#he was good and didn't make noises or lunge

[dude-ew-gross]

Happy Birthday, Victor

2k words and some change

@void-my-warranty @simplynerdilicious-blog

Thanks for the brainrot. Had a lot of fun writing this. I'm going out for a gyro now.

It was nice to do regular girlfriend things with Victor. It was easy. All you had to do was be there, and what a relief it was not to walk on eggshells for once. The history of your relationships was a list of long, sordid affairs. A few flings here and there that never went beyond the bedroom paired with one miserable marriage and a divorce under your belt, you never thought that you would be where you were now, and where you are now is using your boyfriend as a pillow while he uses you as a blanket. An equal trade, laissez-faire and all that jargon.

You had to admit it was pretty damn nice to have someone around who matches your love of physical affection. The fact that he just so happened to be a walking furnace was merely a coincidental bonus, and if you were being completely honest, cuddling into him was probably your number one source of therapy. Victor never once rejected your advances, much less affection, gladly opening up his enormous arms and adjusting himself to make room for you in his lap to your incoming attack.

There you are, late in the morning on a random sunny Tuesday, so late in fact that most people would be taking their lunch break right now, you are now gleefully loving Victor up on the living room couch, nuzzling into his neck the way he does to you, snuggling into your boyfriend with all your might. You feel him plant a kiss on the top of your head as he hugs you to him just tight enough.

Laying your head on his shirtless chest, you listen to his heart pump his blood through his body with every beat and relax into him with each breath he takes with those strong lungs. You can't help but feel quite pleased when it doesn't take long for him to begin, for lack of a better word, purring. That familiar rumbling starts up and the solid torso underneath you begins to vibrate as he runs a large hand up and down the length of your back, the greatest indicator of “Hell Yeah” there ever was.

“There's that motor,” you giggle, burying your face into a furry pec as if trying to sink into the sensation. His chest hair scratches your face wonderfully. You inhale his scent, taking a deep breath of him and letting it out long and slow. For a moment you two lay there, basking in the warm compassionate touch of a lover. You know you could fall asleep on him right now but something snaps you awake just enough to ask a question that's been drifting in and out of the forefront of your cortex.

“Victor,” you begin. “How old are you?”

“Old.” He answers matter-of-factly. You take it that he didn't take offense to the question on account he didn't immediately stop purring, a good sign.

You continue. “How old?”

He's silent for a moment as he considers what to say. You knew he'd been around the sun a few times more than the average person and had been trying to guess his age for a while but didn't know how to bring it up until now.

“I was a grown man when I saw a light bulb for the first time,” he says.

The absurdity of that statement makes you lift your head up to quirk an eyebrow at him. He's stretched out beneath you, one arm wrapped around you, the other he's using to rest his head. The muscles of the arm that cradles his neck are handsomely flexed under his skin but you are not paying attention to that. He looks completely relaxed at the moment, unbothered. His eyes remain closed and his face doesn't change when the only response you can provide is a blunt “What?” because while you know he's old, there is absolutely no way he's that... old.

Victor makes an affirmative noise, refusing to elaborate any further. Well, if the motor underneath you is still going, that's a good indicator as any that it'd be ok to ask a few more questions. You think for a little bit, attempting to do the math but since the official year of whenever the lightbulb became patented then commercially available escapes you at the moment so instead you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“So you're older than indoor plumbing?”

This makes him chuckle. “Yeah.”

“Cars?”

He nods. “Yep.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you ever have to tell time by looking at a sundial?”

His immediate response was to laugh. “Once or twice,” he grins, finding your questions amusing. His fangs are on full display. “Used to get around by horse, if you could afford one. I remember riding in the back of a sled pulled by a single mule led by my father. My mother rode next to him with a shotgun,” he begins to fiddle with a strand of your hair, finding a small knot to loosely work his fingers through. “My brother was next to me. Suddenly, he's pointing up at something in the trees.”

The tangle is smoothed out and he resumes brushing his fingers through your hair with just a little bit of claw, careful not to give you an accidental trim.

“I look up, and there's this barn owl staring down at us. Takes off and flies above us without a sound.”

You blink at him. That was a core memory of his, a little piece of something long ago. Before he figured out he was a mutant, before he and his brother were locked away in that cellar. The paradox in the shape of a man that is Victor Creed who used candlelight and horses as a main resource during most of his formative years, yet he looks like some guy around your age, in the prime of life forever stuck at his physical peak until time itself remembers that he has to age, but that probably won't happen for quite some time. He's older than social security, older than the wars that shaped this continent (probably participated in a few from what you could gather) and was probably older than dirt, and you make an attempt to bite that comment back because he may not find that funny as you, but you say it anyway.

“Heh,” he snorts. “Good way of putting it.”

He probably doesn't even have an official birth certificate if he's as old as you think he is, and he's telling you all this as if his entire backstory is nothing more than just idle chit-chat. You think of how many centuries turned over for him to get here. He sees your expression.

“C'mon, let me hear it,” he goads, a soft smile gracing his face.

You adjust yourself a little to lace your fingers together and tuck your hands under your chin and look him straight in the eye and with all seriousness, you ask “When was the last time you celebrated your birthday?”

This makes him pause. The prolonged silence carries on a bit too long for your liking as his brow furrows, as if he never really considered his birthday before, much less celebrated it. His eyes drift away from yours and his eyebrows knit together even tighter as he takes a moment to think about the last time someone thought about his birthday, and that makes your heart ache.

Finally, he opens his mouth. “A while.” He lifts the hand that was in your hair and brings it to his face to scratch his scruffy chin. “Pretty sure the year started with “eighteen.””

You blink. “You're shittin’ me.”

The look he gives you has no indication that he's being facetious in the slightest. He stops scratching his chin and returns to using you as an armrest, draping the long limb around your upper back. His hand comes to rest on your upper arm, running his thumb back and forth on the flesh of your delt.

“Oh my god,” you begin, laying your head back down on his chest. You listen to his heart for three beats. “You really are older than dirt.”

He laughs at this, and you lift up and down with each laugh. It's nice to hear, it's deep and warm, and you can't help but laugh with him.

It takes a while to calm down. “Do you have any idea when it is?” you ask when you finally regain control of your breathing. He hums and you feel his arm constrict you ever so slightly as he squeezes you to him. His other arm comes out from under his head to completely cage you in, not that you mind. You feel him press his lips to your hairline as he takes a deep breath in, chest expanding with the volume of air he could breathe in, then slowly exhales.

“Sometime in the fall,” he finally says. “I don't remember the date.”

You “hmm” at this. “We're totally celebrating your birthday as soon as I see a leaf turn yellow.”

He lets out a puff of air through his nostrils and you feel his chest shudder with a silent laugh and he relaxes underneath you. Time passes and you end up spending the rest of the morning on the sofa with your legs tangled together. You're pretty sure you fall asleep on him once or twice or more, but he doesn't mind. You're pretty sure he falls asleep, too, and you're both content to let the world pass by as you nap together on a sunny weekday afternoon.

….

Months pass, and you decided you weren't kidding when you said you were celebrating his birthday. Seasons change, summer gives way to Autumn, the days are getting shorter and cooler, trees turned from the supple verdant green to the brilliant hues of Fall. Your backyard is a blended masterpiece of reds, oranges, yellows, and on a particularly chilly October day Victor decides to take your dog on a long walk on the trails in the woods behind your home.

You take advantage of his absence, preheating the oven and bust out the ingredients needed for a cake recipe you found in one of your mother's old cookbooks that you think Victor would like. You remember to separate the wet ingredients from the dry until you're ready to combine the two parts in one large bowl. You pour the batter into two equal size round pans, eyeballing the level to make sure they are even, then place them in the hot oven to bake.

You set a timer on your phone and place a kettle to boil on the stove for tea. Soon enough, the kettle is whistling and you pour the boiling water into your favorite mug with your favorite tea. You pocket your device and decide to pass the remaining time by spending it outside, parked in the big rocking chair with a steaming mug of tea keeping your hands warm and a small blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

It's a perfect Autumn day. The sky is overcast, the wind brings a chilly breeze, and the wonderful colors of the trees as the leaves lose their chlorophyll and fall to the ground has you beaming. You sip your tea and think about the present you didn't get your boyfriend. That's been bugging you for a while; what do you get a man who can buy everything in the world and still have spare change? Oh well, you hope the cake and the card you made are enough.

You're still outside and Victor has yet to return when the timer goes off in your pocket. You head back inside, locate your oven mitts, and carefully slide the rack out of the oven and transfer the pans onto a cooling rack. You poke the cake with a toothpick to check that it has baked all the way through and can't help but pump your fist in victory when it comes out clean. You keep the oven on to toast the coconut flakes you bought specifically for this and set to work making the frosting. The kitchen is smelling nice and toasty as you run a knife along the sides of the cakes, separating the layers from their pans. Both layers come out clean when you flip them over (another victory). You apply a liberal coat of frosting to the cooled layers and stack them, then add the toasted coconut to the sides and top.

You take a step back to appreciate your work, pride swelling your chest. You grab the pack of candles you bought specifically for the occasion and stick one right in the center of the cake and retrieve the card you made, placing the envelope right next to the cake. Just in the nick of time, too, because right on cue, the back door opens and Victor returns with your dog. Once inside, he immediately turns his head in your direction to see you standing behind the kitchen island with a freshly baked cake and an envelope, looking expectantly at him. Both eyebrows are raised in pleasant surprise.

You greet him with a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he echoes, stooping to unleash the dog. “What's this?”

You shrug. “I've decided it's your birthday. Happy Birthday!”

The leash comes off with a click and your dog rushes to greet you, nails clacking on the kitchen floor, tail wagging as he gives your hand excited kisses. You kneel to give him a few scratches and ask how the walk was, and your dog takes this opportunity to lick your face.

Victor huffs. “Little guy decided to take a swim, that's why we were gone so long.” He gives your dog an accusatory look, to which is blissfully ignored as the accused attacks your face with wet kisses. Your dog's fur is completely dry. You stand to get away from the barrage and your dog trots away to go lay on his bed.

You hand the homemade card to Victor. He considers it for a moment before opening it to read the little message you scrawled out for him in what you tried not to look like your regular chicken-scratch. While he's distracted you get two little plates out from the cabinet and the necessary silverware out from the drawer. He doesn't look up until he hears the flick of the lighter you're using to light the single candle on the cake. You return the lighter to your pocket.

You take a deep breath in. “Ha-”

“Don't.” Victor stops you from subjecting him to the mortifying experience of being serenaded with your acapella rendition of “Happy Birthday”. You're thankful for that.

You giggle and he smiles, and he's looking at you with those peculiar eyes of his with so much warmth and love you feel like you could fly.

“Alright,” you say with a grin. “Blow out the candle and make a wish, birthday boy.”

With a roll of his eyes he does as he's told. His lips form an “o” as he lets out a puff of air, immediately snuffing the candle out. A small plume of smoke rolls up to the ceiling and you can't help but clap in delight.

“Yay! Don't tell me what you wished for, it won't come true if you do.” You warn. You cut the cake and serve him a large slice, then you cut yourself a slice and you both decide to take this into the living room. The first bite he takes has him making an appreciative noise in the back of his throat. That's the only criticism you receive because he's silent as he eats the rest of his slice. The cake is supple and moist and the frosting melts on your tongue as the rich flavors of vanilla and coconut play together on your palette. You're barely halfway through your portion when he gets up and goes back to the kitchen, returning with another slice of cake.

“This is really good,” he tells you, gesturing with his fork. He takes another bite and voices his delight, making you smile as you take another bite. Excellent. He could eat the entire cake and you would not feel bad about it. It's his cake, he deserves to eat it, too.

When you're both finished he grabs your plate and you're about to protest that people don't wash dishes on their birthday when he sets them aside and stacks them on the coffee table. He turns to you and suddenly you find yourself wrapped up in a strong hug and a sweet tasting kiss is planted on your lips as he pulls you onto his lap. “Thank you,” he whispers, kissing you again.

It's not quite the birthday bash you think he deserves, but you did what you could, and he's enjoying himself and that's all that matters. You cup his face with both hands and kiss him back.

“Happy birthday, baby,” you tell him in between kisses.

[jakemyboy]

Blu's staring face when he sees another dog. 🤣

[marzipanandminutiae]

ok but what are YOUR favorite and probably real victorian funfacts?

There genuinely were some doctors who thought riding in trains would cause uterine prolapse [uterus falling out], when trains were new. The concern was that the vibrations from travelling so fast would break the fibers connecting the uterus to the abdominal wall. Unsurprisingly, this did not stop women from riding in trains. Because fuck that noise- trains!!!

One time in the 1840s a bunch of doctors shellacked live horses and rabbits and concluded, when the animals died (probably from heat exhaustion after being unable to sweat), that they had suffocated and that mammals breathed partially through our skin.

Some beauty manuals of the era may have created accidental sunscreen. Occasionally you see advice to wear cold cream on your face when going out, to prevent sunburn. This probably mostly didn't work- but some cold cream recipes contained zinc oxide for a "white foundation" effect, due to beauty standards favoring very light skin, which may have created a low-level SPF. Other manuals also advocate sealing the cold cream in with powder...which even more frequently involved zinc oxide.

A dentist may have gotten away with a malpractice death by blaming tightlacing. A 23-year-old maid named Annie Budden, of Preston, England, went to have a tooth pulled in January of 1895 and suffocated after the procedure, during which she had been dosed with nitrous oxide. The dentist said she was tightlaced and therefore the coroner ruled that he was not at fault- however said dentist claimed that her natural waist was 23" and her corset measured 18". Presumably that's the closed measurement, and corsets were commonly worn with at least a 2" lacing gap at the time (one corset ad I've seen mentions that women liked to give the theoretical closed measurement of their corset as their waist measurement, to make it sound smaller, while actually wearing it with the customary gap). Ergo, she was only laced down about 2-3 inches, a difference unlikely to cause asphyxiation. The fact that she worked as a maid similarly calls the assessment into question- how could she have successfully done physical labor while laced down in a way that diminished her lung capacity so much? Her employer vouched for her good character and excessive tightlacing was seen as vanity- and would have been noticed by making Miss Budden look out-of-proportion physically. That doesn't add up either, to me. The dentist went on to become mayor of the town where this all happened.

That thing above started as a fun fact about the only credible death due to tightlacing and then I looked into it more and now I'm just mad.

Justice For Annie Budden

Sorry this has gotten off-track but I'm still mad about the whole Annie Budden thing

[frmisnow]

1:37AM : BAROLO ! - (nsfw)

summary. you had been avoiding your ceo as best as you could after the intimate drunk meeting you had shared, so what do you do now when you both are forced on a business trip?

notes. second chapter! hope y'all enjoy🍷✶𝄞

warnings/includes. (3.3k words / smut!) non idol! ceo! jungkook x f! employee! reader, smoking (reader's first time), masturbation heavely implied, fingering, giving m. head, pussy eating, drunk!!!, tad bit of angst at end

"we didn't sleep together, you fell asleep on my coach, i wasn't going to take advantage of you"

his words from a few days ago remain firmly in your head. you had done so good at avoiding him: taking the long way to not walk by his office, instantly running off to god knows where when you saw him - only for the very man you've been dodging so well, to ask you to go on a business trip to milan.

the flight was quiet.

the only thing that was hearable was the sound of a lighter getting light up every hour or so. he smoked.

it was his private jet after all, you didn't blame him. your mind trails off to your ex once more, you had thought you had managed to get rid of him in your mind completely, but he always managed to sneak back in.

he resented smoking, called smokers 'self-indulged assholes' if they did it in public. he was the kind of man who thought the world revolved around sheerly him, to think that another person would calmly invade said-world with a bit of smoke, was beyond unforgivable for him.

you glance towards jungkook, taking in the calm assurance in his eyes as he takes another slow puff. he seemingly notices your stare, his tone soothing, "do you want one?"

you physically feel your ex trying to pull the hand you're reaching out to take what jungkook offered, back. but he doesn't succeed, you win. you had never smoked before, you go based of what you've seen in pop culture. lightning, drag, wasn't it?

you can visably see jungkook fighting a smile while he reaches out for the cig, hanging it between his very own lips as he leans forward in his seat, one of his hands gently guiding your fingers so the cigarette was now in between your own plush lips

you slowly breathe, the smoke stinging your lungs and making you cough. he lets out a tsk, clicking his tongue disapprovingly as he looks at you from under his eyelashes, "inhale deeper," the voice not mad, more like gentle scolding.

the hotel room was mostly quiet, besides the soft hum of the AC and the faint noises of the dazzling city through the open window. you both had shared a few more words earlier, incrediably vague, until you parted ways to your respective rooms.

you couldn't quite fall asleep, you blamed it on loud milan when you in reality couldn't stop thinking about his fingers which had been on your lips, your fingers trace over them, imagining his tattoed ones doing just that. you had to ask him what the history behind those was, next time. next time?

your hands wander to your tits, where his eyes had lingered more then once if your memory didn't fail you. and you imagine his hand wrapping around yours, guiding you.

"i want you," the words you had whispered against his mouth replay in your head multiple times.

just as your fingers trailed further, there was an abrupt knock on the door. you glance at your phone: it's 1:37 a.m.

as you open the door you see a image of your boss, you haven't quite seen yet. jungkooks hair is visabily messed up, his shirt loose around the neckline. "couldn't sleep," he mumbles, his tone sounding almost like an confession, he shouldn't say, "do you want to take a walk with me?"

you give in, you don't want to give much thought into how weird it was for a boss to ask his employee out on a walk at almost 2am.

the uber drops you off at a 24hr shop which seemed out of part for the milan you've seen so far (through car windows)

"if you want a snack or a smoke or something," he looks at you, "and then we walk"

you don't know what prompts you to say, "wine" with so much confidence but you do regardless. please make me feel like that night, i want you the words linger in your head shortly, words you'd never say out loud.

if he's surprised he didn't show it, moreover he looked satisfied, pleased with your answer. and that's exactly what you liked about jungkook: he knew how to read the room. did he hear you touch yourself? maybe. did he mention it? no.

he leads you deeper into the store, towards the back where there were rows of alcoholic beverages, the lights dim. he moves to stand behind you, his chest almost touching your back, as he reaches to grab a bottle of barolo from a high shelf.

the music in the background is some indie tune, you had heard before, you nod your head along to the sound absentmindedly.

you can see him smile at the corner of your eye, not a smile that was mocking or finding something funny, more filled with general admiration.

"you like this song?" he asks, his voice quiet, nearly a whisper almost as if it was a secret while he placed the bottle down to the cashiers table, pulling out his card, black.

you nod with a genuine smile.

you end up settling down on a bench in a nearby park, opening the bottle. you sit crosslegged, looking over the park at night, genuinely intrested, "so what music do you like?"

"i like...indie stuff, mostly," jungkook responds, turning his head to look at you, the light night breeze running over his hair, "but i have a soft spot for a few italian punk rock songs from when i was younger."

"ever seen any of them live?" you ask, taking a sip from the bottle, "y'know you are in milan after all"

he can firmly smell your perfume. the same one that had stuck to his coach for days which made it simply unbearable to sit on it, without thinking about you.

jungkook laughs, the sound soft, almost as if it wasn't entirely voluntary. he runs a hand through his hair, the ends just falling back into his face. "no," he says, tilting his head back a little, "i haven't."

"maybe you should," you respond casually. you don't know why you were giving such tips to a business man with a multi-million empire to his knees. did he even have time to go to silly little concerts? what kind of life did he live?

he laughs again, you loved the sweet sound of it, "maybe i should," raising the bottle to drink once more, "would you go with me?"

you reach out to take another large sip, you need some more alcohol in your system to answer him, "maybe"

he watches you intently as you reach for the bottle again, his eyes flickering to your throat as you tilt your head back to drink.

"maybe," he says again, smiling to himself, "that's so vague of you, maybe."

handing the bottle back to you, repeating, "maybe," his voice teasing.

you repeat the same word once more as you both laugh. you can feel the alcohol begin to warm you from the inside, the feeling of slight dizziness setting in.

meanwhile he's looking at you, his eyes wandering over your face, resting on your mouth, the way your lips are tinted red from drinking the wine.

"why are you looking at me like that?" you mutter though your tone grazed on something reminding a joke. stupid fucking question.

jungkook's smile remains if not widening while he moves closer, "how am i looking at you?"

"like you want to fuck me," you mumble, chuckling at your words like it was a ridiciulous thought on it's own.

"does that bother you," he whispers, his voice low, his words just a little bit slurred from the alcohol, "knowing i want you like that."

you raise your eyebrows, taking another sip, "so you're admitting it?"

jungkook raises his eyebrows, copying your movement, a lazy, almost cocky smile on his face. he grabs the bottle from your hand, raising it to his lips, drinking a mouthful of wine, holding eye contact with you as he does. and you're convinced he wants to see you dead.

he hands the bottle back to you, his smile still present on is face, "yes," he says, his voice low, the sounds almost like a soft moan, "I'm admitting it."

"you're actually so sexy when you're like this," you respond, clearly just as intoxicated as he was. 'like this' when you are not scolding me for not bringing the right documents, is the part you leave out.

he laughs, louder if that wasn't the alcohol talking. "sexy when I'm drunk," he teases, his words slurred, "is that it?"

"maybe," you babble which just makes the both of you giggle again.

he takes the bottle out of your hand, setting it down on the ground, the empty glass making a small clinking sound as it hits the concrete.

"you're drunk," he says, his words still a little slurred, the sound teasing, "i think you need to shut up."

you grin at this man's sheer audacity, replying, "i think you need to learn how to take a compliment properly"

jungkook just moves closer, not responding for a few seconds until you were so close that your noses touched, "you like compliments?"

he practically makes you lie down on that damn uncomfortable bench, "you want me to tell you how sexy you are? cause i will"

"i won't fuck you on a bench, kook"

"i never get to be just kook," he mumbles, something reminding a pout on his face, an adorable sight. "i'm always boss, or sir."

you don't know how to respond, you want him to be kook to you but that is something that is practically out of your control. so you moan.

you can hear jungkook say something — something about the city, something aboout the driver's taste of music? the words slip through your head as soon as they are said and all you manage to do is laugh.

the car feels to fast, milan is way to blurry and for a second you seriously ask yourself if you had taken any drugs. jungkooks hand slides over your thigh as you tilt your head, letting out a breathy chuckle.

the chuckle turns into a suppressed moan as his fingers brush over your underwear. you can barerly think straight, dare tell him to stop though you wouldn't even want to, even if you could.

you nod or at least try to; you didn't know why in the first place, it’s hard to tell if your head is moving or if you’re just imagining it. your eyes are half-closed, barely able to focus on his face, but you can feel his fingers slipping under the edge of your panties, brushing against your slick, aching core. "you're so wet f' me"

you make a mental note to rate the uber driver five stars later, because of the sheer noises that man had to hear. you were incrediably grateful for the music covered it up at least a bit.

just as you were about to cum, the car came to a sharp stop. the poor driver's voice pulls you back to reality, announcing you've arrived to the hotel.

jungkook brings his juiced fingers to his lips, licking them with a small 'pop' noise. for a second you actually consider pushing him onto the dirty ground in front of the hotel and fucking him right then but you regain compusure through a groan.

you both stumble through the lobby if you saw it properly one of the large clocks showed it was 2:51am but there was a big chance that your eyes were fooling you.

he practically pushes you towards the elevator as the door closes, jungkook looks adorably confused at all the various floor buttons, his finger unsurerly moving from one to the other.

"don't think," you pull him closer by his shirt while jungkook's hands instantly craddle your face, no thoughts in his head. you press as many random buttons as you could while he presses his lips onto yours.

his hands get tangled in your hair, he pulls you even closer as if he wants to breathe your soul in, moaning into your mouth.

the elevator opens with a little 'ding' and you have to look around to see if it's the right floor, you had surprisingly gotten lucky. the hallway lights automatically turn on at your movement, they feel way to bright.

you both reach the door of his room as he fumbles with they keycard, trying to slide it into the lock, cursing under his breath whilst you laugh. the door refuses to open which just makes him release a giggle, cute very untypical, "how do these even work"

logicaly he should be a man who has opened multiple hotel doors like this before but it was most certaintly the alcohol in his system that made everything a bit to fuzzy to handle. jungkook finally manages to slide the card into the door, the light turning green with a small click.

he pulls you with him, tugging you towards the bed, his movements messy as he almost falls once on his way. flopping down onto the covers, pulling you on top so you're straddling him.

it's a pretty view, him under you. he really did look hypnotized in a way whilst you ran your fingers over his facial features, they are not as rough as you thought, on closer inspection.

"you got to many clothes on," you mumble, removing your own shirt and shorts in a clumsy haste.

"then take them off"

you grin, your fingers moving to his shirt to pull it over his head, the action surprisingly slow and tender though it was probably the wine making your mind all foggy.

jungkook looks up to you like you are the moon and the sun, his eyes droopy, his words a stark contrast to his loving gaze, "you're taking to long, c'me here"

"you are in no position to give me orders," you reply, working on his pants.

his head falls back against the sheets, the smile on his face evident, "i think i am, i'm the big, mean boss man"

big, mean boss man - that's how you need to save him in your contacts, you chuckle at the thought, pulling away his boxers. his cock springs free, already hard and throbbing with need.

"shut up or no head," you don't wait for his response, leaning forward to press a tentative kiss onto the tip before taking him into your mouth, savoring the taste and texture.

jungkooks hands tighten in your hair, guiding you with a mix of need and tenderness while he bucks his hips. you move your head up and down with precision, taking him deeper with each passing minute.

he curses, curses in a manner you've never seen a man like him do. and you feel a sense of pride in knowing that you have this man practically wrapped around your finger or better said — mouth.

his release is sweet, warm. you swallow each drop especially when he asks you to clean him up, you lick it all off. here and there you look up to him with your lashes and he moans each time.

you can firmly feel something shift in the air when you release him with that little 'pop' noise, reminding of how he left you without an orgasm in that damn uber. at least you had made him cum.

following, he gently pushes you onto the bed. you look over to your right, evidently amused noticing a closed wine bottle on his night desk. perhaps it automatically came with the hotel, it seemed expensive.

a hazy thought lingers in your mind, a blend of the lack of sleep and the alcohol still coursing through your veins. you reach out for the bottle, fingers grasping the cool, smooth glass.

with a tipsy giggle you uncork the wine, bringing it to your lips to get a quick taste before ultimately pouring about a good one third of it over your tits.

you can barerly make out jungkook's face, why did you mind seem so hazy? but you can hear his words, "you're a mess" his tone isn't insulting rather he says it like it was a just a mere fact.

but he calmly licks the liquid of you with the same ease as you had done with his cum.

“such a fucking mess,” he repeats, his words softer now, almost affectionate, as he sucks his way down the curve of your tit, "my mess"

his hands wrap around your thighs, putting them on his shoulders. he raises his eyebrows at your state, "all for me?" it sounded like a question though it was clear he didn't expect an answer — he certaintly didn't wait for one either.

the feeling of his hot, wet tongue against your core is a stark contrast to the coldness of the wine-soaked skin in combination with the ac, creating a delicious tension that had you whining for more.

jungkook’s hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he works his mouth over you, each flick of his tongue and suck of his lips calculated to drive you to the edge of sanity. he alternates between gentle, teasing licks and more aggressive, demanding sucks, making sure you’re fully engulfed in pleasure, one way or another.

jungkook eats you out like it's a part of his job, with much care and ease. an grunt or a groan vibrating against you more often then not.

his name slips over your tongue multiple times, and you would've been embarrassed for your porn-like moans if it wasn't for the release washing over you.

it falls over you in one motion and it would've felt like to much if it weren't for jungkook: jungkook, who's fingers wander over your thighs and tummy gently as if trying to bring you back on earth. jungkook, who gives you all the time in the world and whispers reassuring little sweet nothings against the sensitive skin.

when he sees you're somewhat ready to function again, his arms softly lie you onto him, one of his hands working through your hair attentively while his other reached out and lit up a cigarette.

the room has a special scent — wine, sex cigs.

jungkook takes slow, deliberate drags as you trace patterns over his chest, circles, hearts. his fingers absentmindely moving to lightly drum over your back while he takes another hit.

“want a puff?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips, and without thinking, you nod, your brain swimming in a delightful stupor. he brings the cigarette to your lips, and you take a tentative drag, the smoke filling your lungs.

“breathe it in, babe” he murmurs, the nickname slipping from his lips like a forbidden secret. “like you did before.”

you do as he says, managing it properly this time as he gives you an approving hum instantly going in for a kiss.

you wake up with sunlight on your face, your first instinct is to smile, the curtains were open, did you forget to close them yesterday?

but as your senses sharpen, you realize something. something: or rather, someone is pressed against you. panic bubbles inside you as you register that jungkook lies beneath you, deep asleep, a peaceful smile grazing his face.

what had you done?

thankfully you remembered everything, though it was much more a curse then a blessing. you hadn’t wanted to cross this line.

there was no future here — he only desired you when you were both drunk.

and what was even worse was that you actually felt your heart clench when you looked at his clueless, oblivious face.

you wanted, no- you needed to disappear before the reality of this situation hits the both of you. it was a dick-move but that was what he had done that night, wasn't it?

but just as you begin to shift, a low, sleepy murmur escapes his lips, and he stirs beneath you. his eyes flutter open, a lazy smile making it's way onto his lips as he registers you on top of him, blissfully unaware of your inner conflict.

"good morning, babe," he reaches forward to brush one strand of yours behind your ear, you were convinced there was nothing currently working behind those eyes, "did you sleep well?"

🍓 tag list — @chansloverr , @marimarvelfan , @bxcndd , @1-in-abillion , @ahgasegotarmy116 , @copycat-namjesus , @malkaimoon , @geminiml95 , @taiwan0618 , @jungkookfics , @rrosiitas , @stuti2904

[sweetnans]

Firefighter!bakugo pt 2 pt.1 here

a/c: This bakugo is softer because there's no quirks hunting him. This isn't proofread yet, and please consider that english is not my first language.

You didn't call him. He left his number on the card, the company replaced all your burnt furniture and electronics, and after all, you still couldn't look at your new stove without thinking of him. And that you never called him.

Of course, the next time you saw him, it wasn't your fault.

It was a sunny day. A few months had passed, and you were making your way for a new job interview you had pending.

You did the interview pretty well, considering your strike of bad luck. The boss and the executive of the company said that your resume was everything that they were looking for and that gave you a sort of security you hadn't felt for a while.

You were making your way out of the office after hearing the 'we will call you to discuss minor details' when a rare feeling appeared on your stomach, a slight pinch in your guts that didn't felt like it was a stomach problem.

You shook the feeling away and kept walking to the elevator, pressing the button you realized that you were free all afternoon, so you made a quick plan to go for a coffee and a donut. Lately, you were craving sugary things.

Once the elevator's doors closed, the uneasy feeling made his way back to you. You felt that something wasn't right the minute the elevator creaked before going down. The office's company was on the nineteenth floor, and you were almost reaching the thirteen when the movement stopped abruptly.

Suddenly, the light went off too.

You never thought that you would be in a situation like that, so you obviously tried to remain calm, but it didn't work.

Panting, you reached to grab your phone from the back pocket of your jeans. As you were expecting, you had no signal, mostly because you were trapped in a box made of metal.

"Hello?" You said pressing one of the buttons from the panel, the one that got a bell on it. "I'm stuck in the elevator"

No one answered, and your heart started to beat faster and faster. You tried banging on the doors, crossing your fingers that the elevator got stuck on a specific floor and not in between floors.

You considered yourself a calm person, or at least a good pretending something you are clearly not. You were good at faking because you were more afraid of feeling ashamed, but no one was around to see you panicking.

"Help!" You screamed and then waited to hear any noise coming from outside. The silence was overwhelming. "Shit"

You slid your back until your butt hit the ground and started to remember the breathing exercises you learned on a yoga session your friend made you go. Thinking that it will work was a very optimistic thought.

The feeling of your lungs stretching and trying to find the air that was lacking in the elevator was exhausting, closing your eyes, you pushed one of your hands in your chest to apply some presure on it to feel the movement and connect the moves with your brain so it would process that you were actually not dying and still breathing.

Your eyes started to close, and your body started to sweat. Was it the end of it? You got a decent degree, got drunk with your friends many times, and had a good childhood, but still, you wanted to do a lot of things, like learn how to drive, get a dog, start your own business and even make fucking cookies without setting your house on fire, you were so young to die like that.

Thirty minutes later, that felt like an eternity, you started to hear banging and voices from the other side of the elevator. You were skeptical that it was actually help and tried not to feel so excited about it, but then, a ray of light appeared from the darkness.

"I think she's conscious, guys," a voice you've heard before said.

Many hands and bodies started to work in the steel, using saws and jaws to break the door open to get you out of there.

The door cracked after a few minutes, and you were free and ready to never jump in an elevator again.

You were almost falling asleep, and you felt so weak to move, so they carried you out of the elevator and settled you on the floor.

A blonde man put a little flashlight in your eyes and looked at you very focused on his task. The sight wasn't very clear, everything looked very blurred to you. You could only see two shapes that obstructed the sunlight.

"I think she passed out while she was there. I got a faint pulse too" The same voice you heard before echoes in your ears like it was miles away but you could see the red haired man in front of you.

Oh no.

You felt your senses returning in a whiplash. That man, in front of you, was the man that went to the fire in your house and the one that was next to him was the one that went to your brother's home and gave you the box of cookies.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"I'm okay, I swear." You tried to stand in your feet, but a wave of dizziness didn't let you.

"I don't think you are," the red-haired man told you, giggling. "Wait, I know you" he stated in awe.

"Yeah, her face, it feels familiar, right?" The blonde man spoke to the other ignoring completely that you were there.

"She's the one that burned down her kitchen a few months ago"

There he was, taking off his gloves, a drop of sweat in his forehead, and looking as good as the last time you saw him. You cursed yourself in your mind. He was hot, and now after you never called him, there was a ninety-nine percent chance that he hated you.

"Move aside. I'm going to check her vitals. You two can talk with the building manager about his excuse of an elevator. " he spoke lowly to the others, and that volume of timber scratched that unworkable brain of yours.

The two firefighters stood up and patted the shoulder of his friend while he kneeled down in front of you.

You were left alone with him, the guy you turned down.

"Hey, you know I'm very sorry and -" You started to apologize.

"Do you consider yourself claustrophobic?" He interrupted, putting the oximeter in your index finger

"Mhm, I don't think so." You avoided eye contact because his serious facade was something you couldn't bear at the moment.

"Doubtful, why is your heart rate so elevated then?"

You felt how the blood in your system rose to your cheeks. He must have noticed because he lowered his head at the same time that a smug smile appeared on his face.

"I think I got what I deserved, a scare that almost ended up in death," you dramatized while he lifted a finger in front of your eyes with a tiny flashlight following the movements of your pupils. "I think that's the karma acting"

"What do you mean?" He clicked the flashlight off and reajusted himself crouched on his knees.

"You were nice to me, and I never responded" you shrugged.

Bakugo put on a face you couldn't decipher. It was a mix between thinking and not giving a shit about everything.

"Have you tried baking again?" He asked, reverting his glance from nothing to you.

You denied with your head.

"Just looking at the oven freaks me out," you let out a sigh, followed with a shiver when your mind put the memory of that day in your head.

He grinned at your words and you couldn't help the smile that appeared in your face.

"What's so funny?" You tried asking.

"How do you burn your kitchen and end up trapped in an elevator in less than a year?"

You rolled your eyes at him and handed the oximeter to him. He extended his hand to yours, and you dropped the device before his hand reached your hand. The two of you were quick on catching the device before it landed on the floor, but in the process, his hands covered yours.

Bakugo stared at your joined hands for a second before taking his away. You thought that you were the only one who felt attracted like a magnet to him, but the slight pink on the tips of his ears gave him away instantly.

"You know, there's a chance you might have hurt yourself, so we have to take you to the hospital so they can check on you properly," he explained while closing the paramedics bag.

"Great, no coffee and donuts for me, huh?" You muttered under your breath while gaining momentum to stand from your seat.

He helped you to get steady, and then he guided you to the truck.

Before you could jump to one of the seats, he stopped you.

"My shift ends up in like an hour. The doctors would want to check your vitals and see if there is any concussion from when you fainted, well that, and the time you were there without much air... I was wondering if maybe, if you want, I mean...-

"Bakubro, did you ask her out yet?" The red-haired guy appeared from the back of the truck.

Bakugo stared at him like he could burn the man down.

"He was actually doing that," you said, biting your lip and looking back at him. "And I was about to say yes so..."

"Ah man, I'm sorry... Now that I'm here, I remember I left something back there. " he left the scene very quickly.

"You thought I was going to ask you out?" He said with his eyes going straight to his hairline.

A cold shiver ran through your spine from embarrassment.

"Shit, no? I'm, oh my god, this is so...I should've died, " you whined, praying in your mind for a hole in the ground that could swallow you down.

You could feel how your body was burning from the shame. Your face red and you felt your own temperature rising.

"You thought right," he said after a moment, enjoying your suffering. "But I was expecting you to make the first move, I mean after you turned me down"

"Please, stop, I beg you," you cried. "I'll take you out, meet me in the hospital, and I'll take you to wherever you want to go, just stop"

He almost laughed at your suffering. Bakugo thought that you looked so cute when you were ashamed and blushed.

"Nah, this one is on me. You'll have your donuts and coffee after all"

He pushed you, putting his hand in your lower back to get you on the truck.

...

Taglist

@spinninoutwaiting4you @gsyche @hanacheryl @itzjustj-1000 @kiridagremiln @reads-stuff-quietly

Do not edit or reupload my works elsewhere! All rights reserved.

[slvttyplum]

toji loved the sound of chaos and the loudness of everything; that's what kept him at peace, but with you, there was a quietness that he couldn't get enough of until he was fucking you; he didn't like when you were quiet; he loved that loud shit; he loved how you would moan until your voice got hoarse; now that's what really kept him at peace.

you didn't have a hard time being loud; he did things that made sure you were going to be yelping. you tried to do it once, but he fixed you up real quick, holding your jaw and looking right into your eye when he did it, and that was a guarantee to have you moaning.

whenever the two of you were together, there was a peaceful quietness that slithered around the house, and for the first time in forever, it didn't make him uncomfortable or make him want to scream; it calmed him down. all he wanted to do was be up under you, until y'all got into the bedroom.

that was a different story, where the both of you made the most noise; it was never quiet in there. whether it be because of arguments, rushing to get out of the house, screaming, sleeping, or even sex, that wasn't a safe zone for it to be quiet.

the bed creaking, tojis loud grunts keeping him from whining, your loud and soft moans bouncing off the walls and leaking through the bed, along with the headboard hitting against the wall as your head hit against it. that room got loud as fuck, and toji loved it. he wanted to make sure you were screaming with pleasure and crying for him to give you more.

sometimes sex would go on for so long and you would be moaning at the top of your lungs that after everything you could barely talk and toji loved it, not the fact that you couldn't talk… well maybe, but the fact that he was fucking you so good that you lost your voice.

he also loved the fact that after everything, it would go back to that comforting silence—the silence that didn't bite at him or make him want to scratch his eyes out—the kind that made him want to cuddle against you and listen to your heartbeat and your steady breathing.

as much as he loved the loudness of everything, there was nothing more relaxing than everything calming down after he put eight inches in your stomach and listening to you fall asleep in his arms shortly after. his voice returning to a soft tone after having it deep and loud while he was telling you how much of a slut you were for his dick before.

he grew to love the quietness in the house the two of you made to your liking; he didn't feel the need to step outside every time the silence got too much for him or randomly scream so he could hear it echo off the walls. the silence consuming him and making it hard to breathe was no longer there; it was comfortable now.

[wintertime-in-june]

A Marriage of Convenience

Colonel!König x Vulnerable!Reader

You sobbed, hot and heavy as tears streaked down your face. You looked at the email through bleary eyes one last time before swallowing the lump in your throat and letting out further cries.

Your visa had come to an end and your citizenship status was declined. You had to go back to your home country, back home, away from KorTac, off the Austrian base.

As König walked past the door to the empty teaching room in which you resided he heard it. The high pitched, sniffles and cries. No man on his base could make these delicate, heart wrenching noises, no, he knew it was you. His perfect little recruit, his good girl, y/n.

He stopped at the door to the room, ready to enter but wanting to do so carefully. Now was his chance, you were crying, upset and oh so vulnerable... in need of a big hero to swoop in and save the day. Now, he just had to find out what you needed and he could make all the pain go away...

He pushed the door open tentatively, trying his best not to nearly rip it from its hinges like he usually did. He scanned the room looking for his little girl and there you were curled up at the back, knees tucked against your chest, with your back against a cupboard. He couldn't help but smile at your small, helpless form. Quickly catching himself his face fell, back to its neutral, stoic stare as he shut the door behind him with a click.

You heard the door close and looked up to see the hulking man that was your Colonel walking towards you. Big, heavy combat boots trudging on the ground.

Your mouth fell into an 'o' as you attempted to wipe your tears away, shaky breaths and sniffles, trying to placate your crying.

The Colonel stood before you, looking down before he himself got down in a squat and eventually sat himself in front of you, arms resting on his knees.

"I'm s-sorry Colonel." You manage to stutter out, the tears having ceased but your choked up demeanour remaining.

He gave you a sympathetic smile, it was no secret he had a soft spot for you, although, no-one but him truly knew how deep it goes.

You gave him a small smile back, attempting to put on a brave face. 'Cute' he thought to himself as he tilted his head to the side.

"What's up kleine Maus?"

'Little Mouse', that was his nickname for you. You smiled a little at the use of the name, tears still brimming your shining eyes.

"I- I got an email," you managed to stutter out before the tears ensued once more, "they're sending me back Colonel, I don't know what to do."

You buried your face in your knees once more, breath shaking as you attempted to get some air in your lungs.

You unlocked your phone and passed it to König, letting him read the email.

"I don't want to go back." You said, barely above a whisper as you let out a shaky breath.

"I like it here," you continued, "I don't want to go back home, my parents... they're not nice... and here I get food and, and I have a bed."

You sob a little as you think back to your old life. Although the military was tough, for you it was an improvement, and you weren't ready to give all of this up.

König read the mail before placing the phone down. His eyes narrowed as you said why you didn't want to go back home. It upset him... no, it angered him that your home life could be worse than this. The one place you were supposed to have guaranteed safety and support and you did not.

"What am I going to do?" You said, choked up, lifting your head from your knees to look at the man that loomed in front of you.

"How could you stay?" König asked, already theorising how he was going to fight off anyone who would even attempt at taking you away.

"I would have needed approved citizenship, m- my visa ran out of time." You said, attempting to blink away tears but feeling yourself getting choked up again.

"But my citizenship was declined." You cried burying your head in your knees once more.

König let out a low sigh as he shuffled forward to sit next to you. When his back hit the cupboard that your own one rested on, it shook under the sheer force of him propping himself against it.

He snaked an arm over your shoulder, pulling you closer to lean on him. He rubbed the side of your arm soothingly, an expression of distain for the predicament resting on his features.

"O-or I'd have to marry a citizen, but that's not going to happen." You let out a shaky breath, almost like a laugh, as though even the notion was ridiculous.

König's eyes shot open, as if he was having a Eureka moment to say the least. His soothing rubs on the side of your arm stopping momentarily. "A-and why's that not going to happen?" He spoke perhaps too quickly, too eagerly.

You look up at him with a confused expression as if it were obvious.

"I don't have any boyfriend, let alone an Austrian one who would want to marry me in the next," you think for a moment, "...six days."

There is a beat of silence as König collects himself, tries to remain calm and chill.

"I'll marry you."

The air is thick with tension as he awaits your response. You can't believe what you're hearing.

"Really? You'd marry me?" You say softly, looking up at König with awe in your eyes. As if he'd saved you, as if he were your hero.

"But what about you? What if you want to get married for real someday, is there someone you like?" You ask, you couldn't believe he would do this for you.

He lets out a low chuckle, you don't even know the half of it. He wanted you, this was his dream, he could practically not contain the ecstatic happiness he was experiencing at your issue. He knew it was wrong. He knew he was a bad, bad man for enjoying this, but his heart was beating faster, he was holding back a smile and he couldn't help but seize this opportunity.

Before meeting you he thought he would die alone, but not from rejection, no, truth be told he has never been interested in a person enough to pursue them romantically, that was until you stepped into his office...

Perfect, cute, y/n, with an adorable little smile and oh... code violating underwear. That's how the two of you first met. On your first week, sent to the office by the Lieutenant for your dress code violations.

From that point forward he was obsessed, unbeknownst to you. You just thought he let you get away with more, being a girl and all. He was nicer, kinder, sweeter to you. Trying your baking, letting you sit with him at lunch, helping you over the walls in training. A caring Colonel.

"Come here." He said lifting you up and placing you in his lap.

You allowed him to do so, smiling a little, was he really going to fix your predicament?

He wrapped his large arms around you, thick muscles keeping you safe. You leaned into him hugging him back.

"I'm going to marry you, no-one is taking you away."

You couldn't help but smile more as you hugged him tightly. Your heart beating a little quicker.

"Thank you Colonel, thank you." You whispered.

He let out another chuckle.

"You know, you don't always have to call me Colonel, maus." He teased a little.

"What should i call you sir?"

"Mein Ehemann." he stated, petting your hair as you leant against his chest.

"Mein Ehrmann," you repeated, he smiled at this, "what does it mean?"

"Your husband."

You felt a blush creep up your cheeks, maybe this marriage would be for more than just convenience...

[djarincore]

TAGS: smut, fwb!ghost, car sex, degradation, name calling, PIV

A/N: I said if I got sleep token tickets I'd write more smutty simon drabbles. This is a bit different than how I usually write him tbh but sometimes you don't need to be worshiped and adored you just need to get fucked in the back seat of a car and be called a slut *shrugs*

Simon Riley was all smoke and fury, wound tight beneath rippling muscle and an aloof demeanor. He was a bastard at best and cruel at his worst. He was an impossible to read man.

When he was gone, somewhere far over seas, you would tell yourself you didn't need him anymore. You had more self respect and deserved someone who wanted all of you, not just a quick, meaningless fuck.

But you were always the first person he called when he was home. Maybe that meant something or maybe it just meant he was a lonely man. Either way, he called and you answered every damn time.

He took what he needed from you with primal, untamed desire, and when it was over, he was gone until the next late night call. And you were left angry and frustrated at yourself, at him.

You hated recalling your pathetic mewls and broken moans. The warmth of his skin pressed against your, slick with sweat, as he fucked you, burying his cock deeper into your needy cunt.

With your legs around his waist, your knees burned against the leather of his backseat with every sharp thrust that seemed to knock the air out of your lungs.

Times like those were when you wished you could steady yourself in his hair, silence your moans on his lips, but he never took his mask off. You called him Simon, but you only ever saw Ghost.

So, your hands were forced to find security in the meat of his bare shoulders as he gave you no choice but to sit and let him bounce you on cock.

You hated his voice, always mocking and dripping with venom that made your cunt flutter and chest ache.

“Desperate slut,” he grunted. His harsh breaths fanned over the shell of your ear. “You always take me so good.”

Simon’s hands squeezeed the flesh of your ass. His nails left their cresent marks on you the same way yours did on his shoulders. It would be the closest thing to declaring your ownership over the other. He dragged your hips closer, forcing you to grind down on him.

The stir of his cock inside you pulled a moan from you. You worked yourself against him, almost rutting, feeling him deep inside you.

“Go on. Show me what you can do.”

He went hands off and you did your best to take over. He'd already given you two orgasms before stretching you around his cock. His fingers did well enough to leave you exhausted.

You rose slow with your knees and allowed gravity to take you back down. The slick noises of your bodies meeting seemed to echo in his car. The windows had fogged hours ago from your combined breaths. You were completely consumed by him all around. Nothing mattered, but him and you.

Your stamina was no match for his and you were slowing your movements when your breath struggled to catch up.

He scoffed. His lids lowered as cold eyes focused on your sluggish movements, the wetness glistening on his cock and your cunt wrapped around his tip. “Fuckin’ pathetic. Tired already?”

“Make me come, Simon,” you begged, clawing down his chest. Your hips came down to a slow grind against his, urging him to take over.

Simon never took kindly to your orders. You assumed he got enough as it was from being a soldier.

“Wanted you to work for it, slut.”

He bucked his hips, filling you to the brim once again, kissing your cervix with the head of his cock. Your head fell back as you moaned and clenched around him.

“But I'll make you come,” he promised with each word after followed by a heavy thrust. “Again and again and again.”

thank you to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers!

[darklordofthesimp]

Delirium (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader)

Summary: Being partnered with Ghost was never easy. However, when you find him bleeding out on the kitchen floor and delirious from blood loss, you make a discovery. The L.T loves to talk.

Requested by Anon: #57 You're shaking.

A/N: Some Sunshine to feed you while I work on Anything III.

Category: Mutual Pining

Warnings: Description of injury || Graphic language

You weren't a medic by any means. 

There was the combat first aid course that you were all forced to do during basic training, but that had been a century ago. You'd handled your own injuries when an enemy sniper would get a lucky shot. Again, there's not much to do there other than put some pressure on it.

Otherwise, you were fairly inexperienced when it came to handling injured team members. There were shortfalls to being a sniper, hand-to-hand combat wasn't as relevant and having to provide first aid was rare. 

You call them shortfalls because now, in a situation where those skills are required, you're fucking struggling. 

You'd opened the door to the safe house with a sigh, frowning when you couldn't see Ghost through the windows. You'd assumed he'd be waiting for you to arrive from your nest but clearly, he didn't give enough of a fuck to wait around. 

You could have died en route and he'd be sleeping. 

For some reason, the thought hurt. 

You could think of a million things that he probably thought more important than you; staring at a wall being high on the list. What you hadn’t expected, was to find him collapsed on the kitchen floor.

“Ghost,” you rasped, choking on his name. His eyes flickered open at the sound of your voice, the relief palpable in his gaze. He groaned and let his head fall back against the wall with a strangled noise. You were frozen. You’d never seen him injured and honestly, you thought that you never would. 

You’d even told Soap that Ghost was probably just a bootleg Robo-Cop beneath the mask.  

But, the blood soaking through his uniform said otherwise. 

“You gonna give me hand or not?” His voice was low and rough. It had no edge, though. There was no bite behind his words like there usually was and it scared you. The man hated your guts and if he was too injured to convey that then he was definitely dying. 

“Oh God,” you breathed, leaning your rifle against the wall slowly. Your eyes never left his crumpled form and his eyes never left your face. “Oh God.” 

You slid to your knees, rushing to his side with frantic curses. You couldn’t see the extent of the wound from beneath his armour and he clearly didn’t have enough strength to take it off himself. 

“Stab wound,” Ghost offered the cause of injury through gritted teeth. “Got me good.” 

“This shit needs to come off,” you tugged at his armour, reaching for the quick-release cord. The man groaned but he didn’t object. One hard tug of the plastic ligature had the vest falling apart at every seam, the line now loose in your hand. 

“Fuck,” the man gave a startled chuckle, taking a large breath with his chest free from pressure. “Feel better already.” 

You didn’t reply, eyes narrowed on the wound beneath his ribs. You pulled up his shirt, tucking it beneath his arms as you scanned over the injury. It was clean cut, a clear entry wound that was steadily leaking a shit tonne of blood. 

No sounds of air sucking in through the jagged flesh and you thanked whoever was listening that it wasn’t a punctured lung. You didn’t have any seals on you and you didn’t want to slap him with some duct tape instead. He’d never let you live that down.

“How’s it lookin’, Sunshine?” Ghost asked, breathing heavily.

“Unfortunately,” you began, pressing the cotton padding from your kit against the wound, “if you apply pressure, you’ll live.” 

“Unfortunately?” He coughed,  the sound strained and you could tell he immediately regretted the movement. 

“Very fucking unfortunate,” you confirmed with faux seriousness. 

You stuck a gauze pad to the wound once you had finished packing it, reaching into your med pouch for a bandage. You’d wrap it around his midriff to keep pressure on the wound, you decided. 

“A ray of Sunshine you are, as per fuckin’ usual.” 

You clenched your jaw, reminding yourself that he was injured and that you couldn’t stick a finger knuckle-deep in his wound as retaliation. At the very least, he was back to hating you. Meant he wasn’t dying any time soon. 

You frowned at the bandage in your hands, desperately trying to remove the plastic wrapping. You couldn’t think straight and your body felt jittery as the adrenline began to settle. You couldn’t believe how vulnerable he was, unable to gather the strength to take off his own body armour. 

You hated it. 

Why the fuck couldn’t you open this wrapping? 

You pulled harder on the plastic, trying to bring your heart rate down. Why were you breathing so hard? 

A gloved hand fell over your own. 

Your frantic tugging came to an immediate halt and your eyes snapped up to meet his, startled. Ghost's gaze was half lidded but just as intense as always, grazing over your features. Heat flushed through your body at his drunken stare. You knew it was from the blood loss, you knew he could barely see straight, but that kind of look was reserved for someone he was sharing a bed with and you couldn't function at the sight of it. 

For a moment he said nothing, blinking slowly- too slowly- as he took in a breath. 

"Relax, kid," he murmured eventually. "I'm okay."

You swallowed hard. 

His fingers were soft over your own, too weak to apply pressure but curled over your hand just the same. 

"I am relaxed." You bit back at him, returning your gaze to the stupid fucking bandage beneath both of your hands. You didn't want him to see how much this affected you, you didn't want him to think you were a cowardly mess. 

There was a soft huff as he patted your hand lightly. "You're shaking, Sunshine."

You sucked in a breath.

Your eyes flickered back to meet his, lips trembling at your exposure. He knew. The gentleness in his gaze was otherworldly, so foreign you wondered if it was even Simon Riley beneath the mask. Blood loss was clearly doing a number on him and he was doing a number on you. 

“I’m a sniper, Sir.” You coughed, trying to tear yourself from the sudden intimacy of the situation. “I don’t shake.”

Ghost tutted from beneath his mask. 

“Haven’t been with the right bloke, then.” 

Your jaw dropped. 

Ghost blinked at you as though he couldn’t believe what had come out of his mouth, either. Jesus fucking Christ. You suddenly realised why Soap had made fun of Ghost for never drinking when you’d all be at the pub. You remembered asking the Sarge why the masked enigma would always bail after an hour or two and his response was simple. 

“The L.T can’t hold his tongue when he’s on the piss.” 

You thought that implied aggression. 

Clearly not.

“There is no right bloke,” you rasped, slowly pulling the bandage from beneath his hand. The loss of contact left you feeling empty but suddenly you could breathe a little easier. 

Your fingers shook violently as you tried for the plastic wrapper again and your gaze flickered to Ghost’s face, praying he hadn’t noticed. You should have known better. 

His eyes were on your trembling digits, a soft exhale making it’s way to your ears. 

“Looks like I’ve proved you wrong, Sunshine.” 

The words were low but there was no heat behind them. It didn’t feel lustful, they were murmured like an afterthought, his mind elsewhere. You wondered where Simon Riley disappeared to in his head when he looked at you. 

“You crack a lot of jokes for someone who’s a literal shish kebab,” you snapped, tearing at the plastic wrapping with your teeth. Finally, the bandage came loose.

“And you talk a lot of shit for someone who cares more than they let on.” The words were fired back, demanding your attention. 

You stared at him for a long moment, resisting the urge to squirm beneath his dark gaze. You’d never seen that expression on him before, as though he were daring you to disagree. As if he were waiting for you to say something. 

“Can’t care too much in this business, Sir.” You choked on the words, unravelling the bandage.

“I believed that once,” he tilted his head. 

“And now?” You prodded, leaning over him to wrap the bandage around his midriff. You tried to ignore how close your face was to his, how your fingers trailed against the skin of his stomach. The Lieutenant shivered beneath your touch and you kept your gaze downcast. 

Fingers gripped your chin softly and you gasped as he tilted your face upward. 

You were half on top of him, nose to nose and his stuttered exhale brushed against your lips. Simon’s eyes were half lidded and this close you could see the blue of his eyes, a stormy ocean that swallowed you whole. You were caught in it’s rip tide, drowning in the reverence of his stare. 

“Now,” he murmured, lazily examining our features. His eyes lingered on your parted lips, his thumb slowly swiping your bottom lip. “Could say I’ve had a change of heart.” 

[ariestrxsh]

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧˚ ⋅₊ ⊹🍒⭒⋆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧˚ ⋅₊ ⊹🍒⭒⋆

⚠️ content warning: ⚠️ smut, oral, praise, daddy kink, semi-public, risky, drugdealer!chris, enemies to lovers

✍️ Summary: ✍️ You start rebelling against your cop dad, and who better to be your partner in crime than Chris Sturniolo, the local drug dealer your dad busted last year and told you to stay away from.

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧˚ ⋅₊ ⊹🍒⭒⋆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧˚ ⋅₊ ⊹🍒⭒⋆

"You look a little out of place here," a familiar voice from behind me broke through the sound of the loud music and startled me, causing me to nearly drop my red solo cup. I whipped around to see who it was. Chris Sturniolo. My dad had warned me about him. He'd busted Chris for selling weed last year, but of course, he didn't learn his lesson and was still just as much of a scumbag as ever.

"What do you want, Chris?" I rolled my eyes after subtly looking him up and down. He looked really fucking good. He was in a black tanktop, a grey flannel, grey sweatpants, and a backward black hat. He held a blunt loosely between his lips as he smiled at me. "What I'd really like is to get out of here and smoke this with you," he said, taking the unlit blunt out of his mouth and holding it out to me.

"You know my dad would kill me if I smoked weed, but he'd kill me twice if I smoked weed with you," I scoffed. "He doesn't have to find out, sweetheart. Plus, he'd be pissed that you were at this party to begin with. Why stop pissing him off now?" Chris responded, smirking at me.

I was going through a bit of a rebellious phase. Growing up with a cop father, there were a lot of things I couldn't participate in as a high school student without being worried he'd play detective and find out or something. But I was finally starting to branch out and test the water a little bit when it came to boys and drinking. After all, I was 19 with nearly no experience. Why not weed, too?

"I've never smoked before," I told him. "I know. I'd love to be the one to pop your cherry," Chris devilishly grinned at me. I rolled my eyes at him and smoothed out the wrinkles in my dress. "Listen, I know you're trying to rebel against your dad. This is your first party. This is probably your first alcoholic drink," Chris said, pointing to the cup in my hand, and he was right, "and I'd love to help you rebel a little bit."

"What's in it for you?" I glared at him. "Revenge on your dad for busting me last year. Corrupting his little girl would be my pleasure," Chris leaned in and whispered to me. His lips brushed against my ear lobe, sending shivers down my spine.

I thought about it for a second. I'd always hated Chris, and I was still weary of him, because my dad had warned me about him, and had pretty much forbade me from ever making friends with him, even though he wasn't my type of people. But I was a little morbidly curious about him. "Fine," I agreed, and he extended his hand out to me, and I took it.

He led me through the crowd and out the back door, our shoes crumpling the dead leaves beaneath us. There was a spot on the side of the house that was tucked away behind a tree that Chris brought me to. We both leaned up against the house, looked up at the starry night sky, and were glad to get away from all the noise and people.

The autumn breeze kicked up as Chris attempted to spark up the blunt. "Here. Help me? Hold your hands out like this," Chris showed me, and I made a little cave with my palms to shield the lighter from the wind. The fire from the lighter was warm, especially compared to the cool outside air.

He took a few hits and then passed it to me. "Now, just take one hit. This is your first time, so you don't wanna overdo it," he said in a low raspy voice, "and make sure that when you inhale, you inhale into your lungs, not just into your mouth before blowing it out."

I held the blunt up to my lips, and as I sucked, the cherry on the end made a faint crackling sound. The smoke felt warm and thick in my lungs. "Hold it, hold it. Okay, now you can exhale. Good girl," Chris whispered, and as I blew out the smoke, I coughed hard, and I wasn't sure if it was from the smoke or if it was from when I gasped when Chris called me that.

"Just sit tight for like ten minutes, and if you don't feel anything, I'll let you have another hit, okay?" Chris said, rubbing my cheek. "Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked him, giving him a skeptical look. "Because I was once in your shoes, experimenting with drugs for the first time, and there was no one looking out for me, but I wish there were," he answered, taking another puff and blowing it in the opposite direction as I was standing. "I have a question for you now," he stated, glancing at me with his beautiful, bloodshot blue eyes, "why do you dislike me?"

"Chris, you're a drug dealer. My dad has warned me about you. You're a dangerous man," I told him, looking down at my shoes. "I promise I'm not dangerous. You don't know me, and your pig dad doesn't know me. Yeah, so I sell weed. That's one very small part of who I am," Chris replied, with a genuine hurt in his voice.

I could relate to his dismay in being judged by someone who doesn't even really know you. After all, having a dad who was a cop and being the odd one out when it came to experience with boys and drugs came with a lot of judgment as well.

"I'm sorry. I guess I don't know you," I responded in a shaky voice. "That's alright. After all, judgments aren't all bad. It's your judgment that tells you not to walk into a lion's den," Chris responded, blowing a cloud of smoke above him, and I watched it dissipate into the night sky.

"I think I'm starting to feel it," I whispered, fixating on the way the smoke danced through the atmosphere with Chris' every exhale. I felt less uptight and less serious. "Does it feel good?" Chris smirked. "Yeah," I said, my eyelids growing heavy while I smiled over at him like an idiot.

"You look so pretty when you're high," Chris whispered, holding the lit tobacco leaf back up to his lips. "God, I wish I were that blunt," I whispered back, and Chris' eyes widened as he smiled in disbelief. "Oh my god, did I just say that out loud?" I asked, covering my mouth with my hand.

"Yeah, is that how you really feel?" Chris asked, winking at me. I blushed. "I'm sorry. I'm high. I was thinking, and I didn't mean to say that out loud. Are weed and alcohol supposed to make you horny?" I asked, glancing down into my nearly empty solo cup.

"It can have that effect sometimes," Chris teased me, offering me the blunt one more time. I accepted it, inhaling just like Chris told me and blowing the smoke out, but this time, because the blunt was so small, it slightly burnt my fingers and lips when I took a drag. I still coughed, but Chris rubbed my back.

"Did you mean that earlier? About wishing you were the blunt?" Chris poked fun at me while he took a last puff and put out the cherry on the bottom of his shoe. I innocently bit my lip and ignored his question.

Chris leaned in and kissed me. His lips were smooth and soft, and he tasted of weed and cherry chapstick. His tongue begged for entrance into my mouth, and I allowed it. His kiss was gentle but powerful, and his hands immediately started wandering my body. I'd made out with boys before and even been touched by them before, but the way Chris' fingers danced across my neckline and down to my waist made me think we might go further than I ever had before.

Chris' hand traveled down to my thighs, and he pushed up the hem of my dress and started rubbing the front of my panties. "Oh my, look at you getting all wet. Is that because of me?" He asked, looking into my eyes. "Mhmmm," I moaned while he held my neck with one hand and slid his other down the front of my underwear. I gasped as he made direct contact with my clit and started gently toying with it.

"Has anyone ever kissed you here before?" He asked while he rubbed it. I looked up at him and shook my head, a little embarrassed. "Well, then, you're gonna love this," Chris whispered to me before he descended to his knees in front of me. He helped me out of my panties, one leg at a time, and he looked up into my eyes while he brought his mouth closer to my pussy.

As soon as he started twirling his tongue over my sensitive nerves in small, concentrated circles, moans started streaming from my lips. "Do you like it when I go slow like this?" He asked, moving his tongue in long, slow licks over it. "Or do you like this better?" He asked, while he sped up the pace and started fiddling my clit with his tongue faster than I thought anyone could ever move their tongue before. My knees grew weak, and I could barely think.

"Just like that," I whimpered while I entangled my fingers with his locks of hair. "Yes, daddy," I squealed. Why did I just call him that? I was so embarrassed, but he didn't stop or shame me. Instead, he started moaning against me, sending vibrations through my body. Maybe he liked that I had called him that.

"Oh, daddy, you lick me so good," I quietly cried out. "Mmmm, good girl. Cum on daddy's tongue, princess," Chris teased me as I swiveled my hips in circles against his gorgeous mouth. I couldn't take it anymore. Chris' words, his tongue, his eyes piercing my soul, the built up sexual repression, it all sent me over the edge.

I could barely stand, but thanks to the wall behind me and the way Chris was holding me up, I was able to let my body fall limp and relax into my orgasm. What a sweet release. The first orgasm that anybody had ever given me besides myself. And it was better too. Chris stood up after he lapped up my mess and leaned beside me back up against the wall, grinning at me.

"I wonder what your daddy would think if he knew you were drinking and smoking with me, calling me daddy while I eat your pussy."

taglist: @ariithereyet @bsturnzmtt @sofieeeeex @ribread03 @fratbrochrisgf @strnlxlqve (if I forgot to tag you, i'm sorry! if you wanna be added to the taglist, let me know!)

[kisakis-boyfriend]

♦️

kaveh simp guy again. I see your requests are open! if it's not too much trouble, can I request a monster reader with nature explorer kaveh thing? he's been on my mind and I'm just HRRRNGHGHH I NEED HIM.

Author's Note: Hello again! I made the reader a plant-like monster, hopefully that's something a little different from my other monster fics haha 😅 — I do hope you enjoy this, Kaveh simp! 💚

Pairings: Kaveh x male reader

Warnings: Male plant monster!reader, dom/top!reader, explorer!Kaveh, sub/bottom!Kaveh, soft noncon, praise, double penetration (reader has 2 dicks), vine tentacles, cumflation, aphrodisiacs, throatfucking

Sent out to the hottest, dampest, foggiest rainforest alone, our beloved explorer grumbles to himself as he cuts down another entanglement of thick vines that block his path.

He's sweaty, he's irked at his workplace for dumping this assignment onto his shoulders, and he can't see his own nose in front of him in this place! Kaveh only wishes for this trip to end soon. If only these stupid flowers didn't require such specific conditions to grow in. Why must it be so difficult to find them?!

Just as another complaint crosses his mind, Kaveh finds himself staring at a small patch of the exact flowers he'd been searching for! Bright yellow petals with flecks of purple and red, surrounded by thorny vines, and somewhat in the shade. Yep, these were it, alright!

Kaveh carefully reaches forward to pick one, but just as his fingertips brush against the stem, something wraps around his ankles, snaking up his body in an instant.

Thick, firm vines hold his limbs in place, and one even wraps itself around his throat loosely. Kaveh can no longer move. In a panic, he yells, “Hey! What is this?! Someone get me out!” though he knows he is all alone here.

Kaveh flinches as something makes contact with his hips, grabbing them, while something else pushes against his butt. A pair of lips kiss behind his ear, and begin to trail down a bit, sucking on the skin of his shoulder until it becomes reddish.

“Oh, my darling, you're exceptionally beautiful, aren't you?” A hypnotic voice chimes. The voice resonates in the back of the explorer's mind, sending a sensation through his body that makes him feel even warmer than before.

His breaths don't feel complete. He is breathing, but it doesn't feel quite right. There's not enough air filling his lungs, and his vision blurs as his panicking increases.

“Hmm… you smell nice too. Almost makes me want to eat you up~”

—

You waste no time finding a way inside of the explorer's body. Human clothing is annoying, but tears easily. One of your vines pushes right through the cloth covering the explorer's ass, plunging in without warning or prep, though the natural slime they secrete does help with the pain, at least a little.

The human's moans sound so pitiful — though they turn sluttier by the second, as every thrust deeper inside of his warm walls clearly brings him satisfaction.

Good human. You think to yourself, pressing closer to his body, your own arousal clearly poking his ass cheek.

Kaveh's sounds become muffled when another thick, green vine pushes past his lips. The girth of the vine pushes his head back and forth as it enters and exits his mouth, bringing many lovely noises as he tries not to choke on the thing.

Once again, without warning, the vine violating his hole slips out, and gets immediately replaced by something much, much thicker and wetter — one of your fat cocks impales Kaveh's ass selfishly, which causes him to squeeze his eyes shut until tears form.

More of his clothes are ripped in the process of you exploring the explorer's soft body. His skin is so beautiful glistening with sweat, and sensitive too. It seems like every time your fingers or small vines brush against his chest, he shivers and clenches around your cock.

Your cock throbs and stretches his poor ass so much, there's no way you won't leave him gaping once you're finished. In which case; why not continue filling him up?

If the human can handle one of your dicks, surely both of them won't hurt too much?

Pushing in a second, fat, bumpy cock proves to be just what the explorer needed to spill those tears. It's a sight so pitiful, it makes you want to swallow him whole and keep him forever. His tears — his pleasure — they should all belong to you.

“You're taking so much, beautiful. I'm impressed. Your body appears delicate, but you take my cocks with little resistance, no?” He's unable to answer, but the slight twitch of his own cock proves to be an answer all on its own.

For this, you decide to reward him; pushing the vine further down Kaveh's throat and picking up the speed of your thrusts. You hit so deep inside of him, Kaveh's unsure how to handle this much pleasure at once — and you're not even touching his dick, though it aches for some form of stimulation. Instead, you leave it to drool precum onto the ground, bobbing along with your pounding.

A warm, gelatinous fluid soon fills the explorer's little holes, filling him from both ends until his belly swells. The sweet taste lingers on his tongue as your vine exits his mouth.

A few more spurts cover Kaveh's body, dripping down his adorable butt and face. Your scent surrounds him now, and that only serves to further pull him into your grasp. Kaveh blinks a couple times, dazedly turning his head to face you.

You pull him against your chest, using a few stronger vines to lift him so that he no longer has to focus on standing upright. You allow him to rest, and he does. He drifts off in your arms — like a prince after a long journey.

[novemberheart]

{overview} Its agreed. The 141 needs an omega. But how will you react after already being rejected by them?

{warnings} Fem reader, a/b/o dynamics, light pricexsoap

Chapter 1 <- Chapter 2 -> Chapter 3

“Visitor!” Ms. Helen knocked on your door, causing it to open.

“What did you do now?” Miriam smirked from her bed next to you.

“Nothing.” You replied, baring your teeth playfully. She laughed, throwing a pillow at you on your way out. “Do I get to know?” you hummed, trying to keep up with Ms. Helen.

“No,” she responded harshly. She was all bark no bite. You rolled your eyes, running your fingers across the wall as you followed her to the visitation room. It was cozy, and designed to make omegas comfortable. Soft lighting, lots of windows and things to hide behind. When the door opened you caught sight of a familiar blonde.

“Kate.” You cheered, as Ms. Helen shut the door to give you two privacy.

“Hey, Honey.” she greeted warmly, giving you a tight squeeze.

“How's Robin?” You asked, plopping down with her on the couch.

“She's good, busy with the dogs and garden. She says ‘hi’.” Kate smiled, taking a quiet deep breath of your scent. Peaches and Vanilla. It wasn't nearly as fulfilling as her wife's scent, but it was enough to take her slight edge off.

“Please tell me you're breaking me out of here for lunch.” You pleaded to the alpha next to you.

“We can do that after.” She smiled at you. “There is something we need to discuss first.” The smell of nervous alpha drifted towards your nose, giving you goosebumps.

“Alright.” You said slowly. You projected your scent, trying to cover hers. It seemed to work.

“I have a placement for you.” She finally admitted. The first reaction you had was to wince, your head beginning to feel light as your lungs dropped to your stomach along with your heart.

“Really?” You said slowly. “Did they pick me?” was your second question. Her smile faltered a bit.

“No. But I'm picking you.”

You guess that'll have to do.

You and Kate had known each other for a little over a year now. She had met you when she was interviewing omegas to be paired with military packs. You quickly became her favorite, (and almost everyone else’s who interviewed you) and she knew exactly where to put you. Unfortunately, the rest of your ‘soon to be’ pack wasn't as willing. Kate put a hold on you though. Leaving you effectively stuck in an omega-holding house.

“They've already rejected me before, Kate.” It came out as a whine, you couldn't help it. “Is it the same pack? What's going to make this any different?”

She winced at the noise, her brows furrowing.

“Yes, it’s the same pack. And they didn't reject you, they just rejected the idea of an omega.” she corrected. “It's different this time because they've wised up. They asked me to find them an omega.”

“And here I am,” you said glumly.

“None of that.” she scolded, her hand smacking against your knee. “You still have their files?” She asked. You nodded your head. Of course, you still had their files. They practically haunted you.

Plus it was just about the only eye candy you could get in a place like this.

“You remember Simon right?” she continued. You nodded your head. The only man in your file without a picture. He was a fan favorite amongst your friends, along with Kyle. Something about the mystery just had everyone's wheels turning. “He got hurt. Hospitalized.”

“That's terrible.” You gasped. “He’s going to be alright?”

She quickly nodded her head. “Yes, but on the bright side, it made them realize how much they need you,” she said softly. You begin to have a gnawing feeling in your stomach and you are one more fact away from getting the shakes. “Calm down.” she groaned, waving a hand in front of her face. When nervous your scent turned from sweet to sour. Not in a moldy fruit way, but in a strong lemon way. Kate could feel her mouth pucker.

“I can't help it.” you groaned back. “I thought I was going to die in this place. Now you're telling me I have to leave and go out into the world. Not only that but I get to join a pack that has no interest in me other than a healer. You know what it's my turn to refuse.” You snapped. “If that Captain ‘Cost’ or whatever his name is wants me then he can come down here and ask me.” You snapped.

“Captain Price.” Kate corrected, working her hardest to stifle a laugh. “How about we go to lunch, then you can think about it. I can tell you a bit more about them. Maybe that’ll change your mind? Hhhm?” She soothed, patting you on the back.

Who were you to turn down lunch?

Simon had yet to fully wake up. The doctor was right, waking up was a nightmare. John had decided to spend the night outside Simon’s door- just in case. The sound of a thundering growl quickly jolted him awake. John had to tranquilize Simon himself, through a hole in the door. First and hopefully last time he'd ever have to use a blow dart.

It went on like this every few hours, until finally the nurses just decided to keep him under. Simon had cracked a few of his ribs in the fight with himself, along with obtaining more bumps and scrapes.

“Poor lad.” John huffed, after telling the rest of the pack.

“Didn't happen to record any of it did you?” Johnny questioned. “What?!” he spat after Kyle and John glared him down. “Simon drugged up trying to fight nonexistent enemies. Don't sit here and tell me it wasn't entertaining.” Johnny smirked. Kyle pressed his lips together, his imagination slowly taking control.

“Was a sight.” John admitted finally. John suddenly leaned forward his finger tapping against the Scots left shoulder, where Simon’s mark was.“That's one of your alphas you're talking about.” John corrected. Johnny shivered, instinctually leaning into John's warm touch.

“Technically he's the second alpha. You're the pack alpha.” Johnny continued, wanting to soak up as much affection as he could. It worked.

“Good boy.” John praised, his hand drifting over to Johnnys' right shoulder, where his mark was. Johnny purred, his eyes drifting over to Kyle who was watching the whole ordeal with slowly lowering eyelids. Kyle snapped himself out of it.

“Not in public.” Kyle reprimanded.

“You're just jealous.” Johnny nearly panted.

“You get worked up so fast,” John murmured.

“Still got any tranquilizers?” Kyle growled.

After talking with Kate and about three margaritas later you had softened. She had dropped you back off at the omega house holding house, with a tight hug, promising you that everything would work out.

John twitched in surprise when his phone began buzzing in his pocket.

“Kate?”

“When do you need her?”

Yay, you're here for chapter two! Chapter three will be uploaded in two days! See you there 🧡🤎

[missmeinyourbones]

we NEED "i'm just too soft for all of it." IWHT MEGUMI PLS IM BEGGING

I'M JUST TOO SOFT FOR ALL OF IT (m. fushiguro)

a/n: me making up medical shit LMFAO, repressed and emotionally constipated megumi, deadbeat dad t*ji, slight mentions and undertones of toxic masculinity

L’s MIDNIGHTS EVENT!

Since he was four years old and still growing into his long-sleeved sweaters, Megumi has learned to heal his own wounds or almost die trying.

A routine that he now knows like the back of his hand, he'd returned from his latest mission with weeping cuts and exhaustion clear beneath his eyes, making a point to stop at the medical closet before returning to his dorm. With Shoko's workday over, he makes a mental note to visit her first thing in the morning when he wakes. 

He can make it through the night, he always does. Because Megumi is a thinker. He plans until he can't and covers all bases for when they're stolen. He gets by. 

What he didn't take into account was potentially running into you, of all people. Dormitory halls barren and almost eerie, he nearly curses himself for brushing shoulders as you turn the corner on the way back to your own room. 

Your timing has always been wrong, or maybe it's right and Megumi can't differentiate between the two. 

And now he's here, on the creaky wooden floor of the medicinal closet, with you kneeling beside him and prodding at his injuries with tender wrists. 

Never one to be good with idle hands, Megumi fidgets and tries to brush at the dried blood on his shoulder. The action has both of you hissing—him in a jolt of pain and you in reaction to his hurt. 

"Don't touch it," your voice falters to be stern, still coming out so gently. Megumi thinks about the irony of that—of how you can't even be sharp if you tried. You're too gentle, too soft to even sound hard momentarily. 

Humiliated at the mere idea of doing nothing, at needing help, he shakily exhales and returns his attention to the floor. 

When the damp cotton pad in your hand touches a bit too deep in one of his cuts, Megumi does his best to save face but can't help the grunt of breath that gets sucked into his lungs. 

Immediately, he feels you retract from his skin and coo your apologies. Carefully returning your attention to the burning wound, you do your best to soothe him. 

"Sorry, it's deeper than it looks. Almost over."

Megumi's response is quick and curt, like a cut of its own, "It's fine."

You nod hesitantly before grabbing the bottle of antiseptic and another clean cotton round. The cleaning of his wounds continues in silence, though your thoughts are louder than anything. 

His injuries vary in size. Some deeper, fresher, than others. Some looking like one-hit victims and others a repeated attack. You do your best to take note of where he's sensitive, where he's hurting the most. 

When you reach a certain scratch on his bicep, you're able to catch a glimpse of his face. Sweat beading on his forehead and damp hair sticking to his skin, Megumi bites the collar of his uniform to suppress any kind of noise (weakness) from you. 

When he slips up and lets out a guttural muffled groan, you think you might audibly whimper yourself. 

"You can yell if you want to," you try to help him in any way you can, "or squeeze my hand or—"

"I'm fine," Megumi attempts to bark again, but this time is different. It's not cold or sharp like it was last time. You can hear how it shakes against the echos of the closet, how it sounds like the burn of tears building in a sore throat.

And between the pain everywhere he still has feeling and the intimacy of you carefully caressing him, Megumi finds himself tearing up. 

"Hey," he feels you whisper, attempting to caress his jaw and prompt him to look at you, "hey, you okay?"

He can't find it in himself to answer nor lift his head, so he sniffles like a kicked child and crinkles his nose in disgust at his own pathetic actions.

Megumi is tough, one of the toughest people you know. You've seen him more beat up than this and barely break a sweat. Your head feels light at the realization that something's wrong. He shouldn't be in this much pain from the familiar burning of antiseptic he's felt a dozen times over. Maybe it's from a cursed weapon, or a technique where—

A stifled sob cuts you off.  

Like a glass cracking beneath pressure, you feel something inside you break. No longer caring about cleaning his cuts or avoiding sensitive areas, you can't stop yourself from wrapping around his hunched frame. 

Megumi's breath hitches as you hold him, feels your hair tickling his neck when you rub his back and whisper.

"I'm sorry, I know, but you're doing so good, okay? And I'm almost done—"

"Don't do that," he bites. 

Assuming he's referring to prodding at a specific wound, you flinch and loosen your grip, "Do what?"

"Talk to me like that," he snarls with a crack, "in that—voice."

He feels your head remove its weight from his shoulder slowly, "Why?"

"Because I can't—" Megumi's voice almost breaks before he whines, gritting his teeth when he whimpers, "I can't handle it."

And just like that, Megumi is four years old again. He's scraping his knee on the concrete of his front lawn, and a blurry father-shaped figure with dark hair and legs far too tall tells him to be a man. Not being old enough to use the stove without supervision, but still knowing enough to save his cries for his pillow when Tsumiki is snoring and can't overthink his tears. He thinks of Gojo—of the first time he broke down in front of him and was met with whispers of good intent and love that registered in his brain as pity. Humiliation.

He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels your fingertips on his wet cheeks, replacing the stinging of antiseptic with a fluttering and velvety touch. 

Between sniffled strings of apologies and a few hiccups of words that don't quite make sense, you piece together that Megumi isn't crying because he's in pain. He's crying because he can, because you're helping him in a way he never asked for, let alone known. 

"I've never...been allowed to, like, feel—"

"Hey," you're soft again, as if you ever weren't. "I know," fingers delicately brush his sticky eyelashes when you remind him, "but you are now."

"Are what?"

"Allowed," you whisper against his cheek, "to feel however you want when you're around me."

And Megumi doesn't know how you do it. How you remain a light in a world that's constantly doing all it can to kick you while you're down. Maybe you're just naive, so stupidly optimistic that it'll eventually be your own demise. Maybe.

But, Megumi can't find himself to care, because he knows that for as long as he's on this earth, he'll be damned if he lets anything happen to that light of yours. 

Back to reality and rubbing at his stinging eyes, Megumi softly scoffs. "Y'know, sometimes you look at me with those stupid eyes and I don't know what happens, but I almost feel sick."

Your laughter tastes like water, "I know what you mean. But in a good way though, right?"

"Yeah," he nods, "in a good way."

When Megumi's back finally hits his mattress at an ungodly hour of the morning—something he's been dreaming of since he'd left it hours ago—he's sickeningly sore and his eyes burn with hypersensitivity. He lets himself close his eyes thinking of your hands, the ones that soaked his now scabbing wounds and wiped his watery eyes. 

Megumi plans, sure, but he never could have prepared for you. 

[mindtrcks]

asmr | CL16

Charles has been having trouble sleeping. Your videos seem to be the only thing that helps.

WC: 5.4k

Notes: performance coach!reader who dabbles in asmr (but only for charles <3), smut, phone sex/mutual masturbation.

Charles has been having trouble sleeping lately.

It could be because of timezones, or how much coffee he drinks. But it probably has more to do with the way he’s been watching the Drivers Championship slip further and further out of his grip with every passing week. But to admit that would be to admit that he’s losing control of the car, and with it, himself. To admit that would be to admit that there's nothing he can do about it.

So he claims that he’s merely been a little restless at night. He’s told to try calming teas before bed, so he does. But then he just has to get up and use the restroom. He counts hundreds of sheep without getting tired, and ocean noises and whale sounds just pound around in his skull until he turns them off. He tries picturing the schematics of the SF24 in his head until he has a perfect rendition in his mind. But then he thinks of how it feels to drag it back into the pits, and works himself up so much he can’t even close his eyes.

He’s growing more than just a little restless. He thinks he might be getting desperate.

—

“Have you tried warm milk?” Andrea asks him, when Charles shows up to training with bags under his eyes, yet again.

“Yes, no luck,” he answers. He doesn’t know a kind way to say that he’s tried everything that appears on the first five pages of google when he searches for insomnia remedies, including an American military tactic that’s supposed to work in ten seconds. (Charles has found it doesn’t work at all.)

Andrea makes a sympathetic sound and begins to guide Charles through a warm-up. His limbs don’t stretch as far as they would if he had gotten a good night’s sleep.

As he struggles, your voice calls out, from the corner, “Wait, he’s allowed to eat dairy?”

And that is something he is still getting used to. You, shadowing his sessions with Andrea. You’re preparing for your transfer to a team that shall not be named, as you like to say. Charles figures it must be a team that pays well, because you take the NDA quite seriously. When Andrea first told him about the arrangement, he worried it would be awkward, but he quickly found the opposite to be true. You talk quite a lot for a soon-to-be head performance coach. It’s comfortable. He likes your chatter, even if it’s a bit inane at times.

“Drink dairy,” he corrects, just to hear you huff.

The satisfaction is short-lived, though, because then Andrea’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him further into his lunge, and deepening the burn in his thighs. “Milk is healthy,” Andrea tells you, sounding like a professor. Like he really thinks you don’t understand the merits of drinking milk. Charles just thinks you want to be difficult. “Also, he has an ice cream company.”

“Yeah, but I didn't think he started it for the love of ice cream. Plus, everybody makes it seem like drivers can only eat gruel. I need to shadow a nutritionist or something.”

Andrea lets him stand up, and instructs him to start stretching his arms now. “You don’t have to make the meal plan,” he says, once adequately satisfied with Charles’ form. “They can just find Dan—”

You interrupt him with a gasp and a rushed, “Shshsh,” not quite a shush, but something close. Like calling a cat. “You can’t say who it is,” you say, waving your arms. But then you freeze, and Charles can see the moment your face lights up with an idea. He knows, instinctively, that it can’t be good. “Wait. Charles, have you tried ASMR?”

He briefly debates lying, but he’s not sure he has a good enough poker face to get away with it normally, much less when Andrea pulls his arm up and introduces a new ache to the stretch. “I have tried, but it did not help much,” he admits, choosing to ignore both the delight on your face and the reserved judgment on Andrea’s. “It felt weird to have some stranger try to put me to sleep.”

“Ah, so you need your own personal ASMRtist, just for you?” you ask, eyebrows raising. Charles would feel shame, but he is just too tired. He watches you turn to Andrea and shake your head. “These drivers, man.”

Charles just sighs. Andrea makes his way to the treadmill, and Charles sighs again, this time with feeling.

—

He doesn’t think much of it, as he goes through the workout. Andrea works him hard enough that he doesn’t think much of anything at all. That is, until he’s doing crunches and your face suddenly appears above him, grinning down. “I could do it, if you wanted to try ASMR again. I could make you some, seeing as I’m not a stranger.”

At this point, Charles would try just about anything. Exhausted, and sweaty, and struggling to finish his set, he grunts, “Sure. If it is not a problem.”

“No problem at all,” you say, throwing him an exaggerated wink.

He’s lost too much sleep over the past few weeks to spend time parsing out whatever that means.

—

A week later, and Charles has honestly forgotten about the entire thing until you text him out of the blue on a Monday afternoon.

what kind of things do you like?

for your asmr :)

He stares down at his phone and tries to think of a reasonable way to respond to that. He has watched ASMR before, yes. It’s true that if it exists on the first five pages of google, he has already tried it. But all of the videos he watched were too creepy, or too loud, or again, too impersonal. He didn’t really discover anything that worked, except maybe for the lack of traffic in the background.

I like for it to be quiet, he sends, eventually. He’s not sure what else to offer. As he watches you type, he hopes that you won't put too much effort into this whole thing. Charles is not very hopeful that it will help in the first place.

well, yes!

i mean do you like talking? or water sounds or something?

I’m not sure, he types. And then, just to ease your expectations, adds, Honestly it will probably not work either way

have you no faith in me?

He doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he turns his phone off instead of overthinking.

—

It’s Wednesday night by the time you text him again.

for you, the message reads. There's a video attached, of course. He has to wait for it to download to his phone before he can see the cover image: you, sitting at a hotel room desk, smiling softly. Your hand is blurry in the frame, like you're pulling it back after pressing record.

He feels something tight in his stomach, a jump of anticipation. If his problem was the impersonality of the few videos he’s tried on YouTube, this would definitely fix that. The frame looks like something he might see if he were to do a video call with you. Something he might see if you were really talking to him.

Pressing play seems dangerous. He thinks it will probably not work, but there's the nagging thought in the back of his mind of what if it does? What if, after all the home remedies and melatonin and sleepless nights, this is what finally works? Your voice, your face, on a video just for him. How is he meant to deal with the repercussions of that?

It's a war within himself, whether to press play or not. The fact is that he needs to get sleep before free practice in the morning. But he cannot honestly say that watching your video would help any more than staring up at the hotel ceiling, counting the cracks and divots. Picturing sheep jumping over a fence, like his maman always said.

It is almost like his phone is singing to him, though. In a voice that maybe sounds like a siren’s or maybe sounds like yours.

He cannot help it. He presses play.

“Hi, Charles,” your voice whispers in the quiet of his hotel room.

Instantly, he panics and shuts his phone off. Much too dangerous, he thinks. The sheep will work just fine.

—

He wakes up feeling more exhausted than he has ever felt.

It’s bad, he knows. He hardly has anything to say to the reporters who try to talk to him before he gets in the car. Free practice is a nightmare, and he nearly crashes out in the middle of a flying lap. And then, of course, he has to sit through an entirely long debrief in which all that seems to be said is how he needs to be focusing more. Concentrating on what's important.

“Maybe you just need to get more sleep,” you offer, like you know, somehow, that he was too much of a coward to watch the video you sent. That you can see how he didn't even try.

“Maybe,” he agrees.

There are sympathetic faces, and then he’s sent back to the hotel early, with firm instructions to go to bed.

—

He tries to fall asleep on his own. He drinks tea and plays whale noises and even does yoga poses, which do nothing but aggravate his muscles, already sore from his incident in free practice.

In the end, there's nothing to be done. He rolls over and grabs his phone, resolving that, if nothing else, he will try. And even if it doesn't work, then he at least will know, and he can stop thinking about you sitting at that desk, whispering his name.

He presses play before he can convince himself otherwise.

“Hi, Charles,” you say, on the video. The room around you is dimly lit, the kind of yellow light in hotel rooms that makes everything look a bit hazy. You’re wearing your Ferrari polo, but you've pulled a zip-up over it. Charles always thought you looked very nice in red. He isn't sure if he's supposed to close his eyes or not.

“I know you’re probably only watching this ‘cause you’re desperate, so I’ll try my best.”

He watches you talk until you instruct him in a quiet voice to close his eyes, and he’s thankful for the clarification. It’s an easier instruction to follow than to just relax, like the YouTube videos say. It’s easier to follow your instructions, period, he thinks. He’s used to it, from your input in training sessions. Straighten your back, widen your stance, do two more. It’s rote, listening to you. And your voice is melodic, comforting. He listens contently as you tell him to count down from ten, and to guess whether you’re snapping with your left or right hand. You start making that sound you’d made at Andrea during his last training session with you, a hushed shshshsh, and Charles finds himself yawning.

Maybe it’s a trust thing. Maybe he finds himself getting tired because he knows he can fall asleep without worrying about you randomly screaming on the video, or interrupting the quiet with an ad halfway through.

Maybe it’s just because it’s you.

He’s asleep before he can come to a conclusion.

—

“You’re looking refreshed this morning,” you chirp at him, when you cross paths in the paddock.

He feels a flush rise high on his cheeks. I wonder why, he thinks. Outwardly, he admits, “Yes, I slept well last night.” And then, after a moment, adds, quieter, “Thank you.”

Your smile is softer than the usual grin you level him with. Still, he can tell you’re proud of yourself. “And you didn’t think it would work. See, Charles, your performance coach always knows best.”

He finds himself feeling grateful for your capacity for talking, once again. When he woke up, he was nervous he wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation with you anymore, or wouldn’t be able to force himself into acting normal. Now, though, it still feels just as easy. “You’re not my performance coach,” he states.

It gets him an eye roll. “Right, I’m your personal ‘ASMRtist.’”

You whisper the word, which he isn’t quite sure is a real word to begin with, and it’s almost like he’s watching the video again.

He knew it was dangerous clicking play.

—

With sleep, his performance improves.

It’s nothing miraculous. The car is still the car; the team is still the team. But it feels less like he’s fighting, or like control is slipping through his fingers at every turn. He starts to enjoy it a bit more, even during the rough times. Everything had felt so much worse when he knew that he could spend the entire day wrestling with the car, and wouldn’t even be able to sleep it off when the race was over. Now, he breathes easier knowing that your video is waiting for him.

You send him another, during the two weeks off in April, and then one more after his podium in Miami. He rotates through the three of them based on how he’s feeling, or how long he thinks it’ll take. (Sometimes, he feels a bit spoiled for choice, and starts brainstorming ways to pay you back.) Though he likes them all, he does have a favorite. The one you sent after Miami. You start it by telling him congratulations and saying that you know he’ll be on the top step soon.

It would be one thing if you mentioned his podium finish off-handedly, just the once. But no. The entire video goes on like that, soft encouragement sprinkled throughout, like a reward for racing well.

Whenever he watches that one, your voice follows him into sleep, where he dreams of you encouraging him to do other things, completely unrelated to racing.

—

His problem then becomes wholly unrelated to sleep, and completely having to do with you.

It’s like he’s pavloved himself into wanting to hear your voice, or see your face. He tells Andrea that he would not mind if you sat in on more of his training sessions, just so he can argue with you about the difference between cartwheels and somersaults, electric stoves versus gas, flying commercial or private. He gets to the garage early to see you warm up the mechanics, a thinly veiled excuse to watch you doing squats. He doesn’t put his headphones in while he walks around hospitality, on the off chance that he’ll get to hear your voice.

He once wondered what the repercussions of watching your videos would be. Now, he knows.

—

Monaco is a dream that cannot be deterred by his growing obsession with you.

Charles has been finding it hard to keep his eyes dry ever since the last lap. His mechanics pull him into a hug, and he feels like he’s flying. Arthur is there, crying. Charles never thought he could do it. Jumping into the water feels like victory. It is victory.

There will be a big celebration, he is sure.

You’ll be proud of him, he is even surer.

—

He’s not thinking about sleeping until you find him outside of his drivers’ room, and take him by the shoulders. “I told you you’d do it,” you say, pulling him into a hug that’s tight like a vice-grip.

His voice is muffled by your hair when he says, through a throat still tight with tears, “I am glad I got a good rest last night.”

You laugh as you pull back from him. It is hard to see through the wetness in his eyes, but he thinks he can see a similar shine in your own. He’s not sure what to do with that. There are all these people who are so proud of him, and now you’re one of them. Now you’re holding his shoulders and crying with him. It’s nice. He feels cared for. He wants you there after every win.

“Well, I’m glad to be of service,” you say. “I’m not sure when you’ll be going to bed tonight, but call me if you need help sleeping, Charles. Among other things.”

You punctuate your sentence with a wink, and then you’re gone, leaving him with the memory of your grin at the front of his mind, like an image burned into a TV screen.

—

He is going out tonight. The whole of Monaco will be celebrating him. The team will be waiting to greet him with open arms and open bars. People will want to pour some more champagne on him, and get him drunk, and find a dance floor.

He is going out tonight, but right now, he’s sitting alone in his hotel room, thinking about what you had said.

Among other things, accompanied by a wink. A wink. That’s flirting, he thinks. No, he knows. You’re flirting with him. You had winked at him when you first offered this whole arrangement, too. Charles hadn’t known what it meant. Hadn’t really cared. Now he wonders if you were flirting with him then, too.

It’s not so much of a stretch. You spend a lot of time with him, even if he has orchestrated most of it. It never seems like a chore for you to sit in on his training sessions. You gladly correct his form and tell him that he can take more. You’re a very hands-on performance coach, unafraid to touch him in places Andrea wouldn’t. Whenever Charles is alone in hospitality, you’re always quick to find him, eager to gossip about the mechanics or to share contraband pastries he’s definitely not supposed to eat. You make him the videos that started all of this. You tell him hi and congratulations and I’m proud of you. You talk to him in a quiet voice that he hears in his dreams now.

You care enough to cry over his win. Embarrassingly, that thought is what has him dipping his hand below the waistband of his briefs. He thinks he should not. He has places to be, soon. But he’s still a bit high off the adrenaline, and it’s been so long, anyway. If he is quick, it cannot hurt. This is what he tells himself, as he lays back against the pillow, and pretends he’s not thinking about you.

He doesn’t think of your lips, or your legs, or the way you look in Ferrari red. Or the way you would look as he pulls the Ferrari red off of you, ‘til you’re bare in front of him.

He’s not sure what compels him to pull up the first video you made him; it feels like a force beyond his control. Maybe it’s the memory of your grin, and your wink. Maybe he’s just crazy. Maybe he’s still just as desperate as when this all first started. Probably all of the above, he thinks, pressing play with as much shame as one can feel with their hand on their dick.

“Hi, Charles. I know you’re probably only watching this ‘cause you’re desperate, so I’ll try my best.”

You have hardly finished the first sentence when he closes out of the video with a shudder. Too weird, he thinks. He doesn’t want to tarnish the video. Or to use it for something you didn’t make it for. But now he won’t be able to stop thinking of you, or stop hearing your voice. He feels hot all over as he stares at your contact on his phone. You did say that he should call, even with other things. You had winked! Is this what you meant?

He is a race winner in Monaco. He decides to risk it.

“Hi, Charles,” you say when you answer, just like the video. Louder this time of course, since you’re not trying to put him to sleep.

It takes a moment for him to trust his voice. It would probably be easier if he stopped touching himself, but alas. He manages to get it out eventually. “Hello. You said to call if I needed help.”

“Oh, sleeping?” You ask, after making a shocked sound in the back of your throat that—in a different context—could be interpreted as something else. He has to choke down a gasp, and somehow, you don’t notice. “Wow, early night.”

He swallows, braces himself. “Not sleeping,” he admits. “You said I could call with other things, too.” His voice comes out so quiet with shame that he's almost surprised you can hear it all. You’re silent on the other end for a moment that seems to stretch into eternity. His hand stills where he had been touching himself as he waits with bated breath, half-expecting you to hang up on him.

You don’t. “Charles,” you say. There’s an edge to your voice that he’s never heard before, something vaguely scandalized and entirely too much to handle. He strokes himself, again, unable to stop himself, and hears you inhale sharply. “Are you—”

“I’m sorry if this is not what you meant. I can hang up.”

“No, no it's fine,” you say. He can hear shuffling across the phone. Just like pressing play on your video was dangerous, this is, too. Because now his imagination is left to run wild, and he wonders if you're in bed like him, if you're taking off the Ferrari polo, if you're touching yourself. “I've gotta be honest, I don't really—er, I haven't exactly done this before,” you confess.

“That's okay.” There’s a shy, nervous energy about you that he can feel through the phone. It's not something he’s used to; you're always the one with something to say, cocksure and easy. Maybe now it's his turn to take the lead. Maybe this way he can finally pay you back for all your effort in making him the videos. “This is something you want, yes?”

“Charles, I offered.”

And he supposes that is true enough. “Right,” he says, steeling himself. This is something he can handle. It's not like he's used to it by any means; it feels strange that you're not here with him, stranger that you’re doing this in the first place. But he can't exactly stop now. The slide of his palm against his dick feels nice enough on its own, but the prospect of you, on the other end of the line listening is something else entirely.

“What are you wearing?” he asks.

He feels like a dick even before you laugh out a shocked, “Jesus Christ, Charles.”

Still, he knows there are only so many ways that this goes. “It is how you do it!” he defends “I say ‘what are you wearing’ and you say—well, you know what you say.”

“But you know what I’m wearing. Ferrari shirt. Jeans. My uniform.”

He does know. He has been picturing you in red this whole time. But it's not as if he had asked out of curiosity. He asked so that he could tell you, “Yes, it’s probably not comfortable. You should take it off.”

He hears the sound of your throat clicking as you swallow. “Oh,” you say, really nothing more than a huff of air. It feels just as close to victory as jumping into the water.

“Tell me when you’re done,” he instructs, to the sounds of more shuffling. He can picture it, in his head. You, pulling off your shirt, ridding yourself of the jeans. Laying back just like him, waiting patiently for instructions. It’s becoming difficult to think through the blood rush to his dick.

“Done,” you say, plainly. He wants nothing more than to be able to see you, touch you. He wonders if your hotel room is cold, if you have goosebumps he could chase away with his hands. The thought distracts him, until you huff, “Charles.”

“Ah, sorry,” he says. It really is hard to think, especially when you're saying his name like that, breathy and soft and naked in bed on the phone with him. His dick twitches and he has to pull his hand away for a moment before continuing. “If I were there, do you know how I would touch you?”

The sound you make is almost like he’s punched you in the stomach. “You’re such a tease, just tell me.”

It’s easy to imagine, as he tugs on his dick. He’s not too proud to say that he's thought of this before. Maybe not over the phone, but you, with him, together. “I would take my time to thank you properly. I would touch your thighs, and your stomach first. Just lightly. You should, too.” He can tell you’re listening based on the way your breaths come in harsher. “Does it feel nice?”

“Yeah,” you answer, sounding dazed. Charles understands, deeply. He cannot believe this is happening, that you’re doing this with him, touching yourself the way he instructs.

You seem content for a moment, but when he doesn't specify anything further, it's not long before you seem to want more. “I could do this on my own,” you whine, a pitch to your voice that he never wants to stop hearing. He files the sound away in the same corner of his mind that remembers what you sound like talking him to sleep. Distantly, he hears the sheets moving beneath you, and can't help but to imagine you writhing on the bed, aching for more.

“I can hang up and leave you to it,” he threatens, with absolutely no intentions to make good on it.

The sound of the sheets rustling stops. “You’re not being very nice. Some 'thank you’ this is.”

You are a bit of a brat, he thinks. He should've known, really. You always seem to have something to say. But he certainly won't complain about it now, not when the sound of your voice is enough to make him believe that you’re there, that it’s you touching him, faster now, than before.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “Proper thanks are in order, right? You can touch yourself where you want to.”

Your breath hitches, and he can practically see you, on your bed, your fingers working expertly at yourself. “Are you?” you ask, and it takes him a moment to recall the line of conversation.

When he does, he chokes out, “Yes, I—have been.”

“Chivalry is dead,” you sigh out.

He still tries to defend himself, even as the sound of skin slapping against skin becomes more and more pronounced in the emptiness of the room. “I’m being nice! You help me to sleep so now I will help you to come.” He hears you squawk a laugh, but it quickly turns into something more like a moan. “Ah, see? I am helping.”

“You’re not doing anything.”

He briefly debates the merits of walking through the hotel sweating and hard in his underwear to find you. But he thinks the team leads at Ferrari would prefer if he did not. He supposes that imagining will work just fine, for now. “If I were there, I would use my mouth,” he decides. “You could sit on my face, I would let you.”

“Oh,” you say. He pictures you with your head thrown back, chest heaving, and hid dick twitches in his hand. “Maybe you are a gentleman.”

Eh, this is not very gentlemanly, he doesn't think. If he were a gentleman, he would've taken you to dinner, or something. Not called you with his hand already down his pants. Still, he says, “Yes.” And then: “You should put your fingers inside.”

It might be his imagination, but he swears he can hear it, the slick slide, muffled by the sound you make, a choked mewl. “Good,” he says, and he thinks your answering groan may be equal parts frustrated and aroused.

He has to adjust himself against the pillows. Holding the phone makes it awkward; he considers dropping it and putting you on speaker, but he doesn't think he's quite ready to be able to hear your voice and your hands your noises projected in the room. It feels more intimate like this, just for him. And he would have to open his eyes to put you on speaker, have to stop picturing you fucking yourself with your fingers, at his request. It's not an image he plans on abandoning soon.

He hears your breaths become heavier and heavier over the phone, accompanied by sounds that slowly drive him insane, moans like a pornstar’s instead of a performance coach’s. If this is what you are like just from your own fingers, he cannot imagine how nice he could make you feel on his dick.

“I would fuck you,” he says, after a particularly nice stroke. He feels a little crazy with it. He won't last much longer, he knows. You called him a gentleman but he might finish first. At this point, there's nothing he can do about it.

The little hah you say into the receiver certainly doesn't help. “That would be—I can't say I haven't thought about it.”

“What did you think about?” he asks. He has to know now.

You make a tortured sound. He pictures you trying to hide your face, or squirm away from your own hands. His hips buck into his fist; he pretends it's you.

“I don't know. Everything, Charles,” you confess, through heavy breaths. “When you would take your shirt off in the gym, I’d think of you fucking me on the equipment. You made it very hard to take notes. Sometimes I'd think of you, like, fucking me in your car. The car.”

“There is not much room,” he says, instead of examining why that thought nearly sends him careening off the edge.

“Knowing that is above my pay grade.”

“I could fuck you on the hood, maybe,” he hums. The image is—god, he’s really not going to last. “My two favorite things.”

The sound that comes out of you is a mix of his name, and several assorted swears, and maybe something about Ferrari firing you. But your voice is shaky and you gasp like it’s over, like you just made yourself—

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. “Did you—”

“Yes,” you squeak, like you're embarrassed. He didn't know you had the capacity. “Oh my god, Charles.”

It’s his name on your tongue that has him finally spilling his load with a shout that he hopes is mostly muffled by the hotel walls. He’s pretty sure Fred is the next room over, something he hadn't wanted to think about with his hand in his dick and still doesn't want to think about now, cum drying in his boxers and you catching your breath on the other end of the line.

“Is that what you meant?” Charles asks eventually. “When you said I should call you?”

You sound almost sheepish when you answer. “Yeah, but to be honest I didn't think you’d pick up on it.”

“I thought it might have been just wishful thinking. The adrenaline made me do it.”

“Well, you were very good at it. I think you could make better asmr than me.”

He shudders at the thought. He cannot imagine doing what you do, whispering to his phone camera and pretending it's you. He's grateful for your lack of shame, because he's not sure he’d be able to do it were the roles reversed. “No, I'll leave that to you.” And then, because he’s still running mostly off of adrenaline: “Maybe we can talk more later? In person?”

He can hear the grin in your voice when you answer. “I’d be mad that you're hanging up on me, but I think you may be trying to invite me to your party?”

“You know you're already invited. But maybe you could come with me?”

“It’s a date,” you answer, which makes Charles three for three on victories for the day. Somehow, this one feels the most monumental. Maybe it's because of the cum still drying in his briefs. “I’ll wear something more fun to take off than my team kit.”

—

You wear something that's honestly rather difficult to take off, but he quickly discovers that you're good with your hands, and layer, he discovers that ASMR is not the only trick up your sleeve to tire him out.

[skiiyoomin]

yk ur sending txt horny memes post 😊😊😊 I think u should turn them into drabbles 😊😊😊 have a great day 😊

ღThe aftermath of sending them horny memes

ʚCont: SMUT CONTENT, swearing, reader has female parts (in yeonjun and soobins part!!), cunnilingus, face sitting, blowjob

⤑Back to navigation ⤑The SMAU, Part 2

a/n your mind, its beautiful, i love you. p.s im gonna divide them in 2 posts so its not too long! Part 2 with Taehyun and Hueningkai will come tomorrow!

Yeonjun

His rough hands on your hips and warm tongue intertwining with yours had you going lightheaded with pleasure. A deep groan left his lips from the way your fingers tugged his hair and shot a painful yet pleasurable shudder down his spine.

"Fuck I missed you so much" He moaned between kisses, the feeling making you sigh out in bliss.

"Me too. You were on my mind all day" A possessive surge ran through his body as he slammed his lips back to yours. "Yeah? What was on your mind?"

"How good you make me feel" You giggle, your words slightly slurred. "Though about your tongue all over me, fucking me so good" Your filthy words went straight to his growing erection, making him growl and flip you over so you were on your back.

He didn't waste a second in slipping your clothes off, the fabric feeling far too hot on your heated body. A deep guttural groan resonanted from his throat at the sight of the wet spot in your panties. His lips trailed up your inner thighs until he reached your clothed cunt. It didn´t stop him from pressing his tongue flat against the wet stain, making you yelp and squirm underneath him.

The disruptive fabric was off before you could even begin to process it and your senses were overwhelmed with the hunger Yeonjun ate you out with. His tongue was relentless on your inner lips and the tip of his nose brushing against your clit, eliciting sweet moans from you.

The squelching and slurping from his tongue sounded so filthy yet so arousing to your ears that it had you pushing his head impossibly closer to your sex.

With his tongue moving in and out of your tight hole while his fingers pressed on your hard nub, the knot that was building up in your stomach was quick to snap. Your hips jerked upwards as you rode out your orgasm on his tongue.

If you thought you were going to get a break, you were wrong. His mouth latched onto yours once more, giving you a taste of your sweet essence. "I´m not done with you" He murmured between sloppy kisses as he began to lower his sweatpants. Despite still being sensitive from your previous orgasm, arousal pooled in your cunt immediately.

Soobin

Soobin was convinced this was what even felt like. Your plush thighs were on either side of his head while he stuck his tongue out to press it between your soaking slit. Your hands were tugging his hair, causing a stinging sensation in his scalp that felt so good. And with the way you were rocking your hips, using him to stimulate your pretty cunt, he couldn´t be a happier man.

"Soobin, ooo- shit. Mmmg- doing so good"

Your praise, between those beautiful moans, made his cock twitch. And as painfully hard as he was right now, his sole focus was on you. On licking and sucking your clit like a starved man deprived from your sweetness. He felt like one with how desperately he used his tongue to pull noises out of you.

Despite the aching in jaw he was sure would be sore for a few days, or the breathlessness he felt from inhaling your scent like it´s the only thing he needed in his lungs, he didn´t stop. He couldn´t stop. Not when you were so close.

"Mmm baby oh god m´ gonna cum"

You whine, your voice raising in pitch. He could feel it, the way your plush walls squeezed his tongue as he thrusted it up into you. He could feel how your thighs trembled from the effort you were making in holding yourself straight and not literally suffocate him, not like he´d mind.

His hand that was resting on your hip slid down to press the pad of his thumb on your clit, rubbing fast circles on it. With the vibrations of his moans, he quickly tipped you over the edge. Your body shuddered and shook accompanied by your loud whiny moans.

There was silence for a moment after you moved away from his face, which was soaking wet with your slick. He smiled innocently up at you.

"Round 2?"

"Fuck yeah"

Beomgyu

Technically, he brought this upon himself. Was he going to admit it? Absolutely not. He had way too much pride for that.

Currently, he was on his computer, clicking away on the keyboard while his eyes darted around the game on the screen. But...he wasn´t doing very well because his attention was truly elsewhere.

You were crouched under the desk, your hands on his thighs while your glossy lips wrapped around his cock. How could he concentrate on the game when your head was bobbing up and down his rock hard boner? But he was never going to admit that to you. Not when you had doubted him before and he very cockily shot your doubts down. He would never hear the end of it if he admitted defeat.

He bit down a groan that was threating to spill when your tongue slid around a particularly prominent vein on the underside of his cock. He cursed himself when his hips thrusted into your mouth out of pure instinct. You must definitely know by now how wrapped he is around your finger.

With the way his breathing was picking up and his stomach was clenching, once, twice. You got him where you wanted. The bright red letters of "YOU LOST" popped up on the screen, but Beomgyu wasn´t paying any attention. He placed his hand on the back of your head and forced his cock deeper down your throat. His hips grazed your nose as he picked his speed up, groans and dirty words making you clench your thighs together.

He pulled back when he felt his cock twitch, signaling his impending orgasm. You pushed his hands away to jerk his dick off yourself and lead the spurts of cum into your awaiting open mouth.

"Shiit baby, fuck you´re so good"

You licked the remnants off his tip, swallowing everything greedily. The sight was enough to get his cock hard again. He lifted you off the ground and sat you down on his lap.

"I think you deserve a prize for taking my cock so deep down your throat huh?"

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Hi 💗 I hope you’re doing well! This is soooo random and might not be much but may I request another roommate Carmy one-shot where he fixes something around the apartment and looks really hot while doing it? So, reader gets turned on and wants to show her appreciation for his handiness, meanwhile he’s like, I’d fix anything for you. And things just get hot and heavy and maybe even kinda fluffy. I’m just on a Carmy binge rn, and I loveeeee how you write him! 🥹❤️

Hands On.

Synopsis - A broken lightbulb leads to some interesting discoveries for both you and Carmen.

Pairing - Roommate!Carmen Berzatto x Female Reader

Warnings - smut. cursing. carmen's big ego.

Age Rating - 18+

Word Count - 1.5k

Author's Note - thank you for this request!! another roommate!carmy fic <3 this takes place in the roommates universe, but it's up to you if it comes before or after the other fics - there's no timeline!! this one got a little filthy, actually. the roommate series seems to be getting dirtier and dirtier... i would apologise, but i'm not sorry.

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

Series Masterlist. Masterlist. Inbox.

You're sat reading a book on your bed when the room is suddenly plunged into darkness.

You shriek in shock, and Carmy comes running, socked feet sliding on wooden floors through the apartment.

"Honey? You okay?"

He knocks twice before swinging the door open, looking around.

"Why are you sat in the dark?"

You huff and throw your book in his direction.

"I wasn't, until one second ago. The light just went off."

"Did it blow?"

"What?"

"Did it make a noise, when it went out? Did it flicker? Pop?"

"I don't know, Carm. It just kinda... went out."

He grabs his phone from his pocket to use as a flashlight, shining it at your overhead lamp.

"Looks like the bulb has blown. I think have a spare in the kitchen cabinet. Hold on."

He departs, leaving you sat on your bed, unable to see much. There's a warmth slowly building in your stomach, and you take a breath. Why are you so flushed, all of a sudden?

"Here. Got one. You think you can hold the light for me while I replace it?"

You nod and jump out of your spot, grabbing the phone from his hand. You point it towards the ceiling, watching as Carmy reaches up to unscrew the old bulb. His white t shirt rides up his stomach as he raises his arms, exposing his taut muscles. You exhale a shudder of a breath, willing yourself to calm down.

"Honey, can you stay a little more still please? The light is shaking."

"Sorry, Carm."

He winks at you before reaching up again, screwing in the new bulb. You can't stop staring at his arms, his strong biceps flexing as he works. His hands, big and rough, completely dwarf the little lightbulb. You know how those fingers feel as they brush across your skin. Little moments - like him skimming your back as he passes you in the kitchen - are imprinted in your mind, swirling around at a million miles per hour.

You're practically panting by the time he's finished, willing yourself to calm down.

"You okay, honey?"

You don't hear him. Instead, you're watching him run his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. You want to pull it as hard as he'll let you.

A hand on your shoulder startles you back to reality.

"You okay?"

You clear your throat, taking a deep breath.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Thank you, Carm. Don't know what I'd do without you. Seriously."

He chuckles, running his fingers up and down your arm.

"It's not a problem. I'd fix anything for you."

Your eyes shoot up from the floor to meet his, ocean blue irises focused on your face.

"...Really?"

He looks taken aback by your question.

"Yeah, really. You didn't know that? I'd do anything for you, sweetheart. Genuinely, anything."

You don't think before you move. You lunge forward and connect your lips to his, fingers tangling into his hair just like you imagined.

Carmy kisses you back with more passion than you expected, hands gripping at your hips to pull you flush against his body. He slips his tongue into your mouth as you happily let him take the lead, humming in contentment.

Eventually, you pull back, gasping for air. Carmy rests his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath.

"What was that for?" he whispers.

"Just wanted to thank you."

"That was a hell of a thanks," he chuckles.

You smile, running your thumb across his cheek.

"You're so fucking hot when you fix stuff for me around the apartment."

"Wait... what?"

"Fuck, Carm. I got so turned on watching you drill that kitchen cabinet last week that I had to take a cold shower."

"That's what does it for you?"

"It's just you. You're good with your hands. It's fucking sexy."

"Yeah?"

He's smirking now, clearly enjoying having his ego inflated. You know you shouldn't, but you continue. You grab one of his hands, running your fingers over the palm.

"I imagine that my hands are yours when I touch myself."

He groans, low and rumbled.

"That's what I think about, Carm. At night, when I can't sleep. Think about the way you'd touch me, the way your hands would feel on my thighs, my tits, wrapped around my throat."

"Fuck."

"I'm surprised you haven't heard me. I try to be quiet, but I'm not very good at it."

Carmen's chest is heaving, eyes dark and watchful. You can see the thoughts forming in his head, filthy and menacing.

"Such a dirty fuckin' mouth," he drawls, running this thumb over your bottom lip carefully. "Maybe we should put it to better use, hmm?"

You whine at his tone, but you're smug on the inside. There he is, you think. The Carmen that you don't get to see very often. The version of him that's domineering, possessive, assertive. You like him like this.

"Wanna see how pretty you look on your knees for me."

You can't say no to that.

You sink down onto the carpet, looking up at him with wide eyes. He looks as if his control is wearing thin. You want it to snap.

"Now what?" you tease.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Play innocent. Not after all that shit you just said."

You smirk, running your fingertips over the tent in his sweatpants. He grabs your wrist, holding it tightly.

"Don't fuckin' tease, honey. You and I both know I'm not patient."

"Something you should definitely work on," you wink, pulling his pants and underwear down his legs.

Your mouth waters as you look at him. He's pretty all over.

"Gonna thank you properly now," you murmur, before taking him in your mouth gently.

Carmy groans, hand flying to the back of your head. He tangles his fingers into your hair, keeping you anchored in front of him. He doesn't force you anywhere, just keeps you still.

"Goddamn, you look pretty with your mouth stuffed full of me," he drawls. "This what you wanted, baby?"

Baby. That's a new one. The nickname goes straight to your core, rubbing your thighs together to ease the ache. You nod in response to him, taking him deeper.

"Fuck. So perfect. Fuckin' made for me. Only me."

You nod again, reassuring him you've heard.

"Tell me, baby. Please. Use your words."

You release him with a pop, drool running down your chin and landing on your chest. You take a deep breath, licking your lips.

"I'm yours, Carm. Always have been. I'm yours. This pussy is yours."

You swear you see his knees buckle as he smirks down at you. He looks like the cat that got the cream.

"Gonna fuck you all over the apartment, baby. Every single surface. Doesn't matter if we break something. I'm good with my hands after all."

He winks at you before guiding himself back to your mouth, sinking down to the hilt. You hollow your cheeks and suck, trying not to smile when he practically whimpers. It's a power trip, having a man like Carmy at your mercy.

"Gonna cum down your pretty throat, angel."

You pull away to murmur against his skin.

"Want you to. Please, Carm. Wanna taste you. Wanna swallow it all."

He groans, deep and visceral, as you double down on your efforts, determined to get him to his ending. You dig your nails into his thighs, scratching down the skin as his hand tightens in your hair. The edge of pain is what undoes him, muscles tensing as he spills down your throat.

You catch his eyes, ensuring you have his attention. Swallowing carefully, you stick your tongue out, showing him proof of your promise.

"Good fuckin' girl," he breathes, dropping to his knees to connect your lips, languid and filthy.

Carmy smooths the hair back from your face, placing a tender kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, the corner of your mouth. Collapsing back against the bed, he pulls you with him, wrapping you in his arms.

"You okay?" he whispers into your ear.

"More than okay. You?"

"I've never been better."

You laugh, and the sound makes him grin, white and beaming.

The two of you sit on the floor for a while, unbothered by the passing of time. You're enjoying being so close, the proximity a welcome change. Eventually, Carmy breaks through the silence.

"So, I've been meaning to mount our TV on the wall... you wanna watch?"

You elbow him in the side, heat creeping up your cheeks as you both laugh.

DIY suddenly doesn't seem all that bad.

@dins-cyarika