#he could barely see anything in the dark and all he could do was slobber and moan

[justgoji]

so I had a nightmare and I went to see my mom about it and she didn’t care or even bother to ask if I was alright :(

[riddledwithrats]

In The Midnight Hour

Chapter Four: And It Feels Like Home

>chapters one, two, three

Summary: Reader is taken to Falcone's office and beaten within an inch of her life.

Words: 1,808 (kinda short but I wanted to give y’all at least a little bit! one more chapter left :))

Warnings: kidnapping, extreme violence, death threats, major character death, degradation, religious imagery, hurt/comfort (18+)

“I thought you made a deal, boss?”

Voices ring in your ears and blood drips out of your nose and mouth. There’s no light and you can’t tell if it’s because the room is dark or if your eyes are shut.

“I only made that deal to placate Oz, he’s a fuckin’ schmuck if he thinks I’m just gonna let her go.”

You groan and try to roll over but your arm shoots out in pain, and a squeal of agony wretches its way through your throat. You’re too delirious to recognize the voices, your ears sound all fuzzy and you can’t see anything.

Tears begin to roll down your face as you gently prod at your eyes, they’re almost fully swollen shut. Someone has been wailing on you for a very long time it seems.

“Oh, look. The bitch is awake!” A rough voice says near you, it only gets closer. You can feel the wretched breath on your neck, it reeks of whiskey and tequila. A delicate touch follows the trail of your tears, slowly beginning to scratch the tip of their nail into your skin.

You cry out in pain, your eyes beginning to open just slightly. A sliver of light blinds you, and Falcone's face comes into view. His face is deep red, he’s seething as he stares daggers into you.

“How fucking could you?” You begin to shake and whimper as he grabs you roughly by the shoulders. His grip is excruciating, you can feel bruises forming already. “You let him fucking slobber all over you like a dog, you WHORE. DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T FIND OUT?”

You can’t think, all you can do is scream, cry, and whimper. He begins to laugh at you.

“I just can’t wrap my head around it, angel.” He leans back a little, sitting on his knees beside your trembling form. “He’s fucking incompetent, he’s an idiot for Christ's sake! What does he got that I don’t, baby?”

Falcone grabs you by the throat and makes you look him in the eyes. He’s waiting for an answer, squeezing your windpipe periodically.

“I said, what does he got that I DON’T?” Falcone shouts and it makes your ears ring. Your mouth is dry and you can barely form words in your head but you mutter an answer out anyways.

“A heart.” Your throat begins to feel like it’s closing.

He doesn’t seem to enjoy this answer.

He grabs you by the sides of your head and begins slamming your head down onto the floor. You can’t stop screaming. Everything begins to go by in slow motion.

The air flows around you like nothing is happening, the sun shines into the office. It bounces orange and yellow light all around you, it looks so beautiful.

Stars begin to form in your sight, you can’t hear anything and you can barely focus your eyes but Falcone hasn’t let up. You feel so helpless. His hands make their way back to your throat, he pushes his thumbs into the front of your esophagus, and it burns. Your lungs feel like they’ve callapsed, your vision is even blurrier than before and you’re sure you’ve lost more than a few brain cells at this point. All you can see is the rage in his eyes.

The elevator door dings.

“CARMINE.”

Oz steps in, he’s fuming. There’s a gun in his hand. Falcone only stops once he hears Oz’s booming voice and his brace clinking against the floor. He looks up at him in awe.

Oz looks ethereal. The sun shines down on him like a halo.

A vague idea enters your head. Your gaze flickers to Falcone; Adam. To the gun; The Apple.

And finally, to Oz. A great, big, powerful Serpent.

A loud bang echoes through the office. A heavy weight falls onto your chest, and slickness splatters onto your face. Your heart is beating so fast, you’re finally free.

Your eyes fall shut and you can’t open them anymore.

Waking up in a hospital is jarring, specifically because you hadn’t expected to wake up at all. But the sterile white walls, the linen covers, and the fluorescent lights weren’t entirely unwelcome.

There’s a brace on your arm and on one of your knees, but you don’t feel any pain. You look at your injuries in confusion, why didn’t they hurt?

“They’ve got you on a lot of painkillers, sweetheart.” The rumbling voice cracks as it speaks. You look over to your left, Oz is sitting in a chair that looks much too small for him. There’s a pillow and a blanket next to him, as well as a cup of water and some magazines. He looks tired like he hasn’t taken his eyes off you in days. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna wake up, doll.”

Oz begins to choke up, he looks ecstatic that you’re awake but he just can’t stop crying. You don’t remember much of what happened. All you can remember is the pain… and the sun.

You don’t see the sun now though, it looks to be pitch black outside, like it’s the middle of the night. Oz reaches a hand out towards yours, he holds your hand gently.

“I-I’ll call the nurse, sweetheart.” He stands up and presses a button next to your bed.

“Did you kill him, Oz?” You ask as he freezes in place, hand still hovering to your side. He looks at you, visibly stiff like he wasn’t prepared for the question but simultaneously like he knew you were going to ask it from the moment you woke up.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, I did.”

He sits back down and waits for your reply, watching every tiny twitch of your face to gauge your reaction.

“Good.” You whisper out, eyes closed and leaning back into the barely-comforting cushion of the hospital bed. It feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, you feel light and free like every chain that had been holding you down finally snapped.

He snorts out a small laugh, but when you sneak a look at him he looks incredibly solemn. You’re sure there’s a lot of stuff that has unraveled, or been brought up, because of his killing Falcone. The foundation of his business has become shaky and fragile, plenty of people are going to try and make a feeble attempt at the newly opened job position.

But none of them will be nearly as fast as Oz.

“Oz?” You call out to him softly, watching as his dejected eyes raise to meet yours. A fire burns in the pit of your stomach, a sense of pride and determination flares within your chest. You take a deep breath and look him, deathly serious, in the eye. “This city is yours now. No one can take it from you.”

Oz sits up at attention, he looks at you bewildered. He secretly shudders at the realization that you definitely just read his mind. He tries to gain his composure, sending a cheeky, almost shy, smile your way as he rubs the back of his neck.

“I wish it was that easy, sweetheart.” He chuckles dryly, but stops abruptly at the resolute look in your eyes. You’re not trying to reassure him… You’re stating a fact. One that seems to be very near and dear to your heart. Oz sighs, looking at you softly.

“Thank you.” He whispers.

A few seconds go by of you both staring deep into each others eyes, before Oz comes back to reality. Just as he opens his mouth to say something else, the door handle jiggles slowly before a young women enters.

She’s dressed head to toe in purple scrubs and it makes you squint a little at the vibrant color. She says something in greeting but you don’t hear much of it, tuning out very fast as she does a routine check of your health. Asking you basic questions.

Apparently, you had been unconscious for around three days but they had kept a vigilant eye on you, and reassured Oz that you would be awake in no time. Oz had also kept a vigilant eye on you, the nurse says this after he leaves the room to fetch you something to eat.

“What?” You ask quietly, looking at her quizzically. You’re sure there’s much more important things he could’ve been doing, but the blanket, paper cup of water, and discarded coat where Oz was sitting tells a different story.

“Yeah, he barely left your side. Only really left to go the bathroom and begrudgingly get food at the insistence of myself.” She giggles a little, not noticing the expression on your face.

“Oh.”

She leaves a little while after that, only really making small chit chat after she’s assessed that you’re in fairly good shape considering the circumstances.

Of course he would stay, you think. It would be out of character for him to just leave you, a crumpled heap of a person on the floor. Although he had wanted to kill Carmine for a very long time, there was very little chance he would ever do it if Falcone hadn’t tried what he had.

The thought of Oz wanting to save you makes you blush, the heat in your face doesn’t seem to go away even as Oz enters the room with some food for you and himself.

He smiles at you, not a smirk but a real, true smile. He brandishes the plain hospital food for you to see, and your heart beats rapidly in your chest.

“The nurse said you could be discharged from the hospital today, doll.” He says as he sits down in the chair beside your bed. He hands you something to eat, before relaxing into the chair. “And uh, well… I was wondering if you’d come stay with me for a while, sugar.”

That takes you back a little.

“What? Why, Oz?” You ask in confusion.

“Well, I don’t mean this in a rude way, doll, but I feel like every time I take my eyes off you, you get the shit beaten out of you.” Oz chuckles dryly, but he looks nervous. “I just, I worry about you, y’know? Don’t want you to get hurt no more, especially if it’s because of me.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Oz…”

He doesn’t look convinced, but before he can argue the nurse comes back in. She looks shy and apologetic for interrupting, but she steps further into the room anyways.

“Your paperwork is all finished, you’re free to leave.” She says with a gentle smile, and as Oz and yourself nod she walks back out swiftly.

Oz looks at you, he seems to be thinking very deeply before he says:

“C’mon, doll, let’s get going.” He stands up and helps you get ready to leave.

[darling-i-read-it]

The Spencer Mansion

STARS Office Part 2 

Part 1 

Albert Wesker x fem!reader, Chris Redfield x fem!reader 

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: canon level violence, Wesker toeing the line of using the reader and being in love with her, Chris thinking the reader is dead, canon level injuries 

Tagging: you all mentioned wanting a part 2, I hope you don't mind that I tagged you! <3 @boywivlove @fanartcollectorwriter @chaotic-fangirl-blog

Author’s Note: A lot of people have suggested I do a part two to stars office and I always meant to but never got around to it! I hope that you guys like this. Id be open to a part three (and hopefully do it quicker this time around lol). Thinking for part three that I could do two endings, one for chris and one for wesker....

I also added this request to the plot : @zedonna , If not that, then maybe a possible scenario where Reader replaces Richard? Instead of Chris finding him and Rebecca, he sees reader with the snake bite (someone he is close to and harbor feelings for) But for extra angst, maybe chris doesnt find the serum in time and comes back only to find Rebecca has abandoned a now deceased Reader. ( Totally not what happened my first playthrough with Richard) Thank you, anything is appreciated!

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

The tension in the helicopter was poignant and undeniable. You wouldn’t be there for long but the emotions hung in the air like dreamcatchers, haunting and sticky. Wesker hadn’t said anything about Bravo Team and no one had asked him. You hadn’t personally heard a thing about Rebecca since she left the day before, or any of them for that matter. The air held onto the fear of the moment, not knowing what you were going into and not knowing if you would come back. It didn’t help that you were sitting across from Chris, who didn't want to make eye contact with you. 

You felt bad. You knew that you had slept with Wesker to get back at him but Albert was right. He hadn’t actually made a move. It wasn’t your duty to control Redfield’s emotions, especially not so close to the field. 

Jill was waiting for the right moment to ask you about it. The day before you had been best friends with Chris but now you were wearing the wrong shirt, clad with the hickies to match the rumors. Wesker hadn’t let up - why would he? What was everyone gonna do, tell the boss? He had an especially confident aura about him this morning. It was attractive. His jaw set and his disinterested eyes made him that much more alluring. 

You tried to avoid eye contact. 

“Bravo Team’s crashed helicopter is just below us. We’re going to land there and fan out in search for them. All contact has been lost and we don’t know what we’re going into,” Wesker announced, standing up and grabbing the railing above his head. “Think on your toes and don’t try to find each other if you get split up. We meet at the mansion if needed.” 

There were a couple curt nods. Chris pretended not to listen as he looked out the window at the helicopter crash. His face was laced with concern. He cared so genuinely about all those people. Your helicopter lowered, slowly. You held your gun tighter as you got up, preparing to exit. You remained in line as you left, landing eventually on the ground below. 

Jill moved forward to investigate. 

“Stay low Vickers,” Wesker said into his comm. His voice was robotic now. You barely recognized the man you had been with last night. You came up behind him, gun held up, a flashlight in your other hand. 

“Yes sir,” Brad responded. The joking manner in his voice left with the sun. It was now tension filled and dark, a low hanging fog creeping in around the eerie crash site. 

“I don’t see anyone,” Barry exclaimed, from a little further in another direction. Wesker opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a growling noise coming from the crash. Everyone who heard turned their guns to face it. A dog emerged from the grass, teeth bared and slobbering. You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowed. How had a dog gotten all the way out into the middle of Raccoon Forest? You barely had time to think of solutions when it snapped, jumping forward. It went at Jill, who was closest. You moved forward to grab her arm and help her up, unable to distinguish the noises around you. 

Dogs were barking. More than one. You could hear people running, commotion happening. No one ever prepares you for the silence of the moment. There’s no background music to justify the violence. It’s just you and your thoughts, or lack thereof. 

The helicopter rose. 

Wesker yelled something, something at Brad in the helicopter. But he was leaving. You turned to try and find Albert but it was too dark. You and Jill ran in the direction of Barry, who you could make out. Chris was behind you in a second and then you had more companions than not. You were glad to be running the same way as them. 

You weren’t sure where you were going, or where this supposed abandoned mansion was. But you followed Jill’s stumbling direction regardless until you reached something that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. 

Barry and Chris opened the doors as you and Jill shot aimlessly into the dark, hoping to hit a target. You backed into the mansion and the doors shut. The silence was deafening. Heavy breathing and large open air but no longer any dogs. You breathed again. 

“Good, you made it.” You turned around to face Wesker who was standing in the middle of the room. He was breathing slightly heavy but it was nothing compared to the rest of you. 

“You take a shortcut or something?” Chris questioned, bitterly. 

“I told you to follow me after Vickers got spooked.” 

“Got spooked? Those were rabid dogs Wesker!” Jill pointed out. She peeked out one of the windows. Now that you were inside, you could take in your surroundings. You were in a grand hall, doors on either side and two staircases going to the level above you. The light on the chandelier was on. 

“I thought this place was abandoned,” you pointed out. 

“It was,” Wesker muttered. 

“We should probably investigate it then. See who else is here. It might be Bravo Team,” Jill offered. Wesker nodded curtly. 

“Well there’s no going out that way,” he said pointedly, gesturing to the front door. You could still hear the faint scratches of the dogs on the other side. 

“This place is huge. There’s gotta be another way out,” Barry offered. 

“Jill, Barry, you take the left door,” Wesker said. “Chris-” 

“I can go by myself,” Chris noted. He gestured to the right door. “Try to keep your hands off each other.” You knew he was just hurt but it didn’t wound you any less. 

“We really should try to stay together,” you offered. 

“Let him dig his own grave,” Wesker offered sharply. Chris could’ve been swayed before but now he was gone, going up the stairs. You huffed out. 

“We’ll meet back here in five, after looking around,” you said, looking at everyone. Chris waved his hand, Jill and Barry gave a disregarding nod. You opened up the door to the left and was greeted with a small room. There was a statue in the middle. 

“Fucking Vickers,” you muttered. You moved your hair out of your face and looked back at Wesker. “Did you know he was gonna do that?”

“Of course not,” he offered. He tried the door at the end of the room. It was locked.��

“You can shoot it.”

“And waste a bullet on a door?” He gave you a dumb look. His glasses covered his eyes, making it unable to get a read on him. There was a curtain on the other side of the door. You moved it aside. 

You raised your gun. 

“Are we gonna talk about it?” you questioned, turning the corner. 

“What is there to talk about?” He was following you. 

You side eyed him. 

“I told you, I don’t do it often. In the eye of danger, I give into impulses.” You refused to believe that was all it was. The way that he held your face…that couldn’t have been conjured up for looks. 

“Alright,” you grumbled. “And the way you acted towards Chris this morning?” 

“Will you focus?” You rolled your eyes and entered the side room. There was a man passed out on the ground. You rushed forward to him, leaning down, gun still at the ready. Wesker hung behind you. You reached at his neck to check for a pulse, unable to see his face. You got nothing. You looked up at Wesker, about to tell him the unknown man was dead, when the man moved. 

You jumped, scampering back. Wesker raised his gun. The man stood warily, unsteady on his feet. You crawled behind Wesker as he shot without so much as a warning. The noise echoed off the small hallway. Wesker shot the man three times but he still stood, unaffected. His mouth opened, drool coming from his face. He didn’t look…human. He looked like he was dead, like his pulse. 

One more gunshot from Wesker in the face took him out. He fell back down. Your eyes were wide, breath heaving. 

“Be careful. Things don’t like to stay dead around here.” You looked up at him, amazed or annoyed you couldn’t tell. He offered you and a hand and helped you up. 

“What the fuck was that Al?” 

“You know what it was.” You wanted to tell him you sure as hell did not know. You thought about Night of the Living Dead. You thought about Evil Dead. Wesker turned to leave, leaving you amazed in his wake. 

“Albert was that a zombie?” 

He didn’t answer you. You reopened the door to the main room. You were happy to be in a larger space but now every corner was menacing. What was lurking where you couldn't see? Jill and Barry came from the door across the hall. 

“There’s something there! A monster!” Jill exclaimed. You ran to her, out of habit. She was one of your best friends and her distress sent you into protection mode. Suddenly you wanted Chris back. You looked up to the stairs, searching for him. 

“We saw it too,” you said. 

“We have to separate and find a way out of here,” Barry explained. 

“This place is huge!” you argued. 

“Where’s Wesker?” Jill asked. You turned around. He was gone. Where had he gone? He came with you into the main room hadn’t he? You opened up the door again but he wasn’t there. 

“He was just…he was just here!” 

“Chris?!” Barry called up the stairs. You were scared. The fear petrified you in your spot. Where were they? You didn’t want Jill to leave your sight. You wanted to stay planted right next to her. 

“Oh God, what happened to Bravo Team?” Jill asked, breathing out hollowly. 

“You want to split up?” you spat at Barry. 

“Chris could be dead,” Jill muttered.

“We need to cover ground quickly. It just makes the most sense,” Barry promised. “You both of your weapons. You’re trained to deal with abnormal issues.” He stood in front of you and Jill. She was holding your elbow. “You won't be able to find them if you just stand here.” 

He directed it to both of you but it seemed like he was talking to you. 

“Wesker couldn’t have gone far,” you maintained. 

“Then go find him.” Jill looked like she wanted to future protest. She looked up at the stairs. 

“I’ll go for Chris,” she said, voice still wary. 

“We all come back here when we’ve found an exit. It’s the central part of the house.” You didn’t want to know more details. What if no one came back? What if you were stuck waiting for someone who had been a zombies dinner? Where was Chris? Was he okay? 

“Find him,” you told Jill. She nodded. “Stay safe,” you whispered. You didn’t want to leave but you forced yourself to move away. You had to go. You had to go. 

You opened the door again. Wesker must’ve gone back to this room. God knows why he didn’t just wait until you had all made a game plan. You refrained from calling his name, holding your gun tightly in your hands so the blood left them. 

The zombie in the corner was still down. You tried the locked door again. It opened, weak on the hinges. He must’ve broken through it. You took a step through, trying to breath through the nerves. He was around. He had to be. 

-

The mansion was like a maze, filled with puzzles and locked doors. You had a hard enough time finding out where you were, let alone where everyone else was. You were met with zombies and disregarded ammunition. The Bravo team was here. You weren’t sure if they were anymore. 

No sign of Wesker but even less sign of anyone else. You hadn’t seen Jill, Barry or Chris since you split up with them. At the confines of the mansion you felt like the problems of yesterday were far less important. 

That was, until you saw Chris rounding a corner. 

He held his gun up, prepared to shoot an oncoming zombie, but was just met with you. He let out a sigh of relief and it was like there was never any ill will. You rushed to each other, throwing your arms around his shoulders. 

“Chris oh God,” you muttered against his arm. You had never been so happy to see your friend. “I haven’t seen anyone in forever.” In reality it had likely only been an hour but that hour seemed like a lifetime. 

“I thought you were dead,” he exclaimed. “I saw Barry briefly, and Wesker.” 

“Where?” You still were unsure how Wesker had evaded your searching. He had only a couple minutes of a head start. 

“Upstairs somewhere. I lost Barry outside, when some…some of those things…” He shook his head. He grabbed your shoulders. “I’m glad you’re okay.” 

“I’m glad you’re okay too.” He nodded once. “I found a couple keys laying around. I don’t know what they go to.” He offered you some of the keys he had found. They had symbols on them. You had found one, a Spencer key. You pooled them together. 

“We should see if these lead to a way out. How did you get outside?” 

“Through some wall,” he explained. “I don’t know who made this place but they need to take another architecture class.” You nodded. 

“Listen, I’m sorry about Wesker. I was angry and he made a move and I felt bad.” He shook his head. 

“It isn’t the time.” 

“It could be the only time,” you explained. “I’m sorry Chris.” His face evened out into a genuine gaze. 

“It’s alright. I’m sorry too, for making such a big deal of it.” You nodded once. 

“It’s okay,” you promised. “We’re cool?”

“We’re cool,” he agreed. You tilted your head, gesturing down the hall. “Let’s go kill some zombies, Redfield.” 

-

“Hey, I got this key. There’s a door down the hall I wanna try,” you said. Chris was messing with the piano in one of the rooms. 

“How far down the hall?” 

“Across the main room.” He narrowed his eyes on you. “I’ll be fine.” 

“That’s far. You can’t wait?” 

“I’ll just be a second.” You and Chris hadn’t gotten far on your own. He couldn’t play the piano and you couldn’t read sheet music. You were at odds. You knew Jill could play and she had to be around here somewhere. He swallowed hard. 

“If you’re not back here in five minutes I’m dropping all of my progress.”

“Yes sir.” You saluted him half heartedly and left the room. You rushed down to the other side of the hall, trying at the door you had seen locked earlier. The door opened slowly. You were met with a zombie, who you shot in the face. Only afterwards did you check to see if the zombie had familiar features. This had been people. What if some had been your people? What if one of them was Jill and you didn’t know until it was too late?

You shuddered. 

“Y/N.” Your eyes went wide at the sight of Rebecca. 

“Rookie,” you breathed. “God Chambers, look at you.” She looked dirty and like she had gone through hell. She rushed up to you, glad to see a familiar face. 

“You’re the first friendly face I’ve seen in ages.” 

“Do you know where the rest of your team is?” 

“Most dead,” she admitted, regrettably. “I lost the others. I crossed paths with Richard but then lost him again.” She looked down at the key in your hand. “Can you try this door?” 

The words seemed normal.

 You opened the door, expecting a zombie.

 You were greeted with a snake. Giant, the size of a house. Things happened so quickly, things you weren’t even sure could happen. Rebecca shot and you vaguely thought about how Chris would come looking for you soon. You wished you hadn’t left him. But you had found Rebecca. 

The snake bit at you, scratching your arm. You were just narrowly able to stumble out the door when you fell down, feeling the effects of it immediately. Rebecca rushed towards you, barricading the door as best she could. You looked up at her, worry lacing your eyes. You were bit. You were dead. 

The door opened. Chris emerged.

You and Rebecca turned to him, breathing hard, bleeding in different places. 

“I should’ve never let you leave,” he muttered. 

“There was a room across the mansion that had some medicine bases,” Rebecca said, thinking quickly on her toes. Her words seemed too sharp. You couldn’t even feel the pain. It was starting to numb. You looked at Chris, frightened. 

“Where?” he asked. 

“It’s hard to explain. There are so many rooms.” 

“You have to go with her,” you said. “She’s a medic, not a soldier.” 

“She made it this far.” 

“We don’t have time to argue. Do you wanna save her or not?” Rebecca felt awful. She had suggested you open the door and she hadn’t been prepared for what she would find on the other side. Chris looked conflicted, eyes gazing back to you. 

“Go Chris.” 

He gave you a pack of ammo. 

“We’ll be five minutes,” he promised. 

“I’ll come looking if you’re any longer,” you said dryly. He smiled weakly and looked at Rebecca. 

“Lead the way.” 

-

The silence was deafening. It was just you and the house again. You and the house and the snake next door. You and the house and the snake and the zombies that lurked, haunting your every step. 

You were trying to be brave in the face of your adversaries but nothing seemed easy here. You regretted telling Chris to go. If you died from this, would you turn into one of those things? Would he have to find your body, still warm, knowing he was just barely too slow to save you? 

Every option seemed worse as time went on. 

When the door finally opened again, it wasn’t Chris or Rebecca. 

“Fancy seeing you here.” 

Wesker’s voice was condensing in a meek way. Still, you were glad to see him. You were glad to see anyone living at this point. You held your arm, eyes like daggers.

“Be careful. I might turn into a zombie here soon and then you’ll have to shoot me.”

“I don’t have moral dilemmas like that.” 

“So you’d shoot me?”

“In a heartbeat.” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence Wesker.” You adjusted your seating against the wall. He walked up to you and leaned down beside you. He grabbed your hand gently, moving it aside. He took off his glasses to examine the wound. 

“Snake bite?” “Large snake. More like a scratch.” You were so used to his sunglasses that you took the moment to stare into his cloudy eyes. He glanced up at you, a knowing smirk on his face. 

“You’ll be fine,” he promised. He looked around in his tactical vest, searching for something. You watched with curious eyes. After a moment, he grabbed a vile. He put it against your arm wordlessly and injected you with it without warning. You winced, more at surprise than pain. He grabbed a bandage wrap out of his side. 

“You’re awfully prepared for the worst,” you observed. 

“I have to be. I’m the leader of this team.” He tied it shut, strengthening it with a knot. “Be more careful next time.” 

“Where did you go?” 

“When?” 

“When we got to the main hall with Barry and Jill. You just left.” 

“I thought I heard something. I went to investigate.” You didn’t believe that. He was close, sitting beside you now. You bite the inside of your mouth, still hazy from the snake bite or whatever he injected into you. Wesker didn’t mind your questions. In fact, he wanted to encourage them. You were smarter than the rest of the lot. He liked that you would always be just a single step behind him, rather than a whole staircase. 

“Okay,” you said finally. “Can you help me up? Rebecca and Chris went looking for something to help me with. They’ve been gone too long.” 

“You should know that there’s no use in trying to save all of them.”

“They’re my friends Albert.” He put a hand on your wrist, holding it gently. 

“They won’t all live. There’s no use in you dying with them. It would be a waste of a talent and the waste of a sacrifice.” 

“Who’s sacrificing themself?” 

“Anyone who dies here is sacrificing themself for one of us.” He wanted to tell you it was a controlled experiment. He didn’t. You would find out soon enough. 

“I don’t think I like that Wes,” you muttered. 

“You don’t have to like it to live it.” 

You felt more comfortable with Chris but you felt safer with Wesker. No harm would come to you while he was here. You grabbed his hand and held it for a moment. 

“We’ll all get out of this.” You let his hand go and reopened the door. 

He wanted to tell you no. Not everyone would make it out of this one. It was designed to kill some, to help others succeed. He knew you would be the latter. Even with the snake incident. 

-

You went the back way to find Chris. 

Five minutes after you left, he returned. He found a pool of your blood on the floor and he didn’t see you. His eyes went wide as he stood in the doorway, blocking Rebecca from being able to view it. 

“What? What Chris?” She tried to shove him aside. 

“She’s gone,” he breathed.

He tried to picture you as one of those…things. He tried to picture your eyes dead, your fingers peeling, your skin melting. He couldn’t. None of the mental images seemed to conjure, out of sheer fear. He could never kill you, even if you were already dead. 

“Maybe she went looking for us?”

“We’re too late.” 

“The snake bite doesn’t mean she’ll become one of the zombies.”

“It could. It’s the same thing, the same virus, isn’t it?” Rebecca had no sound argument against him. She knew as much as he did. 

“She couldn’t have gone far. She went looking for us,” Rebecca said again. Chris didn’t have the heart to argue with her. 

-

Wesker intended to lose you again but you were just so alluring, he couldn’t help himself from hanging around. He followed you around the mansion, he helped you kill the bioweapons, he ended the mystery of things that should have remained shrouded. 

He figured you wouldn’t see Chris again until you reached the laboratory. He would keep you till then, saving you from that moral dilemma. It would be far more interesting for you to make the decision when you were before Tyrant, when you saw Wesker’s true colors. When you would’ve died without him. Could you live with him? 

“Wesker come on,” your voice spoke, breaking him from his thoughts. “I think I found something.” 

He followed you like a lost dog. 

“Let me see.” 

Final Part !

[haywire-cebus]

A Week and a Half

We Could Have Been Anywhere Chapter 6/9 (nice)

Twilight meets some Loftwing.

Twilight finds himself out of breath as he finishes off the last moblin- one of Wind’s with big slobbering jowls and a snout that is constantly snuffling around for more prey. Glancing around, it seems the rest of the group is more or less handily dealing with the remaining monsters.

Warriors and Legend are back-to-back, wielding a fire rod and ice rod respectively. Wild is watching Four’s blind spot with his bow as he ducks between a moblin and a scaly monster Twilight has never seen before but doesn’t seem to be too much of a challenge. Wind is darting around a particularly tall moblin, sword expertly digging into its thick flesh as he hacks away at it. Time is covering Hyrule as he hands Sky a potion- Twilight doesn’t worry too much once he catches scent of the tart sting of the red potion. A minor injury, nothing to freak out about.

He keeps them in his periphery, though, as he scans the edges of the fight. Things are calming down, the last of the monster's shouts silenced and only the sounds of his companions taking stock remain. He calls out, “no black-blood here. Everyone okay?”

The response is immediate, no major injuries and no black blooded monsters. The area, then, likely doesn’t have anything to do with the malice, so it’s safe for them to move on.

Time voices the same thought as everyone gathers. Stock is taken, Wind is handed both the remaining half of a red potion for a scratch down his forearm and a subsequent high-five (with the other hand) from Warriors- his two rewards for his skill in handling the large moblin.

Supplies aren’t running low, per say, but they’re at a point where a couple of rough battles could make things dire. They’ll need a solid restocking soon, which means finding a town (or a witch, or stranger in the woods) that sells potions.

They get to moving quickly, not wanting to hover at the scene of a battle too long and risk more monsters following the noise and smell of bloodshed.

Their group is barely ten steps back onto the trail proper when a portal appears. Hovering a foot off the ground, it’s as tall and ominous as always. Wild makes a comment about Four and Wind not being able to reach it and gets a swift kick and hit from the two. Twilight lets it happen.

Twilight offers to take point and steps through first. He’s used to the strange swirling feeling of switching because of the weird portals Midna would toss him through at moments notice, and handles it better than a majority of the group (though no one can top how Wild and Time don’t even blink at them).

He lands, thankfully, right on solid ground. As he takes a deep breath and looks around, though, he sees endless sky and the plummeting edge of a cliff. Not as solid of ground as he thought.

The air is thin, much like the city in the sky was for him, but at the dense wall of clouds all around, he can clearly tell he is much, much higher up. There doesn’t seem to be any means of keeping the land in the sky, the floating hunks of earth in the distance are just that- floating. Twilight isn’t as good at sensing magic as any of the others, but he feels like he should be able to feel what is keeping them in the air. There is nothing. It just is.

Everyone else soon follows, and he only needs to pull a few of them away from the edge as they step through.

Sky is the last one through. He is grinning immediately, pure joy deep in his eyes, “welcome to Skyloft,” and he leaps off the side of the island.

    When Twilight awakens to a hand covering his mouth and a whispered shh, he is proud to say he doesn’t flinch.

Too much, anyways.

The room is dark, Wild on the floor next to him and Sky precariously leaning over his nearly-comatose body to silently wake Twilight up. The behavior is fairly unusual for Sky (he’d expect this more from Wild or Wind, maybe Warriors), so suffice to say he is very much awake.

Sky waves his hand in the universal gesture for “come on,” and Twilight only spares a moment to think of how strange it is that that little nonverbal quirk persists throughout the years before he’s sitting up and slowly stepping over Wild. Sky is at the door, which is already open. Twilight joins him, shutting the door carefully to avoid waking Wild. He passed out almost as soon as they were shown their sleeping quarters, having spent the day running around Skyloft and climbing onto all sorts of places he shouldn’t have been able to get to.

He had even found a cute little cat-like creature that Sky seemed exceptionally wary of, and Twilight has every intention of finding a time to sneak away and shift to talk to the adorable thing that has Sky so worked up.

“What are we doing?” Twilight whispers, but Sky just puts a finger to his lips and moves down a few more rooms, before waving for him to stop. He slips into this room just as quietly, and Twilight’s sleep-groggy mind only just remembers that it was Warriors and Wind’s room before Sky and the captain are slipping out of the door. Warriors’ yawns, a loud and heavy thing that only serves to remind Twilight of the warm bed waiting for him.

Sky just starts walking, ignoring Warriors’ own hissed questions, only stopping when they’re outside. “Zelda and Groose both agreed to let me borrow theirs, so if we can get started now and have some fun before the other’s wake up, and-”

Twilight puts a hand on Sky’s shoulder, “borrow their what? What are we doing up at- midnight?”

Sky rubs a hand on the nap of his neck before adjusting his sailcloth, “it's halfway to three?”

“Sky,” Warriors steps closer, “how are you awake.”

The man just heaves a heavy sigh, and points off in the distance. It’s hard to see that far in the dark, but Twilight has a slight advantage over the others (that’s an understatement, sure) and the little lantern light along the buildings illuminates a dock, where three Loftwing rest, perched next to two shadowy figures. A large black bird, with thick legs and long sharp wings. A beautiful purple one, with pink-tipped wings that are probably (to Twilight’s fairly limited knowledge, mostly filled from Sky’s ramblings about the creatures) built for long distance flights. And a stunning, scrappy bird, smaller than the others but crimson color no less striking for it. The two owners of the beautiful birds are also standing at the docks, well illuminated against the starry sky.

“Sky, you didn’t.” It’s all Twilight can say.

“Why us?” Warriors asks before Sky can respond.

He just starts walking down the stone steps towards the docks with a smile. “We’re the oldest- minus Time, who’s an old man and as such doesn’t count. We deserve some fun without the others to bother us.”

Warriors laughs and jogs to catch up, “you make us sound like a married couple trying to get away from the kids.”

A part of Twilight thinks this is an awful idea- bound to end in him going splat all the way down on the surface- as memories of a high up castle and forceful winds nearly blowing him off the sides stir up once more. But instead of voicing these concerns, he adds, “Legend and Wild are barely younger than us.”

Sky stops and turns with a shrug, “fine. I’ll go invite them instead.”

Before he can begin to make his way back to the others, Warriors is stopping him. “No way am I letting Legend ride a bird before I do.”

“Loftwing.” Sky corrects as they both turn to Twilight, who casts a short hesitant look at the thick clouds blocking his view of the ground. He was shot out of a canon, what’s the worst that can happen here?

“I call the black Loftwing,” he says as he starts to jog past the two.

With a shout, Warriors is sprinting past him, yelling something about the purple one matching his tunic, which, “that’s rich, coming from the man with a scarf-”

A hand is in his face, shoving him to the side, but before he can retaliate, Sky is speaking up, “Twilight gets Groose’s bird, and Warrior’s gets Zelda’s.”

They’re close enough now that the two hylian forms come into focus. Sun and Groose stand next to their Loftwing, and Sun speaks up, “you better treat my sweet bird well or I’ll let her throw you off the side of Skyloft.”

“Ha!” Twilight grins, sharp and vicious.

Sky adds on, “You get Groose’s because she can hold more weight.”

Warriors’ returns his own “ha!” as Groose begins to splutter. Twilight tries to explain that working on a farm builds more muscle than Warriors’ cushy noble life ever could, but Sky snaps them to attention when he threatens to have his Loftwing carry them to one of the islands out far and leave them there until morning.

Sun speaks up again, “if you keep acting like this, none of them will let you ride them.”

Sky laughs and walks past them, going to pat his crimson bird on the side. “She’s only half right, to get on a Loftwing, you have to respect them. They have to accept you before you can even consider getting on one. They can be feisty- and even once you’re on, sometimes they may try to flip you off- but if you trust them, they’ll trust you. Probably.”

Twilight turns to Sky, who has already mounted his own. “I thought you said that Loftwing were an extension of someone’s soul, or something along those lines?”

“Yes, but I’m talking about riding someone else’s bird. It’s a rare thing to happen- Groose and Zelda only accepted because you all share the hero’s spirit. If their Loftwing accept me as a rider, they’re probably the only ones on Skyloft that will accept you. The only other option is you riding mine with me, which isn’t as exciting.”

“No offense, but you’re right.”

“I assumed. Now, I’m not that well versed in horseback riding, but from what I have gathered, mounting a Loftwing’s saddle is similar enough, just higher and more feathery. Same concepts with the blind spots, at least. Now, hold your hand out and let them smell you, all that stuff.”

Warriors does so, and Zelda’s bird nuzzles into his hand almost immediately. Twilight smiles at the soft look on Sun’s face, before facing the black bird in front of him. “Hey there, beautiful.” He holds his hand out, and it takes a little longer than Warriors’, but the Loftwing presses its head against his hand.

Groose’s voice is quiet behind him (or, as quiet as the boisterous man can be), “she’s normally really picky- she only just started allowing Zelda and Link to ride her. You must have a way with animals.”

“I grew up on a farm; I raised a lot of goats and horses.”

“Makes sense. Wait- Link, what’s a goat-“

“Be careful as you approach their sides.” Sky ignores Groose as he guides them into getting into the saddle once more, Twilight won’t say he preens under the fact that he gets situated faster than Warriors, but it does feel a little good.

“Now, you feel comfortable and situated?”

They both nod, and then Sky gets off his Loftwing. “Good. Now… let’s practice one more time.” The way he says it strikes Twilight as odd, but he shrugs it off. It’s late (or early, depending on how you look at it), and Sky is teaching them how to fly giant birds. Twilight has been through weirder.

Though, as Sun lets out a short giggle, tension builds in his shoulders.

He slips off anyways, landing easily on his feet. The moment they’re all off the Loftwing, however, all three Loftwing take off into the sky. The force of their wings pushing against the ground causes him to stumble, and he looks to Sky, ready to ask what is going on when the look on his face makes him pause.

He is smirking. Mouth pulled into a wide grin, hands on his hips, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Warriors picks up on it too, “Sky. How are we going to practice getting on the Loftwing if they’re gone.” The question is innocuous enough, but Warriors tone is hesitant yet knowing.

“We’re getting on,” Sky says with a step back towards the edge of the dock, “the proper way. It’s how everyone is trained. Now, come stand by me.”

By me, meaning, right on the edge of the dock. Twilight has seen how the people of Skyloft take off into their air. Reckless jumping off of their floating island and calling out to their birds to catch them.

He glances back at Sun and Groose, both of whom are fully laughing at them now.

“Oh, fuck off.” Twilight is grinning, though. “Fuck it. Let’s go- it seems safer than being launched out of a canon. Anything special to it?”

Warriors whips his head towards him, “I’m sorry. Being shot out of a what. ”

Sky just laughs. “Just whistle; the Loftwing will hear and catch you.”

The air up here is crisp and cold, piercing his lungs as he takes a deep breath. The wind ruffles his hair, and the sky seems endless. It is, in its own way. The only grounding thing in this place is the earth beneath his feet, and even that is impossibly high up.

Twilight grins. “Alright.” He runs towards the edge of the dock and jumps, bringing his fingers up to a whistle that years of being a ranch hand has perfected. Sharp and clear, he signals that he’s ready to be caught.

After his adventure, Twilight had a few days of contemplation. He’s done a lot of stupid things; half the time his stupid choices had been at the mocking call of Midna, but he couldn’t put all the blame on her. He’s always been a little impulsive, but he considered trying to be safer. Smarter. The kids of Ordon looked up to him, for reasons he barely understood. He needed to set an example.

And then he met Wild, and really needed to set an example. He needed to be there for him, even if he could only do so as a wolf before Wild found his master sword.

And then he met seven more incarnations of the same spirit he held. All brave and smart and kind and so impossibly stupid. He at least thought Time was patient, but it only took a few weeks of traveling for the truth to set in.

All of them are idiots. Reckless idiots.

Falling through the air, wind tearing at his clothes, he knows he’s no exception- if not when people's lives are at stake, then certainly not when it’s harmless (well, partially dangerous) fun.

When a bird flies beneath him and he slams into the saddle, legs finding the proper way to sit almost instinctively, he knows he wouldn’t change it.

He can’t change it, even if he wishes they would all be a little safer. Okay, a lot safer. But if being a hero means that sometimes you get to jump off a magical floating rock onto a huge bird that you can soul-bond with, then it sometimes makes all the pain worth it.

Hearing Warriors scream as he falls past him helps as well.

He watches Warriors fall into the saddle, Loftwing pulling out its wings and floating straight up, catching the air currents and letting the wind do the work. Sky appears next to them, his own crimson bird flying close and nudging at the purple one Warriors is atop.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” Sky shouts above the wind.

Twilight can feel the meaning behind it. The desire for them- for his brothers- to love his world and this part of him. He answers truthfully, “it’s terrifying. I love it.”

Warriors, besides them with a white knuckle grip on the saddle, laughs, “this is so crazy- how did you guys even come up with riding a bird!”

It’s more of an exclamation than a question, so Sky ignores it. Instead, he shouts above the wind, “see that island up there?” He points into the night sky, and following his finger reveals a rock that’s nearly invisible. It’s less that he can see it, and more that he can see the absence of the stars it’s blocking. “I’ll race you.” And Sky is off, on a Loftwing built for speed with practiced motions.

Warriors follows first, but Twilight is close behind.

It’s cold, the thin clouds that remain above the barrier are quickly dampening his clothes, but he laughs. “Wild is going to kill us.”

Turning his bird a little closer, Warriors laughs, “not if Wind does first.”

Sky has pulled back, gliding above them, “my bets on Four, actually.”

They glide for a moment, allowing Twilight to adjust to the way the Loftwing shifts with the wind currents. It’s not unlike how Epona adjusts to sprinting across Hyrule Field, dodging barely noticeable holes and rocks, but Twilight will never admit how tight his grip is on his reigns.

Feet braced against the stirrups, Sky is standing up, leaning forwards against the brisk wind. He lets go of the reins- which Twilight refuses to do, thank you very much- and points to a collection of colorful rocks in the distance, “do you guys want to play a game?”

Twilight laughs. “It’s not going to involve more jumping from goddess-knows how high, right?”

“I can adjust the rules!”

[bokugaos]

msby main 5! strapping you to a sybian <33

tw — gangbang, sybian, restraints, overstimulation, multiple orgasm, facefucking, gagging, blow jobs (m. receiving)

your chest is heaving as you calm down from another orgasm. how many times have they pushed your body to the edge? you’re.. you’re not sure anymore.

it is difficult to focus on it when all you have to go on is the spasming of your muscles which haven’t quite stopped around the third time they were teased into contracting until you bit your tongue almost bloody.

your thighs are shaking, trying to push against the bonds keeping you on the infernal thrumming seat, but you’re weak. you can’t do anything but have your whole weight on the sybian, pushing the vibe in deeper. its humming against you is making you go cross-eyed. it is aching now. definitely aching.

“p… please stop.. it’s enough, right?” you try. you don’t talk back to them most of the time and there is no use in getting upset now. they have been ignoring all your pleadings since you were woken up by your first orgasm.

you think it was your first. you’re not so sure anymore.

you’re not sure how they even managed to drag you from your bedroom to wherever this is without you being aware of anything.

they have their face turned towards you but are not reacting one way or another. you’re not sure they are even listening to you. meian has a remote in his fist with which he uses to manipulate the speed and intensity of the toy you are sitting on, but he hasn’t changed anything in a while.

as your muscles start failing you, you are forced to sit on the base of the vibe they pushed into your asshole, making it vibrate with the sybian. you feel yourself going cross-eyed, your belly muscles clenching pathetically as all those sweet little nerves in your entrance are being stimulated.

you’re not used to this. not at all.

bokuto likes to stick his cock up your ass every once in a while as atsumu’s got you bouncing on his cock or when you’re riding his face, but...

shit. you can already feel another one coming. your toes are curling to the point of spasming muscle pains. you try to gather yourself enough to regain some control over your thighs, but there is nothing to be done about it. your body is failing you.

someone moves. you raise your head by a mere inch, just enough to see sakusa come closer towards you.

you stare at him with teary eyes as you start sagging to one side on the saddle you’re strapped on. there’s no way for you to slip off this infernal thing.

you watch as sakusa begins to open his pants, his cock springing free, which he shows off to you. he curls a hand around it and gives it a few pumps, the slick red head is pointed right at your face.

he waits for a moment, as if to give you some time to take in the beauty of his dick after leaving you all alone with the sybian for this long, then reach out and fist fingers in your hair.

you are pulled forward, and you open your mouth without a token protest. tears are at the corners of your eyes as you look up at his torso, your own body on fire as you try to fight against yet another orgasm. you hiccup noisily with the cock still in your mouth, your fingers flexing and clenching into tight, big fists again.

it’s a fucking sight, it is, watching sakusa feed his thick cock into your mouth, and watching your eyelashes flutter in contentment and your pussy gushing some more.

about a half an hour ago, you may have still had a chance of getting into heaven. that has officially gone out of the window.

sakusa is staring down at you without expression. there is no sound coming forth. no reaction. you suckle and play your tongue across the tip, but he is simply staring down at him, not moving one way or another, letting you fuck your mouth on his cock while you try so very hard not to come.

you’ve taken as much of sakusa’s cock as you can into your mouth, but he’s still barely showing you any reaction. instead, he motions for hinata to come closer. and once the latter is kneeling next to you, he takes his hand and presses it to your abdomen and pushes down, forcing you at a different angle.

your eyes fly open and you groan around sakusa’s cock, grinding your hips down on the rubber dick in earnest now.

“good girl,” the curly-haired murmurs, almost absentmindedly. you catch the way hinata’s cock twitches at that, although the man is focused on seeing your eyes water up, whether it’s from the cock in your throat or the praise, he doesn’t know.

you keen in the back of your throat and sakusa throws his head back at the vibrations it sends up his shaft.

he loses control of his hips for a moment and thrusts shallowly into your mouth. your knuckles go whiter where they’re gripped onto the sybian.

“should we turn the speed up?” hinata says, voice lower than you’ve heard it in a while.

sakusa looks down and nods right as you hear atsumu chimes in, “yeah? i bet she’s gonna like that.”

you look up through your eyelashes, tears streaming down the sides of your face. god, you’re a sight like this, with your mouth stuffed full of cock and holding onto the vibrating machine like your life fucking depends on it. you look desperate and like you will come any minute. you keep yourself awake as best you can and take sakusa down further as if to emphasize it.

spit and precum drip off your chin and onto the machine you’re straddling every time you move your tongue, trying your best to make sakusa come even though you fear you might lose all control of your body once you reach another climax. and you’re so close.

you feel like you’re not going to live through another orgasm.

the machine slows down and your eyes roll to the back of your head, momentarily satiated. sakusa steps away, and you use this opportunity to catch your breath, until you realize with a jerk that you have to try to move away. the machine keeps buzzing on a low hum beneath you. your skin is damp with sweat as hinata strokes over the curve of your thigh and runs his fingers through the thatch of your curls with a smile. "you must be so sensitive right now."

your mouth curves in an exhausted smile in hopes of igniting pity in him as you shift on the sybian, trying and failing to lessen the stimulation.

and then meian kicks the dial, turning it to full power.

your eyes fly open and your mouth opens in a violent scream. your back bow dramatically and you come in an instant, continually making loud, wailing noises somewhere between screams and cries. it looks like someone reaches inside you and pulls the few weak spurts of cum out of you. it looks painful.

you’re whimpering and crying, cunt still gushing, but you manage to speak. “n-no… more, p-please..!” your words are incredibly slurred and you can’t open your eyes, but you’re conscious enough to form a sentence. you sob, moving weakly on the rubber cock still buried inside your ass like you can’t help it.

even after what you just said, you still seem to want it, that or your body isn’t even listening to your brain anymore.

you’re positively sobbing, but they’ve never seen you this desperate, it seems hypnotizing.

you’re a writhing mess, looking like you want nothing more than to just fucking come so they’ll stop. actually, that curling in your stomach is eerily familiar.

“alright, my turn,” bokuto says, and at the sound of his voice you drag your eyes open and manage to tilt your head downward to hide yourself. bokuto is standing over you with his hips to your face, and his cock is a fucking mess, red and twitching, coated in cum and precum.

he softly cards his fingers through your hair. you look up at him through your lashes, and tears webbed in them that catches the light. he pitches his hips forward, getting you even messier than you already are as you slobber all over his cock.

you moan in frustration, a distressed sound. you probably can’t even feel the vibrations at this setting after how long you’ve been on it by now. you’re crying in earnest, not just tears from taking bokuto’s cock but actual, real, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

sweat drips down your chest and mixes with the now dried cum on your lower abdomen. you’re in absolute hysterics, bucking down on the light vibrations like you want to get away, and you keep chanting pleas for them to show you mercy, and you’re not even sure if you want them to.

“one more, sweet girl, you’re gonna be so good for us,” meian decides, moving for the dial and turning it up again, notch by notch.

it is all an uphill battle, of course. one you are destined to lose. you sob when your aching body starts spasming once more, your hole clenching around the unfamiliar thick presence spreading you open, body convulsing and out of your control as tears stream down your cheeks and the air freezes in your lungs.

your back curves the opposite direction, sending you hunching forward. your scream is muffled, sweat drips down your face and the side of your mouth, which is still stretched around bokuto’s cock. meian turns the dial once more, and then a final time. you squeak, like there’s so much pressure in your lungs that’s all that could escape, your entire body is twitching violently.

you think bokuto is at least pulling his cock out of your throat for the duration. you’re not entirely sure. everything goes dark around him as you spasm in your orgasm.

[buckyownsmylife]

Just One - John Winchester smut

The one where John has been obsessed with killing you but now that he found you...

Warnings: smut, as close to hatefucking as I can write, witch!reader, masturbation (f), oral (m, f), dirty talk, degradation laced with praise?, hairpulling kink, namecalling (bitch, whore), John wants it to hurt, slight size kink (blink and you’ll miss), p in v, spanking, biting, unprotected sex, cumplay, unspecified age gap

Word count: 2.2k

A/N:  This one is a part of my kinktober celebrations. My original intention for this October was to work exclusively around prompts that my wonderful friend @darkficsyouneveraskedfor created for her challenge and dedicate each story to a different friend. My new plan became then 31 days of different kinks, which expanded on a poly relationship with Stucky, as you might know by now. However, some of the stories I started were already truly loved by me, and so I kept on writing them. It worked well because as it turns out, I am fortunate enough to have more than 31 friends on Tumblr, so here is the story I wrote for @negans-attagirl​. This most likely celebrates my last time writing for John! Special thanks to my @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ for reading this even though she’s not really into Supernatural! I love you for it!

I knew he was there. Watching. I’d been running away from him for so long, it felt like second nature now - to look over my shoulder, hold my breath when a stranger got too close. Watch the shadows and see if they took the form of a well-built man who wanted nothing more than to see me dead.

But I didn’t just wait around for my inevitable ending, oh no. I’d studied him just as much as he did to me, prepared myself for what was to come as I fled the state and traveled borders in the hopes of throwing him off. I concocted potions and spells and thought about everything I could do to him whenever he found me again.

Most of all, I thought of him. How could I not? Not only was he my main concern in this life, but the man was just walking sin. And if I were to go down, I was determined to at least go down on him before he killed me.

So I slowly left the diner across from the motel I’d been hiding in for the last three weeks and returned to my room, making sure to leave the door unlocked while I took off my clothes. The sound of the door closing behind me wasn’t unmistakable, and we both knew that. “Feel like joining me?” I asked as I sat down on the bed and spread my legs for his eyes, my hand traveling down my body, playing with my nipples before settling between my thighs. He didn’t look confused, not even for a moment.

This sexual tension between us, it’d never been one-sided. It was there from the beginning, electrifying our interactions as desire swirled in the air around us. I was convinced it was the main reason why he couldn’t just let me go.

He leaned his head to the side, but didn’t say anything. He was too focused on what I was doing, the way my fingers rubbed my clit before dipping inside my hole only to come back up wetter, the sounds of my actions filling the air around us.

“I don’t see why not.” The words sent a thrill up my spine, and without even stopping to consider what I was doing, I dropped to my knees before him, reaching out for his jeans. “Can’t let you get off all by yourself.”

I hummed appreciatively as I stuck out my tongue to lick the red head of his cock, already intoxicated with his taste. “Such a gentleman… even when you’re planning to kill me.” His chuckle was like thunder, reverberating through me and making my clit throb as I wrapped my lips around his member.

“It would be a waste if I didn’t put this pretty mouth to work.” His thumb brushed against my lower lip until I licked it and enveloped it with my mouth, making him groan. “So fucking warm. I’m gonna enjoy filling this hole with my cock.”

His words had me clenching around nothing, the overwhelming wetness that dripped from me now slathering the inside of my thighs, no doubt reaching the floor. It made me desperate to please him, desperate to fill my mouth with his cock.

So I wrapped my lips around the head of his member and began sucking, at first looking up to see his darkened, lust-filled eyes before actually closing mine to fully appreciate his taste, the weight of him on my tongue.

I licked every single inch of his skin until my saliva coated his member. It was a beautiful cock, a cock that deserved to be worshiped. I wasn’t one to enjoy being on my knees too much, but his thickness was just too tempting. I needed to pay it the proper respects.

So I took him as well as I could, ignoring the way tears rose to my eyes as I willingly choked myself on his cock, trying my best to breathe through my nose in an effort to reach his navel.

I wasn’t able to. But he didn’t seem to mind, hand wrapped around my hair, forcing my movements as I slobbered all over his dick. “Such a good little cocksucker…” he absentmindedly commented, almost to himself.

“Were you expecting me?” I looked up to see him looking down at me, actually waiting for an answer. So I pulled away, wiped the spit from my jaw before replying honestly, “Always.”

Because, well… How could I sleep peacefully without thinking about the man who wanted to kill me?

But his answer was a chuckle and an almost condescending head pat, his deep warm voice making me even wetter when he complimented, “Good girl.” God, he could kill me right now. I’d go willingly and happily.

I eagerly sucked him off a bit longer, losing myself in the almost-sounds that I could pick up from his body: the little groans and pants, the way he cleared his throat instead of growling his desire for me. He wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t show his satisfaction to a little witch.

I could live with that.

“Stop that.” His words were accompanied by a harsh tug on my hair, pulling me up until I was standing on my tip toes, my face mere inches from his. “Wanna fuck you now. I can kill you tomorrow.”

The fact that he never kissed me didn’t escape me. This was a quick fuck, it would not be mistaken as anything else. Still, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t drag as much fun out of it as I possibly could… especially considering these might very well be my last hours of living.

“So you want me?” I questioned, smirking at his answering huff. He didn’t want to admit it, of course - that would be recognizing I had some sort of power over him. So he opted to tighten his grip on my hair until I moaned from the pleasurable pain, eyes sparkling in their darkness as he took in just how desperate I was for him.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he settled for saying as I laughed. “Always a fucking tease. Is your cunt as bitter as your soul, brat?” I bit my lip as he threw me on the bed, already anticipating his next move.

“Find out for yourself.” His expression made it clear that he was doubtful when he tore off my underwear and threw the scraps of it over his shoulder, pulling me to the edge of the bed by my ankles without much care.

He pressed on the inside of my thighs to keep my legs spread for him, and when his tongue licked a line up my cunt, I clenched around nothing, eyes closing for just a second to relish in the barely-there sensation.

“Oh, fuck…” His voice was barely over a whisper, but I still heard it and when I opened my eyes to look at him, he was staring directly at his meal, like he couldn’t believe what he had just tasted. “So fucking sweet…”

He went back there with a newfound hunger, and although I knew he wasn’t doing this to make me cum, I also knew he would achieve that - easily. It didn’t take many of his long swipes over my hole, the twirls around my clit to make me gasp for him, hands flying down to pull on his hair.

I think the only reason he didn’t slap them away was because he seemed to like the slight sting I provided him.

“Fucking cum, bitch,” he growled at some point, surprising me until he revealed why it was that he wanted me to orgasm. “I want to drink all of your essence before I shove my cock into you, make sure it’ll really sting.”

But I knew it was more than that - I knew he wanted more of my taste. It was everywhere now, dripping from his beard, smearing the inside of my thighs, but he kept his eyes focused on me, waiting for my breaking point.

I saw embers of flames when it arrived. Maybe it predicted my death at the stake, but I couldn’t mind it. Not when John was rising to his full height and very easily turning me around to lay on my stomach, keeping my legs dangling off the edge of the bed when he kicked them apart.

I was trapped under his much larger body and I didn’t mind it at all. He shoved my face against the bed, like he didn’t want to see it as he slowly started to stretch me out.

I bit my lower lip as I struggled to adjust around his thickness, and by the sounds John was releasing, I could see he was just as overwhelmed by me and the pussy he wanted to destroy.

I couldn’t believe how good it felt to be ravished by John Winchester. No one had ever fucked me like this before, and I was sure he knew, with the melodic moans that kept slipping from my lips, try as I might to reel them in.

“Those fucking sounds…” He groaned behind me, seconds before his hand landed harshly on the right cheek of my ass, making me whine even louder. “You’re a filthy little whore, aren’t you?”

I was too far gone to even try to deny it, fucking myself back against his delicious thick cock, desperate to cum again, this time feeling completely full of him.

“Who would have thought…” He panted, hips maintaining their onslaught against me. “Nasty fucking witch, such a tight little pussy.” Each word was accompanied by a particularly brutal thrust and I relished in it. I relished in witnessing the great John Winchester get carried away because of my body.

“Fuck,” he cursed after he managed to locate my sweet spot, which in turn had me instinctively clenching around him. “Why do you feel so fucking good?”

Under him, I just giggled, my hand easily locating the spot above where we were connected so I could rub myself to an orgasm. “I’m convinced you’re the devil, little witch.”

Stifling a laugh, I started to move my hips back so I could fuck myself on him, showing him how I liked to be treated - even harder and rougher than he was already treating me. And because I really was a brat, I couldn’t help but taunt, “Do you feel sorry you have to destroy it?”

I knew he understood I was referring to my pussy, and when his hand slapped mine away so he could take over the motions over my clit, I closed my eyes to let bliss take me.

“Almost,” he grunted, a confession I almost lost in the fog of my high. But here lied an opportunity, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away without a fight.

“I mean… you could just keep it,” I offered, barely over a whisper so as not to anger the man who kept fucking me. I didn’t want him to stop his movements, so I hoped even if he did get pissed at my suggestion, he’d just take it out on me. “Use it whenever you want.”

I didn’t get a response from him - at least, not verbally. But he did speed up his movements, pounding me so hard the bed started to hit the wall and I knew we were seconds away from having the neighbors banging on it, telling us to keep it down, but I couldn’t care less.

Not when John was burying his face in the crook of my neck, beard tickling me as he bit on my shoulder to keep his roar from reverberating in the room when he shot his cum deep inside of me.

He didn’t wait even a second before pulling out. I missed his weight on top of me, but the feeling of his cum slowly slipping from my used pussy was enough to give me some comfort.

“Shit, I really opened you up, huh?” He chuckled, rubbing his cream around my hole before pushing it back into me, making me whine. “I’m still fucking hard. Did you put a spell on me, brat?”

I laughed as he massaged my ass, apparently incapable of fully retreating his touch from my skin. “Is that why I’m still aroused?” He insisted, rutting his very much, still hard member against my thigh. “Tell me.”

Stretching, I giggled at his silly accusation. “I think I just turn you on, old man,” I teased, wiggling my ass at him. He took the bait and spanked it, before I felt his weight leave the bed altogether.

“Well, I’m going to take a shower, wash you off of me,” he explained, stopping at the door of the bathroom to stare at me. “You better be there when I come out,” he warned and I bit my lip, understanding exactly what he meant.

“I don’t think I can walk if I tried,” I giggled, but he just tipped his head back, humming noncommittally. Before long, I heard the shower turning on, the sound of the water running down the drain almost lulling me to sleep.

I made sure to leave my panties right next to the note I wrote for him to find when he got out of the shower. Three simple words, a promise: “Until next time”.

[kimnjss]

finger painting | jjk

⇢ pairing: ot7 x reader // jungkook focus. ⇢ genre: smut. // pure unedited filth. ⇢ word count: 5.5K ⇢ theme: established relationships. ⇢ rating: explicit. ⇢ warnings: cursing, slight dirty talk, masturbation, nipple play, noona kink if you like squint, oral sex (m. receiving), cum shot, face shot, light dry humping, jungkook finds a new canvas, over the pants handjob, unprotected sex, slight possesion kink, fingering, morning breath just doesn’t exist, okay... ⇢ A/N: i am very tired. so sorry if there’s crazy mistakes, enjoy! let me know what you think x

It's hot underneath the blanket, the strong tattooed arm wrapped around your waist only adds to the heat. His nose is pressed gently into the side of your neck, soft snores tickling the back of your neck. Your back sticks to his bare chest bodies sweaty from the heat emitting from his heated blanket.

Falling asleep in Jungkook's arms was high up on your list of favorite things. He was always so warm and smelt nice. No matter how the two of you fell asleep, you'd be shifting into the spooning position, his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

And any other day you'd be all for it, but this morning? When it felt like a sauna underneath these blankets and on top of that, all his body warmth was surrounding you. You couldn't help but shift away from his sticky, only to have his grip tighten around your waist – instantly pulling you against him.

“Koo..” You groan softly, hand reaching down to wrap around his wrist. “Are you awake?” He's instantly shifting closer to you, face pushed closer to your neck. “No...” The thickness of his morning voice has a smile pushing onto your lips.

Almost making you forget about the heat penetrating your skin. He's tugging you closer, incoherent murmurs leaving his lips as he shifts. Only settling once he's found a comfortable position, arm still wrapped around your waist. Not as tight so you're able to turn in his hold.

He's fallen back asleep, lips slightly parted soft snores passing through them. Much quieter than the loud snores that shake the room when he's in deep sleep. Lashes gently dusting over his cheekbones slightly pink from the pressure of sleep. He looks cute, which has your hands raising to grasp his sharp jawline.

Nose twitching from the feeling of your hands on his skin, but he doesn't stir other than that. Not even bothering to fight the urge to press light kisses to the tip of his nose, giggling softly at the way it scrunches. Slowly, his eyes flutter open, widening when he sees how close you are to his face. A sleepy grin stretching his lips.

“You don't want me to sleep?” A slight pout pushes your lips out, thumbs swiping across the apple's of his cheeks as you shake your head from side to side. “It's hot,” You complain and despite the way he nods in agreement – his wraps tighter around your waist, pulling your body into his. “And you look cute,” Sentence punctuated with another light press of your lips to his nose.

His eyes fluttered closed at the light touch of your lips, body seeming to relax into the warmth of the mattress. It's when your lips stray a little lower, just barely catching his upper lip is his body shifting into full alert. Thoughts of where he could take this moment if he played his cards right.

Soft lips are catching yours when as you lean in, his hand lifting to tangle his fingers in your hair holding your head to his. Jungkook kisses you slowly, eyes falling close as he tilts his head to get a better reach of your lips. Instantly, you're lost in him. In the feel of him, how he manages to make your heart flutter with such little effort.

It's not long before his kisses are becoming harsh, teeth tugging at your lip as he grips the top of the blanket. In one swift movement, he's rolling his body over yours while shoving the warm covers off of your bodies. Caged underneath him with an arm on either side of your head, he's pushing his tongue past your lips and into your mouth without a second of hesitance.

The softest of moans fall from his lips, dying on your tongue. Legs hitched up on either side of his waist, you can feel the push of his hips onto yours perfectly. And his body is reacting quickly to the friction, cock jumping at the slight brush of your lace-covered core. The thin material of his boxers starting to strain against his crotch as he pushes his tongue deeper into your mouth.

“Noona,” He moans quietly, an arm lowering from the side of your head, his hand slipping underneath his large t-shirt you threw on before climbing into his bed. Pleased to find your bare breast underneath the fabric, his large hand squeezing at the flesh.

You get a glimpse of his dazed expression when he pulls back from your lips, lust-filled eyes searching yours only for a moment before he's ducking his head back down. Sharp teeth graze over the clammy skin of your neck, sucking the salty skin into his mouth. His tongue rolls over the marks his teeth leave behind, hips forever rolling into you. A wet patch quickly forming between your legs.

“You smell so good, Noona.” He whines cutely.

It boggles your mind how this man could still manage to be cute, even right now. Moans slipping from his soft lips as he sucks hickeys into your neck, cock pressed firmly into your core just begging to tear through the lace; so you can feel him the right way.

There's no holding back the whimpers that fall from your lips, body squirming underneath him desperate to feel more. His teeth catch a sensitive spot on your neck, causing your hips to buck into his. “That feel good, Noona?” There's just something about the way he called you 'Noona', so soft and innocent while the things he was doing was anything but.

Breathless, your head is bobbing in a nod. My hanging open as forced breaths shake your chest. “F-feels good, Kookie. Keep going,” Fingers reaching to tangle in his hair, tugging his head into your neck, and he groans. Hips lifting to press his cock into you, settling into a steady rut against your core.

He always liked it when you played with his hair.

Jungkook lays there, humping against your covered pussy while marking up your neck. His desperate moans fill the boathouse, fingers pinching and tugging at your nipples underneath your shirt. Your legs are wrapped tight around his waist, holding his body to you so you're able to feel every inch of his shaft.

It all feels so good, and you can tell by the sudden uptake of his thrusts; it feels as good for him too. Right, when his eyes begin to roll, the movement of his hips becomes sloppy he's pulling back. Crazed eyes looking down at you, “I want you to suck my dick,” His hips are slowing into a stop, cutest of expressions morphing his features.

“Please, Noona.” He adds as if you'd deny a request like that. Jungkook had a beautiful cock, long and thick. Pretty veins wrapped around the length when it was hard. The tip a pretty pink, often glistening with either your saliva or his precum. No way would you turn out an opportunity to have that down your throat. “Okay, Kookie.” You're saying with a smile.

If he was any happier, he'd be punching the air with joy. Jungkook is quick with rolling off of you, placing a soft kiss to your lips before laying flat on the mattress. His tattooed hand reaching up to push his hair back on his head as you shift between his legs. You had felt it when he was grinding against you, could imagine the bulge that had formed in his boxers.

But seeing it? Fuck, seeing it was ten times better. Half hard when he had woken up with you in his arms, so it's no surprise the way his cock is fighting to break free from the mesh material.

You take your time with dragging the elastic band down his hips, marveling in the pretty patch of dark curls that are revealed with its descent. Always neatly shaven but never bare. Felt manly to keep a bit of hair down there and you couldn't help but agree. Teasing yourself, you slowly uncover his cock inch by inch. Loving the impatient pout that pushes at his lips.

His hand is lifting once his boxers are low enough, cock swinging upward and he's catching in his large hand. The single stroke against his shaft has his eyes rolling and your mouth watering. Quickly noticing your fascination with the movement of his hand, he's repeating the action eyes staying focused on your face.

Soon getting into it, head cocked back as his hand squeezes at the mushroom head. Soft cruses falling from his lips, hips bucking into his palm. Almost afraid that he's gonna burst before you have a chance to feel him in your mouth. But you can't take your eyes off him.

Jungkook's free hand reaches forward, tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. “Open, Noona.” He mumbles in the deepest of voices and your mouth is instantly falling open for him, eyes lifting to catch his dark gaze.

He's guiding his shaft past your lips with his hand, watching with hooded eyes as his thickness disappears into your warm mouth. A hiss of a moan falling from his lips when you're closing your mouth around him, hands lifting to grasp his thighs. “Oh, fuck!” He sighs, head falling back into the pillow.

Both of his hands reach up to push his hair back from his forehead, forcing himself to watch your mouth move on him. With your grip tightened around his thighs, you're easily able to swallow him down your throat. A breathy groan falling from his lips when your throat constricts at the intrusion. “Just like that, Noona. Take my cock,” His encouragement comes with a large hand tangling in your hair, tempted to push your head down further onto his length.

It's only a moment of contemplation before he's doing just that, hips lifting as he uses his grip to push your head down. Throat fluttering, a rough cock sounding from the end of it. Forcing your head to lift from his shaft, slobber, and precum keeping your mouth attached to him. He moans at the sight.

You're diving back in without a moment of hesitation, urging your throat to calm the fuck down, so you can swallow your boy the way he deserves. Jungkook takes for gripping your hair, much slower with the way he guides your mouth down his length. Hissing loudly when your nose is pressed into his pubic hair.

“Fuck, Noona. You look so pretty like this,” There's no helping the way your body flushes at the slight compliment. Tongue pushing out against him, forcing more of his shaft down your throat. Wanting to please him, hear him moan for you, compliment you. Hands gripping at his hips, lips wrapped tightly around him, your head slowly begins to move back and forth.

Sucking him down harshly, the sounds of his groans vibrating against the wall, sending pangs of arousal between your legs. Positive you're dripping through the fabric of your panties and the wetness your fingers find the moment their fit between your legs proves you right.

Easily finding your clit, your fingers rub gently against the sensitive bud while you suck him down. His eyes are quickly catching the movement of your hand, a drawn-out moan falling from his lips at the sight of your wet fingers rubbing into the soaked fabric. Cock twitching against your tongue, thick dribbles of precum sliding down your throat.

The hand he holds in your hair tightens, guiding the movement of your head with much force now. Hips rising to meet your face until he's full-on fucking his cock into your mouth. Setting his own pace, moving as if it's your pussy that he's buried in. And you let him, whimpered moans leaving your throat and hitting his cock. That only eggs him on.

Your fingers match the thrust of his hips, eyes rolled back imagining that it's his long fingers between your legs rather than yours. “Your mouth feels so good, Noona.” He's whining, lower belly constricting as his orgasm nears. The firsts of his cum mixed with your spit dribble out the corners of your mouth, and you're sure you look a mess with your teary eyes.

Jungkook thinks you look hot, though. Always thought you looked hot with his cock stuffed down your throat. The mere sight of you enough to push him over the edge. It's when he notices your legs begin to shake, eyes fluttering as your orgasm washes over you. The squelch of your fingers between your legs growing louder as your cum soaks your panties even further.

“Shit, shit, shit.” His movements are hurried, pulling his cock from your mouth. Frantic stroke of his hand over his shaft, tip aimed at your face and you hold your mouth open waiting. A long whine falls from his lips as the cum shoots from the tip of his cock, painting your cheeks and lips with streaks of white.

His lip caught between his teeth, brows furrowed, and cheeks hollowed. He looks so good over you, emptying his cock onto your face. Body tense from the power of the orgasm that racks through his body. You don't move, mouth wide open until his body is relaxing. Rigid breaths lifting his chest.

“Mmh, you're so perfect Noona.” He sighs, using his cock to smear his cum against your skin. So concentrated as if he was painting a pretty picture with his seed and you can't help the giggle that falls from your lips, tongue pushed out to swipe over him each time he's close.

Jungkook's two seconds from pushing his cock back into your mouth when the door of his room is being pushed open. Hoseok stepping in without a second thought, not even surprised to see his youngest member with his cock pressed against your cheek. “Go wash up to eat, Kook.” He speaks in nonchalant, hand reaching out to grasp the back of your neck.

Gently, he's tugging your face toward him, capturing your lips in a wet kiss. The taste of Jungkook heavy on your tongue but he doesn't seem to care. “Good morning, baby. You look pretty,” He's mumbling against your lips, a soft laugh falling from them.

Hoseok is lifting himself further onto the bed, deepening the kiss between you. And you're almost certain he's going to lay you down and have his way with you while his youngest watches. But he's pulling back after a moment, a small smile pushing onto his lips.

“Let's go get you washed up,” His arms are sweeping under your thighs, lifting your body from the bed. Jungkook is right behind him leaving the room, chatting along with his Hyung about what they're planning on doing today.

Head finding Hoseok's shoulder, you listen along to their plans. The smile never falling from your cum stained face.

“Are you guys just going to game all day?” Arm crossed over your chest, hip popped out as you stare at the three men huddled in front of the computer screen. Jin weighing in on Yoongi's skills, while Jimin plays quietly beside them.

You, Hoseok, and Taehyung are ready to go. Dressed and set to go pick up burgers, inviting the others at the forefront of Taehyung's mind.

“Let's just go ourselves,” Hoseok says with a nod of his head, realizing the other boys have no plans to get up from their spots in front of the computer. Taehyung nods quickly, arm snaking around your waist as the three of you make toward the cars.

Hoseok is slipping into the passenger's seat while you climb into the back, Taehyung taking the driver's seat beside him. A grin is sent to you through the rearview mirror, from Taehyung. Anyone else would've taken this as a cute innocent smile, but you sense the mischief behind it – as well as the conversation you had been having prior, you know it's anything but.

“So when you gonna start waking me up with blowjobs?” He speaks casually, foot stepping down on the gas as he drives forward.

Jungkook was definitely one to brag, the first thing out of his mouth when you were sitting down for lunch was how you had just got done sucking him off. Hobi, who had witnessed the aftermath of it was nudged to confirm his words.

It's not unusual, so the other members don't even bat an eye at their younger member's detailed description. Only half listening as they shovel food into their mouths. Taehyung hangs on to every word, though, even adding questions as the story goes on.

You're sat beside him, filled with pride as he groans about your ability to blow his mind. Marveling about how pretty you look with your mouth wrapped around his cock. The technique of the bob of your head.

“When you gonna start waking me up with head?” You counter, with a smirk.

Hoseok's head is perking up at your rebuttal, “It's the only right way to wake you up,” He says with a grin. And you're returning it. Almost every morning you've woken up in Hoseok's bed, you were waking up with his head between your legs. The type of morning call that you weren't rolling your eyes at... well you were but in the best way.

The car is skidding to a stop after a while, Taehyung hopping out after pushing it into park. He's quick to move to your door, tugging it open for you with a wide smile. He watches as you slide out, thanking him with a kiss on his cheek. And when you're a few steps in front of him, his arms are wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his chest.

Walking beside the two of you, Hoseok is slipping his hand in yours. Fingers laced together as the three of you walk down the trail admiring the pretty scenery around you. It's peaceful where you are, fresh air tickling your lungs as easy conversation flows between you.

There was something about being out in the open like this, with them. Such a feeling of healing, being able to talk and relax, and just enjoy yourself. The sound of Hoseok's laughter fills your ears, in response to something Taehyung has said – his proud grin taking over his features, happy to have had made his Hyung laugh. Not a single lull of awkwardness as your walk continues on, you and Tae plopping down in the meadow to smell the pretty flowers. Taking pictures with Hobi in front of the creative looking buildings. Until you're piling back into the car to get the burgers you had set out for in the first place.

Taehyung pays for the food, before driving off to find a quiet place for the three of you to eat. He's handing your food back to you once you're parked in a nice spot, sat in the trunk part of the car watching the scenery in front of you. Hoseok is leaned back in his arms, far enough into the trunk where you're able to sit between his legs. Taehyung beside you.

It's so easy with them, nice. Comfortable. The happiness in your heart grows with the more time that you spend with them.

You find Joon and Jungkook sat on the porch painting away when the three of you arrive. The dotted painting Joon started the night before closer to being finished, behind him Jungkook has started an unbelievable image of the mountains out behind you. Cheeks dusted pink as loud compliments come from Hoseok, followed by assured praise from Taehyung and Namjoon.

They're joking around and laughing with each other but your eyes are trained on Jungkook, watching as he paints away with this sexy look of concentration on his face. He always gets like that when he's focused, his mindset on one task, careful to meet the perfect outcome he's planned.

It's undeniably attractive and you're all but drooling watching him work. His head rolls, sweeping the growing strands of hair out of his eyes. In the movement, he's catching your gaze, instantly reading the look in your eyes. But he doesn't say anything, aside from the little smirk that takes over his features, he acts as if he hasn't noticed.

Turning his focus back onto his painting.

You stand there watching him as Taehyung moves to stack the beanbag chairs, calling Hobi over to show him his new style of art. Joon heading over to check out what they're laughing about, quickly joining in on their laughter.

“You having fun eye-fucking me, Noona?” He doesn't even lift his gaze from the painting, just continues perfecting the reflection of the mountain in the water. Despite the confident sexy drawl, there's a light dusting of pink on his cheeks.

Obviously feeling some type of way with your undivided attention. You're moving to stand a bit closer to him, gentle fingers twirling his freshly washed hair. “You look sexy when you paint,” You're cooing, sure to scrape your fingers against his scalp the way he likes.

All at once, his back is straightening, eyes blinking before he's setting the brush down onto the palette. “Think I'm gonna take a break, do something else.” With the way his eyes drag over your body, teeth nibbling at his lower lip, you're quickly putting together exactly what else he wants to do.

He's standing to his feet with a slight huff, bending forward to pick the paints he had been using off of the floor. Silently, you follow him into the kitchen. Attempting to keep up with his hasty steps, eager to clean his mess so he can have his way with you. You watch as he turns the water on, your bum sat up on the counter; as Jungkook starts shaking the paint from his brushes in the sink.

The sleeves of his hoodie are rolled up, revealing the dark ink that decorates his milky skin. Disappearing underneath the fabric, but you know just how far the markings go. Somehow grown addicted to adding more, always rushing excitedly to show you the new tattoo on his skin.

Without thinking, you're reaching your hand out, tracing the large lines on his arm. Dark eyes flicker down to your finger on his skin, watch the way your nail traces over his tattoo. It was no secret between the two of you how much you liked them, nearly found every excuse to touch them, kiss them, lick them.

Not that he was complaining.

Your fingers are warm against his skin, soft. And he enjoys the way they feel, shamelessly allowing the image of them wrapped around his cock enter his mind. The blowjob you had given him this morning still fresh as he could still see the streaks of cum dirtying your face.

And the look on your face right now? As if you were physically forcing yourself from jumping him right now. How turned on you were just from watching him paint? Unless you were thinking about something else?

You were. Scenarios gone crazy in your mind about the two of you together. As if you couldn't reach over and make all of your fantasies a reality. There was just something about Jungkook that always had your mind reeling. And because he could read you like an open book, he doesn't hesitate to move from in front of the sink so he's now standing in front of you.

Stood in between your legs, fingers covered in the green and yellow paint he had been washing off, making fingerprints into your bare thighs as he tugs you closer. “What are you thinking about, Noona?” There's tease in his voice, could guess what dirty thoughts are running through your mind.

You play coy, though. Legs easily wrapping around his waist, pulling his body against yours. Arms lifting to wrap around his neck. “Oh, nothing special...” The tips of his fingers dance over your thighs, painting streaks against your skin. The paint is cool against your warm skin, the colors shining underneath the bright kitchen light.

“Yeah? You weren't thinking about how good I could fuck you right now?” Much closer now, his words mumbled into your ear. And he doesn't have to pull back to see your eyes flutter, knows exactly the effect his words have on you.

His teeth catch your lobe as your hips press into his, flinching away at the intense friction only to press further into him moments after. “Should I fuck you right here, Noona? Let everyone see how well you take my cock?” Despite the twitch of his cock at the mention and the frantic nod of your head, he maintains the nonchalance.

Fingers drawing faint hearts into your thighs, seem to be paying a lot more attention to his work than to the movement of your hips. Suddenly, pressing into you, reaching forward to dip his fingers into the paint he hadn't quite finished cleaning up. The yellow color bright on his finger and he takes his time to draw the hooked letter at the top of your thigh.

The J is large and clear, much like the K he's painting on the other side. Claiming you as his with each stroke of his painted fingers. The movement of your hips doesn't let up, causing him to lift his palm onto your waist to keep you still. Determined to get the lettering just perfect, before he's pulling his hand back.

“My Noona.” He's mumbling to himself more than anything, head dipping down to bury in the crook of your neck. The litter of bruises he left this morning meet his greedy eyes, only resulting in a grin that pushes on his lips. Proud of himself. And he sucks an unmarked bit of skin, determined to cover you with him.

A chorus of moans slip through your lips, eyes fluttering as his mouth works on your skin. The fistful of his shirt that you had clutched falling as your fingers drag down the front of his body, not stopping until you're meeting the crotch of his pants. His entire body flinches when you're cupping him through the material, hissed swears vibrating against your neck.

You smirk, pleased to see you have the same effect on him he did you. Squeezing him in your palm, you enjoy the tiny whines that fall from his lip. Stroking him slowly as he forces himself to keep focus on the painting he's creating on your neck. “Hm, you're getting so hard for Noona.”

“For Noona,” He repeats with a nod of his head, hips beginning to roll into the palm of your hand. All concentration went out of the window when your hand begins to match the movement of his hips. Palm closed to create a bit of tightness as he fucks himself into your palm, breathy moans hitting the wet skin of your neck.

His fingers press into your skin, leaving green and yellow marks that will more than likely bruise later. Tongue swiping over the skin of your neck as he pants, hips rotating into the palm of your hand. Quite literally putty in your hands, and he's almost embarrassed with how quick the twist in his stomach comes. Whining and ready to cum when he hadn't even touched you properly yet, unacceptable in his eyes.

Jungkook is able to muster up all the composure that he can find to slow his hips into a lazy thrust. Clearing his mind enough to slip his hand underneath the fabric of your biker shorts. He's groaning when he finds you're just as wet as he had thought, panties sticking to your pussy lips. Playing with him was always the easiest way to rile you up. Much like how you did this morning, his fingers are finding your clit through the fabric of your panties.

Rolling the little bundle of nerves between his fingers has your hips jolting, a gasped moan slipping. He smirks, speeding up the movement of his fingers as his eyes flutter. Jaw parting, your hand stills at his crotch, head tilted back as the pleasure he's giving you has your limbs growing heavy.

“How's that feel, Noona?” He mumbles softly, searching for reassurance. As if the twitch of your legs wasn't enough answer. “S-so good... don't stop,”

He does you one better, fingers slipping from your clit, lowering themselves further into your shorts. The tips of his fingers rub against your folds through the fabric, seemingly teasing himself before he's pushing your panties to the side. Little to warning is given before he's pushing two thick digits past your entrance, head rolling back as a loud groan bounces off the kitchen walls.

Your walls flutter and stretch around the intrusion, protesting when he pulls his fingers back. A scream of his name tickles his ears when he's quickly pushing his fingers in, has done this a thousand times he doesn't even have to try to brush against your most sensitive parts. It's become a sixth sense to him, pleasuring you.

“Always so wet for me,” Soft lips brush against the skin underneath your ear, fingers quickly dragging against your walls. There's no holding back the gasps that fill the room, fingers pressed into his shoulders, desperate to have him closer. “Who makes you this wet, Noona?”

His head lifts, eyes flickering to yours. At the same time, his fingers curl inside of you, pressing firmly into your soft spot. And you're crying out, hips angled in search of his fingers, “You,” Panting, your body moves in tandem with the thrusts of his fingers. Jungkook grins over you, thumb lifting to swirl around your wet clit.

“That's right, Noona. Only me.” He's proud of himself, you can tell just from the tone of his voice. His thumb circles over your clit quickly, fingers pushed deep inside you and you feel the snap of pleasure in your stomach. Hips bucking uncontrolled as squeals of his name fill the room. His fingers don't let up until your body is falling slack against the cabinets, aftershocks of your orgasm twitching your legs.

You feel the spill of your release when he's pulling his fingers from between your legs, a hurried kiss landing on your lips. Tongue licking over your lower lip before entering your mouth. Wet fingers curling over the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs, carelessly tossing them onto the kitchen floor.

Teeth and tongue clashing as you fumble to tug his shorts down his legs. Grinning against his mouth when his cock springs out, hard and nearly pulsing ready for you. He's just as turned on as you, eyes dazed and expression fucked out. Heavy breaths shaking his chest as his hand wraps around his shaft.

Eyes focused on the way he guides himself to your entrance, free hand wrapped around your thigh to lift it onto his hip. “Fuck,” He groans as he slowly sinks deeper inside of you.

Mind still foggy from your orgasm, the fullness of having him so deep inside feels ten times better. Legs secured around his waist, holding him close once he's bottoming out. It only takes a few draw backs of his hips for him to fall into a steady pace, fingers gripping the flesh of your ass, moving you against him.

“Mmh, Noona's pussy swallows me so well.” Jungkook whines face buried in the crook of your neck. His hips buck into you harshly, the sound of slapping skin and your cries the only thing to be heard in the room. “F-fuck, your cock feels so good, Kookie.” You gasp, fingers flexing at his waist, gripping his shirt in your fists.

Your back bounces against the wall, lashes flutter as another orgasm begins washing over you. His cock ramming into your gspot, pelvic bone brushing against your clit so perfectly. Like he was made for you. Walls tighten around his length, squeezing him tighter each time he pulls back.

That has his muscles pulled taut, needy groans falling from his lips as the movement of his hips begin to become sloppy. Cock rutting into your heat so deliciously, it makes you shudder, back arching and legs beginning to vibrate at his sides. “Gonna cum again, Noona?” He's panting, whiny moans filling your ear.

Head bobbing in a nod, a loud cry of his name falling from your lips as your orgasm washes over you. He's not far behind you, hips pistoning into you as he reaches his peak too. “Holy fuck,” He groans, hips becoming stiff. Large hands set on your hips, to hold your body in place.

Sharp teeth scrape against your skin as his cum fills you, the warmth of his cum pulling a loud moan from your lips. “So good, Kookie.” You praise, breathless. Boneless body falling against him. And he grins wide, pride filling his chest. Pleased with himself in making you feel this good.

Wet kisses land on your neck, arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you from the counter. Legs wrapped around his waist. “I wanna go cuddle with you,” You're mumbling spent from the two orgasms he just gave you.

A chuckle falls from his lips, as he nods. Shorts are forgotten in the kitchen as he effortlessly carries you toward the floating house. He's warm against you, and you cling to him as he walks.

Sleep slowly washing over you.

- seven days in the forest spent with your seven boyfriends while they film their upcoming reality tv show. there’s no telling what the eight of you will get into when the cameras are off.

⬷ masterlist ⤗

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[yam-writes]

kiss me with your eyes closed - strade x reader hi, me again Rating: Explicit Relationships: Strade (BTD/TNR)/Reader Tags: Stockholm Syndrome, Kissing, Rough Kissing, Riding, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Smut, Shameless Smut, Biting, Bruises, Unhealthy Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Cock Warming read here or on ao3

Strade wasn’t a good kisser. He didn’t have any reason to be. It’s not like he was going around, shoving his lips onto the lips of people he kidnapped for the sole purpose of torturing them. Maybe he’d do it if he just so happened to know that the person hated it, but that was nowhere near enough for him to be good at it. Besides, if he was bad at it, the person would probably hate it more. Really, it was probably in his best interest to stay bad at it, but honestly he wasn’t good because he just didn’t see a point in it.

It was obvious how much he sucked by the way he would push his lips against yours, stick his tongue out, slobber on your chin, bang your teeth together. But when he kissed you, it didn’t seem like he was trying to be bad at it. Honestly, it seemed like it was something he actually wanted to do, but he just couldn’t get the hang of it. But you tried to push those thoughts out of your head. There wasn’t any way that Strade was trying to be good at something like that, something so intimate. Like, really be good at it, not just be good at it so he can trick the person he just cut a toe off of into trusting him. There was no way he actually just wanted to kiss. This had to be another performance, another mockery of what normal human beings do.

But it really did seem like he wanted to do this.

It was easier for you to write off at first. He gets ideas sometimes, horrible ideas that he wants to act out. Sometimes over and over and over again. When he first asked you to kiss him, then made you lay under him for an hour while he shoved his lips onto yours, you thought it was a punishment for something you must’ve done to him, or at the very least another passing thought of his that he didn’t have the self control to not act on. But when he kept making you do it, you knew that this was a phase he must’ve been going through, and that if he was going to keep forcing you to kiss him for hours on end, it was going to be a long month.

But, the more he made you kiss him, the more it felt like he wasn’t just punishing you, or even going through a phase. It felt like he just wanted to practice. So you started taking it more seriously. If he was going to make kissing a regular occurrence, you should probably make sure that he’s at least decent, and he didn’t seem to be making any progress.

You tried to guide him. When he would pin you underneath him, you’d raise your arms and wrap them around his neck. You’d pull him down and swallow the lump in your throat as you told him to “go slow, only pucker your lips when you reach mine.” He’d stare down at you, for once in his life not being able to find something to say back. But he’d lean down and let his eyes close and he’d push his lips against yours, but his pucker would be too late. He ended up just pushing your faces together. So then he’d lean back up and scrunch his eyebrows together and just try again. He’d keep trying and trying.

The two of you would make out for hours, and it was weird, because kissing didn’t do anything for him. He’d kiss you and maybe only get half hard, then push himself off and go do something else. So, really, you guessed this wasn’t a punishment at all. And, he was improving slightly every time, so you should probably just forget about him planning anything bad with this, and just be grateful that he had fixated on something that didn’t cause much bodily harm to you.

The phase lasted longer than you expected. You kissed more than you ever thought you would, and eventually, you were kissing even after Strade had already gotten pretty good at it. You didn’t have to tell him how to do anything, or what to do, or how to do it. He knew. He knew how to do it all, but he still wanted to keep kissing you. Those moments became special, the moments when you could wrap your arms around him and pull him closer and close your eyes and pretend that this was normal.

He didn’t even seem to mind when you were the one who wanted to do the kissing. You could ask him if he wanted to and he would say yes and that was it. You would kiss and he would put his hand on your cheek and you’d play with the hair on the back of his neck. It was… weird. It wasn’t normal. And it wasn’t like his behavior changed in any other way. The sweet moments were contained only in the minutes when your lips were locked together. Otherwise, he was still horrible. He would still push you down, twist your arm, shove his knife into your skin. But none of that happened when you were kissing. You supposed he was keeping that safe.

So it was a mutual agreement that either of you could ask to kiss and that was fine. But, it was the best when neither of you had to ask, because you both understood what the other wanted. Sometimes you would just be sitting together, neither talking, and you’d look at each other and just lean in. It wasn’t something that had to be asked for (or forced), it was something that was natural.

The only problem was that it never went any further. Which, you guessed, realistically, wasn’t a problem. Most of the time with Strade going any further involved a lot of pain on your end. But kissing did do something for you. When you kissed Strade, you wanted to do more eventually. You wanted to run your hands down his back and you wanted him to kiss down your body and you wanted to be close without the horribleness that was being close to him. You wanted to go further and you wanted it to be slow and deep and passionate. You wanted it to actually mean something. But none of that was plausible because, in the end, this was still Strade that you were dealing with.

It was late. The night was still and dark. The glow of the TV hit your face, the feeling of Strade’s presence beside you. You two had been watching TV for hours, just flipping through the channels when something he didn’t like came on. He was leaned back, his cheek pressed to his shoulder. He looked so relaxed, so at peace. You thought he was going to fall asleep, just like you felt like you could at any moment. Technically, you didn’t have to be down there with him. You could’ve gone upstairs, to your own room, and done anything else. But watching TV wasn’t much of a problem. Besides, what were you supposed to do all by yourself in your room? Spending time with Strade wasn’t so bad, but you had felt the sleepiness hit you almost an hour ago, and you had been fighting with your own eyes to keep them open ever since. Really, all you wanted to do was crawl onto Strade’s lap and give him lazy kisses until you just fell asleep in his arms.

You looked over at him. You started the night on the other end of the couch, but in the past hour you had managed to scoot towards Strade without him saying anything about it. He really must be tired, you thought, for him to barely pay any attention to me. You sat beside him, your head swaying as your eyes closed every few minutes. You rubbed at your eyes and looked over at Strade, before you swallowed and let your head fall onto his shoulder.

Strade’s body stiffened for a moment. You swallowed again, your heart beating against your chest. You had taken a chance with lying your head down, maybe you could take a chance with something else you wanted to do, too… After a second, without saying anything, Strade moved his arm and wrapped it around you. You moved your head, fitting yourself perfectly against his side. You stayed still for a few minutes, listening to Strade’s heartbeat against your ear. Then, you moved your head and looked up at him. Maybe I can make it mean something, you thought.

“Strade?” you said, your voice small from the hours spent not saying anything.

He glanced down at you. His eyes were heavy lidded and low.

“Yes?” he asked. He sounded tired, too.

You swallowed and looked away for a second, letting your eyes scan the floor. Then, you looked back up at him.

“Uh,” you breathed out. “Do you want to-” You paused, taking a deep breath, trying to still your heartbeat. “Do you want to kiss?”

Strade let out a small hum. His arm flexed on your side, his muscle getting harder before he relaxed again. He clicked his tongue and then looked down at you.

“Sure,” he said. “We can kiss.”

“Really?” you squeaked.

Strade let out a short, loud laugh. “Of course.” He smiled down at you. “Always.”

You raised up, scooting up on the couch slightly. Strade didn’t move, obviously content in the spot that he was already in. He might not make kissing a horrible experience, but that didn’t stop him from making you work for it. You sat sideways on the couch, pulling your leg up and bending it in front of you.

Strade stared at you, not saying anything. He always did that, and it never failed to make you nervous. You felt a lump form in your throat as you tried to get situated under his gaze. His eyes felt like they were staring straight into your soul, and even though you two were doing something that you had grown comfortable with, you still felt your arms shaking as you moved.

You placed your hand on his leg and scooted forward, getting close enough so that you could kiss him with only a slight lean. You paused, hesitating, staring up at him. He had turned his head so he could keep looking at you. He wasn’t saying anything, was barely even moving. All you had to do was lean forward and push your lips together.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, and then did just that.

You closed your eyes when you saw him leaning down slightly. It was only a second later that you felt your lips press against his but it felt like forever. You felt your heart beat faster as you kissed him, the intimate moment still making your entire body turn red and your stomach twist into knots. Your hand twitched on his leg, wanting to move, but you stopped yourself. It was too soon in the kiss to do any of that. You had to pace yourself, make sure he really liked this if you wanted to take it any further. And you wanted to. You wanted to be close to him.

Instead, you flattened your palm against his thigh and rubbed. Strade, however, wasted no time in raising his own hand to your face. He cupped your neck, rubbing his thumb under your jaw. He tilted your head back, like you taught him, and deepened the kiss. Your lips moved against each other’s, as did your hand. You gripped his thigh, pressing your fingers gently into his skin. The only reaction he gave was moving his other arm so that it wasn't squished between your two bodies. You shifted, his arm wrapping around your side.

Strade’s tongue left his mouth and ran across your lips. You parted them, giving him access to push it the rest of the way inside, but instead of rushing into it, he pulled back slightly. His mouth closed against yours and he swallowed, then he was kissing you again. You opened your mouth once more and felt his tongue come inside. He didn’t push it all the way in, though, instead licking just inside the entrance. He was doing everything you taught him to do, and he was being slow about it. You didn’t know if he was doing it deliberately, but either way you really didn’t mind. Your brain was filling up with all different kinds of scenarios, all different kinds of romance.

You let out a small whine and instinctively raised up. You pushed your hand into his thigh more and raised into the kiss. Strade pushed his tongue deeper into your mouth, and you both moved your lips rougher. It was obvious that the both of you were getting into it, the sound of spit dropping from the corner of your mouths and the sound of the moans escaping your lips filling the room. Your hand moved on its own, supposedly trained by Strade or just a reaction from such a moment from someone who meant so much to you. You inched your fingers closer and closer, until finally your palm rested against his clothed cock.

But you didn’t have much time to do anything more than a slight rub before you felt Strade’s grip on your face get tighter. His fingers dug into your jaw and you let out a gasp at the sudden pain, your brain pulled out of whatever rose colored vision you were just in. He pushed you back, away from him, and you looked up. He had a huge smile on his face, a light blush dusting over his cheeks, and his pupils were blown out.

“You know,” he said, his voice husky, his hand still placed firmly on your face, “if I didn’t know any better, I would think you were coming onto me.”

You stared up at him, your eyes wide at his comment. Maybe you were being a little hasty, but it was only because you wanted to be close to him.

You shook your head. You didn’t want him to get anything in his head, you didn’t want him to turn kissing into something bad.

“No,” you stammered. “I just wanted to kiss.”

“Why do you look so scared?” Strade asked. His grip tightened even more and you felt your neck move as he pulled you closer to him. He pressed his forehead against yours. “Kissing isn’t scary.”

“I know,” you breathed out. He smelled a little like peppermint, which you figured probably came from whatever it was he had been drinking. “I just-“ you stumbled out. “I just wanted to- um, I figured we could-“ You swallowed. You didn’t know how to ask. Kissing was all you had ever asked for. It never went any further. What if you pushed for more and ruined everything?

Strade sighed and dropped his hand, letting his palm run down your neck and over your shoulder. “Spit it out,” he said. He pulled away, dropping his back against the couch. He placed his hands on his lap and looked over at you. He stared at you for a second, then he quirked an eyebrow and a grin slowly formed on his lips. “Unless you’re too dumb to know how you really feel?”

He phrased it as a question, but it felt more like a statement. You swallowed, not knowing what to say. Maybe he was right. You couldn’t get out what you wanted to ask, after all.

“It’s okay,” he cooed, speaking to you like you were a kid. He reached his hand out again and cupped your cheek. He smiled at you, a smile that to anyone else would be comforting, but you could see the patrons action behind it. You still leaned into his palm, though. “I always know how you’re feeling.” He moved his hand and leaned back again. He raised his eyebrows and said, “You’re lucky I’m here.”

Strade smiled again and then looked away. He hummed, seemingly in thought. Then, he looked back at you. “You wanted me to kiss you while I fuck you, right?” he asked, matter-of-factly.

You felt a blush flood your face. You looked away from him, shifting your eyes to the floor instead. But it wasn’t long until you felt his fingers grasp your chin and your face being pulled towards him.

“You want me to kiss you while I fuck you,” Strade repeated, slowing down each word, dragging out each syllable, “right?”

You swallowed, feeling a hint of tears threatening your eyes. You stared up at him. He always knew exactly what was going on in your head. Once again he had shown that maybe he was right, maybe he was the only one who knew what was best for you, what you actually needed and wanted.

You nodded. “I wanted you to kiss me,” you paused for a second, “while you fucked me.”

Strade leaned back, a huge smile spread across his face. “Well why didn’t you just say so?” he boomed. “I can do that for you!”

Your face perked up. “Really?” you asked.

“Of course,” he said, his smile relaxing into an easier one to digest. “I’ll do anything for you.”

You guessed that was true.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Strade gave you a sympathetic look. “No need to thank me.”

You stared at each other for a few moments. You didn’t know exactly how to go about this. He knew what you wanted, but what now? Did he want to take the lead, or was this something he was going to make you work for? If so, do you just crawl onto his lap? Do you go slower? Faster? You had no idea what he wanted you to do.

But then he spoke. “Well, let’s get going, yeah?” he gestured his head towards himself. He must’ve seen the look on your face at his request because he followed up with, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

You trusted him. You gave him a small nod and then crawled to him. You swallowed as you leaned up, swinging a leg over his so that you were sitting on his lap. He smiled up at you as his hands found their place on your hips. You licked your lips, pulling the bottom one between your teeth. Strade stared up at you, not making any more moves. You took a deep breath, steadying your nerves, and then leaned down.

You placed your hands on both of his cheeks and crashed your lips together. You let your body slash on top of him, not holding yourself up. Your hips pressed against his. You felt his thumbs rub circles in your skin as you kissed. Your lips smacked together, both of your mouths opening as your tongues shot out and pushed inside. Strade ran his tongue across yours and you pushed back, putting up a mock fight. Really, you just wanted his tongue deeper in your mouth.

It didn’t take long before Strade and you were slobbering all over each other. Spit gathered over your lips as the kiss was deepened. Strade stopped rubbing circles and instead gripped tight. You squished his face slightly, raising up to kiss him harder. His fingers dug into your skin, though, forcing you back down onto his lap. You let out a gasp at the feeling, and Strade smiled against your lips for a moment before pulling you back into the kiss.

Strade’s hands moved, guiding your hips on top of his. He pushed you down, hard, against his cock. Your hands moved from his cheeks and slipped around, wrapping around his neck. You moved your hips along with his hands, grinding down. The kiss was intense, and you couldn’t stop the moans from coming from your lips. Strade’s breathing was getting harder, to, and small groans were coming from him.

He was getting more handsy as the kiss went on. You were a little surprised. Before, Strade really didn’t try anything when you were kissing. He would barely even press his body against yours. Was he doing this for you? Or has something really changed? You guessed you were acting a little different, too. You took the other kisses slowly. He allowed you to keep a wall up, so you did. But you weren’t doing that now. You wanted to really kiss Strade, you wanted to kiss him in a way that wasn’t you teaching him. You wanted to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him and-

You let out a loud gasp at the feeling of Strade’s teeth biting down on your bottom lip. It pulled you out of your thoughts, and your eyes shot open. You looked down at him, his teeth pulling at your lip. He wasn’t letting you get too far away from him, but the pain was building up. Finally, he let your lip go, and your tongue shot out of your mouth. You tasted blood and you could feel your heartbeat. You swallowed, suddenly remembering who you were kissing.

Strade wasn’t looking at you anymore, though. His eyes were huge and staring at your lip, his own tongue poking out and licking his lips. He let out a low hum and then moved his hands up and around, cupping your lower back. He pulled you to him and when you were close enough to his face, you felt his tongue drag along your lip, licking up the blood that had gathered on the spot he bit. He let out a low groan as he savored the taste in his mouth. He was getting excited, you could tell, and fuck, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t getting excited, too.

You didn’t give him much time to do anything else before you dropped your face back down to his. You moved your hips, rubbing your clothed bodies together. Your lips crashed together, the blood from yours smearing onto his face. You didn’t know how he felt about this, but he didn’t react too much. He just tightened his grip on your back. You barely paid attention to what he was doing, but you were vaguely aware of the feeling of his hands slipping under your shirt. You felt his palms slide up your back, pulling your shirt up with them. You continued to kiss him, your tongues fighting against each other, the noise of the TV drowned out by the noises of you two.

You pulled away when Strade raised your shirt up. He slipped it off you and tossed out to the side, his mouth immediately attaching to you again. Your hands clenched behind his neck, your fingers grasping the hair at the back of his neck, His hands roamed your back as he kissed your neck, which quickly turned into bites. he bit down, hard, sucking bruises all over. Your hands dropped to his shoulders and you gripped, not really knowing what else to do with them. The hickeys hurt, but your brain had entered into a space that only Strade could put it in. And, besides, he didn’t really care if he was hurting you or not.

His dick grew underneath you. You could feel the hardness press against you as you grinned down onto his hips. He continued to move his head down, sucking onto your skin. After a few minutes, he leaned back and admired his handiwork.

“You look better like this,” he commented.

You looked down at him, but you didn’t say anything back. For once, he didn’t seem to mind. You felt his hand cup the back of your neck, his thumb placed close to one of the hickeys. He pushed your head down, closer to his, but when your lips were almost touching he paused. He looked into your eyes, his thumb rubbing lightly against the hickey. Your mouth was slightly parted against his. Then, his finger pushed into the bruise and a pain shot through your body. Your mouth opened more, but a gasp wasn’t able to leave it because Strade brought his out to yours. The noise was caught in your throat at the sudden contact. Then, you felt him purse his lips and spit in your mouth. It hit your throat and you had no choice but to swallow it down.

Your lips were connected again after that, your mouth slick with his spit. He kissed you back, but only for a moment before he was pulling away.

“Take your pants off,” he commanded. His voice was rough and his pupils were completely blacked out. He had one thing on his mind, and he was going to get it.

You scrambled off of him. When you got to your feet, you pulled your pants down and kicked them off. You were completely naked in front of him, but you didn’t even care. Being ashamed of anything like that in front of Strade had gone out the window a long time ago. You were quick to try and climb back onto him, but when your hand touched his knee, he stopped you.

“Whoa,” he laughed. “A little eager, aren’t we?” He quirked an eyebrow at you and tilted his head, an amused smile on his face. “I have to take my pants off, too.”

You stepped back and swallowed. Not being ashamed of being naked in front of him didn’t mean he didn’t find other ways to embarrass you every chance he could get. You watched him slip his fingers into the waistband of his sweats and pull down. He raised his hips and slid his sweats off, then kicked them away. You could see the bulge in his underwear, and he smiled when he saw you staring. Your cheeks burned even brighter as he started pulling at his underwear. He didn’t take them all the way off, though, he just pushed them down enough to pull his cock out. He stared down at it as he stroked lazily, but then his eyes drew up to you.

“Come on,” he gestured his head towards himself.

You stepped towards him and then climbed back onto his lap. He kept one hand on his dick, but the other one attached to your hip, guiding you on top of him. You settled on top, your legs squishing against his thighs. You looked up at him.

“So,” Strade started. You felt his knuckles brushing against you, “I believe that one of the conditions was that I had to kiss you while I fucked you, right?”

You bit your lip, trying to hide the small smile. “Yeah,” you nodded.

Strade smiled. “Okay.”

He leaned his face towards you, his hand raising to your cheek. You leaned down, too, closing your eyes and putting all of your trust into him. Your lips connected, and he gently kissed you. It was the most passion he had put into any of your kisses ever. It felt like he really, really wanted to do this. You squeezed your eyes shut, not wanting to cry at a time like this. You kissed him back, your mind completely focused on that. You didn’t even notice he was moving his other hand until you felt his tip press against you. You instinctively clenched, preparing for him.

He went slow. He pushed inside of you, and you felt his legs shaking against yours as he did, trying his hardest not to go too fast. You let out small whines as he pushed all the way in, kissing him all the way through it. You felt him fill you up, stretching you out, and you didn’t help but to raise your hands to his cheeks and grip them tight. He didn’t move when he was inside, instead he moved both of his hands to your hips and kept kissing you.

His dick twitched inside you and you couldn’t help but clench around him. He wasn’t small, so the burn was almost painful, and as much as you adored cockwarming, you needed more than that. You were aching for him to move, to do anything.

You pulled away, breathing hard. “Strade?” you whispered. You moved your hips slightly, showing him what you wanted. “Can you…” You trailed off, looking down at him, your eyes big.

Strade let out a small laugh. “Right,” he said. “The other condition was fucking, wasn’t it?”

“Mhm,” you whined.

“Guess I have to fuck you then, huh?”

“Please,” you said. You moved your hips around again.

Strade let out another laugh and tapped his fingers against your hip. He was so deep, you could feel him in every part of your body. You needed him. Finally, he moved his hips, pushing himself down onto the couch. He barely pulled out any, but he slammed back inside anyway. You gasped, falling on top of him as you lost your grip on his shoulders.

He moved your hips, pulling you up and then pushing you back down. You were trying to keep your balance, your shoulder bumping into his chin as he continued to bounce you up and down. He didn’t seem to notice, though. His head was pressed into the crook of your neck, low groans coming from his mouth.

He wasn’t going fast like usual, though. He was going slow and hard, getting deeper and deeper with each thrust. He was hitting places inside you that you didn’t even know existed. The moans that were coming from you were guttural, coming from deep within your throat. Strade’s hands were gripping your hips tight, an ever present reminder that he was using his self control, but that this wasn’t what he normally did.

Strade pushed all the way inside you, but then he didn’t pull out. Instead, he pushed his hips up more, and yours down, staying deep and only fucking into you even deeper. The pressure and the hard thrusts were convincing you that your insides were going to be bruised forever, another way that Strade was going to leave his mark on you.

Strade’s face was still buried in your neck, his spit falling onto your skin. You felt him swallow as he moved his hands from your hips. He wrapped them around you and laced them together behind your back, pressing you against him, holding you to him. You raised up, pushing at his shoulder to get him to do the same.

He raised his head up and looked at you. His eyes were heavy lidded, his cheeks were bright red, his hair was a mess over his forehead, his lips were wet with spit. He looked… so… cute. So human. He looked like he was really, really enjoying this and for once you were really, really enjoying it, too. You two were so close, you two were… You two were made for each other.

You pressed your forehead against his, smiling. A moment later, you moved, pushing your lips against his. You kissed him, and he kissed you back. You felt his arm tightened around your back, pushing your face into his more. The kiss was deep, Strade’s dick, your entire body was on fire with passion and it was all too much. It was only a few more thrusts, only a few more pumps and you felt yourself come undone. You gasped into the kiss. Strade smiled and then let out his own series of groans as you felt him cum, deep inside you.

Your body dropped when both of you had rode out your orgasms. You slacked against him, your body not even able to move anymore. Strade was still, too, but he kept his arms wrapped around you. He was breathing heavily, and a small laugh left his lips.

“Hey,” he panted. He felt his fingers tap your back.

You couldn’t say anything back, though. You were tired before, but you were definitely on the brink of sleep now. You could barely even keep your eyes open.

“Are you asleep?” he asked, his voice lowering slightly.

When you didn’t answer, he let out another small laugh. He snuggled slightly, and then a few minutes later you felt your body raise up. He pulled out, and then more shuffling. Then you were raising up again, but this time Strade was, too. He carried you through the house and into your bedroom. He lowered you onto the bed. You squished your body into the mattress, and then felt a blanket cover you.

“Goodnight,” was the last thing you heard Strade whisper, his lips landing on your forehead, before you fell into a deep sleep.

[s-brant]

Baby Names

(gif: @mishellejones) (SERIES MASTERLIST)

Summary: Y/N gets frustrated while putting the crib for her and JJ’s baby together and finds herself missing her dead brother more than ever.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Fluff and minor angst.

A/N: Asks and ye shall receive, here’s a little blurb about what happens after Tokens! You don’t really have to read the other parts to enjoy this fic if you don’t want to, but I do recommend it for some backstory. This was slightly inspired by this fic by @cognacdelights, so go give her stuff a read! Let me know if you liked this. Have fun!

Y/N Routledge thought she got over her brother's death long ago.

Though you never truly "get over" losing a loved one, though there will always be a small part of you, however small, that aches for their presence again, she thought she moved past the tragedy to the best of her ability...until last week.

To say that the pregnancy was a surprise would be the understatement of the century. She and JJ were both on the same page about children when their relationship began, and that page was that neither of them wanted them yet. Sure, the idea of it in the future stirred their hearts with fond emotion, but considering that they had yet to graduate high school and barely scraped by on their own, they weren't jumping headfirst into that aspect of adulthood.

They were meticulous about safe sex. They couldn't afford another mouth to feed, she wasn't sure she could handle the emotional trauma of having an abortion, and, underneath it all, he had some reservations about being a father. It wasn't that he didn't envision a future with kids in their relationship, he did, but the topic of fatherhood always took him down a dark path within his mind.

So, she went on birth control once they started dating and they went along with no scares for the next six years as they graduated and started figuring out what the next step for their lives was going to be.

Y/N could get lost thinking about it, honestly, but she tries not to get too swept up in the minor mistake that led to this.

"You, my friend, need to stop moving around in there," she whispers down at her protruding belly with a hand cradling the heavy weight of it, "I'm trying to get your crib set up without JJ yelling at me for not asking for help, and if you don't stop kicking me, I'm not gonna get anything done."

She's sprawled out on the floor in the living room of the Chateau with her legs stretched comfortably in each direction while she hunches over to read the directions of the Ikea furniture. The sugarcoated description makes her want to hunt down the company CEO for sport, because for how "simple and easy!" the construction of it claims to be, she is at her wits end.

The last thing she needed after having her grief over John B's death reignited by their decision to name their kid after him last week was to stress herself out over something as stupid as this, but she won't quit. With how much JJ has been coddling her the further into the pregnancy she gets, she wanted to prove that she could do something for herself.

Whenever she brings in the groceries from the car and goes to lift the bag of dog kibble out of the trunk, he rushes up behind her back and scoops it out of the trunk before she dares to touch it. It always ends with her hollering after him that it's under twenty pounds, the upwards limit of the weight she's allowed to carry according to her doctor, but he refuses to hear any of it.

Inside of her, she feels a sharp sensation of something hitting her right in the ribs in response to her comment, and she groans in frustration. It's as if he did it because he knows she wants it to stop, the feisty little fucker.

"You're definitely your daddy's son, aren't you? It's already enough having one of him, the last thing I need is a JJ clone."

Their three-year-old Rottweiler rescue huffs a sigh from where he lays, frog-legging it, on the floor next to the unboxed crib pieces she can't put together to save her life. His drooping jowls produce a puddle of slobber on the her favorite carpet that is past the point of saving from his constant wear and tear. After a year of having him, she decided to stop trying to prevent him from ruining it. There’s no point.

She smiles at him as she leans forward to read through the directions for the billionth time, saying, "I actually think he'll be a lot like his uncle, but that's just me. If he isn't, I'll feel a little stupid over the name situation."

John Booker Routledge-Maybank.

Hell of a name if you ask her yourself, but for every internal struggle it reopened inside of her, she couldn't help but love it as soon as JJ casually proposed the idea on his way out of the door for work one morning.

Going on without John B has been a learning experience in every aspect. Any time she wanted to turn to him for advice or tell him something about the recent events in her life, she had to walk out back to their dying magnolia tree and sit under the shade to talk to the wind. Then, once the tree finally died and they were forced to cut it down, she took to sitting on its stump and doing it there.

It got easier as time went on, but she can't keep herself from wondering what it'd be like if he didn't die ever since she saw the results on the pregnancy test six months ago. Whenever she does something like going to her OBGYN appointments or, case in point, setting up the crib, she pictures him there.

She can see him here now, petting Bowie's shiny coat until he falls asleep with his head propped onto John B's outstretched legs. He'd be twenty-three years old by now with his life barely starting to blossom to its full potential, yet here they are. Correction, here she is, and he's off somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, already decomposed to the extent that not even his bones can be salvaged anymore.

Her chest sinks in another sigh, and she flips through page after page of the instructions with increasing aggression.

"This crib is so fucking—"

"What are you doing?"

The sound of her yelping in surprise at JJ's voice coming from the door is enough to make him laugh to himself, though his amusement is buried partway by what he's walking in on. He specifically asked her to wait for him to put the crib together, knowing damn well it wouldn't be the easy task she thought it was, but he should've known she'd do it anyway.

She looks over her shoulder with a mixture of guilt and frustration painting her features as she throws her hands up in the air and gestures vaguely to the unassembled crib. Her eyes are shining with the rapid onset of hormone-induced tears.

"I can't put this crib together 'cause the instructions aren't right, all the pieces are labeled wrong, your son won't stop kicking me, and I miss my brother so much right now," she spews the words with no pauses to breathe until the very end, when she stops short to suck down a breath as soon as she gets the last part out.

It leaves JJ standing at the entrance to the house with this stunned expression.

There's no amusement to be found anymore. Once she turned and flashed those wide, teary eyes that never fail to spark an ache in his heart at him, his tired smile vanished and his feet started moving before he could say anything to her.

The floorboards creak beneath his half-laced boots on his way across the room to her. It prompts Bowie to pop his head up from around the side of the coffee table to catch a peek of whoever it is that's approaching his emotionally distraught owner. Upon seeing JJ's familiar face, the dog relaxes back into his lounging position atop the carpet and tracks JJ’s movements until he's seated next to her.

"This is about John B?" he asks.

Her cheeks are flushed in embarrassment at her sudden outburst, and she can't bear to meet his gaze right now. Despite him being her closest friend and husband, she feels as small and vulnerable as she did six years ago when she first learned of her brother's death from Shoupe. Time might as well be shaped in the form of a never-ending circle for them, directing them back to their seventeen-year-old state of mind every time things turn sour.

Y/N finally lifts her hanging head to look over at him after another few seconds and thinks she might crumble at the look on his face. He hates watching her cry.

"I guess," she says through a sniffle, "It's about the crib too, but I've been thinking about it a lot more since we picked the name. Our baby’s gonna grow up never knowing who his uncle was..."

With that, JJ takes it as his cue to pull her closer.

He scoots up behind her and lets his chin rest on the curve bridging her neck and shoulder together as he twines his arms around her body. It's a closeness that's as natural as breathing for him, so natural that he can hardly remember the years before it became normal for them to take part in little moments of intimacy like this. The warmth of their bodies cohabitates in the blurred line distinguishing where she ends and he begins, and he feels her relax, sagging in his embrace in appreciation of his miraculous ability to make her feel better no matter how worked up she is.

One of his hands rests on the swell of her bump in an absentminded effort to calm him too. Even though he isn't consciously thinking of it, he knows that her distress must upset the baby too. The contact steadies her, keeps her grounded to the moment rather than allowing her to slip away into the current of her negative thoughts, and she clings to every word he has to say.

He says, "You and I both know that isn’t true. He's gonna grow up seeing all the pictures you have of John B and ask about him all the time. And we'll tell him all the stories"—there's a pause of contemplation as he recalls a few particularly non-PG memories of his best friend—"Well, maybe not all of them, but you know what I mean."

This draws a soft bout of laughter from deep within her chest that he feels with how her body shakes ever so slightly with it. It seems so wrong to laugh with tears in her eyes but she can't help it. Her emotions have been scattered in every direction since the pregnancy began, and it has only gotten worse the further along she gets.

"If you ever tell him about the kief incident, I'm never giving you a bl—"

His free hand smushes over her mouth before she can say the rest.

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”

It's said so frantically, it makes her erupt in laughter hard enough to tickle her abdomen muscles with the aching sensation of it. The vibration of it under his palm makes him drop his hand a second later with the need to hear the beautiful sound. After seeing her cry, it's a welcome shift in mood, even if it's at his expense.

Her head is thrown back on his shoulder, mouth parted into a smile with the gleeful giggling filling the room. His stomach churns with butterflies at the sight of her. Even after all these years, he has the same reaction to her laughter every time. It makes him smile to himself and watch her in quiet reverence. It makes him ache with the same inklings of longing he felt for the first time when he was much younger.

Her laughter begins to die down by the time she can draw enough breath in to murmur a soft, "Sorry, angel," to him and reach down to hold the hand he rests on her belly as consolation for her joke.

They remain this way for another few minutes, tangled up in each other's arms on the floor of the living room with Bowie snoring a few feet away, before he manages to convince her to let him be the one to set up the crib instead. It takes a good five minutes of playful back and forth before she concedes under the condition that he'll let her paint the nursery by herself when the time comes, and that's all it takes for her to abandon the task in favor of finding something to snack on in the fridge.

In her defense, the crib is actually quite difficult to put together.

JJ doesn't consider himself an expert handyman by any means, at least not with anything outside of his area of expertise as an electrician, but he likes to think he knows enough to put together a "no assembly required" Ikea crib without wanting to bang his face against the wall.

In the end, it gets finished by the two of them in the middle of the night over a box of cold leftover pizza from the previous day. It takes them two hours of struggling before they get it fully assembled and placed where they want it in the room that'll soon belong to their son.

He pretends not to notice her sneaking back in to tie John B's old bandana around the wooden railing before they go to bed.

Tag List: @gabiatthedisco, @fangirlvoice, @black-syren, @apparrio, @particularcth, @planetdemon, @idk-ijustworkhere, @krisphann, @astrydis, @k-k0129, @zarahsloves, and @stilesflannels.

[jaegersol]

@black--sun || Continued from here

Grimmjow glares at his phone, thumb clicking it off, before deciding no actually he wants to read what that cheeky little shit said just one more time. Just to be sure. But nope. Ichigo’s text stares back at him. Gingernuts has the gall to bitch at him about how he’s never around. Like it’s his fault that he has shit to do. Like Ichigo thinks he’s anything more than the hot blood-bag of the year. Grimmjow could replace him in a heartbeat if he wanted to - which he doesn’t yet. He hasn’t finished getting what he wants from the arrogant kid. Grimmjow practically invented him.

Whatever.

He’d fired off his own text - too many words by far to suggest he was in anyway emotionally unaffected by Ichigo’s threats to leave him - and forcefully turned his attention back to situation at hand. The situation being a sniveling little rat of a man who was busy distracting Grimmjow from his relationship issues with the truly putrid scent of piss.

“Really?” Grimmjow asks, bored and derogatory, and tightens his grip on the mans neck. “Couldn’t hold it in?” Yuck. At least he didn’t get any on Grimmjow’s shoes. “Y’know. All your sphincters go loose when you die anyway. If you’d just waited two minutes you coulda spared yourself the indignity of knowing that the only thing you amounted to in life was pissing yourself right before you died.” God this is the worst. Ichigo’s made him chatty today. He hates being chatty when he has an audience. At least the audience is just his men.

His phone pings again and he clicks it open, shushing the man when his slobbering and blubbering distracts him from reading Ichigo’s message.

His best friend? Is he known for having one? He considers texting back:

  Didn’t think you’d sink so   low as to trade dances for   a venom hit.

Didn’t think you’d sink so low as to trade dances for a venom hit.

But Grimmjow can’t think of who Ichigo might be talking about, and he doesn’t want to encourage him. It’s not a big deal, he’ll finish up here, find Ichigo, and fuck him stupid in the alleyway. Problem solved. But for real, what is it with humans these days. Is Grimmjow not biting on him enough?

“Pleasepleaseplease-ulease--” the man is still begging. But Grimmjow’s pretty much out of patience.

“Yeah, nah.” Grimmjow tells him, and closes his fist through the mans brittle neck. It’s sorta satisfying in the same way crushing a stress ball is. Just twice as messy. He steps back before he can get splattered and accepts the towel Yyl hands him, “He didn’t know anything, find the next unlucky idiot.”

Shawlong voices, “We’ll text you.”

“Uhuh,” Grimmjow’s attention is already back on his phone and heading for the door.

   Lose my number. I found something     better to do

He scowls. No. Un-fucking-likely. Not happening. He steps through the shadows to hunt down his favorite and most aggravating meal. Cuz he knows that ‘something’ in this case really means ‘someone’. And yeah. Grimmjow can stick his dick in whoever he fucking likes, but he’ll be assed if Ichigo things he’s the one calling the shots here.

He steps out of the dark just in time to see Ichigo pulling his shirt away from his neck and to register Abarai’s red hair and the fact that Grimmjow’s almost definitely smelled this one on Ichigo before. Smelled him and he turned a blind eye. Well look at what his lenience got him.

He doesn’t roar like some possessive freshling vamp - he’s too well trained and too pissed off. He lunges, grabs the other vampire by the back of his hair and neck and hurls him down the street. Doesn’t kill him on sight only because he hadn’t actually put fangs on Ichigo this time.

“Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.” He hisses, fangs bared, and he doesn’t wait for a retort.

 Doesn’t wait to give Ichigo a show - little bastard was probably looking for the validation - just turns silently, grabs Ichigo with a hand around his lower face and pushed him back into the shadows where Grimmjow came from and out of the other side in Grimmjow’s cesspit of an apartment.

He releases him, but denies him any space, crowding him against the backside of his couch. Eyes glancing only for a moment at the exposed pane of Ichigo throat. “You really thought I was just gonna let you go? When you’re the one caught with your fuckin’ trousers down? Tell me how you thought this was gonna go.”

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn���t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

[allthingskakashi]

thigh riding with kakashi maybe👀

OKAY SO idk if this was just a general ask but i was inspired bc Kakashi's thighs get me 🥵🥵 so i wrote a whole fic which I'm not sure you asked for but hope would enjoy nonetheless 😌

And i managed to come up w a satisfactory title too 😌

• Enough Already •

[ Kakashi x Reader]

Words : 2k

Tags : Smut, 18+

You were beginning to get impatient.

You’d been watching Kakashi hunched over his desk, going through piles and piles of paperwork for the past three hours now. Sure, he was the Hokage and you did understand that he had a lot of work to do, but for the past month now it felt like you barely even got to see your own boyfriend. And even when you did, he’d just be nose deep in work and come to bed late every night, only to pass out the moment his back touched the mattress.

And yes, you did understand all of that, but it’d been so long since you’d made love, that even the sight of his bare biceps contracting as he worked right now was getting you hot and heavy.

You sighed, uncrossing your legs on the sofa, and closing shut the book in your hand. You'd been trying to read, but the book you were reading was an erotica and the vivid descriptions playing all sorts of images in your mind only added to your frustration.

Tossing the book onto the table next to you, you got up, making your way to where Kakashi was sitting.

You trod over lightly, coming to a halt at the back of his wooden chair. You stood behind Kakashi, slowly wrapping your arms around his neck, before crouching to plant a feathery kiss on the side of his face and working your way down, your kisses getting slobbery as you went.

You’d almost reached the crook of his neck when his curt voice stopped you. “Y/n. I’m working.” He said, oblivious to your advances and continuing to scribble away.

You stopped, unwrapping your arms and stepping away from him. “Yeah, I can see that.” you replied, not putting any efforts to mask the hurt in your voice, before adding “When are you not” in a low mutter.

Kakashi kept his gaze focused on the papers in front of him, his sharp eyes scanning quickly across the sheets as he worked.

You let out a deliberately loud sigh, hoping to elicit some sort of a reaction from Kakashi. An apology, an acknowledgement, or anything, but much to your disappointment, you found none.

With your mouth formed into a frown, you turned away from him, making your way to the other side of the room as the sound of your footsteps rung a little too loud against the floor.

You were a patient woman, but this was starting to get on your nerves now. All you wanted was for Kakashi to just give you a few hours of his time in a day, that’s all. Working like a machine in the way that he was wasn’t good for him either, and you couldn’t possibly be the only one who missed the times you spent. The passionate nights, the lazy mornings, the afternoons spent in bed like it was your last day on Earth. Surely, he missed them too?

You had to do something.

Your feet stopped near the main switchboard in the living room. Reaching your hand to the board, you quickly flicked off the switch connecting to the air conditioner, before slowly making your way back to the sofa and plopping down on it.

You sat waiting with your arms crossed, jiggling your legs and watching Kakashi carefully out of the corner of your eye, studying him and waiting for any kind of a movement or response.

The minutes drove by and beads of sweat were beginning to form on your forehead now. It was the middle of summer and the air was warm and crisp outside. During day, the streets were so hot you could fry an egg on them. But Kakashi remained glued to the chair, continuing with his work with not so much as a flinch or a sound.

Alright, this was REALLY starting to get on your nerves now.

You stood up swiftly from the sofa, fanning yourself with your hand, before vigorously shaking the neckline of your shirt. “Gee, it’s really hot don’t you think?” you cried out, making sure to enunciate every word as you trudged towards his desk again. But his head was bowed, his focus unfazed.

“Did you hear what I said?” you tried again, walking a little closer and standing by the side of his chair. “I said it’s really hot.”

“Turn the AC on, then” Kakashi replied in a flat tone, without sparing you a glance.

Honestly, he was walking on thin fucking ice now.

You ignored his comment. Clearly, these subtle advances were not working. You had to be more direct.

You stood beside his chair watching him for a moment, admiring the way his long fingers gripped the pen. Just below your line of vision, his Anbu tattoo sat exposed, curved over the bulge of his bicep.

Jeez.

Inching closer to him, you gripped the hem of your t shirt, before slowly pulling it off over your head and throwing it on his face. “Oops, sorry”, you sang, your tone not apologetic in the least.

The thin cloth fell on his head, covering part of his hair and his face. “What do you think you’re doing?” Kakashi said with a certain crisp, before pulling the cloth off his face and balling it into a clump on the desk.

Ridden of your t shirt now, you stood in your black bra. It wasn’t the best one in your collection, but it did give your breasts a good lift.

Batting your eyelashes like you had no idea what he was talking about, you squeezed yourself into the cramped space between his knees and the desk. “Nothing at all.” You said, your tone as innocent as ever as you proceeded to reach under your dress, slowly pulling your panties down to your ankles before kicking them to the side.

Kakashi’s eyes were finally on you, fixated and unreadable.

You held his gaze, not taking your eyes off him as you widened your stance and took a few steps forward, before plopping down on his lap, your legs straddling his thighs.

You watched his pupils narrow, and he tried speaking again. “Y/n, I told you, I have wor—”, but his words were cut off by the touch of your index finger to his lips.

Hooking your finger at the edge of his mask, you pulled it down, revealing his beautiful soft mouth underneath.

All you wanted was to have it run all over your body, but you knew you’d have to work a little more to make that happen. “I don’t care” you said, in a cool, low voice.

Your hands brushed up the sides of his arms, feeling every bulge and curve of his toned muscles before sinking into the softness of his hair at the back of his head.

Pulling lightly on his silver strands, you brought his head forward towards your chest, arching your back to push your breasts into his face, which were now heaving, thanks both to the heat and the pooling wetness down below. You felt the tip of Kakashi’s nose rub against your cleavage, even the smallest contact sending shivers up your spine.

Tightening your grasp around him, you pushed his face deeper as you slowly began to grind your hips against his thighs, your stomach stiffening into knots with the wave of arousal coursing through you. The friction of his pants felt heavenly against your sensitive folds and you continued rubbing yourself over him, pressing yourself on his legs as you moved back and forth.

You could feel Kakashi’s breath hitch against your cleavage as the wetness from your core began to drip to his legs, moistening his pants. He tilted his head back, eyes squeezed shut as a low guttural noise escaped his throat.

Your lips curled into a slow smirk at the sight of him and you leaned forward, holding his face in your hands as you whispered, “Lord Sixth, would you like me to stop?”

But you knew the moment those words rolled off your tongue that you’d edged him on too far. With his head still tilted against the chair, you watched Kakashi open his eyes, his dark eyes burning with the hunger of an animal left in the wild.

In a flash, his hands were on your hips, long fingers gripping your soft skin hard enough to elicit a moan. They travelled to your back next, grabbing your ass as you felt every single finger dig into your skin, squeezing hard.

You melted into his touch instantly, your mind spiralling into a frenzy as he clutched the curves of your waist again, guiding you back and forth on his legs with increasing pace.

Ahead of you, his growing bulge fought beneath the thin material of his pants, forming a distinct mound right below his abdomen.

You bit your lip at the sight, resisting the urge to rid his cock of its clothed prison already, mouth drooling at the thought of your tongue slobbering all over his thick girth. Your body squirmed and you felt pleasure building up at the base of your stomach, as you reached for the waistband of Kakashi’s pants, unable to keep holding yourself off any longer.

With desperate fingers you found the strands of his joggers, going ahead to untie them when suddenly, Kakashi’s palm clasped around your wrist, fingers tight against your bones as he stopped you from going further.

You looked up to find his piercing gaze drilling through you, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

“Kakashi…” you purred, your heart thrumming in your ears, “Please…”

His unwavering gaze burned into you, brows raising as though asking you to repeat yourself, when you felt his right hand snaking up your stomach, pushing through the underband of your bra to clasp around your breast. He gave it a hard squeeze, before starting to stroke over it with nimble fingers, his lips parting as he spoke. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

The sound of Kakashi’s raspy voice sent tremors through your body. You squirmed, imploring him with your eyes.

He continued stroking with one hand as the other flew to his mouth, and you watched him lick the tip of his finger, before bringing it down to your other breast, smearing his saliva over your nipple.

“You wanted my time”, he stated, gaze fixed on you while two of his fingers twisted your wet nipple hard, before rubbing around it in circles with his thumb. “I’m giving you my time.”

“Infact…” he said as one of his hands travelled below, fingers finding your folds and grazing along it lightly. “I intend to give you all night.”

A desperate gasp left your lips, your swollen clit beginning to ache under his touch.

“Kakashi…please.” You pleaded again in broken rasps of your voice, struggling to keep your mind from going numb.

Kakashi ignored you again, his fingers continuing their ravage down below as his mouth latched on to one of your nipples, sucking slowly at first, and then as if his life depended on it. He clenched and unclenched his thighs, every contraction of his muscle teasing your clit, making you writhe with the overload of pleasure through your veins.

You moaned with every suck of your nipple, and every flick of his finger, becoming a squirming mess in his hands as you gave yourself in to him completely, losing control of your body.

A grating moan began to form at the back of your throat as you felt yourself getting close, his fingers stretching you up, rubbing, and stroking every part of you.

Kakashi hunched forward, finally pulling away from your swollen nipple, his warm breath tickling your ear as he spoke.

“You’re not tired already, are you?” he asked in an innocent whisper, his fingers moving steadily down below.

Your voice came out in a tiny squeak as you answered, your entire body buzzing. “N-no.”

“Good” Kakashi replied, his voice gravelly against your ear as you finally felt him slip one finger inside you, eliciting an immediate burst of almost inhumane sounds from your chest. “because you won’t be walking out of here any time soon.” He whispered against your shuddering frame, before slipping another finger inside and adding in the same husky tone,

“Or walking at all.”

[rocorambles]

Trapped

Pairing: Sakusa x Reader

Prompt: Fantasy

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, Toxic Relationship, NSFW, Fantasy AU, Sorcerer Sakusa, Rape/Non-Con, Mind Control, Manipulation, Obsessive and Posessive Behavior, Degradation

Summary: You should have trusted your gut instincts, the lessons you had learned the hard way about just how cruel powerful men could be. 

Author’s Note: This is my contribution for my HQ Discord Server’s NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist here to see how everyone decided to run with this prompt. (Masterlist goes live Friday, October 30th 11:00pm U.K. time!)  

You splutter awake, laughing, but also groaning as a wet tongue slobbers all over your face and you lightly shove the fox that’s currently standing beside your resting head, intent on waking you up to play. Blearily you blink your eyes, trying to gauge what time it is based on the light seeping into the cave you’ve come to call your home. Judging by the bright rays of sunlight, it’s already mid-morning and you stretch your arms above your head, petting your furry companion behind its ears before standing up and treading out into the forest, your friend walking right beside you, its tail brushing against your leg. 

The familiar peace and quiet of the wind rustling past branches and the faint chirping of birds wafts through the air and you smile as you continue making your way to the nearby waterfall, various four-legged animals that have come to be your family and friends popping their heads out of grassy patches and from behind trees in greeting. You can’t even remember the last time you’d seen another human being and you grimace at the thought of your last encounter. 

Orphans, especially female orphans like you, rarely survive for long and you bitterly remember the years of being a street urchin, never knowing when your next bite of food would come, never knowing who to trust in a world full of both humans and magical creatures who’d do horrible things to an unclaimed child and you shiver at the thought of possibly being eaten or harvested for ingredients for countless dark magic spells. But life had only gotten harder the older you became and as a single, vulnerable woman, you began to attract a different attention, no longer able to blend as seamlessly as you once had with predatory eyes trailing after you, resting too long on parts of your body that you desperately wanted to hide from the world. 

You tried sticking it out, finding ad hoc jobs here and there as a maid, as a seamstress, as a waitress. But corruption ran deep wherever you went and disgust makes you recoil when you remember all the times you’d been cornered by all types of men and creatures, received unwanted touches in hidden corners and degrading remarks of what your only purpose in life was. And after being left to sob, pain lancing between your legs, your clothes ripped to shreds, knowing no one would ever take your side, knowing that this would just continue happening over and over again, you vowed to never have anything to do with another sentient being ever again. 

You’d heard rumors of the forest, about its enchantment, about the stories of terrible things hiding away in its heart, but you couldn’t imagine any monster worse than the ones you’ve already encountered and you determinedly march forward, never turning back to look at the city you’re leaving behind. And as you step past the border of trees, even you, someone who’s never had anything to do with magic, can feel the surge of power, feel the crackling energy as you delve deeper and deeper. But maybe the forest could sense that you meant it no harm, maybe it knew that you were just a lonely, helpless soul, maybe it felt generous, felt pity for the damaged woman seeking refuge. Whatever the case was, it left you alone and in all the years you’d made a home in its lush vegetation, not once had you met any of the ghastly creatures you’d heard so many horror stories of. And maybe that’s why you let your guard down when you meet him, finding a false security in the wood and grass-filled world you now live in. 

You don’t bother being quiet or stealthy as you walk. Why would you when there’s never been anyone else around? So imagine your shock when black human eyes are staring at you as you round the corner and reach the water’s edge and panic laces through you when you see how masculine and strong he looks, overwhelming fear making you tremble when you take in the staff you see laying next to him. 

A sorcerer. 

You’d learned the hard way that men were never to be trusted and that men with power and wealth were the ones to be even more wary of. Fortunately you’d only dealt with vile wealthy men and as awful as they had been, you know men gifted with an affinity for magic make those nobles seem as harmless as kittens in comparison. You’d seen firsthand the havoc sorcerors could wreak, seen the charred, mutilated, disfigured bodies put on display at the city gates as an example of the fate for anyone who rebels against the crown. To your knowledge, all sorcerors worked for the royal family, rarely leaving the walled fortress unless sent on a mission or task, but never in a place like this so-called cursed forest. So what was he doing here? 

The urge to flee thrums through your veins, but when he makes no move to stand or get any closer to you, curiosity gets the better of you and you stay rooted to your spot and before you can stop yourself, you find yourself asking the first question that comes to mind. 

“Who are you?” 

When Sakusa had ventured outside of the castle walls for a break from the irritating humans inside the cramped corridors and bustling courtrooms, he had purposefully chosen a place where no other soul would be. His hand had immediately wrapped around his staff as the sound of approaching rustling interrupted his thoughts, but when you had made your presence known, he could only stare in awe, staff forgotten as he took you in. 

You’re different from the usual noble women he sees on a daily basis. For one, you’re barely wearing anything, a makeshift dress of strung together leaves, flowers, and grass the only thing covering you and he can feel his face grow hot as he tries not to blatantly stare at your bare legs and arms. But as he really regards you, he can’t help but feel something wild, something primal in you and he blinks in shock when he realizes that you have the same energy as the forest, as if the forest has claimed you as one of its own and he’s so entranced by his realization that he’s startled by the sound of your voice.

From anyone else, he would have scowled at the forwardness and bluntness of the question, but for some reason, coming from you, he finds himself easily answering. 

“Sakusa Kiyoomi” 

People, conversations, human interaction. Those are all things Sakusa abhors and yet, as you tentatively draw closer to him, staring at him in wide eyed curiosity while the two of you exchange words, he thinks he doesn’t mind any of those things when you’re involved. He comes to visit you as often as he can, something warm blooming inside of him as he sees your hackles relax, notices how you inch closer and closer to him every time he arrives, and he can’t help but compare you to a wild animal and behind the warmth in his chest, something darker lurks, and he wonders what it would be like to tame you, claim you back from the wooded forest that had taken you in, mark you as his own. 

And that thought festers and grows inside of him. 

He does his best to keep it at bay, play it off as just a fleeting idea, but when your eyes and body begin to seep into his dreams, into his every waking thought, he can’t keep the desire down any longer and when he strides towards you once more, he drops to one knee in front of you, asking for your hand in marriage. 

In hindsight it probably was foolish to think that you were as smitten with him, foolish to think that someone who had been scarred enough to escape from civilization would easily just return to the place full of painful memories, and yet red hot anger blazes through him when you turn him down. It doesn’t matter how sweet and kind you are about it, gently letting him down and telling him you’re sure he’d find someone much better suited to being his wife, someone prim and proper, someone educated and knowledgeable of court intricacies. 

Humiliation only fuels his rage as he rises back to his feet and he can feel his magic churning, waiting to be used, dancing at his fingertips, and he has half a mind to forcefully drag you back with him, but he retracts it, pushes it down deep inside of him as he takes a deep breath. No, he wants you to come back and grovel at his feet, beg him to take you in, to help you. He wants you to feel the same need for him that he feels for you and he bites his tongue and restrains himself as his mind begins to plan and strategize. 

He tries to remain as normal as possible, still going to visit you as often as before, but his nails dig into the palm of his hands at the pity in your eyes and he clenches his teeth at the way that you tread around him like he’s a wounded animal. But he takes those feelings and lets them drive him late through the night as he chants strange words, flips through old scrolls, experiments with different spells and ingredients and a rare smile stretches across his face when the pieces finally come together. 

It’s time to take set his plan in motion and in the middle of the night while most of the city is fast asleep, there’s a strange flashing light, a rush of something sinister in the air, and the murmurs of masculine chanting swirling in the air, lingering, and foreshadowing the dark days ahead. But you remain asleep, peacefully ignorant of the shift in the atmosphere, naive to just how much your life will change.  

 You wake up, surprised by the lack of a warm furry body or tongue lapping at your face, and you vaguely wonder if you’d woken up in the middle of the night, but the sunlight filtering through tells you a different story. You feel strange, warning bells beginning to faintly clamor in your head, and you gingerly step outside of your lair only to freeze at the dead silence surrounding you. It’s always quiet and calm in the forest, but where there is usually the sound of nature and creatures, now there is only a deathly silence and you stare in horror as the forest seems to decay right in front of your eyes. What used to be green grass is wilting and brown. The trees you’d spent years climbing and picking fruit from are completely bare. But what makes a choked sob get caught in your throat is the corpses of the animals who’d you come to be so fond of littered around you and your slow stuttered amble becomes a frenzied run, as you race through your dying home, hoping to see any sign of life left. 

But days pass and the state of your home only gets worse. Your throat is parched without clean water to drink, all the water sources near you murky and littered with fish corpses indicating just how toxic they’ve become. Your stomach aches with hunger, no vegetation, fruits, or animals nearby for you to ingest. And a deep loneliness churns inside of you and once again you feel as alone as you did when you were just a dirty street urchin trying to scrape together a living off the streets. 

So when Sakusa comes for his regular visit and finds your weakened body slumped on the floor of your cave, it just makes sense to you, survival instincts kicking in, to drag yourself over to his feet, fling your arms around him when he finally bends down, and sob into his chest. You don’t question the way he’s slow to crouch down to your level and comfort you. You don’t see the cruel smile on his face when he sees you pathetically laying at his feet. You don’t notice the glee in his eyes as you beg him to take you with him. And when he asks you if you’d like to come and be his assistant, you eagerly nod your head and cling tighter to him, burying your face in his comforting and familiar presence as he teleports the two of you back to his living quarters. 

Months pass and despite your initial wariness of returning to live among other beings, you find that Sakusa seems to dislike being around others just as much as you, and the two of you find a comfortable way of life mostly holed up in his living quarters with only the other as company. You’d never really been exposed or taught anything about magic growing up, so you’re genuinely fascinated as you watch Sakusa chant, attentively listening as he tells you what each ingredient is, eagerly following his every step as he shows you firsthand how to mix different potions. And Sakusa thinks that your aptitude for learning, the perfect synchronization the two of you have as you seamlessly work your way into his rhythm, preparing and setting things up before he even needs to tell you, speaks volumes of just how perfect the two of you are together, speaks volumes of how you were meant to be together. 

He continues strategizing, gaining your trust, letting you grow accustomed to his presence, smiling at the way you don’t even bat an eye when his hands linger on yours a bit longer than normal when he hands you something, at the way you don’t tense up anymore when he presses his body against you from behind as he physically guides and shows you how to do something. And he knows he’s on the right track when you take the initiative to swipe a strand of his hair behind his ear as he concentrates on a task at hand, when you perch your chin on his shoulder, peeking over his shoulder as he jots down notes. 

But even the greatest minds make mistakes and when he sends you off to find a certain piece of text for him from the bookshelf in the corner of his room, he forgets to clarify where on the shelf to look and not wanting to bother him, you meticulously comb through every book, forehead scrunching in curiosity when you find a notebook tucked behind, as if it was meant to be hidden. You consider just passing it over, not wanting to intrude on Sakusa’s privacy, but having gone through most of the books and not finding what you need, you wonder if perhaps the thing he’s looking for is in here and that this had just been misplaced or accidentally pushed towards the back of the shelf. 

As you flip through the pages you quickly realize this is a book of Sakusa’s own spells and you stare in awe at how much work he’d done, how extensive his own self-created spell repertoire is, but suddenly your heart freezes when you flip to the last few filled pages. You’re not as fluent as Sakusa is when it comes to the ancient magical language, but you know enough after the time you’ve spent with him, the lessons he’s taught you, to recognize ‘plague’ and ‘forest’ and your throat and heart feel both heavy and panicked when you realize the implication of what you’d found. And suddenly you remember the day he had proposed to you vividly, ice cold shock and realization making you shudder when you remember a flash of something dark in his eyes when you had rejected him. And your hands tremble when you see the very last page, taking note of the phrase ‘mind control’. But before you can dwell on it, you squeal in surprise when the book is plucked from your hands and you’re rooted to the spot by dark eyes pinning you down. 

You want to scream angry words at him. You want to escape. And yet, you do neither, frozen with fear when you remember exactly what happened to the victims who’d defied sorcerers.

“Hmm. This spell’s not quite ready yet, but I guess we can test it out early.” 

And before you can even register what’s happening, a firm hand is placed on the top of your head, the other wrapped around your throat to keep you still as magic surges through the air and you vaguely hear yourself pleading for him to stop, until suddenly you feel trapped in your own body, the connection between your conscience and physical figure severed and you stare in horror as your body goes limp and docile in his arms. 

Sakusa peers into your eyes in interest, humming in thought as he scrawls a few more notes in his notebook. 

“The end goal of this spell is for me to be able to completely control your mind, but right now it looks like I only have control of the section that handles your physical functions if that ugly hate-filled look in your eyes is any indication. But let’s test my theory shall we?”

And it feels like a bad dream as your body submissively makes its way to his bed, seductively swaying your hips as you sprawl out on his bedsheets, eagerly wrapping your arms around the back of his neck as he joins you, bringing him down for a kiss. He’s rough and invasive as he tears your clothes off, calloused hands touching and contaminating every inch of you and you feel disgust as he examines you like you’re a piece of prime meat he’s purchased, coldly and meticulously pinching and prodding you as he observes what makes your body react. And for once, you hate how observant he is, how in tune to your smallest shifts he is, how sensitive your body is as your nipples perk up, as little moans escape past your traitorous lips when he pinpoints your weak spots. 

But what you hate most is the triumphant grin on his face when his dexterous fingers swipe against your lower lips and you internally flinch at the glistening slick that coats his fingers when he holds it to your face, evidence of the heavy arousal mixing with your humiliation and hate. And you try to think of anything else, imagine you’re anywhere but here as he begins to wonder out loud while his fingers twist and turn inside of you, reaching and touching places you’d never been able to explore yourself, if he even needs to tweak his spell anymore seeing how you’re a slave to your body’s natural desire for pleasure. Maybe there wasn't a need to completely control your thoughts and emotions as well.

He hadn’t realized what a slut you are, getting off to anyone using your body, and he leers down at you while he continues questioning you, knowing full well you can’t answer or retort to his crude remarks. And he idly wonders if your mind would naturally break without additional magic if he pleasured you enough, transformed you into a warm body that constantly seeks and craves his touch.

The fear in your eyes at his words only fuels his need to completely dominate you and he grits his teeth as he slides into your drenched hole, eyes closing shut as he just stays still and revels in how tight you are, how perfectly you wrap around him. And when he opens his eyes and sees the glassy-eyed lustful look on your face from being filled, he finally releases himself from the controlled facade he so carefully always wears and lets himself dive headfirst into the sultry, dizzying, primal embrace of lust as he pistons his hips in and out of you at a brutal pace, dark eyes never straying from your face as your eyes begin to roll back and your wanton mewls fill the air. 

He can feel his end approaching, but he’d be damned if he didn’t make you fall apart with him, drown you in inescapable pleasure, and his hand slips between the two of you, fingers finding your aroused clit and all it takes is a few rubs and thrusts before your body is tensing up, back arching, mouth opening in a silent scream, body convulsing and writhing underneath him, your cunt milking him as you’re forcefully brought to your peak. And he joins you over that edge, thick white spurts coating your twitching walls. 

You pray that he’s done, that he’ll release you now that he’s thoroughly tasted and had you, now that you’re just sloppy seconds, used goods. But you’re startled when he lovingly kisses you and tenderly strokes your hair, and your stomach churns at the genuine affection you see in his eyes. And your heart drops, any last bit of hope you had extinguished as he holds your body close to him in a mockery of a loving embrace and whispers in your ear about the future he has planned for both of you, a future where you stay by his side as an obedient, submissive housewife, a future where you’re willing and eager to please him, to love him. 

That was always his goal for the both of you, he insists, and a flame of anger burns inside of you at the exasperated and patronizing sigh he directs your way as he blames you for forcing his hands, for forcing him to do this the hard way, for forcing him to resort to magic when you could have saved everyone the hassle by just accepting his proposal all those months ago. 

Hate and anger twist and coil inside of you and yet, when he kisses you once more, your body instinctively leans into the soft touch before obediently going lax as he tells you to sleep, eyes automatically closing at the command, and Sakusa smiles at your slumbering figure. It’s not exactly how he had planned to go about this, the mind control spell being more of a back-up option he had been trying to avoid, but you’re finally irrevocably his and that’s all that matters.  

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mind the Gap: Three

Shang-Chi laid you carefully on the bed and leaned over to kiss you on the forehead, smiling a little when you fuss at him sleepily. “It’s okay,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair out of your face tenderly, “I’m only going down stairs.”

When you sit up. Bolt upright suddenly, he reels back. It takes a moment for him to realize that you’re not what’s staring at him. Your eyes are the same unearthly silver they had been. “Let her sleep,” he ordered sharply.

“We,” a voice that is your but… Not yours replies haughtily, “Do not sleep. We are eternal.”

“Not without a body you’re not,” he fired back, frustrated. You just got to sleep. You were just so close to feeling better. Your face doesn’t change, not really. There’s an absence of expression. One that he’d taken as seriousness in that empty field, but now realizes that the Archive probably doesn’t… care enough to make you appear “normal” when speaking. Still, even if the Archive wasn’t sneering at him where he could see it, he could feel it.

“Have care, boy. Our vessel will not belong to you.”

And before he could reply, You fell backwards onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow with a soft thump.

“You’re right about that,” he says quietly, not sure if it can hear him or not. “She doesn’t belong to me. She doesn’t belong to anyone… You might have saved her life once, but now you’re just squatting.” He shakes his head and pulls a blanket over you, carefully tucking you in before turning and heading back downstairs.

__________

Downstairs, he finds party preparations in full swing. There’s food being cooked and more food being ordered from town to be picked up. There’s a small army of people moving tables and arranging lights and torches and building bonfires. It was cozy looking. And impossible for him to tell how many people were coming.

“How is she recovering?”

Shang-Chi turned and faced his father, smiling ruefully, “Not as fast as I’d like. But at least she’s asleep.”

He nodded and gave his son a sympathetic look. “They’re all worried,” he cautioned.

“We should start a club. Y/N can make us jackets.” When his father gave him a look, Shang-Chi smiled a little. “It spoke to me,” he said after a second.

“The Archive? What did It say?”

“It told me that she didn’t belong to me,” he said, restraining an eye roll with effort.

Wenwu frowned, “It challenged you?”

Shang-Chi shook his head, “It wasn’t a challenge. It was a warning. She never even woke up.”

They stood for a long moment and considered the implications of that. But neither one of them had a chance to say more when Katy burst through the screen door with Xialing on her heels. “You have got to see this! There’s fucking werewolves!”

“Werewolves? Kai is a werewolf-”

“No. What? No- I-” Katy is bouncing on the balls of her feet and bolts back out the door.

“A pack,” Xialing said rolling her eyes, more fond than irritated. “Specifically her father’s pack.”

And it’s curiosity more than anything that lures Shang-Chi outside. You never talk about your parents- Not that he can really blame you. He hadn’t talked about his family with you at all. And now? He has the gift of staying in your childhood bedroom. And seeing the things that made you into the woman he loves. Still. Werewolves? He assumes your mother is a witch but- If this going to be a fight? Is it going to upset you?

He walks down the steps to see Kai and who he assumes is your father. You have the same lazy half smile and the same warm eyes that you share with your brother. And for just a second, he wants to turn around and bolt. He’s seen you dismember demons. He’s faced creatures from other dimensions. But somehow? Meeting his Girlfriend’s dad is more terrifying than both those things.

He’s a big man. Tall. Imposing. A solid wall of muscle. A shock of curly dark hair… It was almost like the universe had distilled his every idea of a werewolf into one person. Except for the jaws. And slobber.

“Good Luck,” Xialing snorted quietly.

“Gee thanks,” he said taking a deep breath and stepping forward. He’d been seen, there wasn’t any escape now.

The huge man stepped forward, “I’m Renaud,” he said. His voice a deep rumble, like Thunder. “You, must be Shang-chi.” He took the hand that was offered and shook it, not as roughly as Shang-Chi had expected. And he hadn’t missed that his name had been pronounced correctly. “Thank you, for calling my son… Just because Y/n can handle things on her own doesn’t mean she should.”

“So you found her?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling, “I always know how to find my kids.”

Shang-Chi smiled in spite of himself. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since you’d seen your father. But somethings seemed to be universal. “My father-” he started, But Renaud made an impetuous gesture.

“We’ve met,” he chuckled, taking the hand that Wenwu offered.

“Several times, in fact,” Wenwu said. “And I hope-”

The Werewolf released his hand and rocked back on his heels, “The sins of the father and all that,” he said with another impetuous gesture. “I learned long ago that telling a witch what to do is always a bad idea.”

Shang- Chi looked from one to the other and glanced at Katy and Xialing for help. He had the distinct impression that he was rapidly helping to establish some new international thing. When both the girls shrugged at him at a loss he glanced at Kai who gave him a small nod.

“Dad,” Kai said, “I’d hate to interrupt whatever work meeting is about to happen but… Hospitality Law. You know Grandma and Lea like to et all the stupid formal things out of the way up top.”

Renaud looked at them apologetically and turned to his son, “And then I’d like to see your sister.”

“So far as I know she’s asleep,” Kai said leading him away, the other three wolves that had been standing there watching followed after.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he protested.

“Not for her. She’s still at least a day behind the rest of us.”

Shang-Chi watched them go and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “At least no one at me,” he said, looking back towards the house.

“Werewolves haven’t done that in public for 300 years,” Wenwu snorted.

___________

People arrive steadily. Bringing kids. And food. And drinks. Shang-Chi watches in fascination as all the tables Kai had hefted into place filled with things. And the Coolers he had helped Lea to fill with Ice started keeping drinks cold.

So many faces and names. It’s a whirl and a blur. Still. It doesn’t take long for the kids to warm up and claim him, and Katy as their new playmates. Like all children they’re susceptible to a good story and an infectious laugh. Except for one. There was a little boy. He stayed near an oak tree. A Book over his lap. And he seemed to be watching the goings on, all the flips and little bursts of magical energy with irritation. He didn’t want to play. At least not with them. And while no one bothered him, it was clear that the other kids didn’t want to play with him either.

At least- At least for a while.

When you appeared, a little bleary eyed with your hair in a messy bun and some fresh clothes. His whole face lights up. Shang-Chi hears the shout and watches, grinning as his book goes flying and he launches himself at you, clinging onto your torso like a spider monkey and burying his face in your neck.

And suddenly, the silent boy with the great big book is talking. And talking. And he can’t seem to stop smiling.

“She’s his person,” Lea said smiling a little, handing Shang-Chi a glass of cold lemonade. He looked at her in askance and she smiled a little, “They both understand what it’s like to be the weirdest person in a room full of weirdos,” she explained. “Emmet had no magical ability. And Y/N hears voices and can tear out a Vampire’s heart with her bare hands.”

“Fair enough,” he says nodding, watching you greet the kids with hugs and kisses and declarations that they’re all too tall. “It’s good to know I’m just a novelty.”

Lea grins, “No one can ever take her place with them… It was Kai with the last crop. But Y/N was always his buddy. She’s had him wrapped around her finger since the first time someone put her in his lap.”

“So you’re telling me I should expect a big brother lecture?”

“Maybe. But. It’s more likely that he figures she could take you in a fight and there’s not much point.” The redhead’s eyes sparkle with mischief though. And Shang-Chi chuckles.

“You think so?”

“If she can’t, the Archive can.”

That was a sobering thought. And Shang- Chi took a deep breath. “What- what happened?”

The woman looked at him and for the first time, he considered that she was probably older than her face. Despite the lack of lines her eyes seem… Ancient. “I don’t know if I should tell you. I’ve spent… A long time keeping those details a secret.”

“I just-”

“I know,” she says softly. “You should know. If only… If only so you know she wasn’t always this way. She used to want… She wanted to be in the Olympics. She wanted to be a rockstar… She didn’t want to be this.”

Shang-Chi was quiet. Waiting. He didn’t really know what to say.

“Her mother- When she was born her mother was furious,” Lea said after a long moment. “600 years and so many babies I’ve brought into the world… And the was the only time I’ve ever seen That. She refused to even hold her.”

“Why-”

“Because she was powerful,” Lea said. “I knew- We all knew- the second she took her first breath that she wasn’t just a Witch. And for Clara? That was a betrayal. Clara had spent DECADES trying to amass more power. And here her daughter just had it? Absolutely not. It was unthinkable.”

Shang-Chi winced. “So then-”

“She sold her,” Lea said bitterly. “Put her on the black market and handed her off to the highest bidder.”

“No-”

“What she sold her to though? It was a… a cult. A fringe group. They took children like her and tried to- to change them. And if torture wouldn’t change it, burning. Well. The holy fire would at least make sure they went to heaven.”

He felt himself waver and he leaned against the tree that was at his back. “What the fuck-”

“Indeed,” Lea said nodding. “To make a long story short, It took Kai, Renaud, and her Great Aunt Jet to bring her home. And it cost Jet her life… It was a price she would gladly pay but not everyone feels that Y/N was worth the effort. Including Y/N.”

He looked back towards you, watching as you tossed one of the kids up to Kai who tickled them and tossed them to one of the waiting werewolves who promptly pitched them off the dock and into the lake. But on the edges, he could see the barely masked disapproval. And he knew you. He knew that you knew it was there.

“Lenora has been trying to keep things at bay but… I’d be lying if I said I blamed Y/N for keeping her distance. She loved Jet. We all did. And it’s- it’s hard for her, knowing that if it weren’t for her- She might still be here. She might be able to control the Archive. Instead of being controlled.”

And all he can do is watch you. And hurt. He hurts for who you are now. And for the little girl that you had been. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

“Shang- Chi,” Lea cautioned, “She says she doesn’t remember but-”

“You don’t know?”

“No. We don’t. And if she’s trying to protect herself-”

“I won’t ask her,” he said, “I don’t think I’d want to remember that either.”

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

sloth. | sss | myg

seven sins series. Kinky smut themed around a deadly sin.

pairing(s): yoongi x reader | kink: submission

warnings: idol!BTS; PWP; established relationship; anal play; Yoongi’s POV

--

Blindfold over his eyes, cloaking him in darkness.

Knees on the hard floor, hands tied behind his back with silk rope.

Tight leather collar around his neck with the cold metal chain draped around his shoulders like a sinful necklace.

His lips curled around the ball gag, teeth sinking into it. His body rigid, unmoving, because that’s what she wanted and that’s what he needed. Craved. He didn’t want control. He wanted to be used, teased, and abused, in all the worst ways.

Manly? Hmph. He cared not for such things. Weak? Hardly. He could take more than anyone else he knew and then some. Wrong?

Heh, well. Perhaps.

The vibrations in his ass raised up a notch and he moaned around the gag, the butt plug shoved firmly inside him, hitting his prostate and taking him to another fucking dimension. A dimension without crushing responsibilities and the weight of other’s expectations, a dimension where there was pleasure and only punishing pleasure. His incredibly stiff cock was leaking, dripping down his length. She wasn’t touching him. She wasn’t touching him and it was agony, but he knelt there and took it because, fuck, it felt so damn good to not have to initiate, felt so good to not say anything and only feel his asshole getting manhandled by shaking silicone.

He felt the chain move.

He knew it was being wrapped around an elegant hand, a perfect hand, perfect for slapping his ass and he wanted it right fucking now. If it wasn’t for the gag, he would be begging for it.

“Having fun, Min Yoongi?”

He couldn’t say shit. His mouth just whined around the ball, drooling down his chin, sliding off, hitting himself in his throbbing cock. His head jerked, body shuddering at the sensation of his own cold saliva striking him.

He heard a disapproving click of her tongue.

“You moved.”

And then he was pushed down, one hand on his chest, the other on his back, collarbones hitting the floor, whimpering pitifully as his bare ass was lifted into the air, thighs shaking. She cranked the vibrator to max and, he screamed at the overwhelming pleasure, smashing his hot cheek into the hardwood. Fingers curled around his bound wrists, well within touching distance.

She waited half a millisecond.

That’s all the time he had to three-tap out if he wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

Smack! His knees threatened to split, but he held them tight, locked them in fucking place as she spanked his ass with her open palm, fingers spread out wide, violently stinging and cramming the vibrator inside him further. He couldn’t think. He was seeing stars, in the cosmos, lost in the ecstasy of the pain and the assault on his poor prostrate. He didn’t know what a female orgasm felt like, but this had to be fucking close because, holy hell, his entire body was aflame with lust, hips bucking into her hand, pleading for more, moaning and half-sobbing because he felt so, so much and it was amazing.

It was fucking amazing.

She stopped, dipping low, growling viciously in his ear. Her nails dragged down his inflamed ass cheeks and he almost choked on the puddle of his own spit that was forming underneath his cheek. Her fingers clutched the base of the butt plug, hot breath on his earlobe.

“What a pretty toy,” she snarled, turning the vibrator inside him, chuckling darkly as he groaned, shaking his head back and forth. Her usually sophisticated voice was soaked with power. “My pretty fucktoy, bruising his knees, begging for me to fuck his tight little ass with this vibrator, aren’t you?”

He nodded frantically, gasping as her nails dug into his back, raking up, all the way to his neck. Her fingers grabbed the clasp of the ball gag, undoing it with one hand. The vibrator made a full three-sixty turn and he wailed into the floor, dropping the gag from his over-stretched, slobbering, swollen lips.

“Does my dirty boy want me to fuck him? Do you want me to fuck you in the ass so you can cum all over this floor, Yoongi?”

He didn’t care how pathetic it looked, he didn’t care that his knees were screaming at him, he didn’t care what anyone thought except her, except the one he loved and trusted with his whole damn heart and his poor abused asshole.

“Fuck me in the ass,” he growled back. “Fuck me so hard I feel it tomorrow during practice, during interviews, and during the fucking company dinner.”

He heard her laugh, her pretty musical laugh with a hint of insanity as she adjusted her position so she was behind him. She half-pulled the plug out and he whined at the slight loss, clenching before she slammed it back in. He cried out, hoarsely chanting her name as she thrusted the vibrating sex toy into him repeatedly, hitting his prostrate over and over, his opening desperately clamping down on the harsh vibrations, amplifying it and radiating bolts of assaulting pleasure to every nerve. It hit him in the deepest places, in the places he didn’t even know he could feel, destroying him.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

Her nails dug into his hip, tipping the vibrator down, changing the angle, and he fucking lost it, feeling the barreling sensation shooting straight down his balls and cock. Agonizing, heart-stopping pleasure that made him ram his hips back into her hand as he soared over the edge, his cock jerking and throbbing as he came on the floor in splattering white strings, the sound obscene, the scent of his cum attacking his nose. He slipped and fell in it, stomach covered in his own orgasm, moaning as the angry head of his cock rubbed against the cold floor, far too sensitive, but so, so fucking good.

She slowly turned off the vibrator, ticking it down setting by setting until it was off. He lay there, panting, ass tender and sore, absolutely sure he was going to feel it tomorrow. The ache went all the way up to his ribs and lower back. Slowly, she pulled the anal vibrator out of him. He whined as he felt it pop out, his aching asshole slowly re-constricting.

She softly stroked his hair. He did not want to be spoken to after. He wanted to lay there, chest heaving, sticky in his cum, basking in the filthy afterglow because he loved it.

Fingertips pressed against his lips. He kissed them, softly, mouthing the words, unable to make sound.

I love you.

--

masterpost

[lala-ladybug]

Healing Hands: Chapter 6

Boss level, here we go!

Jasonette Sword Art Online AU

Read here on AO3

Tag list: @iloontjeboontje

First | Previous | Next

Chapter 6: Stranger danger!

It was a good thing Jason hadn’t taken his weapons or armor out of his inventory last night. He opened his inventory and donned a crimson cloak. Approaching the midtown news stand, he paid for a paper advertising the location of the first level dungeon and continued on his way.

Skimming the headline, it sounded like he had to go to the northeast mountains to find the entrance. The team hadn’t been able to justify buying horses yet, so he’d have to go on foot. Fine by him, more time to walk off his bad mood. And work out a plan.

He’d be in and out, just to see what type of a threat they were dealing with. He wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t about to just wait around for Dick if he wasn’t going to make a move until they knew exactly what they were facing.

Jason put the paper away and pulled his hood over his head, the red fabric concealing his face. He had reached the road leading north out of town. He took a swig of water from his canteen, which he noted was half-full, and set out.

The walk was almost pleasant, if not for the number of travellers-- both players and NPCs alike-- that he ran into. He couldn’t be sure of their intentions, especially towards a lone player, so he’d duck into the nearest ditch or bush for cover until they’d passed.

The sun warmed his dark cloak, but not uncomfortably so. It felt like springtime here in the game, with tulips and wild daffodils blooming in small clusters by the road. Jason knew he should be back before dark, but that was a long ways away. He kept checking his compass to make sure he was heading the right way, but the path was very easy.

In the distance, he began to see mountains. Pulling out the paper he’d gotten from that morning, he checked that the dungeon entrance was along the slope of one of the mountains. When he reached a crossroads, he adjusted his course accordingly.

By then, his anger had all but faded. He still didn’t agree with Dick and he definitely still thought he was an ass, but he didn’t want to rip his head off over it. Literally. God, what a mess.

He stopped to buy some fresh bread from a family farm of NPCs a few miles before the base of the mountains. What a thorough game it was to have given the three children dimples. He wondered how much information their programming gave them. Did they know the players were forcefully kept here? Did they live the same, simple day-to-day lives? Or did they simply stop moving when players weren’t looking, like cheap animatronics.

Jason shook his head. Too much time alone with his thoughts was never a good idea. He almost missed the company of the others. He’d even settle for Garfield, that obnoxious green punk.

He sighed and continued on his way. It wasn’t even halfway, but there was no way in hell he’d turn around now. Every step he took was a step closer to getting out of this... admittedly pleasant hellscape.

A flock of birds lifted off from a field on his right. They swirled about in the sky, fluid as fabric. Each one moved on its own path and yet fit in as part of the whole. He stopped, watching the ebb and flow as they journeyed to find the next field to settle on.

That would never be him, a cog in the machine, no matter how beautiful. He had put his faith in people before and quite literally gotten burned for it. He scowled at the memory, a crowbar and a grin flashing through his mind. No, he was better off fending for himself. Always had been.

He decided to count his steps instead of face his thoughts for the remainder of the trip.

732 steps to the base of the mountain. He picked the leftmost path.

1056 steps until he needed to grapple around a rockslide.

409 steps before the mouth of a cave. The cave.

Jason confirmed one more time that this was the suspected entrance to the dungeon. He put away the paper, took a deep breath, and plunged into the darkness.

It was cold and damp. He didn’t want to risk a light, so he put a hand to the freezing walls as he walked. He tested every step with his toe, trying to avoid potential falls into the darkness in front of him.

Silence drew in around him, heavy and expectant. It dared him to light a torch and rush forward to face the boss himself. He knew it was a bad idea, but it called to the energy humming in his blood.

He breathed and pictured colors.

In and out, he would be in and out, just like his breaths.

It was hard to think of the cave as anything other than the grave he’d once been confined to, but stretching out both arms helped.

In and out.

He pictured blue.

The ceiling seemed to press down on him, nausea rising in his throat.

Blue skies and blue waters. He wasn’t trapped in here, he was free. Free as the birds in the fields.

Just when he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore, he glimpsed a faint light ahead. It flickered around a bend in the cave, and illuminated the stalactites that were over twenty feet above his head.

The cold sweat that coated his back started to dry, the tightness in his throat loosening. Taking in a deep breath of stale air, he surged towards that light.

He rounded the corner, crossbow drawn and ready. The light came from a burning torch, barely a stub left. The sound of metal clashing on metal caught his trained ears and his head whipped up.

An enormous doorway stood in front of him, huge doors left ajar. He saw a flash of movement beyond them. The noises were also clearer now, shouting punctured by roars that shook the walls. Pulling the hood of his cloak further over his face, he silently advanced.

Peering through the gap between the doors, he made quick work of taking it all in. The room was a long hallway, lined with tall columns and lit by torches. There were some rocks scattered about, which would provide good cover from the massive beast before him.

The monster was about fourteen feet tall of ugly with a large, red belly. It wore armored greaves and wielded a huge axe and a round shield. Its face had a dog-like snout framed by a form-fitting helmet. Red eyes glowed from within the helmet, and slobber dribbled from pointed teeth.

So basically a medieval Killer Croc. This was doable.

Jason was about to leave and report back when he heard a shout. “Kitty, ‘Gami, cover me!”

Before he could unpack that hell of a battle cry, a figure in black armor darted out from behind a column. They blew a raspberry at the boss, then somersaulted and wove just out of reach from its enraged blows. At the same time, someone with red and gold armor drew a rapier and began slicing at the boss’s feet.

A slight person with red armor stood from where they’d been crouched behind a rock on the far side of the room. They fired a longbow with devastating accuracy, and Jason watched in profile as the arrow pierced the monster’s eye. They disappeared just as fast.

The boss roared and started swinging wildly. The red and gold fighter danced out of the way, but tripped over a piece of rubble. Jason’s eyes widened as the monster gleefully brought its axe down upon the felled player.

It never met its target. The black armored person dove over their friend and raised a shield. The blow sent the two flying back to the columns, where they quickly limped for cover.

From Jason’s vantage point, he could see a figure in blue armor dart over to the two injured fighters. They shook their head, then whistled a series of notes. Answering whistles came from the last place he’d seen the red archer, and the three people stayed put.

“Queenie, Maneuver 18!” The archer, a girl he now realized, yelled. A fifth person, this one in golden armor, leapt onto the monster’s head from the top of a column near the ceiling. They took a flail out of their inventory and bashed the boss’s good eye, then flipped down to find cover opposite of the archer. All the while, the archer ran along the length of the hall, firing shots into the monster’s gut.

She slid neatly behind the rocks in front of Jason and glanced at the boss behind them. It was blinded now, bellowing furiously. The girl’s chest heaved with the effort of running.

With three of their fighters out of commission, he didn’t like their odds. Well, so much for in and out. Dick was going to kill him for this.

Jason waved until the girl in front of him noticed the movement. Her mouth, the only part of her face that wasn’t covered by her helmet, parted in surprise.

He somersaulted to join her spot of cover and said quietly, “I can help.” The monster had quieted down now and seemed to be listening intently.

She nodded, then pointed at him and then to his right. Pointed to herself, then to the left. She looked at him to verify he’d understood and he gave a thumbs up. 

She picked up a handful of pebbles and tossed them in front of the rocks they hid behind. The monster pricked up its ears and began advancing towards their hiding spot. She held up a fist to have them wait. The boss grew closer and still she held. Jason could feel its hot breath through his cloak before she finally whispered, “Now!” and launched herself to the left. Jason dove aside just in time. He fired his crossbow at the monster’s chest and could see the girl doing the same on its other side. It had left itself open in burying its axe in the rocks they’d been at mere moments before.

Damn this girl was good.

He watched her exchange her bow for a pair of daggers. The beast’s arms still busied trying to get its axe unstuck, she flipped onto them and ran up its back. Jason fired more bolts into it, keeping its attention while she--

Oh damn. This girl was really good.

She flipped her daggers around and dragged them through its skin behind her as she slid down its back. Then she danced away behind a column, switching back to a longbow and firing arrows into its exposed arms.

Jason grinned, letting the thrill in his blood take over for a moment. He exchanged his own ranged weapon for a shortsword, and started hacking away at the monster’s legs. Where the red archer went high, he went low. They accommodated each other perfectly. He glanced up to see the boss’s HP depleting to nearly zero.

While he swung his sword and dodged out of the monster’s reach, he noticed how much more focused he felt, despite having freed the roaring in his veins. It seemed that the Pit didn’t have as much of a hold on him while he was in the game. A small victory, but staying in control was more than useful here.

The beast turned around just as Jason swung his sword, and it broke against the monster’s shield. A rush of movement beside him was the golden fighter, sinking their flail into the beast’s back. They wrenched it free only to whirl around and use the momentum to plant it in the monster’s stomach.

That blow did it in. It staggered backwards, wounds glowing bright red, and shattered into fragmented pixels. A menu screen popped up in front of him displaying his share of the loot, which looked to be proportional to how many blows he had landed.

Jason looked at the other two. The golden one had already rushed back to where their injured companions were, but the red one remained.

“Thank you,” she held out her hand to him with a smile. He took it and shook once. “It was my pleasure,” he rasped, still catching his breath. He raised his broken sword and asked, “You don’t happen to know a blacksmith, do you?”

She held up one finger, then ran off back into the rubble, searching for something. When she returned, she held the other pieces of his sword. “I can mend it, if you’d like,” she offered, almost shyly.

He nodded and handed his piece to her, hilt first. She assembled all the fragments on the ground, then placed both hands over it and inhaled deeply. As she breathed in, the pieces were pulled inward to their original positions as if magnetized to each other. She breathed out just as deeply, and the cracks between the pieces glowed blue.

The glow faded when she picked it up and handed it back to him. He twirled it around a few times just to be sure, but it felt as good as new. Maybe even better. “That was... amazing. Thank you,” he said, sincerely grateful.

She smiled and replied, “It’s the least I could do. It’s a type of magic I learned called Restorative Alchemy, if you’re interested!” That was definitely something worth looking into. “I also put a little bit of magic in it, so when it’s hit like that again, it--”

“Lady!” A girlish, high-pitched shout came from the player in golden armor. She ran back over to the two of them and tugged the girl away. “Stranger danger!” she muttered pointedly.

The red archer tried to respond, “Well we wouldn’t have won without hi--” But the other girl cut her off, “Shush, we don’t even know who he is!” The archer gave a long-suffering sigh.

Jason took the opportunity to leave while their backs were turned. He’d intruded enough, and he didn’t really care to learn their names.

As he disappeared back into the cave, he thought he heard someone say, “Oh! He’s gone....”

* * *

Marinette watched the doors in the boss dungeon, wondering why that strange man had left so soon. She blinked and turned her attention back to her injured friends. Adrien had taken that hit for Kagami, and even though it was to his shield, he’d need a lot of rest before his arm was in working condition again.

The fight was costly. Luka had run out of healing potions, putting more than half of the team out of commission. It had just been her and Chloe left fighting. She wasn’t sure if they would’ve made it, let alone won without that stranger showing up....

“How’s it looking, boss?” Adrien’s hiss of pain pulled her from her thoughts. She crouched down beside him while Luka treated the arm with what simple herbs he had on hand.

Luka finished tying a sling and stood. “You’re going to be fine. Keep it still for a few days. We’ll get you some health potions when we get back to the house. Kagami, can you stand?”

The girl in question used to column to get up on her feet, but kept her weight off her left. That must have been the one she’d tripped on. “I can stand, but I’ll need help to walk,” she said through gritted teeth.

A costly fight indeed. Marinette moved to slide her arm under Kagami’s and supported her. “We just need to make it back to the horses,” she murmured to her friend.

God, her friend. Her friends had gotten hurt because her plan failed. They had no idea what they were walking into, and she had almost gotten them all killed because of it.

They just needed more time. More training.

The five of them started to limp back to the cave where the light from their torch had almost died out, when a bright light flooded the chamber. It came from behind them, and as they turned to look they saw an open door.

“That must be to the next level....” Adrien said softly.

Marinette looked at her Order, broken as they were, and made a decision. “Another time,” she said. “We’ve done enough for today.”

They still had to make it back and spread the word to the other players. A small smile fell on her face. They could give them this news, give them this hope.

* * *

“You did WHAT?” Dick’s voice cut across the room. Jason had returned to their base after dark, but he didn’t have much choice in the matter. He was tired from walking the entire trip and even more tired from the battle, so his pace on the return trip was a little lacking. But that didn’t mean Dick had to yell about it.

“I helped some people beat the first boss,” Jason shrugged. “I don’t see what the big fuckin’ deal is.” He put his pack down and grabbed some food from the counter.

Dick looked him over and, finding no major injuries, rubbed his hand over his mouth. “What part of ‘wait for recruits’ did you not understand?”

Ah yes, this again. He decided to tactfully dodge that shit. “I only meant to get a look at the boss. You know, do some reconnaissance and then report back? But a group was already there and fighting, and they needed help.”

“So you jumped in to help them?” Tim asked incredulously. “You? Mister Lone Wolf?”

“For fuck’s sake, they could have died,” Jason was getting annoyed now.

Dick gripped his shoulders. “So could you.” He glared as Jason pushed off the touch. “Look Jay, I know we don’t always get along, but I don’t want to... I can’t....” Dick hung his head. “Not again,” he said softly.

“Look,” Jason raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not looking to die anytime soon. Repeat performances were never really my thing,” he gave a crooked smile. “But I was fine. The monster couldn’t hold a candle against us.”

Dick didn’t look convinced. “Can you just... tell us the next time you go off on your own?”

Jason barked a laugh. “Not a chance.”

“You’ll give me gray hairs by the time I’m thirty...” Dick rubbed his temples.

“Then we’ll match,” Jason winked and ran a hand through his streak of white hair. Tim snickered and rolled his eyes. Bastard.