#i cannot stop thinking about cheek kisses and now it’s your problem

[coracaodeleao]

NSFW Alphabet — Letters N, O, P & Q | Viktor x GN!Reader

(I think this one is more tame and short, tbh. I got nervous in the O(ral) one because of the fandom’s common perception of Viktor as an Oral God, which I kinda disagree with (I think he’s more of a fingering kinda guy). But anyways, here we have: Viktor telling us "no," a bad review turning into a new scheduled evaluation, me and my analogies on how he fucks, and Viktor suffering through a quickie. Have fun, y’all!)

N - No

Viktor shakes his head at your suggestion. “Absolutely not.”

You pout, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting down the collar and cuffs you’d been teasing him with. “Whyyy, Viktor? What’s the problem with it?”

“The problem?” he echoes, clearly exasperated, running a hand through his hair. “The problem is that I don’t know how long I’d take to come home to you. What if something happens? What if someone breaks in and you don’t even hear them because of the damn blindfold?”

You raise an eyebrow. “We don’t exactly live in a warzone, baby.”

“That’s not the point,” he insists. “You’d be handcuffed. Helpless. What if you get cold? What if you panic and can’t get out? What if I get hit by a car and never make it back and you’re left tied up, waiting for a ghost?”

You blink. “Wow. That escalated.”

He rubs at his temple. “I just— I need to know you’re safe. I like control, yes, but not that kind of power. I don’t want you vulnerable when I’m not there to protect you.”

You smile softly, standing to walk over and wrap your arms around him. “So that’s a no to abandonment play?”

He nods firmly. “A very loud, very anxious no.”

You kiss his cheek. “Okay. No getting left tied up alone.”

He sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

“But we can try it while you’re home, watching me squirm from the other side of the room?”

That look returns to his eyes — hungry, focused. “That,” he murmurs, “I can work with.”

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

O - Oral 

You join Viktor in the living room. He’s sitting on the floor, working on something spread across the coffee table. You sit on the couch behind him, legs spread just enough to guide his head between them. He hasn’t looked up yet.

“Viktor,” you say, patting his hair. He hums in response, distracted. “I have some notes on your last performance.”

His hands pause. You've learned that Viktor cannot tolerate a bad review — not in his work, not in his personal projects, and definitely not in your shared activities. He slowly leans his head back against your thigh.

You can’t see his face, but the quiet sigh he gives is full of dread. “What did I do?”

You balance a notebook on his head like a hat. He doesn’t move, even when he hears the pen click. “You used your teeth on me yesterday.”

His head snaps up just slightly, the notebook wobbling. “Are you talking about me giving you head?” His voice already sounds defensive. “Really? Do I need to remind you how bratty you were yesterday?”

“This is not what this is about,” you say simply, still writing. He can feel the pressure of the pen dragging across the paper above his head. “Focus,”

“Yes, it is.” He reaches up and snatches the notebook off his head, throwing a sour look over his shoulder at you before glancing down at the page.

Only to see a giant “69” written across the middle.

He sighs — long, dramatic, and with all the weight of a man who knows he’s being played and can’t even be mad about it. You burst into laughter behind him.

“You should see your face!”

“I should stop giving you the satisfaction,” he mutters, setting the notebook aside. “But no, I won’t. Because I’m good at it.”

You cock your head. “Confident now, are we?”

“I like it,” he says, suddenly sincere. “Giving it. It’s not just the reaction — although, yes, that’s… extremely rewarding.” His voice dips a little. “But there’s something about using my mouth and having you go completely quiet under me. You never shut up, unless it’s that.”

Your smile softens, amused and flattered all at once.

“I don’t need to finish when I’m with you,” he adds. “Not if I can make you feel like that first. That’s enough for me.”

You nudge his shoulder with your knee. “You realize you’re making it very hard to keep this professional tone.”

“I assumed you were never serious in the first place.”

You grab the notebook and pen again, flipping it to a new page. “Fine. Still giving yourself five stars?”

“Four-point-eight,” he says, smug. “Pending another live demonstration.”

You lean forward, brush his hair back, and grin. “Let’s submit more evidence, then.”

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

P - Pace 

Viktor fucks the same way he sketches a project. There’s a certain reverence to it — a kind of quiet dedication that starts long before the first real touch. He observes. Studies. Picks the right pencil to start, arranges his space, adjusts his position. He’s not in a rush, not until he’s sure the foundation is set.

At first, it’s all soft pressure and experimental touches. His mind works too fast for his hands sometimes, full of intention before execution, and it takes him a while to translate what he wants into something physical. But when it clicks — when he understands the shape of your breath, the hitch in your voice, the angle that makes your toes curl — something changes.

Some days, it stays soft. Controlled. He takes his time, exploring you like you’re a blueprint he’s redrawing from memory, each line traced and perfected. Other days, he gets the idea fast — and then faster. And harder. All precision abandoned in favor of raw momentum, his rhythm crashing against you like the final stroke of genius after hours of quiet work.

Your fingers dig into his back, and he breathes against your throat, steady but hungry. “Your hips twitch just slightly when I touch here,” he says softly, pressing in again. “I think we’ve found something.”

And from there, he abandons the slow pace entirely.

He moves with such focus it borders on desperate. Every thrust, every grind of his hips, every groan from his throat — it’s all fueled by how much he feels you, how badly he wants to give you everything. His rhythm is relentless, and you match him without question, both of you spiraling toward something hot and inevitable.

Later, tangled in sweat and skin, your voice is hoarse when you whisper, “You start like a research paper... and end like a train crash.”

Viktor just smirks, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he pulls you closer. “I prefer to say… consistent in intensity.”

You hum a laugh and let him curl into you. He always goes quiet after, but you know it’s not distance — it’s contentment. His breath slows against your neck, his hand still resting over your chest, steadying both of your pulses. He’s still working, in his way. Still studying.

But with you, it’s not about perfecting the design.

It’s about savoring every part of the process.

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

Q - Quickie 

He takes his vest off and kisses you open-mouthed. “We don’t have time.”

You press your body against him, your hand slipping around his neck to pull him closer. “That’s the whole point of a quickie, silly.”

He groans when your hips roll against his. “I don’t even have time to properly take my pants off,” he mutters against your skin. “Especially with my prosthetic on.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, hunger clear in your eyes. He licks his lips at the sight of it.

“Then don’t take it off,” you whisper, grinning. “I like the look of the uniform on you anyway.”

He exhales sharply, caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re making it very hard to be responsible.”

“You love it,” you murmur, fingers already working at the front of his pants. You don’t rush — you’re just precise, getting exactly what you want.

His hands grip your waist, pulling you in. “You know I prefer taking my time.”

You nudge his nose with yours. “You’ll survive ten minutes of chaos, baby.”

“Ten?” he rasps, shuddering slightly when your hand slides lower. “You’re being optimistic.”

You bite back a laugh. “I’m being generous.”

That’s all it takes.

There’s no more arguing — only the rustle of clothes being pushed aside, your back against the wall, his breath caught in your mouth. It’s rushed, a little messy, improvised in the best kind of way. Hands gripping, hips grinding, low groans stifled by kisses that taste like promises for later.

And when it’s done, when your breathing evens out and your clothes are barely adjusted back into place, Viktor gives you that soft, dazed look. The one that says he’s already replaying every second of it in his mind.

“I still prefer when I can worship you properly,” he murmurs, tugging his vest back into place with slightly unsteady hands.

You press a kiss to his flushed cheek. “You’ll have plenty of time for that tonight.”

He hums, a little smug again. “Good. I intend to make up for every second we cut short.”

And from the way his eyes darken, you know he will.

[mythmagicetc]

after a tense moment while buck and eddie are babysitting, jee-yun sees eddie do his classic reassuring shoulder grab. she asks “are you mad at uncle buck?” (buck is like “oh god oh no eddie are you mad at uncle buck??”) but eddie says “no of course not jee, why would i be mad?” and she says “you didn’t kiss him :( mommy and daddy always kiss.” buck is clearly mortified but before he can say anything, eddie says “oh understandable, that was my mistake,” and he holds buck’s face steady with one hand while he presses a kiss to buck’s cheek

[worshipmyruin]

Van Palmer Pre-Crash Headcanons

(nsfw under the cut)

sfw

Van who doesn’t even need to ask to come over when she’s fighting with her mom, she just does. She’ll sneak through your window, which you always have open, and just lie down in next to you.

Van who confides in you in ways she’s never done before. You’re just so easy to talk to for her. It’s a blessing and a curse.

Van who crushes on you hard when she finds out you like movies in the same way as her. She’s caught off guard when you start talking about how you watched ‘Back to the Future’ so much your tape started wearing out.

Who absolutely loses it when she finds out you watch X-files! You guys talk about the smoking man and how Scully is way too good for Mulder, although you’re both just as fascinated with the slow burn of their relationship.

Van who subtly gives hints about her dyke-ness. Just sort of dropping that she ‘doesn’t see herself getting married to a man ever’. It’s not like you couldn’t tell from the way she dressed, or the way she stared.

Van who is so fucking scared to ask you to hang out, is certain she’s gonna die. She acts all non-chalant, but the tomato shade on her cheeks gives way to her true feelings. You make her nervous.

Van who asks you out on a date in the nerdiest way possible 🤭 she burns a cd for you full of songs that remind her of you, finds an ultra rare copy of your favourite movie on VHS (which she looked for for weeks!) and then invites you to the arcade 😩

Van who can’t. Stop. Looking. At. You. Seriously, it’s a problem now. She physically cannot bring herself to look away, how can she? You’re so perfect. So beautiful. So you. She steals glances while you bite your lip, trying to win whatever stuffed toy that you’re gonna waste $20 on.

Van who kisses you in your car before you drop her off, scared to shit that you don’t like her that way back and you’re actually just viewing this as being ‘best gal pals’.

Van who’s shocked when you kiss her back, smiling against her lips and muttering ‘I like you too.’ each word brushing against her mouth. She’ll be damned if she doesn’t do it again.

Van who asks you to be your girlfriend after you ramble on about one of your special interests. Who immediately turns red and tries to cover it up with “or whatever… I was just joking.”

Van who literally jumps out of her seat when you say yes. “Wait, seriously? You will? Oh my god. You’re so stupid.”

Van who always links pinkies with you under the table at Yellowjackets team-bonding dinners, needing to have some sort of touch or she’ll go insane.

Van who’s the biggest, clumsiest gentleman you’ve ever seen. Fumbling over herself to open your car door, holding her hand out in the most dramatic way ever and still managing to fall on her ass.

Just clumsy van in general ☺️

kissing all her bruises and scrapes from practice and general falling, she’s clumsy everywhere expect the field and the bedroom, and you adore her for it.

Thinking about Van doing couples costumes with reader! Something really cheesy like Han Solo (or Van solo… you get it?) and Leia or… oh she’d totally do Mulder and Scully, she’d rock a suit. She’d be Scully though. Ginger for ginger.

Always skipping class with you to hangout in her trailer (her mom’s passed out on the couch), listening to music and just trying to forget the world. Holding hands while the music fades into the background and you’re just… connected.

Van who kisses every part of you head to toe if you’re body dysmorphic/insecure/just overall upset.

nsfw

van palmer gives the messiest, sloppiest head you’ll ever receive. It’s all over-eager tongue, her lips moving at a pace unmatched to the likes of Usain Bolt. you’re a 5 course meal, and she’s starving. “slow down…” you usher her, though you’re met with a grunt and even faster movements.

she gets sooo pussydrunk and will just stay between your thighs for the whole night. She would genuinely sleep there if she could. You just smell and taste like heaven.

^^ oral fixation, definitely.

when you’re mean, she gets so turned on. Doesn’t even need to be mean to someone else, it could be her. “God, you’re such an idiot.” Ohhh I just know her clit is twitching when you insult her, she should take offense but with you looking at her like that… ugh, she could cum just from the sight.

Van is all bark, no bite. Talks a big game, says she’s gonna tease you but when you finally take off your bra… oh lord. She’s on her knees, pushing up your skirt and muttering about how good you taste.

Prides herself on the ability to make you cum so you quick! Every time you cum it’s this big ego boost for her, the next day she walks around like she’s won the lottery. In her eyes, she has.

loves loves loves your tits. you flashed her in the locker rooms once and she drooled, she actually drooled onto the floor. Will suck on them for hours, popping a tit into her mouth whenever she won’t shut up? Her dream.

Will leave hickeys all over your boobs (if given permission) because why not? No one else should be seeing them except from her, so no one should have a problem.

Grabbing your ass while you rut against her thigh, her leg pressing up against your wet cunt. The little grunts she makes when she’s trying really hard. Her head falling back in a pornographic manor. She’s soooo smitten.

Van is a pillow princess in disguise. When you wanna make her feel good, she’s a little hesitant. She doesn’t like being all… vulnerable. But when you start toying with her nipples, she’s whimpering and begging for more. “oh fuck… please, please just fuck me.”

The first time you guys have sex is like awkward fireworks. All flailing limbs and whispered sorry’s, a few head bumps too. But once you finally find that rhythm… it’s like a dam bursts inside you and you can’t help but feel this wave of love from her, knowing she’s willing to do this with you. It melts your heart.

If Van took your virginity, she’d be so so so conscious about everything. “Is this alright? Are you okay? Do you need a break? Some water?” She just needs to know you’re okay.

But when you show that you’re really, really okay. She’ll be a bit rougher, not too much to the point of pain but a gentle sort of roughness.

VAN WHO MANHANDLES YOU!!! She’ll just pick you up and push you onto the bed if you’re teasing her.

If you’re spooning and she can tell you’re horny, she’ll just stuff her fingers into your pants and play with your clit.

The night before nationals, at the party, you have some of the filthiest sex ever. Running off the high of the anticipation of going to nationals, the thought of you two having a bed to share in a room by yourself with basically no adults. It’s getting to her. And you wearing that dress is not helping.

She’d drag you away from your friends and go further into the woods, push you up against a tree and fuck you so hard you forget where you are. This is the only time you’ll see her be rough without warning to you. Maybe something in the air is making her a little wild. Wilderness calls.

thank you for reading my little headcanons!! drop any requests! Remember, these are my own personal head canons that you might not agree with <3

[uracutieraka]

Too cute to handle!

various mha men (class one a) x f!reader warnings : literally none. pure fluff. synopsis; mha men vs the girl that's just too damn cute! he wants to eat you up and hug until you pop! what is this confusing feeling whenever he sees you?

Denki Kaminari can't help but watch you from across the classroom, chatting happily with Uraka and Mina. He can hear your saccharine laughter from where he sits.

He groans and puts his face flat down on his desk in frustration.

"What the hell is your problem?" Bakugo sneers.

Denki turns so the side of his face is smooshed on the cold wood, allowing him to look at the hothead.

"Y/n."

Bakugo just rolls his eyes and goes back to what he was doing before. Mumbling about how he couldn't care less about Denki's girl problems.

Mineta and Sero now tower over his desk. Denki just grunts and turn's his head to look out of the window, unable to handle their idiocracy right now.

"Leave me alone!" He says when he feels a poke on his shoulder after a moment, turning his head to glare at whoever was disturbing him in his daily 'wallow in self pity' time.

"Oh!," You say and quickly pull your hand away from the boy. "Sorry Kaminari! I was just coming over to see if you were okay? I can leave you alone if you wa-"

"No!" He's now standing, an apologetic look on his face.

You jump slightly at his eagerness.

"Sorry," He says nervously at you. "Thought you were Mineta or something."

A soft giggle blesses his ears and he thinks he's going to pass out.

He can't help himself when he reaches up to pinch your cheeks.

You struggle to get out of his grip with small giggles and 'stop it!'s.

"You're so cute I just wanna squish you!"

You finally break free of his grip.

"You're such a weirdo Kaminari!" That perfect smile is on your face and pink has now stained your cheeks at the affection from him.

He feels himself getting more and more lightheaded by the moment, if you keep it up he'll definitely pass out right here and right now.

Ejiro Kirishima literally cannot fathom how absolutely adorable you are! The way you dote on him and always know exactly what to say has him practically fighting the urge to drop to the floor and kiss the ground you walk on.

He literally wants to pick you up and crush you sometimes. This jumble of confusing feelings has him stomping into Jirou's dorm and flopping on her bed with a loud whine.

"Well hello to you too Kirishima." She chuckles spinning around in her chair at her desk.

"Hey." His voice is mumbled by the fabric of her comforter.

"What's his problem?" Mina says pointing to the giant man sprawled face down on her friends bed when she walks out of the small restroom.

Jirou shrugs as Mina now sits on the bean bag in the corner.

Kirishima only looks up and the girls when he feels Jirou's aux cord poke at him a few times.

"Why are you here?" Mina says, her voice had attitude in it and it causes the boy to roll his eyes and stick his tongue out before sighing and rolling over flat on his back.

He lets his head drop to the side to look at his friends.

"I'm feeling something that I don't understand."

He watches as Jirou quirks an eyebrow up and quickly glances to Mina, who promptly responds to him.

"If you're gonna be talking about being horny for my homegirl y/n you need to leave!"

Kirishima's face contorts into one akin to being horrified.

" What! No way! It's something else." he sighs and looks back up the ceiling. "It's like every time she's around I just wanna, you know.." He sits up and squeezes his arms close to his chest making dramatic grunts.

When he stops he looks back up and sees the two girls looking at him dumbfounded. He allows himself to fall back flat on the bed again, defeated.

"Elaborate." Jirou now demands.

"Like whenever she's just being herself, you know, all cute and such? Well, I just want to pick her up and squeeze her until she pops! Obviously I'd never hurt her or anything! Ugh!" His hands now cover his whole face as he groans in frustration.

"That's normal." He gives wide, hopeful eyes to the pink girl.

"Really?"

"Yes Kirishima. It just means you think she's cute."

He jumps out of the bed and is quick to thank the girls with a smile before rushing out. Presumably to go find you.

Izuku Midoriya has his nose shoved deep into his notebook, scribbling and mumbling away. Only when you come up to him and lean over his shoulder to see what he's doing does he stop.

"Hey 'zuku." You say with a soft smile.

You bask in the delectable feeling of watching him turn red and flustered with just two words. You stand up straight and wiggle your hand in front of his face.

"Come with me really quick, yeah?" Your voice is so sweet he feels his brain melting like an ice cream cone.

He's quick to take your hand and follow you to wherever you were taking him to.

He watches as you wave and greet the people in the hallways as you pass them. Eyes closing and a wide smile plastering across your face.

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears from just how sweet you were.

'This is probably a heart attack.' He thinks, but he's doesn't care.

Finally you reach a vending machine tucked in a deep dark corner hallway of the massive school. It's dusty and the lights in this hallway are dim. It's honestly very creepy, but when you turn to him and tell him to look inside the machine he feels all worry wash away.

He turns with wide eyes back at you with an excited 'No way!'

You jump up and squeal at his excitement.

"Yes way!," You clap once before turning to look through the glass at the contents of the machine then back at Midoriya. "Discontinued All Might sports drinks! And look! There's Night eye ones too!"

Midoriya doesn't know what over comes him but one second he's standing a foot away from you then the next he's enveloping you in a hug.

You hug him back, but soon begin struggling to escape his tight grip.

"Zuku," you take a deep breath in. "can't breath. You're crushin' me!" You let an airy laugh fly past your lips at his show of affection.

He puts you down and apologizes.

"Sorry, you're just so cute I couldn't help it!"

Bakugo Katsuki has a serious issue with biting you. Like this is seriously getting out of control! Even your guy's friends have started noticing his bad habit.

You were helping Iida and Tsu cook dinner for everyone in the communal kitchen, chopping away at some veggies while your music blasted over your bluetooth speaker.

Iida fought against the idea of blaring your music but Tsu and you begged him to let you, since everyone else was off in their dorms waiting for dinner to be done. He gave in reluctantly but you and Tsu didn't fail to miss the way he bobbed his head to the beat of your music.

Dinner was getting closer to finishing and more and more of your classmates had flooded into the common area, hungry and chatting away loudly with each other.

Your class wasn't unfamiliar with Bakugo and yours relationship. He had make then nauseatingly aware of it.

So when he wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on his shoulders the rest of the students ignored the display of affection. Minus one, Denki. He watched with narrowed eyes as he nudged Sero and pointed to you two.

"Watch, in 3, 2, anddddd," The two watch as Bakugo lifts his head and quickly locks his teeth onto your shoulder. You shriek and throw your shoulder back into his face, effectively pushing him off of you. "One." The two boys laugh as they watch you two from across the room, now you two are fighting and you have him in a headlock. Bakugo knows he could easily get out of it but he just laughs and lets you think you won, just glad that you put up with him.

Tenya Iida was a victim of you. Though it wasn't anything serious, the way you made him buzz with adrenaline was unfamiliar to him. It seemed like everyday something new would happen with you two. One day you're testing the waters but placing a soft hand on his shoulder, the next you're throwing yourself fully into his arms, complimenting how strong he is.

Something else that was unfamiliar to him, was the way you were so cute he just wanted to eat you up. His sweet, sweet girlfriend.

He was groaning in frustration and tugging his fingers through his hair, confused as to why every time you were around he felt so aggressive.

"What's the haps, class rep?" A voice behind him makes him jump slightly, turning around he sees his friends.

"Ah! Kaminari! I have a question."

"Okay, shoot." He points finger guns at the blue haired boy in front of him. Watching as his eyebrows furrow together.

"Okay, I'm confused about some feelings that I have about Y/n."

Sero now chimes in.

"You can not break up with her! She's the whole package man! Plus for some reason she likes you, even though you're super weird."

Tenya stares blankly and waits for the black haired boy to answer, lips pulled tightly together.

"Ignoring that you basically just called my girlfriend attractive, which she is, that is not the reason for my confusing feelings, Sero."

Hanata shrinks in on himself a bit in embarrassment, mumbling about what the issues really was.

"Every time she's around, I feel some sort of aggression, and I would never hurt her! Ever! But I just want to, uhm, for lack of better terms, eat her up!" Heat crawls up his neck at the admission.

Kaminari covers his face, stifling his laugh.

"Iida, dude, that's normal! It's called cuteness aggression."

"Cuteness aggression?"

"Yes man! It's just when you think somethings super cute and you want to hurt it, I don't know the specifics."

Sero nods along, agreeing with what the blond says.

"So, I'm not crazy and abnormal?"

"No, you are, but this feeling is normal."

Iida sighed in relief, happy to know he wasn't completely insane.

"Iida!" A sweet voice fills his ears and he turns around to see you waving at him from across the common area, brownie batter and flour all over you. He can feel his face soften as a smile crosses his lips.

"Ugh, gross, love." Kaminari now leans over the arm of the sofa, falling backwards to lay down.

Iida goes to say something to him but you motion for him to come over.

"Come try this batter baby!" And with that he feels his legs moving towards you before his mind can catch up.

Hanata Sero can't control himself when you're around. It's like he's a feral dog, and you're a dog toy. Every time you bat your lashes up at him or say his name he has you caged in his arms so tightly you can feel your ribs being crushed, swinging you back and forth while you wiggle around in a weak attempt to escape his hold.

"Tape arms! Put Y/n down!" Bakugo's voice booms from across the training course.

You push off of him, gasping for air as he pouts.

"You're just so cute! I can't help myself!"

You look at your boyfriend, hands on your hips and a scowl on your face.

"You know I love you, but you can't just squeeze me half to death in the middle of training! Let alone while were doing rescue training! And while I'm in the middle of rescuing someone!"

He pouts more and tries to reason with you.

"But it's just Bakugo," he frowns. "He doesn't deserve a pretty girl saving him!"

You roll your eyes and go back to tending to Bakugo's fake wounds.

"Hey! Creepy elbows! I do too deserve that! I'm awesome!"

You now scoff at the blond and tightly pull the bandage.

"Ouch!"

You flick his forehead and tell him to go to the safe zone. He listens and grumbles while walking away. You stand up and turn back around to your boyfriend.

"You have issues, Hanata."

He now has giant puppy dog eyes as he turns to follow you while you walk away.

"You just looked so cute helping people!"

"Whatever, leave me alone you freak!" You shout, now running away from him.

"I am not a freak!"

"You so are!" Mina chides.

He continues pouting as he mopes away to go help one of the 'victims'.

[johnwickb1tsch]

the reason I asked...

(in reference to this poll X) is because I was having a little half-asleep brain rot about bittersweet AUs, like, what if...

reader managed to actually escape John, maybe after Dante attacked the house the first time? you waited for the paramedics to arrive to stabilize him, and then in all the chaos of the 911 response you slip out and steal the RangeRover. ( @sweetwolfcupcake has brilliantly pointed out that Reader would want to escape if for example, John betrayed her trust and followed thru on that spanking 😱😱 Like this version of John is more clinically unhinged)

you drive alllll the way across the country, as far as you can get from New York. surely you can disappear in a huge city like L.A.?

when you try to sell the Rover to a chop shop for cash it backfires on you. you find yourself a captive again. thinking you're a rich kid runaway, they plan to ransom you, but you won't tell them who you are.

lucky you, these bad dudes have been on Tom Ludlow's radar. he raids the shop and kills them alllllllllll. off the books of course. then he's left with the problem of what the hell to do with you?

you wake up at his house, in his bed. at first you're scared of course, but he talks you down, shows you his badge, and explains the tricky situation you're in. he framed the massacre as gang on gang violence. are you going to rat him out?

of course you're not, you're not stupid. you raise him one better when you tell him the situation you just escaped. no, beFORE the gangsters. yes, you really were being held captive [in luxury] by a retired Underworld hitman. no, you don't know if he survived, but if he did you know he'll be looking for you eventually.

Tom does you a solid and offers to get you a new identity. a fresh start. you're floored by his generosity. why would he do that for you? he says he's just trying to do some good in this world that's mostly bad. it's a losing war, but sometimes he wins a small battle, and it keeps him in the fight.

you're so grateful that while you wait for his guy to come through with your new papers, you clean up his messy bachelor pad of a house. you find old photos and lots of empty liquor bottles, and you reason he's either divorced, or a widower.

when he comes home to a clean house and the smell of real food cooking in the kitchen you kind of knock this unflappable man off his feet. he is touched by the gesture, and stunned by how much he likes it, and how much he missed it. maybe towards the end, his wife gave up on trying to have dinner on the table for him because he was never home when he said he would be.

you don't know it, but you've ignited a little fire in Tom, awakening something he thought was long dead. he doesn't act on it. he feels like a piece of shit for even thinking about it. you’re a good kid, and you've been through so much. but a part of him understands why a man who is damned to the darkness would covet a piece of your warmth and your light for himself.

he tells you that you can stay as long as you want. but you feel bad, invading his space. you need a job. a place of your own. to get out of his hair. so he helps you with that too. you find a job at a cute little coffee house in Santa Monica. hey, its what you know. you sublet a room from someone Tom seems to trust. when you move out you kiss Tom on the cheek in thank you. you have no idea how much it kills him to let you go.

you feel like you have a new lease on life. you like your job. you like the warm weather in L.A., and being so close to the beach. Tom still comes in to check on you now and then. This is where you meet a handsome young S.W.A.T. officer named Jack Traven. He comes in sometimes for a flat white and a bran muffin. his smile could stop a woman’s heart at twenty paces. maybe you do flirt with him a little, but you keep it light. then…he starts coming in every morning.

Tom sees the two of you bantering and batting eyes one morning. you cannot know the way it feels like getting shanked between the ribs for him. of course he rolls his eyes with a smirk, putting up his usual front. “Don’t believe a word this guy says, sweetheart, he’s just a meathead from SWAT.” but deep down, Tom realizes he is jealous.

maybe you run into Jack at the bar down the street one night when you're feeling especially lonely. he’s celebrating a successful hostage release. no one died, not even the perp. he invites you to hang out with his friends and fellow officers. you lean on Jack’s [ridiculously muscled] arm, listening to the stories they tell with that devil-may-care bluster cops need to keep going to such a dangerous job day after day. it squeezes your heart, that he risks his life for people he doesn’t even know, because he truly cares. even if deep down you know its a bad idea, you end up going home with him that night. 

Jack continues to come see you at the coffee house. he tries to ask you out on a proper date. you can tell he wants you to be his girlfriend, he wants to treat you right. maybe Tom calls him a meathead, but there is not a cell of fuckboy in this man, bless him. he told you about how he just wants the simple things in life. a good woman. healthy kids. a little postage stamp of grass to mow. for a crazy three seconds you allow yourself to think about it. what would it be like, to be the one he comes home to? gentle kisses in the morning. date night trips to dinner and the movies. a little house. a dog. a picket fence. you could take your babies to the beach, and maybe nothing bad would ever happen… you know it’s not possible for you, and the unfairness of it churns as sharply in your belly as if you swallowed a bag full of glass. he's so sweet, so good, but there is a curse on you, and you're afraid something bad might happen to Jack if he gets involved with you.

what would John Wick do, if he found you living happily with another man? he’s still out there, somewhere. Tom checked for death certificates in New York [and how stupid are you, that a part of you is glad he's not dead?]. your only hope is to keep flying under the radar, living like a ghost. it kills you inside to tell him, “I wish I could. But there are things you don't know about me.”

he's not as surprised by this as you thought he might be. “I'm a cop, y/n. I kind of have a sense for when people are in trouble. you can talk to me.” what he doesn’t say is he has a sense for when people are hiding things. this boy has an incurable case of the White Knight Syndrome, and you can tell he's not going to give up easily. 

you really do try to keep him at arm’s length, but it’s humanly impossible to resist the impulse to flirt with that man. of course, Tom would come in on the day Jack saves you from falling backwards off a ladder–with a hand on your ass. they don’t even exchange words, but somehow the tension in the room between these two men is electric.  

a week or so later you're returning home at night when you find Tom Ludlow leaning on the wall outside your apartment. you can tell just by the way he's standing that he's a little drunk. “out late with Meathead?” he grumbles, his disheveled hair in his dark eyes. 

you stop a little ways from him. you can tell he's in a mood, but maybe underneath that, this man is a little fragile. you have a feeling you might be the only one who gets to see it. “What’s wrong, Tom?” he sighs, shuffles to you, rests his forehead against yours, and you let him. this man saved you when you had no one. this is the least you can do for him–and you have a soft spot for this cranky cop who bends the law to do the right thing.

but maybe you are a little surprised, when he draws back to look at you, those soulful puppy dog eyes fixing on your mouth a moment before he presses his lips to yours. you have to say you definitely don’t hate it, and you're breathless when he pulls away. “shit. y/n…i’m sorry.” “that’s ok.” you reach up to touch his cheek, and he leans into your hand like a needy puppy that doesn’t realize how big he is. you could taste the vodka on his tongue. you’d found the bottles before, of course, but in that short time you’d lived with him he didn’t really drink much. you wonder if he’s slipped backwards again. “where’s your car? I’m going to drive you home.” he grumbles something into the bend of your neck, but in the end he hands over his keys. 

driving in L.A. is a lot easier in a muscle car with a lightbar on the roof. people just magically get out of your way. you bundle Tom back into his home with an arm around his waist. as soon as you get through the front door you see his house is in disarray again, since you haven't been here. some men really do revert back to savages, without a woman to keep them accountable. struggling under his weight, you somehow manage to stumble/drag him to his bed, laying him down in the sheets that obviously haven’t been washed since the last time you laundered them. “I missed you, so much,” he groans, half passed out, as you unlace his boots. 

“Tom…” it truly breaks your heart, to see him living like this. the impulse to try to save him is as strong as it is misguided. but sometimes…people just need a little help, and that’s ok. He doesn’t ask you to, but you lay down in the bed beside him and wrap your arms around his solid trunk of a torso, moulding your body against his. you know there is something healing in just snuggling with another human being–and you’re lonely too.   “Are you sleeping with Meathead?” he slurs, on the edge of sleep.  “Why do you call him that?” you counter, trying to keep things light, and not answer direct questions about Jack. “You’re just as built as he is.” you squeeze his bicep appreciatively, winning a sound that suddenly reminds you of a lion in his den. he turns to you, a dark light in those brown eyes that makes your heart stop in your chest.  “Yeah?”  you have to try twice before you find your voice. “Yeah.” this time, maybe it’s you that cranes your neck for a kiss that curls your toes, and he can’t stop himself from rolling onto you with a moan, his solid weight pressing you down deliciously into the the bed. but then he makes himself stop again, resting his forehead against yours with a sigh. “You don’t owe me anything, babygirl.”  “I do,” you counter, “but that’s not what this is about.”  “What’s it about, then?”  “Well. I kind of like you.”  he snorts, that glitter in his eyes that drives you a little crazy inside. is it stupid, that you feel like he isn’t in as much danger as Jack? is he more lethal, or do you callously just feel deep down that he doesn’t have his whole life ahead of him, the way your pretty SWAT hunk does? you’re not really sure, but when Tom’s big hand dips into your jeans you’re not strong enough to say no. 

you’re there at the coffee house, the day the bus blows up on the street outside. The news crews swarm, interviewing anyone they can for a sound byte. you try to stay off the cameras, but it’s too late. there are too many before you’re allowed to go home, and you end up on the national news. 

hardly a week goes by, before you are at work again, some of the windows boarded up, still broken from the blast. you’ve got your back turned, putting the lid on a café mocha, double checking that it's tight when you sense someone is at the counter. “I’ll be right there,” you call over your shoulder. 

a quiet voice from your past sends a chill to the bottom of your soul. “I think I’m in the mood for something sweet.”  you jump, spilling the scalding hot mocha all over the counter. slowly you turn to find him, the way you’ve always feared you would, handsome as the devil himself in an all black suit. he doesn’t seem angry, but there is a glint of sharp steel in his black eyes that warns you not to try anything cute.  “John,” you whisper, your voice utterly failing you in the face of your doom. With panic in your eyes you look around at all the people in the shop. All the witnesses. “Please…don’t.”  “Come quietly, and I won’t.”  he sounds so reasonable. you know it’s just a facade. 

you’re so filled with fear that you feel like you’re in a daze, like you’re not really in control of your own body, as you nod, wipe your hands, and make your way around the counter to him. he doesn’t grab you. he doesn’t even have to touch you. he just nods at the door, and you follow him out into the bright California sunlight. you know immediately which car is his, the midnight-black ‘69 Mustang parked in the alley on the side of the building. 

you’re ten paces from the muscle car when you hear another voice you know all too well behind you. “Freeze, motherfucker! Hands where I can see them!” 

No no no no please don’t not for me please God not for me...

the two of you turn slowly and your heart falls to see not only Tom Ludlow with his service pistol drawn, but Jack Traven as well... 

[holylulusworld]

Two Souls - A Christmas snippet

Summary: Bucky Barnes and the winter soldier are your mate. Life with them is easy cause none of them would ever let anyone hurt you.

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader; Alpha!Winter Soldier (Barnie/Winter) x Omega!Reader

Warnings: a/b/o, a/b/o dynamics, fluff, true mates, protective Bucky/Winter Soldier, pregnant omega

A/N: Before part 3 finally drops, we are getting a little Christmas snippet.

Catch up here: Two Souls (2) - One Love

Bucky watches you with worry. Like Barnie, he is constantly concerned about you. Not only because you’re carrying their babies.

“She’s in the kitchen for too long. We should stop her from stressing over baking cookies.”

Barnie nods thoughtfully. He knows how much baking cookies means to you. You love Christmas, and expecting two babies with the alphas you love, made you even more nostalgic.

You want to indulge in all the traditions you loved as a child: baking cookies, decorating the house, listening to the most awful Christmas songs, and cooking for your family.

“We will help her,” Barnie finally says. He was watching you with fascination. It will be the first Christmas he can celebrate as his own person, not hidden in the back of Bucky’s mind. “I want to make cookies.”

He walks into the kitchen to look at the dough you rolled out.

“What’s this?” Barnie points at the snowman cookie cutter. “It looks like a—” He frowns while trying to find the right word. He still has problems finding the right words sometimes. It will take more time to learn all the things he missed out on while being trapped in Bucky’s mind.

“Snowman, alpha,” you softly say and grab his hand to place the cookie cutter in the palm of his hand. “See, this will turn the cookies into a cute snowman.”

“Snowman,” he repeats the word, smiling. “I like snowmen…I think. They are made of snow and only live in winter. I was Winter too…”

“Yeah,” you chuckle as Barnie looks at you like a puppy. “You were Winter too, Barnie. You still are.”

He grins now. “Winter is here to stay.”

“Alright kids,” Bucky walks into the kitchen, feeling left out. He stands to your left, while Barnie stands to your right, still looking at all the cookie cutters. “What are we making? Did you sit enough today and have a rest?”

“I sat the whole morning, Bucky,” you giggle, and throw some flour at him. “I’m fine, really. No pain, no exhaustion. I know my body. The babies sleep right now, and I want to finish the cookies.”

“We will help,” he says and grabs one of the cutters. Your alpha chuckles because the cutter looks like a tiny version of his metal arm. “Uh—is that my metal arm?” Bucky furrows his brows and looks at you.

“Yeah.” You shrug. “It’s a custom-made cookie cutter. Tony made them all for me.”

“A snowflake,” Barnie sounds like an excited child while holding the cutter in his hand. It looks like a wonder to him, and he feels his heart flutter. “That’s me, right?” He looks at you. “I’m Winter, and that’s a winter cookie cutter.”

“Yeah,” you reply, smiling. “I know you have a new name now, but the snowflake reminded me of you and the time we spent together when you were still Winter, Barnie.”

“I like it,” he presses the snowflake to his chest, smiling at Bucky. “I got my own cookie cutter.”

“Me too, punk,” Bucky laughs. “How about we cut those cookies with our cookie cutters? I bet I can cut more cookies than you in a minute.”

Barnie purses his lips and says, “I can cut more.”

You sigh deeply. “Alphas, no competition again! We want to enjoy baking cookies.” You give both alphas a stern look.

Both kiss one cheek to calm you. Giggling, you watch them choose their favorite cutter. Barnie goes for the snowflakes while Bucky chooses the tiny version of his metal arm.

“No competition, Barnie. Let’s bake cookies with our omega. Later, we can rub her feet and feed her with the cookies.”

Barnie nods eagerly. He cannot wait to rub your belly and feel the babies kick him.

“Winter will talk to the babies again. They need to know we are here to protect them.”

Tags in reblog.

[angeliteria]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒.

pairings — fem!reader and rafe cameron.

summary — after rafe takes your life, he tries to move on, and simply pretends he’s the one who didn’t do so. eventually, hauntings and truths will lay themselves out to remind rafe just how sickening he is.

warning tags — adult language. details of gruesome m*rder & m*rder itself. mentions of DV relationship, (brief) child ab*se & awful parents. talks of religion and god. reader’s pov from heaven (?? just stick w the program). rafe actually going more insane than usual. overall dark content.

author’s note — this is based on and inspired by ethel cain’s song ‘strangers’ and while this song has multiple interpretations to go by, i’m taking mine by the main and common one (just without the c*nnibalism!). this also gets super dark and depressing so if you cannot bear any of it, please click off! this also isn’t revised at all so my apologies for grammar mistakes.

likes, shares & reblogs are very much appreciated ⋆୨୧ ₊ﾟ

you had tears in your eyes, body shaking to point you thought you’d convulse. you tried to be obedient by keeping in rafe’s secret of what he had done on that tarmac. he beat you to make sure you kept your mouth shut for good.

he said, “i’ll kill you if you say one word,” and it took enough fear to believe him, but you didn’t think that day would come.

murder is an evil thing, and everyone can attest to it. rafe murdered sheriff peterkin as if she was nothing, as if she was a problem in the way. bad enough, he let john b. routledge — one of your best friends — take the fall for it.

you continued to keep your mouth shut, but after rafe tried to invade the police, ward killing himself, you didn’t see a reason to keep quiet. ward was the only reason why rafe could stay out of prison, and now that he wasn’t around, you could speak.

your father preached every sunday to live by righteousness and good, to never let evil win.

rafe was that evil. he was the devil himself.

the devil that you danced with, let make love to you, kiss you, but also beat you until stars twinkled in your vision, and your breath kept getting caught in your throat.

your mother would be horrified to know that, your father too. but it was their fault in a way that you accepted this cruelty as love; your father, especially to blame.

if love is not meant to be hit at you, does it even exist? your father showed you that when he’d slap or punch you for falling out of line, but go to church the next day, and preach about being a good servant to god.

you wanted all evil out of your life. it was suffocating, it was drowning you.

rafe had to be eliminated first.

“you killed peterkin, and i’m tired of knowing it,” you said, picking up your car keys. “we are done, and i won’t even show up to your trial when you go down for it.”

rafe just stared at you appalled and puzzled, sitting on the edge of his bed. you were close to being far out enough to your car until strong, violent hand seized you.

you screamed and kicked, not being new to this routine, only knowing that he was going to harm you.

you could never predict that his violence would lead him to murdering you.

“let me go, rafe!” you screamed, being pulled inside, your pleas and cries echoing in the empty home.

expecting to be physically berated, you were being led downwards.

to the wine cellar basement.

and for once in a while, you prayed to god, and hoped he would finally listen to you this time. that he would save his child, and perform a miracle.

but a miracle never came as rafe manhandled you, pinning you down on the cement ground of the basement.

“shut the fuck up! stop crying!” he yelled, a solid punch coming to your cheek, and you yelped, an easy gush of blood rushing out of your mouth. “you’re a fuckin’ backstabber. after everything i’ve done for you, gonna treat me like that?”

you cried, shaking your head. “r—rafe, please! i’ll be good, i’ll stop!”

“don’t trust you, little one. can’t let you ruin everything,” rafe said, reaching for something out of his back pocket.

the more you fought back, the more angry he got; the more you fueled the fire that rested in his hands and body.

before you could let out another plead, a sharp pain was made into your abdomen.

rafe stabbed you — and he wasn’t planning on stopping there.

god wasn’t there. you would show up to his gates in this condition, and ask him why he let it happen. if god is real, why did he bear witness instead of saving you?

rafe doesn’t recall killing you.

he remembers grabbing, and dragging you down into wine cellar basement, but couldn’t be able to tell anyone what happened after that. all he knows your blood was quite literally on his hand, knife shaking in his grip.

your babydoll white dress was now stained with violence and scarlet red blood.

the sight should’ve made him sick, but it didn’t. he just stared at you, breathing heavy, and it didn’t strike him until a while later that he had killed you.

rafe cameron had killed the love of his life.

he only panicked when it came to how to dispose your body, take off any evidence that could trace back to him. he was more than willing to dump your body in the woods, let any gators eat at you for supper.

he tossed your body only hours later in the depths of the woods, and it didn’t take long until you were reported missing.

of course, he was questioned first. it was easy for him to play the concerned boyfriend, crying because he also hadn’t heard from you, saying he had been texting and calling you for hours.

your parents sobbed on the news and asking anyone to come forward with any information, that they’ll give up however much money for their child to come home.

rafe just stared numbly at the television screen, a cup of scotch in his hand.

your best friends, the pogues, sobbed for days, and even started a search party for you. rafe made sure to dig you levels down in those woods when the ground was wet enough to dig up, and cover you up.

sarah cameron had a feeling her brother had something to do with your ‘disappearance’ but it was only just a gut intuition, she couldn’t prove it. she always questioned why you got with her brother, always emphasizing how horrible and violent he was, but you would tell her, “you don’t know him like i do; you don’t know how much he loves me, and takes care of me.”

kiara knew how bad rafe was — for god sake, she momentarily went to the academy around the same time he was a senior. she knew he wasn’t destined to be a boyfriend, let alone even in a fucking relationship.

the boys of the group were beyond furious, the three wanting to round up and take ahold of rafe, beat some information out of him. but they knew you wouldn’t want that, and that rafe would easily get the police to arrest them.

however, months passed, and you slowly became a memory to not only the town, but to rafe himself. he went on with his days like nothing occurred, that he didn’t violently take the life of his girlfriend.

you weren’t on his mind anymore, and he didn’t have to worry about you anymore.

or so he thought.

karma and revenge go hand in hand together; they mingle and burst out, they make sure they arrive at the doorstep of the people who deserve it.

rafe always thought getting rid of you would avoid his downfall, but the murder of you was just the beginning of it all.

he slept peacefully like he had done for a while now, with him about to drown into a deep sleep. he rested with his hands laid atop of his stomach, comfortable and at solitude, a female whisper woke him up.

he peeked around, but saw no one. he assumed he was just sleep deprived and imagining things, his eyes closing again for sleep.

“do you feel sick yet?” the voice that sounded like yours came through, more clearer and visible. he shot up, and turned on his bedside lamp.

nothing. no one. not you.

why would he have to feel sick? you were gone, you were no longer a problem.

rafe shook it off, and was able to go back to sleep.

you were angry in the afterlife. you stared at rafe from heaven, trembling with rage and regret. a man you once loved, had acted as if you never existed. you adored him, and he disposed you like garbage.

you just wanted to be his, wanted him to tell you that you were his only; that he loved you as much as you did to him, that he would change and better himself for you.

that the violence would dissipate, and his rough hands would be nurtured with love and softness.

but no. that never came, and never would.

you were taunted by your murder, burning with the need to remind rafe of how sick he was.

your violent lover let you bleed before him, and without tending to your wounds or simply sitting with immediate regret, he soaked in his actions and dismissed it.

why couldn’t he be gentle? was him painting you blue and purple not enough? did he have to go as far as killing his lover to satisfy the disdain and vexation he held for you?

was that enough? was that enough to make you enough?

rafe’s nights slowly turned interrupted and sleepless. your voice was always there, and time to time, he thought he saw you standing in his bedroom, drenched in blood and with tears streaming down your face as you kept asking him, “do you feel sick yet?”

sick. not regretful. fucking sick.

sleep deprivation was catching up to him, making him more mean and angry than usual, more out of control.

the coke wasn’t even helping either, only making everything worse.

he was at barry’s trailer, snorting endless lines of the white powder, trying to shake off the sight of you from last night.

“country club, you good?” barry asked, and rafe didn’t respond. “you don’t seem well, bro.”

“just need this shit, okay?” rafe mumbled, separating another drop of cocaine. “just… just want to sleep, need it.”

barry didn’t want to push him with more questions, minding his own business as the blond haired boy snorted up excessive amounts of lines.

rafe ended falling asleep on his couch, barry mindlessly scrolling on his own phone as he laid down on his bed.

the cold air from the air conditioner ran around in the basement, making it more freezing and chilling than usual.

rafe could smell strawberry perfume, indicating you were around. he looked around, and saw nothing of you.

“where are you!” he screamed. “you can’t scare me, you bitch!”

“i’m not here to scare you,” you talked, rafe spinning around to find you perched in the corner of the basement. you careened closer, the dim light emphasizing on your mangled body.

rafe stared at your stomach, where immense stab wounds laid on it. he swallowed thickly, his breath shaking and jagged.

“do you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe looked up at you. he couldn’t move in this dream, he was paralyzed and a witness to your lacerated body.

nausea and despair washed over rafe, almost consuming him entirely.

you were finally face to face with him, your hair disheveled and bunched, face stained with tears and runny makeup, all for him to look at.

rafe could feel your physical touch, your soft hand grabbing his, and made his palm touch your abdomen. he almost fucking threw up.

you could see it, you could see he was wanting to vomit everywhere. “am i making you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe shivered, forcing his hand to put more pressure on your stomach, blood rushing out onto it. “am i making you feel sick?”

rafe screamed and lurched up, his eyes opening and alarming barry. “woah, what the fuck, rafe!” barry shouted, and rafe breathed rapidly, his heart thumping against his chest, a need to vomit.

rafe brought his face into his hands, trying to shake everything out of his hand.

your face, your touch, your blood — he felt it all. he was being reminded of you, when he didn’t want to.

barry kept asking him what was wrong, why he was crying, if he was okay, but all rafe could focus on was your voice asking, “am i making you feel sick?”

he was no longer immune to his destruction. he was becoming infected by it. you were a disease that he couldn’t treat, a parasite that ate at his brain.

he would never get rid of you — and you would make sure that he never did.

it was month seven without you, and you became a faded name to the outer banks. the only people who lived on to tell your name was your parents, and your best friends. the pogues carved your name into the chateau’s tree, a ceremonial bench placed at the high school.

your body or you weren’t ever discovered, but the police had listed you as deceased. you weren’t a runaway, you were eighteen, and had nothing to runaway for. when you couldn’t be traced anywhere on the grid, the police pronounced you dead, and that was that.

pictures of you and any sort of evidence remained in a cardboard box somewhere in the police station. you were left to rot in every way.

you were tired of being forgotten, but more exhausted that nobody knew that your boyfriend did this, and you probably weren’t going to be the first girl he killed.

rafe cameron needed to know what he did, and you wanted to do everything you could to make him drag himself to the police station, sit down, and say, “i killed her — and i enjoyed every fucking second of it.”

madness was becoming rafe. he was already an insane, depraved fuck before, but the lack of sleep and memories of the murder were catching up to him for good.

dark circles were around his eyes, hair greasy and messy, his body tired. he felt like he was going to snap any second.

he kept drinking, smoking weed and doing coke back to back, surprised that his heart didn’t give out yet.

a random exhaustion toll pushed over him, laying him down on the floor of his bedroom, and his eyes threatened to snap shut.

he didn’t want to sleep, he was afraid to. he was afraid to see you, with your bloody dress and sad face, making him touch your wounds.

rafe didn’t win the fight of sleeping, and he knocked out cold on his bedroom floor.

he wasn’t in the basement, he was in his bedroom, and he could hear your feet padding away to the front of the house, to your car.

oh, he was reliving the night. and he couldn’t stop. he couldn’t get out of the memory — he was facing everything.

he saw you bloody by his doorframe, and you tilted your head. “why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice sounding as if he was trapped in a void.

you only frowned. “so you know.”

like a reflex, rafe hurriedly rushed over to you outside before you could get away, seizing you away, and taking you to the basement.

he pinned you down to the ground, and screamed at you to stop crying, upset and angry you were willing to betray him when he did everything for you.

you were sobbing, but it became echoes and his ears rang, everything around him becoming silent except his own heavy breathing. he grabbed the knife that sat in his pocket, and he could see your eyes widen with fear to the sight of the object.

“rafe!” you screamed in the first stab. he hit you sharp and right in the abdomen.

he held his knife there for a second, like time was freezing him, and he felt a hot breath at the side of his face.

it was you.

“am i making you feel sick?” you asked, and rafe proceeded to stab you as you sobbed. you cried out his name, trying to fight away the knife, promising to be good and for him to stop.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

rafe couldn’t stop, he couldn’t control himself. he kept stabbing you as you screamed. he was a monster, with the inability to suppress his anger or violence.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

another stab.

“am i making you feel sick?”

a part you thought you were making him feel sick because of how mutilated your body was; that the body he was once desired, was now filling him with disgust. you wondered if how butchered you looked, was making him uncomfortable and sick. he didn’t deserve your concern, but it happened anyway. was it making him sick?

rafe wanted to cry, but couldn’t. he was revisiting the person he was in this moment, and could see life vanish from your eyes, death taking you away.

he took one last stab, and held it there like the first one. you kneeled in front of him, looking over at your corpse for a moment before your eyes settled into his raging ones.

he held prolonged eye contact with you as you inched your face close to his, but kept a safe distance. you placed your hand on top of his murdering one, and with a blank face, lastly asking him, “am i making you feel sick?”

rafe broke eye contact with you to look at your deceased body, and realized and remembered this murder. your organs could be nearly seen, blood gushed and poured out everywhere, your body cold and still.

he dropped the knife, and eyed you. “i’m sorry.”

you shook your head, and sighed. “you will revisit this everyday as long as you live,” you said, sniffling. “all i wanted was to be yours, and be good enough, rafe. was i no good?”

he didn’t have an answer, and with that, you got up, staring over at your body. “i want you to know,” you chuckled softly to yourself, “i never blamed you for loving me the way that you did. i forgive you, especially since i’m happier where i’m at.”

“heaven?” rafe asked.

you nodded. “you won’t make it here, but i’ll still hope and wait that you do — because i love you too much to let god be angry with you too.”

“he’s an angry man?”

“he’s angry and unfair,” you responded. “like someone i know. i loved god, i loved you; two men who didn’t view me as much, who don’t deserve for me to believe in them.”

rafe went quiet, and enough time went by for you to disappear for good to let rafe cry, and scream. he cried and sobbed, dry heaving as he vomited everywhere to the sight of you.

he killed you, and as long as he kept it to himself, you would drive him mad and insane with the knowing of it.

rafe cameron confessed to your murder only hours later. he drove himself to the police station, and confessed to every detail, telling sheriff shope where your body was.

they found your maimed body in the exact location where rafe told them it was, your body already decomposing into near bones, eaten by critters and bugs.

the earth was consuming you.

he was hated forever, the town wanted him torched or given the death penalty. it would be a while until he got a trial.

your funeral could be proper with your body in a casket, given a rightful way to be down in the ground, protected and secured by a box stuffed with silk fabric.

you could see your mom cry, and you wish she wouldn’t. your father had to give the prayer at your funeral, your best friends sobbing, and hating themselves for not getting you away from rafe sooner.

however, your death was simply inevitable. if rafe didn’t kill you, your love for him would. he was everything to you.

even when he was murdering you — getting a vile satisfaction from it — you were worried about him, if you and your maimed body was making him feel more nauseous and sick than the actual murder was.

rafe would live with the knowing that you truly loved him, and he took your life every single day that he spent in a prison block cell.

and your ghost would continue to linger and haunt him, never letting him know peace and serenity as he never did to you.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

You wouldn’t believe the things I have done for her (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Daemon lives a dangerous life. You wish you could find a way to protect him, but you are too afraid of guns. Lucky you, Daemon has a plan.

A/N: Do not try this at home. Requested by the lovely @avalyaaa I am sorry it took me so long, but I wanted to give your request the attention it deserved.

Warnings: Smut. Mafia! Daemon. Gun kink. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH: GUN KINK. Slight degradation.

You sit quietly in the back of the car. In the front seat sits Harwin, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He is bored. You can tell by the way he keeps fiddling with things. Changing the radio station, messing with the AC.

Harwin probably misses his old work. It’s not like Daemon needs a bodyguard or a driver. You know it’s more for your protection than his. And while Harwin is no stranger to guarding people who don’t need his protection, you bet the fact that Rhaenyra was fucking him made the prospect much more agreeable.

The AC gets turned off again. You would scold him for it, were it not for the fact you are deadly bored yourself. Daemon’s quick meeting has turned into an hour long one, and you have been instructed to not step out of the car. The only entertainment you have is your phone, and you can only scroll through so many TikToks before wanting to claw your own eyes out.

Instead of continuing to refresh your For you page, you turn your attention back to obsessing over your conversation with Daemon. The shame from your stupidity makes your cheeks heat up.

“I don’t trust them.” Daemon had said, pressing a kiss to your cheek. He often avoided kissing you in the lips whenever you were close to his associates. As if not kissing you could trick them into thinking you were not relevant and convince them not to target you. “They are…. Not the most respectful with women.”

“You don’t trust me, you mean. To handle myself.” And by the Seven, it had even sounded bratty to your ears. You had not meant it like that at all. You had only wanted him to stop using that shitty excuse.

There were women who attended these meetings. You knew it. Hell, you had even met them. And these weren’t sex workers or strippers. These were women who held high positions in the organization. Rhaenyra, who was going to inherit it one day. Mysaria, who ran an informant network. Even Alicent pitched in from time to time. You were tired of being lied to. Sometimes, you craved the more normal boyfriend experience.

“I trust you. I don’t trust them.” Daemon had chuckled at your pout, and given you a pat in the head. “Behave.”

It had felt so dismissive. So humiliating. As if you were a child and not an actual grown woman. You hated arguing with Daemon. There was something about his tone, or his attitude, you were not sure which, that made him sound forever condescending.

You supposed inherited wealth was like that. The Targaryens had been running their schemes for nearly six generations by now. They were royalty by modern standards, even when you didn’t know about their more shady dealings.

It was no use, being upset over it. Daemon was too set in his ways to change. You needed to find a way around your problem, instead of charging right into it. But nothing comes to you at this moment, so you unlock your phone and continue your scrolling.

You save a few recipes you want to try, and like some pet videos. You are thinking of asking Daemon to adopt a puppy. A small breed would suit your apartment better, but you know Daemon. He will probably want the most intimidating dog he can get his hands on. A big, scary doberman could be something you could get behind. You had been feeling unsafe as of late.

A sudden, loud noise makes you jerk on your seat. You start to ask Harwin what’s wrong, but you don’t manage to even form the words. It's happening too fast.

“Get on your knees and do not get up until I say!” Harwin shouts. You do not need further explanations, understanding something is really wrong. You fall into the floor of the car with such haste that your phone is sent flying under the seat.

“…. Whisk the butter and the sugar…” You try to reach for it, but the space is too cramped, and suddenly the car is moving, throwing the phone around. Your knees throb from dropping yourself from the seat too hard, and you try to focus on that and not the way your heart feels like it’s in your throat. A gunshot, you realize. A gunshot. You should be used to them by now, but you still feel afraid.

Harwin drives fast and efficiently. It’s two full blocks before he orders you to get up again. You do so, legs shaking. There is a wet feeling on your knee. Blood. You had scrapped it when you threw yourself on the ground.

“What happened?” You ask him, smoothing your clothes down. Now that your panic isn’t as intense, you feel a pang of guilt. Daemon. Seven Hells, you had left him back there. “Daemon?”

Despite knowing that Harwin’s orders are first and foremost getting you out of danger, you can’t help but feel guilty. You had not even thought to worry about him. He is probably fine, considering the place was filled with Targaryens. He is also more than capable of handling himself. But to be so blinded by your fear that you did not even think of him…

“I got no fucking clue.” He asks, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “I’ll call Daemon, alright?”

“Yeah.” You say, quietly. You grab the seat’s edge and squeeze, as if you could will Daemon to your side by frustration alone. Harwin dials.

“Yeah, we are fine.” Harwin says, smiling at you through the mirror. You know he wouldn’t be so casual if something bad had happened, and so, you give him a thumbs up. Your guilt eases a bit, being replaced by relief. “She is fine, just a bit shaken up.” And he rolls his eyes because Daemon can be a bit overbearing.

“Just trouble with an errand guy.” Harwin explains, once the call is over. “He should be here soon.”

But despite how casual they made it sound, you couldn’t shake the fear and guilt away. It stayed on your mind, nestled like a worm, curling around your brain and threatening to choke it. When the night comes, and Daemon sleeps peacefully by your side, you still think of it. Of how you could die, and he could too. And there wouldn’t be a thing to be done.

You sit up on your side of the bed, letting the sheet pool around your waist. You hug your knees to your chest. The night is chilly, and the blackout curtains Daemon insists on having to ensure the room is pitch black. It only serves to disquiet you further.

There is a gun on Daemon’s nightstand. Should there be one in yours? His work is dangerous enough to warrant it. Enough to warrant you having a bodyguard, why not a weapon of your own?

You weren’t going to let him die. Nor were you going to leave him behind, like today. This was the twenty-first century, not the Middle Ages. You were tired of cowering back and acting the damsel in distress. If someone is going to try to hurt the man you love, you sure will fight back.

Daemon was yours. As much as you were his, and so, it wasn’t fair that only he protected you. You needed to be able to have his back, or at least, not be a distraction in a fight.

Your decision is not just something you can communicate to Daemon, though. He is not going to like it. You know him. Daemon is a bit old-fashioned like that. He likes gender roles a little too much for it. He is your protector and provider, and you are supposed to just be sweet and warm. The thought of you using a gun will probably cause him a heart attack.

And the thing is, Daemon doesn’t just style himself your protector. He does an outstanding job of it. He has managed to keep you away from the nastier side of his business. Never have you seen a dead body, or any of his associates beyond his family. So if you hope to achieve this, you need to be smart about it.

You decide you will tell him first thing in the morning when he is barely awake. He will be more susceptible that way. And happy with your plan, you finally manage to catch a few hours of sleep.

The next morning, you get started making breakfast with only one thing in mind. Convincing Daemon. You are barefoot, wearing only one of his shirts. It’s basic manipulation, and he will probably able to tell, but you hope it will soften him to your cause.

It’s when you are scrambling the eggs that he emerges, lured by the smell of fried bacon and a fresh pot of tea. Daemon wraps himself around you, still warm with sleep.

“Morning, love.” His voice is still a bit hoarse with sleep. He nuzzles your neck and hums, pleased. “Couldn’t I convince you to come back to bed?”

You laugh.

“Not really. The eggs are almost done.” You take the pan off the stove, letting it cool. “I would like to learn how to shoot.”

Daemon stiffens. You can feel him pull back from you. It’s not a physical thing, his arms remain wrapped around your waist, but his voice becomes colder and meaner. He is fully awake now.

“And why, in the Seven Hells, would you need to learn?”

“To feel safer.” You answer, keeping your tone steady.

“Do you not feel safe already? I could hire you another bodyguard.” Daemon hugs you slightly tighter. You lean into the counter a little bit, and sigh. Then, you detangle yourself from him.

“I don’t want a bodyguard. I need to learn how to shoot.” You state again, calmly. You turn to look at him. He looks more annoyed than angry.

“Sweetheart. You know that is not the best idea.” Daemon pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Why not?” You cross your arms over your chest.

“You are sensitive. You cry when animals die in movies.” He complains, stepping a bit closer to you. Daemon pours you a cup of tea and plates the eggs. “Go sit. I’ll wrap this up.”

You give him a sullen look but obey, watching him cut and toast the bread just in the way you like. You sit by the kitchen’s island, watching him work. Daemon is only wearing his underwear. You don’t think he owns something that resembles pajamas. Targaryens always run hot, or so they say.

Disappointing yourself, you let yourself be distracted by the view. You watch the muscles on his back shift and move as he finishes breakfast for you. You are mesmerized by the elegance of his every movement.

He is delicious, you think to yourself. You want to climb him like a tree. Despite the slight age difference, Daemon is more handsome than other men you have met. He is a bit vain, sure, but his efforts are worth it.

It’s only after he sits next to you that you remember what you were doing. You blame it on the lack of sleep.

“So?”

“You are my woman. It’s my duty to protect you. I’ll keep you safe.” Daemon rubs your shoulders, comfortingly. His voice sounds apologetic, a denial despite the soft tone he is using. “You know I keep you well away from danger.”

And he does. Not only Harwin and him have talked protocols, but Daemon has also ensured you would be protected even in the event of his death or imprisonment. You have numerous properties to your name, a few fake passports and three hidden bank accounts in different tax havens. None of which would be taken away if the two of you break up, Daemon has clearly stated. He loves you enough to want you to be protected even if you don’t love him anymore.

“I don’t like being powerless.”

“I seem to remember you do.” He squeezes your thigh, playfully. Your breath shifts despite yourself. You cover it by taking a sip of your tea and leveling a faux glare at him.

“I know.” Daemon kisses your nose. “I like that you don’t know how to shoot. That you are clean from this world.”

“It won’t sully me.” You argue because it’s a silly thing to think. It’s not like you are going to start shooting people or running illegal gambling rings. You just want to be able to defend yourself if something happens. And perhaps Daemon. If he doesn't feel too emasculated, this ridiculous man of yours.

“If I wanted a woman who knew how to shoot I would still be with Rhaenyra.” He complains.

“Plenty of women know how. I am not…” You rub at your eyes, tiredly. You want him to understand nothing is going to change between the two of you. “I do not want to go to your stupid meetings or meet your associates for dinner. I just want to know how to defend myself if something happens.”

“And I am saying you don’t need to because nothing is going to happen.” Daemon’s voice turns firmer. Now you can tell he is beginning to get angry, so you reach for his hand and squeeze.

“But if it does? If one night we wake up and there is a gun to our faces? Then what? Do I just let you die for me?” You allow your voice to break in the last part, letting him truly see your anguish. It is a fear of you that has lived on too long. You need this. You need to be able to defend both of you if something happens.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

It gets you to the firing range. Daemon takes you there in the middle of the week, hoping to inconvenience the least amount of people with him booking the entire place.

Your first impression of it is that it’s nothing like in the movies. There are neat little booths with circular targets instead of human shaped ones. You had expected only utilitarian decoration, harsh white lighting and white walls. Instead, the place looks well maintained and expensive. You should have expected so, considering this is Daemon you are talking about.

“Your first lesson…” Daemon says, eyeing you distrustfully. You stare right back at him. “Will be on safety.”

He takes two bulletproof vests out of a hanger, as well two pairs of earmuffs.

“These are protection gear, meant to be used each time you are practicing. And hopefully…” Daemon passes the bulletproof vest over your head. You let him do so, lifting your arms when he instructs you. The vest is heavier than you expect, and more solid too. It feels like what you wear when you are getting an x-ray. “You will use the vest too if you ever fire a gun outside here.”

“And not the earmuffs?”

“You should wear them to protect your ears, especially if you are firing many rounds. But you never see people wearing these because they are heavy-duty protection. In a real fight, you wouldn’t be able to hear your surroundings. Gunshots are pretty loud. So are gunfights.”

“Is that why you are losing your hearing?” You sass, with a grin. “I thought it was just your old age.”

“Oh, shut up. Little brat.” Daemon smacks your ass, playful. It doesn’t even hurt, but you jump and squeal in faux outrage. He laughs at your antics, and it does make you feel better about forcing him to teach you this.

“Should we do the whole…?” You gesture vaguely, trying to reference the classical movie or book montage where the female lead and the love interest stand very close, under the excuse to fix her posture. Daemon shakes his head.

“What is even that?” You would call him an old man for missing your reference, but you know he is sensitive about his age. Besides, you are not a great mime either. “No. You are going to stand with your legs and shoulders the same width apart and a proper posture. No slouching!”

“You know, not all of us grew up with a tutor chasing us and screaming for proper posture.” You grumble, but comply with his orders.

“Perhaps if you had, you wouldn’t need all those Pilates and Yoga classes you so enjoy.” Daemon argues right back. He circles you and pushes a bit at your hips. You try to loosen them. “Perhaps my cards would not explode then.”

“Shut up. It’s not like you don’t reap the benefits.”

Your good humor disappears when Daemon places a gun on the counter in front of you. You go quiet, suddenly unsure of your choice. He shows you how to charge it and how to put the safety on and off. You pay him all of your attention, feeling a bit numb. Most of the details about it fly over your head, despite your attempts to memorize them.

“Alright. I think you are ready for your first try.” Daemon says, handing you the gun. You grab it with trembling hands. You adjust your stance and ensure the muzzle is pointing down, and that you are not gesturing wildly with it. He puts your earmuffs on, and then his.

The world around you feels muffled. You swear you can hear your heartbeat, with how silent everything is. The gun in your hands is throwing you off. It looks odd. These can’t be your hands. You feel like you are not actually there, but watching the scene unfold from outside, watching someone else about to shoot.

Daemon adjusts your grip with his hands, casual about his proximity to the loaded weapon. You stiffen as soon as you feel him approach you, worried about accidentally shooting him.

“Come on.” He mouths, impatiently. You lift the gun, take the safety off, and aim. You pull the trigger, and it is with an awful noise and jerk, that you fire for the first time. The shot goes wide, hitting the wall next to the target.

Daemon taps your shoulder and gestures for you to go again. He watches your every move. His expression betrays nothing. If you are going at it the wrong way, you wouldn't be able to tell.

You repeat the motion, flinching at the noise. Even with the earmuffs it’s loud. It reminds you of that day in the alley, and makes your stomach clench. Daemon signals for you to put the gun down, and you do so, glad that it’s over. You can’t believe you thought you could actually do this. You feel so stupid. He was right, you are too soft.

Daemon can probably tell you are getting too in your head. He removes your earmuffs and pulls you in for a hug. The vests make it awkward, but you feel comforted by his solidness next to you.

“You did great, sweetheart.” He lies, and kisses your temple. You feel so disappointed you could cry. A laugh bubbles out of you, a bit hysterical.

Daemon tsks. He reaches for the gun and deftly discharges it.

“Come on.” He says, kissing your cheek. “I know what your problem is.”

“Yeah?” You ask him, a bit doubtful. You don’t want to feel any sort of hope, just in case that he is mistaken. Giving up so easily might be childish, yet you had not expected this to be so hard. After all, like half the people that Daemon knew could do it.

“You have to learn to love the gun.” He places it back on your hand and steps up behind you. It seems like you are doing the movie thing after all. He kicks your legs a bit, encouraging you to shift your stance.

“Love the gun?”

“You keep looking at it like it’s a weapon of mass destruction.” Daemon laughs, and mouths along your nape. You shiver. It’s an almost Pavlovian reaction by now. When Daemon’s voice gets all low and husky, and he holds you like that, your body knows it’s time for sex. It’s very inappropriate. But conditioned as you are, you can’t stop the throb of arousal between your thighs. “Stop looking like you are horrified by it.”

He fixes your grip around the gun. He steadies your hand.

“Shoot.”

You obey, pulling the trigger. The gun clicks, but nothing happens. It’s unloaded.

“Good.” Daemon says, and lightly bites your shoulder. “Again.”

You repeat the motion. He has you do it over and over again, until you no longer flinch when pulling the trigger. When you are fully desensitized to the sound, Daemon takes the gun from you.

“Great job.” He says, placing the gun right on your face. “Now kiss it.”

“Excuse me?” You stare at Daemon, sure that he must be joking. Kissing the gun? No way. But one look at his face, at the amused curve of his lips, and the mischievous glint in his eyes, tell you that he is serious.

“You heard me.” Daemon chuckles, a bit darkly. You understand then that this is both for his amusement and a punishment. He gets off on humiliating others, that you know. And he had not liked that you had forced him into giving you shooting lessons. He now intends to bring you down a few pegs. “Kiss the barrel.”

You scrunch up your face. You got your pride, too. Despite knowing that submitting to his whims is easy and will probably pacify him for a while, you can’t help but resist. Your whole body rebels at the idea of accepting such an obvious power play.

“Come on, don’t be like that. You owe me.” Daemon tilts your head up, placing a finger under your chin. He makes a show of cooing over your pout, before leaning in to kiss you.

“I don’t!” You move your head away, denying him. It’s a bit cruel, and it makes him frown, which you consider a win.

“You so do. I didn’t want to teach you, you know. At least give me good jerk off material.” He pouts at you, and you can’t help but smile a little. He is ridiculous.

It is part of why you love him. Daemon is young in spirit, if not in body, and he makes you feel younger too. Giddy and willing to do silly things. Silly things like leaning in and kissing the barrel of a gun.

The metal is cold under your lips, hard and unyielding. Daemon makes a pleased noise and pulls you in for a kiss. You can feel him smile against your mouth, before trying to deepen it. Playfully, you nip at him, until it is him who yields and opens up for you.

It is then that he presses the cold barrel against your nape. The feeling of the gun against your skin makes you tense and jerk, giving him once again the upper hand. With the control of the kiss back in his hands, he pulls you closer.

You feel yourself slowly starting to become aroused. One of Daemon’s hands finds your hip, squeezing the flesh there. His gesture is both possessive and greedy. Something swoops in your belly, dark and demanding. You want all his attention on you, you want him all for you.

Making out with Daemon is a full-bodied experience. It shouldn’t surprise you, then, that he starts to gently run the muzzle of the gun down your neck. At first, you don’t notice, too caught up on how close both of you are. Your chest is flush against his, and the feeling of his body against yours makes you whimper, before you realize what game is he playing.

“Daemon.” You warn, annoyed. He gives you a shit eating grin.

“I am just getting the two of you better acquainted. My best girls.” Daemon leans in and kisses behind your ear. He takes his time, making out with the shell of it. He is cautious to do all the right things to make you tremble against him. Yet, you can’t seem to forget about the gun, running down your sternum, between your breasts.

The muzzle gets caught against your clothes. Daemon uses it to push one of the sleeves of your top a little aside, to be able to lavish the skin there with kisses. You only feel the metal against your skin for a second, but it makes you think about how it would feel against your naked skin. Would the cold make your hairs stand up on edge, and your nipples pebble? Or would it warm up to your temperature?

The thought makes your breath hitch, and your panties even wetter.

“There is no one here.” You say, quietly. “If you were to take off my shirt…”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Daemon grins, encouraging you to lean against the counter of the firing range. “You devious little thing.”

He drops to his knees in front of you, carefully taking your clothing off. You watch him move between your legs, helping you widen your stance. Daemon kisses a path from your ankles towards your knees, mouthing along as if having the finest of banquets. His kisses feel scorching against your skin, and you can’t help but jut your hips slightly, trying to command him into touching you.

Daemon smiles at you, cheekily. He then bites your inner thighs, scratching just enough to make you arch in pleasure-pain. When you are just about to hike one of your legs over his shoulder, he sucks your clit inside his mouth, and it’s then that you feel it. The cold barrel of the gun, pressing along your inner thighs.

You moan. Daemon laughs.

“You little whore.” It sounds fond. He eats you out without any finesse, slurping noisily. The thought of anyone else being able to overhear this makes you embarrassed, so you try to keep quiet. Your eyes close, hands squeezing around the edge of the counter.

Daemon is not trying to bring you any pleasure. His movements and touches are too methodical for it. He presses a finger inside your hole, then another. Then it is scissoring them and shushing you with soft licks to your clit when you complain at the slight sting.

Any pleasure you get out of it is incidental. Instead, Daemon is getting you ready for something. And this time, you know it’s not his cock. The thought fills you with dread and arousement in equal parts. How will it feel? Metal doesn’t give the same way flesh does. But the thought of having a gun, Daemon's, inside you, makes your hips jerk.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” He pulls away, reappearing from between your legs. “Fuck. I don’t know if I want to see your face or your greedy little hole when I put it inside.”

You look at him. His hair is sticking up in all directions, but his smile is absolutely ferocious.

“My face. Just in case…” You reach for his shoulder and squeeze, gently. Despite how arousing you think the whole thing is, you are still hesitant. Sometimes, things don’t feel as you imagine they would. You don’t want this to be disappointing.

Daemon seems to understand, despite the fact that you don’t verbalize it.

“I’ll talk you through it.” He says, kindly. He then spreads your folds a little and presses the tip of the gun against your hole.

You yelp. Your grip on his shoulder turns punishing. It feels pleasant, as penetration often does, but there is a foreign quality to it as well. The gun is wide, and metal doesn’t give as flesh does. You feel as if you are rooted tp the spot by it, being impaled with each inch Daemon presses inside you.

“You are doing so well. Good girl. My little girl.” He presses a kiss to your stomach. He keeps rubbing at your clit until you relax around the barrel. It’s only then that he attempts to fuck you with it. You clench at his shoulders, overwhelmed, and moan.

It’s confusing. The ridges of it feel good, catching against your hole. The metal slowly starts to warm up, not feeling as strange as before. Daemon keeps steadily sucking your clit.

The pleasure builds. So does your need. You start to move your hips along with his thrusting, trying your best to reach your orgasm. So of course, Daemon pulls away from your clit.

“You are taking it so well.” Daemon praises, voice husky with desire. “Your pussy swallows the gun right up.”

You moan, almost without realizing. You are so close it itches. But moving your hips up and down isn’t enough. You need more.

“Daemon, please.” You beg, near tears. Never before have you been this frustrated.

“Who would have known? You are such a hungry little whore.” Daemon smirks. The crudeness of his words makes you gasp. You feel smaller than you have ever felt, yet somehow, it makes you feel deliciously dirty. He is not wrong. It’s embarrassing, how you are humping the gun he holds, but you can’t stop. “You don’t think, you are so desperate you would fuck anything. Do anything, just to fill your greedy holes.”

“Please. Fuck.” You sob. Daemon licks his thumb and starts rubbing your poor, abused clit. He keeps fucking you with the gun, building you up and up, towards the orgasm you so desperately crave. You come with a scream so loud, you thank he has booked the whole place for only yourselves.

Turns out, you don’t hate guns as much as you thought.

[spxllcxstxr]

Being Eddard Stark’s Second Wife • Headcanon

(Gif not mine)

Request: Eddard Stark second wife headcanon? ❤️❤️❤️ -m — anon

Warnings: fem!reader, heavy canon divergence, mention of dying in childbirth (not reader, no other mention of pregnancy/having children), assumed age gap? Ned stark being THE man <3

A.N: I feel like these are a little short but I actually like this one! I love Ned so much so these were also just fun to write…I hope you like them! :) also I always struggle to find more diverse gifs along these romantic lines and I’m so sorry about that, my works are always inclusive

•

You marry Ned Stark after Catelyn dies delivering Rickon, her youngest

Ned certainly did not believe that he would marry again, he was incredibly heartbroken by the death of his wife

Additionally, he now had to look after 6 children and be the Lord of Winterfell

Even though he had servants and teachers and maesters to look after his children and keep them preoccupied, he was still stretched very thin due to stress and lack of sleep

You had been a close friend to the Starks even before Robb was born; some daughter of a lesser known Northern house who had come to Winterfell for a change of scenery

Despite your lower ranking, Ned and Catelyn became close friends of yours

When Catelyn died Ned’s grief almost consumed him; but you were his light in the deep and dangerous darkness that had fallen over his life

While throughout the many years of knowing Ned you occasionally felt a spark, not love, but it certainly wasn’t platonic, you pushed it down, never rushing anything that would harm your friendship and Catelyn in particular

Becoming Ned’s second wife is a gradual process

Ned comes to you almost every day, whether it is due to his grief or to ask your opinion on something, you become even closer than you were before

It takes maybe around 2 or 3 years of mutual pining for the two of you to really acknowledge what’s going on

Robb, Jon, and Arya definitely have a hand in this, they’re old enough to see what’s going on, they certainly drop hints to the two of you

“Tell me, my Lady, why I cannot stop thinking about you…”. He takes off his gloves, just to place his rough palm gently on your cheek. “You are the first thing in my mind when I wake, and the last thing when I finally succumb to sleep.”

“Ned…”

“If you do not feel the same tell me now, before I kiss you,”

The kiss is obviously what starts it, and the wedding comes very quick after that

Ned is very protective of you

With anything

He knows how harsh the Northern wind is, so he makes sure you have the finest furs and the warmest boots

Even if you say you’re fine he will insistently add another layer onto you

He does it with a grin on his face and a kiss on the forehead

Ned loves you so much

He will also teach you how to defend yourself

He is already teaching his children so training you isn’t a problem, he doesn’t like to think about it, but he knows there might come a day where he may not be able to protect you from the evil things of Westeros (or beyond)

His kids are mostly used to you before you end up marrying him

Sansa is really the only one to have a bigger issue with her father taking a second wife but she quickly warms up to you

You know you aren’t their mother and you try not to smother them like you are, but you are protective of them as if they were your own

Ned loves watching you help them with their studies or their interests

He’s seen you sneakily teach Arya how to punch properly

And Sansa’s needlework has improved since you moved into the castle

He adores how you treat Jon no differently than the others, Catelyn always did. He doesn’t blame her, he had to lie to her, but it warms his heart to see you act so kind to him

Ned is a loving husband and he shows that to you every day

He’s always gentle towards you and respects your opinions and what you have to say

He’s truly #NotLikeOtherMen lmao

•

[charliedawn]

How would the Hannibals react to there partner wearing pheromone perfume? (Im pretty sure it's perfume that makes you smell natural? I don't know you should probably look it up just to be safe.) If you dont wanna do this you don't have to! Or if your not comfortable with it. I hope you have a good day/night. Byeeeeee! 😼🫶😝❤️

(I searched and it seems to be a sort of perfume that makes you irresistible? Could be wrong though…)

Hannibal Sr

He would notice the pheromones instantly. His response would be subtle but unsettling. He may pretend he doesn’t notice at first, letting you wonder if it’s affecting him ant all…until he leans in during dinner, scenting your neck just a little too long.

“Something’s different about you, my little lamb. Did you wear that for me—perhaps?”

He’ll watch the others in the room lose their composure with a kind of amused superiority. He won’t stop them. He knows he owns you. Eventually, he will approach you with that quiet, chilling voice and say:

“This is how you want to be seen, isn’t it? Desired. Hunted. Worshipped.” Then he brushes a stray hair behind your ear. “Then let them watch. But we both know only I will be feeding tonight.”

Hannibal Jr

Will definitely smell it. He’d go very still for a moment, maybe close his eyes and take a longer breath near you. Unlike his father, he doesn’t say much—but the change in atmosphere is immediate. He’s usually composed, but now…

“Is that what you intended? To bring me to the brink of madness?”

Expect passionate restraint. He’ll act like he’s holding back a beast…because he is. He says nothing to the strangers flying around you. Instead, he walks up behind you, places a possessive hand on your back, and whispers:

“I am proud of your confidence…but I do wonder, who exactly did you wear that for, hmm?”

His smile is calm. His eyes are not. He won’t cause a scene. Not here.

But later? Oh, you’re not making it to dessert.

Morgan Hannibal

At first, he thinks he’s imagining it. He doesn’t usually let scent interfere with logic—but something about your presence keeps pulling his thoughts off-track. He studies you carefully, slowly realizing what you did. When he figures it out, his reaction is sharp and direct.

“Oh dear…Why did you do this my darling?”

His jaw tightens. He sees someone talking a little too comfortably with you and he walks over with a glass of wine and a smile so cold it could turn any soul to ice.

“Careful. They’re…chemically enhanced tonight. You wouldn’t want to get swept up in something you cannot handle.”

He leans in under the guise of a kiss on your cheek, murmuring:

“You’re causing quite the commotion. I’m not the only one noticing your new scent. And know that this will not be without consequences. But, try to stay on the low for now. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

He’ll stay by your side the rest of the evening like a very expensive shadow.

Kevin Hannibal

“Oi, what the heck is that smell?” Kevin blurts immediately. He’s wrinkling his nose at first—too strong, too much. But after a second, he pauses. His pupils dilate. And then he’s walking closer, sniffing, confused and attracted all at once.

“Wait. Is that that freaky-ass perfume? The pheromone thing? Damn, you’re evil.”

But he is even more concerned when he realizes that other people can smell that too.

“What the f— …oh no. You did not wear the freaky sex perfume out here.” Then he sees someone checking you out and just—“Absolutely not.”

He’s not subtle. He straight-up confronts the guy who looked too long:

“You got a staring problem, mate? Could fix that up for you REAL quick. Back off before someone goes missing.”

Kevin becomes your feral guard dog, arm slung over their shoulders, pulling you into his chest like: “Mine. MINE. Miiiine.”

He could even hiss.

Peter Hannibal

Peter wouldn’t understand what’s happening at first. He just knows he suddenly wants to cling to you more than usual. Touch you, nuzzle you, keep you from leaving the room. Then he sees someone else glancing your way, and it clicks.

“Wait…why are people looking at you like that? Why do you smell like…like that?”

He wouldn’t be mad, just overwhelmed. You’d have to soothe him, reassure him that it’s for his attention—not anyone else’s. And once reassured, he’d melt into your arms…

But careful. Because Peter boy has a temper.

He is HIGHLY jealous.

“You’re wearing that on purpose, aren’t you? Do you want people to flirt with you?! Do you want someone else?!”

He spirals fast. Needs reassurance that it’s just for fun—just a silly little thing for him to notice. The second someone tries to flirt with you though, Peter is glaring through tears and threatening to “accidentally push them down the stairs.”

He will not let go of your hand the entire night. Not even to use the bathroom…

[billskeis]

Ur writing has me kicking my feet and giggling🤭🤭

Anyway, could you maybe write a light smit type fic with 2010 Tom and a fem!reader who wears like miniskirts and crop tops(lowkey slutty). And like, enemies to lovers where Tom acts like he hates all of the outfits but in reality they just have him in a chokehold.

(Only if ur comfy with it but do whatever you want) keep up the good writing💕💕

ᡣ𐭩 jean to jean action w tom

he attempted to swallow a hard lump in his throat, mouth pursed together as his jaw clenched. he watched how you applied the lip gloss onto your lips while you stared at your reflection in the mirror.

you weren’t the only one relishing in how you looked tonight.

tom absolutely hated the shit that you wore whenever you guys went to house parties, for him, that means he isn’t the only one who gets to see you like this.

“y/n, do you have to wear that tonight?” you turn your head to look at tom with a stern look, “there’s nothing wrong with what i’m wearing tonight, i look good, don’t i?” tilting your head teasingly staring at him, not breaking eye contact. “yeah fucking right..”

he scoffs, kissing his teeth while shaking his head, “y/n. you know how men are, especially when we go out.. they’re fucking animals,” he stares you up and down to reflect on what attire you had put on this time.

showing off most if not all your skin, you wore a denim miniskirt that stops right above the cheeks of your ass, kitten heels, and a crop top that oh—doesn’t stop at your midriff, stops right above your boobs. you show off your belly piercing, it dangles whenever you take a step or move. sometimes when you raise your arms to stretch, a bit of your tattoo between your chest shows a bit. this drives him fucking insane.

you look at him, seriously?

it’s unlike him to actually say something as such, as he’s always been such an asshole about it. you would think he would get tired from the countless comments he makes about your choice of clothing which were on YOUR body. you don’t understand what his problem is. it wasn’t even like the two of you were together so why does he get a say in what you’re wearing?

you take a step, slowly, heels clacking with each movement. following you, tom backs up with every movement of yours he’s right behind you. eventually, he stumbles upon himself and falls onto the couch. you stand there, above him, smirking as he looks up at you somewhat embarrassed.

“don’t act like you haven’t been eye fucking me the whole night, tom,” you sit straddling his lap, bodies fully not touching yet. he attempts to look away not knowing what to do but you grab his braids from the back of his head making him look into your direction. “i know you want me,” “and what if i do?”

now this just took a turn.

given the situation, his hands snake around your waist to which you push them back and hold them down onto the couch, “mmh nn, what do you think you’re doing? since you wanna act brave and tell me about what i can and cannot wear,” he groans, “fuck, y/n you’re killing me over here..”

“are you gonna let me wear what i want tonight?” you’re now sat on his lap and you begin grinding your hips onto his crotch, an obvious hard on forming as you can feel it through his jeans. his eyes widen at your boldness.

now he was bold, but now that he’s met some competition.. he doesn’t know what to do.

“u-ugh.. y/n stop, we gotta go in like twenty minutes,” “no tom, listen to me. are you going to let me wear what i want, hm?” grinding down even harder, the friction becoming arousing, you feel yourself becoming wetter every time you rotate your hips on tom.

with every second, he feels himself losing composure. he brings a hand from the couch to lift up the denim miniskirt you had on, seeing the wet spot on your panties grow bigger, dropping his head onto the couch letting you do all the work. “so? what’s it gonna be babe,” you bounce a bit on tom to where he’s now grabbing your hips, guiding your body to bring him closer to the edge.

“fuckfuckfuck fine, you can wear it just.. once we come back just know to be prepared for what comes next..” “mmhm, we’ll see about that,” the both of you now move in sync, you lean in to kiss tom, tongues tangling with one another.

tom deepens the kiss as he feels your tongue purposely lick his lip piercing. as you kiss one another, the two of you both feel your high coming closer, tom losing his composure faster than you are. breaking the kiss, a string of saliva keeps the two of you connected, “gonna come f’me pretty boy?” tom nods as he ruts his clothed crotch into yours.

despite the presence of your clothes, the sensation of it feels amazing. circling your hips together, the feeling through your panties of tom’s jean hem hitting your clit is just right.

“coming..!” tom groans, snaking both arms around your naked waist, he thrusts himself to an orgasm, shaking a bit. you allow tom to ride his high out, grinding slowly but harshly as you feel your own orgasm coming. it’s obvious his hit harder than yours as you were able to quickly compose yourself. him on the other hand, not so much.

“baby..” tom breathes deeply as he tries to catch his breath, you get off his lap and kiss his cheek, wiping a bit of the sweat off his forehead. giggling you begin to walk away, “m’ gonna change my bottoms, you should too,” turning to enter your shared bedroom.

he looks down at the now obvious wet spot on his jeans, not knowing if the cum on it is yours or his.

“fuck, i really wanted to wear these..”

[missesnott]

Last Kiss | Theodore Nott x Fem. Hufflepuff Reader

•Summary: After one year of relationship, Theo breaks up with you, not telling you why. Sad, you walk up to the camp of daisies you both once walked by, and remember everything you and Theo went through.

•Song: Last Kiss, by Taylor Swift.

•Requested by: @sweetestdolan

You and Theo started to date one year ago. Your friends told you that it wasn't a good idea, since he was a slytherin, but you never judged him and he never judge you. One day, he simply comes up to your dorm, hands in his pockets, and murmurs:

"I want to break up." you look at him, not knowing if he was serious or not.

"What? Is this a joke?" you asked, trying to not think about the worst.

"No. Y/n, I'm really sorry. This is not about you, I just can't be with you." he answered sadly, looking at you.

The tears started to appear, but you wouldn't let them come out now.

"You're kidding, right? Did I do something wrong...? Tell me, I can fix it!"

"You did nothing wrong—" you interrupted him.

"Then why are you breaking up with me? Theo, I cannot do this without you!" you took a few steps near him.

"I'm sorry." and with this, he leaves your dorm and you fall onto your bed, allowing finally your tears to fall.

That's what happened that made you never look the same again. One month had passed since he broke up with you, and you still didn't got over, but he did. He already had his arm wrapped around a brand new girl.

When you noticed, you were walking around the camp of daisies, remembering everything that happened in here. This was your spot, until Theo found it. He started to come here often, since he knew you'd be here. Your first kiss was here, just like your last.

Taking slow steps, you ended up at the tree, your tree. You sat just underneath her, and let all of your memories with Theo appear slowly. A memorie of when you and him were on his dorm, in the middle of the night, having a conversation about a random topic. That was the first time he said he loved you. You even remembered the hour, 01:58AM.

Or like that one time he made you go to a party and invited you to dance with him, even though he knew you didn't dance.

"Come on, let's dance" he said smiling at you, grabbing your hand softly.

"You know I don't dance" you giggle.

"Come on!" he asked again and lead you to the center of the dance floor.

You rolled your eyes and he started to slowly dance with you. After a few seconds, you gave up and started to dance together with him, not caring about the others, which was a problem to you. You laughed and you danced a lot that night.

Or the thousands of memories when you were talking with him about how insecure you felt about yourself or any other type of things and he just kissed you as a way to shut you up. And there is not a day you don't miss those rude interruptions.

You took a deep breath, whipping all the tears that insisted on rolling down your cheeks. You needed to get over. You had to stop seeing his life in pictures, like you used to watch him peacefully sleeping when you had insomnias, or ask his friends how he's doing.

Right now, on this beautiful day, when the sun shines, you wish he had stayed. The truth is, you always thought he wouldn't change his mind.

You finally get up, after several minutes sat down on the grass full of daisies, and start to walk your way back to the castle. You made two promises to yourself: you would get over Theo, and you would never see this camp again. Somehow, it reminded you of him. And if you wanted to get over, you needed this.

Taking a deep breath, you enter the castle and start this new journey of getting over.

1st post!!!

[afriendstolovers]

Oh hi! I have another Everlark drabble to share! :)

I noticed I'm writing them through the seasons and I loved the concept so much I decided to start a little project. The spring one has already been posted and now you'll have winter, which was fairly inspired by the following quote: “I want you to make a list of all of your favorite things, and I want to be on it”, from Ignite Me by Tahereh Mafi. Forgive me for any mistakes as English isn't my first language and I myself did the beta work.

I hope you like it! Enjoy!

•••

The idea comes on a snowy winter night, when she’s writing down with deep concentration and neat handwriting every little thing she remembers about her father. A tender jolt of longing takes place in her heart as she recalls his love for freshly picked raspberries, dances with his girls and swimming sessions in the lake, and the paragraph shapes itself without her even noticing until she takes a pause to read the words.

Eternalized in black ink are Burdock Everdeen’s favorite things, and the soft gasp she lets out reaches her husband’s attentive ears. He makes his way to her with two mugs full of hot chocolate and a curious frown on his face.

“Peeta”, she calls over the faint noise of the burning firewood, her voice so clearly laced with expectation. “I had an idea.”

“Tell me about it, my dearest”, he leaves the mugs on the coffee table and scoops her up, sitting on the sofa with her on his lap. A couple of blank pages fall to the floor with the movement, but neither of them mind the mess.

“It’s for the memory book”, she lays her head on his shoulder, the faint scent of cinnamon engulfing her senses. He hums and she continues, “What if we make lists of all the things they loved? Not long ones. Just– a couple of things.”

He’s taking a careful sip, so she waits patiently for him to say something. “Like a list of favorite things?”

She nods and reaches for her mug – the drink tastes so good she cannot help but let out a satisfied moan, which brings a proud smile to his lips. She finds it endearing that he always anticipates her reactions to his cooking.

“I think it’s an excellent idea”, he says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers caressing down her face until he gently holds her chin and kisses her mouth. “I like it.”

“Good”, she extends the sweet contact as much as he lets her, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck where they’re softer for some reason. “I accidentally started with my dad. Will you help me go back and add it to the others?”

“Of course”, he agrees, and she should go and grab her things for them to start, but the feeling of his hands running up and down her thighs stops her completely. She revels in the warm touch, suddenly way too comfortable right where she is to bother with the idea of doing any other thing besides existing with him in that moment. When another minute passes and she still hasn’t moved, he chuckles and nuzzles the top of her head. “So?”

“I guess we can work on it later? I’m enjoying a favorite thing of mine now. With my favorite person”, she hides in his chest, feeling like a teenager with her cheeks wanting to turn red even though the calendar shows that she turned twenty-four just a couple of months ago.

“Oh, no problem. That makes two of us”, he hugs her waist, sighing contentedly. “The lists can wait.”

Her answer comes out muffled by his shirt. “Yes, they can.”

[argisthebulwark]

All Emotion Dripped Away

summary: skyrim men and their red flags <3 gn reader, no gendered terms or y/n used. feat: Brynjolf, Miraak, Vilkas, Farkas, Cicero, Mercer warnings: some unhealthy relationship dynamics.

Brynjolf's inability to commit is maddening. The worst part is that you understand exactly what led to him acting this way - losing Karliah and Gallus at such a young age, Mercer effectively ruining every positive moment they've shared, thinking that he's lost you. You can understand his aversion to committing himself to another person but the knowledge doesn't make it any easier to handle. "Must we put a label on it?" He groans, dragging your chair closer to his. He leans closer, lips only a few inches away - he knows exactly what he's doing. It's his most common maneuver - kiss you until you can hardly think, distracting you from anything deeper. "It's difficult to think with you so close." You breathe, attempting to resist his charm. "Aye, as you've said." "Don't you want more?" You ask, allowing his fingers to creep under your armor. "Why ruin a good thing?" His kiss is full of heat, a promise for more to come if you're willing to forget this conversation.

At first, Miraak's protectiveness was sweet. He accompanied you on missions far from home and fought at your side. Losing Mora's power had only caused him to become more focused on retaining the skills he had. Over time, it grew. You noticed him tagging along on shorter trips, soon finding that even a quick visit to a nearby village for supplies was a two person job. You'd faced dragons and giants, climbed High Hrothgar and aided in the resolution of a Civil War - yet it seemed you couldn't be trusted to walk a few miles from home. "I don't want to risk you, my love." He insists, falling into step at your side. "What if you were harmed? What if you're hurt and no one is there to aid you?" You don't like this almost childish way he seems to view you - once he'd doted on you, though now it almost seems as if he doesn't trust you to walk without some grievous injury befalling you. He's coddling you.

As an outsider, Vilkas had always appeared confident, headstrong, willing to tackle any problem. He's strong and intelligent and well spoken, of course he can handle things. As a partner, you've been surprised by his avoidance. When you were a recruit he had no trouble voicing your many faults, even as his Harbinger he's been critical - but not his partner. Those problems remain firmly within his own mind. You know he bottles them up, stewing on these emotions until he talks himself out of being upset, rationalizing everything. "If you don't tell me what it is you need, I cannot give it to you." You've pleaded with him, desperate to make this work. "I love you more than I can say - please, all I need is for you to talk to me." "There is nothing to talk about."

Farkas' recklessness had saved your ass on many occasions, but as his spouse it left you a nervous wreck. He'd often laugh off your worries before leaving for days, unable to communicate due to clearing out some bandit camp. His lack of self preservation reduced you to a mess of nerves, trying to work through it but unable to stop your eyes from wandering each time a door opened. "It's not a big deal." Farkas pouts, kneeling before you. His armor's all strapped into place and a pack of supplies hangs over one shoulder - he's about to leave again. Your heart kicks into overdrive, fingers shaking when they clasp the sides of his face. "I always come back safe, dear." He reminds you, that easy grin on his face. "Do you not trust me out there without you?" "I'd feel quite a bit better if I were at your side." You admit, staring pointedly at the sword slung across his back. "We do work well together." He agrees, a kiss planted on your cheek before he stands. "But you're the Harbinger, you have more important duties." Of course you did - your duties included paperwork and worrying, both of which were beginning to wear on your nerves.

You can't fault poor Cicero for his inexperience - he spent far too many years alone, no one but the Night Mother to keep him company. Isolation had changed him, left him lacking the knowledge many others took for granted. Of course you love him, you'd fallen head over heels for the fool and never looked back, but your relationship didn't come without it's own trials. He'd never learned the common things to do in a relationship; little things many couples did like dates were nonexistent and he had no clue how a normal relationship was paced. Falling for each other was easy, why hold back? Why not go all the way? It didn't help that his relationship with the other assassins was strained at best - some were friendly, others shut him out entirely. You were the only one he could turn to, the only one willing to share a meal and a laugh with your beloved Keeper. "Listener, will you teach poor Cicero how to love you?" He coos, gently combing the hair away from your face. Your first instinct is to refuse, to tell him that it's too much - but the peaceful smile melts your heart. "I want to love you the right way."

Often, you find yourself what Mercer likes more - being with you or keeping secrets from you. He omits things that don't even matter which only heightens your anxiety on the topic; if he's willing to lie about something as trivial as who went on what job or which client he's meeting with, what else could he be hiding from you? You tell yourself that it's nothing, just a survival trait he's picked up over the decades of leading the Thieves Guild, but it's impossible to ignore. He doesn't seem to enjoy the jealousy it incites within you but you can't quite puzzle out what he gets from it. In the end, it's easier to accept that he merely enjoys keeping secrets. Only the gods knew how long it had been since he'd last opened up to anyone and you were afraid that prying would make him snap shut the little window you've carved out in his heart.

[staranghae]

it wasn't your car...

summary : his car isn't yours by wendy. that's the summary. here, go listen to it.

pairing: l.sm x reader genre: exes to lovers warnings: chan slander (im sorry), mentions of making out(?), mention of drinking/drunk people, crying *i think that's about it but if i missed any pls let me know* word count: 800+

that's all lee seokmin was supposed to be. a summer fling.

but instead, the last few days of your vacation were possibly the worst days of your whole life. days that were supposed to spent lounging with him in the pool were spent fighting about your relationship.

it started when he admitted he was in love with you. you weren't ready for something serious then and you said the same to him to which he said he would wait for you. you frankly thought it was ridiculous that he had fallen for you in the span of a month. no one can love someone within a month of knowing them. or can they?

which brings you to now, standing in front of the open door of the passenger seat of your date's black maserati.

the same car you had spent a month driving around and making out in.

the same car that had pulled up to your vacation house every friday at 8pm on the dot to take you on a date.

the same car in which you're about to go on a blind date in now, just to forget about him. because, contrary to your beliefs, it is possible to fall in love with someone within a month. like how you had fallen for seokmin.

you're shaken out of your trance by your date's voice,

"y/n-ssi, are you getting in?"

by the time you look at him, he's standing near the driver's door, waiting for you to get in,

"we'll be late for our reservation if we don't leave right now so..."

you look at him one last time before getting in and willing yourself to forget about butterfly kisses in late afternoons and the enigma that is lee seokmin.

you get through the dinner with little effort. you date, whose name you learn is lee chan, cannot stop talking for the life of him. you're glad for it though, because it means you can zone out and daydream about what could have been with seokmin. eventually, the dinner ends. he pays like the gentleman he is and offers to drive back since it's quite late.

you check the time. 1am. you say yes to the offer despite not wanting to but trying to get a cab would be worse that listening to someone talk about how good of a dancer they are for the umpteenth time in the past hour.

you get home around an hour later and are shell-shocked at the sight in front of you.

lee seokmin, sitting (well, sleeping) on your front porch, with a huge bouquet of carnations and violets in his hand and a letter in the other.

you turn to chan. he looks at you concerned and offers to walk you in, mistaking seokmin for a drunk person who just got the wrong house.

you tell him that it won't be a problem and manage to get him out of your hair before he tries asking about a second date.

you walk up to him and shake him awake. he blinks a few times before turning to look at you. it's almost magnetic, how he reaches out to cup your cheek in the palm of his hand. he pulls back before he actually touches you, though, scared you might run away again.

he stands up and clears his throat before he starts talking, "i know you don't want anything to do with me but i-"

you cut him off before he can finish, "that's not true, minnie..."

minnie. a nickname you got accustomed to in the course of your relationship. a nickname you had tried so hard to forget over the course of the past few days. a nickname that came to you as easily as breathing.

he blinks at you, a little confused. "what do you mean?"

you have to look away from him before you speak, in fear that you may start crying if you had to maintain eye contact with him,

"i mean, i do want something with you. with us."

seokmin breaks first. sobbing his heart out as he stands up to engulf you in a hug. you've hug him back with silent tears streaming down your face.

he pulls away after a few minutes, eyes rimmed red and looks at you. like, really looks at you. the way your features are aligned perfectly on you, the way you're quite literally tailor made for him, and him for you. he also notices you actively trying to avoid meeting his eyes

he simply chuckles at your behaviour, before talking,

"what am i going to do with you?"

you finally find the courage to look up at him,

"you, lee seokmin, are going to be my boyfriend"

seokmin swears he sees a halo on your head. you laugh at him because of course he would say something that corny with a straight face.

yeah, you'll be alright.

a/n: someone teach me how to end fics, please and thanks :) also, look whose free from the prison of writer's block heh

staranghae.writing®

[drewsbuzzcut]

Behind The Scenes

Mat Barza x fem!model!reader

A visceral in doses fic

Warnings: some jealousy, a guy being a creep, smut, pregnancy, being naked, mentions nerves

Takes place early 2025

“I’m cold,” you complain with a shiver and scoot closer to Mat, letting his warmth heat up your body.

Right now you’re both on set for a photoshoot with Vogue. You and Mat are going to be on the cover, which is one of the biggest honors and you’re so excited. Aside from this being a big time shoot, you and your boyfriend are also announcing your first pregnancy to the world. You’re excited and nervous while Mat cannot stop talking about it. You’re happy that he’s excited and that he’s doing this cover with you.

“Come here, baby. Let me warm you up,” he wraps his arms around you, his large hands resting on the expanse of your back. He quickly makes all of your goosebumps disappear as if they were never there.

“I’m really nervous. This is going to be big news. Everyone is going to freak out,” you pout at him.

Gently, you cup his cheeks and squish them together. It earns your boyfriend’s famous cackle and it makes your heart melt.

“It’s exciting. I think I might’ve been a model in my past life,” he says and sways you in his arms. He fidgets with the seam of your robe, immediately alerting you that he has some nerves.

“I mean if all else fails, you have modeling to fall back on,” you roll your eyes as you tease him. You hope that it’ll wash away his hidden nerves.

“Haha,” he shakes his head with sass and it makes you giggle.

“Y/n and Mat, we’re ready for you,” an assistant informs you.

“Ready Mr. super model?” You ask, carding your fingers through his already tousled hair.

“So ready!” He guides you to the setup, eyes glued on you as you peel off your robe.

It’s the one thing he doesn’t like about today. The inspiration behind this photo shoot is being comfortable in your own skin and embracing the simplicity of being bare with someone you’re comfortable with. Mat doesn’t have a problem with it at all, he’s confident with his body and you’re confident with your body. The problem is that everyone who’s behind the scenes will see your breasts. Your breasts that have grown with being pregnant, and that are for his eyes only. Mat usually wouldn’t mind because it’s your job and he’d never tell you what to do or not to do with your body. For him, it’s mainly about the people gawking at you with no shame. It makes his skin crawl with jealousy.

“Pose 1, guys.”

You and Mat both stand, your chest pressed into his bare one while he rests his hands on your hips. You stare into his eyes while the cameras flash around you, partially thankful that this first round will only focus on your bodies. He mouths a silent “I love you” and you slightly lean up to kiss him.

“I love you,” you whisper into his lips.

Mat can’t help but take in your soft features and the way your eyes softly peer into his. He wishes he can caress your cheeks the way he usually would when you flash him a loving expression.

You smile at the way his hands flex over your hips. You know him well enough to know that he’d put his hands on your cheeks if he could.

Soft moments like these make it seem like everything around you disappears. The cameras aren’t on you or your baby daddy and it’s just you two in the room.

It sadly doesn’t last long.

“Pose 2!”

Mat moves to sit on the floor with one leg propped up. You straddle his lap and hold onto the sides of his torso. His hands go to your ass, giving you a hearty squeeze that makes you giggle.

“Sorry, I had to. Your ass looks too good in these jeans,” Mat muses, eyebrows lifting in a casual cool sense.

A red, hot flush fills your cheeks adding to your already glowing skin. You love the way Mat always gives you attention. It’s like he was born to compliment and love you.

He’s so sexy.

“Okay, this angle isn’t working so we need to see your side profiles. Mat, we need you to smolder and Y/n, do your open mouth pout with your head tilted back. You’re going to have your breasts right under his chin,” the photographer guides you.

Mat feels his chest tighten when he realizes everyone will get a good look at your boobs. He has a hard time not making eye contact with those who stare at you like they’ve never seen a pair of boobs in their entire lives. Even the bright flash can’t distract him. At least your thumb swiping at the skin of his torso helps him relax.

“Great! Y/n, you look amazing,” one of the assistants says, making Mat snarl at him. It’s almost like he isn’t even there, posing in the same picture.

“Okay! Next pose.”

Mat moves to fully face the camera while you move to his side, hugging his arm and blocking your nudity from the camera. As you do so, Mat watches the eyes of many men who can’t seem to look away. As you were adjusting your pose, your breasts were out in the open and those guys took it as the perfect opportunity to stare.

He lets out a silent huff which gathers your attention.

“What’s wrong?” You ask after a picture is taken.

“These men keep staring at you like you’re something to eat and it doesn’t sit right with me,” he explains, trying not to let his facial features show his jealousy. It doesn’t work, though. His face is set in a frown and his lips are pouty.

You kiss his jaw and nudge your nose into his skin.

“I love you, baby, but they’re just making sure we’re all doing what we’re supposed to do,” you reason with him.

You’re used to being exposed around many people and sometimes their eyes tend to wander for longer than usual, but it’s never bothered you. You can understand your boyfriend, though. He’s not used to everyone seeing you.

“Well, they don’t need to be staring at you,” he grunts.

You turn his face towards yours and slant your lips over his. Something about him being jealous turns you on. It shows just how much he craves you, despite being pregnant and it’s an ego boost.

“You’re so hot,” you whisper, eyes darkening with lust.

Quickly his mood flips and he’s matching your smirk with one of his own.

“One more before break!” You’re both snapped out of your lustrous haze.

For this photo, it’s just you. You lay out on the floor with your hair fanning out around your head. You cover your breasts with your hands just so the main focus can be your growing bump.

The main photographer lets her apprentice take a few shots. He’s standing above you, getting a bird’s eye view while Mat seethes in the back.

“Damn, you’re one lucky guy. The rack on her is insane,” Mat hears to his side.

His blood boils and the veins in his neck start to pop out. Does that guy know who he’s talking to?

“Excuse you?” Mat says finally turning to see who was audacious enough to utter those words.

“You’re one lucky man. I bet you hit that every night. I know I would,” the other guy groans, eyes locked in on you.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Have some fucking respect and take your eyes off my wife,” Mat growls, stepping closer to the jerk.

He’s done with these guys thinking they can just stare at what’s his. There’s also no way in hell Mat would ever let a man talk so crudely about another woman, let alone his girl.

“Dude chill!”

“I’m not your ‘dude.’ You need to keep your fucking mouth shut,” Mat almost roars and everyone stops what they’re doing.

You hurriedly pull on your robe and make your way to the scene.

“Are you okay?” You ask your man, hands coming to rest on his heaving chest. His skin is hot under your palms. His eyes hold even more fire.

“Everything’s fine because he will be leaving,” Mat claims, not asking permission for this guy to be thrown out.

“No way!” The guy yells.

“Can we get this guy out of here, he’s causing unnecessary issues,” you ask a higher up.

Everyone moves in a haste to get the guy off set and make sure everything is all good.

“Everyone take 30!”

You cup Mat’s cheeks and stare into his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I am now,” he whispers, pulling you into a chaste kiss that isn’t enough for you.

He moves you to a secluded corner, crowding you into the wall with his muscled frame. Mat inhales a deep breath and looks around at your surroundings. Even though you’re both hidden, people can still be heard and partially seen.

Allowing his emotions to drive his actions, he pulls your lips to his by the back of your neck. Your hands eagerly hold onto his firm body. His tongue thrusts into your mouth, dominating yours as one of your legs comes up to wrap over his hips. You try to grind against him as you feel the wanton need for friction take over.

“Are you wet?” He asks against the shell of your ear, his lip dragging down the side of your face.

“Yes,” you respond, nodding your head just in case he doesn’t hear you.

“It’s all for you,” you state, pulling him into another kiss.

“Damn right. You’re my girl and you’re carrying my baby,” your boyfriend claims, a hand rubbing your small bump.

“Fuck me, Maty,” you whine and pull him impossibly closer to you. You don’t care if there is people around or if he fucks you into the wall. You just want his cock inside of you.

“Come with me,” he says, pulling you back to the most recent setup.

It’s a king size bed made up with cream colored bedding. It’s displayed for the next round of photos, but Mat would never have sex with you in an uncomfortable position- especially while you’re pregnant. So for now, the bed is yours and he’s about to take you on it.

You pull him into another kiss as he lays you down, your legs coming to wrap around his waist. Your boyfriend sits up on his knees, his hands reaching out to pull off your jeans and robe. You lay bare in front of him, feeling warmth cascade over you. He pulls down his own pants and underwear, leaning over you to caress your body with his lips.

“Who do you belong to?” He questions, lips right next to your ear and his fingers collecting your wetness.

“You,” you whine and rut your hips up into his hand, desperate to feel him fill you up.

“Who?” He teases, fisting himself before guiding his tip to your entrance.

“You,” you gasp as he slides into with an ease that’s only possible with being pregnant. When you get wet, you get wet.

“Oh my god,” you moan, hands gripping the sheets underneath you. The feeling of him sliding into you takes you to another planet.

“Look at you dripping for me,” he grunts, hands on your hips as he starts to fasten his pace.

He’s hard and heavy, snug between your wet walls. The thick head of his cock nudges deep inside of you, making you clench down on him.

“It’s all for you,” you moan and rut your hips up into his movements.

He cups your bouncing breasts, eliciting a squeal due to the sensitivity. Your arousal drips down his shaft, drawing Mat’s attention to where he’s splitting you open. Your pussy sucks him in and pulls away every shred of sanity he has left.

“Your pussy is mine,” he moans, pushing your legs as far into your chest as possible. He pounds into you, a thick finger coming down to circle your clit.

“All yours, baby,” you whine.

“You take my cock so well baby,” he praises you, words sweet but cocky.

His eyes are molten and you can feel the heat wash over you as he stares at you.

Whimpers and the squelching of wet skin hitting wet skin echo off the walls. You flutter around him, your greedy hands reach out to wherever you can reach. Your blunt nails dig into his skin, leaving angry red lines behind.

“I’m cumming,” you scream as you release around him.

Your entire body tenses up before the brunt of your orgasm crashes into you. Your body arches off the bed and full body chills work their way on your body.

“You’re so sexy carrying my baby. You enjoy being pumped with my cum, don’t you? I’m going to keep fucking you until you’re dripping with my cum,” he heaves out through his labored breathing.

His hips snap into yours and you can feel him pulse inside of you. Thick ropes of cum paint your walls as he stills his movements and then he pulls out to spurt the rest on your mound. His abdomen twitches, his own orgasm crashing into him with a heavy force. Sweat drips down his pretty face and his curls stick to his forehead.

As he catches his breath, he watches his release spill out of your spent hole. It’s a sight he’ll never get over, especially how you flutter around nothing because you miss the feeling of being full.

“I love you,” you sigh, finally coming back down.

He rubs his cock against your pussy, making sure to collect every single drop of cum. Soon he’s fucking his cum back into you and you feel another knot form in your tummy.

“I love you, baby. Your fucking pussy was made for me,” he responds, eyes closed and head tossed back.

His hips slowly rock into you and before you know it, your walls are collapsing on him again. You tremble as you welcome the surge of electricity to hurdle through your body.

“Just like that, baby. I love you,” he whispers against your lips. He continues to slowly thrust into you, hips moving like honey.

You softly push at him before you can feel the effects of your overstimulated muscles.

He carefully rolls off of you, but pulls you back into his side. He caresses your body with gentle hands- a stark contrast to the roughness he just displayed.

“Are you okay?” He kisses your temple, moving your sweaty hair away from your face.

“Perfect,” you reply as you kiss on his neck.

You rub at his torso and watch how he reacts to your touch. There’s nothing more appealing than your man becoming weak at the tips of your fingers. It makes your core tighten and drip with arousal, or it could just be his release pooling out of you again.

“You’re so sexy, baby,” he rasps, mouth coming down to catch one of your nipples.

You lean into his affection, blood pumping with fervor all over again. Being pregnant has made you incredibly insatiable and with Mat being incredibly beautiful, you cannot get enough of him.

“We have like 5 minutes left,” you inform him.

He cocks an eyebrow up and smirks at you. He quickly moves down your body, spreading you open, and eats your pussy like the starved man he is.

5 minutes later, no one questions your unkempt hair or the content grins you both wear.

a/n: Sorry this has taken so long😭 I hope you all enjoy this!!