#its so fucking impressive in such a short space of time

[melodicmercury]

god i was looking through pictures and like. something that makes me so happy about qsmp is the fact that this time last year, none of these people knew each other. like. obviously some people knew others but across language barriers, most people didnt know one another.

and now, they're meeting up with each other and going to one anothers countries and experiencing everyones cultures and AGH qsmp is so insanely cool to me that its managed to do all this in not even a year, im so proud of quackity and everyone involved :((

[strawberrystepmom]

minors/ageless dni - i will hard block you. gojo and f!reader are married. never have i met a man whose dick gets harder over nonsense like this. | divider by cafekitsune, wc 656

“God, one of these days I’m going to kill you.”

The aggravated insult leaves your lips before you have time to stop it. Satoru stands behind you, lips pressed against the back of your neck, chuckling deep in his throat while you chop up the final details of dinner on the counter in front of you.

Awkward silence lingers and you place the knife down on the counter, bracing your hands on the edge of the countertop. What can you even say? “Sorry for threatening your life over a minor annoyance?” It seems excessive to ignore what you said but even more questionable to say it again, sharp kitchen knife discarded lest you do seem murderous.

Your husband finds your outburst positively enticing, the reward his pestering sought out to begin with finally dropped in his lap, your frustration nothing short of catnip to a cat.

Opening your mouth to speak, you’re stopped when he slides his hands next to yours, caging you against the corner with his arms. The sheer size of him is lost on you on a day to day basis. He only embraces that size on occasion anyway, usually to puff himself up like a peacock for its mate to impress you, and the reminder that his forearm alone is the size of your entire arm sends a chill down your spine. Resting his chin on your shoulder, he glances at you out of the side of his eye with a smirk.

“What was that?”

He’s taunting you; making fun of your little outburst. The gradual grating of your nerves has made you feisty and if Gojo is honest with himself, that’s how he likes you best on occasion. You turn your head to glance at him silently with wide eyes, his entire body keeping you pressed against the edge of the counter.

“And how were you planning on doing that?” Grinding his crotch into your lower back, you gasp feeling a burgeoning erection pressing into the zipper of his pants. “As you can see, you’re a little outmatched at least size wise, so tell me…how?”

The teasing continues, his lips finding the side of your neck to graze against the tender skin with a few nips and kisses, blood pulsing beneath your skin and heating your face and limbs and all too responsive core.

“I, uh, I wasn’t.” Your answer is weakly whispered, the lip of the counter now digging into the space between your ribs and the bottom of your breasts. “I wasn’t going to do anything.”

Another predatory chuckle is pressed against your neck, his hands sliding up your arms and down your sides, settling on your hips. That burgeoning erection is now full of life, rubbed between the cheeks of your clothed ass, the fabric between your bodies providing delicious friction to ignite the fire between you.

“I know. There isn’t anything you can do to hurt me.” Another drag of his lips up your neck, toward your throat as he speaks. “But there is plenty I could do to hurt you.”

The innuendo laced in his words keeps them light despite the intensity in his eyes that are still locked on your face, one of his hands sliding off of your hip to smack your ass. The touch stings even through the fabric covering it and you hiss in response, arching your back into his chest. He kisses your jaw and chin and forehead, pulling your head backward toward him.

“Say it again?”

You giggle, lips slick with his saliva and your own.

“I’m going to kill you.”

He groans and ruts into your back again, rolling his eyes back in his head. Those impressively large arms hold you in place, his shoulders and chest broad against the back of you, and you know that the only way he’ll be hurting you tonight is going to be by fucking you until you are limping in the morning.

[burstinn]

brother, brother. since you wrote the one for the very tall male reader, up to do one about a short guy who’s built as a bulk? champ’ll be like 5’6 but able to lift a man Ghost’s size

the guys teasing him about it but then he just challenges them and BOOM super strength

slight nsfw if possible, please, it’s 03:42am and I don’t want blue balls :(

dk mate just a thought, sorry for bothering

SHORT READER, STRONG AS FUCK THO-

((Headcanons))

People mentioned: Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Alex, Farah, Rudy, Alejandro.

Warning: slight nsfw that's it, I got lazy with Farah bbg Farah and Ale and Rudy.. AUGHH

Note:Readers height is not mentioned.. So just think of reader just shorter than the boys.

And this is only for the 141 team and associates hcs

No Kortac but will be adding the Mexican special forces I.e Alejandro, ++++

Hope you don't mind-

You have trained hard though you were shorter than most of your colleagues you were just as strong as them maybe even more.

Which caught the attention of the wild renowned John Price. When he saw you with your team during a mission and watched how you worked well, you could get into small spaces and could take out just as much men.

You were swift and efficient at your job and when he offered you to work for 141, you spent no time to think and immediately agreed.. I mean like YOU in the 141?!? With the high leagues?!? You wouldn't even pass up the chance!

PRICE

-Already impressed when he first saw you, he swiftly went to speak too laswell about you.

-Not to say she wasn't impressed as well though

-So you got an offer on the spot after your mission. But Price did give you time to think about it

-When you said yes he simply nodded his head an said "Can't wait to have you be part of the team"

-He gave you time to change your mind, pack up, say goodbye to your former teammates and superiors before hopping on the heli and flying off to your new team. Excited and nervous.

-When you hopped off the Heli a hop in your step as you approach the highly revered team. Price immediately walks up beside you patting you in your back and pushing you forward.

-Happily letting you introduce yourself.

- He knows how strong you can be he's just waiting for you to finally show your potential so the team can see why he let you join the team

GHOST

-He immediately frowned under his mask.. There's no way.. Well it's not that he's very judgy with recruits... But.. Goddamn you were short.. Hell shorter than Gaz.

-But he shook off those thoughts there must be a real good reason Price chose you.

-And he won't doubt his captains choice.

- Don't judge a book by its cover or something

- When you got around base, meeting everyone getting comfortable. He comfortable with you as well you're a neat guy.

- Though when it came to training. He saw how you worked.. Like shit you broke the punching bag for fucks sake. No one was expecting that not really, so now Ghost's got really interested in seeing you train.

- When people asked you and Ghost to spar with each other he is hesitant. I mean look at you and look at him. You breaking the punching was not expected yes, but people break shit all the time.

- Thinks he could easily beat you. Worst case he would probably break something of you

- You actually seem to encourage him to fight with you until he says yes.

- Eventually said yes and quickly tried to take you down before you roll under him and lift the fuck out him and throwing him.

- face under mask went like 😨😦😐🤨

- Yoo? Tried to tackle you fails miserably now your on top of him. Sitting down on his neck cuz 😏😏 Your holding his hands on top of his head too BECAUSE RAAAAAAA

- " You're going easy on me lieutenant.."

- Going easy on you huh? YOU WANNA KNOW WHERE ELSE HE WON'T GO EASY ON YOU?!?

GWHWBWBSNSJWAAAHAHAHAHA.

SOAP

-He furrows his brow, eyes really wide when he saw you.

-Then as if there was no more other thought in his head.. He just walked up to you and picked you up.. Like a cat.

-Earning him a smack on his head from Price then Ghost. He puts you down after that. Saying a short sorry.

-He gave you a small smile. Though small doubts trickled in his thoughts. He brushed it off. You looked cute anyway not like he would pass up another cute guy that atleast won't hide their face 😒😒. Ehem ehem..

-So when you got comfortable around base he swiftly started chatting you up. Pleasantly having a nice conversation as always with you.

- He likes picking you up like a cat

- when you can't reach something, he'd pull you up to his shoulders so you can reach it

- Gets infatuated with you.. Thinks you're so cute.

- Height Jokes

- When you called him over to see how you pull up weights. Putting fucking 4 HEAVY ASS weights on each side. And you FUCKING LIFT IT

- He got so hard it's unbelievable.

GAZ

- Oh.. Uh?

- 🤨

- He thinks you're cool.. Non chalant about your height.

- He would bully you sometimes.. But it's all no harm.

-Height Jokes

- Would keep stuff out of your reach he thinks its funny, except for the part where you kicked him straight in the balls.

- One day he did that again keeping something out of your reach dangling it over your head..

-You suddenly picked him up. It made him scream and he waddled in your arms and fell off.

- Falling in his ass. HOW DID YOU CARRY HIM? LOOK AT YOU!! HOW'D YOU DO THAT??

- He opened his mouth to idk.. Scold you. Asked you how you carried him..

- Then he shut himself up when you carried him princess wedding style and moving him while looking down at your stuff finding wherever he fell your stuff.

- Blushing hee hee a little princess being carried

- You eventually set him down and he silently walked away

- Would do it again more frequently.. He just wants to be carried wedding style again.

ALEX KELLER

- Huh? 🤨

- Confuckled

- Talked to Price about you.. Asking questions then finally confirmed that you are part of 141

- Thinks of you like a small lost child sometimes

- If he sees you walking around base has to do a double take then remembers it's you.

- You're short he sometimes forgets to look down too see you. It's not like you're that short.. It's just he keeps his head up since the team is yknow... Tall.. Well taller than you.

- one day he got mad because " you weren't there" when he was looking for you.. Even though you were literally near him.

- So you reached over and grabbed his collar to pull him down. He got shocked and tried to pull away..

- But goddamn you were holding his collar like a fuckin' champ.

- Blood immediately pumps to his face.. And pumps somewhere down there YK YKKKK! ! ! WAAHAHAHAHHA

FARAH

-Bro is an inch taller than her

- Side eyes you for a moment before nodding her head to herself.. She knows you're strong but she still judging you tho

- Calls you gay.

- Plays with your cheeks.. Stress reliever face cheeks. You're the easiest to reach anyway

- She did nun wrong to you really.. She just saw how you beat everyones asses literally

- like?? Huuh?

- Wants to be like you too. Small but strong asfuck

- Not like she's not like that anyway

- Strong woman real real

- Slay

- Just gives you a small smile everytime she sees you.. Just impressed..

ALEJANDRO

- Thinks you look like a child. Even asked about if you were a child.

- Also doesn't see you sometimes.. Especially when there are other taller people in the room probably covering you from his line of vision.

- Spanish word for small, tiny, mini, short, Gremlin... Yeah..

- If he's upset with you and you get the fucking balls to turn your body away from him. Hell if you even think to walk away

- He grabs you by the back of your shirt/ collar. And turns you to face him. Close so you can see how upset he is by you.

- You even dare to give him a scowl.. Oh my god.. He'd either want to slam you on the floor or wall. Maybe scream in Spanish on you.

- May or may not still be angry with you. Or he let's you run off because he doesn't want to deal with you.

- ..... (make up sex..)

RUDY

- Treats you like a child even though he knows you aren't

- Asks you if you're okay if you even graze a shoulder, would put a hand on your head and ruffles it

- Also Spanish nickname for small... Bla bla bla

- Sometimes he picks you up and carries you around on his shoulder. Even with your protests, telling him how it's so damn embarrassing.

- it is but he don't care.. He thinks it's funny.

- Then if you turn the tables spinning him around with your legs. And flipping him over making him hit his head on the floor.

- Audible groan.. And looks at you like 😧🙁☹️

-Why'd you do that? ☹️☹️ kinda face

- Then Wait how'd you do that? 🤨🤨 face

- Now you show him your amazing ass Strength even though you're small asfuck

[buckets-and-trees]

"You are nothing but a toy for me to fuck, little lamb. Now open your mouth for me, or I will break your jaw opening it myself."

👀👀👀

Well... as you know, this escalated quickly.

Title: Sacrificial Fandom: MCU Characters/Pairings: Minotaur!Bucky x Botanist!Female!Reader Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: If it seems too good to be true, it always is. Always. Too bad you had to go to the remote jungles of South America to learn that lesson.

Content/Concept Warnings: DARK, lulled into a trap, human sacrifice, dubious consent/fuck or die, public sex/exhibitionism, size kink, monster fucking, face fucking/oral male receiving, vaginal fingering/fisting, breast worship, rough fucking, possessive/pet, praise kink, dirty talk, cum play, marking, cream pie, choking

Additional Notes: Thoty time with @rookthorne... she's only responsible for enabling me when my monster thirst reared its head. Wicked entry for @buckybarnesevents WEEK ONE of Hot Bucky Summer: "What Should I Wear?" and my third square of @buckybarnesbingo K1 "Fuck or Die."

When you told your friends, family, and former colleagues about the research grant and fellowship you had been awarded in the weeks leading up to your departure that it was too perfect, clearly somewhere deep in your bones you had known.

Eighty thousand dollars a year for three years, travel covered, visa approved, fully furnished accommodations provided, and a book deal for the discoveries and research studying flora in a largely undocumented and remote part of the jungle on another continent.

No scientist got a deal like that.

The only downside was the isolation of the location. They had electricity and running water, but you would only be able to go into town for internet every few weeks.

But the part of you that had grown up watching Indiana Jones, Jurassic Park, LOST, and the deep space missions of Star Trek who had far too many plants in your apartment and in your tiny office at the university had beat back that downside. It was only three years, and after living through the strange isolation of the pandemic, you knew you could manage this where you wouldn’t be isolated from people, just for short stints from your old life.

And though you had good pieces and good people in your life, you were desperate to get away from the suffocating societal expectations you felt like you weren’t living up to while so many others around you were – marriage, kids, white picket fences, career accomplishments, tenured professorships, promotions, raises, overnight influencers, travel vloggers.

This was something no one you knew had ever done.

Everyone raved about the adventure ahead of you.

Everyone had been impressed.

You had conquered in the accomplishments department with this for the year, no question. Your older sister with her third child on the way and your younger brother and his Premiere League football contract could wallow in your shadow.

This was a golden opportunity for a research botanist still in the early years of their career.

Kneeling on the ground in the middle of the jungle with your hands folded in your lap, head bowed, surrounded by a village of people who all should have known better than to follow ancient superstitions, with a dozen or more guns trained on you in nothing more than lingerie, you were living a nightmare.

All of it had been a baited trap.

No one would even question you falling off the grid before it was too late, and even if they did, these villagers could say one day you never came back from the jungle.

And it would be true.

One afternoon and evening, a good dinner, a sleep you’d yearned for thinking it was the jet lag, and then you’d awoken screaming as the first strip of wax had been ripped from your skin to discover you were naked with a half dozen people attending to all aspects of your grooming, preparing you to be their human sacrifice for the beast that lived in the jungle.

You were past the crying and pleading.

The no WIFI had been a lie, too.

Everyone in this small village looked and acted like they lived in the present day except for this one thing.

The belief that if they did not provide the beast his human sacrifice that they would not survive his terror.

“Then why don’t you just leave?” you had implored.

“This is our home, our loved ones are here, our ancestors are part of this place, and,” their leader and the head of the research foundation paused – almost faltered before continuing to explain, “the sacrifice of one stranger will guarantee us safety for many, many years.”

Everyone else had been instructed not to speak or listen to you from that point on in the preparations.

Nails trimmed, buffed, shined. Luxurious oil that smelled delicate and heavenly rubbed over every inch of your skin from the neck down. Hair partially braided to stay out of your face with the rest left natural. Color applied to your lips. They didn’t bother with eye makeup. No jewelry.

You had been wrapped up in a linen garment that was not quite a robe but not quite a coat to be transported to the ruins of an old stone dais in the thick of the jungle but deprived of it and then pushed onto the sacrificial area, left only in the sapphire silk of a bra and panties delicately lined with lace.

After hours being poked, prodded, and prepared by strangers in a strange land in a state of dread and disbelief, you thought you were numb.

You had endured too much to think you were hallucinating, but that you now all waited illuminated by literal torches with fire made this seem almost like a season of Survivor gone horribly wrong.

But then you heard the hushed wave of whispers at the rustle and rumble of something approaching through the thick vegetation of the jungle and adrenaline shot through your veins. It didn’t inspire fight or flight. You were frozen, fixated on the beast that would finally appear and seal your fate any moment now.

It made no attempt at arriving quietly, and when it finally appeared, there were collective gasps and cries from the people gathered to watch the sacrifice, though no sound fell from your lips.

The reaction was more than warranted, and a whisper of a thought flashed through your head that you were surprised no one had screamed. Maybe they were too terrified to scream, worried they would draw the beast’s attention. You wanted to scream, but your chest was gripped in fear.

The thick, furry legs of a bull, down to the cloven hooves, and a girthy tail with a tuft of dark hair at the end, swishing slightly as he walked. There was a loincloth tied at his waist that – rather than providing modesty – inspired anyone whose gaze lingered there to imagine the bulge nudging conspicuously beneath. Not that anyone’s gaze would linger there for long, for the rest of him was altogether imposing. Only the tallest of the villagers might hope to measure up to the base of his sternum – the sternum that anchored the torso of a man with shoulders more than twice the width of a human. Skin golden from the sun stretched over muscles that burst and rippled over his chest and shoulders, extending down his arms. You could see a litany of angry scars littered up and down his left arm.

Great bull’s horns rose and curled out of his head, possibly longer than your own arms. He had a mane of long, glossy but mostly unruly brown hair, with a couple of braids, that fell past his shoulders. Though the rest of his physique inspired fear, the true terror was perhaps the face of this man beast – it was terrifyingly handsome. Strong jaw, stubbled beard, a crease between his brows, and piercing blue eyes. His expression was drawn into an ominous grin.

He was in no rush as he walked into the ring of the villagers.

“Weapons down,” he growled.

There was almost no hesitation – their purpose had been to keep you in place anyway. Though the fear in the air was palpable, the tone of it seemed to be turning to some sort of reverent fear now for everyone else.

What inspired this unquestioned obedience from an entire people? People you’d seen with smart phones as abundantly among them as any other place on earth, though you’d been advised to shut yours down and leave it behind since it would be of next to no use to you in the jungle. They were right – but had left out the true reason and made it even more believable for you to seem only cut off to those back home, not lost and gone forever.

His enormous legs took the step easily up onto the dais, and his eyes were now fixed only on you. He stopped at the foot of the altar where you were presented for him.

“Well done,” this was meant for the people and their leader.

Then he reached out and the fingers of his large hands traced the strap over your left shoulder, then along your jaw, tilting your chin to look straight up at him. “And your choice is set?”

“My – my choice?” your voice cracked, but you felt it was a miracle you even found it.

Your confusion must have been evident, as his eyes flashed with anger and her rounded on the man who had facilitated all of this. “You did not tell her anything, did you?”

“I thought it best if –“

“It is not your job to think. The thoughtlessness of your people is why we’re here at all,” he snarled. Then he turned back to you.

“No time for stories now. I’m a minotaur called Bucky; a lost soldier cursed long ago to this state. Suffice it to say II must be satiated or the village will be subjected to bloodshed and desolation in the face of my wrath. They’ve chosen you, but you can choose your fate: fuck or die. I’ll take your throat, or I’ll cut it and drink your blood in front of everyone.”

Your chest heaved in trepidation. “How is that a choice?”

“Is it not clear to you?”

“Have others chosen death?”

He nodded. “Or they refused to choose.”

You opened your mouth then closed it again.

“Do you wish to die?”

You thought your tears were spent, but you could feel them welling in your eyes. “No.”

“Then claim your choice.”

You took a shaky breath.

“Say it!” he barked.

You flinched, but managed to spit out, “Fuck.”

“Perfect. Open up.”

“In front of everyone?” your voice was barely above a whisper.

He nodded. “They will remember and mark this sacrifice. It will be the reason they continue to breathe.”

You spread your knees a part so you were still kneeling and sitting back on your heels but his to take like this.

“That’s nice but not what I meant.” He tugged his loincloth and dropped it to the ground. You whimpered, afraid of the enormous size of his cock and ashamed at the lick of heat that flared in your core at the sight of him. He leaned down closer, put a hand at the back of your neck, and slapped the side of your face with his rigid length. “You are nothing but a toy for me to fuck, little lamb. Now open your mouth for me, or I will break your jaw opening it myself.”

This drew a handful of muted gasps from the onlookers. You saw a spark of something new in his eyes at this reaction.

He was pleased at their reaction.

You dropped your mouth open for him, nervous knowing you could not take all of him, embarrassed to be on such display in front of these strangers, but wanting to please him.

Wait, you thought, wanting to please him?

He shoved his cock into your wet mouth, shoving any other thoughts immediately out.

“Suck.”

You did.

“Just like that,” he said. The hand on your neck moved up to cradle and command the back of your head. He slowly began to fuck your mouth but with only a small motion, encouraging you to continue sucking just that first bit of cock as it was in your mouth. He still was in no rush. It felt like a power play – not wanting to show impatience or lack of restraint in the onset of this sacrificial claiming.

As he continued to speak now, his voice was low, intended for you. “Get ready for more.”

You looked up at him and tried to nod your head ever so slightly. He smirked, then he brought his other hand up under your jaw and to your throat, wanting to feel himself using you. He groaned and briefly closed his eyes. His tip hit the back of your mouth, and you spluttered. He pulled out slightly, giving you half a moment to recover, then forced the point again, holding himself there while you adjusted. He opened his eyes again, locking back onto yours, and a thrill of terror shot through you again. That was only the preliminary.

Now he would truly begin.

That look was all you got. Keeping the one hand at your throat, the provided the anchor to begin truly fucking your throat, not in a rush, but he picked up the pace. You placed your hands on his thighs to steady yourself. Your muscles initially gagged in protest, but he persisted, stroking your throat with his fingers as well, coaxing you to relax. Tears spilled down your cheeks. You concentrated on breathing through your nose and the steady gaze he kept trained on you. Soon you were taking more of him than you thought you could. He quickened his thrusts into your mouth. Your fingers stretched into the fur on his hips, mewling as he continued to use your mouth.

A few short grunts with the last thrusts were the only hint before he came, shooting his hot spend in your mouth with an unrestrained howl that shook the crowd to their core. There was no way for you to swallow everything, but, if anything, seeing his cum spilling down your chin made him grin.

Then he raised his head to address the villagers. “Remember that you gave this human to me. I will do with her as I please, and you will never see her again. Hope that you never see me again in your lifetime,” his voice carried, his power unquestioned in the clearing. “If you are lucky, the children you left home today will not see me in their lifetimes either. All of you go now. What happens next is not for your eyes.”

They followed his instructions without hesitation, all of them eager to be gone from this cursed place and their collective and ignored shame.

They left the torches – no desire for a souvenir.

And now you were alone with him, the light of the flames flickering over every inch of your exposed skin – which was almost all your skin, the lingerie only for show.

With the hand that was still anchored at the back of your head, he roughly angled you up sharply to look directly up at him, and tipping his own head forward he loomed in all his height above you, a truly searing heat in this look. “I meant what I said: you are mine, and I will never allow those vile villagers to see you again. You’re mine to do with as I please.”

He stooped down to claim your mouth in a kiss. His large thumb brushed the remaining spend from your chin and then moved down your throat to brush it over your collar bone, rubbing it in. He pushed his tongue between your lips, and you opened your mouth for him again. His tongue was too big for your mouth, too, but the more he subjected your body to the largeness of his being, the more you seemed to seep into him. He used his tongue to wrap around and tangle with yours, stroking it with his, now and then slipping it further down your throat, teasing, choking, mimicking the actions of his cock not long before.

When you were truly gasping, he chuckled darkly and pulled away, you leaned forward, lips chasing his, and then you shook your head, trying to restore some logic.

Failing.

Bucky easily tore away your bra with his brute strength. “Lay back for me, lamb.”

You shifted, legs aching from resting on them in that kneeling position for far too long. He noted the care you took in moving your limbs and rubbed the muscles up and down a few times. Then he pulled your hips to the end of the alter, flush against his cock, which was already semi-hard again. You hummed as he pushed against your still-clothed core.

His hands moved from your thighs up your sides, stoking the desire surging through your body, moving up your waist, thumbs brushing up against the underswell of your breasts, then flicking over the nipples, bringing them to little peaks before diving down to lave one of them with his tongue and suck, rolling, twisting, and pinching the other with his hand. Then he moved his mouth, and as he latched on to the other nipple, his hands worked the lace and silk panties off your hips and down your legs before tossing them away. He rutted up against you again, slow but persistent pressure against your core again, but now with no barrier he felt your arousal slicking up your entrance. When you began working your hips against him, seeking more friction, fisting your hands into his hair, he moved a hand between your legs, stroking over your labia and pushing one of his fingers right into your cunt, making you keen immediately from the force and fullness.

“Going to ruin you, lamb, but don’t want to hurt you.” He was brutal, but only because he was a monster by nature, not because he was heartless. “Gotta work your tiny pussy open so you can take me like you were meant to.”

As before, he was patient, making up for the impatience mounting inside you as he worked his fingers into you, circling, questing, stretching, twisting. When he pushed three fingers in he could tell it was a lot, but he knew he needed you to easily receive four if he was going to get to fuck you on his cock the way he wanted. All through it, he was relentless in overwhelming you in other ways, continuing to worship your breasts, but also murmuring praises against your skin, and threatening and promising filthy things that you couldn’t even respond to.

When you were thoroughly primed, aching for him, a mess with tears and begging for him, he finally realigned his hips between your legs, forcing your thighs wide to accommodate him. He bumped the head of his cock against your throbbing clit a couple of times, making your whimper repeatedly. You were lost as you lay splayed out above him, eyes tightly shut, hands reaching for him, desperately pleading his name over and over. He bent down to you again, relishing the feel of your breasts brushing against his chest for one more moment before sinking his cock into your cunt with a brutal thrust, pushing clear to the hilt, making you scream. It was wicked, and he knew it, but also knew how much he had worked up your body and your mind, and he was rewarded as you arched beneath him, and wrapped your arms around his neck, adjusted your hips, and then rocked against him, clearly seeking more.

Holding you at the precipice of pleasure for so long meant you crashed into your first orgasm very quickly as he pushed his cock in and out of your, “tight heat, little lamb, taking me so well,” he cooed. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, shuddering as he fucked your through it, groaning at the feel of your walls around him. “No one else will ever have this cunt now,” he vowed. “You’re mine.”

“Mine,” you echoed without thinking, not knowing it was exactly how he wanted his pet to feel about him. He pushed you over the edge into another orgasm and then spilled his hot seed inside you not long after. You were beyond spent, at that point, and less than a minute after he scooped you up, tucking your legs around his waist, you dropped out of consciousness, and went totally limp. He kissed the top of your head, then shifted you to sling you over his shoulder for the trek to his lair – your home. He’d secure you there, then go back to the get the wooden crate of the belongings you had shipped ahead of you and the bag you had traveled with – both were supposed to be deposited and waiting in a cave, the final part of his negotiations for acquiring his new human from that village and their foolish leader. Humans were delicate creatures with peculiar needs, after all, and he was determined to keep you content and fucked out until you were devoted to staying with him until the end of your days.

But the last hour had exceeded even his own expectations. He suspected he wouldn’t have to try very hard to keep his little lamb.

NEXT PART: Do You Remember

"haunting thoughts" on Sacrificial for the Dark Forest Fest

brief insight into what reader's life is like now

physical appearance of Minotaur!Bucky

easy and challenging parts of writing the fic

the writing of the story from concept to completion in one night

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[the-moon-files]

Wait, quick idea! Twilight looks like the only hylian in his village because everyone else has round ears, so what if he wasn’t as surprised as the others to see their human companion so resilient, but still fairly impressed because of the fact that most if not all people in his village don’t put themselves in as drastic situations as the reader? Or is this just humans from our world?

get out of my head lmao /lh - you, me, and wayfayrr are actually the same person on diff accounts LMAO

im of the belief that (blame @wayfayrr, my beloved) that he knows of humans bc of some in his village but yeah, just not the type of human in drastic situations

(ALSO they wrote me a fun, long, glorious, male reader human space orc au fic for winning their raffle a bit ago, and it brings up their headcanon abt this and i Adore It actually, check it out here pls if u wanna know🤲)

(also if u see this wayfayrr, sorry for the ping, also should i be calling u moss? or wayfayrr?? idk which, i hope thats even ok to ask 😭 i assumed u would call my ass Moon)

Moon: Male-Masc Reader (he/him)

Orbit: short headcanons-ish, rambling mostly

Stars: Twilight Princess Link (Twi/Twilight), mentions of other Links

Comets & Meteors: CWs: none known, & TWs: none known.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

to reiterate what i said up there, in case u skipped it for the bullet points,

i like the headcanon he knows humans, knows some of their quirks, and how they were the first ppl the other hylian villagers called on to help stuck cows or downed wagons, lots of heavy lifting stuff

but he really hasnt seen the extent of real humans, bc the humans who were in Ordon, well, they lived in hylian society,

why would they need the adrenaline to lift a car when hylians have set up whole tools and systems in all their towns to help lift just a full bucket of water out of the well??

not to mention, i think all the humans in his village were older adults? like at least not the age theyd be doing things like parkour or going to any trampoline parks type of age,

id imagine its more like stories talked about amongst hylians how hard humans can go, and even the humans themselves talked abt things like,

“well compared to u hylians, we have stomachs made of molten lava to you guys really, but we never have to use it, bc u know hylian food works just fine”

when Twi asked they would say stuff like that, but as soon as he saw ur human ass just picking wildflowers and berries off the side of the road to snack on? even random grasses/vines at some point (kudzu)?? easily eating Wild’s Dubious Food that's DEFINITELY got monster parts in it???! gnawing on the bone of a cucco and it just breaks??!!! and you look surprised too, thank fuck finally a normal reaction from u- oh my goddesses u were just curious (damn the elders were right abt human curiosity too) **and are now sucking out the marrow and eating the bone-!!!!!!!!!!!!

Twilight’s perspective of you is actually the equivalent of like, reading stories about vampires all ur life, then this new friend you made starts to get allergic to garlic, crave blood, has crazy strength and advanced senses, etc

and he’s just watching those honest-to-Hylia human mythological feats play out in real time in front of him, like he’s the only self-aware character in the story that immediately clocks the really obvious vampire as a vampire lmao

is the first to either 1. start choking on his laugh as he theoretically knows ur about to jump on the back of a lynel/hinox to ride it around and watch as the others come to the same conclusion OR 2. try to Stop you from jumping on said big monster in an attempt to ride it around bc he gets used to ur human BS quicker than the others and can see it coming a mile away now lol

very much so this meme:

(ur welcome i made it myself <3)

anyway id love to rant abt this dynamic

abt both Twi’s shock at you eating peppers like a god has come down from the sky to prove their immortality,

but also poor rancher esstientally humansitting you too lmao

the Chain/Time/Wars absolutely put him down as the resident human expert like: “ok he just drank like, 5? No- Four stop him from drinking more at least- (dual sighs). okay, 6 stamina potions, will that kill him??”

Twilight, saviour of Hyrule, of the Twili, Link from Twilight Princess himself,

has to keep a record book of all the new shit he’s heard/learned about humans in Ordon, what he has actively learned abt ur ass just fucking around and finding out, and the few bread crumbs of information u give him abt ur species

(that rlly just come off as kind of cryptid statements abt u/humanity, or don't apply in this scenario bc ur only comparison is Earth Rules, which honestly scare every single fucking one of them in the same way as walking on Ganon’s lawn or something, like straight up view ur home planet as enemy territory, the Amazon jungle, the Hyrule wilds if you will-)

Twilight also gets involuntarily volunteered for human-sitting duty too

tbh the only person Not allowed on human-sitting duty, when u guys go new areas esp, is Wild/Hyrule

you’d tell him you wanna get inside the guardian robot to operate it and ride it around and he’d probably be in shock you even fathomed something like that, yet also now EXTREMELY intrigued to watch it play out

(they’re both more of a “u wanna jump off a cliff?? that's actually crazy, wait for me please.” he seems to think he can somehow protect you if he joins you? its worked sometimes to be fair to him ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ just not really conveniently when the rest of the Chain are around lmao)

☆

i live btw, ive been writing/updating fics along with life updates (moving states/new job/online class) so a few asks will hopefully be answered over here in the next 2ish weeks

no promises, my life is kinda girlbossing at the moment too close to the sun and i am Nervous abt disappointing u guys

i already feel like im disappointing my other blog bc i haven't posted in forever bc im writing a fic instead of asks during any free time i dedicate to writing for it so :/

pls excuse my super slowness like a package ur waiting for in the mail or smth type of slow

AGAIN thanks for the ask!! i hope this was at least entertaining to read as some addon to what u said, you guys have gotta check out some of wayfayrr’s stuff if ur into this, bc they're the only other place i can think of that's talked abt humans not just being the same as hylians

have a great week!!

Peace out hugs and chaos,

🌙

[killerpancakeburger]

Dating Soap HCS: (Combatant!Reader)

A/N: Shoving in there all the thoughts I've had about him and couldn't squeeze into my current fic ideas.

When I say Combatant!Reader, I mean they can fight/kill/use a gun but aren't part of the Task Force nor a soldier.

SFW:

Two words: power couple. You guys could take on the world if you wanted, so good for the world that you’re part of the good guys.

Soap is one of those freaks who’s out of bed by 6 a.m on his days off and starts the day with a jog. He can’t help it, he’s got energy to spare and is addicted to the endorphin he gets from it. Before meeting him you’d have said that a partner up so early was a pain; but how could you be mad at him when he takes such care to not wake you up, and has coffee and a mouth-watering breakfast ready when you emerge? You enter the kitchen where he rewards you with the luscious view of his sculpted body covered in sweat, having already shed his shirt, then sneaks an arm around your shoulders to press an adoring kiss against your temple, along with a “G’morning, Bonnie.” before heading to the shower.

Sometimes you show up unannounced on base - well not completely unannounced cause you’d get shot -, barge into the sparring room like you own the place - and considering the company you keep, you might as well -, and hit all its occupants with a “What’s up losers?”. Before anyone else can react, Soap’s already leaping over the ring’s ropes and running to you, hugging you with so much enthusiasm that your feet leave the ground. “Ye didnae say ye were comin’!” His voice booms with unadulterated joy. “Yeah, that’s called a surprise MacTavish. Now let go of me, you stink.” He throws you a cocky, challenging smirk at that: “Make me.” His voice is way lower, intended for your ears only this time. The glint in his eyes, as he’s staring right into yours, is just as provocative as his smile. You retort with your own. “I could, but I would hate to humiliate you in front of the new recruits, Sergeant.” Cue Ghost, joining you by walking like a civilised human being, and already sick of your flirting. “If you two are done makin’ a spectacle of yourselves, we could have a smoke outside.” There’s no real heat to his words though.

During some evenings at the base when Ghost snuck up God only knows where, Soap, Gaz and you compete to see who can do the best impression of the Lieutenant. Soap’s in the lead with the advantage to be the one having exchanged the most words with Simon, but you’re confident you can turn it around.

Will touch you all the fucking time (except on missions), whether it’s an arm around your shoulder, or your waist, or a hand in the back pocket of your pants, or holding your hand. Will restrain himself if you’re against it but if he can’t cuddle in private he will be sad.

No PDA on missions, but he will definitely flirt over coms. You’re both skilled enough that you can afford to fuck around a bit while still doing your job expertly.

Talking about flirting, he is smooth… until the other person reciprocates. Then he needs a moment to get back in the saddle after short-circuiting. 

Fervently loyal. If someone comes onto him, he will reject them frankly. And if they dare to bad-mouth you, they’re getting an earful from him.

The rare fights you have are intense but brief. He always wants to apologise as soon as possible afterwards but he gives you your space if you need it. 

You patch each other up after missions. One day you pore over each other’s scars during a lazy morning in bed, asking how the other got them.

He loooves seeing you put assholes in their place. He’s so fucking proud and aroused. Tend to snap at them faster than you though. And if you’re not in the mood to fight, he will gladly take over. “You know I can fight. Pleaaase let me fight”

Your #1 supporter. Will Smith showing off his wife.meme. He admires you a lot. Not as much as Ghost, sure, but that’s still a lot. If you wanna try new things, especially thrills inducing ones like canyoning or bungee jumping, or push back your own limits in the gym or in combat prowess, he’s always down and so, so enthusiastic. First because he’s so thrilled to share these with you, and second because he relishes in seeing you become a better version of yourself and/or the person you wanna be.

He’s proud of his job and will rant about it for hours if you ask about it. Especially explosions. Your idea of a romantic evening is taking in the sunset with a couple of explosions fireworks. 

He’s a freaking sunshine and sometimes the light feels blinding. You worry you’re bringing him down. He has such an optimistic outlook on life, and you… simply don’t. You also fear that one day he realises he’s too good for you, whether it’s in terms of looks, personality, morals, or mental resilience… he’s always quick to appease your worries though. 

Not getting along with the TF would be a deal breaker. Not that he’s expecting you to become BFF with Ghost or anything, that role is already taken by him

Will not hesitate to use his sad puppy eyes on you. Or even pout. To get what he wants.

He demands a kiss for good luck before every mission, a bit lOUDLY, which makes Ghost rolls his eyes and Gaz makes gagging sounds. Price is just like "Lord Give Me Patience".

NSFW:

Don’t be afraid to (wo)manhandle him: pulling his hair, slamming him against a wall, grabbing his jaw… that will make him moan more often than not. 

Call him a good/pretty boy, praise him, tease him, make him beg… He will tease back to challenge you but it just means you should keep going.

He’s a good soldier, he follows orders well. Do with that what you will.

Endless stamina. Will wear you out first every time.

Gets off when he gets you off.

Did I mention that he’s terribly competitive? Will ask you what’s the highest number of orgasms you had in one night and will immediately try to beat that record. 

If he doesn't make you laugh at least once during the do, he has FailedTM 😔

[sorceresssundries]

Every Shade of Sunlight

This is a BG3 anniversary gift for my friend @mercymaker <3

Pairing: Astarion/Maleane (m/f) - SFW

Word Count: 2k

Summary: It is the last night before the group go to face the elder brain, and Maleane takes Astarion to watch the sunset for possibly the final time.

"Darling, as much as I appreciate a little rough and tumble down a dirty alley, you’ve been dragging me through the city for quite a while now. Is there a specific dirty alley you had in mind? Or, did you just get sick of camp? Not that I blame you, my sweet. Gale has been particularly irritating this evening.” 

“Perhaps he's just trying to squeeze out as many words as possible in our last few hours together?” Maleane replied, her eyes scanning the shadows diligently.

Astarion sighed. “Sometimes, I’m glad he hasn’t decided to blow himself up. Other times, I regret not persuading him to do it sooner. He is frightfully repetitive.”

Maleane rolled her eyes, and could feel her lover’s greedy gaze on her as she strolled through the hidden alley which ran through the bowels of Grey Harbour. She was trying very hard not to be distracted; she had a careful, precise, time-sensitive plan. If Astarion didn’t stop brushing his hand over hers or making suggestive comments, she would definitely end up fucking him in a dirty alley. That wasn’t what she had planned... at least not right now.

“Aha!” She turned to him with a grin and pointed to a dank, well-hidden ladder that looked so rotted one step might turn it to mulch.

He looked highly unimpressed. “Unless that ladder leads to a cultist to kill and a heavy treasure chest to break into, I think I’ll stay down here.” he sneered.

“It leads somewhere much better than that. Trust me.”

He raised an eyebrow, sceptical. “Better than murder and treasure? This sounds like a trap.”

She grabbed the ladder with confidence despite its decrepit appearance. “You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

With a wary glance, Astarion followed her up the ladder, his usual swagger slightly tempered with caution. 

At the top, Maleane clambered onto a ledge and over a small railing to a tucked-away rooftop. The last light of the day bathed the space in a warm, golden glow, and the scent of blooming flowers filled the air. The rooftop was modest, nowhere near as spacious as Alfira and Lakrissa’s haven atop the Elfsong. This one was dingy, with weathered stone tiles underfoot and the faint remnants of old paint on the wall of the larger building that towered next to them. However, Maleane had done her best to breathe a little life into it.

A variety of plants, from hardy ferns to flowering vines, were strategically placed around the space, creating pockets of greenery and bursts of colour. Comfortable cushions, covered in bright but slightly faded fabrics, were scattered about, arranged on a couple of old wooden crates repurposed as makeshift seating. In one corner, a small wrought-iron table, a bit rusty but still sturdy, held a collection of candles in different shapes and sizes and a bottle of expensive wine

“This… this is unexpected.” Astarion turned to her, surprised.

“Don’t get too moony-eyed,” she teased. “I stole it all.”

“Well, then I'm even more impressed.”

“Come on. Sit.” Maleane gestured towards the makeshift bench while she poured out a glass of wine for them. 

Together they sat, and spoke, and sipped their wine. Maleane resting her head on her lover’s shoulder as they watched the sun set on their final day with parasites in their heads. Tomorrow, one way or another, Astarion would no longer be able to bask in the light he had become accustomed to. It pained her. 

The view from the rooftop was nothing short of spectacular. The Chionthar stretched out below, glowing with shades of gold and crimson. The sounds of the bustling city were muted, a low background hum—ambient sounds for the two lovers on a rooftop in the city they were trying to save. 

“As delightful as your company is, it feels like you’ve brought me here for a reason, my love. Or are you just feeling sentimental?”

“Show a little patience, you’ll see.”

“Darling, I was a slave for almost two hundred years. Patience is the only thing I've ever had.”

She nudged him with her elbow, and nodded her head back towards the sunset. “Watch.”

He sighed dramatically, then quieted, watching as the sun he loved almost as much as her began to sink below the horizon. The shimmer of yellow, soft and tired after a long day, was slowly being dragged away. Astarion stared at it with barely concealed longing, all his usual bluster and facade dropped. He observed the sunset the way one would watch their lover walk out the door for the final time.

Maleane, however, only watched him as light muted and the shadow of dusk fell over his face, turning his eyes from shining scarlet to a deeper maroon—so much deeper they could almost be mistaken for brown. His skin looked less pale, his fangs hidden beneath the straight line of his lips. He looked the way she imagined he did when he was alive.

She often wondered what he was like in those days, when he was young and human and fragile. Did he ever steal bottles of wine and sneak away to hidden rooftops in the city he lived and loved in? What did he look like, smell like, sound like? Maybe his words used to sound different slipping off a tongue that wasn’t silken and practiced. Perhaps his vowels were rounder, his accent softer, uncut by the sharp points of his teeth. 

Maybe he was an entirely different person, or perhaps he was exactly the same. Maleane would never know, and Astarion would never remember.

She grieved for the person he was before, loved him for who he was in this moment, and steeled herself to protect the person he would become. No one stayed the same; everyone was as changing as the seasons, and contained as many colours and streaks as the sunburst sky. Her heart ached as he mourned the death of the day, the final one he would possibly ever see. Then, his expression shifted. He looked confused.

Maleane smiled and tore her gaze from him to follow where his eyes were fixed.

Right there, in the day’s final moments, when only the very top of the sun was visible - it turned green. Just for a few magical, unexplainable moments, a vibrant, clear flash of the brightest emerald. And then, it was gone.

“Did you see that?” His disbelief reminded her of a child watching snow fall for the first time.

Maleane hummed in contentment and put her hand over his. “Sometimes, when the sky is clear and the weather is right, just in the final moments before the sun disappears - it turns green.”

“Why?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know, I'm sure there’s some long, boring explanation that Gale could tell us about. It’s supposed to be a sign of luck, a good omen.”

“How did you know it would happen?”

“I didn’t. I hoped.” She sighed as his cool thumb brushed over her knuckles. “I used to watch out for it when I was a child. Most people don’t even see it. They sit under the sun every day and never know all its colours. Lives are lived and days are long and no one stops to see the sun turn green.” His eyes are fixed upon her now, the sun long forgotten. “I wanted to show you every shade of sunlight. Gods knows how long it will be before you see it again.”

“If I ever do.” His voice was weaker than she had ever heard it. 

“You will.” Hers was made of iron.

They sat there for a while, the two of them, as the orange and purples and reds of the sunset stained sky melted away into inky blue. The light followed the sun below the line of the horizon, where it sat and patiently waited for tomorrow. Who knows what it would cast itself over the next time it appeared. 

Dawn could clutch at the burnt-out corpse of Baldur’s Gate in the morning like a grief-wrecked parent, and wake the birds to sing songs of sorrow. Or… it could raise its arms in celebration, light up the homes of the saved and slip through the stained glass of still-standing temples and cast colour across stone floors. Shimmering through the tears of grateful worshippers which would stain the feet of the Gods, making their worship look like diamonds.

The Gods didn’t deserve their tears. It would not be the Gods that saved them, Maleane thought bitterly. It would be up to her small group of misfits and outcasts. The chosen and the cast-aside. The faithless and the faithful. The tortured vampire and the lost girl from the woods.

No-one would thank Astarion. The gratitude of the morning sun would not reach him. He would slink, shadowed and unrewarded, once again back into the darkness. He would not be alone though, Maleane would make sure of that. 

“Have you ever been up here before?” Maleane asked, It was strange to imagine Astarion as a young man. Just one of the people she had seen settled and happy in the routine of their day in the city. It was a heartbreak to think about how she was so grateful to have found him, and yet the only reason he was in her life was because he had been killed, dragged back from death, and mistreated so poorly.

“Who knows darling.” He sighed. “I don’t remember much, only blurred faces and whispered names. I distanced myself too much to remember particular details. I don’t even know who I was, let alone where I've been.”

He took a long sip of his wine and became lost in clouded thoughts. 

“I’ve been a victim, and I've been a monster, and, ridiculously, some kind of hero. I don’t know who I really am, or which one I'll be when all this is over and I have to deal with normality” He pulled a face as though he'd just bitten something sour. 

“All of them.” She said, simply.  “You’re a person.” She touched his face, cool and perfect. Brushes her fingers down and along the chest that has no rise and fall to it. “Full of burnt orange, and flashes of scarlet, and a yellow so blinding it could be pure white. And also, in rare little moments right before darkness - flashes of green.”

“You’re very sweet.” He lifted her hand to kiss it  “Nothing at all like the angry little forest sprite I first pressed my blade to.” He teased, and flashed his pointy teeth in a genuine smile. 

“What can I say, turns out the threat of ceremorphosis, being thrown into a group of strangers, lifting curses, slaying dragons and becoming the partner of a vampire will change a girl.”

He gifted her with some of his sparkling laughter, a sound so sweet and imperfect a monster would never be able to make it. “Partner,” he said, clinking her wine glass with his own. “I like that.”

Their last peaceful moment was abruptly shattered by another shuddering quake from the elder brain, barely contained and thrumming with anxious, threatened energy, awaiting their arrival. 

“This was wonderful while it lasted, darling,” he sighed, rising and extending his hand to her. “But I guess nothing lasts forever.”

She gazed at him, pale and ethereal, bathed in fresh moonlight.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Maleane replied, as her fingers entwined with his. “Let’s wait and see.”

He kissed her then, beneath the warm blanket of dusk, with the fervour of a man gasping for air, for life, for her. She knew that no matter what came next, even if it meant centuries in the shadows, she would stay by his side.

She would be his light, his mirror, and the home he could always return to.

“Please don’t kiss me like it’s our last night,” she murmured softly, a trace of anxiety creeping in for the uncertain hours ahead.

He smiled against her lips. “My love, I’m kissing you like it’s our first.”

[andreas-river]

Stolen Heart

Synopsis: After Nikto comes back from a mission, you find out that not everything went smoothly.

TW: angst, mention of attempted suicide, fluff, mention of smut at the end, 18+ MDNI.

That was it.

The end of everything. It was going to rain down hellfire, and nothing would have the same sense for you. Everything would change.

Running down the corridor and almost tripping in front of a group of soldiers—if your gaze could have set fire, then you would have already extinguished part of this building and everyone who were inside.

When you were finally standing in front of his damned door, you had to contain yourself before you would break it down, breathing heavily like you ran a marathon—if felt like one, knocking on it and following the pattern you both agreed.

Two light knocks, followed by three more.

A part of you wanted to knock him out, as far as you knew.

And as always, the door cracked open enough to see him standing, enough to see him but not to let the light shine inside.

“Can I come in?” You tried your best to ignore your short breath, focusing on the most important matter. With a quick gesture, the door is more open, enough space to let you in inside his room—or little realm, as you liked to call it.

Scanning his room quickly, you could see his duffel bad still waiting to be emptied, and you knew it would take him days to do that.

And it was like this because he just came back from that mission.

Mission be damned, you were the one fuming at the report you read from Sergeant Kamarov, feeling the words impressed in your skin like a tattoo. Or more like a curse.

“Please explain.” You only managed to say, crossing your arms in your chest, standing in front of him.

He could have fooled everyone, the whole team, or the whole army, but not you. You could clearly see his stance, and even if he was tall and ominous in his own way, his shoulder looked a bit more down, his blue eyes were grayer that usual, and not because the room was dark—his mind was clouded, a storm was definitely taking place in his mind.

But he just stands there, staring at you and not making a single sound.

“Listen,” you take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You nearly got yourself killed—”

“I was doing my job—”

“You almost died!” you hold back a whimper, the dam threatening to open its gates. “Nikto, for fuck’s sake, you are not expendable. What were you trying to do and why...” you vehemently wipe the tears from your face, the dam was now broken and nothing could stop it.

“You can’t just—die...!” The words leave you without breath, as if someone punched you in the gut and held you in a chokehold. And yet he stands there, one in front of the other, the only audible sound was your sniffling and cries, right when you promised yourself not to cry again in front of him.

It was the same every time, after a mission where you weren’t there with him, the report always mentioned something about him, and you couldn’t help yourself but think what would happen the next mission. You knew him, but after you managed to break down one of his walls, another one would appear in front of you, taller and more difficult to break down.

“You must be tired, I’ll let you rest―and don’t forget to eat.” You force yourself to stop the tears, determined to leave the room even if with heavy steps.

But the way he holds you by the wrist right before you can turn the handle down, it makes you stop instinctively. It was wrong, the way he wanted you, or why you wanted to be so close to him, far exceeding the need to punch him so hard to wake him up from his own thoughts when they came back to shove him in his own abyss.

But you never did anything about it, just crying and your fist colliding with his chest, nowhere strong enough to make him move, standing firm in his feet, his hands placed in your hips―his own way to hug someone.

And you both stand closer, his gaze low as he observes you against his chest. Nothing could move that mountain that he was, yet you were just what was enough to mold his shape, days after days, like water against the rocks. Slowly eroding those sharp edges, giving a new shape to that mountain he promised himself to remain.

He promised himself long ago to not let anyone arrive at the top, too many storms would make everyone who would try to reach him stop just at the first attempt.

But why he couldn’t make you stop, that was a mystery for him. Why you didn’t stop when he stands there in silence, hoping that you would leave his room once and for all. His walls never seemed to work, you just removed brick after brick while he just stared at you. Words were never his forte, and with actions it was even worse.

He knew well how guns or rifles worked, knowing by memory every piece and part of them, how to clean them, the material of what they were made or their origins. Or what knife was better based on circumstances, or even combat techniques.

But he didn’t know how to feel. How to enjoy his free time, his mindset always focused on the next mission.

And you broke every certainty, every attempt to stop feeling, because he didn’t know his feeling even if he was a grown man, as if he went back in time when he was a kid, having his first crush for a little girl in his school, but not knowing how he could approach her. Asking his non-present parents was out of the question.

But not a sound leaves his mouth as he watches you crying, your fists colliding against his chest, and when he wouldn’t normally feel something like this hitting him so weakly, it felt them reverberates inside him, the sound of your sobs shaking him more that he would admit.

After lying to himself all this time, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore, except that he knew you would storm inside his room in the attempt to scold him for what he tried to do, ending up crying because you both knew that he was his second nature, a natural instinct. And it was so damn wrong, all of this. He was aware of this.

And when he saw you trying to leave for the second time, he just grabbed your hips again. Going again every natural instinct he had. Was it selfish? Definitely. It was wrong too, but despite everything, he didn’t want you to leave again. He was definitely damned for life, he was wrong, his mistakes lead to your suffering and tears despite him pushing you away all the time. The point was probably there. The more he pushed you away, the more you knocked at his door.

But did he have regrets? He knew the answer too well.

Because his mask was already on the ground, his face still covered by a plain balaclava, his lips covered by fabric pressed against the skin of your forehead, finally stopping your almost interminable sobs.

“Promise me.” Were your only words, for a moment his breath hitched in his throat. “Promise me you will never do anything like that again.”

A part of him never expected to be read by someone in this way, like an open book. You read him too well between the lines, beneath an action or a word spoken, his true intents completely uncovered under your gaze. You were right, he did try. And if he had to be really honest to himself, he didn’t expect nor to survive, nor that you reacted this way, even if it happened in the past.

“Promise me, or I’ll ask Maxim to break down the door, and then break your skull open―”

“Stop it.”

“I’ll ask Nikodim to mix your coffee so you will be forced to drink his favorite one―”

“Блять―stop it, I get it.”

When you finally stopped threatening him—knowing exactly which button to push and which not, the room fell again in a deep silence. You knew that he wasn’t going to say anything, too proud—or simply the words were too much for him, but you hoped that he got your intention, that even if you tried to rely again on your sarcasm, you were serious, more than any other time.

He didn’t let you move from him at all, forcing you to stay pinned against him, his chin on top of your head, feeling that he was hunched against you. You doubted that he was comfortable in that position, but you choose to stay silent.

“Don’t make him mix my coffee. He has terrible tastes.”

You chuckled, a more evil idea coming back into your mind. “I can still do that myself.”

It seemed that he didn’t like at all your idea, his hands almost clawing at the skin of your hips, your back pushed against the wall—and you simply laughed at his reaction, giggling at the idea of putting milk in his coffee. You still had to win your bet with Nikodim, after all.

“Bet? What bet?”

Well, shit—

“Nothing, nothing, I swear!” He gave you a burning glare, shifting in one of pure disbelief when you continued to laugh like you heard the best joke of your entire life. Like he wasn’t pinning you to a wall with force and sandwiching you with his wide frame. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

Nor at his heart that was beating like crazy in his chest.

Or his blood flowing exactly where the sun doesn’t shine.

So, he threw everything out of the window—his beliefs, the damned voices in his brain, and whatever bet was in play, lifting the balaclava enough to uncover his lips and pushing them against yours, your laugh stopping the moment you felt it.

It felt like heaven, the way it trapped you between his lips even if he saw and lived in hell, even if his hands were forever immersed in a bloodbath, you never cared.

Words were never his forte, but maybe actions weren’t a bad choice after all.

[pinknipszz]

adagio for strings 2/4

↷ ˊ- true form!ryomen sukuna x f!reader

< previous | next >

"i'm not a crook!"

' - wc: 3.7k

you look more yūrei than human with how you stagger down the winding path, your breaths short and quick and shaky. the moon looks at you like how a mother would when her child is up to no good. she hides behind thick clouds to obscure her light in an effort to keep you from reigning carnage, but you move. to hell with the moon, you think, squinting your eyes to make out the dark shapes ahead. i don’t need a mother to guide me, much less the fucking moon.

you drag your feet across sharp stones hardly wincing, like a crippled animal on broken legs. the weight of your weapon is the only friend you have left, and you swallow the noise that crawls up your throat. you don’t know what it might’ve been. maybe a scream or even a sob, but it doesn’t matter now that the village is close. your eyes adjust to the darkness and you recognize the water well, the stone steps, the statues of yokai that are supposed to protect from natural disasters. you nearly bark a laugh at the irony.

is this what it takes to become a ghost story? you soak in the silence as you limp. in a hundred years or so, you think that farmers will warn their children about playing outside after dark, lest they want to be stolen by a pauper turned vengeful by those who damned her. it feeds your delirium and takes your mind off the ashes. this is only fair. an eye for an eye. considering the years of verbal and physical torment, you find this generous. mosquitoes swarm your space when you stumble over the steps of the first house.

it’s a humble thing, nothing impressive about it, belonging to either a cowherd or a farmer, but there are no sandals or scattered tools on the porch to confirm. after a quick assessment of the surroundings, you slip through a crack between the sliding doors. this’ll work, i’ll make it work. the inside is just as bland upon entering. you scoff, disappointed. there are no pots or paintings or portraits to take, no trophies to collect, but you find grass cushions around a low table for eating. tell-tale signs of life. they encourage you to move.

it doesn’t take much time to find a room, the only room, at the end of the sandalwood hall. you press your ear against the door, heart hammering in your chest, and wait for a few seconds. it remains silent. you pull back to stand face-to-face with the thin paper. a serpentine tongue flits across cracked lips. you don’t know what you’ll see inside. maybe a man and his wife, perhaps a family, sleeping soundly in proper, padded mattresses. they are probably dreaming about silly things, like conquering demons with sharp teeth or becoming the next shogun. 

hot jealousy swirls in the pit of your gut. it bends and snaps unnaturally, dragging its claws along the walls to tear apart your innards. dreaming of silly things is such a fucking privilege. you are more than happy to rip it from them.

but your hand never touches the wooden frame, held back by a ubiquitous force. cicadas whine for you. you blink with a bit of clarity and, for the first time in a while, think twice. your anger comes down to a slow simmer, diluted by a cold wave of realization. you don’t know what you’ll see inside. it repeats like a mantra in your head. you are thin and weak and don’t know how to fight. the words don’t feel like yours, but you listen. a man might draw his sword and strike you down. a woman might scream her head off. what then? the hand around your hatchet loosens its grip.

it repeats, you don’t know what you’ll see inside. 

your jaw is tight when you turn away, refusing to waste your chance on a bunch of strangers, before leaving as quietly as you came. realistically, you aren’t capable of fighting more than one person at a time. adrenaline has a timer that you don’t want to test. plus, there are people more deserving of death, like the kamo women. you consider it but decide that they’re not worth the effort. their esteemed estate sits at the top of the hill, and you’ll likely succumb to exhaustion before reaching it. the female seller is also out of the question; you don’t even know where she lives.

your best bet at revenge is the butcher, knowing that his house is tucked behind some trees down the street. you hesitate a little though. he is strong and powerful with burly arms that can snap brittle necks like yours, surely from experience. he is a challenge far greater than climbing a thousand steps for two women who know nothing about fighting. at least then, the playing field is even. but you remember how scared he was, and how his cowardice ran so deep that he had cried to a clan to get rid of you instead of doing it himself.

dried leaves crunch where you step. a grasshopper jumps away disturbed. that is one thing you hold over his head, it seems, one thing that makes you stronger than a man of muscle.

the walk is short. you reach it in just under five minutes minus the limping. you know that he earns more money than a cowherd and a farmer combined, if the size of his house is anything to go by. he must also be smarter because the door doesn’t budge when you try to slide it open, almost as if he anticipated your imminent arrival. but death doesn’t come knocking politely, and neither should you. you remember how you joked about squeezing through a hole in the back wall, rumored to have been from a strike meant for his prostitute wife. you’ll use it tonight to deliver the punchline.

you round the house and find the secret entrance. it’s boarded so poorly, almost as if he had just filled it with a couple of large rocks from the river and called it a day without bothering to take extra precautions. it takes the same amount of effort to pull them down with sanguine-wrought claws. luckily, the hole is large enough for a person to slip through, and you silently thank his wife, keeping your hatchet close. you hope she’s doing well wherever she is. you haven’t seen her at the market since the rumors have stopped, but you’re not overly concerned. she wasn’t kind to you either.

immediately you notice the air is different inside, almost stagnant. it’s colder too. hairs behind your neck stand on end, but you don’t let it deter you.

you explore the home with light steps. every once in a while, tatami floors creak underneath your feet. you freeze when they do and wait for frantic movements, but there’s none. you take a moment to calm yourself before continuing. in the kitchen, you find the butcher’s most prized possession: his cleaver. it rests on the wooden table abandoned by its owner. you approach to trace the metal. it’s cool to the touch and still sharp despite all of the flesh that it has cut through. this must have cost a fortune, you think. metals are hard to come by.

it would be a valuable thing to have by your side. it’d scare both people and animals more than a rusty hatchet with a weather-stained handle, and you’d never have to live in fear until the day it also deteriorates, but you don’t think that will happen for a long, long time. it’ll serve a message to the rest of them too. you’ll get to spend your final days eating peaches and melons offered out of fear, before being taken by the shogun’s army for a necessary execution. your fingers tingle. i’ll teach myself how to use you, and you reach for the foul weapon.

but your spine straightens at the sound of shuffling from somewhere deep in the house. it’s faint. horribly so, but you hear it. blood rushes to your head. you turn around half-expecting to see something behind you, but the space is empty. the shuffling continues, only this time a little louder, coming from the eastern hall with a single bedroom at the end. the butcher, you breathe shakily, forgetting the cleaver. it must be the butcher. he’s awake. you are tempted to run out of the house, tail tucked between your legs, but you swallow your fear. this bastard is the reason you’re sleeping without a roof tonight. 

you exit the kitchen and walk towards the room, your weapon ready. the shuffling grows louder, more frantic.  you focus your energy on standing upright, eyes burning from the effort to make out the darkness of the hallway. your hand glides along the wall for guidance, dust collecting at your fingertips. you only stop when you feel the familiar wooden frame of a door. when you hesitate for the nth time, the cold air curls around you with its tendrils, urging you forward. it whispers incoherent things. unable to resist temptation, you slide it open with one swift movement.

you think you’re ready for the butcher. you expect to find him twisting back and forth on his futon, or practicing his secret swordsmanship with ungraceful feet, or maybe even pacing the room like all men do. you’ve already thought of a million ways to catch him off-guard, and one of them might have worked if it'd actually been the butcher in the room, but nothing could have prepared you for this. there’s a large mass that’s darker than darkness, hunched in the far left corner, morphing between shapes as if it can’t decide between looking human or plant or animal.

you refuse to take your eyes off of it, like a sick audience for a sick show. the creature contorts unnaturally, bending this way and that before groaning a loud, horrible sound. it bounces off the walls in powerful waves that strain your ears. hissing, you don’t think twice before stepping back, but it’s already too late when tatami floors creak under your feet. immediately it silences, changing form in a blink. it is thinner and taller, closer to a corpse than anything, with features still indistinguishable in the dark. your mouth goes dry.

“what the hell—” it lunges forward. you fail to dodge.

the force of the fall rattles your bones, pushing out the air in your lungs. there is a resounding thud from where your hatchet falls. you aren’t given a chance to recover before it digs its long, black nails into your shoulders, drawing liquid copper, and claws at your flesh. the air is metallic on your tongue when you screech in pain. the creature shakes in turn, mimicking a laugh, and pushes against the lower half of your body to render it useless. you’ve only ever felt like this once in your life, when you had sleep paralysis as a child. the old sensation is ingrained in your memory, and it resurfaces only now. 

a coil snaps in your chest. “get off me!” you scream, thrashing violently. your hands curl into fists that jab at its sides. the creature doesn’t take a definite shape. you might as well be hitting air, but your efforts aren’t entirely futile. it recoils just enough for you to twist to your side and frantically search for your hatchet. when you see it in the far end of the hall, just a few arms-length away, you scramble towards it in desperation. but the creature is relentless. it grabs your ankle and pulls hard, dragging you further into the dark. no. no no no. you fight the paralysis that threatens to consume you, and with one final burst of strength, you kick.

you aren’t exactly sure why the creature lets go, wailing as if it came into contact with hot coal, but you don’t have time to ogle at how it presses itself against the wall in fear. you push yourself back on your feet and wobble quickly towards your weapon. when it’s back in your possession, you hold it tight until your knuckles turn stark white. this time you have no intentions of dropping it. your lungs burn when you breathe, and you’re sure you injured something, but you don’t dwell on it for too long. adrenaline has a timer.

you bare your teeth when the creature approaches. you’re ready to raise the hatchet. you remember the laws of nature when it lunges again, and you dodge. the strongest survive and forget the weak, who are branded for death the second they leave the womb. it runs through your veins like forbidden ichor. those gnarled hands shoot forward with inhuman speed, intent to kill, but you move just in time. you need to be the strongest in the room to win. the creature’s strikes wildly, its steps unpredictable. you cough blood at a particularly hard hit to your side. you need to be the strongest.

the creature falls forwards when you slash its legs. taking advantage of its vulnerable position, you rush forward and watch as it scrambles for footing, before you pull the hatchet up high. it looks at you then. though it lacks a proper face you think that it’s trying to mimic human emotion. you don’t know what it wants to evoke within you, but you hope it knows that it’s useless when you look back without a hint of remorse. the hatchet hits the juncture between its neck and shoulders, digs deep into black, warping mass, and comes off clean from the other side.

you watch it dissipate into nothing as if it was never there. the silence is nearly deafening. i did it. i killed it. your feet move before you could process what just happened, or what you just killed. the world blurs around you. when you pass the kitchen and catch a glimpse of the cleaver, you remember the butcher. he feels like a distant memory. you doubt he’s even alive anymore if the creature had been here the entire time. when you step out, the cool air hugs you tight. it’s still dark. you wonder if any time has passed at all.

when you reach the bottom step, you collapse forward and get a mouthful of dirt. adrenaline leaves your system before you get a chance to say goodbye, replaced instead with bone-deep exhaustion. your body remains glued to the ground as it succumbs to the exertion, fading in and out of consciousness. you dropped your hatchet again, you realize through the haze. you summon enough strength to prod at the space beside you. you swipe left and right, up and down. nothing. your vision blurs with unshed tears.

the pain is unbearable, gripping you like a vice and unwilling to go. even breathing is a difficulty on its own, with each inhale accompanied by a sharp pain in your chest. you know the injury is lethal. you wonder who will find your body first in the morning. maybe a child or a seller. you wonder if they’ll celebrate your death with sake or fresh meat before dumping your body into the river. maybe they won’t want to waste anything at all, so they’ll leave you here to rot and go about their day. before you could enjoy your pity party, a gruff voice cuts through the silence.  “pathetic. that thing was hardly a curse.”

you blink, startled. a few tears fall and mix with the dirt. you don’t dare to look. 

“what happened to that spirit of yours? don’t tell me you’ve given up. get up.” it’s harsher now, like the sound of sharpening two swords.

what else is there to lose?. you force two arms under you, shakily planting your hands to push your upper body off the ground. you find a pair of feet, attached to two strong legs, a solid waist and—

your eyes widen in horror, and for the first time in your life you see a real monster. he possesses four— four— arms, two of which hold weapons you do not recognize, a second pair crossed over his chest. all four of his eyes watching you with disgusting amusement. he reeks of arrogance and condescension, etched in the grooves of his hideous face and the criminal tattoos worn with pride. you don’t know what kind of expression you’re wearing, but he laughs at it so loudly that you wonder how no one has woken up yet.

no, not again. your breaths turn rapid, eyes full blown and wild. i can’t do this again. this guy is different from the one in the house. i can’t— you could only imagine what he sees. a woman with sunken cheeks and torn skin, dressed in dirt and bloodied, battered garbs, lying on the brink of death. you come to think that he’s here to finish you off. at least one of you is enjoying themselves. “there you go,” he purrs, smiling sharp with pointed teeth stained red. “you nearly had me worried. it’d be a shame if you died already.”

you want to scream with what little voice you have left, but it only comes out in short, pained grunts. the monster notices this. carelessly, he throws his weapons behind him to crouch in front of you. he abandons them so easily that you wonder how he thinks of himself so highly that he can fight without them. he’s still massive from this angle, and your neck hurts from the effort to crane up at him. he props a now-free hand on his knee and rests his chin on its palm. “sounds painful,” he drawls, dripping with feigned concern. “need some help?” you simply stare.

“did you forget how to speak?” you think for a moment before shaking your head. “then speak.”

“i c-can’t,” you nearly punch the words out of you. 

a heavy sigh blows over you as he massages the bridge of his nose, grumbling something under his breath. the situation is almost comical. you can’t discern between his anger and disappointment. they blend so well together that you think he only feels both simultaneously, one unable to exist without the other. you aren’t surprised if that’s the case. everything about the monster came in pairs. two arms, two faces. of course he’d feel double the hatred over you. you just don’t understand why he hasn’t killed you yet. a creature like him doesn’t look like he’s capable of patience.

“you know,” his eyes narrow to thin slits. “you cause a lot of trouble in these parts. you’re like a fucking spawner, creating a bunch of pitiful curses.” so he’s not going to help you. the monster leans in to grab your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks tight until your lips pucker. it feels like he’s trying to shatter your jaw with how much pressure he uses. “bet you don’t even know what curses are.” you don’t, but the word is familiar. you think that he catches the glint of recognition in your eyes, because his smile turns devilish.

“it’s a shame that you’re ugly,” he continues, humming to himself as he turns your head left and right. “you barely got any fat on you. you’re giving me close to nothing to work with.” fear shoots down your spine at his words, suddenly realizing the full extent of your vulnerable position. you think he notices that too because he simply chuckles and offers no clarification. his large hand crawls up the side of your face before tangling itself into your matted hair. he pulls back harshly and you wince.

“tell you what. i’ll give you food, water, and a bed if you make a deal with me.” his promise is vile. he takes advantage of your silence knowing full well that you’re unable to ask for its conditions. 

but still, you weigh your options. there is nothing left for you here in this small village. no family or friends to remember, no home to turn to. you were never liked by the residents either, and you doubt you ever will be no matter what you do. plus, people will think that you have something to do with the butcher’s disappearance. although you were supposed to, you’d still be falsely accused for a kill that wasn’t yours, which you still think is highly unfair. you’d be doing everyone a favor if you disappear anyways.

so you look at him with the last bits of your bravery and nod. he grins fiercely, pleased with your decision. 

“uraume,” he says. your eyes widen when a familiar figure materializes from nothing. the monk-child, who you saw at the market, the one that gave you your first pomelo. when they stand side-by-side over your collapsed form, something in your mind clicks. this four-armed freak is what leaves the village so restless. when sellers and ladies aren’t complaining about you, they talk about him. the “cursed object.” you still don’t know what that means. uraume’s expression is just as unreadable when they study you for the nth time. 

“prepare a room at the temple, and cook twice as much for dinner,” he orders, his eyes raking over you. his companion, who you’re starting to believe is his servant, bows their head and mutters a humble “yes sir” before dissolving into air. you gape, eyes are fixated on where they stood. the monster merely chuckles at your ignorance. his grip on your hair loosens, and he pushes your head back into the dirt, surely leaving a mold of your face for the sellers to marvel over the next morning.

you don’t know about the other hands hovering over your back, expelling enough energy to seep through your robes, past your flesh, and into your bones. “you don’t understand now, but you will soon,” his voice is hypnotizing, bleeding through the static in your ears. you feel your ribs click back into place, and you taste earth when you gasp. “i’ll make you an expert in curses.” 

exhaustion finally pulls you into its arms. it is your last embrace for a long, long time.

(masterlist) | listen to adagio for strings!

[detachedminxsfics]

Improv

Characters: Jeffrey Dean Morgan x Actress F!Reader

Summary: You just wrapped for the day on the set of The Walking Dead, and you can't stop thinking about your impending first scene with Negan, more importantly, playing Negan's lover.

Word count: 2.6K+

Warnings: NSFW - Vaginal sex, slight rough fuck, creampie, fucking JDM in his Negan fit bc its hot

A/N: Tried something a little different to celebrate 100 followers! I'm so thankful, and eternally grateful for all the continued love on my Negan stuff. Tysm! <3

You idly tapped your feet against the floor as you held the script in your clammy hands, the spot you'd sunk into on the sofa warm with how long you'd been sitting. You'd gone over it a thousand times, and yet still feared that you wouldn't be able to act it as well as you would like. Jeffrey was most likely still out filming one of his many scenes in the Sanctuary, but you were wrapped for the day. Your characters hadn't gotten the opportunity to interact with one another on-screen yet, but tomorrow that was all going to change. The dynamic between you and Negan was intended to leave one hell of a lasting first impression on the fans, and you needed to maintain the hot-blooded chemistry you were so thrilled to portray. You skimmed over your first scene with Jeffrey for the thousandth time when the door to his trailer swung open, and a weathered black cowboy boot stepped in. He was still wearing his Negan outfit, minus the leather gloves and usual wielding of the infamous Lucille. He looked good, and tired, judging by the huff he entered with as he closed the door behind him.

"Hey." Your small mutter to make your presence known faintly startled him, and he spun to face you with a hand hovering over his racing heart.

"Shit darling, you scared me. Everything alright?"

Your lips formed a small smile, and you waved the script around in your hands to accentuate your point.

"Just going over our scene, y'know since we gotta shoot it tomorrow? And I think, I'm just not sure about it."

You and Jeff didn't know each other awfully well, but you'd spoken in passing between takes on the Sanctuary set, and under general introductory circumstances.

"Oh yeah? Talk to me." He set down the script he had been holding before making his way over to you and lowering himself down onto the space beside you, your fingertips still fiddling with the edges of the pages as you gathered the courage to confess your doubts.

"It's just, who Negan loves is so important to his character. And Lucille is so important to him in the comics, and such an iconic centerpiece to his storyline, and I'm just worried I won't be able to portray the love between our characters authentically enough. Like I can't measure up to that."

He listened to every single one of your words attentively, even nodding in places as you spoke. It was reassuring.

"Look, I've seen you act, and I've seen how much of a badass you are. You're gonna be great, I've got no doubt about that. But if you'd like I got a short break between takes, and we could run our lines together. Just to get a feel for the scene."

Your eyes widened slightly, and you glanced down at the script page in your hand. Your character's first scene with Negan is intended to set the tone for their not-so-public and flawed bond, and what the two of them mean to one another behind closed doors, essentially, in a clothes scattered on the bedroom floor kind of way. Nevertheless running through this scene with none other than the man himself would surely calm some of your nerves, and the offer was just too good to resist.

"Sure. Do you wanna stop just after my last line?" The reason you asked was that the moments that followed after your last line of dialogue was a rather steamy sequence of kissing and shoving, the scene set to cut just as you and Jeff hit the mattress, partially nude.

Jeffrey stood to his feet and made his way over to where he'd left his script, making brief eye contact with you as he flipped to the relevant pages.

"I say see what happens, and we'll do whatever feels natural. Sound good?"

"All good to me."

His eyes lowered back to skim the page, and you stood to your feet too, setting your script down on the coffee table considering you already knew your lines off by heart, thanks to your paranoia. After spending a few moments with the script Jeffrey set it down and glanced over at you, an obscure smile on his face.

"I'll walk up, and you just pretend I'm coming in. You ready?"

"Ready."

Your nerves begged to differ as to your level of supposed readiness, but you averted your focus on executing this scene. Jeffrey took a few steps back until he was on the other side of the trailer, and the elaborate shift as he immersed himself into the character was incredible. His jaw was slightly clenched with a signature scowl to match, and the way he sauntered with that leather jacket just demanded attention, it certainly captivated yours. You were sure you had gotten into character now too, feeling as you shifted the weight from one leg to the other, flexing your hip as you stood. She was bold with a firecracker attitude to match, so it was no surprise Negan was drawn to her.

"Honey, I'm home." Jeff bellowed with that noticeable drawl to his voice, and a wide unnerving smile to match.

"What do you want, Negan? You've had me standing in here longer than I ought to be, like one of your damn wives."

He feigned offense from your displeased tone, every step bringing him closer and closer.

"Well hell, aren't you just happy to see little ol' me? You're a busy woman these days."

You rolled your eyes a little at Negan's blatant self-flattery.

"I'm busy because I've got a duty to do, a job you tasked me with. If you don't like not seeing me that much, get somebody else to run my damn post." You narrowed your eyes to pair with the slight venom laced in your tone, and he closed most of the distance that was left between you.

He was invading what was left of your space now, his smile still lingering on his lips as he exhaled a mock, surprised breath at your rather brash words.

"Oh, what a big mouth on you sweetheart. If you keep forgetting exactly where you stand I might just take your suggestion on board, it would seem you've forgotten your manners."

Jeff swept a stray strand of hair behind your ear as he chastised you for your curt attitude, and you had to redirect your focus back to continue with the scene. That wasn't scripted, and you felt as though it was just a taste of the kind of improv an actor as experienced as Jeffrey would be accustomed to, and it exhilarated you.

"Not forgotten, I'm just sparing with them. Besides, we both know that if you're gonna take shit from anybody, it's me."

The slight clenching of his jaw showed that you were pushing him, urging him into toeing the line of his limits with you. He softly cups the line of your jaw, his thumb resting against your chin. Another non-scripted gesture that made the attraction between the two that much more believable.

"Alright, let's cut the bullshit, shall we? Rick the prick and his band of dickless assholes are proving to be more of a handful than we thought. I've mellowed him out a little, but I need someone I can trust back here, someone to hold the line while I deal with it. And as much as I love Simon, well, he's just not the man for this kinda gig. This is a job for my girl."

You subtly softened your stare, leaning into his touch. Though she could be a hardened, callous woman, she had a soft spot for him. It was important that the viewers could see that, could see that she had weak spots. More importantly, just to see them be vulnerable with one another.

"Your girl, hm? There's a room down the hall with six other girls that are yours too, what's supposed to make me believe I'm so different?" She was teasing him, testing the waters and gauging the level of his commitment to their secret love affair.

You kept your panic internal when you realised you uttered your last words, your features still as relaxed as they had been throughout. Jeff was thoughtful too, the whirl of thought taking place in his eyes. And though you barely knew each other enough for this kind of level of expression fuelled telepathy, you read him anyway. His eyes were wondering whether you were comfortable going ahead, and your slow lean toward his face was your answer. He responded rather fluently, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss was meant to be tame and yet hungry, starved, and full. Your eyes fluttered closed, and the feeling of a hand gripping your hip to further pull you in made you all the more eager. Jeff was a good kisser, a real slow and rhythmic kind of guy. Your arms wrapped around his neck just as the script had prompted, and the movements of your mouths lasted a lot longer than you ought to. He placed his other hand on your hip to draw you towards the wall of the trailer and slam you back against it, pressing his chest against yours, positively trapping you. It was when his fingers played with the hem of your lace trim tank top that you realised you weren't acting anymore, and truthfully, you weren't sure you minded. His mouth was on your neck, his teeth making diligent heated nips at your skin, mindful of the fact that you couldn't have any marks showing for the filming of the show. You breathed a shaky, hesitant moan, and Jeff pulled back to yank your top over your head. When he leaned back in to press his lips against yours you gently placed a hand on his shoulder to halt him, and he glanced at you with a mixture of confusion and longing.

"You forgot your line." You hummed teasingly, tilting your head as you playfully chastised him for his mistake.

Jeffrey grinned at you, the lust having corrupted his gaze conveying his true lack of care for continuing with the scene, and that he surely was no longer pretending.

"Whoops, fuck it." He muttered with a sense of impulsivity, and the next thing you knew, your feet were no longer touching the ground.

He lifted you, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist whilst the grip on the underside of your thighs supported your body. The trip to the sofa was brief and rushed, and you fell into the inviting cushions a lot sooner than you thought. Jeffrey was on you in seconds, so fast that you feared you'd forget to breathe. His fingers clambered for the zipper of his black leather jacket, but your words interrupted him.

"Wait. Keep it on, I like it."

Your confession had him raising his brows, a staggered look in his eye as he fiddled with his belt.

"Sure can do, we just can't make a mess of it." He said matter of factly, pulling his now undid belt through the belt loops, and slinging it onto the ground.

You too undid your pants, pulling and shimmying your jeans off until they'd gathered at your calves. You kicked them off, and your panties were discarded shortly thereafter. You were bare besides your bra, totally exposed. When you glanced up at Jeff he'd pulled his boxers down just enough to free himself, his pants still on just in case he was suddenly called to set. You spread your legs to make adequate space for him, and he was more than happy to oblige. He settled into the space you made, placing a hand on your waist as he leaned down to hover over you, the smell of leather and expensive cologne wafting past your nose. Then you felt him, easing in at first, pacing you. Your mouth fell open as your breath hitched, and an embarrassingly breathy moan followed suit. The hand on your hip slightly clenched, gripping you, whilst the other got lost in your hair, sifting through the strands as he eased you through the onslaught of pleasure.

"God, you're so good."

His praise only made you that much more wanton, and his low groans filled your ears afterward. You were in heaven. He was the perfect scene partner, your undeniable chemistry was off the charts, and he was insanely skilled with your body too, something to which you were currently discovering. Jeffrey's thrusts grew harder, faster, a more brutally unforgiving pace as he bottomed you out entirely. His touch was merciless, and your wild and primitive whimpers were positively matched with the way his hips hungrily connected with yours. Your lips smashed together, thankfully muffling some of your noisy and earnest moans. Everything was just bliss. He tasted so good, and he felt incredible. It was as though he knew every inch of your body, and treated it as such. You were intoxicated with him, and the heat pooling in your abdomen only intensified with every thrust. When you could no longer restrain yourself you let go, his lips parting from yours enough to break the kiss but remain brushing, eyes wholeheartedly focused on you as you quivered beneath him. Your rather vocal and intense release was enough to tip him over the edge himself, and he filled you. His throaty groans filled the trailer again, filthy sounds that he hardly made any effort to stifle. You were utterly dazed, still coming down from your high when he lifted you from your place on the sofa in order to turn you towards him, and to lay the back of your head down across his lap. He'd adjusted his pants back to their presentable state, leaving you still nude, panting and splayed across him, but you didn't mind. One hand still stroked through your strands, the other idly planted just below your chest.

"Well, it would seem you've got nothing to worry about when it comes to authenticity. You are beautiful."

Your eyes lit up, and a small smile played on your lips. You parted your lips to respond when a knock on the door of the trailer startled you both, and the sudden sound of a voice from the other side of it.

"Jeffrey, you're needed on set."

A woman politely informed, and he attempted to suppress the disappointment threatening to trace his response.

"Got it, just give me a minute." He called back, a short silence ensuing as the sound of progressively distant footsteps eventually resumed your privacy.

He glanced down at you with a hint of irritation, not at you, but at the situation. He wanted to stay here with you a little longer, at least long enough to make sure you were okay, and to not make it seem so sleazy. But he couldn't. Feeling that he was about to stand up you leaned up, straightening your back as you sat up, and gave him the space necessary to stand. He stood to his feet and smoothed a hand over his somewhat messy hair, the slick that he'd been styled in having gotten ruffled during your spontaneous improv.

"Listen, I'm gonna be shooting through the night, but I've got a room at a hotel not too far from here, same hotel all the others are staying at. It's room 100. Let yourself in, get comfortable, and I'll see you there."

He finished his more demand than a request by rummaging through his pocket until eventually retrieving a set of keys, and he tossed them at you. You caught it with a smile, and you gazed back at him, top teeth dragging flirtatiously against your bottom lip.

"I'll be there." You responded with the hope that you didn't sound too desperate in your enthusiasm, and he took off.

Running your lines with him wasn't such a bad idea after all.

[xmorguekittyx]

Ever Locked

Part 4: Good Night, Bunny

Part 3: With Your Ghost

pairing: Older!Leon Kennedy × Ex!Coroner's Assistant Reader

warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, talks of enjoying inflicting emotional and physical pain on another, just Leon’s pov on things right now.

Fucking rain. Every single day, nothing like the thick air, the feeling of Raccoon City before its inevitable bombing. Boots clap against the rain puddles, slick as the show slides on the step, nearly knocking me off balance and into the small bushes by the hotel door way. "Shit-", the word spat as my hand clutches at the automatic door, stilling it. "Fucking rain, can't wait to get back to my place.", all the more reason to get into her mind, to open Pandora's Box into the mind of the woman of the hour.

   My phone dings as I adjust the whiskey bottles in the bag, shifting from my right to left hand, reaching for the Motorola Razr, the fucking brick costing much more than i wanted to pay. Chris Redfield sent a message. A grumble left my lips as i entered the doors, heading to the shiny elevator. Tapping his stupid little contact photo opened the message; "so, when were you gonna tell everyone you were over 3000 miles away? You know we listed you as MIA and had a chopper checking around your house, right? Never understood why you needed to live in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, had us worried you went off the deep end or something." I could nearly hear Rebecca hitting him in the shoulder for the last part.

  My choices in house placement was quite simple; remote enough to not have any issues with neighbors- like a certain old hag who should've minded her own business- then, were close enough to a small town with a grocery store and a post office. It's perfect. Small, far away from everyone else and it can be a small safe space for the family i'm going to build. I have lived my life giving and giving and giving, giving up my life to the government, letting all my wants go to work on missions, letting vacations slip past me just so i can work my ass off one more time and get denied the next vacation. I never have a moment to myself until i'm MIA.

  I'll be selfish, this time around, i'll be selfish. I want one thing to myself, my home to myself. I want her, bunny, to myself. The future is so uncertain, but in certainty, i know i will have her and she will be away from everything and everyone. She'll be something just for me, for my pleasure. It's selfish, god, it's wrong to be so self centered to throw off someone's life so horribly, but i can't find it in myself to regret the choice i've made to come and find her.

  The elevator dings, bringing my attention to the wobbly reflection. My hair is dark with grease, my skin dry and flakey in parts, my hand comes up just as the doors open. Fingers rubbing at the rough scruff that coats my jaw. I looked like shit, honestly, i would've cried had i seen myself too. As the door threaten to close once more, i step out. The hallway is lit with a warm lamp, it was short and the rain taps against the windows with a rhythmic patter. I wonder what she's doing, is she worrying? Is she scared that i'm back, or is that perfect new boyfriend currently too busy keeping her wrapped around him? The latter causes my brows to drop.

  The keycard taps the lock, hearing a beep and a green light before my, still wobby, legs threaten to let me fall. The handle is clicked quickly, falling under the weight of my hand. The room is... clean, at the most, plain. Very minimalistic. The bed is neat, the coffee cups wrapped, definitely won't be touching those, unless they have the creamer i like. Coffee left a bad taste, trying to down that god awful black coffee to impress the older officers still made me want to throw up. The bitterness, i wasn't someone into the bitter things, despite how bland my life had become. Time didn't stop for me to indulge in anything sweet or extra. That's why i won't answer that message, once i acknowledge it all, then come questions, why's, when's, where's. I don't have the time, I needed to set my plan in place. I needed to know that things were gonna work out this time, this opportunity.

  The desk is clear of anything, which is good, my bags lay underneath from my earlier visit before the White Wolf. Duffel bags of clothes, files and photos. It was time... but a drink first wouldn't hurt. A soft sigh leaves my lips as i lay the whiskey bottles down, hearing them clink together. Jack Daniel's, wasn't the top shelf shit- but it was cheap and whiskey tastes like whiskey once you've downed enough- they all taste the same.

  The bag rustles as i fish out the first bottle, nearly half empty from the gas station down the road. My boots slide off with ease as i step towards the coffee maker, pulling one of the little paper cups from the stack. "As good as any.", my shoulders weigh with a shrug before the cap is off and the cup is half full of warm whiskey. The amber liquor burns, the flavor vanilla-ish. Something i should've looked at before throwing the cash on the counter. Alcohol is alcohol, at the end of the day.

   My back hits the bedding, cup laid aside on the side table. The thoughts of the past few years flooding my mind, the latest tragedy being my team being ratted out and only myself coming out as a survivor. It never seems to fail, anyone close to me... their life is cut short by some tragedy or they're in danger at my hands. It was a cycle, one i wouldn't let touch the innocence of my bunny. The pillow engulfs my cheek as i lay my head upon it, the inside rough but manageable as i reach out for the cup, my fingers pushing it further away before catching the rim and pulling it closer.

  My head aches with the next round of thunder, the lightening cracking over the dim room. Engulfing everything in a light for a few seconds, the painting across from the bed getting my attention. It looked... angry, and yet it was just swipes of black and red paint over a white background. What? You gonna say it's some internal struggle i'm having or something. is it like those tests the therapist hands you to get a read on you? The liquid in the cup splashes as i swirl it, my mind bouncing from left to right. It feels surreal, im sure it does for her, too. The moment i've been anticipating since i saw the name under a few address, the moment she's been dreading since that faithful day. It's crazy how much fate can dictate.

  The Chinese have a legend, about a red string of fate tied between two lovers. It's a beautiful story-pictures of fingers intertwined with the others, red string wrapped delicately around pinkies and swirling around the hands that finally met their match. It's beautiful until the string is tied around your throat by the one tethered to the other side, that string of fate is telling. What was meant to show you endless care and tenderness now tightly stealing away the very air that kept you alive, that tore at the delicate flesh, its motives unknown and terrifying.

  Another rumble of thunder and that thought too is ripped from my consciousness. I see the fault in my plans, don't get me wrong. I'm not insane. I simply don't care, i want this and for once in my miserable life, im going to get something i want. She's just the poor soul who has to be the one i set my sights on. She loved me once too, you know? She said it- herself- she loved me. She let me see her vulnerable and bare. I want to see it again, that bitch at the bar declined giving me Bunny's new number. What a stuck up bitch. A laugh ripped past my lips, the liquor splashing out of the cup lip and landing on my cheek as i wipe it away quickly. Hand once more in my scruffy, growing in beard. I wonder if i should keep it, at least while i'm here? Nah. I never could grow a nice full beard, mine always patchy and uneven. It is what it is, but i'm not shaving it right now. My eyes are stinging, head falling back on the pillow as the cup slides back onto the night stand.

  The clothes call to me from their bag, begging for me to change into the soft grey sweatpants that have been my favorite for years now. I feel a twitch in my leg, a pushing force that is quickly pushed away. That can wait for tomorrow, as can planning. The bed is too magnetic to my body. The sheets already bunched under my weight, fingers digging around to grip the sheet and pull it up, promptly causing my muscles to ache, realizing i have, indeed, made no progress, my legs stand for a millisecond, before i'm back into the bed, quicker than the bag can see. Nothing outweighed the amount of exhaustion that built up in my brain.

  The aircon kicks on, the room settling at a nice sixteen nine degrees. Cold and enough the blanket keeps me warm. The buzz of the alcohol and the warm and cool feeling just about as perfect as it can get. Something feels as if it's missing, like there's something that should be here and isn't, but i think i know what it is. I think it's always been missing and the sleepless nights had me begging any god that i'd have that back. Sleep doesn't come easily for me anymore, but knowing her presence isn't as far as i anticipated, has me feeling slightly more relaxed. Maybe enough to settle into bed all night, or enough to keep staying asleep the entirety. Either way, as long as i sleep. I can't keep pushing missions with no rest, last mission i was nearly left back there. Sleep is a necessity that hasn't been fulfilled since her disappearance. I know it wasn't her choice or fault either too.

  That's why I'd wanted to speak with her at her work, to see if all these years anything had changed. I know it probably has, but does she still bring that peace and calmness to me, can she still cause me to snap instantly with her little smart ass behavior? I have to know. Either way, she's mine. She's always been mine.

  The sheets cocoon me, cradling my body as I slept in my daily clothes. It didn't matter, i'd slept in abandoned ships, cots that were as hard as a plank of wood, in 3 day old clothes, bed for other men who hadn't showered in weeks. This bed, felt amazing, compared. The curtains letting the lightening crack over my face but the stinging stalled as the darkness encroached my eyes. The fluttering causing a tear slipped pasty cheek. warm as i nearly got to that state of peace. Work can be done tomorrow, plans, actions and strong up my temporary home, it'll all work out. Good night, Bunny...

[strangerslxt]

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

Devil In Disguise

“You look like an angel.”

“Walk like an angel.”

“Talk like an angel.”

You hummed along with the melody softly as you did your usual afternoon run around the block.

Head phones on your ears and Walkman safely tucked into the pocket of your polyester shorts, you jogged without a care in the world.

Oh but you would wish you did care.

A familiar Chevrolet Camaro was speeding up to you, slowing down enough so his car would be out of your sight for the time being, Billy kept his eyes glued to the round globes of your ass peeking under those shorts.

Exhaling from the Marlboro he had just hauled from, he could feel his jeans tighten.

You intrigued him, you were relatively friendly to everyone at school, except him.

“Bitch.” He muttered before revving the engine loudly enough that it came over your music.

Irritated you pulled your head phones off to see who it was that interrupted your vibe.

“Douche bag!” You holler at him while throwing up your middle finger for extra measure.

The corners of Billy’s lips turned up in a taunting smirk, you had balls, for a chick anyway.

He blew down on his horn while gritting his teeth and hitting the gas petal harshly, gravel spraying up from under his tires, right into your direction.

You cry out angrily as the tiny rocks pelted hard into your skin, and glare as the car disappears down the road quickly.

Angrily you jogged the rest of the way home in silence, your teeth grinding together as you thought of Billy Hargrove and his smug smirk.

You didn’t find him impressive or something to fawn over like all the girls at school did.

He was a jerk who just happened to have a hot mullet.

Shaking your head, cheeks slightly pink from complimenting him in your head, you kicked your sneakers off and padded to the kitchen for a cold glass of lemonade.

Looking at the little hand written note your mother had pinned under a magnet on the fridge you groaned, she was away again selling Mary Kay beauty products and wouldn’t be home till Saturday morning.

Sighing you leaned against the counter and sipped your beverage while looking out the window spacing out for a moment or two.

“Guess I should do some homework.” You murmured while taking your hair out of its pony tail and sat down at the table doing exactly that.

The next day in the school parking lot, Billy leaned on the hood of his car with a cigarette hanging from his lips and watched you with brooding eyes.

You were walking with your head down, books clutched tightly to your chest and those damn head phones over your head.

Flicking his ash, he watched you for a moment before smirking as your eyes suddenly met his, mouthing some obscenity to you which earned him a death glare but he seen the subtle blush creeping across your face.

“Fuck off hargrove.” You spit as you pass by him, avoiding his hard blue eyes.

“Panties in a twist princess?” He retorted back with a scoff.

You stop with a dirty look on your face, “You nearly stoned me to death with that stupid stunt you pulled yesterday. You drive like a moron.”

Billy gave you a crooked smile and shrugged before flicking the cigarette butt at you, “Watch where your walking then.”

Glaring, you puffed your cheeks for a moment before turning on your heel and stomped away quickly, fuming.

God he was such an asshole.

Billy chuckled to himself before noticing a tiny flash of gold on the ground near where you had been standing just a few moments ago.

Bending down he carefully lifted a small gold hoop earring, one he was familiar with.

The ones you always wore.

And now another mistake you’d come to regret…

A/N: pt.1 is finally done, I’m ngl I just wanted to get the boring shit out of the way and get into the juice😫

[cyjlovebott]

૮ ◜ᵕ◝ ㅅ ა tangled ?! | choi beomgyu.

a/n : writing this on phone so bare w me rn, anyways aaa! since ain hit it off, im here w bb beomgyu ! another short one. cant guruantee it, but might do a part two on this one

warnings : clit stimulation, praisesish, degrading, pet names, tit sucking, fingering, y/n being a slut with those eyes, very rushed, NOT PROOFREAD!

genre : smut, fluff

pairing : idol¡beomgyu & hairstylist¡reader

becoming a hairstylist for idols was the TOUGHEST job. even though it had benefits, like meeting idols and interacting with them, the amount of pressure and training you had to go through was crazy. the way every detail of each strand of hair had to be coordinated properly, and how to make their hair look messy, but messy in a good way.

after training, you were sent to go to txt, ever since minisode1, you always thought about how much you went through just to be able to touch untouchable hair, and to be able to high five them, or to be able to hug them and approach them doing shootings.

but for you and beomgyu, it wasnt always that simple. time to time, beomgyu wouldnt hesistate to flirt with you or make hugs longer than usual, or maybe even kiss you on the cheek and he would bid goodbye and smile at you, for other idols, it was always just a quick hug, a thank you, a smile and thats it.

you never thought about beomgyu going farther than that though, no matter what he stuck with flirting and kissing you on the cheek. thats how far any idol youve styled gone with you.

miles away you know you could see beomgyu's smile from such a far distance, and you wouldnt think about not smiling back, or not hugging him tightly as much as he does to you.

—

it was another episode of TO DO, and you find yourself styling beomgyus hair with his highlights, and you ironed his hair added hairspray, like you always did.

this time, beomgyu didnt hug you or kiss your cheek. he took you to a personal space.

he made sure you had your styling belt off of you, and looked down at you for about 3 times before attacking your lips hungrily and just pinning your hands on the wall.

when he stopped, you internally whined, like you were asking for more. "you looked really good today, so i couldnt help myself any longer." his smile was so light, but had so much to say to you. "my god, did you really come up with a random sentence just to tease me from kissing you?" he giggled, "maybe, maybe not." he teased, before closing the door and locking it, and attacking you again.

this time, it wasnt your lips he went for, it was your neck. his smile growing wider and wider when you released little moans and whines when he bit onto your skin, and pushing the hickies he made with his tongue.

"fuck. beomgyu-" he slid down your wide legged pants, and pulled them down, just to see a cute puddle forming at the center of your panties.

"so wet, so cute for me? aww." he slid down your panties, leaving small, light-feathered kisses on your pussy, making you push his head back farther into your inner legs. "ah ah, just wait baby."

you whined, externally this time. "beomgyu.. need you—" you were took by surprise when he inserted two fingers into you. "fuck, beomgyu.." you bucked your hips upward against the wall, visibly seeing beomgyu smirking while he fastened going in and out of your hole.

"shit shit- beomgyu-" he took you to the couch on the side of the room, taking off your croptop and unbuttoning your bra. "mm, so perky." he licked his lips before sucking on your nipple, recreating figure 8 motions and sucking your nipple.

"ah.. beom- fuck" you arched your back on the couch when he suddenly slid down and sucked on your clit, making sure its swollen and sensitive before rubbing it in circles. "want my dick so bad yeah? so fucking bad hmm? knew this croptop would get me riled up so i coukd fuck you nonstop hmm?" he didnt lie, maybe, or maybe not you purposely wore a croptop today, to impress him. maybe.

"knew- shit. knew you would like it." you replied holding onto his hair, which you just ironed and brushed.

he started to suck on your clit harsher, and going faster and faster at going in and out of your hole, slapping your pussy with his other hand, looking up at you to see how much you were enjoying it.

"so sweet and pretty, wish i could eat you out all day long." luckily you had enough confidence breath to reply. "maybe you could, maybe even all night long." you smirked, knowing how much he liked that by the way he purposefully rubbed his hardened dick on your thigh.

"fuck, are you ready?" you nodded, passing him the condom you had in your bag. "you carry condoms around?" he teased, knowing that made you flustered by the way you turned your face away from him. "happen to predict the future." you giggled.

oh god. he was big. you gulped, trying to swallow your lump in your throat. "can i-" he looked at you, and you looked at the condom. "sure baby." he passed you the condom, looking at you while you slide it down on his cock, even looking up at him with slutty eyes.

"you dont know whats ahead of you love."

it made you feel even more happier, or excited. knowing he was probably going to fuck your brains out. my god, he was so fine.

no warning, no "im going in" he just goes in, slamming himself into you and trying to push you down when you buck your hips up, earning a smirk from beomgyu. "sorry baby, couldnt help it anymore." he says, smirking as he searches for his dick on your stomach, feeling the bulge deep in there.

he took his fingers to your clit, rubbing it. knowing it would stimulate you, he started to go faster. "be quiet for me hmm? i promise ill be really quick. just need to fuck my girl in her place."

"my girl"

that rambled with your head. your his, no one elses. your HIS girl.

"gyu.. im gonna cum-" you were going to cum, and he went even faster. "mhm? wait for me okay? im almost there love." he was lying, he was also about to cum but wanted to fuck you longer.

a few whines there, and a few moans there, he finally let you cum, cumming with you as he interlocked your fingers with his and pressed it down on the pillow beside you.

"we're not done yet, love. we arent done." he says, buckling his belt again and putting his shirt on. you did the same, and dragged him out of the room. "shit, your hair is tangled." you immediately turn to him and fix his hair. "mhm, because the same person that fixes it ruined it too. hmm?" you just hit him on the chest, doing the same process you did earlier to him.

[yutasbellybuttonpiercing]

我的老师 - HRJ

pairing: huang renjun x reader

au/genre: smut, student!renjun, english teacher!reader, lowkey mfal!au but aged up

word count: 1514 words

warnings: (not your typical) student-teacher-relationship, reader is older then renjun, semi-public sex in a classroom, chinese words are thrown around, cheating (reader has a bf), reader needs a bit of convincing to get things started, but everyone is head over heels

a/n: everyone is of age! this is not meant to sexualize anything that shouldn't be sexualized! if it still makes you uncomfortable, don't read it! Also, lǎoshī （老师） means teacher and cào （肏） means fuck.

Since the first time the soles of your shoes crossed the line of the door frame, Renjun had a crush on you. Sure, it developed over time, intensifying with every words that made your lips move so beautifully, with every smile you sent at whomever just got an answer right, with every time you turned around to write something on the board which gave Renjun the opportunity to ogle your ass. But, yeah, if he's being honest, he wanted you from the first day.

Renjun's moral detector strikes the red area of the barometer continuously with an annoying siren sound. It's not like he's in high school anymore, he pays you for teaching him amongst other students, though it still has that forbidden student-teacher-vibe and that is what makes it even more interesting for him: It's wrong. Maybe not wrong per se, but it's not entirely right. Renjun knows he shouldn't think about you at night when it's only him, his hand and his hot erection throbbing in his boxers. But he does. He really can't help his thoughts wandering into the direction of your short skirts or tight pants that you tend to wear.

You're his English teacher, and maybe the fact that he's only had to deal with old men teaching him the subject for years before you showed up and messed with his head lead to the situation he finds himself in now, but who knows, honestly? Renjun only knows that he needs you, and it doesn't help that you're close to his age, nor that every word that leaves your mouth sounds sinful, even if you're only talking about grammar.

It's a shame that having a crush on his teacher, inevitably accompanied by the need to impress you, to be praised by you for getting an answer right, was the one thing that could motivate him to actually study, but that's just what happened. He kind of wishes you had taught him English in school instead of every Thursday at 4pm, but maybe it's better you didn't.

Thursday, 5:30 pm sharp, the lesson finds its end as you write down the homework exercises for next week and tell the students to have a nice rest of their day. Renjun, a plan in mind, takes his sweet time stuffing his belongings into his backpack. Today will be the day he finally shoots his shot.

The room empties quickly, everyone hurrying out to get to their next lesson, or home as soon as possible. You as well begin packing your bag, sighing before you turn to wipe the writings off the board. Renjun feels like this is his time.

"Lǎoshī," he addresses you, getting up from his seat in the first row to walk to the front, a hand coming up to ruffle through the short hair of the back of his head, and stand behind you. You jump slightly, surprised that you weren't alone in the room, and turn around to find Renjun standing directly in front of you.

"In English, please?" You tease, chuckling briefly, "what can I do for you?"

Renjun cracks a smile as well, trying to look as confident as possible, straightening his posture and puffing his chest out to appear tall and manly. Then, he clears his throat. "I have a question."

"Shoot," you answer, stepping aside to attend to your desk, sorting through sheets of paper. Renjun dislikes the way you stepped out of his personal space and follows you, leaning his ass against the edge of the desk.

"I was wondering, do you have a boyfriend?"

Your motions halt, your head ripping up to look at him shortly after. "Excuse me?"

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Renjun repeats, smirking slightly.

"I don't think this is an appropriate question for you to ask-"

"Just answer the question," Renjun demands, peeling himself away from the desk and stepping towards you who backs away towards the board.

"I do," you say hesitantly, sending an anxious look over to the door that had been closed by a student on their way out. Renjun decides that he likes seeing you flustered like that.

"I'm better than him," Renjun responds, taking another step into your direction until your back bumps into the board behind you. "Let me show you."

"I can't, this is wrong-" you begin, but your breath hitches as Renjun reaches out to stroke a strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyes, widened and nervous, look into his, switching between his left and right eye.

"I know you want it too," Renjun says, his left hand meeting the board behind you to cage you in. His face comes closer to you, it's almost like he's towering over you. He's so close, he can feel your hammering heartbeat vibrating the air between both of your chests. "You never said you don't want it."

"Pervert," you breathe out with a smile, and something inside Renjun snaps. With a groan, almost sounding like a growl escapes his throat, his hands come up to your shoulders to turn you around, pressing your front against the board.

"See what you do to me?" Renjun asks, then presses his hips forwards, his evident errection pushing between the supple cheeks of your ass, and he's sure he just heard you gasp.

"You're my best student, Renjun. I should've known this was the reason," you say sarcastically with a snicker, but whimper as Renjun grinds against your ass.

"Don't act like you don't like my eyes on you," Renjun whispers into your ear, and he can feel your entire form shudder against his body. His hands grip the hem of your skirt to push it up, revealing your ass to his hungry eyes.

"Renjun-" you say, then finally, a moan rips from your throat as Renjun strokes his fingers over your panties.

"You're so wet for me, lǎoshī," Renjun comments, and catches the way you lean into his touch, pressing your ass back to feel more of his fingers against you. "cào."

"Renjun, w-we can't, but I want it so much. I always found you attractive, but-" you admit, a gasp following as Renjun's hand reaches forward to rub at your clit. Your confession is everything Renjun needed, his assumption proven correctly. "We can't, I'm your teacher."

"I can make you feel better than your boyfriend," Renjun mumbles, head feeling dizzy as he opens the button and fly of his pants, pushing his boxers down just far enough to free his cock that he then starts stroking over your panty-covered cunt. Your occupation is the least of his concerns right now, he needs you to beg for him. He needs you to tell him to make you forget about your boyfriend.

"Lǎoshī," Renjun gasps at your moans caused by his actions, "tell me..."

"I c-can't-, i-it's not right," you whine, and Renjun decides that you presumably need a bit more of convincing, so he yanks your panties to the side, immediately grabbing ahold of himself to drag his tip through your drenched folds. He shudders at his own action, having waited for so long to feel you, and hearing the heavenly sounds you let out because of no one else but him and him only makes it hard for him not to think 'fuck it' and simply push in.

"Oh God," you whimper, pushing your ass further back to be able to feel more of Renjun's cock enter you, who fights his hardest battle right now, iron grip on your hips tightening exponentially as his eyelids flutter and his eyes roll back.

"Say it, just say it," he forces the words to come out through grit teeth. He's at the verge of losing himself completely in the way you feel so, so warm around his tip already.

"Convince me," you say and it's all Renjun needs to snap his hips forward and sink balls deep into you.

From then on, everything is a bit of a blur. Renjun remembers fucking into you like his life depended on it, toying with your clit to make you finish around him at least once before asking if he could cum in you. He remembers thanking you, kissing you, and walking you out of the school building where you then got picked up by your boyfriend.

Honestly, it hurt his pride, crushed his heart a little, too, but at least he has this new thing to envision when he's alone. The day of your next class nears and Renjun finally pulls himself together and looks at last week's course work. He opens his book, the familiar sight of his short essay greeting him, but this time, the sheet of paper is marked. Right! You'd taken some of them home the week before and handed out the corrected versions last week. Too bad Renjun had been too occupied ogling you that he completely missed what is now metaphorically poking into his eyes.

Right there, next to the 97/100 grade marking, it says: Good job, as always. Come see me after class ;-), and then your number next to it.

© 2023 YUTASBELLYBUTTONPIERCING all rights reserved — please DO NOT translate, take, nor repost any of my works.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

but I'm more than a need

So. What happened was @minky-for-short told me about her idea for a painter Husk/model Angel AU and things spiralled from there. Enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of drug use, alcoholism, mentions of sexual abuse

Please reblog and leave a comment over on Ao3 if you enjoyed!

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Angel Dust had expected this to be easy. Wasn’t it his job to be stared at?

When Valentino had told him his schedule was being cleared of clients two days a week for a ‘special assignment’, his tone had been sickeningly magnanimous, like he expected his star performer to fall to his knees and shower him with thanks at the prospect. And Angel would, if he didn’t know better. 

Being taken off the roster did mean a break from an otherwise endless parade of men with bad breath and bruising hands, reeking of the alcohol they’d needed to overcome their shame at wanting to fuck another man, a break from being so buzzed that he’d disconnect entirely from it all, not noticing how they’d hurt him until he came crashing down. But at least that was the devil he knew, intimately enough to know the taste of its tongue in his mouth. 

Time away from the brothel usually meant that Valentino had something much worse in mind.

So when Angel finally arrived at the address on the card, after trekking across what felt like ten fucking blocks from the spot Valentino had him kicked out of the car, and saw it was an abandoned looking brownstone on a shady street corner, he wasn’t surprised. That part of him that never learned to sit down, shut up and accept his shitty life told him to turn and walk away. 

But whatever was in that house, Valentino would be worse. So he’d gone up, knocked on the door and was thoroughly surprised when a paint streaked, grouchy man appeared, blinking like he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks and growling that Angel was late, did that asshole pimp not know that paint fucking dries? 

And Husker hadn’t stopped surprising him since. 

Angel still rolled his eyes at it. Of course Valentino wanted a fucking portrait of his favourite whore, the creep was probably going to hang it in his bedroom. It was so like him, wallpapering this old money aesthetic over the newly minted wealth he’d gained selling other people’s flesh. Angel wouldn’t even mind that Valentino had made a small fortune pimping him out, or how he spent it, if he didn’t treat him so cruelly. He’d signed on willingly, at first, believing the sugared words and promises of finally being free to fuck how he wanted without shame, of being able to drown the nightmares left over from the war in as many drugs as his body could take. But those promises had dissolved away to nothing on his tongue, leaving his teeth rotted and his nerves shot worse than ever. 

And now Angel’s pain would be immortalized in oils and hung in a gilded frame. 

But at least it would be a proper break. And it would be easy, all he had to do was stand there looking gorgeous, pinned under the gaze of an older man who never had a bottle far from his hand. No different from his usual job except he got to keep his head clear and his clothes on, if the costume Valentino wanted him painted in had enough fabric to count as clothes. 

And it was easy. But not for the reasons he expected. 

There was really only one reason actually and his name was Husker, Husk for short, an odd name but he hadn’t given Angel any other. At first he’d thought it was a good fit, the painter was grizzled, surly, his eyes hard and his tongue sharp, with hands that shook unless they held a brush or a bottle. He was a hell of a far cry from the rich businessmen and upper class bankers who paid for Angel’s time, who tried to impress him with gifts that Val would take and sweet words that didn’t soften their hands any, but apparently his paintings had once sold for thousands. 

Angel couldn’t possibly comment at first, the cramped little studio space had oddly bare walls, but when he’d gotten glimpses of his portrait, he realized just how great Husk must have been back in his day. In nothing more than rough sketches, he was making something almost beautiful out of Valentino’s slightly nauseating ideas. 

Which did beg the question, if Angel Dust was finding this so easy, why was Husk finding it so hard?

“You’re moving again, Legs.”

“Am I fuck…” Angel retorted with a grin, which of course meant he was, in fact, moving. 

“Hey, you want this to look like shit, it’s no skin off my nose,” Husk looked at him over the edge of his glasses, “I got no reputation to maintain.”

“Good look trying to get this to look like shit,” Angel lifted an eyebrow, brushing his hands down the vaguely Grecian drape of silk that was preserving no modesty. The freckles dusting his skin covered more. 

“Don’t underestimate how much I can fuck something up, kid,” Husk grunted, transfering his pencil to the corner of his mouth, picking up an ink brush instead, “I’ve had a lifetime of experience.”

Angel couldn’t help another grin, even as he tried to stay still. That was one of the things he liked about Husk. He didn’t try to be perfect, he didn’t hide his rough edges. 

The way his arm muscles flexed as he drew, looking unfairly sexy now he’d pushed his sleeves to his elbows, Angel liked that too. 

“Next question,” Husk whipped the brush back and forth across the sheaf of paper on his easel, “Think it was your turn, kid.”

Angel blinked, realizing how long he’d been quiet before Husk spoke. It was so easy for his mind to wander here, with the comforting smells of paint and paper, the soothing whisper of sleek bristles on canvas, the warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. And more than anything, the feeling of safety, knowing that quiet here really just meant quiet, come by honestly, not just waiting for the next blow. He’d been embarrassed the first time he’d dozed off in Husk’s studio, his body jumping at the chance for some real rest and shutting down without asking Angel to give the order. 

But after the fourth time of waking up on the battered sofa in the corner with a musty but cozy blanket over him, Angel had found it in him to stop caring. 

But he didn’t want to sleep now. Because as much as he wanted to pretend otherwise, he and Husk were on borrowed time, he was at the edge of this peaceful eye in the storm he lived in. 

The portrait was almost finished, colors starting to appear at Husk’s elbow as the first draft took shape. Soon Angel wouldn’t be needed in the studio anymore, he’d go back to the stage, back to the brothel, back to living under Valentino’s thumb. And Husk would go back to…well, nothing, by the look of his bare, dusty life. The thought made Angel’s heart ache. 

He pushed the thought away, refusing to chew on it. But he wouldn’t sleep away the rest of their time together, either. 

“What kind of music do you like?” he eventually asked. 

Husk chuckled at that, seeming to let his hands create independently, flying across the paper while the rest of him moved at a lower tempo, “Easy, jazz. I used to play when I was younger, actually. There was a club not too far from where I lived, I’d sneak out and go all the time. A guy there taught me, pretty sure just to keep me away from the bar. Looked old for my age back then…and now.”

“Shut up,” Angel perked up interestedly, “What did you play?”

“That’s two questions now,” Husk reminded him, smirking but he answered all the same, “Sax. Was a fun time but I ain’t cut out for being in a band, don’t play nice with others. Realized I was better at making art for the eyes rather than the ears.”

“Makes sense though,” Angel hummed, adjusting the angle of his arm as the silk started to slide, “You paint the way jazz sounds.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he blushed, realizing how dumb it sounded, like he didn’t know shit about art or music. Which he didn’t, but something about Husk knowing that made his face burn. 

But Husk’s eyes brightened, his wry mouth turned up in a genuine smile, “No one’s ever put it quite like that. But thanks.”

Angel had to roll his eyes at himself, just a little. He’d thought crushes were from a time he hadn’t known any better, another thing his hard life had calcified until he couldn’t make it work anymore, that real, genuine attraction had gone the way of imaginary friends and daydreams. But Husk had cracked right through to that giddy, naive part of Angel, he’d let it stretch and unfurl itself and fly. You could argue it was the part that had gotten him into so much trouble but, in Husk’s studio, it didn’t feel dangerous. It was fun again, simple, pleasant. So he let himself stare, he let himself get butterflies, he let himself blush and laugh and embarrass himself. It wouldn’t last, it wouldn’t mean anything but Angel had never been one for saying no to temporary pleasures. Especially ones that made him act like a damn fool. 

“You can ask me two questions,” he hummed with one of his best flirtatious smiles, “Seeing as I snuck an extra one.”

This had been their game for the last month and change. Husk had said he couldn’t paint a stranger, if he was going to put him on canvas then he needed to know him. The thought had got Angel’s back up so Husk had promised it would be an even exchange. He’d ask a question, Angel would answer it and then they’d trade. He’d even said that they didn’t have to be truthful answers, he’d understand enough from whatever lies the younger man chose to tell. 

And they’d started as lies, the standard sanitized version of his past Angel gave to any johns that wanted to fake like they’d taken him on some grand romantic date, rather than paid to fuck him in the tackily decorated back rooms of a downtown bordello. But, without even really noticing, he’d grown comfortable with Husk and the truth started slipping in. Now Husk knew more about him than anyone else left in the city and, Angel suspected, he knew just as much about the older guy. He could taste lies, thanks to his profession, and as far as his tongue could tell, Husk had given him nothing but truth, bitter as it was. 

“Always one to push it, aren’t you, Legs?” Husk chuckled, switching to a different brush, taking a pull from the bottle of amber liquid before continuing to paint. How he knew the difference between that and the water he cleaned his brushes in, without even glancing at them, Angel had no idea.

“You know it, sweetie,” Angel purred, recognising the color Husk picked up as the color of his own eyes, “Ain’t a proper game if you don’t try and bend the rules.”

Husk shook his head in amusement, choosing his questions without a pause, like he already knew which ones he needed to ask to make the next brushstroke perfect, “What was your biggest fear when you were a kid?”

“Before I turned thirteen? Spiders,” Angel wrinkled his nose, though there was an odd fondness to the nostalgic fear, “Nona’s apartment was full of them, I used to be frightened they’d crawl on my face when I slept. But she loves them, even named them all, the mad old bat.” 

“And after?” Husk’s brush hesitated and changed direction at the last moment. 

Angel gave a dry laugh, “Father finding out I was a pansy.”

Husk made a sympathetic noise but there was no pity in it, another point in Angel’s book. He sat back suddenly, frowning, “Come tell me what you think of this.”

Already? It hit Angel like a blow to the chest, enough that he staggered as he stepped off the little platform he posed on, enough that his mask almost cracked, “From your tone, I’m guessing you’re not happy?”

Husk gave a grunt, “Not me who needs to be happy with it…”

“Well it ain’t me either, baby, it’s Val,” Angel let the fabric fall, shrugged on a robe and came around to the other side of the easel. The sudden shock of color and movement on the other side of such a plain, gray nothing hit better than some highs he’d had. 

Angel didn’t know how to talk about art. He’d seen plenty of it when he was shipped out in France but he’d had other things on his mind then, it had all just been set dressing in this brand new world of dizzying highs and terrifying lows. 

So when he saw Husk’s work, he didn’t know how to describe the way it made him feel, he just felt it, in a rush like a wave that took him off his feet. It was the way he took moments in time and fixed them to the paper, turned them into something Angel could actually touch if he wanted, and made them so beautiful in the process. For someone who had so many gaps in his memory, parts of his life eaten away by drugs and pain and terror, it may as well have been magic. 

The painting was gorgeous, that wasn’t the problem. It was just a gorgeous painting of a vindictive, controlling pimp’s sex fantasy. 

When he first started working on this particular commission, Husk had asked Angel if he was really okay with what his boss had requested, showing him the list of demands with a knowing air, the older man fully aware of what answer was true and what answer he would get. And Angel hadn’t surprised him, glancing over what Valentino wanted and saying that whatever he’d asked for, Husk had better deliver. That’s how Angel had kept most of his teeth.

From the way Husk’s eyes had tightened, he hadn’t found the joke very funny.

But Angel knew what he’d see when he looked at the paper but an image in his own mind and something realized in ink and paint, brought to life by Husk’s clever hands, were two very different things. The Angel on the page was much truer to his name, he was angelic, pale skin glowing, freckles scattered across his skin like flecks of gold, eyes bright and blue and innocent behind flaxen hair. But he was a fallen angel, chains securing his hands to some part of the background that Husk would draw in later but, even without it, they looked inescapable, raw chafe marks in a wincing carmine visible below their cuffs. And the fabric looked somehow even less, like a rough hand was in the process of tearing it away to leave him naked and flushed. And there wasn’t a single scar on that perfect, porcelain skin. 

It wasn’t him. It was the role he was supposed to play for Valentino, the fantasy he was forced into. And seeing it in front of his eyes, he could almost feel the weight of those chains on his own wrists and, fuck, they hurt. 

“It’s exactly what he wants,” Angel said truthfully, making himself smile at Husk, “You’ve done a great job.”

But the older man’s frown just deepened, etching the lines around his eyes and mouth more firmly. Angel realized then that he wasn’t looking at the painting, he was only looking at him. 

“It’s shit.”

The sudden sound of the paper tearing away from the pad made Angel flinch but he couldn’t deny there was some catharsis in seeing it crumpled in Husk’s surprisingly strong fist. 

But he was the one who had to fight for his own misery, “Husk, no, it’s good! It’s really good, Val will love it.”

“You don’t,” Husk pitched the failed painting into the dented old furnace he’d light whenever he noticed Angel shivering. 

Angel opened his mouth but no words came out. It wasn’t so easy to lie to Husk as it was to lie to everyone else in his life. 

“That isn’t the point,” he finally managed, “Husk, honey, if you take any longer with this, he’s gonna start getting mad.”

Like it wasn’t already too late. 

He’d seen it in Valentino’s gaze every time he left the club for Husk’s studio, the building jealousy, the brewing sense of danger that Angel was so depressingly familiar with. They were meant to have been done inside a week but that week had rolled on and on, Husk getting to this point in the process, the moment where he should have let Angel go, and then starting over three times now. Every painting had been gorgeous, it had been lecherous, it had been exactly what Valentino wanted, and each one had ended up in the furnace as soon as Husk had seen Angel’s reaction. 

And if his boss’s simmering fury had just been directed at him, he wouldn’t have minded, the daydream was worth it. It was what he’d said about Husk that worried him. 

“It should be the point and I’ll fucking well tell him so,” Husk reached for the bottle again, draining it in one swallow that left his voice a smoky growl, “Valentino can get as mad as he wants, I ain’t scared of that up jumped pimp.”

Panic tasted bitter on Angel’s tongue and sharpened his words, “You should be. If you don’t realize how dangerous he is, you need to learn fast, Husker, because I’ll be damned if I let you get hurt because you stuck up for me. I’m not worth it.”

Husk’s eyes darkened, his voice softening, “You really believe that, kid?”

Angel realized he’d said more than he’d meant to, feeling more naked than he had when there was only a swathe of fabric between him and Husk’s gaze. 

“I have to,” he said eventually, voice trembling ever so slightly, “There ain’t another way through.”

Husk looked like he was going to say something, like there were some words pulling at the tip of his tongue, desperate to fly. But suddenly the fight went out of him, shoulders slumping, the words becoming a low groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I need another drink,” he muttered, “Gimme a second…”

He went into the back room of the studio that served as his living space, that rickety, sagging bed and chipped wardrobe and lopsided bookcase apparently holding all he owned in the world. But Angel knew there were several bottles of whiskey under the bed, enough that he didn’t need to ask whether Husk had served in the war too. Only a soldier needed that much poison to hand. 

Selfish tears threatened to choke him the moment he was alone. He’d done the right thing, he knew he had, but it still hurt like a bitch. He let himself have a moment to almost cry about it before scrubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his robe and moving to the furnace. He’d fish out the draft, he’d tell Husk to use that painting and he’d be done with this. The daydream had been nice but it needed to end, before someone other than Angel himself got hurt. He could see that now. 

There were several balls of crumpled sketchbook paper in the furnace’s grating, he couldn’t remember which one he needed. He came up with a handful of them, as well as an annoying smear of soot on his fingers, pulling a face of irritation as he unrolled one at random. 

And felt his heart stop in his chest. It was a drawing of him but it wasn’t the one he was looking for. 

It was a quick, hurried drawing, like Husk had done it on impulse, something to keep his hands steady or to keep them off the bottle for just a little longer. Angel wasn’t dramatically posed, dressed up in silk, he didn’t look alluring or otherworldly, it was just a sketchy of him from the neck up. He was doing that grin he tried not to do because it made his nose turn up and his teeth look huge but the way it was drawn here, it looked…adorable. Natural. 

He looked so happy. 

It was dizzying, seeing the way somebody else could look at his flaw and find beauty in it. Not Valentino’s warped, fake idea of it but real, actual, honest. Angel didn’t think he’d known the difference before looking at this drawing. 

He knew what he should do. He should drop the sketch back in the furnace, pretend he’d never seen it. He should light it up himself, let that version of himself blacken and curl and become nothing, go back to Valentino and the devil he knew. 

But his hands weren’t connected to his brain, reaching for more balls of paper the way he reached for the next pill or line of white powder, the next bad idea that would be sweet in the moment then do him more harm than good. 

Some pages just had one drawing, some had a few. The sketch of him asleep on the couch was full body but around it were isolated hands, eyes, a smile, every inch of him noticed and practiced until it was perfect. Angel was smiling, he was lost in thought, he was yawning hugely, he was guarded and wary, he was alight with playful mischief. He could match the expressions with memories of the last few weeks, stories he’d told Husk or bad jokes he’d made. Things he’d said and done so offhandedly but apparently they’d mattered enough for Husk to commit them to pencil and paper. 

Finally, after pages and pages of careful studies of himself, he found the draft painting done for Valentino. Seeing them side by side, it was heartbreakingly obvious, like he held night in one hand and day in the other. How he looked to someone who wanted him and how he looked to someone who loved him. Who he had to be and who he wanted to be. Angel Dust and Anthony. 

Angel didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. 

“I’m sorry, kid, I shouldn’t have stormed off like that, I…Angel?”

He felt his stomach drop, whipping around, arms already drawn to his chest in defense and eyes screwed tightly shut, “I didn’t mean to look, it was an accident, I’m sorry.”

But the blow he’d learned to expect never landed. There was no anger, no explosion, just a long pause where the only sound was the city outside the windows shifting into evening, oblivious to the two of them. 

“Angel…fuck, I’m sorry.”

Surprise made him open his eyes, Husk just leaning in the doorway, slumped like a man too tired to fight anymore. 

“I never wanted to put you in this position,” his voice was rough, heavy, in a way that had nothing to do with the drink, “I swear, those sketches…they were just be trying to get this fucking lunacy out of my system, I was never gonna act on it. I don’t want to be just another deluded old idiot leering at you like he’d got any damn right to.”

“Husker…” Angel breathed, unsure what to do, holding onto the pages of sketches like he was afraid someone would take them away. 

“I just…it’s been so long since I talked with anyone, since anyone wanted to hear what I had to say,” Husk ducked his eyes, wincing, “I shouldn’t have let you in, I should have known better but you’re so…” he shook his head like there weren’t even words but it was there on the page, “I’m an old fool, Angel. That’s all. I’m sorry, I understand if you want to leave.”

Angel felt the weight of the choice. Again, that hard learned fear was pulling at him, telling him what he should do, what was safe, what was smart. Telling him that he didn’t deserve it. But for the first time in his life, he was able to drown that voice out, his grip on the pages, on his hope, tightening. 

“I don’t want to leave,” he murmured, taking a step closer to Husk. 

The older man’s eyes widened, looking like he didn’t know whether to believe what he’d just heard, “What?”

“I want you,” Angel said it again, feeling the truth in it now, feeling it steel himself.

He put the sketches to one side, resting his hands on Husk’s chest, letting himself have what he knew now he’d wanted for so long. Maybe even longer than he’d known Husk. 

“Angel,” Husk’s own hands responded, settling on his hips like nervous birds, “You have a right to know, when your boss came to hire me, he…he offered me you. For a discount he said I could…have you while I worked. And I didn’t take it, I never would but I just…I need to know that this is what you want, not something you feel like you have to do just because I got a stupid crush on you.”

The news didn’t surprise Angel in the slightest, Val had used him as sugar on top of deals plenty of times before. What did surprise him was Husk’s mouth twisting in disgust at the idea, the restraint holding him back until he heard Angel’s answer. What surprised him was finding himself in the arms of a truly honest man. 

“Baby,” he smiled, as big as he wanted to, not caring how it looked, “Believe me, I know what a bad idea this is. I know what I’m risking, I know what I’m asking you to risk. But I’m here anyway, ain’t I? So I know how much I want this, how much I've been wanting you since I walked through your door.”

Apparently that was all Husk needed to hear. His hold on Angel became certain, pulling him that last inch closer until their bodies pressed together, “Then I’m yours, baby. For however long we got.”

The moment their lips met, Angel knew the answer was not long enough. He knew in an instant that he’d never get tired of the way Husk kissed him, of that taste of second hand whiskey and those strong arms around him, feeling safer than anything had for a long damn time. He didn’t hurry, he didn’t want to press forward into the next thing, he just reveled in kissing Angel like if it stopped right there, it would still be enough. Angel found himself nearly climbing Husk, gasping and whimpering in between hurried breaths, nearly screaming when the older man shifted and pressed his leg up between Angel’s. 

“Fuck me,” he moaned desperately, needing Husk more than he needed air, so much he as burning with it. 

“You got the kit for that?” Husk’s voice had become a growl, something Angel felt as much as he heard. 

“I’m taking the fact that you have to ask as a professional insult,” Angel smirked, only the promise of having this man inside him able to make himself let go. 

He scrambled for the bag he’d left in the corner along with his clothes, Husk dropping back on the sofa to wait, warm golden eyes never leaving him. With that gaze pricking pleasantly across his skin, Angel shed his robe, stepping out of the pool of pink silk and coming back to Husk wearing only a lopsided grin. 

“Fuck, look at you, baby…” his hands were as reverant as his gaze, both stroking down Angel’s narrow body, drinking in every freckle and angle and scar with as much adoration as he settled in the older man’s lap. 

“Now you,” Angel tugged impatiently at Husk’s suspenders, “It’s my turn to stare.”

“Ain’t gonna be half as pretty,” Husk warned, the skin on his cheeks darkening a little but he didn’t resist as Angel yanked down the collar of his shirt and pulled open buttons, kicking off his shoes and shoving down his trousers. 

Under the slightly bedraggled clothing, Husk had scars of his own. Everything about him seemed designed to contrast Angel, dark skin where he was pale, strong where he was wiry, thick black hair across his chest and down between his legs where Angel just had a dusting of gold down, the curve of a beer gut where drugs had left Angel nearly concave. 

He wasn’t pretty. He was fucking gorgeous. Angel had to drag a fist across his lips to check he wasn’t drooling. 

Husk’s blush only deepend but now he was grinning rather than looking anxious, “You have weird tastes, baby.”

“Guys who are nice to me? I know, I’m a hopeless degenerate,” Angel cackled, before pressing the small jar into his hand, “I want you to do it…”

“My pleasure,” Husk rolled his hips, letting Angel feel the press of his erection against him, beaming when it made him tremble and whimper hungrily. 

Even slick with Vaseline, Husk’s fingers were fucking big. Angel found himself squealing like a fucking rookie when his hole finally opened for him after a few coaxing strokes, burying his face against the curve of his neck as he pressed inside. But Husk knew his business and in a moment it was bliss and nothing else, making Angel cling to him so fiercely that there would be an impression of the other man’s dog tags on his chest when he pulled away. 

When Husk curled his fingers against that sweet spot inside him, the pleasure took on an edge of panic, almost too much between that blinding pressure and his cock trapped between the warmth of their stomachs, the pre he was spilling like a fountain making it slick and hot. 

“Gonna…fuck, Husk, I can’t hold it…” he gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. 

“You say that like it’s not the aim, baby…” Husk purred smokily, tongue tracing the curve of his ear. 

“Not like this,” Angel begged, voice strangled as it had to shoulder past gasps and moans and pleas, “On your cock. Need to feel you, wanna make you feel good too…”

The arms around him became soothing, like he was being rocked, Husk shifting to give him what he wanted, “You do, baby. You do. You’re doing so good.”

Those words set his nerves alight as much as the fingers crooked inside him until Angel almost sobbed, “Please…”

“I got you,” the loss of the fingers was heartbreaking until he felt Husk’s cock press against his entrance, thick and hard and hot enough to burn, “Breathe, baby, you’re so tight, you gotta let me in…”

Those strong hands slid down to Angel’s hips, holding tight so he couldn’t force himself back and take him, damn the pain. It was slow, careful, but the reward was all the sweeter for it, Angel’s eyes nearly rolling back as he sat on Husk’s dick, feeling so full he didn’t know how he wasn’t unraveling completely. 

“Fuck…” Husk’s voice cracked, a hand sliding up to tangle in Angel’s hair, the other draping around his hips to keep him close. 

“As good as you imagined?” Angel panted, nuzzling at his shoulder. 

“Better…”

Husk rolled his hips like the sweetest music was playing in his head, purposeful, rhythmic, wanting Angel to feel every inch. At first Angel couldn’t even scream, everything in him utterly surrendered, every cell in his body devoted to chasing after that feeling. But he soon realized he didn’t need to, Husk would give it to him and give it gladly, as sure as the tide. He fucked into him slow but the pace built gradually, leaving Angel free to moan and shriek and beg. He couldn’t let Husk mark him, as much as he wanted it, but he could sink his teeth into him, sucking hard until he’d have something to look at in the morning and feel less lonely. 

Angel knew how to read people’s bodies, he knew they were about to fall. Husk throbbed deep inside him, his own cock was stiff as a board and trembling between their bodies. He wanted to beg Husk to hold on, to wait, just a few seconds more because even those would be sweeter than anything he’d ever get again. But he might as well have wished for the moon. 

So Angel did what he’d always done and took a hand in his own destruction. 

He moved his hips faster, grinding down hard on Husk’s dick and whispered in his ear, “Come for me, baby.”

Husk did, with a yowl like a cat in heat. Angel was a second behind, painting both of their chests and crying out his lover’s name, letting his voice shatter on it. They were both left ruined, gasping, only held together by the other’s arms around them. 

It was a long time before Angel trusted himself to speak, morning back to rest his forehead on Husk’s, “Will you draw me? Like this?”

Husk’s smile was warmth itself, “I’ll do my damndest, baby.”

It came out beautiful. Of course it did. 

Afterwards, when their lovemaking was just an ache in his hips and a slick feeling between his legs, Angel sat back in Husk’s arms and looked at the sketch like he was trying to etch it onto his brain. The pencil version of himself wore Husk’s shirt rather than his own, eyes heavy lidded, his smile crooked and blissfully tired, happier than Angel had thought his own face would ever look. 

Even if the moment had ended for them, he’d always have this. He had this proof that someone had loved him. 

“Can I keep it?” his voice was raw and shaky, “And some of the others?” In case I come to my senses and never see you again. 

Husk kissed the side of his head, squeezed his hand gently, like he’d heard the words left unsaid, “They’re yours. But I’ll draw you better ones if you like? Ones that didn’t spend a few days in the furnace?”

Angel smiled up at him, seeing that some of the soot from his fingers had smudged on Husk’s cheek, “I think these are perfect the way they are.”

“Then they’re a good likeness,” Husk murmured, pressing the next kiss to his lips. 

Angel leaned into it, letting himself have another temporary pleasure, letting himself have a moment to not think about anything but Husk. What he’d do tomorrow, fuck, what he’d do in the next moment, he had no idea. But he wouldn’t think about it now.

“It is stunning, isn’t it, Angel? Who’d have thought the old drunk had some talent left clinging to him…”

Valentino’s voice was full of smug satisfaction and smoke, faintly red billows of it hissing from between his teeth and scratching at Angel’s nose. He didn’t flinch, he’d grown used to it over the years. 

“It’s exactly what you asked for,” he hummed in what would sound like agreement, looking up at the painting now slotted cozily into its new home on the wall of Valentino’s office. 

The frame was a tacky travesty, of course, gilded and overblown but he supposed the image inside was as well. Husk had delivered exactly what he’d been asked, once Angel had convinced him to. It was exactly like the draft piece that nearly ended up in the flames, just more polished and done in rich, sumptuous oils, his wanton blush more rich, his eyes shining brighter, his pose more tempting. Valentino was nearly salivating looking at it. 

“You’ve never looked more tempting, my dear,” he crowded Angel closer, voice almost warm though his hands were like vices on his shoulders, “In fact, I can think of no better advertisement for our little club, you’ll have the deviants of the city flocking to our doors just for a glimpse of this…and then they’ll pay through the nose for the real thing.”

“Yes, Valentino,” Angel hummed, not taking his eyes off the painting.

“I believe I’ll take Mr Husker up on his kind offer, now I know his talent hasn’t faded along with everything else. A few pieces like these in the hallway, my profits could triple…and with the discount he mentioned, well, I don’t know what you showed him or shook in front of him but the old fool’s half in love with you. Very nice work, baby…”

Angel shrugged, gaze still fixed on the painting, “Just a generous guy, I guess.”

“Don’t make me laugh, sweetling, you’re not good at it,” Valentino said curtly, “I want you on stage in ten. With how much time you’ll be spending in that studio, you’ll have to make it up to me. Double shifts for the rest of the week and I don’t want to hear you bitching.”

Angel flinched a little but he didn’t take his eyes off Husk’s painting, not even when the office door closed with a slam designed to put him on edge, “You won’t…”

Of course Valentino hadn’t noticed it. But it was the first thing he’d seen as soon as he’d stepped into the office after Val had called him in so he could gloat over it. Husk hadn’t let him see the final piece, just reassuring him that it was finished and that his boss would be happy with it. And now Angel knew why. 

Valentino didn’t look past the eyes, the beckoning gaze, the perfect body begging to be ruined. But Husk did. And that's why one of the chains in the links that bound the painted version of Angel was cracked. Almost all the way through, about to break entirely, if he just pulled hard enough. Valentino saw him chained but in Husk’s painting, Angel saw himself fighting and, against all the odds, about to win.

It was a nice dream. 

Angel turned away from the painting, thinking about where this had begun. It was supposed to be easy. It should have been easy, it was Angel Dust’s job to be stared at. 

But this was the first time he felt like he’d been seen. 

[pinkhoneydrop]

Its a Game pt.6

[ A/n ] - Hey everyone here is part 6 i had to cut it a bit short so i could get to the good bits in part 7 that i am currently writing and i also started another multy part story that i think y'all will like!

[ Pairing ] - Harry Styles x Reader!, Dylan O'Brien x Reader!

[ Genre ] -  angst

[ Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Part 5 ]

[ Masterlist ]

Harry drove home from seeing you with a million thoughts swimming in his head. Why did he say he loved you? That was fucking stupid. I mean, it is true. He did love you but obviously it was the wrong time. Had he really taken so long to realize your intentions were greater than you let on? He really should have thought about that more. These sequences of events were a product of not needing to think when he was with you. Not seeing you for months then having an awkward encounter with you and then weeks later he pulls up to see you in a parking garage and says he loves you. I mean what the fuck. Who does that? Harry apparently does that now. Gone are his days of confident mystery. Perhaps he should learn to think when he’s near you. To be independent of you. Despite this, he’s regretting the timing of his impulses and now you know he loves you and you still will go home to another man. How was he supposed to process this and now having to see you at the festival? Rehearsal after rehearsal and then a whole weekend of you. Perfect you.

The thoughts consumed his mind the whole drive back to his LA home. The car pulled into his driveway, and he shut the door as he fished for the key to his house in his bag. The welcoming smells of laundry and cleaning products filled his nose with a scrunch. He needed to sort himself out. He used to come home to his NY apartment and smell you. Your vanilla and cinnamon scented perfume. Like cookies fresh out of the oven. Warm and truly inviting the opposite of the chemicals and detergent stinging his nose currently.

The days before the start of rehearsal seemed to drag on. Meeting after meeting and workout sessions in between for both harry and yourself. In total it had been about a week since you asked him to meet you at the garage. Dylan still didn’t know, and you still couldn’t get Harry’s declaration off your mind.

***

“And then he stood there with that fucking smirk of his and was like ‘I Lov youu’ I mean who says that after you just told them why you needed space in the first place.” You punctuated your sentence with a hard smack to a punching bag. You never would have caught yourself in the gym before all this Coachella nonsense. Yes, you were grateful blah blah blah, but this was some serious stuff. Asara joined you on occasion and this was one of those times. Blass your personal trainer he’s heard a ton of drama fall from your lips. Asara grinned and held back a laugh at your impression of the man. The two of you hit the bags in tandem as the conversation continued.

“I think he just misses you. You were on and off for so long you know.” Asara spoke between the sounds of fist hitting bags. You sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, he missed me while he was fucking another woman high off coke.” You punched the bag and Asara chuckled.

“Y/n he tried to tie you down several times, and I remember you always ran away every time he tried. Now, that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t have used his words, but the man did try. And don’t act like you don’t partake.” Asara stood off to the side as she finished her set.

“That’s not what I mean. He just gets carried away and I don’t mind taking care of him after he’s faded but it’s not healthy to do it that much. And as for trying to tie me down… I was completely loyal to him, and he knew that. I want to be shown off and he wants to be secretive and private.” You paused for a second to remove your boxing gloves. “We never saw eye to eye, but I love him too.”

“Right and now that you can both agree on something what are you going to do about Dylan?” Asara made a good point, and you weren’t sure how to break the news.

***

“Do you think I’m ready for this?” You looked up at Dylan with fear in your eyes. It was starkly different than any look he has seen on your face before. He always knew what to say but this time he just sort of looked at you. You looked to him for something. Anything would have been fine just anything to let you know that he could level with you in this moment. You were searching, reaching for anything in the deep recesses of his eyes and you couldn’t find anything.

 His lips turned into a smile, and he pulled you in close. For Dylan in this moment, he was so proud of you that words weren’t enough. You allowed yourself to be pulled to the hug, but your arms stayed at your side. It was eerily frustrating for you. Being spoon fed the idea that he wanted to give you what you deserved, and you deserved more you needed more. You needed what Harry could give you. Out of the corner of your eye you could see him speaking with his production team and you glanced between the two men. When your eyes settled back on Dylan, you knew you needed him to leave. The two of you stood backstage at a mock rehearsal for the night you were to perform on stage at Coachella. Voices and the sounds of metal scraping against each other while the sun beat down on the field. Dylan decided to join you for moral support, but you felt so separated from him. It was like he did understand what you needed in that moment to help you feel better. You stared at the wall and your mind went blank. This had to stop.

Harry stood off to the side with his team. Each of them primping him and measuring fabric for the show. He did a good job at staying impartial when Dylan was around. For the few times they ended up in the same room or when he saw a photo of him on his Instagram feed because you posted him, or he just happened to be in the photo. You didn’t fully warm up to him just yet and Harry knew you didn’t forgive him yet. In his mind he decided he needed to be on his best behavior to win you back and gain your trust. Harry couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t snooping, he definitely was. And he could tell Dylan was doing a shit job at comforting you. The guy looked nervous enough for both of you.

“Um I gotta go Dylan.” You spoke softly and pulled away from him after he placed a kiss to the top of your head. You looked disappointed if harry could even say that. Dylan seemed to take the hint and disappeared off to sit with your friends. The dress rehearsal was dragging on for everyone so harry could imaging you felt stuck right now. Nervous and unsure who to talk to. Having a solution come to mind he made his way over to you. At first you didn’t notice. You were marking beats and paces in your head like he does, and it made him smile to think about you valuing his creative process.

Harry decided you needed space and he leaned onto his team as they finished the preparations. He would be back in two nights to perform, and you would be joining him on stage. His nerves caught up to him and he was glad you were off with your people so he couldn’t make a fool of himself again. You looked good though even in your comfortable clothes to practice. Your hips hit every marked beat and he almost got lost watching you.

The next day of rehearsal went by fast, and you were up late again practicing for the show. Beat after beat and step after step, you went over it in your head until it was time to gather backstage. You arrived at the venue the next day in a pink dress. A car service picked you up and your team met up with you. Flashes of light and screams cold been seen a mile away from the stage. Harry was prepped and ready to descend upon the crowd. You stood off to the side and took deep breaths. Harry saw you from the corner of his eye and looked over. You looked so scared. So different from how he was used to seeing you. You looked so vulnerable.

“You’re going to be great darling.” His voice carried a low register that caught your attention through your in-ears. He had walked over to comfort you. The glitter on his outfit fell to the ground like snowflakes and you stared at the glistening specks. For some reason, the closer he got to you the slower your heart began to beat.

“Give me your hands.” His voice was firm but soft as to not call attention to you. You listen despite all that has happened and how much you wanted to walk away and be alone. Your hands fit into his so perfectly. Harry held onto you gently and rubbed his thumbs onto your palms. Your breathing was shallow, but you stayed in that spot not daring move your sight from the floor.

“Look at me darling.” That pet name would haunt you if this ended up anymore tragically. Harry caught your eye, and you stared right back at him. His eyes didn’t give anything away that he didn’t want them to, and you just stood there looking into his eyes for a few minutes. You wanted to cry. Dylan could have never comforted you like this. All these months and weeks replayed over and over in your mind as you held hands with Harry.

“Just look for me if you feel nervous out there, okay? Focus on me.” Harry let go of your hands and walked up the stairs. You closed your eyes, and you could hear the excitement in the crowd build. The screams got louder and louder as the music began to play and he walked out. Secretly your heart was doing flips. Warmth flushed your face, and you gave Harry a small smile. He brushed his thumb against your face and turned to walk on stage. You stood back and looked at the crowd as he started to perform. The opening notes of adore you began to play, and the audience went crazy.

Three songs and then you heard your cue. Walking closer and closer to the stage you heard your song begin to play through the speakers and the beat matched up with your heart.

Liked by harryswife33…and 3849 others

y/nandharryshipper1 y/nrry for lifeeeeee

458 comments

Harryfan54 stop they are for sure meant to be together.

Y/nnnfan22 y’all acting like she isn’t in a relationship rn

Reply to Y/nnnfan22 y/nrryshipper9 right lol its weird even for me. Like I get it but harry is definitely in over his head with this one.

Liked by assa22, harrystyles and 93820 others

Yyy/nn3 baby’s first Coachella tyyy @\harrystyleshq for inviting meee

View all 24830 comments

Y/nnnfann0 bae looking so fucking good

Harrystyleshq loved having you

Harryfan96 Harry gets to have that any time he wants and I’m jealous

You put your phone down after looking back at the post. A notification flashed at the top that Dylan had posted and for some reason you wanted to keep him out of your mind. Now Harry isn’t stupid, and he especially isn’t stupid when he’s sober. He saw how fast you ignored the notification. He didn’t quite see who it was from when you put your phone down so fast, but he guessed it was from Dylan. He would be lying if he said it didn’t amuse him but the idea that you still gave an ounce of energy to that man made him feel detached from reality. The room was cold like he asked for it to be, but his neck felt hot. The veins in his arms bulged for a second and then before he could succumb to the jealousy you started speaking.

“Thank you.” You sounded so meek and shy. Fixing yourself like a teenager on a first date. Is this what he’s done to you? His darling used to be a spitfire. Real sassy and sickeningly sweet with her attitude. “Thank you.” If this were almost a year ago, he would have you pinned to a wall already. Fuck your “thank you” He needed that feeling back in full force. This simmering tension was frustrating. Was he just supposed to stay away from you? He knew you wanted him back. You didn’t have to say it, that’s what this whole game was about. Harry has studied you and the way you act the only thing that made this different the other times you’ve played cat and mouse with him is that you found a new toy to fuck around with. “You look fucking amazing.” Harry sighed and shifted on the sofa the pair of you were sitting on. He wasn’t lying the skirt you were wearing was low cut and your waist was twisted and curved like when he used to hit it from behind. He should probably stop but who wouldn’t think about you like that?

You noticed that Harry was staring. Staring in your eyes studying you. Staring at your clothes or lacking thereof. Staring at your lips imagining God knows what and you stared right back. It was almost like how you see in the movies. You moved in slow motion as you scooted closer to him on the seat. Your legs crossed and your hands were cradling your phone. Harry sat opposite of you with his legs spread comfortably. His arms were lying over the back of the sofa. The two of you were sure there were more glamorous couches to be lounging on, but the accommodation wasn’t of concern when your lips met for the first time in months. Something about the kiss was electric. Your phone fell to the floor as harry pulled you closer. The position was awkward with your arm trapped between his body and yours. Your legs remained crossed until Harry’s hand gripped the skin of your exposed thigh. His firm palms and fingertips massaged the muscles you had been using to dance all night. Neither of you broke for air until your phone began to ring from the floor.

Harry leaned forward and picked up the device first. His mood dampened as he saw the name flash across the screen. In a split second it crossed Harry’s mind to decline the call on your behalf. All it would take is one swipe of a finger, one press of a button. He would have his lips back on yours in a second. You sat across from him looking expectantly with wide innocent eyes. Such a loud juxtaposition from the smudged lipstick smeared across your plush mouth. And all the nasty things he knew you could do and say with it. You were so beautiful and the second you answered the call you wouldn’t be his anymore.

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