rhythm while his thumb graciously swiped at your clit.

Blood pounded in your ears. Your breathing shallowed. You were so, so close.

“Joel, please…”

“Please what? C’mon, baby, use your words like a big girl.”

His fingers only sped up, dragging against your walls so deliciously and filling you better than your own hand could have ever done.

You inhaled.

“Please don’t s-stop.” Your breath hitched in your throat. “I’m so close.”

“You wanna come for me? ‘S that it?” Joel cooed, his breath warm against your skin and right beside your ear.

“Please,”

“Come for me then, sweetheart. Let me hear you,”

With a scream of his name, your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave, sending you into a light-headed bliss as you clutched his big upper arms.

His fingers only began to slow once your cunt stopped pulsing rapidly around him, and when you caught your breath again, he tenderly slipped them out.

“Made a mess of my fingers, huh?” He mumbled, staring down at how his hand glistened with your arousal.

You felt your cheeks redden.

“I’m sorry–”

“Don’t fucking be,”

And you watched as Joel stuck a finger in his mouth and sucked your slick off it like it was a world-class dessert.

“That was hot,” Was your breathless response.

Intelligent.

“Oh yeah?” The corner of his lips tugged upward as his eyes danced from your own to your parted lips.

“Yeah,”

A soft, low laugh rumbled in his throat.

“Come here,” Joel sighed, placing a hand on the small of your back and another on the side of your face, leaning down to devour your lips in another messy kiss.

His tongue slid inside your mouth as if starved, licking against your tongue and letting you taste your own pleasure. All while the hand on your face brought you closer and gently stroked the curve of your cheek.

After a few moments, Joel broke the kiss almost regretfully.

He barely pulled away, his lips closely within reach of yours, and his breath mingling with your own as he spoke in a deep, gruff rasp.

“You still want this, sweetheart?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Joel smirked. “A simple ‘yes’ would’ve sufficed.”

Before you could form a response to his slightly snarky remark, your breath was stolen from you at the sight of Joel tugging down his trunks fully and stepping out of them.

Glancing down, you found that he was still incredibly hard. Almost painfully, by the look of how his cock practically bounced up to his navel. Clearly, your recent oral assistance did nothing to tame the lust in his body.

Joel crowded you up against the wall once more, his tall frame easily looming over yours. One of his big hands went to caress your jawline, angling your head up toward him, and the other went to your thigh, wrapping your leg around his waist.

“Been a while for me.” He sighed, a hint of embarrassment peeking through his tone. “You tell me if I get … carried away, yeah?”

Instinctively, you hung your arms around his wide shoulders, bringing him even closer.

“Yes, sir.” Your lips quirked upward.

“Good girl,” He hummed, his thumb absently running along your bottom lip.

Then, the hand cupping your face went to guide his aching dick to notch against your entrance, sliding against your wet mound.

And, with a shaky inhale slipping past his lips, he sheathed himself inside you.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Joel muttered lowly.

You let out a whine at the feeling.

Despite being barely halfway in, Joel was already proving to be more than sufficient, especially from the way your velvety walls were already pulsing wildly around his length.

“I know, I know, I know,” Joel sighed, his thumb caressing where he held a grip on your thigh. “‘S okay, sweetheart. Shh, you can take it.”

In response, you nodded.

And Joel drove himself the entire way, balls-deep, his greying pubic hair tickling the inside of your upper thighs. He gasped in your ear at the feeling of the first full thrust and at the sensation of your channel clamping desperately around him.

He filled you up so fucking well.

“You doin’ okay? Hm?” He mumbled, leaving lazy, aimless kisses along your neck.

“Need more.”

“Oh? She wants more, huh?” He smirked against your skin. “That what you were imaginin’ in the shower?”

“Y-Yeah,” You whispered.

“Flirtin’ with me for weeks now, and here you are bein’ all shy.” Joel tsked. “Don’t worry, you’ll get more, darlin’.”

Joel began sawing in and out of you at a relaxed pace, letting out low groans of satisfaction.

With every sloppy thrust, you heard the distant wet thud of your back against the shower tiles, sounding in a steady rhythm. But, despite each measured roll of his hips sending white-hot shivers throughout your throbbing cunt, you found yourself dangerously craving even more.

“Harder.”

“Harder?” Joel hummed coyly.

“Joel,” You whined.

“Careful what you wish for, sweetheart,” Joel mumbled against the corner of your mouth.

You only realised you were moaning obscenely loud when the echo had bounced around the room, and Joel was muttering something encouragingly into your skin.

“That’s it. Y’sound real fuckin’ pretty.”

Joel’s thrusts had picked up the pace. The only sound competing with the volume of your moans were the crude wet slaps of his body against yours.

Slap, slap, slap.

You thanked your lucky stars the shower rooms were deserted after the swimming lessons, because you were sure even if someone happened to walk in on you two fucking like wild rabbits, you wouldn’t let him stop.

And some part of you knew that he wouldn’t want to, either. Not with the way he was breathing airy curses beside your ear and mumbling about how ‘fuckin’ tight’ you were and other such filthy ramblings.

After a particularly harsh thrust, you felt his pace falter and his dick twitch against your walls.

“Fuck,” He whispered sharply.

Out of the blue, Joel pulled out, leaving your slick mound vacant for a heartbeat or two before he spun you around roughly, forcing you to brace yourself against the wall.

And, not long after, he fed you the entirety of his cock again in one deep thrust.

“Joel!” You gasped.

Your hands, stretched out in front of you and anchored against the wall, scrambled to find a grip on the smooth, slippery surface.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He said from somewhere behind you, beginning to ram into you at a brutal pace as he held you in place with an iron grip on your hips. “Needed—fuck… Needed this.”

With your tits pressed against the tiles and his length kissing your cervix after every drag against your pulsing walls, your vision began to blur and your lower gut began to flutter.

You were very fucking close.

As if reading your mind, one of Joel’s hands trailed from your hip to your front, sliding down until he brushed your clit. And then he began rubbing the sensitive nub in sloppy semi-circle motions, tutting sweet words as you whined nonsensical syllables.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear you,” He cooed soothingly.

You let out a pitchy whine, “feels so good.”

“That right?” Joel mumbled distractedly, using a rough hand on your neck to turn your head toward him despite the awkward angle, and claimed your lips hungrily, licking desperately into your mouth as if it was the last thing he’d ever do, and letting out hoarse noises of appreciation as he did so.

His hips continued to jut into you, setting an erratic, jerky pace.

Slap. Slap-slap. Slap. Slap-slap-slap.

You arched back against him and unintentionally broke the kiss when the overflowing pleasure spiked incredibly high.

“J-Joel,” You breathed.

The man, who was single-mindedly pistoning in and out of your splayed legs, hummed a sound of acknowledgment in response, his warm breath ghosting over your cheek.

“Joel, I’m close,” You whispered, the heat of both your bodies meeting where your back leaned against his front.

“Are you?” He replied almost casually.

His fingers only sped in their motions, swiping at your clit almost feverishly as he continued to rut animalistically into you; each thrust stretching your aching cunt impossibly wide and oh so easily finding your cervix—

“Fuck!” Your chest tightened.

“Ask for it.” Joel’s gentle yet commanding tone nearly made your knees buckle.

That, and the manic force at which he was fucking into you.

Slap–slap-slap-slap—

“Go on, baby. Ask.” His nose nudged at the side of your face, breathing in your scent as he tutted lowly, “hate to see you all worked up like this.”

“Shit—please! Can I come, please?” You acquiesced.

You felt the muscles of his rugged face pull up in a small smile against your cheek and his dick twitch inside your tight walls, sending shivers down your spine.

“Be a good girl and come for me then, sweetheart,” Joel said in between strained breaths. “Come all over my cock, I gotcha.”

Your climax came rippling over your whole body, a prolonged resonance that sent you into the territory of overstimulation—much more powerful than your first orgasm—as neither his fingers nor his cock slowed down in their frenzied pursuits.

So, there you were, chanting his name like a prayer and clenching tightly around his relentless length.

When the fluttering of your cunt subsided, Joel hurriedly pulled out and wrapped a hand around his throbbing cock, fucking up into his fist frantically and cursing under his breath. You all but folded against the wall as you felt his loss, sticking your ass out and waiting for the inevitable.

Soon, his breath caught in his throat, and you felt hot ropes of his come spill over your back.

“Shit.” Joel sighed, gently rubbing along your sides.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder once he recollected himself a few moments after, still softly trailing his hands up and down as both of your breaths evened.

“You okay over there, sweetheart?”

You nodded weakly, unable to voice your satisfaction with your brains all fucked out.

Joel huffed a short laugh. “C’mon, I’ll clean you up.”

Somewhere behind you, the shower handle groaned with a faint squeak. A dull clunk followed, and then, with a sudden rush, water erupted from the showerhead, dousing the two of you in a sputtering cascade.

Gently, Joel tugged you away from the wall to stand directly under the jet of water, softly helping you wash away any reminders of your reckless impropriety.

He pressed reverent kisses along your jaw, down your neck, and around your collarbone as you got cleaned up.

There was no hidden, lustful agenda to this, as far as you could tell. You assumed it was either a result of his years of fatherhood or some testament to his overall caring nature, but either way, you weren’t complaining. You happily let your eyes fall closed as sheets of warm water streamed down your body, all while Joel’s lips tentatively found yours, then your neck, and his strong hands moved along your body.

“Um…” Joel began after he had turned off the shower, looking at you with his big, soft eyes. “I know this is the completely wrong order of things, but would you like to–”

“Yes.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Were you gonna ask me out on a date?”

“Yeah,” Joel laughed bashfully. "Is that... is that okay?"

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, and rising on your tiptoes to meet his lips in a lazy kiss.

“The answer’s yes.” You mumbled without breaking away for too long.

You felt Joel smile against your lips.

#joel miller smut #joel miller #smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #pedrohub #the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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maskedbyghost · 6 days ago

Text

Part 3 of Simon Leaving During Sex Like a Coward

It started with flowers. It’s not the kind you grab at the corner store in a panic, but ones clearly ordered days in advance — expensive, moody ones, all dark reds and deep purples. You didn’t open the door when they arrived immediately. You just stood behind it, your arms crossed, and watched them through the peephole before deciding to get them.

On day two, he texted.

I know I don’t deserve a reply. I just want you to know I’m not giving up.

You left it on read on purpose. And it felt good.

On day three, he was parked outside your building when you came back from work. Just standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking up when you approached, but not moving toward you.

“You stalking me now?” You said, not slowing your pace.

He didn’t smile. “No. I’m just here in case you feel like yelling at me in person today.”

You didn’t. You went upstairs and slammed the door a little harder than necessary, and when you looked out the window twenty minutes later, he was still standing there, doing absolutely nothing. Just waiting. Like a dog. A huge, sad, apologetic dog.

You caved on day five.

“Fine,” you’d said, opening the door just enough to stare at him through the gap. “You want a chance? Take me out. And I swear to God if you bring me to some ‘cozy little place’ where the waitress flirts with you, I will throw your wallet in a river.”

He didn’t even blink. “Got it.”

The first date was at a sushi place where the staff barely looked up. You sat across from him in silence until he cleared his throat.

“You look good,” he said, nervous in a way you’d never seen before.

“I know.”

He cracked a smile. You didn’t.

For a second date, he chose a little cafe by the river. You sipped your drink while he talked about stupid things, about his neighbor's cat and how he chipped a tooth once in a pub fight because he tripped over a pool cue — anything to fill the space. You just listened.

“You don’t say much anymore,” he said quietly after a while.

“I said you could take me out. Didn’t say I’d make it easy.”

He nodded, like he agreed with the punishment.

On the third date, he let you choose. You picked laser tag. You didn’t go easy. You shot him in the back six times and made fun of how slow he was, called him grandpa, and asked if he needed a sit-down break. He called you a menace and grinned through all of it. When the round ended, and you were both panting in the hallway, he looked at you with something like relief.

“You smiled,” he said, like it physically pained him to notice.

“It was at your expense,” you said, wiping sweat from your neck.

“Still counts.”

By the fifth date, you were letting him walk beside you without an awkward amount of space. Still no kissing. He reached for your hand once, and you pulled away with a look so sharp he apologized out loud.

“You don’t get to touch me yet,” you said.

“Right.”

“But you can carry my leftovers.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He got the tattoo on a Tuesday.

Didn’t tell you about it. He just showed up at your door again, holding your favorite overpriced dessert like it was a peace offering. You opened the door and immediately raised an eyebrow.

“No flowers today?”

“Didn’t think they’d survive the guilt trip you were gonna hit me with.”

“Smart.”

He stepped inside when you let him. “I got something,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

“If it’s another apology letter I’m gonna start framing them like art.” You said with a smirk on your face.

He didn’t say anything. Just tugged off his glove and held up his left hand. On the inside of his ring finger, you could see fresh ink. Your name in cursive letters.

“…Are you serious?”

“Dead.”

You stared. “You tattooed my name on your ring finger.”

“Mhm.”

“Like. Where a ring would go.”

“Exactly.”

You blinked at him, still shocked.

“If this doesn’t prove how sure I am about you,” he said slowly, “then I dunno what will… but just to be safe—” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, sleek black bag from that stupid luxury brand you once mentioned in passing. “Bribery.”

You snorted despite yourself. “You really think a designer bag’s gonna make me forgive you?”

He looked sheepish. “No. But I thought it’d make you laugh.”

You took it from his hand. “I’ll laugh when I sell it and buy ten pairs of shoes.”

“That’s fair.”

You opened the bag. Inside was your favorite candy, a folded napkin from the cafe, and a tiny note that said “I remember everything.”

You didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then...

“You’re really not gonna give up, huh?”

“Never.”

You sighed. “Fine. You can kiss my forehead.”

He chuckled as he leaned in gently, pressed his lips just there, warm and steady, and didn’t ask for more.

It wasn’t until weeks later, after more petty jokes and slow conversations and him learning exactly how many hoops you’d make him jump through, that you finally let him spend the night again. You were already in bed when he came back from brushing his teeth, and you didn’t say anything as he slipped under the covers. Just pulled him in, hands on his chest, legs sliding over his, the way they used to.

He kissed you carefully. Like he didn’t want to push it. But you tugged him in with both hands, and he pressed you down into the mattress like it hadn’t been months, like he was starving for every second of you.

When he was finally inside you again, moving slowly, sweat running down his spine, and arms shaking from trying to hold back, he looked at you like he could cry.

“I love you,” he said, voice breaking open on the words.

You rolled your eyes, breathless. “Is it my turn now to leave orr…?”

He groaned and dropped his forehead to your shoulder, muttering something about you being a nightmare, and you just laughed and wrapped your legs around him tighter, because you knew damn well he liked it that way.

---------------------------------------------

idkkk....i kinda lost inspiration halfway...sorry if this sucks..

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbaybay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader

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mofromgaza · 3 months ago

Text

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #235 )✅️

My dear friends,

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your immense generosity and unwavering support for me, my family, and our cats. I deeply appreciate your noble spirit in helping us through these challenging times.

I apologize for the delay in updating you on our situation. My family and I are deeply touched by each and every donation, which brings us comfort and eases our hardship during this ordeal.

After the ceasefire announcement, we had hoped to return to our home, a place that would shield us from the bitter cold and allow us to live like everyone else in the world. However, we were shocked by the sheer devastation we witnessed in my city of Rafah, particularly in our neighborhood of Tal Al Sultan.

A picture of my city Rafah before and after the genocide.

|| THE FAMILY HOME ||

The family home where we had a small apartment was partially destroyed, rendering it uninhabitable. It's surrounded by massive piles of rubble, making our street look like a ghost town.

|| THE DREAM HOME ||

About five years ago, our family decided to pool all our savings and invest in building a new house, which we fondly called "The Dream home." We purchased a plot of land and began constructing a two-story house with a small garden for my mother, who loves gardening and raising poultry. We were close to finishing it when the machinery of destruction turned our dream into ashes.

|| THE LAND ||

Our beautiful farm (the land) , which was our last hope and located a bit away from the military operations zone, has now turned into a pile of sand and rubble , its trees reduced to firewood. This destruction was the final blow that made us weep bitterly for those trees, the poultry, and the cats that used to live happily with us. That shattered our dreams of ever returning home.

Sadly , We are still living in tents in the Mawasi Khan Yunis area, and we can't even go back to see our neighborhood safely. The area is extremely dangerous because it's close to the Egyptian border ( Philadelphia Corridor) , from which they have not yet withdrawn until this update .

I know this has been a lengthy explanation, but I needed to explain everything to you in detail.

I hope you will continue to support and help us in our efforts to rebuild a small home where we can live safely, like any other human being. A home is the most basic human right, which we now lack.

Save us from the bitter cold, and alleviate our pain and suffering. Stand by us and support us, for you are my family.

Thank a lot to everyone who supports us!

Follow me on Instagram to stay updated on our daily lives👉🏽 M.ib89

Help me to spread the word

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theorist-fox · 8 months ago

Text

Hesitate

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 6k

Summary: Simon loses sight of you for far too long. In that time, he realizes he can't go a day without having you within reach. When you return, he tells you in the only way he knows.

18+

CW: smut (fingering, PinV), but with plot. Tiny angst, fluff. Protective and possessive Simon Riley. Mentions of stabbing and blood. Minor injuries.

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

“Quiet.”

He barges in. Because of course he does. There isn’t a piece of flooring in this godforsaken base that hasn’t been violently reclaimed by Ghost’s boots.

Not even in your goddamn room.

Thankfully, you have the reflexes of a trained operative and have moved out of the way in time, otherwise you'd be sporting a wonderful, purple knob in the middle of your forehead. And while there is a certain distaste surging in your chest – the kind that makes your lips pucker and your stomach knot –, you know there is very little you can do to move the mountain that is Ghost.

So, you close the door behind you with an exhausted sigh, as he ventures further into your room.

“Good eve-“

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “Where the fuck ‘ave you been, uh?”

The balaclava on his face does absolutely nothing to hide the hatred sizzling in his eyes. Funny, because you’ve always thought that it was the whole point of the thing – to hide his face. You wonder, sometimes, if he knows just how expressive his eyes are.

Does he know he tells so much more with those than he ever does with words?

Nevertheless, yours are as telling as his own, as they bulge out of your sockets. The odd look you give him is comical, compared to the ire that's practically singeing his clothes.

“Uh,” you stutter. “Deployment?”

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits. So tiny you have to squint your eyes yourself to catch a glimpse of his irises.

“Alone?” He asks, clearly skeptical.

To match the distrust in his tone, you tilt your head toward his, brows furrowing in confusion.

“…Yeah?” You reply, and the more you go on the more sarcastic you sound. “We do that, sometimes. Lone ops, recon. Y’know, we’re in the UKSF, in case you, uh – forgot.”

He hums gravelly. A sound that causes his body to straighten up as if the cogs have finally started whirring and working seamlessly once again.

“Don’t get smart, now.” He warns, freezing you with a look.

You pucker your lips and instinctively show him your palms, cheekily replying with an “I would never.”

Wrong move, unfortunately.

You are your worst enemy.

If this conversation goes downhill, you are the one to blame. Schedule a punishing whipping for yourself, later – you better fetch the goddamn cat o’ nine tails.

The movement causes the long sleeve of your loungewear to slip further down your forearm, pooling at your elbow, and exposing a large bruise. A galaxy of greens and mauves in the shape of five fingers and a large palm.

Ghost’s eyes zero on your arm with the rapidity of a hawk. Price has always said it, after all: he only knows one sniper who’s better than Ghost, and she’s a thousand klicks away now. You miss her – Farah would’ve been a lot nicer about this than him.

When his focus returns to you, he doesn’t even have to ask. As you’ve already stated time and time again, he conveys a lot more with his eyes.

And they are absolutely fuming.

You suck in a sharp breath, nodding your head slowly while returning your sleeve where it’s supposed to be. Fucking traitorous piece of cotton that should stick around your wrist.

“Y’know,” you start, your chest all puffed because – well, you ain’t breathing right. Not with Ghost staring you down like you’ve gone and killed the King of England. “I had to sneak in, grab the USB key our contact set up for us, and then – bang, vanish. And I did it, yeah? I was brilliant at it.”

The smile on your face is as fake as the cheerful tone you’re using to dispense this information. It cracks as soon as you see the fabric of the balaclava shift on his jaw.

He’s grinding his molars into dust.

“And?”

You gesture vaguely. Shift your eyes to the ceiling. Tongue your cheek. Try to downplay it. “Well, ‘s nothing really.”

“Sergeant.” He barks. If he had hackles, they’d be dusting the ceiling.

You sigh.

God, how long have you been holding onto that breath? You’re positive it was the air you’ve inhaled, like, ten thousand years ago.

“Someone thought I was acting a bit dodgy and had me pinned to the floor.” You made grabby hands with a cheeky smile, “I have meaty forearms. Plenty to grip.”

Humor is usually the key to lessen the tension that would strangle your and his lungs. Normally, he’d let it go. He’d listlessly smack the back of your head or pinch the flesh of your biceps and call it a day.

Now, sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight. The night lamp on your bedside table sheds light against his back, making him look like he's the wolf ready to pounce what it's going to be his dinner.

It makes your blood curdle.

“Yeah, okay.” You huff, digging your fingertips in the back of your neck to release some tension. “Nothing happened. I jabbed him in the throat before he could shout for help and shoved him under a desk. Got myself a proper blood shower.”

Ghost’s eye twitches.

And then he goes silent.

Not the news of the year, of course. He’s always silent. You know he doesn’t get his callsign from that, but you can’t help but find his personality incredibly fitting with the military nickname.

However, this isn’t the usual Simon shut-up-and-sod-off Riley. He’s so still you wonder if he’s breathing. You have half a mind to wave your hand in front of his eyes to check if he’s gone catatonic.

You don’t, of course. Dogs bite.

You sneer, more in concern than anything, and gingerly take a step forward. Initially, your question comes out simply as a sideway tilt of your head paired with a puzzled look – a question mark would be floating above you, if physically possible.

But when that doesn’t seem enough to coax an answer out of him, you blurt out an “Oi.”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel to your face. Always with the heavy-lidded gaze that makes him look like he’d love to be anywhere but where he currently is.

He seems… calmer. You're not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing. You prefer it when he's fuming because, as the saying goes, better the devil you know.

��Off.” He states.

Of course, he prefers syllables to full, clear sentences. Expressions you (or anyone else, really) don’t seem to catch, unfortunately. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him that if he wants to have a conversation, he should start stringing words one after the other instead of settling for just one.

“What?” You deadpan. “Off with the bullshit? Off with my head? Words, L.T.”

You don’t seem to have learned from your past mistake of using humor to sneak out of a predicament when Ghost appears to have all hell ready to unleash.

He roughly points at your chest, “The shirt,” and then aims his finger to the floor. “Off.”

Look at you: dumbfounded.

Sure, you two have fucked, occasionally – ever since he’d come to terms with the idea that he could do it without getting into trouble. It’s not like he gives two shits about someone finding out, he just doesn’t want to deal with commanding officers explaining to him why he shouldn’t stick it anywhere he finds fitting. God forbid someone puts him through one of those seminars about relationship policies and how they can disrupt the chain of command.

You splutter, “Wha – Excuse me?”

“Ya heard.” He reiterates. “The shirt. Off.”

You scoff. “You wanna fuck now?”

“Didn’t say tha’, did I?” He says flatly.

“Oh, sorry!” You snark. “Didn’t think there were other reasons why you’d want me to flash my tits.”

“Didn’t say tha’ either.” He deadpans and swipes his index finger in the air again. “Off with the shirt.”

You huff, pinching the bridge of your nose while, stubbornly, still wearing the t-shirt.

“Not in the mood to have sex, honestly,” you explain, trying to stay calm in the face of the implications of the request. “I came back this morning, I’m beat. I need a cuppa and some sleep –“

He switches, then. “Take off that fucking shirt, sergeant.”

You bristle. Anyone would, at that tone.

Suddenly, you’re back to basic training in Pirbright with your wench of a drill instructor calling you a fucking idiot.

Needless to say, you follow through with his order and rip the shirt off with more spite than cooperation. With a big frown on your face, you turn on your heel and start stomping angrily towards the bed.

“Make it quick.” You snap, getting on your knees on the edge of the mattress, ready to get pounded into oblivion.

You’ll like it, eventually, even if you’re not really in the mood.

Ghost fucks you good. It’s undeniable.

You’ve soaked his sheets, his clothes, his mask – he’s that type of good. You won’t tell him though; his ego is already too big. If it grows more, HQ won’t be able to contain it and the whole base will blow up into smithereens.

You’re saving lives, here, by keeping your mouth shut about it.

But he has other plans, it seems.

“The fuck are you doin’.”

It is not, in fact, a question.

You look over your shoulder and find him still standing where you left him, a few paces back.

You quirk a brow, and shoot it back at him, “The fuck are you doing.”

“Why are you bendin’ over.” He states.

"To fuck?" You say, an unsaid obviously lingering in the air.

Something shifts under his mask, as if he’s scowling. “Who said I wanted to fuck?”

You splutter, yet again caught by surprise. “You made me get naked.”

He sighs, sounding exasperated, and approaches you, who is – by the way – still shamefully on all fours on the tiny bed of your quarters.

Suddenly, all that spite sublimates under the heavy, hot weight of embarrassment.

What are you doing, on your knees on the bed, half naked, if he doesn’t want to fuck?

In your defense, while the two of you often spent time chatting about everything and nothing, that happened in public places. Not once has he knocked on your door for a spot of tea and decent conversation.

Regardless, as soon as you manage to stand on your knees, you can feel him right behind you. Scorching fingers of shame crawl up to your neck. You feel your chest warm up, all the way to the apples of your cheeks. Awkwardly, you bring your arms up to cover your breasts.

“Off,” he orders, again.

You swallow dryly, offering an insecure smile. “…With the pants?”

He gives you a glacial look. Your blood freezes in your vessels. You think you might have turned cyanotic.

“Fuckin’ hell – Off the bed.”

Obviously, your feet touch the ground with impeccable speed, because after that display, the least you can do is follow through with his orders before you make a fool of yourself twice in under a minute.

You feel his fingers curl around the top of your head, only allowing the pads to tangle through your hair and touch your scalp. It’s as if he doesn’t really want to touch you, but feels compelled to do so.

He flicks his wrist to give you a sense of the direction he wants you to turn to, and you do, waddling a little on your feet as you slowly twirl.

Your hands are tucked under your biceps, which are currently strangling your ribcage in an attempt to cover as much of your chest as you can with your forearms.

When you’re finally facing him again, you look up at him through your lashes. His eyes, however, are not on your tits as you expect. He’s not even ogling, to be honest – which would be a blow to your ego, if the situation weren’t so… odd.

Your brows are pinched. Your mouth parts only so you can suck in some air and then worry your lip between your teeth.

This is much too intimate than what you’re used to.

You realize, as he studies your body, with that weirdly placed hand on your head, that Ghost has never… seen it.

Or – well, he’s seen it all right, but he’s never looked at it. Your encounters are usually very quick and to the point.

He fucks you.

You come – once or twice. Thrice, if he’s feeling particularly generous.

He comes.

Get yourself a glass o’ water and jog on. ‘M knackered.

Yeah, okay. G’night, prick.

Right back at ya.

That’s it.

Sometimes, you don’t even take off each other’s clothes. Sometimes, he doesn’t even turn on the lights.

Now, his gaze is heavy as he looks at the dip of your waist, then at the fuzz below your belly button and where it leads, until the hem of your slouchy sweatpants that have seen better days. It’s like having lasers pointed at every nook and cranny of you, leaving scorching lines along your profile.

He taps his finger on your forearm, the one without the bruise – a silent request to take your arms off your chest. Your hands are shaking as you comply, but you’re too preoccupied with him to notice.

Ghost seems utterly uninterested at the sight of your tits bouncing down in response to gravity, instead setting his focus on the edges of your ribcage.

He flicks his wrist again, and you slowly turn the other way, giving him your back.

You feel his fingers twitch against your scalp, before a cold fingertip brushes against your right side.

"Here." He states, barely tracing the lines of your ribs.

It's been so long since he's last spoken that you feel goosebumps rise along your neck. God, his voice will never not make your insides churn.

Regardless, you spread your elbows out, lifting your right arm so you can look at where he's pointing. You can't see much, but you definitely feel how the slight movement of your shoulder causes your right side to ache as if the skin were ready to burst at the seams.

“Ow.”

You frown and curiously try again to take a peek at the cause of the pain. After some squirming, you spot the darkening patch of flesh, speckled with purples and yellows.

“Mh,” you muse. “Didn’t know that was there.”

The hand on your head finally abandons it, allowing the muscles on your neck to relax.

You continue, somewhat feeling the need to explain why there is yet another bruise. “When that man saw me, he knocked me onto the floor. Must’ve hit it harder than I thought.”

He hums noncommittally. You could’ve told him the most absurd tale, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye, much too focused on the expanse of your back.

You shrug, then. “’S alright. It’ll pass. It’s just a bruise.”

It’s then that he meets your eyes.

There’s always a sort of veil over his, whenever the air around you both thickens. You wish you had scissors to rip it, sometimes. Or walk to the curtain and take a peek inside.

“What is this?” You gesture at the two of you, looking back at him over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He deflects your questions with the same reflexes he uses to dodge bullets, answering instead with a question of his own. “You went to medical?”

Your lips twitch and you have to school your face into more muted frustration.

Your response is a little petty, but you can’t help but give it to him. “No, just a couple of bumps, nothing that needs a trip to the doctor."

He is a looming shadow behind you, encompassing you with dark tendrils that threaten to swallow you whole. He sucks the warmth of the room with the ice embedded in his eyes – it forces you to look away, finding comfort in your own hands cupping your biceps.

You don’t even manage to reach for your t-shirt again, feeling the need to cover yourself up, that he curls an uncharacteristically gentle hand around your jaw.

You stiffen.

He seizes that moment to turn your head, his other fingers already hooked at the hem of his balaclava around the neck. He slides it up and off naturally.

There’s always some sort of solemnity when his face comes into view.

Each groove and bump tell a story of their own, not a single one coming from the same tale, nor the same blade.

He has crow's feet, but he rarely smiles – if ever. There are lines originating from the sides of his nose tipping at each corner of his mouth. They should symbolize happiness carved, but you fear it’s the opposite.

Thick, convoluted scars paint him like rough brush strokes given by an angry hand – bristles of steel, paint of blood.

Teeth peek out from a particularly gruesome injury that has torn the flesh off his upper lip. He constantly looks like he’s scowling at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was. Would fit the character, and all.

Truth is, Simon rarely cares enough to scowl at anyone. You can either get a cold side glance or a disinterested one – if it’s the former, then you might be in his good graces.

Right now, though, you don’t think he’s giving you either. His eyes are murky; a mud of anger, annoyance, and disappointment. He looks like he hates you with all his might, staring at you as if he could, by sheer force of thought, scoop out the eyes from your sockets.

“You wanna kill me?” You mumble, finding it hard to speak as he holds your jaw between his fingers. “Get in line, mate. There are at least a bunch a’ Russian men and their mothers before you, ever since I shanked their colleague.”

Then, his eyes leave yours to glance at your lips. He must think you haven’t noticed, because he doesn’t bother to hide it. However – and you’ve always found this incredibly interesting – Ghost tends to forget when he’s wearing the mask and when he isn’t.

Each time, it’s like watching a child learning how to rein it in. Or, you know, like that sibling you have to surreptitiously elbow under the table at Christmas dinner when your pissed uncle is going off a tangent regarding the most idiotic, misplaced subject ever known to man.

That’s Ghost right now.

The sibling elbowing him? Simon.

He blinks out of his headspace and then frowns, returning his eyes to yours.

“Don’t need to.” He grunts. “You’re doin’ a fine job by yourself.”

You scoff. “It’s just a bruise.”

His jaw ticks.

“Yeah, but it’s on you.”

It’s said low and bitter, as if he’s had to fight tooth and nail to yank it out of his chest.

You, on the other hand, are stock still in place – not only because of his hand holding you firmly by the jaw, forcing you to look over your shoulder to where he stands, but also because what was that?

You swallow but it's futile because your tongue is stuck to your palate. The air surrounding you crackles. The oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it.

You blink. That’s all it takes, and he lands his mouth on you.

Ghost’s kisses are always rough, determined to take your breath away and leave you wondering if you’ll ever say any other name but his own. This one is not much different, but you have to recognize that it is somewhat angrier.

His lips part as if he could swallow you whole, working his tongue against yours and hindering your movements with his fingers holding your face, and a hand over your belly.

You can work with this. This, you know how to behave around. This is charted territory – the hunger, the stress, the need to decompress and find solace in the oasis you offer so generously between your legs.

You know the dance, and so you press your bum against his groin. You weren’t in the mood, like – ten minutes ago. You were a different person back then.

If Ghost now wants to split you in half, you’d hand him the butcher knife.

You’re already turning feverish, lifting your right arm to tangle with his hair, ready to grab and pull and bite and –

He stops you. Palm to your knuckles, guiding it down once more. He doesn’t hold your hand, instead removing his own as though your skin were burning coal.

Not as carefully, though, he snakes under your sweatpants and unceremoniously dips his middle finger inside your cunt.

“Fuck,” you hiss.

You weren’t that wet, and while you're not one to say no to a bit of pain, this has caught you so off guard that you decide to chastise him by nipping at his lower lip.

It’s not much of a punishment, you guess, because his hips jerk to rub himself against you.

You wish to move and take this to the bed, where you can lie down and be his pillow princess. Let him fuck you until his heart's content, because you're tired and you'd love to get used for his pleasure and yours.

But he’s an unmoving statue, boots glued to the floor and hand shackled to your pussy, dipping in relentlessly until your knees buckle under the sheer pressure of his finger buried to the knuckle.

When your hips start undulating to increase the friction – specifically of his palm against your neglected bundle of nerves where your pussy tips – he inserts a second finger, and you positively melt against his chest. It’s then that he releases your lips, allowing you to moan under your breath.

He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can find, leaving love bites on the length of your shoulders all the way to your neck. Teeth and tongue and words that escape his lips, while he curls his fingers inside you, drowning your thoughts in frayed growls from his mouth, and raunchy squelches from between your legs. His offhand gets busy and starts toying and pulling at your nipples.

You're being absolutely ravaged; his nails are talons and he wants to rip you apart and eat you inside out after he's prepped you alright. It's juxtaposing - the pleasure, and the crudeness. It's new, but not unwelcome.

“You should’ve told me.” He grunts. You don’t pay it much mind, he usually murmurs a lot during sex, and less than half of the time you catch what he says – the other times, you’re already too stupid to use your senses.

“Should’ve.”

He snaps his finger upward, burying them to the knuckle.

“Told me."

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"You were being posted."

Finally, he curls his fingers inside, making your legs quiver.

You whimper and your eyes roll back. Is this your punishment? Hell fucking yes, then. You’ll keep your secrets more often.

But alas, you do feel compelled to at least explain and apologize.

“M’sorry,” you breathe, “It was a last-minute thing. Got called the day before.”

Surely, he’ll understand. That’s how deployments work: they give you a timeframe, and you might or might not get the dreaded call. If you do, then you’re off – one day you’re lounging at the beach, the next you’re buried in gore.

No in-between.

You don't want to distract him though. You're so close. If he just – moved a little, maybe? Or allowed you to rest your legs somewhere.

You shift imperceptibly so that you can rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm. The callouses on the heel of his hand make it somehow even better.

He allows you, meaning that even if you’ve kept the deployment from him, he’s feeling magnanimous.

You roll your head against his shoulder to nuzzle his neck, the tip of your nose tucked behind his lobe. You pant as he fucks you with his fingers, and murmur sweet things about how good he is to you, because he’s being kind and for that he deserves a generous stroke to his ego. You leave open kisses on his neck, his jaw, lapping the sweat off his skin with your tongue – to try and give back some of the pleasure he’s offering you.

When you come, it is with a loud groan muffled in his neck, and he holds you by the waist before you keel over. The orgasm almost stings, since he’s ripped it out of you so quickly and forcefully. It tingles from the tips of your toes, curling against the linoleum, all the way to the knot that finally snaps in your gut.

Only then, when your vision clears and your skin still prickles in goosebumps, do you hear him through the ringing of your ears.

“You don’t understand.” He’s saying, like a prayer repeated gruffly to the skin of your neck.

He doesn’t say it once, he doesn’t say it twice. He repeats it with fervor, and the more it escapes his mouth, the angrier it gets.

You feel the back of your knee being pushed by his own, and you stumble forward on the mattress. You’re confused, still descending from the high of your orgasm, feeling your limbs move under his command and notyours. Trying to find sense in his words.

You don’t understand.

Your ears are cottoned – the orgasm has been that blissful – but you still catch the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Your front is plastered against the mattress, cheek buried in linen of freshly washed sheets.

You don’t have the strength to stand, nor to look behind, so you can solely rely on your hearing, on your touch.

Shallow breaths.

Shuffle of fabric – he’s taking off his shirt.

His hand skims over your back, purposefully avoiding the bruise on your side.

A finger pulls down the sweatpants to your ankles – the air feels cold against your skin, flushed and burning.

Wet fingertips trail down your legs with uncommon reverence, until they reach down and yank the pants off your feet.

The denim of his jeans shifts. A thud – he’s on his knees.

He forces your leg to bend and kisses your ankle. Then the arch of your foot. Your toes, and it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. The actions are paired with a wet, rhythmic sound – he’s touching himself the way you’d touch him.

He has fingered you with such voracity you thought you’d rip in half on his hand, and now he’s on his knees, kissing your feet. He’s switching rapidly – angry, then devoted.

The former you know, but the latter is different. It’s new.

You feel the mattress dip and protest under the additional weight, each of his thighs on either side of yours, keeping your legs flush together.

A hand appears in your vision, gripping the sheets.

You kiss the knuckle on his thumb, and he flicks it gently over your nose.

His chest exudes warmth even if he isn’t properly touching your back. He simply hovers above it, putting his weight on his palm, while his other hand is busy stroking his cock.

You're wet and prepped just how he likes, in fact he slides in easily.

You already came, which means you're hypersensitive – it feels like he's inserting something long and scorching hot inside. Your breath hitches in your throat at the intrusion, and he dips his forehead to your shoulder, leaving an apologetic kiss.

He fucks you slow and deep, dragging backward without ever pulling out. He wants to stay sheathed inside. He wants to bury himself in there, with your velvet walls squeezing him dry. You won’t complain. You’ll keep him snug until he’s sated. Until you are, too.

This dance you know as well, and so you fold your arms behind you, bending your elbows so that he can grip both your forearms with one hand and use them as leverage to rail you until you’re only babbling nonsense.

But he… doesn’t?

He still fucks you, sure, but his hand doesn’t reach for your arms, preferring the sheets instead, and it makes you feel a little neglected, wondering if you're doing something wrong. Sure – you just came, he’s treated you to your nice little post-operation orgasm, and then proceeded to fuck you. So, he must still be into this – into you.

Right?

You thought this could’ve been a nice way to reciprocate, since you know how much he likes to get you to bend as he pleases.

A thank you of sorts.

You reach up with your fingers, tickling his abdomen to make him notice that you’ve prepared yourself for him, arms knotted behind your back like a bow on a present – just in case he’s missed it, you know?

But he reaches down only to guide your arms back to the bed, distending them ahead. He goes to hold one hand but stops, instead digging his palm back into the mattress.

Just when you’re about to protest, lifting your head from the bed, he drags his tongue around the shell of your ear.

You shudder.

"I- I'm not good at this." He grunts as he fucks you slowly, dragging breathy moans out of your lips. "So jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.”

It’s then that his pace picks up, punching a ragged groan out of your lips at the first abrupt thrust.

He’s either doing it to shut you up, or to make you focus on something else while he speaks. So, maybe, if you’re busy molding your pussy around his cock and rolling your eyes to the back of your head, you won’t hear what he’s saying.

“Lieut –“

“Simon.” He chides loudly. “Fuck – Told you it’s Simon, ‘ere.”

You grip the sheets as your head bobs to the pace he takes. Your breathing is more akin to a wheeze, and your belly flutters each time he hits you just right.

“Simon,” you whimper.

“Yeah,” he croons. “Simon. Good.”

Simon is as breathless as you are, but much more contained.

“Need to know where you are,” he murmurs under his breath. “You got no idea wha’ I –“

He releases a shuddering breath that tickles your ear.

You’re keening and shivering, trying to focus on his words but it seems like he’s trying his best to prevent you from listening, even if he’s the one who’s asked you to.

There’s something rabid in his motions. He bullies his cock as deep as it can reach, his hips brutally slap against your ass. You can feel the fat recoiling, the vibration tipping at the base of your skull. He’s feral and yet it’s so different.

He groans, but it's frustrated more than satisfied.

“You got no fuckin’ idea, do ya?” He mutters the sentence like a curse. “No fuckin’ idea. You – “

You reach for his hand with your own, but he swats it away.

You try again and he nibbles at your ear.

“Don’t." He warns lowly, stilling his motions until he’s hilted all the way inside.

You suck in a breath as he shoves himself until there’s not an inch of space for him to move.

He’s ramrod stiff above you, struggling to keep his chest off your back – denying you of his skin. Of intimacy. Of contact.

You twist your head that much to look at his face and find him staring blankly ahead.

To say it worries you would be an understatement, especially if paired with the puzzling behavior he’s had all evening.

You follow the trajectory of his gaze with your eyes and heartbreakingly discover that he's burning holes in your bruised flesh – the hand of that now-dead man still darkly imprinted on your skin.

Skin still untouched by him.

You feel yourself falter. “Si-“

“You’re hurt.” he croaks. “I’ll hurt you more.”

You don’t know what staggers you the most: his cock up your cervix making you dizzy, or the hesitance in his voice.

Hesitance.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. He’s not tentative.

He takes.

If he can’t take, he delegates, and whatever he needs eventually will fall into his hand.

You fell into his hand without too much of a fuss. He gave you the impression that you were the one demanding and obtaining, but the truth obviously lies elsewhere.

Simon wanted you, too. He wants you, too.

He gave you the chance to sneak into his office and request an immediate closure to the cat-and-mouse chase. He delegated it to you.

And then he took.

Hesitance, clearly, isn’t in his daily vocabulary.

This dance, you don’t know. You’re out of your zone. You don’t know which steps to take without tripping over his toes and disrupting the music.

He’s unmoving inside of you, catching his breath with his lips on your ear.

“Can’t hurt you.” He breathes, and you have to focus to even catch it.

“You won’t,” you whisper, trying a first step. “I’ll tell you if – “

And it’s the wrong one.

He starts again, pulling out and fiercely slamming back in. Your breathing snaps, palm coming down to slap against the mattress, “Fuck!”

It would feel oh, so good, if you were in the right headspace.

He won’t allow you to talk. He’s begging you, in his contorted ways, to let him speak without judgment. Without the fear of knowing he has dropped the mask too low.

This is his time.

You should’ve shut your mouth, for once, and allowed him to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He asked for one thing.

Jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.

You purse your lips in a line and nudge your head against his own, a silent way to prompt him to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m listening.

“You got no idea.” He repeats again, but this time his voice cracks – overwhelmed.

He starts his voracious pace that always steals your breath and fucks your brain into a mush.

“I’ve looked for ya, asked ‘round – no one fucking knew. Got told you were off on deployment, and that’s it.”

Each word is as accusatory and irate as the cock he’s drilling inside of you.

“You weren’t comin’ back. One. Two. Three weeks. No fuckin’ sign of ya.” He thrusts in for each week you’ve gone missing, “I was – “

He stops. Inhales sharply. Hesitates, once again.

“Don’t wanna feel tha’ again – don’t put me through that again.”

Suddenly, you can feel everything at once.

Your body perks up.

Vision, hearing, touch, taste, smell – all filled of him.

And it’s not about sex anymore.

It never has been, but how obvious it is now.

You want to hold his hand, but you decide to leave him space.

The hand-shaped bruise on your arm glares at him like a promise he silently made with himself and failed to keep. You won’t make him feel like he broke a thing, because he hasn’t.

If anything, you’ve never felt more whole in your life.

You and Simon have never gone further than physical. You don't know how to soothe a heart so afraid if it belongs to him. So, you do the only thing you’ve learned that manages to get through to him.

You keen and moan and breathe, allowing tiny praises and sinful curses to leave your lips.

Like that – yeah. Shit.

Yes, yes, yes.

Deeper. Please.

His name – not his callsign, not his rank.

Simon, you croon. Simon, Simon, Simon.

You feel the pressure of his come spurting out, flooding your walls like a dam has broken and crushed. His mouth on your ear won’t allow a single sound to pass, but he’s clearly overly affected – you know, by the way his breath comes. As if he’s clinging to life and has found purchase for survival right on your skin.

You want to kiss him, but you leave the choice up to him. You won’t squirm under the press of his forehead against your temple, but your lips are there for him to taste – moist and plump and ready.

Simon’s lashes flutter against your cheekbone as he regains his bearings. Looks at you. His eyes hint at regret – it’s a fraction of a second that has your stomach knot. But then he squashes it down, when he realizes that you saw nothing wrong in his words.

He kisses your cheek, and then your lips. Thankfulness seeps through.

"Don't hide from me again," he murmurs and gingerly hooks his thumb around your pinky. Not touching you yet, not so close to where you’re already aching.

You curl your finger around his own. “I won’t.”

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sourle · 1 month ago

Text

Forsaken x reader

Note: This has only been read over once so please don't mind the mistake spelling/pronouns

P.s : divider is by me

WARNIGS: Blood, vague gore, violent behavior, etc. read at your own risks!

PROLOGUE

The light dripping sound filled the empty mansion. The body in your hold, pinned against the wall, bleeding from the claw wounds. You can’t remember who you’ve killed, sadly you’ve already bitten off the half top of his head so you couldn’t put your finger on who. Even with the military Vest. Oh well, you would be careless. All the survivors are the same, just trying to survive you and your.. friends.

You can’t really call them that with how they treat you.

“Tch..”

You threw the body to the side, watching as it slid on the ground. Smearing their Delicious blood across the floor. Now you’ve got one of them, five survivors left.

You’ve got plenty of time to find them, each ticking second is just a countdown to their demise that you can’t wait to bring. Oh how lovely it would be to taste their flesh once more.

There’s a glow outline at the corner of your eyes, and with a grin you dash towards the highlight. Reader to claim yet another victim to feed yourselves.

The humming of a generator got closer as you sneak around, not wanting to be spotted yet. But your prey seems to hurriedly get up and run. With a frustrated huff, you pursued. Not wanting to lose this catch. It’s odd how they can spot you even as your steps are light as a feather. They know first hand if you’re close or not, just not your location. At least that’s an advantage.

Your stamina is slowly running out as well as the prey’s. You saw how they start to slow down and you take your chance, pouncing and pinning them down. Keeping them in place, under you, and tearing their skins and flesh with your claw. Making a big mess of the scene.

The red pooled underneath them, painting the grass. Matching it with their work attire. The sweet scent. A low growl escaped your throat whilst getting up, sniffing the air to find a new victim. You licked your fang in delight as another outlined show itself. It wasn’t far from your location, making it easier to pinpoint where. You waste no time, approaching the survivor, taking them by surprise with a slash of your claw from behind.

“Found you!”

You watch as the survivor grimaces and runs. You found this.. amusing. You love the mouse and cat chase they give!

You spare a glance on what they’re working on, a sentry. You presumed. Sad you broke it, it looks cool too. Not wanting to lose them, you pursued in the chase. Able to catch up to them. The fear on their face is an amusement. No doubt you’re gonna miss it after taking a bite.

“Boo.. even a kid is better at tag than you are.”

The melodic crunching sound satisfied you. Watching as their body limply hit the ground with a ‘thud’. You spat out the pieces of the construction worker hat in disgust before girnning. That’s two!.. Three left.

The ticking sound on the bar on your wrist reminds you of the time you have left, One and a half minute. Doesn’t matter, you can still find them and catch them. Seeing the all too familiar outline you didn’t hesitate on approaching it.

You found one and another. Even after the meal, you know you have another one left. The time luckily expanded from twenty seconds to a minute and fourteen seconds. One left till victory, just.. one more.

Seeing the highlight was far across the map, you grumble. Slowly closing the distance and once the one minute exact mark hits, you make your move. Chasing the last survivor.

Their burger hat was recognizable, 007n7. Who else would wear such a ridiculous hat?

Their hat.. It’s making it more endearing. Though you can’t deny, it is kind of adorable

You’ve been chasing him.. for straight FORTY SECONDS. You’ve fallen for his clones, MULTIPLE TIMES. How bad am I?

You’ve hit him a couple times, yes. Yet even that isn’t enough to bring him down. You tried to leap and pin him down but they teleported away LAST SECOND.

Once the timer hit zero, you froze. You can’t believe you lose to someone as useless as 007n7. Seeing the all familiar brick walls of the dungeon that’s keeping you and your friends locked up brings frustration in your blood.

“How did that PEWNY robloxian SURVIVE ME!?”

A glitchy chuckles comes from behind, a familiar noise from the one and only-

“Hey.. Noli..” You grumble out, turning to face the half faced man. The dim light from the torch only illuminates half of his face, seeing how it’s slowly decayed from the codes gives you a perturbed feeling.

“S-S-SupRISED M-M-Me!.. Y-YoU’ve- LOST!” His voice glitched and changed in pitch. It's often disturbed you the first few weeks you come in this entertaining loophole of a place.

“Gee… Who would’ve guessed!” Noli looks displeased with your sarcasm, lightly hitting your head.

“Don’t S-SarcAs ME!”

You rolled your eyes, already tired by his presence. You felt the hand once more on your head, lightly patting your head on the spot it previously hit.

“I’m leaving..” You whispered, turning away to walk into the hallway on the far back at the right bottom of the throne.

“[Name]! [Name]! Are we gonna play again?”

c00lkid, the youngest amongst the killers. Grabbed your hand, lightly tugging it. How did I almost stumbled.. This kid is hella strong-

“Hey Kiddo... I’m sorry, I don’t think I can.” This time you really stumbled once c00lkid pulls harder.

“Pleaseee?” He pleaded, trying to pull you out towards the garden. You hate denying the kid but you’re extremely tired from last round.

“.. After your round next, yeah?”

“Ok!”

Watching the kid walk speed away, you let out an amused hum while shaking your head. You wonder why a kid like him was forced into this.. Loophole of a place. You wouldn’t say he doesn’t deserve it.. more so you’re concerned for the kid.

The sound of echoing footsteps from the distance gave you a chilling feeling, shivering your skins. A heavy weight hits you as you begin slowly walking back towards your assigned room in the forsakened castle. It was no mistake, the fog full of hatred feelings belongs to none other than 1x1x1x1.

“I expected more from someone trapped here as long as me.” You hum in response to their words, sending them a soft glance. His approaching steps echoed in the hallways, getting more loud as you both walked next to each other.

“I.. Wasn’t expecting him to guess my patterns..” You muttered to the embodiment of hatred next to you, walking slowly side by side through the halls. “I do wonder if they figured out a way to fight us back.. but it seems only the useless one is able to figure a way to avoid our attacks.”

1x1 let’s out an amused hum, glancing at you before forward. “At least someone other than me keeping tabs on the survivors.” You nod, not knowing what else to say. The rest of the walk was filled with awkward silence.. or was it just you being nervous around this.. entity who’s full of nothing but hatred. Why does she gotta stay near, her room is across the castle!

Once you’ve arrived at your room, 1x1 didn’t say anything other than patting your shoulder and leaving. What an odd individual.

Entering your room, you rolled your shoulders. Tired from the back to back match. I guess The Spectre is feeling like bullying me today.

You wonder if c00lkid will be next, he’ll definitely be worn out from hunting the survivors. That’ll give you time to rest at least.

Having nothing else to do for the day you decide to just take a small nap, maybe 5-10 minutes. Laying down on your bed, you close your eyes.

The loud ticking sound awoke you from your slumber, you felt dizzy. Your nap felt short. It’s just pure darkness, nothing else. You opened your eyes, expecting the usual mossy ceiling.

But above you was a wooden ceiling. Odd.. Has the spectre decided to give you a new room?

You slide your feets off the bed to the side, feeling your legs felt lighter than usual. Glancing down you noticed how the corrupted part of your legs are.. normal?

You rubbed your eye with your hands not expecting the soft feelings and it made you flinch. Your eyes widen, the rocky corruption, is it really gone?

Your body feels odd and weird, like it de-morphed itself. Your hands and feets feel lighter, glancing down to see why. The corruption that had covered them is gone. Like it never existed- yet the horns and tail still stays.

There’s no traces of it. Like it never existed. You quickly got up tumbling with your vision darken as your blood rushed up your head from standing up too quickly.

The room.. felt unusually, it’s not yours. The walls are made of wood instead of the usual rocks.. cement?

Your body felt odd and weird, like it de-morphed itself. Your hands and feets feel lighter, glancing down to see why. The corruption that had covered them is gone. Like it never existed- yet the horns and tail still stays.

You stumbled a bit, looking around the unfamiliar place. It looks like any normal room when there’s a new killer.

The room has a small wooden cabinet next to the bed with an oil lamp on top. A window was on the far back right near the bed, giving a view of the ocean. It was almost like a near replica of your original room without your personal stuff and trinkets you’ve collected.

Letting an exasperated sigh, you felt a bit frustrated at the unfamiliar room. Though you guess The Spectre changed the castle to be the cabin, again. You decide to go and finally play with c00lkid plus explore more but as you walked towards the door, you heard some noises from the other side. Odd.. You did not smell any scent indicating anyone was near.

Ever since being in this room you can’t even smell your own scent.

Placing a hand on the handle and twisting it, you did not expect to be face to face with not one, BUT TWO survivors. You don’t not know the names but you do recognize them as the one who would always build and the other would always slashed you with their sword.

They both freeze, pausing their conversation as they finally take notice of you. The one with an orange hat narrowed their eyes, sending you a glare. While the other one just glanced to the side. Who the fu-

#lemon writes #forsaken #forsaken x reader #1x1x1x1 #Shedletsky #elliot #Builderman #007n7 #c00lkid #noli #x reader #>tags devider<#i won't tag it as character x reader yet #as there's only plantonic/prey and hunter interations #reformation of a killer au

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mariasont · 2 months ago

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heatstroke

shy!reader is flustered around spencer. he mistakes it for a heatstroke.

pairing: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, post prison reid, spencer being oblivious, fluffy fluff prompt: here wc: 0.7k

Your heart is hammering so hard you’re half-convinced it’s about to burst straight out of your chest, grow legs, and scuttle off into the nearest storm drain. And now, standing so close you can map every anxious burst of breath ghosting hot across your cheek, Spencer is mumbling something rapid-fire about heatstroke of all things.

“It’s eighty-five degrees out, you know. Do you feel dizzy? Disoriented?” he asks, forehead crinkling adorably — no, anxiously — in sincere concern.

You’d answer, really, but all that escapes is an embarrassingly squeaky semblance of language. Because Spencer Reid, who is the intellectual equivalent of chugging an ice-cold slushie way too fast on your best days, is currently ushering you toward a shaded lounge chair, fingertips pressing cautiously into your side as if the slightest pressure might crumble you into dust.

Which, honestly, that's not far off.

“You really don’t look good,” Spencer says, lowering himself into a squat directly in front of you.

You want to protest, or at least pretend to be mildly insulted, but your lips part uselessly, mouth suddenly dry.

This close, Spencer is a potent distraction — big, worried eyes, dark lashes clinging wetly together, a single bead of water tracing the strong line of his jaw before disappearing beneath the edge of his collarbone.

Your vision is swimming, and it definitely has nothing to do with the diagnosis he’s busy concocting.

How did this even happen? One minute, you were innocently (fine, not so innocently) ogling Spencer as he laughed in the pool, sunlit water streaming over smooth skin and muscles you absolutely did not know existed beneath all those layers he normally hides behind.

The next, your knees had given out, quickly followed by your dignity.

Completely understandable, really, given the visual stimulus. And clearly, it was symptomatic enough to convince him of a medical emergency.

Now he’s fussing over you like a patient, touching you gently, speaking softly, and effectively making your current Spencer-induced predicament exponentially worse.

“I’m fine,” you manage to croak, forcing your lips into a shaky approximation of a smile, hoping you look convincing and not completely deranged. “Just, um — hot. It’s hot. You’re hot — I mean, it’s… the weather. The weather’s hot.”

Amazing. Truly eloquent. You doubt a toddler would fall for such an amateurish charade, let alone Spencer.

His head cocks to the side in the confusion, and now you’re stuck looking at lips that seem entirely too kissable for your current mental state.

Spencer blinks slowly at you and somehow, inexplicably, moves even closer, fingers brushing against your forehead.

“Your skin is really warm,” he says, almost to himself, his palm shifting to cup your cheek.

A barely contained shiver ripples through your body, originating exactly where Spencer’s hand rests and working its way down your spine, turning you into a shaky disaster in seconds flat. Which, of course, is incredibly helpful, given that he currently believes you’re overheating.

Tremors in blazing sun. Makes sense.

“Can you try taking a deep breath for me?” he urges, thumb sliding smoothly across your cheekbone, and suddenly you’re wondering if this is how cats feel when someone scratches exactly the right spot behind their ears.

You drag in a tight, somewhat strangled breath, probably miles from the smooth, relaxing inhale Spencer intended. But considering there was only a microscopic gap separating your faces, successfully intaking any oxygen feels nothing short of a miracle.

Spencer, clearly agrees, because his face breaks into an immediate, heart-stopping smile.

“Good,” he whispers. “There you go.”

You briefly wonder if praise-induced death is a thing, because Spencer’s clearly testing the theory.

When his hand finally withdraws, leaving your cheek strangely cool, you’re amazed at how quickly your body rights itself, as though your lungs had just been waiting politely for him to stop wreaking havoc on your nervous system.

"Stay here, I'll grab you some water," he says softly, already halfway turned toward the house before pausing, reconsidering. "Or, actually — do you wanna come inside? Air conditioning might help."

"Oh — no," you blurt quickly, nervously adjusting your bathing suit strap for what feels like the millionth time. "I'm fine out here, really. The fresh air is good."

Fresh air, you think, nodding to yourself like a total idiot. Yes, fresh air is good. Fresh air means witnesses, and witnesses mean accountability. People who can vouch that your complete breakdown is purely situational and definitely not a daily occurrence.

He hesitates, obviously conflicted, before exhaling with a sigh of surrender. "Okay, but I'm setting up a fan. It'll make us both feel better."

You manage a nod. "Fan sounds good."

The second Spencer’s safely indoors, Rossi lowers his sunglasses just enough to shoot you an amused glance.

“Kid might be a genius, but when it comes to anything social — especially romantic — he’s about as perceptive as a brick,” he says breezily. “Lucky for you, huh?”

Laughter washes around you, and all you can do is tug your hat down over your burning face as if that might make you invisible. When no helpful sinkhole opens up beneath you, you sneak a glance toward the house.

One day, Spencer’s bound to figure it out. You wonder briefly if you’ll survive it… but you’re dangerously tempted to find out.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 1 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

#mariasspringbreakgetaway #mariaversegetaway #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x shy!reader #spencer reid x shy reader #criminal minds fluff

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mzyjxu · 30 days ago

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𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣

Satoru is running, or maybe floating. Someone is chasing him, he is scared. Suddenly- everything is gray and quiet, except for the sound of footsteps that isn't his. He is back in that house; his grandparents’. The ceiling is wood, old, and warm with the scent of rice and dust. The sounds of a kettle whistling and a cicada chorus hummed in the distance. He is wearing his school uniform, standing in the old genkan. The summer light pooled across the tatami mats.

He slowly goes inside the house and there she is- his grandma, her small and stout figure gracefully working around the kitchen, she ladles the golden broth into a wide ceramic bowl, steam curling into the air. Her hands tremble slightly from age, but they’re still so sure. She hums as she works, a soft tune, that lullaby she used to sing when he was feverish, half-asleep on the futon with a cold towel pressed to his forehead. “Oba-chan” he whispers, he looks around the house and finds his grandpa, he’s carefully dusting the spines of Satoru’s childhood manga volumes, stacking them neatly, one by one, just like he used to when Satoru left them scattered around “Ji-chan” he breaths.

Then-thump. Something heavy landed on his chest, it's soft, tiny and wiggly. Then came a faint purring near his shoulder.

““Pa… pa-pa… mmm…pa..ma… KOOO!”

Satoru slowly blinks open, his vision adjusted, the world came into focus.

“Mmfff—what the—”

A diapered baby butt planted firmly on his chest, his son, his chonky, red-cheeked, victorious son was squarely planted on top of him, cupping his face with tiny-sticky fingers, giggling, babbling and drooling like a tiny king claiming his kingdom; his Papa.

Satoru blinked again, the fog of sleep lifting, and looked to his left.

Lady Purrshia, now five and even more elegant than ever, and the roundest she has ever been had draped herself across his ribs, purring deeply as she flicked her tail in approval. She narrowed her eyes in that royal way only cats could master.

The bedroom door creaked open, there was you- his goddess, wearing one of his shirts, barely buttoned, sleeves rolled up, sunshine ricocheting on your skin, looking ethereal.

“Goodmorning Toru” you smiled lazily, holding a baby bottle, climbing on the bed and kissing him softly, ruffling his hair.

“Hello my love” Satoru yawns leaning towards your touch, asking for more love.

“Buh… buh… Puh! Ma-ma?” his son babbles for attention.

“Oh sorry, goodmorning to you too my little squish ball” He laughed, and kissed the baby’s cheek until he squealed and tried to roll away, which didn’t work at all. He was still mostly a potato with limbs.

“Okay come on baby, aren't you hungry, mama brought you milk” You scooped your baby off of his chest and laid him on your lap, “here you go” he reached for the bottle but Purrshia’s tail came into his line of sight and he got distracted by it, he sits up determined to bite on it with his chubby hands trying to grab on her flicking tail.

You both cracked up by seeing his antics.

“Noo, that's a lady, you don't do that, be a gentleman” Satoru scolded him softly, trying his best to not laugh.

Lady Purrshia, unbothered by the chaos and how her tail was literally being hunted by a chonky monarch seconds ago, snuggled closer to Satoru softly dozing off again.

You grabbed the baby from his thigh and offered him the bottle again, he excitedly starts drinking on it once he realises that its his favorite food.

“You planning to get up today?” you teased him, “New interns are joining today, so I can be late, make sure to bring him to the hospital it's his vaccination day” you told him.

“Noooo, Ynnnnnn I can't look at him crying, he is indeed soo damn cute while crying but I can't, especially when he looks at me after the shots, so betrayed and full of vengeance” he exclaimed dramatically “I'm sure he is plotting against me, he woke me up by literally sitting on my chest like a monarch, heaviest monarch I swear to god”

You giggled “You are so silly Toru, just do it for me, please, I don't have a heart to see him getting shots” you pouted.

“This family and their cuteness would be the death of me” Satoru complained while picking up sleeping Lady Purrshia cuddling her against his chest. “Only you are in my side Purrshie” Satoru coddles her, Lady Purrshia promptly stoods up eyeing Satoru as he ruined her sleep, walks towards your side and settles herself beside you dozing off again.

You laughed, Satoru pouts, Baby sleeps, Lady Purrshia won again.

Its home.

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ִֶָ ִֶָ

Note: thanks for reading lovies ﾟ��༘⋆

#gojo comfort #gojo angst #gojo fluff #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk #jjk angst #jjk comfort #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #cat dad gojo #dad!gojo #dad gojo #jjk x reader

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fivepoolsclans-archive · 2 years ago

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#warrior cats #warriors #clangen #cats of five pools #fivepoolsclans #clan gen #wc

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vultursvolans · 8 months ago

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𝐏𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘: OCT 10TH

— ♤ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: fyodor dostoyevsky x gn!reader | 𝐜𝐰: oral!giving, messy blowjob, deepthroat, dubcon, he’s kind of mean, facial, bruise mention, no aftercare, established relationship, very little dialogue for reader, dom/sub dynamics, tail, collar, a leash, cat ears, the lot! 1.6k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Fyodor loved the idea of reducing you to something less than human.

Seated high and comfortably in his chair, he delighted in the sight of you crawling naked at his feet. Cat ears were perched on your head and nestled in your ass was a thick tail that twitched with each sway of your hips. Your collar was snug around your neck and in the centre, hung a small tag that simply read: RETURN TO DOSTOYEVSKY.

Kneeling there, perfectly trained, you watched him lure you in with his bedroom eyes. You weren’t sure if this was him giving permission to begin but he didn’t stop you when you leaned down on all fours.

Fyodor didn’t indulge in many things, but seeing you switch into this dumb headspace where your only purpose was to be domesticated—or rather kept for enjoyment—was something he could always get behind.

“Ah-ah, not too fast,” he said in a condescending tone as he tugged at your leash, pulling you closer between his legs. The soft fur of your tail brushed against your thigh as you shifted position.

After five—no, ten minutes of slathering your mouth around his cock, Fyodor found amusement in the way your legs were already trembling beneath you, struggling to hold yourself steady. His eyes became fixed on your cheeks hollowing as you bobbed up and down his length, fat tears streaming down your face while you obediently adjusted to a slower, more deliberate pace.

You took him as deep as you could which only muffled any chance of coherency.

“Mmm, that’s better,” he cooed.

You whimpered around him as he gave you an appreciative pat on the head. When you leaned into his touch, his lips bore the slightest grin, humoured by how willing you were to please him.

He lazily trailed his fingers down your jaw before his thumb brushed the little bell on your collar, flicking it lightly to hear its delicate chime,

“See? You get what you want when you listen.”

His thick shaft was lodged too deep in your throat for a response, but there was no point. The painful ache in your jaw was your own doing, a consequence of following him around and nagging him for attention when he was far too focused on his latest scheme.

Nagging never worked. But having you like this? On your knees, gagging on his cock? That always did it.

You took him inch by inch until the tip of your nose brushed against the dark patch of hair at his base. A quiet huff escaped him, barely audible, but it sent a rush of relief through you.

Slowly but surely, Fyodor was beginning to unravel, which only spurred you on. You needed to see him lose his composure, otherwise what would be your purpose in all this?

So you flattened your tongue against the underside of his cock, tracing every vein with wet, sloppy strokes before swirling it around his sensitive tip. Over and over.

You repeated the motion, causing him to shiver slightly after every stroke.

One point for you.

Occasionally, you’d drag your tongue away from his cock, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his inner thigh, tasting the salt and sweat on his skin. The thick scent of his musk and arousal made you dizzy. Delirious, even.

You softly hummed around his length as you resumed putting your mouth to work and felt a shudder ripple throughout his entire body, his thighs tensing beneath your palm. The room filled with obscene sounds of your lips sloppily sucking and swallowing his cock. Spit dribbled down your chin and pooled in your lap, mixing with your own arousal.

The glow from his monitors bathed your tears with an otherworldly purple light. When you looked like this, it always justified his decision to keep you in this state.

He could see you were just as turned on by all this from how often your legs would quiver whenever he elicited a sound. Your hand even dared to slip between your thighs to take care of that ache but you knew better than to touch yourself without his permission. The tail buried inside you sent small, rippling jolts of pleasure that you had to ignore, lest you anger him with your lack of focus.

You were so well-behaved that not even the pain from bruised knees could coax a complaint from your lips. So out of what he considered kindness, he gave you a small gesture, allowing you to pause.

“Breathe,” he said.

You released him with a wet pop, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room. You panted softly, drool still coating your lips, and when you looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes, you saw a flicker of satisfaction on his face.

Unfortunately, this brief moment of generosity was just that—a moment. Because Fyodor wasn’t done with you.

With a sharp tug of your leash, he forced you back to his cock, “Now finish cleaning me up,” his voice was eerily warm for someone who had you shackled by the neck.

The look he gave you was pitiful but you didn’t hesitate. You took him deep again, sucking him with renewed intensity. This time, when your lips reached his base, he took the opportunity to enjoy you fully, tilting his head back while his Adam’s apple bobbed at the feeling of your wet mouth clenching around him.

“You’re…” a drawn out, breathy moan escaped his chest, “…doing so well. How exquisite.”

His grip on the leash got tighter, twisting the chain around his hand so he could buck repeatedly into your mouth. You could feel his fat tip prodding the back of your throat which made you gag and slurp again and again.

In. Out. In. Out.

It was filthy and rough and the bell around your neck jingled with each thrust. At this point, you weren't sure what you wanted more—his thick hot cum spluttering inside you or some damn air.

“Take it deeper,” he slurred, his body shuddering as your throat desperately stretched to accommodate his length, struggling to keep up with his ruthless pace

You were a mess of spit and tears and he ogled every time it would disappear behind your poor little, beaten lips.

"You can do it," he said—but this was far from encouragement.

He was taunting you, just another attempt to bully one more helpless gag out of you. And he observed you as he pounded your mouth, you felt his balls lewdly slap your chin.

“Want it, kitten?” Your vision was blurred by your tears but you blinked up at him anyway. Yes, yes, yes. Please!

“Think you’ve been good enough?” His voice lowered but it was laced with urgency.

He wanted to finish and you craved for him to finish in you.

You slurped around him, breathing through your nose while his cock impossibly stiffened and ached. After a deep breath, you took the entire thing in one go and held it at the base.

“God…” he hissed through clenched teeth.

The last thing you heard was a long grunt when he finally came. His hips jerked forward in one final thrust, forcing himself deep into your throat before pulling out, his hand pumping himself as hot ropes of cum splattered across your face.

The first burst hit your lips, the second painted your cheeks, and the third dripped down to your chest, each twitch of his cock sending more cum spilling across your skin. The broken whimper that followed was strangled and raw, enough to make you shudder.

Giving himself to you like this wasn’t a common occurrence so he always came so much, and seeing his face twisted in pleasure like this almost had you cumming untouched.

Sometimes he missed finishing inside you, to have the warmth of your walls squelching around him as he drained his balls, all while you struggled to take it—but dirtying you up was another form of entertainment in itself.

He leaned back on his chair, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. Admiring you through half-lidded eyes, he was pleased with the mess he left on your face.

“Such diligence,” he muttered as he used the still-throbbing tip of cock to smear his seed across your cheek, making sure to cover every spot he might have missed, “What a pretty, impure little sight you are.”

You remained on your knees, staring up at him through the sticky mess, sheepishly waiting for the next unpredictable thing he had up his sleeves. The air between you was hot, and you ached to be touched—to be praised again. Your body burned for it but Fyodor wasn’t in any hurry.

With languid motion, he dragged your leash back between his legs, the chain clattering as he did. “You missed a spot,” he pointed out.

Without hesitation, you carefully lapped up the remnants of his seed from his softening length. Another strangled moan poured from his lips, the aftershock of his orgasm still making him tense in your mouth.

When you were done, you licked your lips clean of any lingering mess. His eyes were sharp as they met yours and for a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing.

“You’ve done well,” he finally said. “But don’t think for a second that we’re finished.”

Fyodor stood up, letting out one last sigh before savouring the picture of your naked, cum-streaked body. With an unreadable expression on his face, he towered over you as he adjusted his pants. There was an air of finality around him as he looked down at you.

“Stay like that,” he didn't bat an eye as he sat back down, swiveling his chair back to his desk, “We’ll continue later.”

“Yes, Fedya,” you hoarsely responded after what felt like a lifetime. Hearing his words made you gulp, you almost forgot you had a voice after he had just abused your throat.

As he resumed his work, you stayed in place, a silent, obedient pet at his feet, knowing that this was only the tip of the iceberg.

dividers: @/astrumaur

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blueberrybirdsworld · 10 days ago

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Collision 15/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : SMAU, Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : angst, Lando is sad (yes it's a warning)

CHAPTER 15 :

Serie Masterlist

The villa was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful but tense, sharp-edged, and waiting to explode.

No one laughed today. No one joked. No soft teasing over breakfast. No sunbathing by the pool. The warmth of Brazil felt foreign now. Wrong. Like it belonged to someone else's story.

Ariana had locked herself in her room since their fight.

Lando hadn’t said a word to anyone.

Not a joke. Not a glance. Not even a sigh.

Max tried twice to get through to him: once with food, once with sarcasm. Neither worked. Charles suggested they go surfing. Lando didn’t answer. Carlos tried to break the tension by calling him “Romeo, version parano”, but even that landed flat.

Everyone knew.

Something had happened.

Something big.

Kika stood outside Ariana’s door at least three times, knocking gently.

“Babe, just tell me if you’re okay.”

Silence.

Pietra eventually snapped. “They need to talk.”

“Not our job to force it,” Max muttered.

“No,” Kika said, eyes hard, “but it’s our job to stop them from breaking something real.”

By the time sunset rolled across the sky like fire, the tension in the house had become unbearable. And Kika had enough.

Lando was pacing in the living room. Ariana hadn’t emerged all day.

So Kika did what no one else dared.

She marched upstairs. Knocked on Ariana’s door. “Put on something. Five minutes. You’re talking to him.”

Then she went straight to Lando, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him like a furious little storm cloud through the house.

Pierre tried to interfere. She silenced him with a glare.

“Get. In.”

She shoved them into the smallest guest room, snapped the door shut behind them, and locked it.

From the other side: “You’re not getting out until you talk. So fix it. Or burn it down. But decide.”

Footsteps faded.

Silence fell.

Ariana stood near the bed, arms crossed. Lando by the door, fists clenched.

The space between them felt oceans wide.

Neither moved.

Her voice came first, quiet but sharp. “We just have to pretend we’re fine. Then Kika will let us out. I’ll go back to my room, pack my things, and leave first thing tomorrow.”

His jaw clenched. “Back to Paris.”

She nodded. “Obviously.”

“Back to your dear dancer,” he snapped.

She froze.

“What?” Her voice was hollow.

Lando laughed, humorless and mean. “Isn’t that what this is? You come here, say all the right things, play with me for a week, and then go back to the guy you never stopped seeing.”

She stared at him.

He kept going, voice getting louder, sharper. “He’s the one, right? The one from the photos. The one you said was nothing. You still with him, aren’t you? Just couldn’t resist the thrill of sneaking around?”

Her voice cracked. “Lando—”

He cut her off. “Was I just a fun distraction?”

Silence.

Her tears welled instantly, blurring her vision.

She took a shaky step forward. “Do you really think… I’m cheating on my ‘boyfriend’ to be with you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you really think,” she whispered, voice shaking, “that I would say all of that, do all of that, travel across the world to be here with you… if I was still with someone else?”

Still silence.

Lando stared at the floor, chest heaving.

She let out a breathless, hurt laugh. “You don’t even see me.”

“You never said anything,” he muttered. “You never explained. You refused to talk about him. I had to find out online.”

“So that’s your excuse?” she shouted suddenly. “You believe Twitter over me?”

He flinched.

She stepped closer, voice rising. “You think gossip blogs and blurry pictures know me better than you do? Since when do you care about that kind of bullshit?”

He stayed silent.

And in that silence, something in her broke.

“You want the truth?” she said, voice trembling, “here’s the truth.”

She took a deep breath like she was pulling a blade from her own ribs.

“I dated him, yes. His name is Marc. He was my partner for three years. We were together the whole time. I thought he was the love of my life.”

Lando blinked, stunned.

She kept going.

“But he lied, hurt me, change me in a way I hated. Turns out he was cheating on me with half the damn company. Sleeping with students. Assistants. Anyone who smiled at him.”

Her voice cracked fully now. “I found out. I left him. That was a year ago. That’s how old those photos are. And no, I’m not still with him. I fucking hate him.”

Lando’s breath hitched. “Ari—”

She shook her head. “No. You wanted the truth, so just listen.”

His mouth snapped closed.

“I still have to dance with him. Still have to see him. Smile. Be civil. Pretend everything is fine because it’s my job. Because it’s the fucking Royal Ballet and I can’t let heartbreak cost me everything I’ve worked for since I was a kid.”

She wiped a tear off her cheek, furious with herself for crying.

“And this fucking jerk is still around me, remembering me of how much an idiot I was for falling for him, to believe all his lies and manipulation. He still posts about me or hugs me after a show like I am still his and it’s killing me. But I can’t say a thing because he is the fucking lead dancer, he had power and connection, so I had to work with him and pretend I get along, until the day my contract end and I will return to Paris, until now.”

Lando didn’t say a thing, he just looks at the ground, his heart fill with guilt and shame.

“So yeah. I lied that night at the Opera in London. I told you he was just a friend because back then, you were a stranger, Lando. A stranger I met at a Christmas party. And I didn’t owe you anything.”

He stood frozen, every muscle in his body aching.

“But now you know. Now you’ve ripped it out of me. Congratulations.”

Her voice dropped.

“Do you know what hurts the most?”

He lifted his gaze.

“I told myself I would never trust another man again. Never fall for someone. Never let anyone in after him. And then I met you.”

His throat burned.

“I fell for you. I loved you,” she whispered. “I know I should've explain it to you but Lando I was scared, and it's a part of my life I prefer to forget, to not talk about. You could've understand it, be patient, be kind, but no the moment it got hard, the second you felt doubt… you turned on me. You threw everything I gave you in my face and treated me like the villain."

She tried to breathe, to find words through the mess clawing at her throat.

"I never asked you about your past," she whispered, voice cracking with hurt. "Because it didn’t matter to me. Because I trusted you."

He was crying now, silent, hot tears that slid down his face like punishment.

"After everything I've been through..." she pressed on, voice breaking, "after everything, I still chose to trust you." Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to look away. "I saw the pictures too, Lando. I'm not blind. The girls at the clubs. The rumors about you. About the way you used to be."

His mouth parted, chest shifting with a sharp inhale.

"Ariana, I—"

She shook her head sharply, cutting him off before the words could leave his mouth.

"Don't," she whispered, voice thick with unshed tears. "Don't you dare try to explain now."

He stepped forward instinctively, reaching for her, but she stumbled back, out of reach.

"I ignored all of it," she said, voice trembling. "Because I knew you. Because I believed the Lando I fell for was different."

He flinched at that, visibly.

And then she added, softer, broken, like it was costing her everything, "But maybe I was wrong."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lando stood there, hand half-lifted like he didn’t know whether to reach for her or let her go.

She turned to the door.

“Kika!” Her voice was sharp. “Open the door.”

Seconds passed. Then a quiet click.

The door swung open.

Kika stood there, silent.

Ariana didn’t look at Lando again.

She walked out.

Up the stairs.

Straight to her room.

And the sound of her suitcase unzipping was the final note in the symphony of everything falling apart.

The house was still dark when she left.

6:04 a.m.

No sunrise yet. Just a dim grey light casting long shadows across the marble floors of the villa, painting everything in the dull palette of goodbyes. Just her suitcase in hand, hair pulled back, eyes heavy but dry, the tears had already come in the quiet of the night.

Ariana descended the stairs like a ghost.

Kika stood first, wrapping her in a long, warm hug, whispering things into her ear that Ariana would later forget the words of, but not the warmth. Pierre kissed the side of her head gently and said nothing. Alexandra gave her a sad smile and Charles a long squeeze of her hand. Max, still in his hoodie and socks, looked heartbroken.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

Ariana nodded.

Pietra was crying in Rebecca arms while Carlos had no words.

Lando stood in the doorway.

He hadn't slept. Hadn’t eaten. His hoodie was stained with salt from silent tears dried and cried again.

Ariana didn’t look at him.

Didn’t say a word.

Not goodbye. Not even a fuck you.

Just silence.

The kind that broke bones.

And then she was gone. Out the door. Into the waiting car. Into a plane. Out of his world.

Back in their room, it was still dark.

The air was heavy. Still.

Lando stepped in slowly, as if the room would collapse if he moved too fast.

Her perfume was still there.

Sweet, floral, soft. Like summer mornings and pointe shoes. Like the softness of her neck pressed into his chest. Like her laugh when she tried to cook pasta barefoot.

And on the chair by the closet, the hoodie she always stole from him.

Folded.

Untouched.

Cold.

He sank to the floor.

He didn't sob. Not at first.

He just sat there.

Then his chest heaved once, twice, and suddenly he was curling into himself, arms wrapped around his knees, the hoodie clutched to his chest like it was the only thing tethering him to her memory.

And he cried.

Hard.

Ugly.

Painfully.

The kind of cry that comes when you realize you’ve truly, completely, irrevocably fucked it all up.

She was gone.

She had left him.

And this time, it wasn’t a game. There would be no playful texts. No teasing glances. No lazy mornings and paint-stained kisses. No ballet tickets.

Just absence.

Downstairs, the mood was shattered.

The group didn’t know what to say.

No one wanted to touch it.

Max, finally, got up and went upstairs. Quietly opened the door to Lando’s room and saw the boy he’d known since childhood curled in the ground.

“Mate,” he said gently, stepping in, “I don’t want to tell you how to feel right now. You’re in hell. I get it.”

Lando didn’t answer.

“But you need to talk to her. Fix it.”

Still nothing.

Max sighed, ruffling his curls, helpless. “Alright. Be sad. But don’t stay here forever.”

He walked back out.

And that’s when Kika came in.

She didn’t knock.

Didn’t soften her voice.

Didn’t give him any chance to prepare.

She walked right up to him, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?”

Lando flinched slightly, looking up from the floor.

Kika didn’t stop.

“She’s gone. She left. And you’re just sitting here like you’re the victim in this?”

“I know I’m not,” he muttered hoarsely.

“Then why are you acting like it’s over?”

He looked away. “Because it is.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp. “It’s over because you’re letting it be over.”

“Kika—”

“She loved you.”

“I know.”

“She trusted you.”

“I know.”

“Then what the hell are you doing crying on the floor instead of going after her?”

Lando stood up slowly, eyes bloodshot. “Because I broke her. Because I said things I can’t take back.”

“And?”

“She won’t forgive me.”

“Not if you don’t fight for her,” she shot back. “But maybe that’s the truth, maybe you don’t actually love her the way she loved you.”

His head snapped up. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then prove me wrong,” she hissed. “Because right now? She’s in a car. She’s in an airport. She’s in a goddamn plane flying away from the guy who she thought would never hurt her. And you’re just… what? Gonna stay here? Let her leave?”

He didn’t answer.

Kika’s voice cracked now, not angry, desperate.

“Are you really going to let the love of your life walk away from you, Lando?”

His eyes closed.

“You know where she lives. You know where she dances. If you really love her, if you meant all of it then one mistake shouldn’t ruin everything.”

Lando was breathing hard now, like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Kika whispered. “Or will you let your fear ruin it.”

The room was quiet again.

But something inside him had cracked open, wider than guilt. Deeper than sadness.

Something that ached to be fixed.

And for the first time since she walked out the door…

Lando wasn’t crying.

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1

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yandere-sins · 11 months ago

Note

Can I request a reluctant reader taking care of a very sick yandere? Yandere can be any character of ur choice >.< tyia

Thanks for requesting! ^-^

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"You're hurt..."

The stench of blood, dirt, and sulfur filled the air in the underground hideout as you climbed off your bed, the heavy metal around your ankles rattling when you moved. You watched as the silver-haired man collided with the wall before sinking to the floor, his body sparely illuminated but his hair shining brightly, giving away his position. Your gut churned with hesitance, with the instinctive need to avoid all evil—especially the one that had threatened and abducted you. But it had been so long since he left. So long that you've been stowed away in secret. You were, unfortunately, drawn to him like a moth to the light.

Even though you kept your distance from your captor, your words barely a whisper as if not to disturb the man sitting on the ground, holding the side of his stomach, Calcharo flinched at the sound of your voice, cranking his head back to look at you. His gaze was unreadable, his whole face a mask free of emotions. But judging by the pool of blood collecting next to him, the wound must have hurt, even if he showed no signs of it.

"I promised I'd be back—" he mumbled as a ripple of tension tightened his muscles, everything in him readying his body to get up from his spot. As if greeting you properly was needed at that moment. But with his teeth bared, the gaping wound stole all of his strength, making him sack back to the dusty ground with a muffled groan.

"Give me a moment. It'll heal."

Curiosity killed the cat as you stretched your neck, bile rising to the top of your throat at the nasty sight of the gash. Even Calcharo's big hands—that you remembered so vividly squeezing and pulling at your body—weren't enough to cover the wound completely, blood soaking all of his clothes and staining the floor. Wasn't there medicine for that kind of injury? Although, seeing a doctor would probably be more appropriate. If it wasn't for the awkward situation you were in, you'd have freaked out at even the thought of seeing someone so badly injured, yet all you could do was stand in one spot, a good five steps out of his reach.

Even when you fiddled with your hands, wrenching and holding them, you were less anxious, knowing he wasn't in the condition to harass you that day. He'd been gone for a while, leaving you to your own devices and the evergrowing boredom. But you were still undecided if you preferred him being back and constantly hovering over you, watching and testing your reactions, or the loneliness and isolation you experienced, chained up and hidden away who-knew-where when he was gone. Both were unideal; both were destructive behavior on his part. You didn't have much choice in it, but him coming back severely injured was a situation you hadn't grown accustomed to yet.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

His head jerked upwards, eyes narrowing at you suspiciously. Yeah... you surprised yourself, too. You weren't the type to offer help, especially not to him. You were his captive, nothing more, nothing less.

"Or not..." Hands falling to your side, you fiddled with the seam of your shirt instead, avoiding his gaze as always. To Calcharo, you were an object to be observed, one he owned now but still couldn't help but expect to be betrayed by. As if you were going to pull a knife out any second now and stab him, even after he immobilized you with the chains around your legs. He was that kind of man; that much you had learned about him, even if it barely seemed to graze the surface. You began hating the feeling of his eyes on you the moment he revealed himself to you in this shabby hideout, his gaze so incisive it hurt. As if his eyes were daggers that he dragged through your flesh, stabbing over and over in an attempt to rip out your soul for him to observe.

"There are some bandages behind the mirror in the bathroom."

Torn from your thoughts, you couldn't help but stare back at him, even as his head fell forward again, his gaze disappearing. You two didn't have that kind of relationship. You didn't help him when he was in need, so you felt surprised at the simple instructions. They held no weight as if he didn't care whether you followed them or not—as if he expected you not to, rightfully so. Glancing at the blood, you thought that a bandage might be useless, that he needed stitches at least. But Calcharo said nothing more, pressing his palm harder against the wound without making another sound. Your head turned towards the door leading to the bathroom, and although it felt wrong to consider helping him, a compassionate part of you recognized that he needed you, your feet slowly turning away, picking up the pace as you disappeared from his sight.

The mirror caught your reflection as you flicked on the light. You had seen better days that much was sure. You weren't famished, the bags under your eyes more from anxiety and stress than lack of sleep. However, the green glow of the light didn't do you any favors either, and although you didn't think of yourself as ugly, you could only wonder what your kidnapper saw in you that he had to take such drastic measures. You were just you. That seemed to have been enough for him, even if it was strange.

The chain around your ankle felt twice as heavy as you wondered how long you'd be in this situation. Would you ever be free? Would he let you go if you helped him? Calcharo had always been silent when you asked him for his reasons. He'd sit by your bedside and wipe away your tears if you cried, begging him to be reasonable, but he never gave you the answers to console you. That was the kind of man you had offered help to. Someone so cold and selfish.

Opening the cabinet, you realized you had never looked behind the mirror before. Why? you wondered, but you were surprised at the amount of medical equipment. There were a couple of first aid kits and a box of resonator-only medicine and tools. He had every shelf stocked fully, and although he only asked for a bandage, you took at least one of everything you could find.

Calcharo was eerily quiet when you returned to his side. It made your pulse rise momentarily as you feared he might have died in the minute you were gone. The chain you were strung to clattered as you ran over, dropping to your knees next to his, dropping some of the extra weight from your arms to the floor in a moment of panic. You realized your closeness too late, anxiety shivering down your spine with how little distance there was between you two. But your focus shifted instantly, relief filling you as Calcharo looked up at you again, his eyes dropping to the items crammed between your arms and body. He scanned over your haul, and you immediately felt silly for worrying about him at all. He was perfectly fine, it seemed.

But what would you have done if he died?

You didn't know how to get out of here in the first place. Calcharo had never shown you any keys to undo your chains or to open any doors. There were no windows, and if you got out, there was no guarantee you wouldn't be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Tacet Discords going for your throat. These thoughts made your heart sink with a sense of panic as if reality was finally hitting you over your head. Or perhaps it was the thought of living with a corpse until you found your demise here as well. Either way, you were glad when he reached for one of the packages, revealing some round pills that he slipped between his lips, glancing up at you for a moment as if to make sure you were watching him swallow them. You fiddled with the medical utensils until you found another package, wanting to give it to him, but he shook his head as you held it out.

"Just use the bandage."

"You want me to do it?" you asked, reluctant to simply act. Glancing at the first aid kit, you were sure you'd find some there, but so far, Calcharo had always handled himself around you. Even when you had an outburst, trying to hit him, he'd let you slap him across the face rather than stop you. You'd half-expected him to retaliate when you stumbled back, recognizing his strength as superior and bracing for the impact, but it never came. He had always remained calm and composed, even with the glowing red hand-mark across his cheek.

It was the same with food or bathing. Calcharo always had enough rations stocked, and if he was back at the hideout, he made you meals all the time, only eating your leftovers or getting something for himself after you had your share. And he never took a shower first, ensuring you had all the warm water that would eventually turn cold (sometimes you let it run out of protest). You thought it might have simply been resourcefulness, but you began overthinking your beliefs now that he wanted you to do something for him.

"Are you sure?" you asked him again. There was a sense of exhaustion when he looked up at you, and much to your own surprise once more, you quickly snatched the first aid kit when he reached for it. "I can do it! Just didn't think you'd want me to..."

Calcharo let out a short grunt before lowering his arm again, not fighting you on this, but his eyes followed every one of your movements as you fiddled with the first aid kit. Ridden with sudden determination, you almost dropped all the contents on the undoubtedly nonsterile floor, only catching the bandage midair while some of the tools clattered to the ground. Quick as lightning, Calcharo caught a small pair of scissors before they could graze your leg, his bloody fist wrapping around it so tightly, you could see his knuckles whiten through the red sheen.

You gulped, watching him drag the scissors and his arm back to his side, too afraid to straighten your gaze and see the wound in full glory. When you agreed that you could do it, you had temporarily forgotten about the truly gut-wrenching part of medical treatment, and suddenly, you were even less sure about all of this.

Calcharo grumbled under his breath, noticing your sudden stiffness. His free hand reached out to touch yours. "Open it," he muttered, and his words put your body into motion. Following his instructions was so much easier than working through the thoughts that made you hesitate. He grabbed the start of the bandage from your hands once you unwrapped it, waiting for you to get onto what he was doing as he placed it over his naval before pressing it down onto the wound.

There was some visible comfort in the way his shoulders rose tensely as he covered the wound, but he dragged the now bloody bandage over the gash with skilled precision. As if he had done this countless of times, and you were almost certain he had. You reckoned that his life must not have been easy if he got so used to hurting himself for the sake of simply healing. But you quickly reminded yourself not to sympathize with him. To not forget how he wronged you despite this moment of unusual humanity. Usually, he appeared to you more like a monster, but right then, he was but a wounded soldier, and perhaps your parents had been right; you were too good-hearted for your own good.

Dragging the bandage to his side, Calchero stopped, huffing as you had stopped unwrapping more of it. He pulled his legs in so he could push his torso off the wall before he looked up at you. Gulping, you knew what you had to do. It wasn't like he wouldn't do it himself, but it was honestly ridiculous that you sat there frozen in place now that you had come so far. Inching closer, you positioned yourself between his legs, hesitating for a split second more before you reached out your arms, wrapping them around his front to reach behind Calcharo.

Carefully, perhaps with less pressure than he would have liked, you wrapped and pulled the bandage from his back to his front again. Calchero released it once he noticed you taking action, but when you reached the blood-soaked gash again, it was his hand that did the dirty work, pressing the bandage down. There was about one more round that you could make, and you quickly guided the wrap around him once more before making an amateurish knot on his healthy side. It was far from perfect, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his blood coating your hands now, too. It didn't feel like you helped him, but it was what he had wanted.

Placing your hands on the ground, you wanted to get up again, get some healthy distance between you two, and clean your hands if you got the chance. But before you could even slip one leg out from underneath you, Calchero's whole body suddenly collapsed forward. In a spurt of a moment reaction, you grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing your own between his collarbones to brace against his weight that could have easily buried you underneath it.

"H-Hey!" you called out, unsure what was happening, when you suddenly felt him inhale deeply, his hot breath releasing against your chest, sending shivers down your spine. And then, he chuckled.

"I didn't think you would."

His voice vibrated against your skin as he spoke them directly into your body. You didn't know what to say nor what he meant, but you felt the goosebumps rise across your arms and neck.

Calchero lifted himself just enough to nuzzle his face between your neck and shoulder, his weight so heavy as it rested on top of you. All you could do was curl your fingers into his body, and you cursed yourself for not immediately pushing him away, a small part of you afraid you might agitate the wound.

"Didn't think you'd care about me."

"I don't," you clarified, sounding pouty rather than confident. It had been a mistake, after all. You should have just let him sort out his own mess and stop being a busybody and help. Then, you wouldn't be in this situation now, your pulse throbbing in your ears as your heart began to beat faster with the anxiety and discomfort.

"I'm glad," he muttered. "Glad you care."

"I don't!"

This time, you did push. At least you tried. Calcharo didn't move an inch away from you, his head resting on your shoulder, his body threatening to bury you underneath if you didn't stay solid in your spot. The thought of Calcharo trapping you on purpose crossed your mind, and you hated yourself for not seeing it coming, walking right into the trap. And even if not, he was clearly exploiting the situation for all it was worth!

Of course, he'd take advantage of your kindness. Of course, he'd use your naivety and kindness to exploit you for something he wanted. Even if you questioned why it had to be you, why he kidnapped you of all people, his intentions—albeit disciplined—had always been clear. Although he held himself back from doing something regrettable so far, you had caught him touching you often: touching your hand while passing you a plate with food, brushing away hair from your face right after waking up, and letting his fingers glide over your arms or legs while you had dozed off, just to name a few. You should have been more careful. Should have listened to your body telling you to stay away. It might have just been something akin to a hug, but you should have never allowed him to go this far.

What if he took your kindness for consent?

"Please stop," you mumbled, feeling the tears shoot into your eyes. You didn't need to turn your head to know his eyes had opened, probably after hearing the sob in your voice. You wished you were stronger, able to push him away. Wished you could have fought him and caused him to stop liking you—wanting you. Wished you never even thought of him as anything but a monster.

"Just a little bit longer," he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin. Even when hiccups shook your body, Calchero didn't move, didn't budge. It seemed he didn't care anymore, getting exactly what he wanted. All you could do was sit there and wait for it to end, just like always. You felt his gaze vanish, the closeness allowing him to observe you differently, without needing to see when he could instead feel you.

His arms wrapped around your body, and you felt more trapped than ever, the feeling only registering when he said two more words that day,

"Thank you."

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ddodol · 8 months ago

Text

ddodol's kinktober ²⁰²⁴ — riize

series ⭑.ᐟ synopsis ⭑.ᐟ just unleashing my freak one day at a time. new week starts every tuesday! content warning ⭑.ᐟ smut! minors dni!, au, an anthology, some freaky stuff idk.

╔══════════════════════════════════╗ ║ ░░░░░░ freaktober ░░ ddlz ░░░░░░ ║ ╟────┬────┬────┬────┬────┬────┬────╢ ║L.CY│O.SR│S.ES│J.SC│P.WB│H.SH│L.SH║ ╟────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────╢ ║ ░░ │ 01 │ 02*│ 03 │ 04 │ 05*│ 06 ║ ╟────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────╢ ║ 07 │ 08 │ 09 │ 10 │ 11 │ 12 │ 13 ║ ╟────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────╢ ║ 14 │ 15 │ 16 │ 17 │ 18 │ 19 │ 20 ║ ╟────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────╢ ║ 21 │ 22 │ 23 │ 24 │ 25 │ 26 │ 27 ║ ╟────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────┼────╢ ║ 28 │ 29 │ 30 │ 31 │ ░░ │ ░░ │ ░░ ║ ╚════╧════╧════╧════╧════╧════╧════╝ *an exception because it's hani's birthday ! eunseok's and seunghan's are switched for the first week!

week one — feels prettier when i'm a mess .ᐟ

prompts ⭑.ᐟ spanking/impact play, sex toys, restraints/handcuffs, bondage/shibari, edging, cosplay, ass play/anal.

day one ⭑.ᐟ spanking / impact play with shotaro.

day two ⭑.ᐟ edging with seunghan. (happy birthday pookie)

day three ⭑.ᐟ restraints / handcuffs with sungchan.

day four ⭑.ᐟ bondage / shibari with wonbin.

day five ⭑.ᐟ sex toys with eunseok.

day six ⭑.ᐟ cosplay with sohee.

day seven ⭑.ᐟ ass play / anal with anton.

week two — anywhere but home .ᐟ

prompts ⭑.ᐟ airport, parent's house, gym, haunted house, museum, elevator, pool/shower.

day eight ⭑.ᐟ @ the airport with shotaro.

day nine ⭑.ᐟ @ your parent's house with eunseok.

day ten ⭑.ᐟ @ the gym with sungchan.

day eleven ⭑.ᐟ @ the haunted house with wonbin.

day twelve ⭑.ᐟ @ the museum with seunghan.

day thirteen ⭑.ᐟ @ the elevator with sohee.

day fourteen ⭑.ᐟ @ the pool / shower with anton.

week three — get a little halloween head like ooh .ᐟ

prompts ⭑.ᐟ angel/devil, mummy, beast, witch, black cat, vampire, police officer. *halloween party at taro's!

day fifteen ⭑.ᐟ going as an angel / a devil with shotaro.

day sixteen ⭑.ᐟ going as a mummy with eunseok.

day seventeen ⭑.ᐟ going as a beast with sungchan.

day eighteen ⭑.ᐟ going as a witch with wonbin.

day nineteen ⭑.ᐟ going as a black cat with seunghan.

day twenty ⭑.ᐟ going as a vampire with sohee.

day twenty-one ⭑.ᐟ going as a swat officer with anton.

week four — i'm usually so unproblematic .ᐟ

prompts ⭑.ᐟ getting caught, inexperienced, forced proximity, corruption, secret relationship, distraction, betting/dare.

day twenty-two ⭑.ᐟ getting caught with shotaro.

day twenty-three ⭑.ᐟ inexperienced with eunseok.

day twenty-four ⭑.ᐟ forced proximity with sungchan.

day twenty-five ⭑.ᐟ corruption with wonbin.

day twenty-six ⭑.ᐟ secret relationship with seunghan.

day twenty- seven ⭑.ᐟ distraction with sohee.

day twenty-eight ⭑.ᐟ betting / dare with anton.

week five — i'm feeling kinda freaky .ᐟ

wildcard ⭑.ᐟ you'll see!

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soobnny · 2 years ago

Text

another year with you — lee minho. established relationship. extreme fluff (0.5k words)

“Dori, you’re gonna wake him up.”

Your whispers mix together with your giggles as Minho stirs in his sleep. There’s a tickle on his nose. Dori’s tail, he assumes.

He simply nuzzles his face deeper into his pillow in response to the commotion, grip tightening around your waist to keep you in place.

It’s one of his first day offs in a while, and he fully intends to spend it in bed all day with you.

“Minho.” You sheered, running a hand through his hair. He habitually leans into your warmth. “Happy Birthday.”

Dori keeps kneading at the pillow he’s using. Soonie and Doongie seem to have joined not long ago, pooling just by your legs.

Minho grumbles, moving his head so he’s facing you. Though, he doesn’t think he could have ever prepare himself for the sight he’s subjected to.

The sunlight pouring through your shared room bathes your face in a beautiful hue, soft smile on your face.

“Hi.” Your voice is still in a whisper, not wanting to startle him out of the small comfort of your bed. You can see the way his eyes start to open wider, blinking away the sleep. Slowly.

“What do you want for your birthday?” You ask. His lips look plump, pressed together as he keeps his eyes on yours.

He has tells when he’s deep in thought, tongue running over his bottom lip with a slight furrow on his eyebrows. His hand moves from being draped around your waist in favor of tracing the moles on your face.

Dori meows from next to him. Soonie and Doongie have moved to occupy the space between you.

“I have everything I need.” He finally mumbles, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on your lips. Soft, romantic, and lovesick.

You pull away, though unsuccessfully as Minho chases after your lips. “‘M not done kissing you.”

“Mmm.” You hum against his lips, hand moving to play with the ends of his hair. He grew it out recently, admits he likes the way you pull on it.

It lasts a few heartbeats, and Minho exhales when your lips leave his. His eyes are still closed as he cements this moment. He’d film it if we could, running it over and over and never getting sick.

Quiet mornings with you and his cats on his birthday. He feels his heart grow.

“I love you.” The boy rarely says it first, loving in the shadows, but he ponders over saying it more when he sees the way your eyes light up and the way you have to bite down on your lips to suppress your smile.

You feel too fumbly to respond right away. Though, Minho doesn’t take too lightly at the silence that follows.

“Say it back.” He whines, and the pout on his lips solicit a breathy laughter from you. You gently reach out to cup his face, running a hand over his bottom lip.

“I love you too.”

He smiles. Slow blinking from his doe eyes.

“You’re twenty-five.”

Foreheads pressed together. Noses nuzzling. Soonie meows.

“Another year with you.”

Minho wouldn’t want it any other way.

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lostintransist · 6 months ago

Text

Fallen Angel | Ovulation is a Bitch™ - SFW-ish

AO3

18+ MDNI - Tumblr Exclusive

CW: Sex mentioned in vague detail.

John had found a property that would fit everyone. The original house had an addition added sometime in the last ten years. The extra space roughed out to a room per person, minus Johnny who would be sharing with Simon. They took the largest room since it would be housing them both. You got the next largest room despite all arguments. John put his foot down as the ‘owner’ and assigned the rooms out. The kitchen, dining space, and living room all ran together from the front door, two bedrooms extending behind the kitchen. The other

The last of the moving boxes were getting broken down and put in the bin. Moving had been quite a process, trying to decide which of the several options of everything everyone owned you had taken Kyle aside to beg him to convince John to buy a new set of everything for the new house to avoid the headache of trying to find where to store three couches, four kitchen tables, and five separate kitchen sets. John always listened best to Kyle.

Lord only knows how but Kyle convinced everyone (but they wouldn’t let you offer up even a single piece of money) to pool in and buy the biggest couch you had ever seen and a TV to match. If your opinion on the choice of color or which table to bring home held greater weight? Well, you wouldn’t fight them on this front.

Simon would be cooking and Johnny, who was not allowed to touch the stove after the last incident, would rotate around him prepping things for Simon to cook no matter what it was. Finally, after stepping on his lover a few times Simon would pin Johnny to the counter by the hips, kiss him firmly on the lips, and send him to sit next to you as you smirked into your coffee cup. Watching those two dance around each other in the kitchen became one of your favorite pastimes.

It wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t so fucking hot.

You were asexual. The understanding of your sexuality sat firm and undeniable in your soul. Except when you were ovulating. The bitch that is your uterus did not care that your soul and mind were finally in agreement, she wanted to be fucked into the mattress and given a baby.

It wasn’t just Simon and Johnny. It was Kyle with his skin that looked so smooth and smelled divine, Gary and his pheromones wafting off him as he slams the front door behind him after a run, and John and his fucking beard that you want to paw through like a cat as he is buried to the hilt in you.

You couldn’t ask that of any of them. The lines you had drawn after they asked you to choose were deep. How did you step over those without confusing the boundaries?

Standing abruptly, you announce to the room you are going on a walk. Kyle and Gary had entered the kitchen sometime while you were sucked into the vortex of your thoughts. Nodding once to yourself of your intentions you leave the kitchen, ignoring all the unspoken communication that must be going on behind your back.

You run into John when you leave your bedroom dressed for your walk. The slight moan that escapes your mouth when you physically slam into him is ignored on both sides.

“Going somewhere fun?” John settles a hand on your back, chest, and stomach flush with the side of his body.

Polyamory as an ace person had been such a delight. You could snuggle with any of them, offer or accept kisses as needed, tickle or tease as needed to help someone out of a funk, and never expect anything more. Right now, though? You fought the urge to rip your flesh off; John’s body against yours fired off every signal in your uterus that you strained to ignore.

“Just a walk,” you smile and step away to retrieve your shoes from the rack next to the front door.

“Sounds delightful, I’ll come if you don’t mind.” John grabbed his own shoes, settling next to you on the couch and skillfully knotting his laces.

Your find stagnates on all the knots he must know that could hold you in place while he makes you feel better. Fingers stilling on your shoes it takes John kneeling before you and replacing his hands with your own to draw you back into your skull and out of your uterus. He handles the task with the competence he does everything before slipping his hand in yours and keeping you close as you leave the house. If your bits throb the entire walk? No one’s business.

The mile loop is enough to take the barest hint of the edge off your desires. John had a way of settling you and making you laugh all at once. It would have been enough if Gary hadn’t come to find you.

Head deep in your closet looking for the vibrator you knew you had packed over from the flat you shared with Simon, you smelt him first. The raw and masculine scent of him called to you, petrichor to your parched lady bits. Biting your lip so hard you nearly drew blood you straightened up.

“Hi Gary, whatcha needing?”

Have you seen my toiletries? I know I moved them over but no one has seen them since we got back from our last mission.

Searching through your memories you can’t recall a single instance of seeing any bottles that weren’t immediately claimed.

“No, but I can show you which ones are mine and you can use those until you get a chance to order some more of yours. Does that work?” You look up at him and smile.

He nods, stepping into your room to offer you a hand up.

Taking it was a mistake.

As you stand you can see the shimmer of sweat across the width of his throat and upper chest and all you want to do is lick him.

You must freeze for too long. Gary crooks a finger beneath your chin and lifts until his questioning face matches yours.

“Gary, I need help,” you whisper.

“Anything-ng-ng,” he whispers back.

“Fuuuuck,” your eyes roll back into your head. He could have said anything but that and you would have been able to talk yourself out of asking.

Stepping around him, you trail your fingers across his abs as you reach for your door, shutting and locking it.

Curling your fingers still on him you hug him from behind, burying your nose between his shoulder blades.

“You know I’m asexual right?”

“Ye-ye-s?” Even his stutter seems to question you.

“Sometimes I still want sex. Only when I’m ovulating, but I swear it’s worse because it only happens one day out of twenty-eight,” you press your nose into him further, taking in a deep breath of satisfying man smell.

He waits. Gary had been government-trained to observe until he could draw solid conclusions.

“The help I need is sexual. I can’t find my vibrator and if I have to look at any one of you deliciously strong, good-smelling men I am going to start to bite like a rabid dog.” Your fingers tighten down on the ribbed tank top and the muscles below them. “Nothing will change in the day-to-day and if that doesn’t work for you, I won’t ask.”

His breath hitches both in your ears and under your touch. The air clicks on, the gentle rush of air entering your room now. Screwing your eyes shut you wait for rejection in the darkness you have created.

Gary’s fingers trail over the back of your hands, peeling them from his shirt. You shift from foot to foot, waiting for the embarrassment to start. Instead of him releasing your hands he brings them to his lips and kisses the tip of each finger. When that is completed, he turns and cradles your face, eyes shining as he searches for confirmation.

“Please Gary,” you whine, waiting for his decision.

He crashes into you like a wave meeting shore, lips fusing with yours.

Taking everything you can from him leaves you feeling half-satisfied. Thank all the gods you bought a new pack of condoms on your last shopping trip; the last ones had expired. It had been over a year since you could reliably have a partner, you didn’t dare have anyone over when Simon might appear at any moment. Taking care of your own needs had never been a problem until the plethora of options before you.

Gary drops a kiss on your lips as you rest in your bed. He had already cleaned you using the pack of wet wipes you kept in your bedside table drawer. They were wonderful for when you forgot to wash your face until you were already settled into bed, and aftercare apparently.

Hold on, let me see if I can get you some more help.

“Who?” you glare up at him unsure if you would prefer John or Kyle.

Dressing in his gym-sweated clothes he ducks.

Guess we will see who is home.

Sitting up you hiss at him to stop before he unlocks the door.

“Leave Simon and Johnny alone,” you hesitate to explain your thoughts. They were too new to each other to dare poke at their dynamic.

Gary nods before ducking out the door.

To your surprise, Kyle appears next. He pampers you, leaving your body shuddering. Kyle is a gentle lover. He is the first man to put his mouth to your clit, sending star across your vision and chuckling as you scramble for purchase in his hair.

He sends in John as the day slips closer to night. John comes bearing dinner. After he pulls his shirt off to settle across your body he eats with you.

“Is this why you were so sparky earlier today?” John glances up at you from his plate.

“Sparky?” You ask, incredulous.

“You looked like you wanted to chop yourself in half rather than be touched,” he dipped one shoulder in a shrug. “Sparky.”

Your mouth opens as you run your tongue across your teeth, frustrated.

“Yes.”

The admission costs you. The Cheshire grin that tugs John’s cheeks to his eyes should have told you what you were in for. He edged you for nearly an hour before fucking you like he was trying to touch your brain. At one point you cried out when you had to use both hands to push back against your headboard and further into his thrusts to avoid slamming your head. John had shushed you and lifted you and rolled to his back, so you rode him.

John settles clothes on your body, deposits you in the bathroom, and retrieves you when you are done. He hands you an electrolyte drink and orders you to bed. When you protest about the sheets he takes great pride in informing you that Kyle and Gary changed your sheets while you were in the bathroom.

“But I want to spend time in the living room,” you protest.

“Are you still feeling nippy? I bet Gary would be ready to go again.” John, nonplussed by offering one of his men up for sex, looks at you with an unfathomable expression.

You squeeze your legs together and stick out your tongue at him.

Taking your act of impertinence as an invitation John kisses you, licking into your mouth.

“To bed bird or I might find the energy to fling you around again,” he growls against your lips.

This time you listen.

Someone let it slip while you were sleeping. Johnny lay nose to nose with you when you woke the next morning.

"Why not me bonnie?" The sadness in his voice hurts you.

"I don't want to cause problems with you and Simon. I love you both and watching you in love brings me so much joy," you rest a hand against his face. The appearence of an early morning beard scratches at your hand. The sadness in his eyes lingers. "There is alway next month?"

He pushes forward, teeth and tongue and pretty little moans marking his intentions to take you next month.

A/N: well that got a bit more steamy then I meant for a SFW version...

@the-loneyest 😘 @lilynotdilly

Fallen Angel Masterlist | Masterlist

#Fallen Angel COD #cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #price x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap cod #roach x reader #gaz x reader #john price x reader #asexual reader #lostintransit #lostintransit writing #ghoap #ghoap x reader

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