#damn this self indulgent shit...PART TWO

[kentuckywrites]

The End of All Things - REWRITE

On July 6th, 2018, I succumbed to some self indulgence. Six years later, let's do it again. Featuring @deltheor 's Sydney ~

Pongo knew. 

The official BLADE report never made it into the public eye, but he knew Elma, and Elma knew everything, so he got the information out of her. While Pongo had been out on a forced vacation, Sydney had Brainjacked seventy percent of NLA’s population and had taken them to Cauldros, where he’d set himself up in a Ganglion fortress to play the role of false king. Elma showed him the witness reports, people recounting being controlled, people recounting their efforts to stop him. An elite team of Brainjack users were able to take him down, in the end, but even that almost hadn’t been enough. 

The rumors spread like a disease throughout NLA. He still walks among us, Pongo once heard. He’s been stripped of his rank, so hopefully he won’t be allowed anywhere near a knife again. I saw him in the residential district once - do you think he’s planning how to do it again?

It hurt. The rumors had nothing to do with Pongo, yet he still felt their sting. He could only imagine how deeply it was affecting Sydney.

In the end, the rumors and the official reports combined were enough for Pongo to make a decision. 

He pulled out his comm device and called Sydney just after noon. Someone had given Pongo his number a long time ago, long enough that Pongo couldn’t quite remember who it was. Sydney didn’t respond. Frantic, Pongo kept dialing and calling, dialing and calling, dialing and calling, come on Sydney why won’t you pick up -

“The fuck do you want?!”

And suddenly, everything Pongo had planned to say vanished into thin air. Gods above, Sydney’s anger was something to behold. Pongo knew he had to be quick, or Sydney would hang up. 

“H-Hi, Sydney,” Pongo started. “We, um…we need to talk.”

“We’re talking right now, dipshit.”

Damn it. Damn him. Pongo released a shaky breath, trying to keep himself composed. “I meant in person. This is not something I can talk to you about over the comm device.”

“I’m busy. You should spit it out and stop wasting my time -”

“Not over the comm device.”

Pongo hadn’t meant for his tone to get so strained, so forceful. Sydney didn’t respond immediately, and he almost wondered if the (former?) Interceptor had hung up after that little outburst. However, after a moment of silence, he got a response.

“Alright, fine. When would you like to plan our little date?”

Pongo swallowed hard. No, Pongo, it is not a date. Do not get your hopes up. He shook his head, then responded, “Well, um…do you know of that elevator by the West Gate? The one that leads to the very top of the walls of NLA?”

The location held many good memories for Pongo; that was the same elevator he’d taken down to the Industrial District, the very first time he’d stepped foot into the city. Back then, he had no idea who he was, or who he was meant to be. In recent months Pongo found himself revisiting the location, if only to reminisce on the past. Others had called this insight into himself and the hearts of others a blessing, and perhaps he could use this talent to…well. To see Sydney.

“I know the place,” Sydney said, again knocking Pongo out of his stray thoughts. 

“Would you be able to meet me there tonight? Maybe around eight?” Pongo asked.

“Sure, I guess. See ya then.”

“Right,” Pongo said, but the dial tone hit his ears before he had gotten his full response out. With a sigh, his hand lowered, and pressure built behind his eyes. Shoving his comm device in his back pocket, he looked to the horizon. The sun was high above him, a promise that the day was still young. It would be a painful wait until the appointed hour arrived.

~

Pongo found himself waiting at the bottom of the elevator fifteen minutes before eight. This corner of the city was quieter than he expected, but then again, this was the Industrial District. Outfitters, arms manufacturers, and construction workers hurried about the district in a mad frenzy. The chaos usually calmed his nerves; he felt at home in the hustle and bustle, the high energy that came with BLADE’s intellectual conquests. Yet tonight, as he’d been walking towards the meeting point, Pongo had briefly considered getting a drink at the Repenta Diner. Frye had once told him that spiking a coffee wasn’t out of the ordinary, and Pongo had seen first-hand how alcohol soothed aching hearts.

This was something he needed to be sober for, though, so in the end, Pongo had gotten a water from the diner. He’d nursed it in his hands and had taken two sips before discarding the cup. He wish he’d kept it now, as he had nothing to do with his hands aside from wringing them together. Sweat built beneath his palms, the friction of his gloves providing some level of distraction from his own thoughts. Funny, how he allowed himself to feel this. Funny, how it didn’t serve to distract him from the truth.

“Pongo? Helloooo? Anybody home in there?”

Pongo blinked a few times, and when he regained focus, he saw Sydney standing right in front of him. How long had he been standing there?! Gods above, Pongo was out of it, huh? He could even smell Sydney’s cologne - it was one of his favorites. Jasmin, saffron, cedarwood. An expensive blend. Pongo stepped back, his heart fluttering under his chest.

He did not wear this for you. Stop it.

“H-Hi,” Pongo stammered, ��sorry about that, I just…”

“Lost in your own head?” Sydney guessed, raising one of his pierced eyebrows in annoyance. “Happens, I guess.”

“Right. Yeah,” Pongo grinned sheepishly, finally making eye contact with Sydney. What was the human saying again, something about eyes being windows to the soul? If that was the case, Pongo could see through Sydney, and in that brief moment, he saw the truth. Sydney was happy to see him.

That made Pongo want to cry.

“So what’s so important that you couldn’t tell me through comms, huh?” Sydney asked. “You’re an old-fashioned fucker if you prefer talking to people in person.”

“Then call me old-fashioned, I suppose,” Pongo laughed nervously, “I, um…I think this is going to be too important for comm messages, is all.”

“Guess I’ll be the judge of that,” he huffed, “so get on with it. I don’t have all night.”

Right, he said he was busy. Pongo needed to get to the point. But at the same time, BLADEs were flying past them both, some casting looks over their shoulders. Damn it, he should’ve thought about how busy it’d be here.

“We should find somewhere quieter,” he suggested, expecting some form of backlash.

To his surprise, however, Sydney shrugged. “Whatever floats your yacht.”

“I do not own a yacht.”

“...I’ll rent you one of mine, sometime. Maybe I’ll throw in a one percent discount on the rental fee, too.”

Pongo’s eyes started to sting as he held back tears. The offer sounded so genuine, so real. Do not get your hopes up. 

“I would like that,” he said softly, feeling his heart begin to rip itself apart. He turned away from Sydney before he could say anything else.

Pongo stepped onto the elevator platform, using the controls to send it to the top floor after Sydney had embarked. It was a long way to the top, so once the elevator fence came up and they began to ascend, Pongo found himself sneaking a glance at Sydney. He was facing away, observing the city below. It was an array of colors and lights under the darkened sky, replacements for the stars that didn’t shine that night. Sydney’s head turned slightly, and Pongo could see those same lights reflected in his eyes. What a vibrant red they were, the color of power and blood and undying strength. 

Red, the color of love.

The first tear fell. Pongo wiped it away with the back of his glove, wincing when he pulled his arm back. He’d done it too rough, and now his cheek hurt. Not enough to leave a bruise, but enough to leave a memory.

The elevator came to a stop at the top floor. Pongo stepped out once the railings came down without acknowledging Sydney. He came to rest his arms on the fencing along the platform, staring down at NLA. This was where Elma had taken him when he’d first entered the city, when Pongo was unsure about who and what he was. There was a kind of poetic satisfaction in returning here, a satisfaction in knowing that he had found himself. 

Though…had he?

No. Pongo wasn’t here to throw himself a pity party. Just push the feelings down, as you always have and always will.

“So…” Sydney said, leaning back on the railing to Pongo’s right, “what do you want?”

Pongo didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it go in a shaky exhale. Maybe he could save himself. Maybe he could find a silly excuse and have Sydney get mad at him for wasting his time. Maybe he could find another way to get the answers he needed. 

But he couldn’t do any of that in good conscience. He had to face this - and so did Sydney.

“Elma gave me access to the BLADE reports,” he finally said. “They, um…you Brainjacked over seventy percent of the population.”

Silence. Pongo didn’t have the strength to look up at Sydney, to gauge his reaction through his facial expressions. Yet the air shifted, a tension that was nearly unbearable. Pongo opened his mouth, too uncomfortable to remain quiet, but Sydney beat him to the punch.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

A confession. Pongo gazed upwards at that, finding that Sydney had turned around to assume the same position as him. He was staring out at the city lights, his brow furrowed. From the profile, he looked…

He looked sad.

That was what Pongo had been searching for. That was the answer he needed. 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Sydney spat out in response.

“Sydney -”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, sharper this time, “why do you even care?”

Because I care about you.

He couldn’t say that. He shouldn’t.

“Because Elma also told me you suffered some kind of amnesia afterwards,” Pongo answered, “that you did not remember most of the time in Cauldros. It just…from everything I heard, I do not think that the one who Brainjacked everyone was truly you.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Sydney’s voice rose, “Of course it was me!”

“No, no, Sydney, listen to me, that was not you -”

“SHUT UP!!”

Pongo flinched back at Sydney’s order. Sydney’s eyes were glazed over, tears trailing down his cheeks. He hunched over to hide his face, an ugly sob emanating from the back of his throat. It took every bit of willpower to resist rushing forward, to resist wrapping him up in a hug, to resist telling him that everything would be alright. 

I will not be able to let go if I hold him now.

“I don’t even know why you wanted to see me,” Sydney nearly shouted as he straightened his spine, spinning around to finally face him. “You know what I did. The entire fucking city knows what I did, but I don’t even fucking remember what happened. What, did you wanna point and laugh at the asshole who ruined lives for shits and giggles?!”

“It was not you,” Pongo pleaded, unable to hold back his own tears.

“Then who the fuck do you think I am, huh?! Who are you to tell me who I am and what I’m capable of?! I’m a fucking monster -”

“You are not a monster!!” Pongo cried, “You are not the same person as the one who Brainjacked the city!!”

“Oooh, so that was a fucking clone who did that, then?!” Sydney retorted, “Answer the fucking question, asshole - who am I?!”

Pongo swallowed hard, forcing himself to stare into Sydney’s eyes. His makeup was starting to smear, a black tar staining his cheeks. As Pongo spoke, his voice rose, gaining more and more strength.

“You act vain and narcissistic and you hardly care about anyone other than yourself. You buy things because you think it makes you happy, but you are never happy, because you think you are undeserving of everything you have been given. You act as though you only care about yourself because you do not want anyone showing you the slightest hint of compassion, and it is because you are terrified, Sydney, you are terrified of being loved because you think you do not deserve it, but damn it Sydney you do!!”

“I don’t deserve shit,” Sydney faltered, but now Pongo was shouting, now he felt too deeply.

“YES YOU DO!! Are you living?! Breathing?! Then you deserve someone who loves you, someone who will be there for you through thick and thin, someone who sees past all of your flaws and sees you for your heart!! Fucking hell, Sydney, I lo-”

He caught himself. 

“I know you deserve to be loved because I know you are a good person deep down!! Everyone deserves to be loved no matter how many times they have fucked up, and I will not sit back and watch you believe you are undeserving, because YOU ARE!!”

Pongo’s voice was cracking, a mirror to his heart. His breaths deep and painful, he stepped back, hitting the rail. The metal provided a cool sensation against his hands, welcome in the heated moment. Sydney looked shellshocked, eyes wide and unblinking. Pongo had never seen this expression before, and despite his fury, the sight made him near-nauseous. He had to close his eyes, a gentle breeze finally coming to soothe him, caressing the hair sticking to his face.

“The fact of the matter is that you have changed,” Pongo quietly said, controlling how his voice shook. “You put on the same act as before, but deep down…I see you, Sydney. I do.”

Silence, eternal. Pongo sighed. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t keep doing this. Getting attached, getting his heart broken when there was nothing left to break. 

“I am sorry if you had somewhere else to be,” he apologized, “I got my answer. I will leave you alone, if that is what you want.”

Pongo let go of the railing, straightening his spine and turning back towards the elevator. The silence remained deafening, and his thoughts raced to devour it whole. His own voice echoed in his ears, remnants of his anger, reflections of his soul. The anger was not towards Sydney, he concluded quickly, but rather towards himself. How could Pongo have been so stupid, to get this close to Sydney? The happy-go-lucky Interceptor with a heart of gold, with friends in every corner of the city and beyond, a man who dreamed and hoped and wished for more. That was selfish. That was greedy. That was wrong. He wasn’t allowed to wish for a deeper connection because he was destined to love and never be loved in return. That was his punishment, his sentence, his -

A hand, quickly grasping his. Metal under his skin. A whisper, a plea in the dark. 

“Don’t go.”

Pongo wasn’t strong enough to keep his gaze fixed forward. He looked to Sydney, to the quivering form that had stopped him from leaving. He was a shell - or perhaps, this was the original Sydney, the one who was showing his true colors after years and years of hiding in plain sight. And his true colors were beautiful in every sense, vibrant red and gold and white. His palm pressed in Pongo’s own was a dream, a hope, a wish come true. 

Pongo looked down at their intertwined hands. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

And yet…

Could he allow himself to be selfish, just this once?

He didn’t give himself enough time to answer that question. Pongo brought Sydney closer, wrapping his other hand around the back of Sydney’s neck, pulling him in, in, in - and their foreheads touched, skin upon skin. Pongo forced himself to keep the space between their mouths, though he cherished the small contact made between their noses. Do not get closer, he told himself, his last shred of control. 

But the little voice in the back of his mind, once smothered, echoed out. You are allowed to want this. 

His resolve finally shattered.

“Okay,” Pongo breathed. “I am here.”

And he sealed the distance between their lips. 

Sydney was wearing lipstick, Pongo discovered, and he wondered if this sudden kiss would smudge it. It would certainly appear on Pongo’s mouth, and he battled with whether or not that was a point of excitement or defeat. He tilted his head ever so slightly, adjusting so he didn’t aggravate Sydney’s piercings. Sydney’s cologne overwhelmed him, that same mix of jasmin, saffron, cedarwood. Pongo could drink deep of it and never be satisfied. 

But he pulled away, eventually - after he realized that Sydney was not reciprocating the kiss. Pongo didn’t meet Sydney’s gaze, everything crashing down on him all at once. He had to say something. He had to come up with an excuse. This is the end of everything. You never deserved to get this close, and now you have to pay for it. 

“I am so sorry,” Pongo whispered, “I should have…I should have asked first. I know this would not work, but I just...”

He wiped his tears from his face, turning away. His heart had skipped several beats, and he wasn’t sure why the air suddenly felt so heavy, so constricting. He deserved it, still. He deserved to get smothered in the pain. Friend of the world, closest to none. How could someone like him ever hope for more?

The elevator was enticing, too enticing. But he told Sydney he was here, that he’d stay. The honor took hold of him, so his feet refused to move. Better for him anyways - he had to be here for the fallout, both self-inflicted and external. Gods, he should’ve left when he had the chance. He should’ve ripped his hand out of Sydney’s and spared them both the pain. How deeply, horribly selfish indeed. A hypocrite, a fool, and above all else -

Sydney’s hands found their way to Pongo’s cheeks and pulled him back in.

There they were, kissing under the moonlit sky. It took Pongo only a moment to recover from the initial shock, and then he crumbled, his defenses completely destroyed. One of Sydney’s hands shifted backwards, entangling in Pongo’s hair, and the other fell down to cup the space between his neck and shoulder. Pongo’s arms, out of desperation, wrapped themselves around Sydney’s hips to draw him in closer. He thought this would ground him, but instead he found his thoughts floating in a pastel haze.

Sydney was the first to pull away. Chasing the high, Pongo nearly followed his lips, but as they caught their breath, Pongo couldn’t hold back his relief. He laughed, soft and warm, keeping his hands around Sydney’s waist. Hells, he’d been right before - he couldn’t let go, now that he’d taken hold. He didn’t even realize he was crying until Sydney’s thumb came to trace the skin under his eye, wiping away a wet streak of newborn tears. 

“I don’t know what this means,” Sydney whispered. “For you, for me…I don’t know what any of this means.”

“It does not have to mean anything if you do not want it to,” Pongo replied, his smile weak but honest.

“But I want this to mean something. You deserve that.”

“You deserve it, too. You always have.”

Sydney swallowed hard. “I…I don’t know if I believe you, yet. But I want to. Damn, do I want to.”

Pongo didn’t respond, but his smile strengthened. He knew Sydney believed that, and he’d do everything he could to prove him right. That he was deserving. That he was loved, loved so much that it hurt. 

And maybe…maybe Pongo could believe that for himself, too. That he deserved the same. 

They stared out into the city after that, hand in hand. The silence became their friend. 

[kisses4kaia]

nobody does it better by carly simon but it’s the radiohead cover and it’s patrick… cw: DISGUSTING smut with this evil man, no less no more . im shameless.

a/n: so we all know the photo. and what ThePhoto did to me was… this! enjoy. 😌

the room is loud. there’re a million people you could be talking to, looking at. a hundred people you could sit in the corner and people watch, but his eyes are on you. and you cannot look away.

patrick zweig was a reoccurring character in your life. starting off as low-commitment boyfriend freshman year, turning to effervescent fuckbuddy you could never get far enough away from to become detached. you hated him, god, you hated the pull on you he had. the iron grip that steeled you right where you were across the room from him, eyes locked like a guarded palace onto his. good lord.

it truly takes the will of god to keep your feet planted where they are, forcing yourself to divert your eyes from him. but, never fear, he’s already moving towards you.

his towering presence is felt immediately as he stands in front of you, looking down into your eyes as if he can hear your heart pounding regardless of the blaring song around him.

“hey,” he says quietly, tone soft but gravelly, as if there wasn’t a sound barrier around the two of you that might keep you from hearing him. “what do you want, zweig?” your voice comes out more pointedly than you intended, but with the way your pulse is thrumming and your hands are shaking, you can hardly blame yourself.

looking at you with that look in his eye, the one that almost mocks you as to say ‘got ya’, he cranes his neck down to whisper in your ear. “what do you want?” and he knows.

patrick turns without another word, and before you can process what you’re doing, your feet are moving with him, as if a collar was wrapped around your neck, choking your senses, and the leash was hanging haphazardly from his hand.

his path leads you into a bathroom, small, no shower, with a buzzing, lagging light. his hands are on your waist as soon as you step through the door, pushing you against it. patrick doesn’t kiss you immediately, unusual for him. “i miss you,” he breathes out, nervously, and it is jarring.

patrick zweig is not nervous, ever. he was self sure and confident and a fucking dickwad who knew it and embraced it as part of his “charm”. “yeah? and how many girls have you said that to, hm? britney posted you on her story yesterday, patrick. last friday, it was ántonia. fuck you,” you spat out, the 3… maybe 4 vodka sours you indulged in half an hour ago making your head pound, or maybe it was his dior sauvage.

he sighs, looking away from you impatiently, but when his eyes lands back on you, his gaze is crazed. “fuck, they don’t matter to me. i don’t know their last names, i don’t know their little siblings, they don’t know my favorite band, and i don’t look them in the eye when i fuck them. shit, baby, it’s you, don’t you realize? always fucking you,”

oscar winning preformance, is what you want to say, but his exasperated exhale after the words come out, paired with the rihanna song dully thrumming behind the door, bass vibrating against the wood, you look between his eyes, down at his lips, and your eyes don’t travel again before you smash your mouth onto his.

never fucking again, you tell yourself as his lips move in desperate, hungry, almost disbelieving tandem with yours. this is the last time.

“do you have a boyfriend?” he breathes out between kisses as he unbuckles your belt and unbuttons your jeans, shimmying them off. “like that’d make you walk out right now,” you kiss him again, biting his lower lip. “fuck. no, fuck no, but if you do, i’m going to make you remember exactly why nobody does it better.”

patrick lifts you effortlessly and places you on the sink, pulling your sticky, lacy panties to the side, smirking that evil damn smirk at the fancy little bow at the top. “did you know i was gonna be here tonight?” he nibbles as your ear, bringing loving bites down your jugular to your shoulder.

“no, but i knew art would be.” your smile is devious as his eyes light up, not with jealousy, but with the same fire he gets when he realizes his opponent on the other side of the net is really playing with him, when they’re really playing fucking tennis.

patrick jerks himself once or twice, languidly, before sliding his cock into you. a hardly contained whine pulls from your voice, and your mouth drops into an ‘o’ at the stretch. he nearly has you in an embrace, the way he’s holding you closely against his chest, and his curls are begging to be pulled. you entwine your finger with the hair at the nape of his neck and tug with every sharp thrust into your leaking pussy.

“more, give me more, patrick, don’t hold back on me, asshole.” he doesn’t even respond, just obediently lifts you up every so slightly off the sink and moves you on and off of his cock, giving him a much wider range of motion. his dick is nearly completely out of you each time his hips snap back, but you’re moaning like a pornstar each time he’s in again.

his ability to hit that spot inside of you with near perfect accuracy every fucking time is expert, a skill that could only be acquired by someone so in tune with your pleasure—and if patrick zweig was nothing else, he was that.

“fuck, gonna, shit! gripping me so fucking tight, leaking all over my shit, baby. she miss me? huh, pretty? you miss me?” he was talking right through you, each word penetrating your deepest desires and fantasies. you hated how he knew you. you hated that you let him. but most of all, you hated how close you were to coming.

he keeps fucking you unforgivingly, whining and moaning like a whore all the while. “you still on that pill?” he asked, voice pitchy and annoying and sexy.

“no, insurance stopped covering it.” you say seriously, and you can’t keep your laughter in when his thrusts slow and he looks at you panicked. “i’m fucking with you, don’t stop,”

“you’re evil, you know that?” he says endearingly, playful as always, and it’s no more than a minute later that he’s coming inside you.

patrick never was a selfish lover, so it came as no surprise that after pulling his softening girth from you, not one, not two, but three of his finger were quickly pumping in and out of you, making him moan sluttishly at the way his own cum coated his fingers. his other hand made busy circling your clit with his thumb, fast and calculatedly.

he knew every button to push because he sewed them onto you, and so it was no surprise that with that special angling of his wrist, you were coming undone on his fingers in minutes.

it’s quiet for the next few minutes, you cleaning yourself up, patrick washing his hands, the both of you redressing in silence.

“so… same time tomorrow?” he smiles at you, pleased with himself and sure your answer will be affirmative.

you walk up to him, smile, kiss him tenderly on his lips, let your heels touch the ground again softly. “go fuck yourself, patrick.” your words are sharp but your tone is sickly sweet, and patrick recovers from his shock quickly, smirking stupidly.

“after that, i most definitely will be.”

[omega-e123]

!! NSFW !!

Suggestive. Blood mention.

AKA: Intro to very self indulgent rut fic. You have been warned

In A Rut..

Prologue (HERE!) || Restraint || Indulgence || Adoration

Odd behavior.

There Shadow goes again, walking off. He’s been acting strange lately. At first Shadow was practically clinging on to you.

Normally he doesn’t initiate physical contact, but at home he’s been snuggling into you, holding your body down so you can’t leave him. Attempting to part ways results a grumbly hedgehog.

The kisses don’t stop coming either. Knuckles every time you hold hands. Cheeks and forehead whenever he has to leave, no matter how short of an absence. Even if he’s going to be right back.

Jealousy has also become a big thing. Talking to anyone Shadow deems as a “threat”, he’s looming behind you, head on your shoulder and hands on your hips.

The worst it got was on a date at a bar. Shadow left momentarily to get you a drink. When he returned, someone was flirting you up. Enraged, the glass completely shattered in his hand. It sure scared off that guy. You had to bring attention to the shards in his hand, because he wasn’t concerned at all about it. Instead, Shadow slammed some money on the table and took your hand with the non injured one and left.

Next thing you knew, he’s been keeping distance from you. Both physically and shortening the time you two hung out.

He’s stopped initiating all together. Any advances you made Shadow wouldn’t turn down, but he would abruptly stop or attempt to keep it short. Started wearing a mask around you too.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Something is wrong with him. Your smell alone has started making his head spin. Every fiber of his being is drawn to you. Seeing you forces his quills to stand up on end.

Is this what a heart attack feels like? The pounding drum that is his heart is deafening. There’s no room to think. The only thing on his mind was you.

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about you that way. Hell, it’s not like you two haven’t done the deed either; however, the intensity and frequency of these feelings have been cranked up to 100. It felt more primal.

The complete self restraint Shadow has to not pin you against the nearest wall, public or not, and shove his tongue down your throat is tearing him apart.

Such odd behavior was concerning. Swallowing every bit of ego and embarrassment, he turns to Rouge for answers.

Some help she was. That damn bat.

“Sorry, no can do. Sounds like a biological thing and not in the alien sense. I know you’ll hate to hear this but, try asking Sonic about it. You both are hedgehogs after all.”

“I think I would prefer skinning myself and be turned into a rug—“

She gives him a hard pat on the back, “Don’t say that. It wouldn’t be so bad~ I suppose you could ask Amy about it too… Or suffer! Your choice.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

What’s worse? Confronting Amy or Sonic?

That blue little shit would never let him live it down. Sonic could implode from hysterical laughter if Shadow told him about these thoughts.

Amy… It’s simply too TMI. While she is understanding and more open, what if she didn’t know anything.

Shadow’s instincts pull him towards the former option. Unfortunately for the hedgehog, he was semi right.

Sonic took a good minute turned away from Shadow. His hand clasped over his mouth and the other holding his stomach. Sonic reeling in his laughter and forcing not a sound to come out.

“Nono! Sorry! It’s cute!”

“Cute?” Shadow’s eyes narrow.

Sonic waves his hand, as if he’s fanning the comment away. “Never mind. Sometimes I forget you’re bioengineered. What you’re going through is a rut.”

“This better not be some kind of joke.”

Hands in the air, feigning surrender. “I’m not. You’ve probably never experienced it before because you ain’t got bitches you never had a partner. It’s the one time a year hormones go crazy. Some other Mobians also experience it too, like deer.”

Shadow’s massages his temples, processing the new information. “You’re telling me, it’s a biological signal that it is time to breed.”

“Odd way to put it but yeah, basically. Lasts about two months. What you do with that information is up to you. G’luck buddy” he gives Shadow a thumbs up and runs off.

Two whole months. Only about two and a half weeks have passed and already Shadow can’t stop thinking about you splayed on his bed begging for his touch.

[sp0o0kylights]

Wayne takes in a Beat to Shit Steve Harrington after Starcourt as n Owed Favor to Hopper Part 4

Part Three: link

First Chapter (parts 1-3 on tumblr) on A03: Link

The kid was madder than a wet hen.

Just as slippery as one too, when he got like this--music pulsing like a living thing to signal all his rage and upset. 

Not like Wayne hadn’t expected it. 

He just wished it wasn’t quite so damn loud. 

The music had started up almost immediately after Eddie had stormed to his room, startling Steve awake and nearly making Wayne curse for it.

Normally it was a good thing--music meant Eds was willing to listen instead of heading for the hills.  

Normally, they didn't have a house guest who looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a bear.

They had a routine for this, was the thing and the music was a key part of it. It worked all the edges off for Wayne, and he'd long figured out that about thirty minutes was a the perfect length of time for Eddie to stew before he could actually talk things through.

Given the hand Harrington put to his forehead, Wayne wasn't eager to give him that thirty minutes.

Not when Steve deserved little peace he could have.

Unfortunately, so did Eds. 

Still.

 Strutting through the door and demanding to talk right now was a bad move and so, with a sympathetic look given to Steve, Wayne did what he did best

Gave space.

Let Eddie rage, as Wayne got up and shuffled about the kitchen.

Pulled out the soft earplugs he pretended weren’t there for Eds to steal (playing that damn loud guitar all the time could not be good for his ears) and offered them to Steve, before making two cups of what Wayne privately thought was the Munson “chitchat” drink. 

One cup of hot water, one packet swiss miss, a small amount of maple syrup drizzled in, topped with little marshmallows they reserved for these types of situations. 

Wayne took his time with it, thinking through what he wanted to say. 

‘I understand that this is a screen door on a submarine kind of situation...’ 

Nope. 

‘Son I know you hate listening to anyone for anything but this is serious...’ 

Absolutely not--that would end up with the boy bolting for sure. 

‘Ed’s, I love you but could we please turn Ozzy off while we talk? That man wails louder than any damn cat I have ever met.’

That one was purely self indulgent, mostly because the wall was starting to shake. 

Wayne put the finishing touches on the cocoa before staring at both of them. 

Perhaps if he stared the Garfield mug in its eyes hard enough, the right words would come through. 

They did not.

He kept trying, standing there long enough for the cocoa to reasonably have cooled and for Eddie’s song to flip over to something with more screaming in it than singing. 

Wayne supposed that this was the hardest part of being a parent. You just didn’t get to have the magical one liner. The right thing to say at just the right time.  

The joke that would ease all the tension and let things progress forward nice and easy.

Instead, you got to fumble your way through the dark with a flashlight up your ass and hope you were going in the right-ish direction. Ideally without making things worse. 

Wayne was here though, and that had to count for something. 

(Knew it counted for something--because Eddie was still here. 

They had cleared hurdles far higher than this when it came to trust. They’d get through this too, come what may. 

Steve too.)

“Can I just ask,” Eddie started, aggressive as always when Wayne finally gave in and entered his room, feeling all sorts of awful for the migraine Steve had to have, “what the absolute fuck is happening?” 

Sure as fire he was sitting on his bed, leg bouncing a mile a minute.

An unlit cigarette hung between two fingers, looking a little chewed on, but otherwise undisturbed--as it should be, because one of Wayne’s few rules was that smoke stayed outside the house. 

“You could.” Wayne said loudly but agreeably, as he turned himself around and dropped down next to his kid.  

Held out the Garfield mug, and was happy when it was taken from him. 

“Figured you might have other things to say, though.” 

Likely a lot of things. 

It was as good an opening as any, and his kid didn’t disappoint, launching right to it. 

“Why is he here and not at a hospital?”

 ‘Here’ was punctuated by Ed’s hand winging towards the door, and while it wasn’t the righteous fury Wayne expected, it was at least, an easy answer to give. 

“Steve has some people looking for him. Bad people. Hospital makes him an easy target.” 

Wayne was still talking loud. Could only hear Eddie himself because he was looking at the kid’s lips more than he was actually hearing his voice. 

Eddie took that in, swallowing it about as well as he’d swallowed anything he hadn’t liked. 

And thank the stars above, he finally reached a hand out and turned the music down. Not a lot--Steve wouldn’t be able to hear them over all this--but enough that Wayne didn’t have to struggle. 

“We’re hiding him from the cops now?!” Ed’s spat. 

“Cops know he’s here. Hopper’s the one who asked me to take him.” Wayne reminded him, because it was the truth. 

Not the full truth, but given how Ed’s pissed off half the local PD on a good day, Wayne absolutely did not want to see his nephew take on Federal Agents.

(Particularly not the kind who were going ‘round killing kids.) 

“So--what?” Eddie yanked hard on his hair, a gesture that looked less intentional and more like he was trying to fight his own anger down. “Hopper just called you up and said ‘Hey, we had a whoopsie with the rich kid, the hospital’s not safe anymore. Can we stash him with you for a few days?” 

Wayne nodded once, slow-like. 

Always remembered how too fast movements had made Eddie flinch and jerk back when was littler, and given the way Steve was looking, figured it was a good time to be cautious again. 

“He did.”

“And you just--agreed? Just like that!?” 

“I did.” 

He pretended not to see Eddie boggle at him at the simple admission, so furious that he seemed to struggle for words when he normally had too many to say. 

Wayne took advantage. 

“We did talk a bit more than that, I’ll admit.”

Ed’s scoffed. “About the weather I’m sure.” 

“‘Bout trust.” 

Eddie blinked at that. 

“Trust.” He echoed flatly. 

“What have I always told you? People like to ask you to trust them, but you they don’t get to have it until--” 

“They provide proof or a reason.” Eddie finished with an eyeroll. “So which did Hopper provide then?”

Wayne took a noisy sip of his coca. Smacked his lips a little before saying: “Both.” 

Didn’t bother to say anything else, because he knew Eddie would finish the thought for him. 

“One of them was me, wasn’t it.” 

Eds didn’t say it like a question, but Wayne hummed in agreement anyway. 

He wasn’t gonna shame his boy, but he wasn’t gonna sugar coat Eddie’s involvement in this either. Not when he’d already admitted that was half the reason Hopper had gone to Wayne to begin with. 

“No one is expecting Steve to be here.” He said, seeing the chance to hammer home the most important part of this entire shitshow. “So long as no one finds out he’s here, he’ll be safe. Everyone will be safe.” 

Steve from the Feds who were hunting him for while he was busy being involved in shit he couldn’t control and Eddie because he had a mouth that most people didn’t like. 

Not small town people anyway, and absolutely not authority figures with guns. 

“Who’s even after him?” Eddie was theatrical as always, hands waving away as he talked. “Did he make a deal with the mob? Piss off some other rich guy? I know it’s not anything drug related, I’d have heard about it by now.” 

After years of experience, Wayne knew exactly how far to lean away to stay out of range, too used to his nephew talking with his entire body.

“That’s his story to tell ya, Ed’s. It ain’t mine. Same way it ain’t my place to tell him your story.” 

That at least got the boy to think for a minute. Put down that frustration he carried with him all the time, and use the brain they both knew he had. 

“How long is he staying here?”

Wayne shrugged. “Don’t know.” 

Eddie sighed and mockingly mimicked Wayne, taking an obnoxious slurp of his cocoa. “The neighbors are going to notice if he’s here more than a few days. The trailer park isn’t exactly big.” 

“They didn’t notice that time you decided to make fireballs with the cooking spray and about blew up half the driveway. Don’t think they’re gonna notice someone being quiet in the house.” 

Eddie snorted, and probably rolled his eyes again, not that Wayne could see it given the kid was looking into his own mug as he thought it all through. 

Wayne sat with him as he processed. 

Eds worked at his own pace with things, and while life at large might be against that, Wayne was happy to let him do it. Found it easier that way, then trying to poke and prod and force him like so many father figures did. 

Wayne’s patience was rewarded not even a full minute later, when Eddie turned to him and asked; 

“What if he finds out?”  

This in a quieter voice. An unsure one--words and body hunching in a way unlike the Eddie the world outside knew, but very much like the little boy Wayne had brought inside his home. 

It took Wayne  a moment to connect the dots--he’d been speaking out of the place parents and authority figures often do, and in doing so hadn’t thought much of the fact his nephew had a real secret. 

The kind small town minds didn’t like--and would kill him over. 

This all wasn’t about Wayne taking in Steve, he realized abruptly.  It was that Steve being here meant Eddie couldn’t be himself. 

Could not relax in a place he was accepted for who he was, because Wayne knew and made sure Eddie understood he was wanted here, had a place here, regardless of who he loved. 

Now, Wayne had gone and removed it.

‘Shit.’ 

“He won’t.” Wayne said. 

Knew that wasn’t enough, and so, promised: “But if he does, I’ll make sure he understands his safety here relies on your own.” 

Ed’s chin jerked in a nod, the two of them sitting in silence for a moment before the boy did as he often did when he wanted a hug but felt too awkward to ask for one, and tipped himself into Wayne’s side. 

“Thanks old man.” Eddie whispered into his shoulder and not for the first time, Wayne wished things were easier for the poor kid as he put his mug in one hand and hugged his kid with the other. 

Hoped that in the future, it would be.

Even if he had to force everyone and everything coming after him--and now Steve--to do it.

(Wondered vaguely, how bad it was that he was already getting as protective as Steve as he was of his own kid.

Probably very, given his kid clearly hated Harrington.)

xXx

Wayne took the first night of Steve’s stay off.

He wasn’t the type to use his PTO lightly. Was used to rationing it for any possible thing Eddie might need him for.

A night up sick when he was younger, to a night spent chasing him down during some of their bad spots--but the last year or so Wayne had slowly realized he hadn’t had to use it much.

He was still careful with it though, precious as it was, and was thankful for it now as it ensured his nephew didn’t murder their house guest. 

Or at the very least, didn't sit there pecking at him.

The kid might've failed English a few times, but he had a real gift with words and an even better one with insults.

(Wayne wasn't quite clear on what all the "King" jabs were about, and absolutely did not get why Steve looked far more hurt at the comment about his "sad ass floppy hair" but given the increasingly flat look Steve was throwing Eddie's way, Wayne figured it couldn't be anything good.)

Thankfully a pointed reminder about Steve's injuries had finally gotten them all some peace, enough for Harrington to drop back to sleep--and for Wayne to realize he looked a little too dead while he did it to be comfortable getting any sleep himself.

The kids chest barely moved, and that it ate at Wayne’s until he got up and shoved a hand under his nose. 

Felt his breath, and told himself the poor sod was fine. 

Hurt, absolutely, but alive. 

Over and over again, until the sun had made its rotation in the sky, bringing the morning with it.

‘Better than nightmares, I suppose.’ Wayne figured, as exhaustion scraped at his eyelids.

Those Wayne knew, would come later. When Steve’s brain caught up to the rest of him, and stopping dumping survival chemicals through his battered body. 

He'd given up on sleep entirely sometime around 1 am, and now he sat at his small kitchen table, writing out a medication schedule for Harrington so he and the kid both knew when he could have his next Tylenol. 

Wasn’t even halfway through it before Eddie made his typically late appearance and blew through his door. 

Had his back up from the moment he’d stepped a foot in the kitchen and it didn’t take a genius to see he’d worked himself into a snit again.

Unfortunately for him, whatever scenario that imaginative brain of his had cooked up fell flat to the reality that was the poor kid on the couch. 

Steve Harrington was one a hell of a sight.

Didn’t help that he was doing his level best to make himself as small as possible, curled deep into Wayne's ancient couch.

The blankets covered the ribs and hid away most of the damage, but there wasn’t much Steve could do to hide the shiners on his face--or the marks around his neck.  

Not when they’d grown worse overnight, practically inviting questions.

It was almost laughable how quickly Eddie ate whatever words he’d prepared, mouth awkwardly chewing around them as if they were tangible. 

The less-than-sneaky looks he threw at the younger teen were equally amusing, and if Wayne wasn’t trying to peace keep, he’d have given in and chuckled when Eds split attention caused him to pour half his coffee into the sink rather than a cup. 

Looked utterly lost when, after finishing putting his coffee together and grabbing some junk food thing that absolutely was not a breakfast item, he came to stand awkwardly at Wayne's shoulder, openly staring as Steve blatantly ignored him.

Eds didn’t know what to do, and Wayne couldn't blame him. 

Seemed to keep thinking he was going to encounter a boy that likely no longer existed, and whose blood tinged specter just made things sad.

Shit like this, Wayne knew, took a man’s ego and warped it, shaping it to something else entirely. 

At least for Steve, it seemed that getting wrapped up in whatever mess he had had shaped him for the better, instead of pretzeling him into something worse. That, Wayne thought, spoke to the boy's character more than anything he’d done prior. 

(It helped to know what Hopper tolerated and what he didn’t. That he’d vouched for Steve in the same way Wayne knew he’d vouched for Eddie, even if Eddie didn’t yet realize the cop he antagonized so much would do that for him.) 

That didn't erase the history his kid had with Harrington, though.

Wouldn't stop him from seeing the old Steve, first.

‘Don’t you got school?” Wayne asked when he decided Ed had stared enough. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Eddie waved him off, trotting out the door. “Bye old man, house parasite!” 

It was clearly a jab, meant to nettle, but Steve barely acted like he heard it. 

Wayne rolled his eyes. 

“Goodbye, Eds.” He said firmly, much of a warning as he ever gave, and fondly watched his nephew scuttle out the door. 

Turned to see how Steve was taking things, and was once again given a reminder that Steve wasn’t doing a hell of a lot other than feeling his injuries. 

“I think I promised you a game, son.”  Wayne said gently, startling Steve out of the distant, dim look he had trained on the wall. 

It wasn’t a lot to offer in terms of a distraction, but it would have to do.

[msbigredmachine]

40 Days & 40 Nights (Roman Reigns)

When Roman and Naima commit to abstaining from sex for Lent, they think it’ll be a test of willpower. What they don’t anticipate is just how torturous it will be. The Tribal Chief has always been a man of discipline, but resisting Naima? That might just be his toughest challenge yet.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Black fem OC

Warnings: Smut

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: I've been enjoying writing about these two a little too much, thank you for indulging me 😁

This is based off characters from my multi-chapter Roman fic, Finding Angel.

Day 0: The Agreement

Roman’s tour bus hums softly beneath them, rolling steadily down the highway. It’s late, and they’re curled up together on the leather couch, the glow from the TV illuminating their faces. Naima’s sinfully long legs are draped across his lap, his fingers lazily plucking at her gold anklet.

She sighs, stretching against him like a cat. “Babe?”

“Hmm?”

“You ever do Lent properly before?”

Roman lifts a brow. “Like, actually giving something up?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He thinks for a moment, rubbing at his beard. “Not really. I mean, I’d try. No cheesecake, no cussing...Never lasted the whole forty days though.” He smirks. “What about you?”

Naima nods. “I have. Back when I used to go to church regularly. But since we’re together now…” She tilts her head, eyeing him with mischief. “We should do something big. A challenge.”

Roman chuckles, giving her calf a squeeze. “Yeah? Like what?”

She purses her lips, watching his hand creep up her thigh. “No sex.”

Roman’s fingers freeze. His entire body goes still. “What?”

Naima grins. “Forty days. Forty nights. No sex.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head like she’s just spoken in tongues. “Woman, you play too damn much.”

“I’m serious.” She bites her lip, trying not to laugh at his expression; eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted, like he’s just been blindsided. “Lent is supposed to be about self-discipline, sacrifice. If we gon’ do it, might as well go all in and shit.”

He leans back, arms folding over his chest as he casts her a skeptical look. “Define all in.”

Naima ticks the rules off on her fingers. “No sex. No self-gratification. No porn. No nudes.”

Roman blinks. His nostrils flare. “No self-gratification?” His voice pitches higher like he’s in actual distress.

She nods, giggling at the absolute betrayal written all over his face.

“I ain’t built for shit like that,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “I mean, I got discipline, yeah…But not when it comes to you, baby.”

“Well, big guy,” she sing-songs, smirking, “guess you’ll just have to suffer like the rest of us mere mortals.”

He stares at her like she’s the devil herself, then exhales long and heavy, rubbing his temples. “Five and a half weeks. No fucking, I can’t jack off…” He stops himself, looking genuinely faint.

Naima doubles over laughing, tears in her eyes. “Five and a half weeks, Tribal Chief. You got this.”

Roman leans his head back against the couch, eyes narrowing. “You enjoyin’ this way too much. You really wanna test me like this?”

“Think about it though. We practice some restraint, get closer spiritually…”

He rolls his eyes. “You tryna get closer spiritually, or you just tryna watch me die a slow painful death?”

“You are not going to die,” she assures him, reaching out to toy with the beard on his chin. “Besides, you travel a lot, so it’s not like we’d be up under each other every day. That makes it easier.”

Roman tilts his head, considering. “Mmm, true. But that just means when we do see each other, it’s gonna be torture.”

Naima chuckles, dragging a slow finger up his chest. “I got willpower, baby. Question is, do you?”

Roman stares at her for a long moment, rolling the thought around in his head. Then he exhales, heavy and resigned. “You know what? Fuck it,” he says, full of confidence, his arrogance flaring. “I’m the Tribal Chief. Discipline is what I do.” He sighs again, but this time, his glare lands on her. “Fine. No sex.”

Naima smiles wide, and then holds out her pinky. “Shake on it?”

He hooks his pinky with hers, locking eyes. “Done.” Suddenly, he yanks her closer, their noses nearly touching. “But trust me when I say, you gon’ regret this, mamas.” His hand slides into her loose crop top, closing over the swell of her breast.

Naima shudders but keeps her cool, smirking as she pulls him on top of her. They might as well get one in before the chaos starts. “Not as much as you will.”

Day 3: The Distance Helps…Sort Of

So far, so good.

Roman is away for Smackdown, and Naima finds his absence manageable. No lingering touches, no heat radiating from his massive frame, no low, gravelly voice in her ear making promises he always keeps. They’ve kept their distance, FaceTiming only briefly before bed.

“You surviving, baby?” she queries, smirking at his grumpy expression.

“Barely.” He shifts under the covers, shirtless, looking way too fine for his own good. “Not gonna lie, I almost gave up today.”

“Oh?”

“This chick at the gym had the exact same perfume you wear.” He groans. “I damn near followed her like a lost puppy before I realized what the fuck I was doing.”

Naima bursts out laughing. “You’re hopeless.”

Roman glares. “Shut up. How you doin’?”

She shrugs, examining her nails. “Fine.”

His eyes narrow. “That’s it?”

She grins. “Told you I got more self-control than you.”

“For now,” Roman grumbles.

Naima laughs. Her man is hilarious even without trying. “Go to sleep, big man. You got work tomorrow.”

He exhales, rolling onto his side. “Text me when you wake up.”

“Of course, big daddy.”

Deathly silence. Then, “Don't call me that right now.”

“Oops. Sorry.”

Day 7: The Real Struggle Begins

Tonight, Roman is home.

And it’s bad.

Naima planned a chill night; dinner, a movie, nothing crazy. But it doesn’t take long at all before the energy shifts.

He’s fresh out the shower, grey sweatpants worn low on his hips, torso bare, hair damp and loose over his shoulders.

“Hey, beautiful,” he greets, baritone voice like sin.

Naima swallows hard. This is gonna be hell.

She forces a smirk. “Hey, handsome.”

They keep it cool for most of the night. But then, of course, Roman has to test her. They’re on her sectional, his huge arm slung around her waist, and Naima is very aware of the way his fingers keep flexing against her hip.

“Stop that,” she mumbles.

“Stop what?”

“You know what.”

Roman smirks, adjusting his grip, his fingers grazing the bare skin just above her shorts. “I don’t know what you talkin’ about.”

Naima tenses. “Roman.”

“Hm?” His eyes are closed, but he’s smirking.

She narrows her eyes, grabs a pillow and smacks him in the face, startling him enough to sit upright. “Quit playin’ with me!”

He chuckles, removing his hand from her body. “I ain’t even do nothin’!”

“You’re a fucking menace,” she grumbles, getting to her feet. “Can you behave so we can watch this movie in peace?”

Roman sighs dramatically, pulling her to sit on his lap. “Fine. Sit down, girl.”

The movie plays, but neither is watching, not with the way she shifts on his lap, just slightly. Naima swears she feels his breath hitch with every slight movement she makes.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath.

Naima smirks. “Problem, baby?”

Roman glares at her. “Shut up.”

Naima moves off him, sitting beside him instead. “Maybe you should go take another shower.”

He clenches his jaw. “You evil as hell.”

She winks. “Thirty-three days to go, baby.”

Roman leans in, close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips. “You sure you don’t wanna call it quits?”

Naima squares her shoulders, defiant. “I’m good. Are you sure?”

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening. “I ain’t no quitter, baby.”

They sit there, staring at each other, tension thick enough to slice with a knife.

He groans tiredly, running a hand down his face. “We really fucked up agreeing to this, huh?”

She giggles despite herself. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

Day 11: Personal Problem

Naima leans against the kitchen counter in Roman’s Miami penthouse, idly scrolling through her phone as his deep, tired voice rumbles through the speaker. He’s calling from his hotel room in Chicago, exhaustion laced through his words, but his tone still holds that familiar warmth.

“Baby girl,” he drawls, low and thick, “You know you ain’t playin’ fair, right?”

She smirks, taking a slow sip of her tea. “What I do now?”

“You know what you did,” he grumbles. “Postin’ them damn pictures on IG, wearin’…hell, barely wearin’…that lil’ ass lingerie set, talkin’ ‘bout ‘work.’” His voice drops into a rough murmur. “What kinda sick game you playin’, huh?”

Naima bites her lip, failing to hold back a giggle. “It was for work,” she insists, though she’s well aware of the hell she’s putting him through.

“Yeah, well, you workin’ my last damn nerve,” he mutters. “Ain’t had a decent night’s sleep since Ash Wednesday.” His sigh is deep and frustrated. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

Naima tilts her head, feigning innocence. “You mean to tell me the big, bad Tribal Chief can’t handle a little discipline?”

He exhales sharply, and she can picture the way he’s rubbing his hand down his face, exasperated. “Discipline? Baby, I’m beyond strugglin’,” he admits, voice dipping into that deep, rich tone that always does things to her. “You don’t know what it’s like, wakin’ up every damn morning, hard as a rock and you can’t do shit about it.”

Naima hums, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her lips, glad to know she’s not the only one that’s sexually frustrated. Still, she needs to keep up the facade. “Sounds like a personal problem to me,” she gloats.

“A personal problem?” Roman scoffs, and she hears rustling on the other end, like he’s pacing. “You the problem! Walkin’ ‘round my house in them little tank tops, no bra. Sittin’ in my lap whenever you feel like it. And don’t even get me started on them massages—”

“I was just being nice. Your muscles were tense,” she teases, far from innocent.

“You were torturin’ me, baby.” His voice is damn near a growl now. “And don’t act like you ain’t strugglin’, too. I know you miss this dick.”

Naima exhales through her nose, tapping her nails against the counter. She does. She really does. But she’s too stubborn to admit it just yet.

“Mmm.” She leans in closer to her phone. “I don’t know, big guy. I think I’m doin’ just fine.”

Roman lets out a long, suffering groan. “You gon’ stop playin’ with me, or what?”

Naima hums, all faux innocence. “Who’s playin’?”

He exhales sharply, like he’s this close to losing it. “You know who.”

She grins, sipping her tea like she’s completely unbothered. “Well, if it’s that bad, you could always tap out.”

His pride bristles instantly. “Hell nah!”

“Then I guess we’re both just gonna suffer.”

A heavy silence lingers between them, thick with tension neither one wants to break. Finally, Roman clicks his tongue.

“Yeah, a’ight. Keep that same energy when I finally get my hands on you.”

Day 17: Praying For Strength

Naima thought she had this under control.

The first week had been easy enough, a test of willpower she could handle. The second week? A little more difficult, especially when Roman was home, lounging around shirtless, brushing past her on purpose, throwing that look her way.

But now? Now she’s positively struggling.

She’s curled up on her sister Adara’s couch, aimlessly scrolling through Instagram while Julien plays his video game, trying to keep her mind off how pent-up she feels. Coupled with the fact that she also gave up smoking weed for Lent, every little thing these days irritates her, every touch of fabric against her skin feels like too much. She’s restless, annoyed, and horny.

And then, just to make things worse, Roman decides to be an absolute menace.

Her phone buzzes with a DM notification, and when she opens it, her heart damn near stops.

It’s a selfie of him at the gym, shirtless, sweat slicking his chest and arms, making every muscle pop under the harsh overhead lights. His damp hair hangs loose around his face, a few strands sticking to his forehead, and the way his gym shorts sit low on his hips is just—

She stares at the picture for a solid ten seconds, mouth dry. Then the caption pops up:

Praying for strength.

Naima snorts, her face heating as she quickly types back:

Your instigating ass not praying hard enough, apparently.

His response is immediate:

Cuz God sent me you, with your fine ass. Ain’t no strength left, mamas.

She presses her lips together, squeezing her thighs absentmindedly as her thumbs hover over the keyboard. She debates how petty she wants to be; how much she’s willing to let him know he’s getting to her.

Finally, she types:

Don’t tempt me unless you’re ready to start over from day 1.

The three little dots appear immediately. Then—

Admit it, then.

She frowns, typing back: 🤨Admit what?

That you goin through it, too.

Naima sucks her teeth, rolling her eyes.

Boy, please 🙄

Roman sends her something else, a video this time.

The screen opens to a slow pan down his freshly showered body, steam still curling in the background. Droplets of water slide down his chest, over the deep ridges of his abs, the camera lingering on where the towel hangs dangerously low on his hips…low enough to tempt, but not enough to see.

She chokes on air.

Day 26: Transferred Aggression

“Yo, big man, you good?” Jimmy asks, eyeing Roman warily as he powers through another set, aggressively throwing weights around like they personally disrespected his whole bloodline.

Roman shoots him a glare, chest heaving. “Why the fuck you askin’ me dumbass questions?”

“Cuz you look like you ready to kill somebody,” Jimmy says, crossing his arms, a knowing smirk on his face. “Or maybe you just need to get laid.”

Roman growls low in his throat. “I don’t need your commentary right now, Uce.”

Jey strolls over, sipping a protein shake like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Damn, what’s wrong with you?”

Jimmy chortles unashamedly, reveling in his big cousin’s self-inflicted suffering. “Lent got him in a chokehold. He can’t fuck Naima.”

Jey lets out a long whistle. “Shiiiiit. No pussy for forty days? You better than me, Uce.”

Both twins burst into laughter while Roman flips them off, his jaw clenching. “Fuck off. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jimmy chuckles, shaking his head. “If you say so, big man.”

Day 34: Devil’s Advocate

Naima lies on her couch, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended her, when Brandy flops down beside her, loud as ever, smacking on her bubblegum.

“So, let me get this straight,” Brandy says, ticking off on her fingers. “No fucking?”

Naima closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. “Nope.”

Brandy leans in. “No jacking off?”

Her eye twitches. “No.”

Brandy whistles. “No head, no fingers, no rubbin’ up on him just a little?”

“Brandy.”

“For a whole month? Damn, your pussy dry yet?”

Naima groans, dragging a pillow over her face. “Brandy, please.”

But Brandy just grins, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “Girl, you a damn saint. If that man looked at me the way he looks at you, I’d be sinnin’ daily.”

Naima peeks out from under the pillow, her voice a desperate whine. “It’s been hell, girl. Pure hell.”

Brandy cackles, clearly enjoying her best friend’s peril. “And big man? How he holdin’ up?”

“About as well as you’d expect.”

“So, not well at all?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Brandy throws her head back laughing. “Makes sense. Man been lookin’ like he ready to fight God and everybody else. Bet his ass counting down the days like it’s Christmas.”

Naima groans louder, pressing the pillow to her chest. “So am I.” She tosses her phone onto the couch. “I swear, Brandy, I been having the filthiest dreams. I wake up ready to—”

Brandy’s hands fly up. “Aht, aht! Don’t finish that sentence, nasty ass.” But she’s grinning, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know what’s funny, though?”

Naima eyes her warily. “What?”

Brandy leans in, voice dropping to a devilish whisper. “Y’all act holy for forty days, but once that clock strikes twelve, I know y’all gon’ be fuckin’ like demons.”

Naima snorts, shaking her head. “Girl, shut up.”

Brandy just laughs harder. “You know I’m right!” Then she perks up suddenly. “Matter fact, hold on, I got somethin’ for you.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out...

Naima sits up immediately. “No!”

Brandy grins, holding up the little pink Rose like it’s a trophy. “Come on. Just say the word, big man don’t even gotta know—”

“I said NO!”

Day 40: The Countdown Begins

Roman glares at the ceiling of his Atlanta condo, fists clenched at his sides. His jaw ticks as he glances at the time. 11:00 PM. One more hour. One more.

Meanwhile, across town, Naima is stretched out in bed, her fingers drumming restlessly against her bare thigh. She exhales sharply, shifting. Almost there.

Her phone buzzes.

Roman: You up?

She smirks, typing back.

Naima: You countin down the minutes too, big guy?

His response is instant.

Roman: Mamas, I been countin’ down since this morning.

She bites her lip, glancing at the time. 11:33 PM. 

Naima: Be at my place by 12:01.

She can almost taste the threat in his single, solitary reply:

Bet.

Easter Sunday: Fireworks

By the time the clock strikes midnight, Roman is already at Naima’s door, a look of pure determination in his eyes.

“Baby!” she exclaims, her laughter quickly fading at the look in his eyes as he drops his overnight bag and pulls her into his arms.

“We made it, baby,” he murmurs, his mouth already on her neck. “Forty days. Now get your ass in that bedroom before I lose my damn mind.”

Naima smirks, tugging him by the waistband of his sweats. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Safe to say, now that Lent is over, neither of them wants to waste another second.

Roman barely lets Naima close the bedroom door before he has her pinned against it, his hands gripping her hips with a possessive urgency. Their mouths collide in a kiss so fierce, it feels like they’re trying to make up for all forty days and nights in one moment.

“You don’t know how fuckin’ bad I’ve needed you,” Roman growls, his voice gravelly, lips dragging down her neck. His hands roam freely now, gripping her ass, which is bare underneath his old t-shirt that she’s wearing, and pulling her flush against him to feel just how much he’s missed her, straining through his sweatpants.

Naima drags her palms down his broad back, her hips rolling against him as a breathless gasp escapes her when his tongue sweeps against her bottom lip. “Forty days was too damn long, Ro,” she murmurs, her voice trembling with need.

“And whose fault was that?”

A flush creeps up her skin. “Mine. I’m sorry, daddy.”

His laugh is low, dark, and full of promise. “Oh, you about to be real sorry in a minute. Get over here.” He lifts her like she weighs nothing, carrying her to the bed. The second her back hits the mattress, their hands are everywhere; his sliding up her thighs, pushing her t-shirt over her head, hers making quick work of his own clothes. They both pause for a moment, just to take each other in, their eyes dark with want.

“Damn,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he kneels between her legs. “I almost forgot how sexy you are.”

Naima smirks, though her breath is already uneven. “Boy, you better stop talkin’ and-”

Her words cut off with a sharp gasp as Roman shoves her long legs down against the mattress, pressing her knees toward her chest until her feet touch the headboard. He folds her up effortlessly, pinning her in place, his grip firm as he holds her there, helpless, open, completely at his mercy. Then he sinks that big ol’ cock into her and starts moving right away, each thrust deep and deliberate, carving into her like he’s staking his claim.

Naima has missed it. Too much.

Every second of restraint they’ve suffered through, snaps with every snap of his hips, unleashing something raw, hungry, and unrelenting. Their bodies crash together in a fevered rhythm, each movement rougher, needier than the last. Her toes curl, fingers clawing at his back as he drives his dick in and out of her, hitting deep, hard, like he’s making up for every excruciating second they had to wait.

“Holy fuck, baby,” Roman groans, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath ragged. “You so fuckin’ wet.”

Indeed, the filthy, sloshy sounds of her arousal mix with her breathless cries of pleasure, filling the room, feeding the OTC’s hunger. He groans, drunk off it, off her, and buries his dick to the hilt, rolling his hips, bottoming her out. The way her pussy squeezes around him makes his head drop back, a low moan rumbling from his chest. He hears Naima’s sharp inhale, watches her eyes flutter and roll back…devastated in the best way.

Then he switches it up, pounding into her hard, fast, desperate, before slowing again, grinding deep, making her take every inch. There’s no gentleness at all; it’s rough, it’s passionate, it’s desperate, and both are too horny to want it any other way.

Naima clings to him, watching with glazed, unfocused, elated eyes as Roman grips her thighs tight, his fingers digging into her flesh as he drills his entire length into her, fast and relentless. “Yessss…ohmygod, Ro, fuck me. Give it to me!”

“Unnh, fuck,” he growls, his baritone voice gruff and primal as he obliges. Pleasure zips through him from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. The bed frame rocks perilously beneath them, the headboard cracking the wall in time with his ruthless, manic pace. 

Naima is lost, her moans shattering into breathless, incoherent whimpers as her orgasm crashes over her with brute force, made doubly intense from weeks without this feeling, from holding out only to come undone like this; hard, relentless, overwhelming. Her back arches, her legs tremble in his hands as wave after wave overtakes her, each one hitting just as forcefully as Roman keeps pounding her into the mattress, near ecstasy himself. 

“Shit, I’m comin’…Oh sh-” His massive body goes stock still as he throbs inside her, pulsing, pouring, fluids and tension draining out of him. Somehow, his grip on her remains unyielding as he holds her in place, making sure she takes every last drop of his cum.

Seconds later, without warning, the bed gives out beneath them with a loud crack, collapsing onto the floor.

For a moment, they lie there in stunned silence, panting and tangled in each other’s arms. Then Naima bursts into laughter, her body shaking with amusement.

“Oh my god, you broke the damn bed!” she wheezes, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

Roman looks down at her, still catching his breath, then at the splintered bed frame beneath them. A sheepish grin tugs at his lips. “My bad.”

Naima smacks his chest, shaking her head. “You’re paying for a new one, big guy.”

He chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Done. Long as I get to do this again.”

A wicked gleam flashes in her eyes as she smoothly and carefully flips them over, draping herself over him. “Oh, but we are doing this again,” she purrs, leaning down to slip her tongue into his mouth for a deep kiss before slithering down his body. Her soft lips and warm tongue leave a scorching trail over his skin, her intent clear.

Roman watches through hooded eyes, his breath hitching when her hand wraps around his shaft, stroking him slow and deliberate. “Again?” he rasps, though there’s no real question in his tone, just anticipation.

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, kitten-licking the tip before taking him in, her voice sinful. “Missed you, big daddy.”

Roman’s head drops back against the ruined bed frame, his fists clenching in her hair as his eyes roll back.

“Missed you too, mamas…”

THE END...for now.

😁Any thoughts?

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[iwannaleavemymind]

Thinking of nerd!gojo rn... buckle in this one’s long.

(A hint of desperation, a dash of awkwardness, a liiiiitle bit of self indulgent sadism 😉, eventual smut; this is a college AU)

Minors do NOT INTERACT.

Satoru’s reading his physics textbook for an upcoming project- although there is one problem, it’s a partner project- in college too?!Oh this can’t be the downfall of the great 6’3 academic weapon- and what is it?

You of course!

Satoru stumbling over his words when you need to physically look up at him from the demonstration table, twisting wires into place for the sparks to fly in order for the reaction to be set off, his eyes lingering a bit too long on the fresh manicure you’ve gotten. wondering how those pretty little fingers would look wrapped around his cock.

“Satoru, are you okay?” You ask him, he nods rather quickly avoiding eye contact with you. Does he hate you or something?

You knew he was a little shy but he was relatively normal whys he acting like this towards just you?

You walk back to your dorm that day, the little interaction still bothering you from earlier.

Settling in for the night and ordering a pizza going about your evening routine when you get a text from him.

Hey, I know it’s a bit late but I genuinely can’t figure this part of the project out, the cables keep short-aging out and I can’t figure it out maybe you could come over and we can finish it? If that’s not a problem or too much I totally understand.”

On the other end satoru is definitely trying to get the project done, but he just wants you.

Needless to say you’re knocking on his door pretty quickly after that text.

“Hey, come in- you want any tea? I just made some.” He offers, pushing his glasses up, his white hair messy and a black hoodie pulled over a pair of grey sweats.

(Authors note: yes I know what I’m doing😈)

“Oh! Yeah of course thank you.” You reply abruptly, whys he acting so different is this all an act? What’s he up too? And why are your eyes wandering…

No. Project.

He hands you the warm cup of tea, the almost done project on the bar next to you both.

“So what do you think is the problem with it?” You ask him, sipping from your tea looking up at him through your lashes- ugh he’s so awkward he might not get the hint.

And he hopes you don’t notice the growing bulge in his pants.

“I-um I was thinking it was this copper wire here…” he trails on and on blabbing about this and that and all your pretty little self is thinking about all the different positions he could put you in.

“Yea I think it’s that let’s fix it.” You hand wanders to the frayed wire, carefully picking it up and cutting it, loose ends are no good; adjusting the board and the metallic battery next to it and…!

The battery over heats on you again. It overheated again, burnt itself out and your fingers in the process.

“Shit!” You yank your hand away from it quickly, “dammnit I put the battery on backwards.” You curse yourself internally for not noticing, but he’s already up and going to the bathroom, soaking a cold washcloth for you, grabbing some ibuprofen and a bandaid for your fingers.

“Sator-“ you’re cut off when he comes walking back in with the supplies, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“Must’ve hurt, this should help.” He takes your left hand, wrapping your two fingers in with the cold washcloth, handing you the medicine in tandem with his soothing voice, “here I heard you should cover it with a bandaid so it doesn’t get infected.” He mumbles something else incoherently and your standing there damn near shell-shocked; when was the last time a man has gotten up to do something for you so quickly without you even noticing?

“Thank you satoru, you’re so sweet.” You smile at him, he lets go of your hand, his touch leaving a permanent mark on your fingers, not burning but, a reminder.

He returns the warm smile in return nodding at you, “of course, it’s the least I can do.”

The night carries on, you guys take a break from the stupid project, deciding to add the finishing touches next class, the two cups of tea in the sink, bandaid now discarded and your fingers now not numb, and the tv on and you two lounging on the sofa laughing at the tv on in the background- of course he let you choose the movie, you’re so cute he can’t say no.

You both eventually get quiet, the intimacy of the moment getting to your heads, (finally😛) his hand sneaks up your waist, pulling you closer in with your nails toying with the waistband of his sweats, teasing and tugging them down slowly.

“You- satoru I don’t know if we-“ he shuts you up, his lips crashing into yours in a hot desperate kiss, you can feel the emotion and desperation behind it, his actions immediately going straight to your dirty little mind, returning the kiss just as hungrily, shirts being thrown on the floor, revealing his surprisingly strong physique, something you never expected from all those damn baggy clothes he wears.

Your hips start grinding against his erection, your pussy absolutely soaking wet, begging to just be fucked already.

“Satoru please I- hah need you so bad.” You whine, clinging onto him with his fingers hastily dragging your shorts off of you.

“Cmon girl fuuuck makin this s’hard for me.” His face is flushed, eyes low compared to your Bambi eyes begging for him to do whatever he wants. Not what you expected from him but it’s not doing anything to turn you off, the wetter the better😉.

He makes quick work of the rest of his clothes, his pants and boxers now on the floor, his erection springing free, looking almost painful at this point with pre cum leaking out of his fat mushroom tip.

“Toru- I don’t know if it’ll fit.” You coo teasingly, you know that tall skinny guys supposedly have a big dick but you didn’t believe it until now- when it’s literally in your hands, stroking and teasing his cock with your pretty nails.

His breathing is fast and shallow, his hips stuttering up into your hand with his hand covering his mouth in an effort to muffle his needy moans from echoing through the high dorm ceilings.

“Wanna cum Toru?” You tease him, leaning down to lick and tease the head of his cock with your mean tongue, swirling it around his tips with your hand working the base of his cock, slick, wet noises filling the room mixed with his barely muffled moans and you little giggles escaping from your lips.

“F-fuck oh my god girl just- oh fuckfuckfuck I’m gonna cum”

His eyes roll back and his mouth forming an O shape when he finally cums all over your tongue, sticking it out for him to see his own release before swallowing it and showing him your lewd expression, tongue lolling out looking up at him innocently makes his dick twitch, still painfully hard.

“Fuck girl makin this hard f’me hah?” He pants out gripping your hips meanly and flipping you onto the couch ass up with your head buried in the pillow, tearing off your skimpy panties to reveal your soaking wet pussy, slipping a finger down your soaked core, your arousal coating his fingers and connecting a wet string from the tips of his fingers to your sensitive clit.

“Toru please f-fuck.” Your hips move desperately backwards towards him, but his strong arms hold you in place, not letting you move. His glasses fogged up tossing them to the side for now.

“Cmon baby y’know we gotta take it easy right?” He coos in your ear, his left hand pushing down the middle of your back deepening your arch for him, putting a pillow beneath you to support you.

“W-what nonono please!” You whine out, eyes teary from waiting and his fingers lazily toying with your clit, where the hell did this attitude come from he’s such a shy beard outside of this what posssed hi-

Your thought are cut off when you feel him slowly push into you, a gasp escaping your lips you knew he was big but fuck- the stretch.

So good, making your nails dig into the soft fabric of the pillows beside you, right before he slams the rest of his cock into you a wet slap echoing through the room, in turn the sudden movement knocking the wind out of you and making your eyes roll back- he hit that spot so fucking perfectly, the curve of his dick is like it was made just for you.

His pace gradually picks up, hitting that sweet spot over and over making your high pitched moans definitely within earshot range of anybody walking down the dorm hallways.

“Ya like that? She so loud f’me huh, that how bad you wanted me baby?”

His words flow from his lips low and smoothly, your fucked out dazed expression a stark contrast to the moans of your name behind you as he fucks into you desperately, feeling the coil low in your belly about the snap you reach behind him tapping him and moaning out his name in ecstasy begging for him to slow down.

This only spurs him on more, his cock twitches only growing harder while he’s inside you, fuck you feel so good to him, so perfect.

“Oh you’re not done yet right? Weak right around… here?” He slows down his pace teasingly then immediately rams into you making you almost scream out in overstimulation, only fucking into you deeper and harder.

It’s not long before the overwhelming sensation clouding your mind making your mind go blank, clear white fluid soaking the sofa beneath you.

He’s still going?

His breathing becomes uneven “holyyy fuck girl gonna make me hah- cum”

He cums quick and hard, filling you up to the brim, his seed spilling out of your core , halting his pace and fucking it right back up into you, holding your poor body up for support; he hasn’t even taken your bra off yet.

“Wanna take this to the shower?”

[killerpancakeburger]

Breaking point (2/2)

SUMMARY: Civilian!Reader, who works as Price's assistant, has a breakdown at work. Soap+Ghost help the best they can. Hurt/comfort. Can be read as platonic or romantic. Gender Neutral Reader.

PAIRINGS: Soap x GN!Reader

Ghost's version (1/2) Soap's part 2. Soap's part 3.

TAGS: Hurt/comfort. Military inaccuracies (I make shit up for the sake of the plot). Soap is tooth-rotting sweet.

WARNINGS: Mention of relative in the hospital, suicide ideation, depressive thoughts, swearing.

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

A/N: Very self-indulgent, Reader is going through it and so am I. 🙃Soap is Prince Fucking Charming (very cliché romance tropes). Yours truly suggest to listen to "Strong For Somebody Else" by Citizen Soldier to set the mood. (Song includes suicide ideation and depressive thoughts too, so listen at your own risk).

This bad good boy gave me a harder time than expected lol.

After ending the call, you put down your phone on your desk in a daze, hand shaking.

The news you’ve just been told cannot be real. Life could not possibly be that cruel. What did I do to deserve this? you wonder helplessly. It’s like every time you get back up, life knocks you down again, sending you tumbling on the cold, hard ground.

Clenching your fists, you stare into space, a thousand thoughts disorderly swirling inside your brain, all bursting with anguish, until a burning tear running down your cheek brings you back to the present. You’re at work, your boss is in the next room; a breakdown is a luxury you cannot afford right now. Better bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood than be caught sobbing. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you take your head between your hands, shoving your fingers into your hair, trying to convince yourself to postpone your nervous collapse. Only one hour left, and you’ll be free to cry your eyes out at your flat. Or on the way home, even. It’s not like the other passengers ever paid you attention the other times you’ve cried on the bus.

But somehow your attempts have the opposite effect, and more tears roll down your face, staining the papers beneath it. As you furiously wipe your face with your sleeve, with a blend of frustration and despair, pissed at yourself, and wanting to get rid of the evidence of your fragile state as fast as possible, the unmistakable sound of your office’s door opening makes you look up.

Of freaking course of all bloody people that could have walked in on you, it had to be Soap fucking Mactavish. Only the most gorgeous man on base - according to you, that is.

You weren't proud of it, but you had a crush on him since you arrived, six months ago. His piercing cerulean eyes, rugged good looks and outgoing personality wouldn’t let you know peace. The mere sight of him was enough to bring a goofy smile to your face, and every conversation between the two of you left you blushing and elated.

You initially thought that this silly, juvenile infatuation would fade away soon enough. Ok, he was beautiful, and he had eyes to damn yourself for, so what? Surely with enough time and exposure, he'd feel mundane. But things didn’t go that way at all.

On top of looking stunning, he just had to be friendly. He made you feel welcome when you arrived. He made efforts to include you in conversations, asking questions to get to know you. He relieved you of the burden of small talk, appeasing your social anxiety, by happily keeping the conversation going on his own, never taking offense when you had nothing to say. He chose to spend some of his free time with you, escorting you back from the archives or dropping by your office.

He was even flirty at times. Flirty. With you.

You could have still disregarded all this; tell yourself he was like this with everyone, that it was just his personality; imagining things would only end up with you hurt in the end.

But then, during a meeting, you witnessed his sincere concern for civilian lives. His righteous anger against unjust orders, when you had fully expected a soldier to obey mindlessly.

This had been your undoing; the moment you knew you were a goner. A severe fondness for him had sunk its claws deep inside your chest and had no intent to let go. It didn’t mean you had any intention to declare your feelings though; you never entertained the thought that he could return them, therefore there was no need for any confession.

For him to be the one to have caught you in this state, it was downright humiliating. Especially since his good heart would make him feel obligated to care.

He was still wearing his leather, fingerless gloves, and some dirt lingered on the contour of his face, like he tossed his weapons and his flak jacket to the side right out of the heli bringing him back to base, and rushed here.

“Hiya hen, brought you the- Shite, what happened?”

His booming voice and cheerful tone fade away as his eyes widen with concern. He briefly freezes at the door in shock before closing the distance to your desk with great strides. You lower your eyes in shame, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything's fine.”

“No offense, bonnie, but yer not very good at lying.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look at him. Staring at your own lap is only going to make you seem more suspicious.

You grit your teeth and lie some more, trying to sound carefree.

“It's nothing, really. I'm just being a crybaby.”

Crybaby.

Soap turns the word over in his mind, unconvinced.

He still remembers that one time when you showed up thirty minutes late to a meeting with the Task Force, panting, leaning on the threshold, the front of your clothes soaked in blood.

 “Sorry I’m late,” you started.

“‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it,” Price interrupted before laying eyes on you. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

You explained how Private what's-his-name bled out in the break room after carelessly reopening his stitches and you had to stop the hemorrhage with your bare hands and a bunch of paper towels while shouting yourself hoarse for help. Yet when Price ordered you to take the rest of the day off, you insisted on going on as usual, forcing their captain to make it clear that it wasn’t a mere suggestion.

You and him had a different definition of “crybaby”.

Clinging to what's familiar, you focus on the stack of papers under his arm.

“You have the latest reports? Give it here.”

You hold out your hand expectantly. Instead of giving them to you, he sets them down on the opposite side of your desk, out of your reach.

“Paperwork can wait.”

You blink in astonishment at him.

“No it cannot…?”

You roll your eyes at his behavior and get up to seize the reports, but he snatches them from you. You can feel your composure snap like a twig.

“Johnny, what the hell?!” you yell, throwing your hands in the air.

You could remember exactly the first time you called him Johnny, only because it had been such an embarrassment. You couldn’t get used to his alias; sure you had been warned beforehand that some of them were… original, but somehow "Soap" was the one that stood out as the most ridiculous. You briefly entertained the idea of using his first name, except that for you “John” already referred to Captain Price. Only once you tried to call him Mr Mactavish, and as a result Gaz and him guffawed so hard they almost fell off their chairs. Even Ghost let out a cough that was most definitely a concealed laugh. You were running out of options until you heard the lieutenant call him Johnny; you instantly liked it. It just… fitted him. 

From that moment on you used the nickname, but only in your mind. You didn’t have any of the liberties Ghost had and you wouldn’t take them, out of respect, and shyness. Or at least this had been the plan until you fumbled and called him that to his face. The ensuing silence felt deafening as you were realizing what you’ve just done, and you apologized immediately, mortified. 

He just laughed it off; said you could keep calling him that. True, he had appeared more surprised than irritated, but you didn’t want to take the risk of him simply being polite. This too, had been your plan, until he ruined it merily. 

Somehow he must have noticed your efforts to not slip up again because he teased you about it. 

“Not Johnny today? Did ah dae something wrong?”

You went back to “Johnny” quickly - anything to put an end to the mischievous glint in his eye and the rascally smirk on his lips aimed at you. Being the target of his undivided attention sent a pang in your chest and knots in your stomach. Those sensations weren't exactly unpleasant, but it led to an ominous feeling that this was too good to be true, and that at any second this vision would shatter to reveal the cruel reality; so you'd just grant him a timid smile to confirm he did amuse you, but then proceed to look away.

It's the first time you’re pronouncing “Johnny” with anger; real, raw annoyance, as well as animosity, instead of the fond frustration you usually display when he messes around.

To your utter disbelief, he smiles in response to your outburst. 

“There we go, talk tae me. Even if it’s just tae scream at me.”

The remark pacifies you instantly; you lower your arms, defeated.

“I'm not gonna… I don't want to scream at you.”

You sigh and sit back, setting down your elbows on your desk to take your head between your hands, overburdened.

“The hell you want me to tell you? That my mom's on the brink of death out of nowhere? That when she's gone I'll be all alone in this world?”

You swear, aggravated, as tears sting your eyes again, and this time you ignore if you'll be capable of holding back the flood.

Nevertheless you can still hear Soap curse under his breath, Scottish accent growing thicker, before moving to get on your side of the desk, to reach you, dispensing soft-spoken, soothing words along the way. You pivot to face him, your burning eyes and the sensation of dried tears on your face making you painfully aware that you must look as pathetic as you feel.

Your eyes widen in surprise when you see him kneeling at your feet. His hands reach for your face, slowly enough to give you time to back away if you wanted to.

“A'm sorry, ah didnae mean tae mak' ye cry, a'm a bloody eejit. …Can I?”

His fingers stopped a breath away from your tear-stained cheeks. 

At that exact moment you can’t quite believe what he's about to do, yet you nod your head in agreement - not trusting your voice to not break - all the same, the gaping void in your chest aching for any kind of contact he'd be willing to provide.

His warm fingers cup your cheeks as the pad of his thumbs gently, almost reverently, wipe the underside of your eyes.

“There we go,” he cajoles, meticulously drying any wet spot on your skin.

“A'm ‘ere whether ye want tae talk or not, aye? A'm not going anywhere.”

You stare at him in silence, thunderstruck by the scene unfolding in front of you. Never in your wildest dreams you would have expected to have this man at your feet. He sets his hands down on your knees, squeezing them softly, and is looking right at you, encouraging smile and tender gaze, reassurance radiating from his expression. The position allows you to greedily take in every little detail: the white line of the scar on his chin, the breathtaking shades of blue in his eyes, the gap in his left eyebrow.

As you lose yourself into the work of art that are his features, he keeps conversing.

“We should take yer mind aff things. We could play board games in tha rec room. Or ye could let aff some steam wi’ tha punching bag in tha training room! Ah could teach ye how tae shoot on tha shooting range-”

You open your eyes wide as his suggestions turn progressively more violent.

“I have a bus to catch, and that's overlooking the fact that I haven't done anything in my last hour of work today…”

“If anyone gives you trouble, just say ah forced you.”

You chuckle at the idea.

“You'd never compel me to do anything.”

You can’t repress a loving smile. Johnny just feels that safe to you.

He smirks mischievously at that.

“Na, but they'll believe ah dragged ye intae mah evil schemes.”

He punctuates his statement by a roguish wink that wrests a laughter from you.

“You should take my bed,” he declares suddenly, serious again.

As the silence between you two stretches and your smile is replaced by a mix of shock, confusion, and worry, he realizes how this may sound. Flustered, he starts rambling to defuse the situation.

“Wait, no- steamin’ jesus - Ah didnae mean it like that! I’d take the couch in the rec room, ‘f course. Ye shouldn't go through tonight alone.” 

“Oh my god, Johnny, I could never take your bed from you. You must already sleep on the floor so often for missions…” 

“Exactly, hen. This is nothing for me. The couch is a hotel compared to that.”

You open your mouth to argue more, but then he makes an expression that can only be described as sad puppy eyes, even going as far as slightly tilting his head to the side to perfect the impression. You gulp in response, stricken straight through the heart, and knowing pertinently that you could already hardly refuse him anything, so if he begins to gaze at you like that… 

“Pretty please?” 

Oh no. Not that line.

He's now excessively batting his eyelashes at you, which, while not exactly alluring, is both comical and endearing. Hell, who are you even kidding? You’re so smitten with this blue-eyed creature, is there any act from him you wouldn’t find endearing?

“Are you… pouting?” 

“Depends. Is it working?”

You sigh, aware it's a losing battle, and look away, a futile attempt to hide the ridiculously potent effect he has on you, or to at least shield yourself from his influence, if only momentarily.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Maybe ah just wantae hear ye say aye tae me.”

Your cheeks catch fire at the suggestiveness of the words. As if the regular rasp of his voice, that felt like an exquisite caress along your spine, wasn’t already making it incredibly difficult to keep your face at a reasonnable temperature.

“You're gonna get me fired, Johnny.”

“Over my dead body,” he retorted with surprising determination, solemnly pressing a hand over his heart.

You scoff indulgently. Coming from anyone else, the hastily taken oath would be preposterous, but Soap has always proved himself trustworthy.

“Let's go. Your knees must be sore,” you mumble, trying to sound casual.

“Wanna make a joke aboot mah stamina when kneeling but ah will keep it fur next time,” he slips as he stands up, way too smugly for your own good, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything. As if you needed any more incitement into picturing him on his knees in a different context. 

You get up quickly after, but he does not get out of your way. You rise a quizzical eyebrow, his close proximity triggering alarm bells inside your head. If he remains near enough for you to feel his body heat, you’re going to get dizzy.

He simply grins.

“Want a hug?”

You blink at the unexpected question. Yes, implores your touchstarved mind. YES, cries out your sensitive, enamored heart. 

No way, rebuffs your cautious brain. It will only hurt more knowing what you  can’t have.

He opens his muscled arms, smile genuine, almost blinding, like a tacit invitation, and all your reluctance seems to evaporate with that simple gesture. Before you can linger any more on the harmful consequences this lack of restraint will eventually cause, you throw yourself into his embrace. It feels like falling and flying all at once.

Your hands close on the back of his shirt, near his shoulder blades, and, pressing your face into his shoulder to make the world disappear for a moment, you cling to him like he could rescue you from the sinking ship that was your sick mind. One of his arms close around your waist while his free hand rubs your back, leaving trails of fire in its wake, but bringing you much-appreciated comfort nonetheless.

“You're too nice to me. I feel like I'm taking advantage of your kindness.”

He remains silent a drawn-out second, and you're terrified you just screwed everything up.

“Yer givin me too much credit, lass “ he finally says. “Ah don't go ‘round base comforting every person I find.”

His tone isn’t angry, per se, but it lacks its previous joviality.

Soap tilts his head back, biting his lips, thanking the universe that with your face laying against his chest, you can’t perceive his embarrassment.

He can’t tell you. Not yet. Not now.

He can’t tell you that he used to consider writing reports as the worst part of the job until you came along; until you awarded him a heartfelt, radiant smile when he gave you his; that he noticed how little you smiled outside of artificial ones you fabricate for work purposes; that when he manages to make you smile or laugh genuinely, it feels like a prize, that only he is privy to.

Months ago, he took the resolve to make you smile more; for a while now he started doing his reports more seriously, or even did the ones of Gaz and Ghost, just to have an excuse to see you, to behold the way your face lightens up when he brings you necessary paperwork before you even demand it.

And he certainly can’t tell you about that one time where he handed over his reports in advance, but you weren't there, so he left, heart heavy with disappointment, dragging his feet, until he heard your voice coming from the room he just left.

“What are those?” you questionned your coworker.

“Soap just dropped them.”

“But… I didn't even ask him to yet?”

Perplexity combines with glee in your voice.

“He's a good boy, isn’t he?” prompted your colleague.

You let out a fond, wistful sigh, before responding, half-joking.

“I know! Such a good boy for me.”

Getting to hear you beaming over his benevolent action was already a treat, but witnessing that compromising exchange? To be called a “good boy” by you short-circuited him. He swore - “Steamin jesus” -, ears burning, face on fire, covering it with one hand. He needed to leave badly. Seek refuge in his room, where he could be free to replay that tantalizing line on loop in his mind. “Such a good boy for me.”

Your heart beats a bit faster than usual as you obediently follow Soap through corridors you’ve never been in before. You trust him with all your heart, but that doesn't change the fact that what you’re doing is against the rules; and those rules aren't high school's, but the ones of a military base.

You flinch hard as a familiar voice screams in your direction.

“SERGEANT MACTAVISH!”

Oops, you think. That's Captain Price, your supervisor, and he sounds pissed. You never witnessed him calling Soap by his last name before, but that being said, you never saw him deal with a kidnapped assistant either.

You've been caught red-handed. 

Your mind begins to come up with plans to lessen the punishments that are without doubt about to descend upon you two, but Johnny grabbing your hand brings you back to reality. 

You lift your gaze to him. He doesn't seem worried at all, if anything… is that a spark of delight in his eye?

He only pronounces one word.

“Run.”

So you run, carried away half by adrenaline, and half by the sergeant dragging you. Thankfully Soap is aware that there's no way you can keep up with him and his training, so he comes to a halt a minute later.

Panting hard, you double over, hands clenching your knees for support, heart thumping in your chest, blood throbbing in your ears.

“Why… are we… running…!?” you manage to exhale. “It's only… gonna make… things worse…”

By your side, he's standing fresh as a daisy, barely ruffled by your flight. The sight would be infuriating if his eyes weren't glinting with amusement and he wasn’t offering you a dazzling smile.

“Because it's fun,” he affirms like it's evident.

Little by little, you catch your breath, throwing Johnny a look that's half in earnest, half in jest.

“More fun for you than for me.”

He doesn't get flustered by your moderate reprimand.

“Is it selfish o' me tae wantae spend more time wi' ye? Didnae want us tae git interrupted yet.”

The line feels like a punch to the chest, stealing the breath you just recovered and leaving you agape.

He takes your hand again with the natural of a well earned habit.

“C'm'on, ah have more than one trick up mah sleeve.”

You're unsure which of the views unfurling under your eyes is the most magnificent; the sunset in front of you that's painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, or the striking man by your side whose eyes could rival the most astounding sights.

Nibbling on the dinner Soap smuggled out of the cafeteria with too much ease for it to be his first time, you regularly sneak glances at him as he fills the silence with tales of his adventures - the parts that aren't top secret, at least. You two totally did not break onto the roof moments ago, no sir.

Goosebumps travel along your arms and any exposed skin as the night falls and the sun takes away the warmth with him. You furiously brush the outside of your arms for heat, and you're about to suggest finishing this inside, when a jacket lands on your shoulders.

It is still warm with his owner's bodyheat, deliciously so. You curl up and drag it closer, your face on fire. Realizing that Soap gave you his jacket without you even having to ask or complain about the cold… you’re conflicted between obsessing over this like a giggling schoolgirl, and feeling apologetic.

Once you more or less got your blushing under control, you turn to him, displaying a contrite expression.

“I don't want to take your jacket on top of your bed, Johnny.” you pout.

“A'm a bloody furnace. Wanna check?”

He asks, cheekily, even adding a wink for good measure. As if there was any more artifice needed to make you putty in his hands.

He presents you his bare arm for the taking, all golden skin, bulging muscles and a constellation of white scars.

You indulge him and lay a hand on his bicep, knowing he won't relent otherwise; that is definitly the only reason; it has absolutely nothing to do with your own desires.

Indeed, he's burning. As you envy and bask in the heat provided by his body, forgetting that your touch is lingering too long for someone who is just a coworker, he chooses that moment to flex shamelessly, showing off the impressive circumference of his muscle. You feel obligated to squeeze it in response, a way to finally meet him head-on instead of passively enduring his quips, and it feels like reinforced concrete under your fingers.

You fail to hold back your laughter at his facetious demeanor. 

“You're ridiculous.”

The comment holds no bite, a smile brimming with tenderness stretching your lips.

“I'll be the most ridiculous man on the planet if it makes you laugh.”

He's leaning back, hands propped on the ground behind him, head slightly tilted to gaze at you, and the earnestness on his face could almost make you believe his words.

Almost.

But instead a sharp pang pierces your chest, right between your lungs, at heart's level. The smile you return him in spite of yourself oscillates between content and heartbroken, before opting for the latter. 

Tomorrow you will ask him, maybe even plead; tomorrow you'll ask him to put an end to the flirting. You cannot bear it. 

But just tonight, you'll indulge it. You'll pretend to be normal, a well-adjusted human being, instead of a broken shell; you'll act like an adult for who flirting is a regular event and not the mental equivalent of a nuclear bomb.

You abruptly stand up, dusting yourself off, purposely ignoring the newfound lack of understanding on Soap's face and how his mouth opened for a question.

“It's getting late,” you state, not nearly as casually as you'd like. “I'm beat!”

You're running away and you know it; but you never claimed to be brave. Really, it is the best solution for everyone involved, or at least it's how it has always seemed to be your whole life.

He escorts you to his room - of course he does. Even if he already picked up his things earlier to crash on the couch, already showed the place to you.

As you awkwardly face him on the doorstep after saying your goodbyes and your thanks, unable to look away yet incapable of making eye contact, pain flares in your torso thinking of him, somehow intertwined with joy and gratefulness for his existence. Maybe your inner struggle shows on your face because next thing you know, he cups your cheek, forcing you to look up, but as the deranged idea that he's about to kiss you manifests in a remote corner of your mind, your brain swiftly shuts off as his lips make contact with your forehead.

The touch is light yet your entire being seems gathered on that point of contact.

“G'night, bonnie,” he half-whispers, as if to make sure his words exist only for you.

He grants you one last smile, small but so sweet you feel your heart tightens.

“Good night, Johnny,” you manage to articulate before sheltering in his bedroom. The room smells like him.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you rest against it, tilting your head back, letting out a deep sigh. Morbid curiosity pushes you to glance in the adjacent bathroom's mirror, if only to see what you look after this evening. A flustered mess? A sorrowful wreck?

Catching your reflection's eye makes you grimace as you realize an incriminating detail.

You forgot to give Soap his jacket back.

[dreamingofaizawa]

Violent Tendencies

Sheriff! John Price x Fem! Reader

~Small Town AU~

Warnings: Violence, blood, descriptions of injuries, reader is a litle unhinged, mentions of juvenile hall, mentions of mental illnesses, one suggestive line, hints at a blood kink? I think?

Word Count: 7.4k

Author's Note: Is this smut? No. Is this fluff? Also no. Is this hurt/comfort? ALSO NO. WTF IS THIS? I HAVE NO IDEA! I have no fucking clue what I've been on lately, my brain has just been tunneling while writing idk man. This got weird, idk, I've got some pent-up shit I guess. Currently self-indulging in this reader ngl. She's just like me fr. This got a way from me.

Series Masterlist

Part Two Here

Enjoy?

***

It’s a bad fucking day, you decide. 

It wasn’t terrible, up until this very moment, but this is going to ruin your whole goddamn week. If you had any more energy, you might scream. Or cry. Or punch your asshole boss in his ugly mug. Your fingers twitch at your sides, knuckles itching with the urge to feel the sting of his face splitting your skin. Images flicker through your mind, blood spattered and a skull caved on the pavement, the sound of a gurgling death rattle soaked in crimson rings in your ears. In another life, you got more than three hours of sleep. In another life, the effort it would take to land a solid, satisfying punch is readily available to you.

But you don’t. Have the energy, that is. You’re drained after a long, grueling thirteen hour overnight shift at the little 24-hour diner you spend most of your time at. You’d stopped listening altogether after the first thirty seconds or so, your mind going straight to violent daydreams because anything else takes too much effort you aren’t willing to exert. It’s cold this early in the morning, not having bothered grabbing your jacket on your way in last night. Sun’s just barely coming up over the horizon, but your breath still fogs in the air. So does his. He should stop breathing.

The boss caught you as you were leaving, yanking you around to the back door where he’d begun spitting obscenities at you. Something about a broken door from a few nights ago, when an angry customer shoved it hard enough on the way out he actually busted the hinge and dented the metal handle bar. There wasn’t much you could do, outside of reporting the incident over email to the owner, then your boss, then calling the sheriff’s office. Nothing else to do, in a town as small as this one. One of the three deputies came in to look at it, did an incident report, and took a description. You knew the man, always angry, always one step from pummeling the next person on the wrong end of his warpath. Everyone knew him, really. Especially the tiny four-man police force. 

If you weren’t constantly exhausted, you might be in the same boat. Maybe worse. Maybe in a padded room somewhere. Maybe on death row.

If you could focus on anything, you’d have heard the Sheriff’s pickup pull into the parking lot. If you could hear anything outside the buzzing in your head, you’d hear the crunch of gravel under thick-soled boots, heavy where they step up behind you. If you had any awareness about you, you’d watch your boss’s face drop at the sight of the town’s lawman, fixing his posture and plastering a too-wide smile onto his face.

“Sheriff Price! What brings you all the way out here this fine morning?” The words barely flicker across your consciousness. You’re still out of it. Until your boss reaches a hand out and slaps it down on your shoulder, making your entire body flinch hard, hard enough to have you stumbling backward into a brick wall of a man. 

“Easy, sweetheart.” Blearily, you tilt your head back to look up at him, still unfocused but slowly coming back. After a good, long look at you, his attention returns to your boss.

“Laswell is gonna have your ass, Graves. If there’s one thing she doesn’t tolerate, it’s a damn bully.” The two have some back and forth, you can’t be bothered to pay attention when your body is starting to feel the cold seeping into your bones, limbs shaking uncontrollably. Warmth surrounds you suddenly, and you can’t help but soak in the heat as a weight settles on your shoulders. Still, between the exhaustion, stress, and the cold, you’re not feeling great. A door slams somewhere, and your vision is blocked with a different man. A bigger man, wider and sturdier. Big hands grip your shoulders as he leans down into your line of sight, blue eyes and thick mutton chop beard filling your vision.

A memory flickers, blurry and clipped, of a younger boy with those eyes. Piercing cerulean gaze cutting through the red like a hot knife through butter. He was strong then, too, all those years ago. You were reckless, back then. Your knuckles are still scarred from teeth and bone, an ache in your wrists returning every so often to remind you of the past. The good old days. Teenage years littered with blood and violence and the walls of the nearest juvenile hall. That’s where you met him the first time, the two of you locked into that fortress miles away. The two of you learned to hit the same punching bag, holding it steady while the other ripped into the canvas, to avoid punching each other. There’s a dull throb in your shoulders, that punching bag flooding your memory, the patchwork repairs it had to go through after the two of you nearly tore it in half. 

You both seemed to have mellowed out, since then. You haven’t talked to him directly since you both got out of juvie a decade ago.

“You look like you’ve been better, sweetheart.” Now that the threat is gone, you’re able to think past the vermillion fog. 

“Sheriff Price? What are you doing here?” He hums, tugging the thick fabric of his jacket tighter around your shoulders. Ah, that’s what’s warm. And it smells like old worn leather and tobacco, probably from the cigars he smokes. You find comfort in it. 

“It’s Saturday. I’m pickin up breakfast for the boys at the station. What are you doing here, huh? I don’t usually see you working Saturdays.” Great question. What are you still doing here? Oh yes that’s right, getting cursed out by your boss. Wishing you had a hammer to smash his face in with.

“Had a long shift. Got off a half hour ago.” He flicks his wrist up, glances at the old watch with a concerned expression.

“You worked the graveyard shift?” You nod.

“Every day.” It’s not insanely fun, but it’s work you get paid well enough for, especially when the hours between 10pm and 3am are an extra five bucks an hour and nobody tends to walk in besides the odd drunk. Nights are when you’re most active, anyways. Your mother used to call you a nocturnal creature, when she was alive.

“Kate’s gonna be hearin about this.” 

“You don’t need to tell her. I don’t hate it, and nobody else will do the work.” He huffs, then guides you to his truck, holding the passenger door open.

“Get in. I’ll be right back.” Usually you walk home, but right now you don’t really have it in you to decline, especially when he starts the engine and cranks the heat on. He disappears into the diner, leaving you to your devices. You can feel your body shutting down, feel your eyes falling shut. Maybe you can rest your eyes, just for a minute. 

That minute turns into twenty, and you’re jolted awake when Sheriff Price shakes you by the shoulder. A glance outside shows the Sheriff’s Station. Damn, you knocked out. You didn’t even hear him open the door, let alone feel the drive.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart. You need to stop anywhere?” 

“No, thank you.” You rattle off the address, though you’re sure he probably knows where every soul in this town lives by heart. Even you, who he rarely ever sees or interacts with. He walks you to your door, making sure you’re alright as you step over the welcome mat and into the house your parents left to you. The floorboards creak beneath your feet.

“You should start locking your door, sweetheart.” You shrug.

“Small town. Few visitors. Not a whole lot to feel threatened about, if I’m being honest.” Not a lot to worry about, yes. There’s the tiniest sliver of you that waits for the day someone tries something. You’ve got baseball bats and heavy mallets stashed around the house, easily accessible and collecting dust. You shuck his jacket from your shoulders, briefly mourning the loss of heat, ignoring the pang of longing that strikes through you like a thunderbolt when you lose his scent.

“Thank you for taking me home, Sheriff.”

“Just John is fine, darlin. Get some rest. You work tonight, don’t you?” Head heavy, you nod.

“7pm tonight.” That’s your usual shift. Start at 7pm, sometimes 8pm. Last night you just covered for someone, going in at 4pm instead of your normal. He nods, then he’s off. Briefly, you wonder if he ever reminisces about those days, back in juvie. The two of you like two sides of the same coin, fire on fire, unstoppable force and immovable object. They aren’t the fondest memories, but sometimes you can feel yourself flitting back to the impulses, beyond what you let your mind imagine. 

Tonight when you go in, you hear the news that your boss, Phil, has been fired. No more Phil means no more screaming and swearing. No more being backed into a corner. No more dissociation when you’re on the bad end of his ire. Kate comes in, too, along with the Sheriff. Neither of which have ever been seen around the diner this time of night. 

“You alone tonight?” You nod. 

“I’m alone every night, Mrs. Laswell. Once I relieve the night shift, it’s just me until I tag in the morning crew at 4 in the morning.” Her whistle is low over her cherry pie slice.

“Damn. Shoulda known Graves was pulling shit like this.” You shrug from behind the counter.

“I don’t mind. I’m a night owl anyways. ‘Sides, it’s not like there’s a whole lot for me to be worried about around these parts.” John clears his throat then, grabbing your attention.

“That’s actually why we’re here, darlin. A few of your coworkers were here when Graves was let go, and he wasn’t happy. According to them, he was especially cross with you. Figured you should know about it, and we’re going to stick around for the night to make sure nothing happens.” Christ. 

“Phil’s got anger management problems, sure, but I really don’t see a world where he’d actually do anything except cry wolf. He’s like a chihuahua, all bark and no bite.” Kate coughs through her laugh, John is less amused.

“Sometimes people do crazy things when they’re angry and drunk, and Graves is a regular at the bar a few blocks down. The man just lost his job and associates it with you. I’d rather not take that chance.” That’s a fair point. Not like you couldn’t just shoot him, though.

“If it makes you feel any better, I know how to use that.” You hook your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at the double–barreled shotgun mounted on the wall. There’s a box of buckshot in a locked drawer, and the keys are on you at all times, passed between the leads throughout the day. John grunts, nods roughly. 

“It does. Still, we’ll be around tonight.” That’s just fine by you. They’ll probably leave in a few hours.

They don’t leave in a few hours. Both of them stick around and make conversation with you while you clean through your entire shift. Phil doesn’t show up, but you hadn’t expected him to. Coward. John drives you home again, telling you to lock your door. You don’t.

That’s how the next week or so develops. Every night you greet either the Sheriff or one of the Deputies, get them a plate or a pie and clean through your shift. Johnny’s a chatterbox, really keeps the conversation going with his quick wit and endless babbling. Gaz, whose real name is actually Kyle, is less bubbly but still keeps light conversation. Simon’s like a damn ghost. He doesn’t speak, hell you aren’t even sure if he breathes under that black bandana he keeps over his face and the black cowboy hat he never takes off. You could mistake him for an outlaw in an old western if you thought about it hard enough. They all drive you home at the end of your shift, choosing to ignore your protests with the same answer: Sheriff’s orders. Your sigh goes ignored, too, and you generally lack the energy to do anything but accept.

John comes in every other night, too. Most times he’s alone, keeping you company when you’re alone. Being alone together isn’t terrible. 

“This is what you do every night? Wait around and clean?” You nod from your spot on the floor where you scrub the baseboards you’d missed yesterday. 

“Nobody else does this kind of work throughout the day. Last time I skipped over a task it got bad. Sometimes I wonder if the whole place would go down in flames if I weren’t here.” You know it’s not the best situation. If the shop falls apart when one person doesn’t do something, then the place was doomed from the beginning. But it keeps you busy, keeps the itch down.

“I find it hard to believe they can’t do this shit.” 

“Won’t,” you correct, “They won’t. It’s not that they can’t, the whole lot is fully capable. I love most of my coworkers like family, even if I don’t see them very often, but most of them just won’t get down and dirty to scrub the grease from the grout.” His eyebrow lifts, and you ignore the strange glint in his eyes in favor of returning to your task, scrubbing the corners where wall meets floor with a brush and grout-safe cleaner.

He’s always asking you things, when he comes in. How often you actually cook this late at night, if at all. The menu reduces once you’re alone, all simple things you don’t need to make in big batches. Burgers, fries, pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, lunch sandwiches. The pasta dishes get shut down, just because the sauce morning crew preps tends to run out just after 6pm.  Sometimes you’ll have leftover pies from earlier in the day, but all the pastries are delivered from the bakery down the street. He asks what you do on your breaks. You usually whip up a small meal for yourself, and eat at the counter to be able to watch the diner. It’s pretty rare you get anyone coming in during your allotted hour of mealtime.

“You look tired tonight, darlin.” It’s good to know you look how you feel. He’s at the counter, elbow leaning over his mug of coffee. Two raw sugars, no cream. You’ve found a lull in your cleaning frenzy, just having finished a task and looking for the next, leaning directly across from him while he asks his questions.

“I’m always tired, John.” Insomnia is a bitch, truly. Sleep is a battle every day, some days more than others.

“Why’s that?” Shrugging seems to be your default.

“Insomnia. Most days I’m lucky if I get more than six hours.” Worry flickers across his face, but only briefly.

“That’s not good, love.” Again, you shrug.

“That’s life for me. Medication only does so much. Being here every day helps, keeps me on a schedule I can’t deviate from. I didn’t have the energy to work days, dealing with customers had me drained, so I took nights. It works for me.” His nod is heavy, letting the weight of his head tug it down. He’s got that look, the one that says he’s seen it before. You don’t doubt he has. You don’t tell him how dealing with some people makes your blood boil. You don’t mention that, if given the chance, you’d pummel anyone stupid enough to grate on your nerves. Part of you thinks he already knows, and you wouldn’t need to tell him anyway. The voice of a therapist from long ago says you have anger issues. It’s a voice you choose to ignore.

“You didn’t have insomnia back in juvie.” Your spine prickles. He remembers you, there.

“It came after. After I learned to curb the aggressive tendencies.” After you learned to bottle it all up and shove it away, trapped in your head and never expressed. You think, without an outlet, all that leftover energy made you restless. That’s not what the therapist says, though. She says it’s something to do with the depression. You can’t be arsed to remember the intricacies of it all.

“I liked the violent streak you had.” It almost makes you laugh. There’s a small flame in your chest at the notion he'd find your volatile nature amusing.

“The first time we met, I broke your nose for stealing my punching bag.” His smile is lazy, fond.

“Yeah you did. Gave me a shiner, too.” You remember that vividly. The way he’d shoved you out of his path, taking the bag for himself with a ‘get lost’ thrown over his shoulder. He’d been there a month longer than you, and had laid claim on the damn thing apparently. You hit him, then, square in the nose, and when he fell on his ass you got on top of him and didn’t stop throwing punches until he grabbed your wrists and shoved you off. The pummeling match went on for a full, glorious minute, blood flying and fists colliding. It’s a miracle you both dodged and blocked each other enough to avoid losing a tooth, but you came out of it with a black eye, a split lip, and a fractured collarbone. You think you fell in love with him, when you both were yanked apart by officers and got a good, long look at each other. Blood pouring down his neck and shirt, eye starting to swell shut, nose crooked, knuckles bleeding and torn. But those eyes never lost their shine, never faded into dissociation, always sharp and gleaming

“It’s a miracle we ever learned to share the bag.” 

“No miracle, sweetheart. 17-year-old John Price got a hard-on holding that bag while you ripped it to shreds.” The revelation has you frozen solid. You can’t pry your eyes from his gaze, locked onto the tension holding the two of you so still your breathing stops. Blood rushes in your ears, and that itch is back tenfold, your arms throbbing, wrists tense, back coiled. Your muscles aren’t what they used to be, having kept yourself under wraps for so long, not even daring to go to the tiny gym in town to hit the bag there since you’d left the hall. Still, they remember.

The bell on the diner door chimes, jolting you from your trance. John smiles to himself. 

The next time he’s in, it’s like nothing ever happened. Like he didn’t admit to finding you hot back in juvie, like he hadn’t just turned your head inside out. He ignores it. So you do, too. It’s what you’re good at, ignoring the urges. Indulgence only ever in your mind.

“Are you going to be alright, Sheriff?” Confusion etches across his features, head tilting just so.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean you never used to be around this late. Most places are closed, and I’ve never seen you in here until recently. As far as I know, you’re a daytime person. And judging by your fourth cup of coffee in two hours, I’d say you’re running on fumes.” It’s only midnight, there’s still four hours left in your shift. He doesn’t show the exhaustion, though, eyes alert and bright, those cerulean blues striking as always. This close you can see the flecks of deep sapphire.

“I’ll be alright, sweetheart. I’m here to watch over you.” He’s still hanging onto that, huh? You’re sure he knows you can take care of yourself.

“Honestly John, it’s been over two weeks. He’s probably moved on with his life. As pathetic as he is, I doubt he still poses any kind of threat.” It’s a shame, really, you just wanted one reason to beat him senseless. It’s his turn to shrug, eyeing you with something serious in his eyes.

“Can’t be too careful. Some people will wait years to settle a score, no matter how shallow it’s been carved in the pavement.” He says it like he’s seen the work of someone like that, been on the brunt end of it and come out the other side a different man. A headline from a few years back flashes in your mind, the local news covering something big you never looked into, and the name John Price was in that same article. That was before he became sheriff, when he was out in a different town doing who knows what. Maybe he’s a little paranoid.

You’ll let him stay, let his deputies all keep a close eye on you for as long as he needs to assuage his anxieties.

Simon’s here tonight, silent, haunting, as he always is. He doesn’t watch you, intent on studying the intricacies of the diner, committing it to memory. He’s been in here enough he should already have the entire floor plan memorized. In an attempt to keep him from dying of boredom, you offer to make him something to eat. His voice is rough, deep, carries a little too loudly across the empty diner but you don’t pay it any mind.

“What do you have?” You rattle off your list, burgers and fries and most breakfast foods. You didn’t pin him as a french toast guy. 

“Eggs? Bacon?”

“Sunny side. Extra crispy.” It’s easy enough. Two thick slices of french toast sat on a platter, two large eggs, sunny-side-up, and a few of the thicker slices of bacon you can find, fried extra crispy, a little char on the edges. You call out to him from your station at the stove.

“You want powdered sugar on the french toast?”

“No, thanks.” That’s a damn shame. His loss, you suppose. You take the plate out to him with a glass bottle of maple syrup. You nearly jump out of your skin when he tugs the bandana off his face, choosing to turn away like he’d need privacy. It’s weird, his face being exposed. He groans at the first bite, and satisfaction rips through you. It’s always nice knowing people enjoy the food you make, even if people are few and far between. People you can tolerate, that is.

“Nobody makes bacon like this. Even the mornings Price brings food from here, it’s not this good. What the hell kind of crack cocaine did you put in the bacon?” A laugh claws from your throat, a bursting thing you can’t help but let out. When he’s not brooding, Simon’s a comic.

“No cocaine, swear it. I leave the grease over it extra long, it almost deep-fries. Then sear it with high heat for the char.” He eats the plate like he’s never eaten before and will never eat again. Damn. You suppose, being as big as he is, he must burn through calories like there’s no tomorrow. After the meal he opens up a lot, much more than he ever had in the last two weeks. He’s funny as all hell when he wants to be, puns and clever phrases always on the tip of his tongue. It’s always delivered dry, like he doesn’t find it funny at all, but you can’t help but notice the little smirk on his face when you snort out another laugh from where you scrub the tile.

Part of you hates that you hadn’t found this side of Simon sooner. Maybe then he’d be less grumpy.

Another thing you don’t find out until tonight, is that Phillip Graves is more of a threat than you’d bargained for.

He waits until Simon pulls off down the road to make his move. If it weren’t for the old bones of the house, constantly moving and creaking, you’d have been a goner. Floorboards creak from behind you as you shut the front door, and all the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up. Knuckles itch, wrists throb, back coils tight.. This is it. The bat under the lamp stand fits well in your hands, and you don’t even wait to see who’s dared to intrude, just turn and swing. The blow is blocked with an arm, a shout and wince echoing from your former boss. He reorients, and you swing again. And again. And again, until he can’t keep up and block anymore. Red colored glasses tint your vision. Something shatters, but you don’t pay it any mind, not when the fog crawls over your head, not when you’ve got something to pulverize. When he finds an opening, he tries to grab the bat, but you yank it and jab it right into his stomach. You need to get out of here. He's still moving. You’re exhausted, you aren’t hitting hard enough.

He keels over, thrown off balance enough for you to sprint up to your bedroom and barricade the door. You’re smart enough to know he can overpower you, especially considering not a single one of your blows managed to topple him. You can hear him shouting obscenities, calling you every colorful name in the book, and he’s at the door trying to knock it down. Thank fuck your dad was the town’s carpenter. Even in a house as old as this one, it’s sturdier than most of the newer construction. Still, you don’t have all the time in the world here. 

Your heart is in your ears as you scramble around the room, punching in the code for the safe where you keep your dad’s old revolver and the box of bullets. It’s loaded as Graves shouts and kicks the door, and you stand in the furthest corner facing the door, gun in hand. Surprisingly, you hadn’t bothered to take anything off in the scuffle, so your bag and your phone are still on you. You call the station.

“Sheriff’s station, what can I do for ya?” That’s John’s voice. An especially hard hit on the door has it rattling and you let out a squeak. 

“Hello? What’s happening?” His tone has grown serious, and it snaps you into gear. Shakily, you find the energy to speak, find your voice in the fading rage and rising fear. You’re an animal, backed into a corner.

“J-john he’s here. Graves he’s,” the door frame starts to creak and splinter, and you yelp, “he’s in the house!” There’s a curse and a couple shouts on the other end.

“Stay there, we’re on our way. Get somewhere safe.” Then he’s gone, and you’re alone. Graves shouts from the door, banging a fist as if knocking was going to let him in.

“Come on, missy. You’ve got some nerve, gettin me fired then gettin all buddy-buddy with the Sheriff.” His words are slurred, he’s definitely drunk. But no less of a threat.

“I didn’t even do anything! You got fired cause you’re a dick!” The anger rears its head through the fear and adrenaline. It’s making you steady yourself, your heart erratic in your chest. 

“Fuckin cunt. Shoulda fired you a long time ago. Laswell’s a bitch that doesn’t know what she’s lost gettin rid of me. Shoulda got rid of you.” What a fucking nut case. When you don’t answer this time, he throws his weight against the door.

“Let me in, little missy.” You have half a mind to fire a warning shot through the door, or five, regardless of whether it’ll hit or not, but you’d be giving yourself away. He doesn’t know you’ve got a gun, and he clearly doesn’t have one or he’d have used it by now. There’s every chance you fire a shot, miss, and he takes off. An involuntary scream crawls up your throat when one of the door panels breaks through, a fist coming through and reaching around to the handle. It’s clumsy, the way he flails around for it, but he manages to unlock it. Not that he can get though now, not with the dresser lodged up against the door, tucked against the uneven floorboards to anchor it. 

“Fuck, you little bitch! I’m coming in sooner or later! You got nowhere to go!” He’s right. The adrenaline alone isn’t enough to keep you alive, throwing weak punches never helped anyone. But all you need to do is hold out until John gets here. He’s furiously trying to widen the hole he made in the door, chipping away at it until he’s got his whole shoulder through in an attempt to move the dresser. In his drunken state, he seems to be ignoring the splinters shredding his skin through the thin flannel he’s wearing. Suddenly you hear a siren, the telltale noise of the Sheriff’s truck barreling down the street, and Graves stills with a curse, his shoulder still embedded in the door, his entire arm on your side of the wood. In some insane stroke of luck, he tries to pull out and gets stuck on an especially thick scrap, digging sharp into his shoulder, drawing blood when he tries again. 

This is the one shot you’ve got. 

You’re on him in a split second, grabbing his hand while he’s distracted and twisting his wrist painfully enough to have him screeching out expletives. But he’s strong, and you don’t think you can hold him long enough for John to get up here. The sirens are still a few houses down at least. If you’re not careful, Graves is gonna grab you and he won’t care how he shreds his arm if he can get to you. The only other thing you have is the revolver, and you can’t know what you’ll hit on the other side. But you know what you’ll hit on this side. With little other choice, you yank his arm as hard as you can and press the barrel right up against his forearm. His arm goes limp, and you hold fast as he stops tugging.

“You move at all, damn it all to the fiery pits of hell I’ll blow your goddamn arm off your body Phil.” You can hear his breathing pick up, the little twinge of fear in his voice. It sends a thrill down your spine.

“You wouldn��t dare. You ain’t got the nerve.” You pull the hammer back, rest the length of the barrel over his arm to point the business end at the wall and pull the trigger. He jumps, screams just a little, before he realizes he hasn’t been shot. Yet.

“That was the only warning shot you’re getting.” He’s still, then, when you reorient the end to pin his arm. He flinches, but that’s all he dares to move. You hear it, then, the front door slamming open and shouting through the house. Heavy boots stomp their way through the house, more than one pair, and John’s voice comes through, rage carrying it enough you can feel the baritone through your chest.

“Graves!”

“Here! Upstairs, he’s stuck in the door!” You yell through the house, and you can hear them coming up like a stampede, stopping on the other side of the door. With Graves stuck as he is, John’s attention is quickly on you, calling through the door.

“Are you alright, sweetheart? Are you shot?” 

“No, I’m fine. It was a warning shot, I’ve got a revolver.” There’s a small curse on the other side, and you decide it’s best you put the gun away. It’s unloaded, the chamber cleared, and locked away in its proper place in the safe while John and whoever else he’d brought, probably Simon, works to get him unstuck. He’s towed off somewhere, and between your own fading adrenaline and climbing exhaustion, you manage to move the dresser enough to yank open the splintering door. John is there, two big hands on your shoulders and leaning down to look you in the eyes. His own baby blues flutter over your form, checking you over for anything amiss. 

“You alright, darlin?” With everything catching up to you, you’re a bit fried, and you’re trembling where you stand. He yanks you in, wrapping his arms tight around you and all you have the energy to do is shake and weep. Rage and fear and exhaustion, all pouring out. Rough fingers dig into your scalp, a big hand rubs across your back, grounding you while you sob until your body is slumping into his.

“Alright, there you are. You alright to come down to the station?” Not really, but you know you have to go and give a statement, especially now while everything’s fresh. Besides, you don’t know if you can actually sleep despite the exhaustion. So you nod, and let John herd you into his pickup. All the deputies are already there when you arrive, and Graves is in one of the two cells, bandages and stitches covering his arms and face. He’s got a swollen eye, cheekbone already purpling, and his left arm is in a full cast. At least you did some damage.

Part of you feels for the guy, but that gets overlooked when he sticks his head in the spaces between the bars and sneers at you.

“This ain’t over.” Simon reaches through the bars and grabs him by the collar, yanking him forward to whack his head on the bars. It’s jarring, and John tells him to cool it, but you nearly laugh at the state Graves is in. 

“Somethin funny, darlin?” John asks, stepping behind his desk to get the paperwork started. You find some of your courage, you think, or maybe the exhaustion has doused all your common sense and fired your nerves, but you step toward the cage. When Graves lunges for you, you stay just out of his reach. Simon steps forward first, Kyle and Johnny not far behind, but you hold a hand out to keep them back. He’s mine.

“It’s fine, he can’t touch me. He’s trying to be threatening but…I’m out here. And he’s in there.” You look him in the eyes when you say it, even though you’re talking like he isn’t even in the room. You can see the anger take over, a vein bulging so far out in his neck it might just burst. Now here, in the light, you can actually see the damage you’d done. There’s a cut stitched through his eyebrow, the swelling tugging at the sutures. He couldn’t block everything with his hand, that’s for damn sure. There’s blood seeping through the bandages on his right arm, and his wrist is wrapped tight. Pride swells in you, you must have sprained it with how badly you twisted it. 

“You’re gonna pay for what you’ve done, little bitch.” At that, you really laugh, out loud, in his face.

“See, here’s the thing, Phillip. I haven’t done jack shit and you know it. But you? You’ve been nothing but a self-serving, hypocritical, micro-managing, bullshit-spewing, no-good, rotten piece of horse shit who only cares about intimidating the women that work under him for some sort of power grab to compensate for the shrimp you’ve got between your legs.” You can hear blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline coming back as you finally let out the years of pent-up rage you’ve got toward this guy.

“Not a single human being on this damn planet would touch you romantically or sexually with a ten-foot pole even if their lives depended on it, and instead of trying to be a decent human being you’ve decided to make that everyone’s problem.” You’ve leaned in, just a little, and he reaches for you again through the bars. But this time you’re ready, your vision sharp and your reaction time quick. It’s his bandaged wrist he reaches for you with, but it doesn’t really matter, not when you force his palm down in a 90-degree angle and push his arm so the bar digs into the divot behind his shoulder socket, his chest and face squished against the bars of his rat cage.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the Sheriff stand slowly from his desk, and the three deputies step just a smidge closer to you. Whether for your safety, or Graves’, it doesn’t matter, but you need to make this quick.

“It wouldn’t even be hard, Graves. Just a little push and your shoulder is coming right out of the socket.” He’s trembling, you can feel it, with the exertion he’s using to attempt to get out. He’s right where you want him though, no amount of significant movement will result in anything less than excruciating pain and a dislocated something. When you lean just a little, he’s crying out.

“Fuck! You’re a crazy bitch! Let me go!” The interaction has made your vision go so sharp you can’t really see anything outside of Graves’ body, his arm bent at an awkward angle where you hold it hostage, his face screwed up from the pain and a few small tears falling down to his neck. If you focus hard enough, you can feel yourself shaking, vibrating, with the adrenaline rush. For a split second, you consider dislocating his shoulder for the hell of it, consider pushing until you feel it pop right out for all the torment he’s given you. John’s large, warm hands come to your shoulders, thick fingers digging gently into the muscles you’re only now realizing are coiled tight like a cobra. You can smell him, cigar smoke and leather, men’s deodorant and the crisp morning air. His voice is rough in your ear, breath hot on your neck when he leans down.

“Breathe, sweetheart.” One of his hands drops to your stomach, right below your ribcage, and he pushes down to cage you against his body. The action pushes the breath from you, and when he lets up you breathe it right back in. 

“There you go. Relax. Let him go now, don’t waste your energy.” His other hand comes up and grabs your wrist gently, pressing a rough thumb into the tendons in your wrist, and the moment you let your grip lax, Graves yanks his hand from you and stumbles back into the furthest corner of the cell. 

“Good girl.” If you were a little less rattled, if your mind were a little less frayed, you wouldn’t preen at the praise. And if you had any mind left you’d pull away from the kiss pressed into your temple, not melt into it.

With Graves gone silent, the paperwork gets done in about twenty minutes. You relay the events of the day; when you got home, when he’d attacked, what you’d done to defend yourself. Your nerves are shot, your head is pounding, and the sun shining in through the window is making the space between your eyes hurt. But it’s done, and John drives you home after calling Kate and explaining the situation. Whatever happens with the diner, it’s not your business or your problem for the next four days, seeing as she’s ordered you to take time off and recover. 

Stepping into your house is jarring, to say the least. The entryway is covered in shards of ceramic, the lamp atop it having shattered in the scuffle. The carpet is rumpled from where Graves stumbled over it. The lamp’s cord had been ripped from the wall, and the outlet cover had come with it, the old plastic brittle and fragile. You’ve gotta clean this up. John comes up behind you, pressing his chest into your back.

“Get to bed, darlin. You can clean it later.” You shake your head.

“I won’t be able to sleep yet. Might as well get this out the way.” He huffs, but you know he’s not going to force you into bed. Instead, he helps you clean. The carpet is picked up and dusted off outside while you sweep around the table the lamp used to sit on, clearing most of the debris with the broom. There’s probably a few miniscule shards around, so you take a vacuum over the hardwood then a damp microfiber cloth to really make sure you get it all. John says he can help replace the outlet cover, but you know how to do it. You’ll just have to go buy a new one later.

The bedroom is another story completely. The door is ruined, a hole splintering near the handle. When you try to swing it, you find it’s only hanging by one hinge. You’ll have to replace the whole door, but thankfully the hinges themselves only popped free and didn’t tear from the frame. John makes quick work of the door, popping the last hinge and taking the whole thing out to his pickup. Somewhere in your brain, you note that he’s still damn strong. He helps return the dresser to its original place, and you clean up the splintered wood from the floor and carpet. By the time everything’s done and dusted, you can feel the exhaustion tugging your body down. 

“Get some sleep now, sweetheart. After a day like today you need the rest.” You hum, nod, but you don’t move toward the bed. Paranoia crawls over your skin like mites, as you glare at the empty doorway. No door, no barrier. Your skin begins to itch. John steps toward you and rests his hand on your shoulder, dragging his rough palm up to hold your neck and jaw.

“He can’t get you. You saw him down at the station, he’s not getting past the boys.” Deep breaths, you remind yourself. Breathe. Still, your fingers twitch. John doesn’t stop you when you take off down the stairs, only to watch you lock and deadbolt the front door, then yank on it as hard as you can. You do the same for the kitchen door, and without a deadbolt you wedge the step stool beneath the handle. The windows are next. Locking and jiggling them to make sure they don’t shimmy open. John only watches you as you bounce around the house, securing the perimeter like you’re in some kind of a fortress. When you’re done, he drags you up to your bedroom again. 

“Better?” When you nod, your eyes droop and threaten to close on you for good. You can feel yourself sway on your feet, and John catches you before you can stumble and fall, gently pushing you back onto the bed. 

“Now sleep.” You almost nod off, but then realize something.

“Wait, I have to let you out. I just locked you in here.” He shushes you, planting a hand on your chest and holding you down when you try to get up.

“None of that. I’m staying here.” 

“You are?” Why would he do that?

“Graves is locked up tight, but you clearly don’t feel safe in your own home. I’m staying for your peace of mind. And mine, knowing you’ve gone to bed.” Huh. You suppose that’s reason enough. You don’t dwell on it, can’t dwell on it, when your body feels so heavy. Sleep pulls you under the moment you curl up on the sheets.

Back in the station, the three deputies share a knowing look. Graves is still in his corner, brooding. The tension from your little outburst lingers in the air, the anger having dissipated but the memory fresh. Johnny speaks first.

“She’s just fuckin’ like ‘im, eh?” Simon snorts.

“I’ll say. You think he’d have let her dislocate his shoulder?” It’s a rhetorical question. Kyle chuckles from his perch against the wall.

“I think he wanted her to do it. I think if he weren’t trying to keep her from dealing with the legalities of it, he’d have let her do that and more, and he’d have helped.” The three nod in agreement, a rare sight. Simon’s laughing to himself again.

“Two angry peas in a violent little pod, they are. Both of ‘em ready to strike on a hairpin trigger. John won’t be able to stay the bigger man for long.” Kyle shakes his head.

“In another life, those two rule a damn kingdom with iron fists and velvet gloves. If he has any say in the matter, she’ll be learning how to fight proper soon. When do you think he’ll finally get off his ass and ask her on a date?” Johnny cackles, full-chested.

“Date? John Price doesn’t ask women on dates. He’s gonna swindle his way into her life and one day she’ll look at the ring on her finger and not know when he’d slipped it on ‘er.”

[eddiernunson]

Selfish | Steddie x Fem!Reader | 18+

Summary: Reader is torn as she wants two people at once, and she figures it's impossible...in the sense that they would never want her. She is proven wrong after making an accidental audience with Eddie one night...

Warnings: voyeurism, perv!Eddie, public smut, masturbation (f + m), a little bit of Steve x reader, double penetration...and lots of self indulgent writing.

Authors' Note: Yeah this is just self indulgent. That's all. I'd want them both. <3

Word Count: 10.8k

Selfish.

On a regular day, it’s hard not to feel completely selfish. There’re a million different voices in your head telling you to make a damn choice. Not just telling, but begging. 

Not just in your head, but in your life. Your friend and confidant, Robin is one of the many voices telling you so.

You can’t help it, it started so innocently. During the course of the school year, you happen to start thinking that Eddie Munson is damn fine. Your paths barely cross, only seeing him across the cafeteria at lunch or the occasional party to sell. Something about him drew you in. His hair, his hands, his strong forearms, his lust for life, that slutty little waist… He is enticing, hypnotising.

It’s not like you’re ever going to get with someone who you’ve never spoken to unless you somehow drag him into a hallway closet. Oh, isn’t that idea ever tempting?

It’s an uneventful day at school, save for the random graffiti anonymously placed on each class room door. There were several suspects, the perpetrator found but not announced, much to the entire school’s dismay.  

When Robin meets you at your regular table, she has a litany of complaints up her sleeve. If you don’t stop her, she can talk for hours about any given subject that passes through her brain. At this point, from an entire summer and autumn working with her on top of spending many hours shooting the shit with her, you’re ridiculously used to it. You might even call it charming.

As usual, you listen with an empathetic, yet distracted ear. Your eyes flicker to Munson every now and then, appreciating the way his muscle shirt shows off his toned arms. Usually, they’re engulfed by his large leather jacket, but on this unusually hot autumn day he is taking advantage of the warmer weather.

Oh, and so am I, you think to yourself, eyeing him up and down appreciatively.

Your eyes flicker back to Robin, holding back a giggle at her expression. She knows about your crush of course, not that you’d tried to hide it. Robin would come up with schemes to set you up with him, but there’s one little obstacle.

“You’re shameless, you know that?” She accuses, a half smile on her face. She’s being playful, as always. “One of these days, you’re going to have to make up your mind.”

This conversation is repeated, always on replay. It’s one of your little games. “I mean,” you start cheekily, “who said anything about talking to them?”

She shakes her head, quiet laughter leaving her lips. “You are impossible.”

See, Robin knew your secret. Not only were you infatuated with Eddie, but with your coworker as well. Steve.

Steve is a bit more realistic; you suppose. After all, you work part time with him, up to 25 hours a week. Most of the job is spent moving tapes from place to place, categorizing, and talking shit. Lately, even more than normal, you’re hypnotized by him, your eyes sometimes glazing over as you take in just how pretty his brown eyes are.

Man, do you have a thing for brown eyes.

This usually eggs him on, thinking his words must mean something. They don't, really. You don’t take in a single word of what he’s saying. You’re just admiring him, his pretty lips, the freckles decorating his skin…

See, your problem is that you can’t decide on which one you’d want more…not that there’s any part of you that remotely thinks you would have that luxury. You’re not possibly conceited enough to believe that you would have a choice. Really, if it came down to it, (emphasis on if), it would be which one would choose you.

And they have so much better to choose from.

So, you let yourself imagine it. There’s certainly no harm in the what if.

“Not impossible, just horny.” You laugh, winking at the way she chokes on her water.

-

Steve pushes the cart of returns around, tapping his hands rhythmically on the plastic. You are on rewind duty, using a rewinder to go through each returned tape quickly and effectively. It’s a weekday, so business has been slow. Weekdays give more leeway on the display tvs, topics of discussion, and finally, to fuck around.

“Hey, Robin isn’t working today, right?” Steve asks, looking back at you.

You’re invested in the movie playing, leaning against the counter. “Hmm?” The question registers. “Oh, no she’s off on Wednesdays, remember? Band rehearsal after school.”

“Right, right.” He nods, something clearly on his mind.

“Something going on in that pretty little head of yours, Harrington?” You ask, switching the tape out for a new one.

He looks over his shoulder, licking his lips. “Pretty, huh?”

You roll your eyes, completely missing the way his eyes trail down your body. Your disregard of any possibility for a mutual attraction really is your blind spot. “You know you’re pretty, Harrington. Don’t play dumb.”

He shakes his head, pushing the cart along towards the romance section. “If you say so, sweets.”

You lick your lips, tasting the cherry ChapStick that deepens the shade of your lips into a darker red. Something about him is different today.

On the computer is a sticky note asking if the back room filled with unlabelled tapes could be organized and categorized. With the lack of customers, list of chores completed, and plenty of time left in your shift, you end up being bored enough to follow through. It won’t be done in one shift, but at least you’ll get it started. It’s a damn tedious process.

Not even twenty minutes pass by, a pile of marked and labeled tapes already to your left when the door to the back room shuts. You suspect for only a second that Steve needed to grab something, until you feel a pair of hands on your hips and hot breath on your neck. You freeze, gulping as you stare dead ahead at the tapes standing in a row. Your throat dries up like a drain unplugged, every limb freezing in place like you’re glued to the spot.

“Steve?” You ask after a moment passes.

He hums, thumb swaying up and down your hip, gently brushing past the hem of your shirt onto your bare skin. The other hand curtains your hair from your shoulder, trailing kisses down the curve of your neck. As a reflex you relax into it, sighing as you lean into his warm, wet, touch. The sensation flutters throughout your limbs, turning every bone, every muscle, into gelatin.

Your head falls back against his shoulder as his teeth scrape across your skin decorated with goosebumps. Your relaxed disposition is short lived, freezing up when your mind catches up to what the hell is happening. “Wait—” you protest, head snapping up in a frenzy.

He holds your face, turning it towards him. Eyes are hooded, looking tired, but from his dilated eyes you can tell he’s anything but. “What?”

“We-we’re at work, Steve, someone can come in at any moment…”

He listens, partially, barely. His eyes flicker down to your lips, all shiny and tugging him in. “Is that your only protest?” Your heart races, feeling as if someone is pulling at the corners of your mouth as you hesitantly nod. “No one has come in for over an hour, and I locked the door and turned the sign around. We won’t be bothered.”

“Oh.” A gasp leaves your lips as he leans in for a kiss, mouth deliciously open against yours. He demands full control, his fingers spreading across your neck. Your body turns to face him, grabbing onto the collar of the polo shirt he wears under his green vest. You can barely keep up with him, giggling out of pure, absolute, giddiness.

His hand runs up your torso, shaking yet demanding. Your vest is pulled down your arms, his hand pulling you against him. He starts kissing down your neck, pushing you so his arm and your back collide with the shelf behind you. A startled gasp fills the small room, your feet shuffling as the mixed sensations create a pool in the bottom of your stomach.

“Look at you, so pretty, you feelin’ good?” You nod, a hand twisting under his shirt and grabbing at his bare torso. His voice is dripping in husk, gorgeous in a way you’ve only ever pictured.

“Uh huh,” you manage to choke out.

He doesn't falter at his multitasking, his expert tongue working against yours as his hands work the button of your jeans open and the zipper down. “Let’s see how soaked you are...” The joints where your jaw is attached to your skull feels as if they vanish as your jaw drops open and Steve places his hand on your thin, cotton panties.

“Shit, honey, you are soaked.” He mutters, a sly half smile on his face.

“Jesus,” you whimper as he gently teases you.

He wastes no time, pushing your pants down your ass, watching as he exposes you with a stupid level of intrigue. “Baby, you know how pretty your pussy is, just dripping wet, jus ‘for me?”

He slips a finger in, reaching the deepest depths, somewhere yours never fucking could. He’s so fucking good at it too, watching your face as his thumb rotates on your clit, the pleasure from it more than you knew was possible. “S-Stevie,” you whimper, fingers clutching onto his shirt. “Oh, my god.”

“Wanted to see you like this for weeks, honey.” He adds another finger, his face watching and listening for every reaction you feed him. He eats them up like he’s been starving for you.

This information simply didn’t process, because there is no possibility this is true. None. “R-really?” You ask, leg moving up to get better access to your pussy.

Steve smirks, relishing in how you tighten around his digits. “Of course, honey.” His voice is like velvet, tender and smooth. He starts to move them faster, pumping them quickly, watching the breaths from your mouth grow shallower, your head falling back onto a shelf. “You think I don’t notice you watching me?”

Steve loves the reactions you give him, watching how you melt into putty in his hands. “You did?” It’s so close, he’s only started and you’re already being hurtled towards the edge.

“The way your thighs tense up, your eyes watching me, those pretty lips parted…” he explains, you have to give him credit for being much more observant than you had pegged him for. “Wanted to put my thumb in your mouth so many times, darling.”

“Why didn’t you?” You ask him, tensing up as you get close to your climax.

He laughs. You’re almost offended by his nonchalance. Is…is he not turned on, too? “We were surrounded by people, sweets. I have some self control, yunno.”

The reminder that you’re in the back room with him at work is on your mind, a hint of cockiness floods your head. “Evidently, not-not that much.”

He works his fingers harder, you’re not sure if it’s a reward or punishment for your words, but the orgasm is abrupt, overflowing your senses completely as you shake against the shelf. “There she is,” he mutters, fingers working you through every sensation he so expertly provides you.

He smirks as he watches the afterglow take over your face, biting his lip when your head finally lifts up to face him. Just when you think he couldn’t possibly get any hotter, he proves you wrong. You don’t doubt he will prove you wrong again. And again.

…and again.

You barely take a second to recover, hands fumbling down for his jeans button. “Kay, now I need you.” You urge him, grinning at the way his cock pops out against the fabric of his shirt. A hushed swear falls from your lips when you take in his size, bigger than you even thought he was.

And you thought he was huge.

“Yeah?” He asks, a droopy smile on his face when your eyes peer up at him.

You nod, wrapping your hand around him, jerking him off. He’s thick, the head flushed red and a vein wrapping around it. When his face crumples, a crease appearing between his eyes, you’ve already proven yourself right in your theory. “Please, Stevie.” You urge him, pulling his cock towards your entrance.

Your ass sits on an empty shelf, where it’s been resting since he fucked his fingers into you. When he slaps his cock, already leaking with precum, against your clit, you whine impatiently, silently begging for him. “I like when you ask so nicely. Do it s’more, will ya?”

“C’mon, Stevie, I want your cock, so fucking bad. I’ve pictured this so many times, I fucking need it. Please.” You don’t mention anything about a third party usually being present, but that could come up, maybe…

Steve grins, marveling in the way your voice is so pathetic for him. It’s even better than he imagined, by more than a million miles. A part of him is greedy for you, greedy for even more proof of how badly you’ve wanted him, despite the clear evidence from the first time he clocked it.

At the time, he wondered if he was picturing it, the way your eyes were unfocused and shifted down at his arms. He was barely flexing them, when he did experimentally, he watched your breath literally hitch, eyes hurriedly switching back to his face.

It took a few more days of experimentation, but he finally confirmed it when the evidence was too congruent to think otherwise.

He’s even more greedy for you, having spent many nights thinking about you bent over, on your knees, on your back, riding him, you name it, he’s thought of it.

He can ask you to continually beg for him another time, right now he’s just desperate for you, so he ignores the call to ask you to beg even more and pushes the head in.

The gasp, your jaw dropping, the swears that fall from your lips and invade the quiet room, the way your pussy sucks him in, everything about your reaction is perfect to him. The feeling is likewise, watching in real time as his eyes darken for you, and for you alone.

He’s huge in a way you can’t even comprehend, frighteningly so.  Still, he starts thrusting, gently as he can muster, still stinging, regardless. He knows he should wait, he has to every time he’s with someone new, but god damn if your pussy wasn’t the best he’s ever felt in his life. His hips move wondrously, rolling them in a way that feels like magic.

You can’t help the yelps and the whines that fill the room, watching and combing your fingers through his famous locks. They’re so soft, despite the constant hairspray and hair products he uses. While the pain mostly overshadows the pleasure, the combination is beautifully laced together.

Boy, can he fuck better than you had imagined. While you have thought of some things while imagining him, nothing has ever even compared to all that he’s giving you.

The moans that pass through his mouth, the roll of his hips, the crumpled expression on his face…all things that your brain could never come up with. Sure, you thought he could talk dirty, imagined his long fingers instead of yours, maybe picturing the way you so desperately finger yourself; this wasn’t remotely close to what you imagined.

Hell, it wasn’t anywhere near what you had imagined.  

It’s so much better.

You whimper, stuttering on the S of his name, unable to finish it, too blissed to care.

“S-s, what, honey? What’s that you were saying?” He chuckles deeply when you tighten around him. “Oh, you like being talked down to, huh? Like being put in your place?”

You nod, pulling him for a needy kiss, losing any sense of concentration when his hand lands on your clit, rubbing it in the exact way you needed him to.

“I fucking knew you would, little whore getting fucked at work, taking his big cock like you were made to, fuck.” His thrusts get stronger, harder, faster, gasping wordlessly at how fucking good he is at it.

“Fuck, Stevie, you gonna breed me? Gonna cum in my pussy? Need it so fucking bad, please, please, pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

The smile that invades his face is cocky, watching you crumble under him. “Listen to your pretty voice beg for me, you really want me that bad, huh?” You nod, wondering how his hips hit harder. How was that possible? “Gonna breed you, honey, just keep being a good girl f’me, and I’ll fill you up, mmkay?”

You nod, watching the beads of sweat slowly coat his reddened face. One hand curls itself into the hair by the crown of your head, gripping tightly and watching the intense pleasure that takes over your face. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, no longer aware of any existence outside of this room, you’re here, only here, and will only be here.

“Shit, gonna fill you up, honey, need to feel you cum all over my cock, won’t you, please, sweets, need it—” while he thinks your begging is beautiful, his is just the thing to put you over the edge. The fluttering of your tight walls around him pulling the cum that fills you up beautifully.

His cock thrusts through the collective orgasm you feel together, the force of it pushing his load out of your pussy, you watch it leak past his length and down your thighs. It’s a sight that almost makes you cum again.

He smirks, catching his breath in time with you. He places kisses up your throat, taking in the way you tighten around him. Finally, you come back down to earth, the smell of sex in the room from your tryst overwhelming it. How much febreeze would it take to hide it? Your jeans are barely down to your knees, shirt ruffled, and hair a mess. Man, did you get caught up in him, his kiss, his scent, his cock.

A shy grin cascades across your face, watching as a piece of hair curls its way into his eye. “Hi, beautiful.” He greets, hand plastering itself onto your cheek.

“Hi.” You whisper, still pulsing around him.

“Did you enjoy it as much as I did?” He asks, biting his lip as his eyes look bored into yours.

“Probably more.” You admit, grinning cheekily. “You did all the work.”

He laughs in answer, placing a kiss on your cheek as he pulls out. The loss is stark, you suddenly feel so empty.

Oh, he did manage his entire length. Fuck.

“Was it everything you wanted?”

You flick an eyebrow up at him, tilting your head. “I don’t know, Harrington. You tell me.”

He laughs, winking at you. “Yeah, whatever.”

You wouldn’t exactly call yourself his girlfriend at this point because that certainly didn’t feel like an invitation for such. In fact, when Steve mentions his date coming up that weekend you don’t exactly feel heartbreak, just jealousy.

Whatever weird relationship you just started with him, coworkers with benefits or whatever, you are down for it. You're immediately wondering how often you’ll be in the back room with him, sharing cheeky looks across the room when he winks at you.

When he’s that good, it’s hard not to be.

-

Despite the urge to, you actually don’t tell Robin over the phone about your hook up with Steve. Something about the secrecy just makes it that much hotter. You lie, telling her the night was boring with customers appearing for their late returns.

The store is reopened, Steve grinning at you manically as he continues with his work. Well, if you can call putting the returns away “work”.

Your mom is at work for the night, taking a double at the hospital. She left twenty bucks on the counter for supper, leaving a note to order some take out. Well, pizza it is. You order the vegetarian deluxe, rolling your eyes at the wait time; forty-five minutes to an hour. Apparently, they are very busy tonight. Whatever.

You decide to kill time, running up to your room and jumping on your bed, kicking your panties off, keeping the sweatshirt you wear on. Your fingers happily dance themselves onto your clit, using some of the gift Steve left you as lubricant.

Sometimes, the person you imagine takes over for you, sometimes they simply put their cock in you, disguised in the form of a dildo. This time, they merely watch.

“That’s right, let’s see those fingers touch your pretty clit.” You imagine his voice, Eddie, picturing him watching you. “Little slut can’t even be satisfied with Harrington’s cock, huh?” He asks, and yeah, maybe you are a desperate slut ready for either man to take advantage of you. But who fucking cares, at this point? Your hand moves up to touch your tit, sneaking past the hem of your shirt, when your own imagination stops you. “No, you can touch yourself over your sweater, I’m letting you touch your pussy, isn’t that enough?”

Somehow it makes you moan desperately, massaging it pathetically. You shake your head, feeling a bit like a brat for the moment.

“No? Feeling greedy, huh?” He asks, you picture his dark brown eyes fixated on your pussy, fingers itching to touch you, just able to prevent himself from doing so.

You grin, nodding. “Please let me, I’ll be so good.” You take full advantage of no one being home.

“Hmm. Don’t think you will be…” He muses, and man, did you know what you liked. You desperately hoped he would know, too. “You already had Harrington’s cock today, and now you want someone else?”

“Yeah, she is quite a slut, ain’t she?” Oh, there he is.

The idea of the two of them here, watching you with dark eyes, both breaking at the seams at resisting the want to touch you, creates a new stir in you that feels nearly impossible.

“Look at how greedy she is, desperate for us, ain’t she?”  You picture Eddie agreeing, squatting right in front of your bed to get a closer look.

Suddenly you forget about the urge to beg them to let you touch your tit and move on to begging for them. Begging for one of them, at least, to finally take pity on you and just fuck you already. Why is this so enticing to you? Why does it draw you in so, like a moth to a flame?

Well, you suppose if the flame was two hot, gorgeous, capable men, you’d be drawn to it just as a moth is, despite how badly the heat burns you.

Your fingers grow faster, gasping more intensely as the scenario furthers in your mind. You’re about to push yourself over the edge, the whines from your throat loud and desperate, when the doorbell rings twice, one after the other. Fuck, the pizza’s here.

You completely forgot you even ordered food to begin with.

You rush to put a pair of sweats on, petting your hair down desperately as you pick up the 20 from the counter. The bell rings twice more, you yell “I’m coming, I’m coming!” at the impatient driver. Well, you would’ve been if they were just five minutes slower.

The door opens to face Eddie Munson, holding a pizza in his hand and wearing a dorky delivery driver visor. Huh, the last thing you ever expect him to wear is a bright yellow visor, the shade of American cheese, with a dripping piece of pizza on it, that’s for damn sure. Well, the last thing you expected was to see Eddie Munson, especially with what you were just doing, what you were just picturing. Well, this is awkward. For you it is, for him you guessed it was just another delivery.

You smile awkwardly, tossing him the 20 and trading for your pizza. He asks how much you want back as the order and the delivery fee only cost you 10 dollars in total. You insist he takes the ten-dollar tip, grinning when he blinks in disbelief.

As much as you want to stay and talk to him and get a better handle of his voice, you were so close, and you can feel it starting to drift away. You close the door with a frank thank you and slide the pizza on the counter, running up the stairs.

As the door slams in his face, Eddie’s eyebrows raise, finding the whole interaction peculiar. In fact, when you opened the door, he clocked the scent right away. With how wet you are, both your arousal and Steve’s cum dripping down your thighs, it flooded his nose. Eddie knows the smell of pussy and knows it well. You were in such a rush to get back to your own imagination, you didn’t notice the way his jeans started to tent at the crotch.

Eddie starts to shrug it off, accepting the tip and taking the hint that you wanted alone time, but a sound, enticing and wonderous, floats into his ears. He thought he was hallucinating, did…did he just hear his name?

He wanders past the gate to your backyard and looks up to an open window, not seeing you, but hearing the moans that leave your throat as you continue your mission. His jaw slacks open, listening to you beg for him, beg for his cock. God, now knowing he has such power over you is driving him insane.

His cock throbs in his jeans to the point of hurting, he grabs himself just for the tiniest bit of relief, slightly stroking himself to the sound of your voice. Eddie’s legs are restless, like he wants to go back to your front door and ask if you want his help. He nearly carries himself there, ready to devour you, his career as a delivery driver be damned.

He only makes two strides when the second thing that freezes him into place comes out of your mouth. The first was you openly begging for him, but the second one is hearing you add someone else’s name in the mix. Eddie mistakes it for the wrong name, but as you intertwine his with Steve’s, it becomes clear to him that he wasn’t the only one you were currently begging for.

Your voice gets higher, more urgent, the begging transitions from begging for them to fuck you, which, jesus, to letting you finish. Man, he loves the way your mind works. He slips his cock out, unable to resist relieving himself any further. His eyes flicker to your neighbors’ lights, he hopes no one would be nosey enough to peer into your backyard for the night.

Come to think of it, he’s actually not sure he would care all that much.

The symphony of strings of swears and whimpers that float down from your window only adds fuel to his fire. “Oh, baby, just letting anyone listen to you, if they really wanted to, huh?” Sometimes being vocal is his Achillies heel. He should shut up, especially perving like this, but it’s nearly impossible.

You beg his name, imagining him and Steve refusing again.

“Listen to you beg like a little slut, hmm?” He muses, regretting that there’s nothing for him to clutch on to.

“Eddie, m’ so close…”

“Not yet, doll.”  He chides, hoping you’ll play along.

A miracle happens, as if you know exactly what his intentions would be. “Stevie, please?”

“Hmm, don’t you dare, Harrington.” Eddie threatens, and now he really does want to join you.

“Please, I’ve been so good…”

Your insistence, your sweet voice begging for him, God, Eddie’s already so damn close himself. “Let’s hear it, baby.”

The stars align, because from the sounds of your whines that come from your window are just enough for Eddie to spill over his fist, spurts of his cum dripping onto the grass beneath him. From the sounds of it, your orgasm is something that makes your every muscle spasm, the kind that lingers for minutes after. While your mewls, and whines, and whimpers are practically perfect, Eddie really wishes he could get the visuals.

He sees a shadow move; he wonders if you just remembered you have food waiting. He’d better move from your driveway before you realize he’s still there.

On his way to drop off a pizza that is also waiting to be delivered, one he knows he will have to pay for himself after the wait, (worth it), an idea forms in his head that is just too good for him to pass up or call it like it is…insane.  

-

When you feel a repetitive tap on your forearm at lunch the following week, you believe Robin is trying to annoy you. You ignore her, focusing on the novel you’re reading while you shrug her off. At the clearing of someone’s throat, you finally look up.

Oh, shit.

Eddie stands in front of you, hands in his pockets as he nods to the seat right next to you. All you can do is nod, out of breath as he sits in the seat right next to you.

“I’ll uh, just get going.” Robin mutters, shooting you a smirk as she gathers her backpack and takes off.

You shoot daggers at her, anxiously twisting your hands under the table, gulping as your nerves flood your senses.

Eddie rests his jacket leather covered arms on the table, head turned towards you. “Enjoy your pizza?” He asks, a twinkle in his eyes you can’t quite place.

Your brows furrow, confused until it dawns on you. He was the one that delivered it. “Oh…it-it was good.” You smile, sighing nervously.

A lopsided smile takes over Eddie’s face, he watches as the wheels turn in your pretty noggin. Knowing what the confusion meant when they furrow until the realization hits you. It’s a breath of fresh air, really, knowing he didn’t need to worry about rejection, knowing how secretly desperate you are for him.

He nods, licking his lips. “Good, good.” The way you sit nervously, the subtle tensing of your thighs, you’re sweet, amusing, even. “You going to Harrington’s party this Saturday?”

You blink, taking in the sentence. “Huh?”

He chuckles, and the smile on his face is gorgeous. “Harrington. Know him?” You nod, eyes wide. “You going to his party?”

Steve literally invited you the day before, suggesting he might drag you into a closet or something. “Yeah, I am.”

“Wanna go with me?”

Yes. Yes, you do. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. “Sure.” You accept, leaning on your elbow, a shy smile on your face.

“Pick you up at 10?” Somehow, Eddie has the ability to make you feel breathless, and his skin hasn’t even grazed yours yet.

Hopelessly, desperately, you wait for Saturday. Over the week, Eddie has caught your eye across the cafeteria, shooting his cocky grin that continually melts you into a puddle.

That same cocky grin he gives you as he drives over to Steve’s. While Steve knows of your crush on him, he also was aware of how much you like Eddie. Honestly he’s just rooting for you, seeing the excited glint in your eye when you give him the news.

Every little part of you is wondering how it is possible that you might have the choice…when weeks ago you thought you had no possible chance with either of them. There’s a slight part of you wondering…wondering if you’d slipped into an alternate universe where the world is starting to work out in your favor. It feels plausible until you wondered why the hell you’d be going to work or doing homework in your perfect world.

Eddie’s hand rests on your shoulder as you enter, the music blaring from Steve’s living room. A crowd of sweaty teenagers jumping, grinding, dancing, filled to the brim with far too much alcohol. You’d barely said a word to him, stuck in your head as you accepted a red solo cup from him. He makes his own mix, a brown liquid you don’t recognize with some coke. Yours is a vodka-sprite mix, hoping the extra shot you pour will loosen you up a bit.

Or…a lot.

“Dance with me?” He asks, pointing to the living room as he takes a big swig.

You squint at him, already in the middle of taking a big gulp, wincing at the burn. “You dance?”

He shrugs, fingers tapping on the red plastic of his cup. “I do when pretty girls dance with me.”

You take another big gulp, already feeling the effects. What can I say, you are a lightweight. “Better go find one.”

Well, it seems the alcohol is doing its thing.

Eddie’s arm easily wraps around your waist, pulling you up against him. The look in his eye excites you, gulping as his hot breath is on your neck, enticing a shudder. “You little shit.” He mutters, a smug little grin on his face. “I was already asking a pretty girl for your information. I was giving you the privilege of asking, but now you have no choice.”

The cup nearly collides with your nose as he takes another swig, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand easily intertwines with yours as he tosses the cup over his shoulder, tugging you to the living room.

You follow him, hypnotized by his siren’s song. Eddie doesn’t have an inch of patience left in him, already antsy from the show you put on for him. He lets his hands wonder, holding you close to him and going everywhere, your hips, your thighs, your ass, even trailing under your tiny skirt. You don’t protest, inhaling his scent. The mix of body wash, cologne, and just him is mouthwatering.

He doesn’t ask, doesn’t need to from the way you melt in his arms when his lips finally land on yours. The reward of your moan vibrating into his mouth is just what he needs, the very reward he was looking for. You don’t have it in you to pretend you aren’t eager, your lips searching for his as soon as it registers. The kisses are urgent, fervent, and just the right amount of messy.

His knee makes its way between your legs, already mapping how easy it is to make you fall apart, even in the middle of a crowd. And do you ever fold in his arms even at the subtle touch of his hands on your skin, tongue on yours, the adrenaline in your veins… it’s enough to make you forget you’re in a crowd.

When his tongue lands on your throat, sending ripples of pure ecstasy down your spine. The moment he feels you start to grind on his thigh, he has you right where he wants you. His mouth dives into your ear, heated breaths sending a chill through you. “I’ll be right back.”

Confused, you catch his eye, faltering as his knee leaves where it’s stationed.

He winks, walking across the living room, feeling pretty smug at how he feels your eyes on the back of his head.

Now for his plan.

Steve invited a girl over for his party, deciding he’d do exactly what he had insisted he’d do with you. Instead, he’s mesmerized by how you and Eddie are grinding across the way from him. No matter how hard he tries, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the two of you, now wishing you were following through on said plans with him.

When Eddie’s lips met your neck, he feels entirely too restless, forcing himself not to place you in the middle of a sandwich he’d very much like to be a part of.

Now the girl is off with another dude having sought out a different sex buddy when Steve backed out, making out with some jock on his couch. Not that he cares, he’s barely noticed her. He’s far too busy being captivated by you and your date.

Speaking of your date, he attempts to look busy as soon as Eddie starts crossing the room, to where Steve assumed was the bathroom a few feet behind him. Boy, was he wrong. As Steve crowds into the wall, pretending to be staring off towards anywhere else, Eddie stops right next to him, observing Steve with a smirk.

Eddie started keeping track of Steve as soon as he got to the party, keeping mental tabs on him. It wasn’t hard, Steve’s eyes were glued the two of you, and it made Eddie’s plan ten times easier.

“Hi, Harrington.” He smirks, watching Steve’s shallow breathing and shifty eyes. Wasn’t very often he’s seen him lack confidence, and it’s almost too easy to get the two of you to dance how he wanted. “Enjoying the show?”

Steve falters, batting his pretty eyelashes as he processes it. “I-I’m not sure what you mean.”

Eddie rolls his eyes with his arms crossed. It certainly doesn’t help that Eddie had used every one of the tools in his belt. Shown off his arms, put some care into his hair, wore a shirt that was just a little too short for his torso…

As planned, it was working like a charm. “C’mon Steve, those pretty eyes of yours were burning a hole into the back of my head the entire time. Or…were you not watching the way she grinded on my leg?”

Steve’s eyes flicker to you, having now moved back into the kitchen to get another cup of alcohol. His eyes meet Eddie’s again, gulping, not able to find it in himself to deny any further. “Okay, so I was. It’s basically impossible not to.”

Eddie’s smile grows, his teeth just barely peeking through. “Isn’t it?” It really falls into Eddie’s favor that Steve was already against the wall, hand landing right next to his face. “Well, I gotta be honest, from the look on your face it almost looked like you wanted to join us.”

Oh god, is Steve hallucinating, or did Eddie just invite him to do the very thing he so desperately craved? “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Munson.”

Eddie rolls his eyes again, amused at the hesitance Steve displays. “I’m not. I’m inviting you to one.”

Steve’s breath hitches, Eddie affirming exactly what he was afraid of. “Think she’d be down for that?”

The genuine laughter that leaves Eddie’s lips is a bit startling, to say the least. “I can say, Steve, with 100% certainty, that she would be.”

“Well, shit, Eds.” Steve laughs, already hard from the mere thought of it. “Let’s go get our girl.”

-

A part of you starts to worry, tipsy as you stare into your drink while sitting next to who you thought was Steve’s date but is all over some football jock. Despite your date being Eddie, you were glad. Your jealousy can start simmering down. You catch Eddie’s jeans ripped at the knee, eyes raking up to his face, noting Steve trailing right behind him.

Eddie ignores your confused face, offering his hand for you to take. Yours lands in his, and it wraps around yours as he effortlessly tugs you up to him. “Come on, we’re going upstairs.” He waits for you to acknowledge Steve standing by you, eyebrow quirking up. “Oh, Steve’s joining us.”

You are not protesting. That's the last thing you'd be doing. If anything, it’s just sudden. All you can do is let out stuttered breaths, attempting to ask how, or why, before getting to the what.

Eddie pretends to falter, brow furrowing as he condescendingly tilts his head. “What, I thought this is what you wanted?”

Okay, how could he possibly know that? “Y-yes, yes, I do, but-but how--?”

“You should probably close your window next time you decide to order food and have a bit of fun, there, sweetheart.” Your eyes shoot open wide, immediately understanding why Eddie approached you when he did. Your window. He leans into Steve, laughter sitting under his voice. “Stevie, should’ve heard her, she was begging for us both, sweet thing had no idea I could hear.”

Steve’s mouth turns into a smirk, watching the many phases your sweet face goes through. “That true? You thinking of us both at the same time?”

By this point, your eyes haven’t even stopped switching between the two men as they leer over you. You wonder how many times this exact scenario has crossed your mind, giving you eyes as they proposition you to be the delicious middle of their sandwich. It’s everything you want, everything you crave.

Then why the fuck is it so damn terrifying?

“You got words, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, catching Steve’s eye, who has his hands on his hips, his eyes curtained by those glorious locks.

No words come to mind, except how fucking wet their gazes make you feel. You let your action speak for itself, turning on the spot to run up the stairs.

You’re halfway up when you hear the thumping of two sets of feet behind you vaguely over the loud music, giggles bubbling up your throat as you turn around the corner down the hall. Not panic, but pure excitement fills your chest as the sounds of footsteps invade the upstairs. A hand grabs yours, yanking you back to the door that Steve opens, his own room.

Sometimes it’s occupied by some random hook ups, he usually tries to lock it for a big party, but honestly if there were someone in his room, he would’ve kicked them out. He’s already hooked up in his mom and dad’s room, as barf inducing as it is, and he refuses to do so on this particular night.

Eddie is right behind you as you enter, hands already making their way under your shirt. He’s eager, his hand hooking under the hem and lifting it over your head and your arms. The cold air meets your skin, gifting it goosebumps. Your shirt hits the floor, you can hear it on Steve’s hardwood. The sound is minor in the grand scheme of things, currently focused on Steve’s lips on yours and Eddie’s hands making their way under the wire of your bra.

Steve’s hands grab at your shoulders, pulling you so you fall on top of him, Eddie giggling as he lands on the two of you. Eddie’s laughs weave with the kisses he scatters along your back, your neck, hands moving absentmindedly as he undoes the backing of your bra.

Under you, Steve’s hands delicately grab the straps of the bra and pull them off your arms. Your bra is flung across the room without a second thought, Steve palming your tits and playing with the nipples between his fingers, twisting and groping them as you mewl into his ear.

Eddie falls sideways onto the bed, the momentum knocking both you and Steve on your sides as well with him. You giggle, starting to grab at the edge of Steve’s shirt to lift over his head. Eddie flips your skirt up, his long fingers touching the fabric over your weeping pussy.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” Eddie mumbles, sneaking under the waistband of your panties, touching you softly and moving his finger up and down. “Pretty baby must be turned on, hmm?”

Steve bends down to mouth at your nipples, his silk tongue hot and magical, gently nipping with his teeth in a way that makes your blood sing.

The marvelous mixture of sensation has your head flung back on Eddie’s shoulder, writhing in their holds as they work together. One of Eddie’s fingers slips in, long and deep within you. A loud gasp fills the room as Eddie’s thumb rotates your clit slowly and watches you fall apart.

His finger hooks, working perfectly against your g-spot. “F-fuck!”

Steve licks up the mound of your breast, dirtily licking all the way to your neck, nibbling bruises across your neck. “Gonna cum so quickly, sweets?” Steve asks, teasing you.

“Feels-feels so good!” You whimper, starting to grind helplessly on Eddie’s finger.

Steve’s eyes switch over to Eddie’s, who is already watching him. He grins, eyes switching from the metal-head’s eyes to his lips before licking his own. Both men are pressed against you as they lean in, their lips connecting as you lay in a true sandwich. Wet sounds of their kisses are loud in the room, and from their body language it gets heated fast as Eddie moans behind you, his fingers not resting for a second.

They’re fast and relentless, a heat in your pussy too hot, too much as you’re pushed over the edge like being pushed over a cliff. It hits you hard as you restlessly wither in-between them. Steve’s mouth moves from Eddie’s straight to yours, muffling the moans that leave your mouth.

The loss is sudden as Eddie removes his fingers to pull your skirt down your ass. “You want me to tell Stevie what I heard, or you wanna tell him?”

Your lips freeze against Steve’s, eyes opening, gulping as you back away from him.

“Ooh, I wanna know, what’d you hear, Eds?” Steve asks, getting the hint when Eddie helps move you on to your back.

“Well, from what I could tell she was picturing us watching her play with herself, begging for us to touch her, begging for our cocks, begging to cum…”

Shit, he did hear everything.

“Shit, when was this, honey?”

You bite on your pointer finger nervously as Eddie tugs on your thighs, giggles spilling from your mouth. “Wednesday.”

Steve shakes his head, unbuttoning his jeans as he grins at you, Eddie settling himself between your legs. “Oh, you greedy girl.”

Eddie finishes pulling your skirt down your legs, tossing it over his shoulder as he asks, “Why?”

“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Steve asks, cockily grinning at Eddie as he pulls down his boxers, his cock springing free. “Yeah, she took my cock in the back of Family Video that day, didn’t ya, darlin’?”

Eddie quirks his eyebrow, staring up at you from in-between your legs, grinning intensely. “Oh, you are greedy aren’t ya? Maybe such a greedy girl doesn’t get her wildest fantasies coming true, hmm?”

He’s bluffing, but in your post-orgasm haze you can’t tell at all, you're just desperate for them. You protest it loudly, humming several no’s in a row.

“I dunno, maybe you can watch for tonight and we’ll let you join in another time, hmm?” Eddie taunts you, grabbing Steve’s cock and stroking it, Steve’s moan from final, sweet, relief filling the room.

You’re protesting more, resting on your forearms as you’re hypnotized by the way Eddie’s eyes are locked onto Steve’s. Okay, watching them isn’t all that terrible, but you’re already naked.

Eddie leans in, eyes still trained on Steve as he wraps his mouth around the head of Steve’s cock. You’re hypnotized by it, their constant eye contact creating an energy that is palpable. Eddie’s head tilts back, his tongue that he likes to show off so much at school lingering on Steve’s mushroom tip, reveling in the pearl of precum.

He kisses it, twisting his head to you. “Enjoying the show, sweetheart?”

You nod, grinning manically. “Very much.”

“Maybe we can take pity on her, hey, Eds?” Steve asks, also looking at you.

“Yeah, she can watch another time.” Eddie mumbles, pulling away from Steve to lean in back between your legs. “For now, I need to bury my nose in this sweet little cunt.”

That’s the only warning you get before Eddie’s long tongue slides itself against your wet folds, a hot, wet stripe sending shivers up your spine. You can’t help the whine that leaves your throat, desperate and all too happy to accept it.

Steve saunters over to your mouth, stroking himself as he observes your face. “Think you can be a good girl and take this cock down your throat?” You nod, reaching for him pathetically. You guide his cock to your mouth, the large head pushing into your mouth. His length fills your mouth, pushing right to the back of your throat. “Oh, that’s a good girl.”

A hum leaves your mouth around him, somehow dividing your attention between Steve’s cock in your mouth and Eddie’s tongue on your pussy.

Speaking of Eddie, his tongue has been slowly working, barely putting an ounce of pressure, focused on gathering up any arousal you feed him. His fingers are harsh against your thighs, the friction nearly burning as he grips you tightly. “Fuck, you taste…” he pauses, gasping and greedy, “so sweet.”

Your mouth is busy, too busy to tell Eddie how much he just needs to touch you harder, already. Your hips do it for you, grinding up as a silent question. Simultaneously, your hands move to Steve’s base, playing with his balls. Your mouth makes a wet plop, suddenly in the mood to have them up against your face. Your greedy tongue pokes out to lick at the patched hair that covers them, gasping at the sweaty musk they radiate.

Steve buckles, swearing loudly as his hand lands roughly next to your face. “Oh, my gooood, baby.”

As a reaction, Eddie digs in further, his tongue pushing into you, deliciously long and vibrating into you as he hums. The stench of sweat and your dribble fills your nose, your face slobbered and wet. Eddie places his thumb on your clit, rubbing in small circles as the more you give him, the more he takes.

He knows the smell of pussy, and your smell has driven him completely insane, like a pheromone that overwhelms any logic he once held and replaces it with you.

You gasp, taking Steve’s cock back in your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat. Steve’s hand curls into your hair, his thumb swaying against your cheek. You can barely focus on it, the overstimulation making that oh-so-funny feeling take over once more, swelling in your stomach.

“You gonna cum again, honey?” Steve asks, his hips moving slowly, yet picking up at an unprecedented rate. You nod around him, his cock hitting and forming a beautiful swell in your cheek, moaning around him. “Gonna fill this pretty little mouth, then we’ll pay attention to Eds over there, hmm? Bet he needs some help, hmm?”

“Might cum from her taste alone, honestly,” Eddie mumbles, working his tongue even faster, even more.

That single sentence does it for you, mouth tightening around Steve as you spill onto Eddie’s tongue, legs tightening around his ears. Steve feels as you moan around him, every part of you tensing, your mouth specifically tightening and pulling sticky ropes that jump down your throat.

It becomes too much, overflowing your mouth and drooling down your chin. Eddie kisses your thigh, lapping up the arousal that spilled to your thighs. Steve pulls out, watching with hooded and hazy eyes as your mouth stays open, tongue poking out covered in him, smiling as when his eyes drift to your throat gulping as he flows down your throat.

“Did I hear you say it was my turn?” Eddie asks, head poking out from between your legs. “Does that mean I get to feel this tight little pussy wrapped around my cock?”

Steve chuckles, his hand still wrapped in your hair. “If I’ve already had a turn, guess it only seems fair.” His thumb swipes across your chin, gathering the excess cum that gathered.

Out of nowhere Eddie pounces, grabbing Steve’s wrist and lapping the sticky substance with his tongue, making a show of it. Well, Eddie is nothing if not a performer.

Steve seems to think his turn is over, turning to the mess of clothes on the floor. “Stevie,” you whine, sitting up. Your legs feel like jelly, grabbing at the shirt on Eddie right next to you. How is Eddie still fully dressed? “Do you have lube?”

“You don’t need lube, sweets, you're soaked.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “Not what I meant, Ed.” You look back to Steve. “Hey, stop getting dressed! You got lube, right?”

“Uh…yes.” Steve startles, hands on his hips with his hips, eyebrows furrowed.

How have they not picked up on it yet? “Seriously?” You ask, switching between their confused glances. “Remember how Eddie said you’d make every fantasy come true?” They nod, you move onto your knees, undoing Eddie’s belt, and button quickly. “Well, when I pictured this, I pictured every hole being filled.”

Usually, a sentence like this would make you shy, embarrassingly so. However, the collective stare the two men give you is mind numbingly arousing.

“Shit,” Eddie mutters, sharing a bewildered look with Steve. “Well, go get the damn lube, Steve!”

Steve chuckles, moseying to the bedside table and grabbing a small bottle.

Your hands, frozen on Eddie’s half undone jeans, finally start moving again, pulling down his jeans and underpants. His cock springs out, the head an angry red. You lean forward, extending your legs backward as you lean forward to accept Eddie in the back of your throat.

Steve comes from behind him, lifting the loose black shirt he wears over his head, sprinkling kisses along Eddie’s skin.

Eddie groans, lifting his head up. “Fuck, ok, get up, need to feel that pussy right now.”

You smirk, getting off Eddie with a pop, standing up on weak legs. Eddie pulls you right against him, wrapping your lips in a sweet kiss. His tongue wastes no time to reach out to touch yours, connecting wonderfully. Eddie turns the two of you around, kicking off his jeans and stumbling over them. He falls backward onto the bed, you falling onto him and giggling like a madman.

A hand wraps around your cheeks, squishing them comically and pulling your face upward. “Kiss me, honey.”

You grin, locking lips with Steve as your body hitches up toward him. A pair of hands plant you back down, bare pussy connecting with Eddie’s gorgeous cock. The sensation makes you whine, thighs tensing around Eddies. Your hips grind helplessly, hoping it pushes him in. “Patience, sweets.”

You whine impatiently, petulantly groaning against Steve’s lips. You part from him, staring down at Eddie. “Stop teasing me, and—” your sentence cuts short, Eddie grinning in satisfaction as he shuts you up. A hushed swear leaves your throat, elongated and stuttered on the sh in shit.

Your impatience is the size of a teaspoon, hips rutting down to take more of him quicker, even though he’s at a size where you know you should take your time. “Take your time,” Eddie tuts, wrapping his hand in your hair.

“I can’t.” You whine, trying to pull him in more.

Impossibly, you manage to take in Eddie’s full length faster than you know you should. It’s still not fast enough.

A second pair of hands land on your ass, grabbing at the apples of your cheeks with harsh nails digging into the soft skin. Eddie’s hands are on your hips, fingertips under the edge of Steve’s. A cold, thick liquid lands where it needs to, a finger pushes it in, a mighty pressure added to the mix.

You whine, bucking into them and grinding on Eddie’s cock simultaneously. A mix of sounds ring out, Eddie moaning, Steve chuckling, you breathlessly gasping. “Fuck.”

Steve adds another finger, twisting and playing, watching how both your holes spasm together, how Eddie’s cock starts to move for you when your hips are jerking too much to really do anything.

Eddie gasps into your ear, groaning and border-line whimpering. “F-fuck, feel this tight fucking pussy…Jesus, Harrington, you planned on keeping this to yourself?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away, inserting a third finger and grinning at your high-pitched reaction. “With how good it feels, can you fucking blame me?”

“How many times you pictured fucking me, sweets? Good as you thought it’d be?” Eddie asks, voice guttural.

“S-s-s-so much better,” you stutter, whining in the crook of his neck.

Over your shoulder, Steve winks at Eddie, and it gives Eddie the warning to pause his movements to allow Steve to enter. The pressure of the head against the hole is so good. “Fuck,” you whimper, gasping desperately.

If there’s anything you’re willing to admit, it’s that you never knew you could feel this good, this full, it’s a shame it took this long, really. The stupid part is, Steve isn’t even halfway in. Your jaw drops, hands tensing and curling and toes twitching, so many little muscles moving instantaneously.

“You okay, sweets?” Eddie asks, whispering sweetly as your gasping grows in both depth and volume. You frantically nod, the sweat fierce and intense.

“More.” You beg, the only word that can possibly make sense to you.

However small, however faint, Steve heard the plea and pushed in more. Your jaw drops, leaning onto Eddie’s bare chest with your elbows and staring at Eddie’s darkened, brown eyes. He’s pretty, too pretty.

You adjust, and yeah, lube definitely needs to be used in this bullshit, it makes it feel so much better. “More,” you whimper, twisting your body to look back at Steve to see his reaction as he pushes in one last time.

The awkward twist of the body is worth it to see how his jaw drops and eyes close, followed by his head falling back in bliss. “Fuck, both your tight little holes are so good, honey.”

“What a good girl you are, love, god you take cock so well,” Eddie compliments you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

Steve’s strong hand sways across your ass, caressing it fiercely. “Like she was made to, isn’t it,” he adds, hunching over your build to kiss the bare skin.

Your toes are curled, your whole-body tense, eyes closed as you lie in the sandwich that contains the three of you. Good. God, it’s good. The goodness that it is starts to trail down your cheeks, trailing off your chin. “Good,” you whimper, trying to look at both of them at once. “G-good. Move. Move,” you act restlessly, hands moving without a destination in mind, hips bucking anxiously with no such success.

They work in tandem, their hips synchronously moving together, both rolling their hips perfectly. Steve twists his arm around your torso, extending as he wraps his hand around your neck, fingers beautifully spread, choking the little air you have out of your lungs. Eddie stares up at your face in awe, holding your hips fiercely while his hips buck up.

Steve’s hand awkwardly spiders up your jaw, letting go of your neck to hook a thumb in your mouth and rest his fingers on your chin.

As a reflex, you start to suck on it. “What a pretty slut we have, hey, Stevie?” Eddie asks, admiring your pretty mouth wrapped around Steve’s thumb.

“Thirsting over her little holes being filled, taking it so well, fucking right, she is.” Steve agrees. He yanks his thumb out, using the same hand to lightly slap your ass.

You moan, loud and stuttered, and guttural at the sting of pain that just adds more to the pleasure. “Fuck!” Steve chuckles doing it again, harsher this time.

Eddie’s arms wrap around you, pulling your tits against his chest. He pulls you in for a kiss, dirty, and filled with spit. Steve slaps another time, harder than the others, you yell into Eddie’s mouth as a direct response. Your lips stutter off Eddie, whining desperately at the marvel.

“Whore.” You whine out, desperate.

“Oh, she wants to be called a whore, does she? Well she certainly earned it, didn’t she?” Eddie mocks, voice only a little bit strained. Eddie surges forward, slapping your ass harshly, igniting a yelp from you from the unexpected sting. “Sorry, Stevie, I wanted in on the fun.”

Steve grunts out a moan, “Of course, after all, our whore loves it, doesn’t she?”

They start to move faster, Eddie’s hips more jagged, Steve’s hips in a rolling pattern, both cocks fucking you in a way that is simply too good to be true.

That seemed to be the common theme for the night, good. While fantastic, amazing, wonderful, beautiful, are much better synonyms, good is the only word simple enough to reach your brain. Maybe the stream of tears trailing down your face are stealing the strong words from your vocabulary, maybe it’s the cocky look that sits on both their faces. Maybe it’s the wandering hands.

“Gonna cum.”

“Oh, make a mess for us, sweetheart.” Eddie commands, planting wet lips all along your jaw, neck, shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

Steve slips his hand around your thigh, placing two fingers on your clit. “Wanna feel this tight little hole as you cum, yeah? Gonna see our baby make another fucking mess.”

The pleasure is overwhelming, consuming every nerve you have. Gasps leave your throat, high pitched and too much. “Cum all over me, baby.”

A feeling you’ve never had, a high you’ve never reached, comes into play, forcing you to push something you didn’t know you could. “Oh, I’m gonna—”

A gush overwhelms the heavy breaths that are coming from both Eddie and Steve. Your vision is flooded with stars, writhing in their collective hold.

It takes you a minute to recover from it, both men’s hips slowly bucking in, slowly hips rolling and swaying. You still look like you need time when you choke out, “Fuck me! Fill me up, please, please, please?”

“Of course, whatever the pretty girl wants.” Steve mutters, hands gripping onto your hips as he fucks into you, matching the relentless pace Eddie was already at.

“Jus’ like that, jus’ like that~”

“Oh fuck, keep begging like that, honey.” Steve encourages you, grabbing harshly against your scalp.

“You better be as close as I am, Harrington, or this will be embarrassing.” Eddie warns, only half joking with how desperate his moans sounded.

“Fill her up with me?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Eddie answers, grinning manically. “J-j-jesus christ!”

The symphony of moans as they fill you up in both holes is music to your ears, something you never thought you’d hear. You do your best to memorize every note, every consonant, every vowel, to commit it to memory.

The world freezes as three sets of lungs attempt to catch their breath. Hands gracing over any skin they can touch for a gentle caress. Caresses lead into kisses on skin, wet and comforting in the best way.

You can’t tell how much time passes as the three of you fall over into a three way spoon, cocks still keeping you good and full.

“Did so good, honey.” Steve praises, petting your hair and skin.

“Good girl, such a good girl for us.” Eddie adds, unable to help his hand fluttering over to Steve’s hair, as well.

Your gasps turn from whimpers to hums, accepting every whisper of appraisal with an overly satisfied grin sitting on your face. They pull themselves out eventually, you moan at the loss as your spaghetti limbs sprawl on the bed. “Gonna grab you some water, honey,” Steve whispers, planting a kiss in your hair.

“You need a bath, sweetheart? I know for a fact it fits the three of us down the hall.” Eddie asks right after him, yanking a pair of his jeans on.

You nod, head feeling heavy on your neck.

Eddie scoops you up in his arms, carrying you down the hall. As the tub fills with hot, soapy water, Steve comes back up the steps with a cold glass of water to the bathroom. “Drink up.”

In Steve’s corner tub, you sit on Eddie’s lap, arms wrapped around him absentmindedly as Steve climbs in across the two of you. They spend their time washing your body, the hot water, and bubbles soothing and gentle as ever. It feels so good, so nice, it hurts to think it will end soon.

Your hormones must’ve been wild, because the tears fall down your face as you start to think about how badly you don’t want this to end. They’re worried, asking what’s wrong as they worriedly reach one another’s eyes. “’M selfish.”

“Why you selfish, sweets?” Eddie asks, tilting your chin up to him.

“Cause…cause I don’t want this to end…having both of you...it’s too good.”

Eddie and Steve share a glance, the both of them knew from the start it wasn’t just a one-time thing. “Who said this was going to end?” Attempting to reach your eyes with his.

“What?” You ask, a beautiful flicker of hope in you.

Eddie’s arms tighten around you, hand reaching in to kiss your cheek. “It’s nowhere near over, baby.”

“You’re too good for us to let you go, honey.”

“Really?” You ask, now a tad skeptical. “You’re going to let me be selfish enough to have both of you?”

“Please.” Steve chuckles, eyebrow furrowing at the crash down the stairs. “If anything, we’re the selfish ones, honey.”

Selfish.

On a regular day, it’s hard not to feel completely selfish. But when there’s two enticing and captivating voices telling you that’s not possible, you forget the word even exists.

-

Thank you so much for reading! I love to read comments and replies and tags and as always reblogging is the best way to support fic writers on tumblr

taglist: @pinkcowracing @yourthebrokengirl @skrzydlak @thirddeadlysin @sammararaven @bebe07011 @prettylovley @josephquinnschesthair @forget-you-morelike-fuck-you @names-were-taken @oddussy420

[f4t3m0nst3r]

"Don't Break Your Teeth"

🕯️ ~ A rather self-indulgent short ahh one shot about Ni-Ki's helix. omfg.

☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ — pairing: Ni-Ki x Male!Reader

☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ — genre: crack, smau, a smidge suggestive?

☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ — word count: 968

☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ — warnings: you have to squint real hard to find the little bit I proofread this

☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ — notes: uhhhh this is self indulgent, very self indulgent!!!

You dropped your head into your pillow, inexplicable agony coursing through your being. You were alone in this battle. Nobody understood you. Your own best friend didn't understand this painful, awful struggle that you suffered through at the hands—well, ear—of your boyfriend.

It started off as a casual intrigue in the piercing. A simple titanium hoop through Riki’s right helix that dangled with the slightest movement. An aesthetic treat, a tasting of his style. Yet, it seemed the longer you looked at it, the more it meant. Sometimes it would gleam a bit brighter. Or whenever he had an undercut? When he had oreo-styled hair that the metal just barely peeked through? Ugh. Jungwon really didn't understand. Despite being rather comfortable with Riki, you fought back the blushing schoolgirl look of clasped hands and a giggling face. That one, particular piercing being the equivalent of him walking around in the nude. Wow. But yes, Mr. Yang. This is totally normal.

You groaned and wailed pathetically one last time before rolling off your bed. You refused to dedicate yet another weekend to floating in thoughts of Riki’s helix piercing. God damn it, he's your boyfriend! Why giggle at it from afar? You let your feet hit the floor and gazed around your room. Your eyes met your closet, mentally carding through the clothing and planning an outfit as you approached your mirror.

Maybe a walk would be beneficial. You opened the closet door a bit more and eyed outfits for inspiration for an activity. You eventually dug through your accessories, spotting something shiny. The gleam was so prominent you swore it was blinding, but perhaps you held bias to the chrome of the tiny silver ring in your accessory bin.

What the fuck? You pinched the titanium hoop between your fingers, the only match revealing to be the earring of your boyfriend’s that you adored so much. You cocked an eyebrow and tried to recall an instance of Ni-Ki without his earring in. You eventually accepted defeat and played off the resemblance as a nod to the redness on your face when you pictured the greatness of his earring.

You snapped out of your daze and released your lip when you heard the front door of your apartment unlock and open. You stood quickly and dropped the earring. Hesitantly padding out to the hallway.

“It’s me, don’t shoot,” you smiled in relief as Riki’s familiar tenor rang through the house and you entered his vicinity.

“Hey, did you lose an earring?” You peeked around the corner and walked towards him with a curious look, he himself setting down his bag and turning to you with open arms. You easily melted into the hug, still anticipating an answer.

“No, why?” Riki drifted to stand behind you, his long arms still draped over you as he spoke once more, his voice rumbling from behind you and down your spine. “Did the other one move?”

You tilted your head slightly and glanced over your shoulder to Riki. His eyes calmly met yours before realization colored his irises. “Oh, shit, you were still asleep. Here,” With that, as if to test the deepest part of your soul, he turned his head and pushed the platinum blonde-dyed hair just far enough from his ear to reveal everything. Everything.

Everything about the tiny cuff wrapped in the spot of his old helix ring was life-threatening. The metal was snug, and it gleamed. But it only worsened; two little silver chains just barely hanging from the top cuff and grazing against the shell of Riki’s ear. You felt heat glazing your face and perhaps saliva pooling in your mouth. He must've noticed your intent stare, adding onto the statement.

“Oh, that's nice.” You both heard and felt your voice quiver as you turned on your heels, quickly excusing yourself back to your room under the guise of retrieving the piercing. By the time you turned the corner to the hallway, your phone was out.

You couldn't say you didn't see it coming, but you wanted to believe it wouldn't happen. You heard Riki laughing hauntingly, his chuckles growing closer to your bedroom door as you quickly threw your back against the door as a barricade.

“I assume you like the piercing?” He laughed through the door and you were fluent in the shit-eating grin his words filtered through. You groaned miserably and turned to open your door, watching your boyfriend stumble just a bit from leaning on it. You glared at him wordlessly, your lips seemingly seamed together.

This amused Riki, his head turning as he leaned a bit closer to you. He adjusted to have his earring level with your eyes, cursing yourself as your vision settled on the one thing you wished to avert from.

“Damn, never thought I'd getcha this bad,” he laughed and straightened his posture a bit. His larynx bobbed, the chains on the piercing shifted, and your patience grew thinner. Your cheeks burned, your fingers twisted with the desire to even trace the pierced ear. Ni-Ki was still talking, teasing and prodding you for your flustered actions. You tuned him out, focus remaining locked on your target. You felt confidence bubble up your spine in place of the embarrassment, butterflies relocated from your stomach to your lungs as you inhaled and pushed Riki against the door, clasping it shut in the process.

Your skin burned and you glared at Riki, shoulders tense with one hand on his shoulder and the other by his head on the door. You pinched your lip between your teeth and tried to steady your breath, blood coursing a bit too hot. All because of that damn piercing. He simply smirked at you, cheeks and ears red and warm like yours. Before he could speak, you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then again, soon peppering kisses from his lips, to his jaw, to his earlobe.

You finally met your goal, a gasp bursting from Riki as your lips brushed against the decorated shell of his ear. You bit gently, just barely experiencing the clank of the metal in your teeth. One of your hands tightly gripped his waist, your other gently holding the side of his face as you kissed his ear. You bit once more, a bit harder this time, prompting Riki's low hum:

“Don’t break your teeth,”

NOTE: If you saw the blank post of this, no you didn't! I will eventually have more time to dedicate to actual quality and perhaps a series, but until then, take my mild depravity!! :3

[axolotl-in-highheels]

,, Demon made man"

CoD x f! "Violent" reader

Featured characters:

König

Krueger

Horangi

141 as a collective

Note: this is very self indulgent, I only really made this because I am sick and tired of all those x reader hc where you are being walked all over by these men.

So to counteract this i bring you hc for a reader that is just a violent, selfish bastard who has no problem hurting her team-mates if it means finishing a mission.

TW: violence, sadism, bullet wounds, meanies :(, just be prepared for some nasty shit

If you like this kinda stuff let me know, i'd love to go in-deph in a possible part 2.

◇◇◇◇◇

König

At first, he didn't spare you a second glance, hell not even a first one. Just another part of an everchanging team no more no less

However, he noticed quickly that you had a problem with authority, his to be precise.

You blew him off at every given chance. Butting into his commands, going off on your own to solve the problem at hand and then take all the glory

It also didn't help that you behaved similar like his old bullies. He though about just shooting you if you weren't so god damn slippery

One of his most memorable memories were is a small russian town where you kidnapped a hostage you needed information out of

The interrogation was left to you, he was planning on you being the good cop and him the bad one

However, that quickly de-railed when you started to peel the victims skin off. Eating up every cry of pain with a sick grin

Since then, every time you are paired with him his pulse skyrockets

Sebastian Krueger

Similar to his Austrian collegue, he didn't notice you at first, maybe he'd scoff at having to drag a girl around as another weight on his boot but nothing more

But his tune changed abruptly when you two were on a solo-mission

It began on the helio to the drop-off zone. He had been cleaning one of his knives when you made fun of his technique.

Later when you entered the town, the order was to retrieve a suitcase filled to the brim with important info on the ultranationalists

It was never officially stated but you both knew that whoever secured the case would get all the glory, so you two were butting heads all the way there.

It all came to a head when you were just one room removed from the case. He had shoved you back, intending to take it himself, when all of the sudden...

You shot him, right in the back of his knee downing him. Sauntering over in the most casual way, like one would take a stroll through the neighborhood.

Oh he saw red but couldn't do much of the account of a bullet wound in his leg.

After the mission was over he was waiting to smother you in your sleep, unlucky for him you got the praise of the higher-ups and a month vacation for yourself.

The next time you saw eachother was in passing but by then he couldn't have done anything no matter how much he wanted to.

Horangi

For some more positive vibes, you got along quite good actually.

You two hit it off, albeit a bit klunky since your voices were drowned out by the loud-ass helio

Your missions together were embossed by good teamwork and a quick completion

Even then, Horangi noticed you were off, after peticularly bloody missions you were unusually chipper and in high spirits like a child who got gifted a candybar

But one assignment really cemented his suspicions.

It was in a chinese mafia den. The entire mission was already going to shit from the get go, you, Horangi and one other soldier were hiding behind a crate, surrounded by lower goons

When all of the sudden you grabbed the soldier and brutally used him as a meat-shield to advance to the offenders.

Ever since then he decided to never stand within arms reach of you. Ever.

141 Extra

You only went out with the taskforce once before their captain refused to work with you anymore.

At first the boys were quite welcoming, bit hesitant, but welcoming nontheless.

Seargent Soap and Gaz were very chatty with you, ingaging in endearing small talk.

L.T. Ghost was pretty stand-offish but that was to be expected by his reputation.

It all went south quickly after you were rounding up cartel members, shooting them down after you were given the order to leave no one alive

At the end, you encountered the son on the leader, a teenage boy maybe 15 or 16.

The 141 was debating what to do with him since they couln't eliminate a child. You however saw the foreboding danger.

The assassination of his family would undoubtedly lead to revenge, something that will be dangerous.

So, without hesitating, you killed him. A bullet point-blank to the skull.

The aftermath was ugly, first stunned silence then outrage. Soap was on you first, going on and on about ethics, Gaz quickly joining.

After much verbal berating and a lack of guilt from you cemented their disdain.

Since then, they avoid you like the plague.

_________________________________________

So, I hope you enjoyed that. Like I said it's kinda violent but I feel like that is what this fandom needs. If you are curious the reader is based off an OC if you want to know more about her or want her to be the focus of a part 2 let me know.

Let me know your opinions, good or bad in general. Construcive critisism is also very welcome.

Anyways, thank you for reading

[amoristt]

This is so self indulgent but Kang dae-ho headcanons about him having a girlfriend that's muscular please! Like, stronger than him type muscular（＾ω＾）

dont ever be scared to be self-indulgent!!!!!!!!!! i LOVE this request bc i am currently in my Muscle(TM) era so this had me like 👉🏽👈🏽 im kinda relating it to real life bc my partner and his friends cant keep up with my leg day LOL

kang dae-ho with a muscular girlfriend

oh my god. this man would be crazy for a woman able to bench him. don't get him wrong- Dae-hoe loves to be the tough guy. the pride he feels from being a marine at his young age, and his passion to keep those around him safe ring true at all angles. he loves to be the protector, and he's got all these self-indulgent daydreams about being That Guy.

but. something about seeing you, with your pretty smile and even prettier laugh, start lifting weights he tops out at for a warm up? it does something to him. it really, really does. he kind of wants you to toss him over your shoulder and squat him.

some guys would be put off knowing their woman could give them as ass whooping, but not Dae-ho, because man does he love when you show it off. arm wrestles, pushup contests, anything. especially if it humbles some jackass. it makes him beam with joy watching his girlfriend kick ass. he's the cheerleader and you're the star quarterback.

he thinks that you're soooo freaking hot. like sometimes he looks at you and can't believe you give him the time of day, let alone let him hang around.

loves your gym outfits. specifically the baggy hoodie, shorts combo. when you send him pics and outfits of the day he eats it UP. thats his mf woman

knowing you're stronger than him doesn't ever stop him from playing tough guy, though. it's in his very DNA. he'd defend john cena if he could. some guy wont leave you alone? he's there ready to throw hands. someone's talking shit about his girl? hell no. meet him outside.

"don't fuck with me, my girlfriend will kick your ass"

you two meet at the gym, naturally. Dae-ho goes pretty regularly on his own but he's the 'head down, heaphones up' kind of gym rat so he never really gave mind to anyone else nearby him. honestly didn't even know you went to his gym until one fateful, fateful day. he's one part of a trio of buddies that day, spending more time chatting and goofing off than actually doing his sets. he's showboating, overloading his plates and damn near throwing his back out more than once. he loads a barbell up with 345lbs onto his shoulders and cranks out a single squat. then two. once he drops down for the third, he locks up. it's then he realizes how many leg days he's skipped. he can't bring himself up right. his friends aren't paying attention and he was an idiot who didn't have a spotter. his options are fall forward, and risk the bar hitting him in the head, or fall backwards and feel the embarrassment of a hundred eyes all on him at once. he's struggling to balance it, every muscle in his body tensing, when suddenly the bar is lifting. he lifts to his feet and there's a set of hands off to his left helping him set the barbell back onto the rack. expecting his friend, he turns and goes to chastise them for not paying attention and helping sooner, but then he see's... you. before he can apologize for talking to you like that, you're already smiling at him and teasing right back. maybe you shouldn't have loaded too much, huh? he's flushing bright red, stammering out a laugh and rubbing the back of his head. you're cute- and your voice is like honey to his ears. his friends are snickering from other machine, watching the entire ordeal, and he feels that flaming blush race down to his neck and chest. he doesn't know it quite yet, but he's smitten. he goes to start peeling the plates off the racked barbell but you stop him. and then, slack jawed and wide eyed, he watches you crank out an entire set. you heave the bar back onto the rack and then, he gets to watch you add MORE weight. he's not even trying to act like he isn't staring, completely gobsmacked. his friends are still horsing around elsewhere and he's stunned into place. you take a sip of water in-between sets and before you can put your headphones back on he can't stop himself from talking to you. he literally isn't even thinking when he catches your attention, feeling shy, but he can't help it. he has to talk to you- that was the coolest shit he's ever seen. its humbled him. changed him. he just watched you squat two of him over your shoulders like it was nothing. he can't even feel his pride take a hit either, he's entranced by you. you both have a great conversation and man, he knew you were cool before, but every time you open you're mouth it just gets better and better. he can't believe he's never noticed you until now. from that point on, he starts to notice whether you're there or not. and he goes crazy out of his way to talk to you- finding little reasons to chat. eventually you start seeking him out too. you ask him to be your spotter one day and he's pretty much head over heels after that. eventually you get each others numbers, then, he pulls the ultimate move. he invites you out to drinking with his friends and you show up but hey, check that out, looks like no one showed up but us! that totally wasn't planned at all, or anything. oh well! you two have a lovely evening together <3

[arabaka-archived]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ miguel x spidey!fem!reader. CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ !!! NO SPOILERS !!!! splashes of angst. unprotected sex. creampie. cervix fucking. WORD COUNT: 1.8K PSD CREDIT!!! MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI !!!!!!!（ ꐦꉺωꉺ)つ @miguelism @pompomegranate come get ya mans !!!!! PART TWO HERE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You can still see him here.

It’s not real and it never will be– not again, anyways.

“March 13th.” 

How long are you going to keep doing this? Your jaw tenses. Here we go again.

The argument is a solo act; there’s no one to talk to here but you. So naturally, you run the same trite script until it comes to the same inevitable conclusion: giving in to the self-indulgence.

The bad thing’s already happened. You lost Miguel– well, more like he lost you. You’re the one trapped in this purgatorial vortex. The space that lies between every what if, the border of every possibility.

And it’s so fucking lonely.

So it’s ironic that your multiverse jumping wristband is good for anything but its intended use. It mocks you, its amber projections burning red when you even so much as try to go home. Not to your original timeline– to HQ.

To him.

But you know that will never happen so you make do with what you have: the memories stored on your gadget, the device looking worse for wear with jagged claw marks running down its sides, disappearing into the scarred flesh that lies beneath it. 

He didn’t mean to hurt you. You know that.

You wish you could tell him.

You (metaphorically) furiously fan away that cloud of remembrance. You’re already stuck, no need to dwell on the last time your heart was ripped out. You lie back, resting against nothing but floating amongst everything. Limbo sure is weird.

Arm resting over your stomach, you train your eyes on the happier time playing out from the screen on your wrist. It’s not perfect; the vision cracks, sometimes glitches in reds and greens before going back to normal. It’s getting worse. 

There you go again! We’re trying to have a good time here. 

Right. Right.

Sorry.

Focus.

You take a deep breath, chest rising and falling steadily.

Focus.

You close your eyes and when you reopen them, fix them on the screen that shows you strutting in Miguel’s domain, it’s like you’re there.

It’s like you’re back home.

“You gotta eat, you know.” Tossing a paper bag way up high, it doesn’t surprise you that he catches it with lightning fast reflexes, even with his back turned to you. “And if you don’t, I’ll make ‘em take empanadas off the menu.” 

He’s still. Only sound coming from him is the rustling of the bag. At least there’s that, you think as you approach the floating platform. “Don’t make me come up there!” You holler, though you only get your own echo in return. 

Shit. He’s in a mood.

Throat flexing with a thick swallow, you decide to go up anyways– you sure don’t want to wait for him to come to you. Thing’s slow as hell.  

Webs whipping from your wrist, you fashion a slingshot apparatus to propel you yards into the air. Nothing beats the rush of a flight, even now as you descend into what could be a particularly thorny situation with a particularly grumpy man. 

But he’s your particularly grumpy man. 

“Hey,” Your voice starts softly, “Everything–”

He turns around, stopping you in the middle of what was going to be your magnum opus of pep talks to show he’s got a mouthful of doughy goodness that keeps him from talking. And when he swallows, there’s a damn smirk waiting for you to kiss.

You don’t fall for it, at least not now but god do you want to. But first…

“Asshole!” 

“You just jumped to conclusions.” Another bite of the savory empanada just to tick you off. You’re so cute when you’re annoyed, even if it’s all in good fun. Your cheeks puff up and your nose scrunches when your eyebrows furrow. He’ll kiss you if you won’t.

“Oh, real mature. Hiding behind–” 

In a flash, the empanada goes back in the bag and in red glowing binds gets fastened to the side of his computer mainframe, freeing up his hands to pull you close. A little too roughly, but you melt into his big frame regardless, lips pursing against his and giggling when you can taste meat and spice.

“How romantic.” You mutter and he laughs.

God, his laugh. Nobody heard it too often– nobody but you, that is.

When Miguel was with you, it’s as if you two were in a world of your own. A timeline of your own. Where past transgressions and terrible happenings were nonexistent. Where he could be him, the man he was supposed to be: sweet, charming, and kind. And where you could love him like he deserved.

Is someone else filling that role now? 

Great! You’re thinking too much again. Stop fucking this up!

“June 27th!” You blurt, warped back to reality when your thoughts strayed too far from the projection. 

The picture’s changed now. You’re home, your residence littered with reminders of Miguel. It’s empty, but not for long. The front door slams open and you and Miguel come pouring in, him taking the lead as the two of you blindly navigate the foyer with your lips locked and hands gripping each other for dear life.

Your cheeks in real time burn. Maybe you shouldn’t stay for this memory.

Oh, don’t be such a prude. It’s literally you! The little voice in your head chastises and honestly… You can’t argue with that.

“M-Miguel, I don’t– I don’t have– I’m not on–”

“Shut up.” A tempered hiss is pressed to your lips, thick digits coming to frame your face as he pushes you further into the space you’ve come to share together. “Or I’ll change my mind about filling you up.”

You can’t argue with that.

“Say it.” His growling crests your ears, breath hot and fangs out just moments later when his pelvis is flush against yours, cock buried to the base in your sopping wet pussy. You swear he’ll drip drool on you at this point, the man driven to the brink of his sanity by the way your cunt hugs him so tight. It’s like you want to milk him for all he’s worth. 

Your hands paw helplessly at his chest, all your energy zapped as your eyes roll back under the curtain of fluttering fluffy eyelashes. “F-Fuck Miguel– f-fill me up!” 

“Keep going.” His voice is low, rich and dark.

The fat head of his cock presses up against your sensitive bundle of clitoral nerves, slamming hard when you whimper and cry for him, “Right there, right there!” You start to babble, the words freely flowing from your kiss-bruised lips because your brain is long gone, “F-Fuck me, need your cum– need you, need you, Miguel! Please don’t stop, please!” 

“Yeah? Can’t feel whole without my cock? Need it?” His tone seeped in pride, he loves seeing you unravel for him like this. “I’m givin’ it to you baby, right where you need it. You feel that? Your little pussy crying for me, so fucking wet. Fuck, you’re so good. Good for me.” He’s kissing you now, sloppy and panting into your mouth before his tongue ravishes yours and swallows every moan you give him.

Your legs locked around his waist still bounce, hips raised off the bed by Miguel’s brutish clutch so he can bully more of himself into you, harder and faster. Your lower body limply follows his every move, takes every slam and thrust all the while wet squelches fill the room. Your vision finally coming back, you see his nostrils flare and his eyes glazed over with a beastly kind of lust. It’s enough to make your bones shiver.

You can’t help but let your gaze rest there, even as he fucks you within an inch of your life, always so fervent with his thrusting as he stuffs you full, but you just can’t get over this view: his pectoral muscles flexing when you tighten up around him in just the right way, the way sweat gathers on his brow before trickling down his sharp jawline, and the way his lips stay agape because if he’s not groaning, he’s growling.

“That’s it, mi vida. Doin’ so good. Pussy takin’ me all the way in. Shit– I’m addicted. Might just fuck you raw every time. Want that?” One hand comes to your face, thumb just barely squishing your cheek and making you pout. “Say it.” 

“Y-Yes, yes! Please Miguel!” Tear drops glimmering in the corners of your eyes, you plead for him, “C-Cum inside me, I’m getting close!” Every sense of yours is on fire, everything burning bright for him and only him. Always for him.

And you see a similar inferno explode in his narrowed eyes just then and it’s immediate, the way he unhooks your legs from his waist and bends them aaaalllllll the way back until your knees are violently knocking against the mattress, his lumbering body taking yours in the mating press he so adores.

Because he gets to fill you to the brim. Bump and grind against your cervix until even that soft nodule is his. He’s staking his claim, making you his as the soles of his feet dig deep into the sheets, his toned limbs caging your bouncing body until you’re nothing but a squealing little mess for him to clean up.

His balls slap firmly and roughly against your folds, sticky webs of cum starting and breaking each time he snaps his hips. Your walls tremble around him, gushing out more of your essence every time. You’re just about undone. He can feel it.

But so is he, his already thick cock pulsating with another rush of blood as the coil in his stomach heats up. He puts all his weight into you, onto you the last couple thrusts – he knows you can take it – so he can kiss you. So he can taste you.

“‘M cumming, c-cumming…” Your words are muffled and tired, eyes wheeling back as your orgasm hits you hard and heavy, Miguel following soon after with plenty of cum to fill your pretty pussy up with and an animalistic series of grunts as his cock twitches and throbs inside you. It’s thick and so much, too much so that the opaque matter starts to pool out when his hard shaft finally leaves you, giving your featherlight folds another heaping layer of viscosity.

“‘Tch– it’s comin’ out already.” He huffs, though with a bit of a laugh. “Can’t have that.” So his fingers gather what’s remaining and slip into your cunt before he pops another kiss to your parted lips, nipping just a teeny bit on the bottom half to get you to squeal one last time for him.

And that’s how the video ends. That’s how you finish, having followed along with lithe fingers rubbing your aching clit and one or two at any time plunged and crooked inside you, but it’s not the same. 

It’ll never be the same.

[libingan]

— temptations.

warnings: non-penetrative say gex, internalized homophobia, religious guilt and stuff, angst

a/n: im suck ASS at writing angst, but ive had this thought in my head for DAYS now so i decided to finally write it!!! thinking of adding a part two, but that depends on how many of yall will eat this shit up LMAO

pls forgive me if its bad im dogshit and writing but like non of my irls are interested in this shit HAHSWHSA i mean, we play call of duty mobile, but thats it, they dont care much abr the lore

commander phillip graves was a man of iron discipline and unyielding principles. he thrived on control, finding solace in the regimented life of the military. his stern demeanor and sharp gaze commanded respect and fear in equal measure. he was a man who believed in strength, in the rigidity of rules, in the necessity of keeping emotions tightly leashed. vulnerability was a weakness he could not afford, and he had built his entire life on that foundation. his devout upbringing and the stern teachings of his father had instilled in him a strict moral code, one that left no room for deviation or indulgence in forbidden desires.

yet, beneath the steel exterior, a single, forbidden desire gnawed at the edges of his sanity: his feelings for one of his soldiers.

you.

every time he saw you, his pulse quickened, his breath caught. self-loathing twisted in his gut. how could he, a man of iron principles, be so weak? love was a dangerous distraction, and love between men was an unspoken abomination. the teachings of his faith haunted him, whispers of sin and eternal damnation echoing in his mind. his father's voice, a specter of disdain and disappointment, reverberated alongside: "men like that are disgraceful." graves had built his life on those beliefs, constructing walls around his heart to keep out anything that might expose his vulnerabilities.

but you shattered those walls effortlessly. your strength, your determination, your unwavering loyalty—it was everything he admired in a soldier, everything he could never accept in himself. graves clenched his fists until his knuckles were white, willing himself to get a grip. he could not afford to lose control.

yet when you came to him that night, seeking guidance, seeking solace, something inside him snapped. the iron walls he had built around his heart crumbled, and in a moment of devastating weakness, he let himself feel.

you stood there, looking up at him with those eyes that had haunted his dreams. he couldn't resist any longer. with a trembling hand, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. the warmth of your skin sent a shiver down his spine. before he could stop himself, he pulled you close, his lips crashing into yours with a desperation that bordered on madness.

he poured all his suppressed emotions into that kiss, every ounce of his forbidden longing, his guilt, his shame. his hands roamed over your back, pulling you tighter against him, needing to feel your warmth, to drown out the voices of condemnation in his head. the room seemed to spin around him, the world narrowing down to the intoxicating sensation of your lips against his.

“sir,” you gasped against his lips, “can’t… not with... the door... open.”

a feral growl rumbled in phillip’s chest. he broke the kiss momentarily, his breath hot and ragged against your face. with a fierce, almost primal urgency, he grabbed your arm and pulled you inside his quarters. the door slammed shut behind you, the finality of the action echoing in the quiet room.

he guided you swiftly to his bed, his grip insistent and firm. as he pushed you down onto the mattress, his eyes burned with a conflicted mixture of desire and frustration. the room was charged with a palpable tension, every movement driven by a need to assert control and escape his inner turmoil.

after slamming the door shut and pushing you onto the bed, phillip’s voice was rough, almost breaking with the intensity of his struggle. “i need you so damn bad,” he growled, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and torment. “but if anyone knew… if they found out, i’d be sent straight to hell.”

as he looked down at you, his breath catching at the sight of you beneath him—eyes wide and lips slightly parted—the thoughts of damnation and guilt evaporated. the sight of you in such a vulnerable state ignited an overwhelming, burning need within him. he couldn’t think of anything else but the urgent, consuming desire to be with you.

“fucking damnit,” he curses, hands sliding down your body until they reach your hips. phillip’s gaze darkened with desire, wrapping your legs around his waist, crotch pressed up against your own. a low hiss escapes him at the contact and he shoves his head into the crook of your neck to hide his pleasured expression, inhaling your masculine scent.

he tried desperately to imagine that he was touching a woman, hoping it might help him regain control. but as the thought lingered, he found it completely unarousing. the fantasy fell flat, failing to spark any desire. the only thing that stirred his pulse was the undeniable reality of you beneath him, your warmth and vulnerability making every shred of restraint and control dissolve into nothingness.

slowly, phillip began to rock his hips against yours, his movements deliberate and measured. he could feel the tension in your body, the way you responded to each shift. he savored the needy, high-pitched whine that escaped your lips, a sound that drove him wild with desire. the rhythmic motion between you became a shared, intoxicating dance, and with every whimper you gave, his own need only deepened. “f-feels so damn good,” he mutters through gritted teeth, soft grunts filling your ears.

phillip pulls away momentarily to make quick work of unbuttoning his and your jeans, pulling out both of your cocks from its confines. he swallows the lump that forms in his throat at the sight of your body, still fully clothed aside from your…

phillip’s gut churned with a volatile mix of disgust and arousal at the thought. his blue eyes locked with yours, a stark reminder of the gravity of your situation. he was about to call it off and throw you out, but when you wrapped your legs around him, pulling his hips down and pressing the most intimate parts of yourselves together, his mind went hazy and lost all clarity.

“oh, god…” you moan, and phillip feels a surge of conflicted anger and desire. he has half a mind to reprimand you for invoking His name in this chaotic moment. but as he feels the heat of your body pressed against his, the anger fades into a raw, uncontrollable need. his grip tightens, and he’s consumed by the relentless desire to be closer, to lose himself completely in the moment.

instead, he begins thrusting, maintaining his slow and steady pace from before.

and, fuck… it feels so much better. phillip struggled to contain the noises threatening to escape him, rubbing your cocks together as if his life depended on it.

you were lost in the moment, every sensation magnified and overwhelming. the way phillip moved against you sent waves of pleasure through your body, each thrust and press igniting a deep, euphoric ache. you moaned softly, your senses completely absorbed by the intense heat and friction between you. each touch, each shift brought you closer to the edge, your body arching and shifting in response to the overwhelming pleasure. you couldn’t help but surrender completely to the feeling, your mind blanking out as you rode the exhilarating tide of desire.

“i-i’m—i’m close…” you whisper, hands clawing at phillip’s back, clutching tightly at the fabric of his shirt. he only grunts in response, hips stuttering as he feels his own orgasm bubbling within.

phillip keeps his head buried against your shoulder, unable to bring himself to look at you. the shame of indulging in such debauchery is overwhelming enough, and the thought of seeing you reveling in the pleasure only deepens his guilt. he’s desperate to avoid the sight of your enjoyment, fearing that it will amplify his already unbearable self-loathing. his focus remains fixed on the intense sensations, trying to block out the reality of what’s happening and the torment of his own conscience.

despite his inner conflict, he could not help overwhelming tide of pleasure surging through him. he could sense the moment building, an intense and uncontrollable wave of sensation. as the pleasure reached its peak, his grip tightened, and he released a ragged breath against your shoulder, the crescendo of his desire manifesting in a shuddering release. the experience was both consuming and disorienting, leaving him breathless and momentarily lost in the overwhelming intensity. your body responded instinctively, arching and trembling as you reached the peak of your desire. the intensity of the moment left you breathless, your cries mingling with the rhythm of phillip’s movements.

afterward, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, a storm raging in his mind. what had he done? what kind of man had he become? he had betrayed his principles, his honor, everything he stood for. he turned to look at you, your face peaceful in the dim light, and fury surged through him—not at you, but at himself. how could he have allowed this to happen?

“get out,” he said, his voice trembling with barely restrained anger.

you stirred, confusion clouding your features. “sir?”

“i said get out,” he repeated, his tone as cold as a winter’s morning. “this was a mistake, and it won’t happen again. and if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, you’ll be wishin’ you hadn’t.”

you stood, pain flashing in your eyes, but you didn't argue. you knew better than to challenge him when he was like this. you gathered your things and left, the door closing softly behind you.

you quickly fixed yourself up, the weight of his words heavy in the air. with one last, pained glance at him, you turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind you.

phillip sank onto the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. the room felt oppressively quiet, every corner echoing with the aftermath of what had just happened. the intensity of his emotions left him numb, and he struggled to reconcile the fierce desire he’d felt with the crushing guilt that now consumed him. he stared at the floor, haunted by the memory of your face, his faith, and his father’s voice insulting him for the man he grew up to be.

after a long, agonizing moment, he shakily reached for the small wooden table beside his bed. with trembling hands, he picked up an old, worn Bible and a rosary that lay beside it. clutching them tightly, he buried his face in the pages of the Bible, his lips moving silently in desperate, fervent prayer. the rosary dangled from his fingers as he sought solace, trying to find some measure of peace and forgiveness amidst the chaos of his own making.

[amethystedream]

part one — part two — part three — part four !

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི

satoru felt like he was losing his damn mind. his brain couldn’t process what utahime was saying fast enough for him to form a coherent response before she shut the door in his face, but he figured he deserved that even if he had actually tried to say anything at all.

his thoughts were a jumbled mess, though one thing he had clear: he had this coming. he’d been selfish and self-indulgent, thinking he’d get away with not talking about his feelings as if they weren’t constantly slapping him across the face, not that utahime had noticed anyway.

after a solid minute of him standing at her closed door like an idiot, he finally snapped back from his thoughts, knocking desperately on the wood.

“hime, come on. open the door, you didn’t even let me say anything,” he tried to speak loud enough that she’d be able to hear him even if she was at the very back of her dorm, but he was still met with silence, which only made his knocking start to turn into pounding. “look, okay—i know i deserve this, you’ve every right to be mad at me but at least hear me out? don’t be like this, please,”

hearing nothing in return, he sighed, leaning his forehead against the door. he waited for about another minute, but still—no answer.

“i’m sorry—i’m really fucking sorry, utahime. i know i’ve been an idiot, and i know i’ve been confusing you, i’ve been… fucking selfish, and i know it. i really wish i could tell you how i feel, but i don’t want to do it through a door i’m not even sure you’re listening to,” he shook his head slightly, pulling back from the door and looking at it for a moment, hoping she’d open, “you’re gonna make me do it anyways, won’t you?” a small laugh left his lips, forgoing the bit of decency he’d actually tried to have not to use his technique so he could see if she was at least by the door, which— she was.

“look, i… fuck— i do have feelings for you, okay? i don’t even know how or when did this happen, but… i do, and i’m sorry for not saying anything, i’m sorry for acting like i’d been without telling you how i felt, i really am. i’d try and make up some lame excuse but i really don’t have any. i know i’m probably only making shit worse but at least i want you to know that i was aware, and that i’m sorry” he sighed, turning his back to the door, leaning against it as he slid down.

“you’ve always stirred complicating emotions im me, hime— i’ve just… i’ve never known how to deal with it, and i know i’ve been hurting you because of it, i’m not trying to justify myself,”

utahime was crying silently, sitting by the door to as she listened to him, willing herself not to give in, this sudden confession was not what she needed nor what she deserved, and she was tired. why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

“you never told me how you felt either, though… i’m still not quite sure what you actually want from me, i… i really wish you’d tell me too. i’ve told you now, haven’t i?” satoru felt as if he was talking to himself at this point, mindlessly voicing out all the thoughts that were swirling around in his head, “i really do like you, hime. i should have said it sooner, i know that. i just— i was— no, i am a mess. i’ve been a mess since everyone left and the higher ups started putting all the responsibilities on me, i’ve had to deal with a lot and i couldn’t be bothered with trying to understand my own feelings, but i swear, they’re there— they’re all for you, hime. i really don’t want to lose you… i can make things right, if you’d let me— take you out on a real nice date… would you like that? we could go to that place you had been talking about, and i could tell you about all the sappy shit i think about you constantly—“

his little speech was abruptly interrupted with the open of a door, making him fall backwards, wincing as he looked up to utahime, who was holding the door open with an unimpressed look in her tear-stricken face. her eyes were red, and he could hear a light sniffle, but nothing ever stopped the permanent glare she always directed at him ever since they were teenagers.

“get your ass off the floor, satoru,” she said, sighing in annoyance at him. he quickly scrambled off the floor, standing up as he looked at her with an apologetic expression.

“i appreciate all that stuff you said, but i’m really tired of all this. i think i’ve been quite obvious with the way i’ve felt for you all this time and i won’t say it, you don’t— you don’t get to hear it,” she huffed, looking away from him, “i just can’t keep doing this, satoru”

his face mirrored pure desperation, his eyes pleading as he looked at her, opening his mouth to damn near beg her, but she beat him to it, “no, satoru—please, just… leave me alone”

“hime, come on—“

“i said no, satoru! you can’t expect me to cave just because you said you liked me, even less when you only said it because i snapped at you! why the fuck couldn’t you tell me like a normal person? why did i have to force it out of you, satoru?”

he was once again speechless for a moment, his mouth briefly opening and closing as he tried to say something, “it was not like that, utahime, look— i’m sorry, please,”

“just leave, satoru. please,” she was tired, her tone soft and pleading despite having every right to keep screaming at him.

he sighed, knowing that nothing would get fixed if he kept insisting. he looked at her for a moment, his eyes regretful and apologetic.

“i’m really sorry, hime. i’ll… i’ll leave, for now, but— i really want to fix this,” with that, he finally stepped back, hearing the door shut behind him as he left. the walk back to his quarters was suffocating, his mind going a mile a minute, trying to find a way to fix things. he knew he had to give her some time and space, but he felt fucking desperate to talk things over and be able to have her in his arms again. he was in for a rough few weeks, he figured…

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི

maybe this will be finished in a couple more parts, hope you’re liking it so far!

[kairiscorner]

married life. — kento nanami x spouse!reader (part 1)

summary: he'd give up his old habits and more just to see you smile, be with you for a little longer, and make you the happiest person in the whole damn world; he's your husband for that very reason. pairing: nanami kento x spouse!gn!reader genre: tooth-rotting fluff !! content warnings: mentions of slight alcoholism author's note: i saw that fanart of nanami that i reblogged and my mind just came up with all kinds of shit for him. i loved him for 6 months straight, I WANNA GET BACK THERE, LET ME LOVE HIM FOR 6 MONTHS MORE !!

kento nanami comes home from his dead-end, nowhere 9 to 5 job, exhausted and in need of rest. about a year ago, all he had to comfort him was a bottle of pricey wine that he indulged in every end of the month or so, not minding it was nearing its expiry date. he only had store-bought bread and whatever melodramatic soap opera was on TV to entertain him.

kento nanami was indeed, lonely; he was well aware of his own loneliness and needed nobody to point that out for him. it always made him feel worse whenever anybody would say how handsome he is or he's not getting any younger and that he has to settle down at some point.

kento nanami was never the jealous type, though whenever he'd hear word about a coworker of his or whoever getting married and being invited to the ceremony, he'd always feel a kind of pang in his heart, knowing he could never have that kind of life.

kento nanami had given up all hope of finding the right person, none of the people he had met recently were anything he felt connected to (or could even start a conversation with).

kento nanami used to clutch his wine bottle at night, hiccuping in a drunken state as the dialogue from the characters on the late night soap opera on TV was fading from his senses and sleep had come to finally take him away.

kento nanami however, gets woken up in the middle of the night to the feeling of warm hands on both sides of his face; hearing a soft, gentle voice call his name as he grumbles and groans.

kento nanami hears a giggle ring throughout his ears as he's being helped up by soft hands. "kento... if you were that tired, you could've asked for my help, love." you chided him gently as he hummed in confusion.

kento nanami sighed as he tried to stand up. "my... spouse isn't gonna like... that you're helping my drunk self off the couch... right now..." he said as he nearly staggered, but you aided him up as you nearly carried him up the stairs. "they don't want to see... me drinking anymore... but i can't help it, i miss them... too much, the alcohol... it brings me closer to them, lets me stay with them a little... little longer in my dreams..." he mumbled.

kento nanami began to tear up lightly as he kept mumbling and muttering about how much he loves his spouse, how much they saved him from a lifetime of loneliness he already accepted was going to be his life. "i can't believe that... that i... i was saved from... growing old all by myself... a miserable, meaningless life... a life without them by them... and i pull this stunt on them after... promising i'd be better... it didn't make me feel any better, it made me feel sadder." he confessed to you as you got him up to your shared bedroom and laid him down on the bed.

kento nanami sobbed as he kept going on and on about his beloved spouse, how he wants to be better and that they've looked forward to the day when he could spend one evening without him being passed out on the couch from the habit he had yet to get rid of him drinking himself to sleep before he got married.

kento nanami felt loving hands stroke his hair and shush him, kissing his temples as he tried to say sorry to his spouse. "please stop kissing and holding me... my spouse'll be sad... i wanna see them so bad..." he whispered as you chuckled. "kento, i am your spouse." you tell him as you felt over his ring finger, the two of you wearing the rings you both slid on each other on the day of your wedding.

kento nanami blinked his tears away in realization, and his face scrunched up even more as he began to sob harder. he wrapped his arms around your waist and cried into your shoulder, apologizing that he should've squared up, he shouldn't have let you down, but you shushed him and told him with a comforting voice that it was okay. "it's hard to get out of a habit, love... i know that. i'm not angry, i'm not disappointed... i'll stay with you forever, kento, you don't need to keep that in your dreams. i'll always be with you." you promised him as you kissed the top of his head, with him thanking you and kissing your cheeks, his tears wetting them as he muttered how in love he is with you, how he'll work on this starting tomorrow, but for now... all he wants to do is hold you in his arms and sleep with you, just lay here on the bed with you in his arms and with his heart beating in harmony with yours.