#probably the only things he touches like that are his knives

[lady-phasma]

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen - Dune: Part 2

No caption, just hands

[keravnous]

diet mountain dew; john wick/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

dating john wick - the playlist

The Boogeyman is out to get you. Little does he know, that you too are willing to do quite a bunch of things just to stay alive.

warnings: blood, guns, knives, injuries, physical violence/fighting, assassination attempt; dub-con, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), choking, dirty talk, spanking, a lot of manhandling bc for the love of god he doesn't know how to be soft anymore, gun kink, knife kink, size kink, strength kink, squirting, body worship if you blink, is this hate-fucking? idk; john has a horse cock change my mind; john is in his 50s, the reader is in her 20s; set somewhere after the series i guess? (I refuse to accept he's dead); problematic family relationship as a plot device; let's all collectively ignore the fact that he would actually never touch another woman or even dare to catch the smallest of feelings again; john gets off on the violence

word count: 10,6 k

thank you mel for a) listening to my ramblings and b) reading a good chunk of the first third of this dumpster fire and still going nuts about it, kissies and thank you v for listening to my keanu ramblings without losing faith in me

You wonder, if praying will help you. Probably not.

The sound of carnage, screams and gunshots in the hallway abruptly stops. You hear the assailant's heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards outside of your hotel room mere seconds before the door bursts open, flies out of its hinges and rattles to the ground, wood creaking and breaking, splinters flying everywhere.

There had been a hit out on you for two days and every single soldier in your father's militia was ready to defend your life with their own.

Literally. You can tell by the man entering your suite.

You can tell by just how much he is covered in blood. You can tell by the way it drips down his forehead and how it soaks his white shirt - even the soles of his shoes creak with it. You can tell by the way he is totally and utterly drenched in red red red, and because you are certain it is not his.

They literally gave their life for you. The thought hits you like a blow to the head. People have died because of you. Fathers, brothers, sons. You recall your last conversation with your own father. They want us dead, they put out a contract on us - you had never seen him so nervous, so disheveled. What does that mean - his anxiety had been washing over you in seeping hot waves, sending cold shivers down your spine. It means, I need you out of the house - now.

Nausea bubbles in your stomach as the man now approaches you, casually strolls into the suite with his finger on the trigger of the gun dangling from his hand and you stare back at him - a deer in the headlights, frozen by fear in the eyes of its deadly predator. One of your father's men jumps from his cover, fires a shot and gets hit back with one straight between his eyes. It happens so quickly, that you can't turn your head away. You see the bullet piercing his forehead, blood splattering as soon as it exits the skull on the other side. His head flies back a little, and then his body goes limp, slack, as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to run. But there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from him.

There's only one soldier left with you in the suite now and he is hiding around the corner, near the bathroom. The stranger - the assassin, the killer - does not lower the gun again, and does not let his eyes stray from you as he carefully enters the room. You feel terribly exposed, dressed only in your negligée, not daring to move.

Now, that the dim light of the suite's living room strikes his face, you can finally see him, see the man who has come to end you. He is older than you, maybe nearly twice your age, with dark hair and even darker eyes, matching his black suit. Lean and athletic, chest heaving slightly with physical exhaustion. The Boogeyman.

You do not know who or what you had expected, what cruel and dreadful images your brain had conjured up in the past 48 hours - 48 frightful hours of being moved around from hideout to hideout by your father's men, not staying in one place longer than necessary - but it certainly was not that. Not him. He is a lot more handsome than his reputation has led on. Seeing him on the subway around rush hour you would have never suspected him to be in this business. He looks nice. And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.

You have heard his name before. Echoing from the walls. Baba Yaga. Whispered with both: fear and respect. The Boogeyman. Blurted out: like a curse or like a blessing. Mister Wick: like redemption, like damnation. Jonathan, the king's son walking the earth as the devil.

John. The sound of his name is oddly human - disturbingly human - for someone looking as calm and collected, focused and concentrated as he does right now, while being drenched in blood and pointing a gun at you.

You must have said his name out loud, because his eyebrows twitch irritatedly, a movement so quick you barely missed it - must've sound desperate too, then.

Vision zeroing in on the barrel of his gun, your hands clutch the sofa's edge. There is so much adrenaline pumping through your veins right now that it freezes your limbs, has your ears ringing. The only thing responding to your brain fully are your eyes, and they snap away from the gun and over to the remaining soldier. It's a quick look, not even a second, but the hitman seems to recognize it and - with near inhumane speed - flicks his gun, and fires two shots. Blood splatters against the white door as the shots pin the soldier's body against it, and is it finally drops to the ground heavily it leaves a nasty trail, all wet and sticky and red.

Could be you.

You want to scream, but your body does not belong to you anymore, does not respond to your commands. It is a desperate, cruel sound that leaves your throat instead as you flinch with the sound of the gun being fired.

"Let's make this quick" his voice is gravelly and rough, like he has seen a thousand grim things and the pain of it has etched its way into his throat, left a nasty mark on every tone that ever dared to cross after.

That is when your fight or flight suddenly kicks in. Well, more specifically, it kicks in while he is speaking, as he starts to swap the empty clip of his gun.

He underestimates you. Everyone does. Your father, your brother. The countless men lying dead littered across the hotel's 25th floor. It will be his mistake.

You latch forward, grabbing the vase from the coffee table in front of you. The weight of it in your hand drags you down.

With all the strength you can muster, which is quite a lot considering the massive amounts of adrenaline that are currently amping up your body - you throw it at him. It connects with his forehead sharply; a deep, irritated noise bursting from his throat as it crashes, splinters and falls to the floor.

You are braver, braver than you should be as your assault does not end there, your body pushing you forward, leaping over the table and crashing into his broad shoulders.

I will not die today

Body ramming into his, he stumbles, as your fist connects with his chin. You have only been partially trained in hand-to-hand combat, after pleading your brother for months until he eventually gave in. Sadly, he wasn't nearly as thorough and honest with it as he was training his drug dealer and gun runners. But now, it is the only thing you can rely on.

There is nothing else; no one else left alive in that building who might be able to help you. It is up to you. So, you might as well try.

And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.

I will not die today

The diversion does not last long and he - John John John only human only human only human - grabs you by you waist hard, fingers digging into your flesh and into the expensive silk, before he slams your body into the ground. All air leaves your lungs with a dull sound erupting from your chest, just as pain blooms around your ribs.

You cough and he looks down at you, confusion making his brows twitch, before cold-hearted determination takes over once more. John aims his gun at you once more, pulls back the hammer and you do not even think about it, your leg rising as you kick against his hand. The shot misses, buries itself deep into the expensive carpet a few inches next to your skull. You have no time to do either: panic or sigh in relief; instead, you deliver him a kick to his stomach, fighting yourself back onto your feet, punching him straight in the face.

John grunts and grabs your wrist, but you see it coming and throw yourself into his wide frame, wrapping your other arm around his back and thus hooking it underneath his right shoulder, dislocating his arm and preventing him from aiming his gun at you. You claw onto him as he twists your arm close to his stomach, while you wrap your legs around him, making it harder for John to shake you off.

I will not die today

You kick and dig the heel of your foot into his thighs and the back of his knees and he grunts and buckles a little, but turns wild and relentless quicker than you can blink, throws the two of you into the next wall. You gasp sharply as your back connects with the large mirror, splinters digging into your back - not deep enough to actually cut skin, but it stings nonetheless, the impact making you dizzy.

Sharp pain shoots through your back and your neck, but you are not willing to give up yet, as raw energy and rage and desperation surges through your body - one of your legs coming loose and your knee hitting his stomach repeatedly, making John grunt in pain and you use your momentum to dig your hand deep into his back, holding onto him and then swirling out of the deadlock he has got you in, jumping his back like a monkey.

His gun clatters to the ground and for a split second, the room falls silent. Then, roaring like an animal gone wild, he grabs your calves and slams his back into the nearest wall, has you screaming with the impact. You can feel blood pouring from your nose, feel it trickling down your lips.

I will not die today

John is stronger than you are, so so much stronger - the apex predator: all muscle, unbreakable focus and the sheer will to kill. But you are not only a little quicker; you also really want to stay alive. It is a force he rarely encounters. And quite frankly, it irritates him.

He may be older than you, taller than you and stronger than you but you have something he does not have: you actually still got something to lose.

And you fight like it, too. All scratches and sharp yells, as you punch and scrabble at his shoulders and tear at his tie, trying to strangle him with it. John is struggling against it, gasping for air and winding beneath your assault and then his grip around your claves grows hard like iron, seconds before he pulls - throws you over his head like you weigh nothing. You land on the expensive carpet with a heavy thud - groaning as you crash onto your side with sharp pain shooting through your shoulder, down your ribcage.

I will not die today

John sputters and stumbles forward, looking for his gun but you are quicker, kicking it away with your foot. It clatters back onto and slides over the wooden floorboards.

For a second you consider your choices, fighting yourself back onto your feet but John - a practiced and seasoned fighter - beats you to it and lands a blow to your upper back, sends you back down with him - a mess of sputtering saliva and painful groans. His body topples onto yours and he quickly rolls the two of you over the floor.

John is heavy and warm on top of you, as he keeps you in a tight headlock, your chest pressed to the floor and neck bend in a painful angle. He presses his strong forearm down onto your windpipe and you choke and cough, feet kicking, hands dragging across the wood, clawing at it feebly.

You can feel his breath on your cheek, hot and damp. You can feel his torso pressing against your back as he kneels behind you.

I will not die today

Mustering all your remaining strength, you trash against him, ramming your backside into his stomach. He grunts and for a split second, his grip loosens. It is all you need. Throwing your elbow back, you hit him in the chest and he caves in.

You cough, crawling forward and then scrambling back onto your feet, one of your negligée’s straps falling down your shoulder in the process. You hastily pull it back up, seconds before John launches a cascade of punches onto you.

A few of them hit you as you try to block them; dull pain igniting in your body, blooming in your face and arms. Your breath goes heavy as you stumble backwards. You cannot do this. There is no way. You just physically can't.

He is stronger. Taller. Heavier. Deadlier. Your body and every single muscle, bone, nerve in it aches and you wheeze but he is already onto you again, half-tackles you and grabs your waist, ready to smash you back onto the ground.

You cling onto him with all your remaining strength, struggling against his huge frame, wrapping your hands around his neck in an attempt to get him to stumble.

His hair tingles on your naked arms. Oh wait --

Tearing at his hair - which has him grunting in both, pain, and irritation at the unusual attempt - you clumsily pull yourself up onto his shoulders, cutting his face right above his eyebrow with your nails in the process until you finally wrap one leg around his throat and close it around there tightly, choking him. John tries to pull you off him and succeeds after quite the tussle, only to find your frame clinging to him, legs and arms wrapping around his body, hands scratching and feet kicking.

I will not fucking die today

In an attempt to either get rid of each other or submit the last blow, to finally kill the other, you two swirl through the room - a deadly dance of torn skin, smashed glass panes and mirrors, bruises and cuts. Somewhere in between kicks and punches, he managed to pick up his gun - and right now, you are mustering all of your exhausted strength to prevent the barrel from pressing against your skull.

Eventually, John crashes your bodies through a large wooden door, and is not quick enough - unable to stop his own oxe-like strength - to stop himself from stumbling into the room. The two of you only come a halt as his knees hit something soft and ironically that is what finally topples both of you over, landing onto the mattress of your bedroom with a soft thud and deep, exhausted grunts.

Your ears ring, and you are ready to lash out at him again despite the physical exhaustion, to strike him square across the face, as --

There is something hard pressing against your crotch.

The world falls silent.

No. No, there's no fucking way. It's got to bea hidden weapon. Must be.

But clearly, it is not. There, between your spread legs, his hard cock presses snugly against your panty-clad pussy.

And he just feels so huge - mouth-watering huge - that your body responds in its own way, hips snapping up, stuttering against the hard bulge. John lets go off a shaky, ragged breath, hand still clutching his gun. And you know, that this is your window.

Feeling the warmth that his body and his hard dick are radiating through his expensive suit, you roll your hips once - a languid, slow motion, rubbing your pussy over his bulge.

And he groans. A deep, primal sound that sounds a little coarse. John is looking at you, starring you down, but there is a shadow dancing over his eyes, turning his brown eyes into deep and dark, black pits that gives him away.

He is horny. The Boogeyman is fucking horny. You would laugh, if the realization wasn't knocking all air straight from your lungs. Because it just another reminder, proof of what he actually is: human.

And what a sight he is to see - eyes turning darker every second, his chest heaving with every breath and making it seem like his shirt is going to pop a button or two any second now, his cock prodding against its restraints and your clothed cunt.

It makes you want him. The thought leaves you dizzy, makes you gasp.

Apparently, that is all he needs to roll his hips back into yours. And that - that is just unfair. It's playing dirty. It's, it's -- His dick feels huge as it trails along your folds, has the muscles in your abdomen clenching.

"Fuck", you breathe, a little overwhelmed with and helpless at the sudden surge of lust that ignites your body, the wetness pooling between your legs.

John is not saying anything, just stares you down while he continues to slooowly roll his hips into yours, grinds his cock against your cunt. Your pelvis twitches upward as you start to meet his movements, and then you can hear it. He let's go of a deep breath, and it sounds like the faintest moan.

You need to hear more of that. You need more of him, your cunt aching and hole clenching around nothing already.

"John", and this time you say his name - consciously - it sounds a different way of desperate: your voice reduced to a small whisper, torn at the edges by a wanton whimper ripping from your throat.

If it throws him off-guard he does not show it, does not let you see it. Instead, he grabs your chin hard, gaze locking with yours. Dark pupils blown wide, swallowing the honey-brown of his eyes, and your breath hitches.

"Yeah?", he rasps, and it does not take more than one long look from you for him to lean in, to press his lips onto yours.

The kiss tastes of blood and adrenaline and doom, and you relish in it. Relishing the way his lips move against yours and his beard tickles a little, relishing how his tongue presses into your mouth. It feels like he is eating you whole, licking into your mouth, one hand dancing over your waist - featherlight, like he doesn't know how to touch a body without hurting someone, destroying someone.

I will not die today, motherfucker

Your whole body now sings with it, the security of an impending victory, as you roll your hips into his once more, your tongue now licking back into his mouth. For a second you think about how to strike again, now that he is seemingly distracted, but all will to fight leaves your body as one of his hands brushes over your knee, wanders further and eventually rests on your thigh.

The touch is electrifying and then his hand grows braver, his movements more certain, as he grabs your thigh, feels you up. It happens so suddenly, that you gasp into the kiss.

John parts from you, his lips a little plush already. "Oh God", you whisper as you stare Death Turned Human straight in the face, not a single thought remaining in your skull despite your lust.

He doesn't speak, as he gently let’s go off your leg and straightens back up and for a second you think he is going to hurt you, with the way his brows are furrowed - but he doesn't.

Instead, he moves in, right over your comparably tiny frame - a mountain of a man. John kneels above you, his weight pinning you down while he straddles your thighs and Jesus fucking Christ - what a sight he is to see.

Dark locks falling into his forehead, a little sticky with sweat and the bits of blood from the cut your nails gave him moments ago - right above his left eyebrow, still lazily trickling down into his lashes. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, as he hastily gets rid of his jacket, carelessly drops it to the ground. His black button-down clings to his muscular body underneath his waistcoat and his equally as muscular thighs pin you down to the bed, black fabric nearly tearing at the seams. And then there is his hard cock.

It looks as huge as it felt, with the way it bulges his pants, the outline of it clearly visible as it buckles proudly against its restraints. You are certain, you will not be able to close your hand around it fully - not a chance.

One of his hands - the one lacking a finger, which you only now notice and what sends shivers down your spine - wanders over your body, pulling your negligée down in the process, right tit spilling out of the soft silk. He immediately grabs it, cups it with his large hand and squeezes. You mewl, marveling at just how big his hand is, just as his whole body is in comparison to you. His fucked-up finger digs into the flesh, sending shivers down your spine.

John's hand gropes your tit, before he impatiently pulls the neckline down roughly. You sigh, arousal shooting down your spine and tingling in your lower belly, as two of his fingers nudge your nipple, pinch it.

He watches your face intently, as he continues to grope you, rolls your nipple between his fingers. You mewl, breath accelerating a little but it is just not enough and you buck your hips upwards. John grunts in, what you assume is an approving manner, and let's go off your tit, reaches to his belt at his loins.

Quickly pulling a knife from God-knows-where exactly, a sharp blade enters your vision.

You blink, panic seeping through your lust and your legs twitch a little with fear. If John notices it, he neither shows it nor does he say anything, just moves the knife closer to your body.

The blade shines in the dim light as it dances over your exposed thighs carefully, the metal cooly pressing against your skin, before he flicks it and cuts your negligée open. The thin, soft fabric cleanly cut in half it now lazily slides from your aching body, falls to its sides. Your chest heaves, shivers running down your arms and back.

It happens so quickly that you can only blink. As your brain finally catches up with your eyes, you come to realize that he is holding a real fucking tactical knife. You have thrown one once - they are sharp as hell and deadlier than a bullet. The sound of fabric tearing easily, like paper, proves your point.

And John's movements with the blade are so fast that your breath hitches, a little afraid he might cut you. But he does not, instead, he quickly pulls the torn silk off you and away from under you, carelessly tosses it into the dark of the room.

The edge of the blade dances over your skin and you do not dare to breathe, as he trails it up and down your curves, gently nudges your nipples. "I could kill you", he says calmly and then, in lightning speed, presses the blade into the crook of your neck. Your head sinks back into the mattress, in an instinct to flee the sharp edge.

All it does is to expose your neck further and something gleams in John's eyes, as he presses the sharp tip down slowly, carefully nudging your skin with it. The metal is cold and hard and sharp and your breath hitches. Just a little bit more and it might burst your skin, draw blood.

But, to your own confusion, you do not feel threatened anymore. Oddly enough, your nerves tingle with excitement. You blame it on the already high levels of adrenaline that still pump through your veins, rushing back and forth from your brain and your lungs, but a small voice inside of your head whisper gently, deviously, that you know That's not it. And he knows it, too.

It's in his eyes as well, the sheer excitement of it all, the fucked-up pleasure it evokes in the both of you lays heavy in the air.

It turns you fucking on. It turns you on, that the man who - minutes ago - tried you kill you and did hurt you very fucking badly in the process of it, now decides to let you live.

It turns you on, that you are at his mercy.

It turns you on, that he decided to spare you - just for now.

It turns you on, that these large and strong hands holding the knife have that sort of power over you. And thus, as the blade nudges your head back further, you moan.

"I could cut your throat", John's voice is heavy and thick with arousal and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, breath accelerating. His gaze drops down, watches the rapid rising and falling of your breasts hungrily, while another soft moan escapes from your lips.

"Don't", you breathe softly.

The knife practically burns on your skin, and you can feel arousal flooding your clothed pussy, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction. John can feel your squirming underneath him, but he can also see your eyes turning watery and dark with lust, pupils blown and a pretty pink spreading on your cheeks, your breath growing shallow. And he just really needs to fucking taste you right now.

As quickly as it appeared, the blade vanishes from your throat before he twirls the knife like the ruthless, reckless professional that he is, and buries it deep to the hilt in the mattress next to you. The sharp sound as it pierces the thick fabric has the hairs on your body standing up, goosebumps rolling over your skin.

"I'll do it later", he rumbles - casually, like he is talking about doing chores or picking up groceries - before hunching over you, grabbing your chin with his fucked-up hand, and kissing you again. His tongue immediately pushes into your mouth, like he is starving to taste you.

John eats you whole, with the way his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face, tongue licking into your mouth, toying with yours. His kiss steals your breath and you start to get dizzy with it, hips bucking. You can feel his lips curling up and then he parts from you, leaving you a gasping mess, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"Let me touch you, John", you whisper, voice a little small because you do not know why you feel that way, and if he will even allow it. But you just need to feel him.

For a long moment his gaze dances over your face and something shifts behind his eyes, like a shadow gets lifted and then very quickly returns. Ultimately, he gives a court nod, so small you nearly miss it and gives you a little more room while straightening back up.

Carefully, as if not to spook him, you dart one hand out, place it on his chest. The muscle is firm underneath his suit and you run your hand along the lapel of his jacket, down and then back up, before it slips beneath it.

John's body radiates warmth under the black fabric of his shirt and your other hand comes up, before you shove the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor next to the bed.

Your breath hitches.

He is wearing a holster, a reminder of his deadliness, of the gun laying somewhere next to you. Maybe, he sees the fear returning in your eyes, but he is quick to shrug the holster off, throws it into the dark where it clatters onto the wooden floor boards. What is left in front of you are broad shoulders and a muscular chest, the fabric nearly tearing at his movements.

As you run your hands over it, you cannot help yourself - you need to fucking feel him for real.

Quickly making work of his waistcoat and tie you toss both to the side carelessly, before your hands roam his broad chest. His button-down clings snugly against his upper body and you can feel the muscles work beneath the black fabric as your hands brush over them. You tug at the shirt, pulling its tails from his pants before hastily opening the first few buttons. The skin underneath is pale, littered by blue - red - black bruises, birthmarks scattered in between like stars. You pop open the rest of the buttons, greedy to touch him. And as the shirt falls to the sides your hands are already onto his chest, roaming over and admiring the muscular, defined canvas of strength, that violence has painted a pretty picture on.

John is watching you intently as you undress him and then explore his body, your pupils blown wide and dark, mouth agape a little. He is a little taken aback by it - by someone not seeing his body as the ultimate tool of death that it is, but as something else, that he cannot really pinpoint because he can't even look in the mirror without seeing destruction and decay. But the way your gaze wanders over his body, the way you touch him, is different from that and he has not felt anything like it in years.

And John wants. Carnal desire tugs at his brain, shoots arousal between his legs, makes his cock twitch and a low growl escaping his throat.

The sound gets you going: pushing yourself up with one hand, the other wrapping around his strong neck for leverage as you sit up, mouth immediately clutching to his throat. He tastes of sweat and after-shave - sharp and musky - and you run your tongue over his skin greedily, licking and sucking at the skin while your naked body presses against his.

It disarms him. The gentle touch that you put his body up to, while everything still aches from plowing through the better half of your father's militia and beating the hell out of you, confuses him. Your touch, your lips on his skin are soft and not aiming to hurt - instead, they grow more and more needy, wanton and hasty, as you lick over his bruised skin, tasting his sweat. Your hands over his abdomen caress his defined muscles, in awe of his utter strength, thumbs brushing through the soft and dark trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his trousers. And all John can do, is watch, his gaze locking with yours as goosebumps erupt on his skin.

And you - oh you; your head swims with the way you turn this animal into a human again, unlock a different set of animalistic needs within him and hearing John's breath growing heavy really fucking does it for you, feeling his scarred and beaten-up skin underneath your hands, wrapping them around the deadly machine that is his body. It makes you want more.

Shedding his blood-stained shirt off of his shoulders, your hands roam over his upper back - feeling the scars there: of knives, larger and small ones and round ones of bullets that once pierced his skin. There is something else, a burn scar, in the shape of a cross and he hisses as your fingers brush over it, nails digging into the stunted skin.

It pulls John out of his stasis, reminds him of who he is and you can feel the air swinging with it seconds before he moves. His large hands wrap around your shoulders and then he pulls you off him, throws you back onto the mattress. You yelp, eyes growing wide as you watch his face as it turns from lightly dazed back to stern, wild, with his brows furrowed.

"That's enough", he says, voice coarse and it still feels like a small victory, even though he spreads your legs roughly, hands digging deep into your thighs - hard enough to bruise - before he kneels between them. He yanks your body forward at the back of your knees, watches your tits bounce and then leans in, his lips immediately attacking your throat, your neck.

His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, his beard tickling a little as it brushes over your tits, your stomach, your thighs while his tongue licks fat stripes over your nipples and down down down your upper body, right to your navel. One of his hands creeps up your body once more and roughly cups your tit, squeezes, and gropes it, rolls your hardened nipple between his index and middle finger. His stunted ring-finger digs deep into your tit and you gasp, hips bucking. John's lips suck and nibble at your skin, before eventually ghosting over your pubic bone, teasing you before assaulting your thighs again, teeth biting down gently into the soft flesh. You gasp and moan while he gropes your body, inhales your scent - as you watch how his lips, tongue, and teeth dance over your thighs, moving closer to your cunt.

John finally, finally, puts his mouth onto your pussy, peppers open-mouthed kisses around your clit, before clothing his lips around it and sucking on it hard through your panties. Your hips buck as a high-pitched moan erupts from your throat, hands flying into his greying locks.

"Fuck", you whine, feeling fresh wetness flooding your folds, dampening the thin fabric further. John can see the outlines of your wet pussy pressing against your panties and parts from your clit momentarily, only to lick a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, watching it twitch.

"That's fucking pretty", he rasps, gaze locking with yours and you feel all air leaving your lungs. His eyes are so fucking dark, like gleaming black pits swallowing you whole, his breath a little flat with arousal.

You want him to fuck you. Really fuck you. To plow you open, rail you until you cannot sit nor walk. He is already so so close to you, but too far away at the same time. "Please", is all you manage to utter out. And it seems to be sufficient enough for him; seems to get across what you want, what you need.

John's fingers wrap around the front of your lace slip, tugging at the fabric - that rubs along your cunt at the sudden motion and has you gasping quietly - and then he pulls. The lace tears easily as he rips it apart, and cool air hits your wet and hot pussy, as he practically peels you out of your underwear, throws it to the side. The look on his face is wild and you can hear him taking a deep breath, smelling your arousal, before he spreads your folds apart with his thumbs, gaze wandering over your plump and flushed cunt.

Teasingly brushing over your clit with his thumb, John watches your reaction intently. And fuck, you do not disappoint. Throwing your head back, you moan, drawing in a deep breath through your opened mouth that heaves your chest, your eyelids fluttering.

You are dying for him to touch you and as he does, it feels like your body catches fire - lust washing away the dull pain in your limbs and near your ribs.

"Oh God", you breathe out as his thumb draws another wide and slow circle over your clit, your hands darting out and grabbing the sheets "Please."

And John complies, his thumb rubbing over your clit in a slow but steady rhythm.

Gasping, your hands clutch the sheets, knees darting away from each other, giving him more space. John accepts the invitation, grabs one thigh hard, fucked up ring-finger digging deep into your skin. His fingers move further, abandons your clit and dance over your folds, down to your hole. It flutters as two of his digits tease it, gently circling around it.

"Please", you whine once more, lifting your hips a little, a desperate noise leaving your throat. John smirks to himself, before pushing two of his fingers into you.

The stretch is sudden and bigger than expected and you moan coarsely, as he pushes his digits along your walls deeply and nestles them into your seeping hot cunt up to his knuckles. And Jesus, you feel so full already; your head swimming as you consider how big his cock must feel, then.

Your breath goes quick and shallowly as he starts to move them, and then he leans in. Nudges your clit with the tip of his tongue, licks over it.

You feel like combusting on the spot: your nerves tingling with arousal, your whole body still aching from the beating you gave each other earlier - the pain in your back blooming as you stretch it with your hips desperately shoving themselves near his touch - your pussy squeezing his fingers.

John pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, his tongue rubbing and circling your clit and soft, needy moans fall from your lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the air, mingle with your moans and heavy breathing. His lips close in around your clit, sucking at it while his fingers rub along your spongy walls and your cunt squeezes them hard as fresh wetness floods your folds, your squirt wetting his beard and dripping down on the sheets below.

You can hear - feel - John humming against your pussy, peppering the wet skin with open mouthed kisses, licking over it, and tasting your slick.

You feel so fucking good - lust pulsating through your veins, loins on fire - and your head falls to the side, body rocking with sharp gasps and your mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as --

There's the gun. And the knife.

You could easily grab either one or the other next to you, pull the blade out of the matress or the hammer back; put a bullet right between his eyes or plow the blade deep deep into his skull. Killing the Boogeyman. Killing Baba Yaga.

That would do wonders to your family's business. It would emancipate you from it, you would be free. Free to rule.

"Thinking 'bout killing me?", John rumbles, tongue licking a fat stripe over your cunt, nudging your clit. Your gaze flickers back to him: hair a mess, eyes gleaming darkly, hands on your thighs to keep your legs spread. He does not look surprised. Neither does he look worried.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head: he is toying with you. Has been the whole fucking time. The wolf hunting the deer, running a few rounds through the woods to weaken it; its breath whistling with exhaustion, long legs buckling before it collapses - an easy kill. An easy kill for an old wolf, one, that can't quite handle a real hunt anymore.

But maybe, just maybe - judging from the look in his eyes - he got lost in his own game. Its reins slipped from his bloody hands, the wolf tumbling to the ground.

Looking back at him, your lips curl into a sweet smile. "Not anymore", your hand darts out, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from his face - the soft gesture leaving him visibly confused -, "John."

Two can play this game. And maybe, just maybe, the deer can tire the wolf out first.

Something gleams in John's eyes, dances over them like a shadow and he seems to accept the challenge - readying to tire you out - tongue licking over your clit once more, making you shiver and mewl, as he pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole. You feel empty and --

"Do you really think, you could kill me?", he rumbles, voice deep and rough around the edges, "Stupid slut."

And then, quicker than your brain can process it, his hand comes down on your dripping wet pussy.

Your breath hitches, topples over and leaves your throat as a raw, needy moan. Softly stinging pain blooms between your folds and sets your nerves on fire. Blame it on the bruises, blame it on the pain you both inflicted on each other moments ago, but: it riles you up. Mingles with your aching bones and aching cunt, has you arching your back.

"Y'really think you could kill me", he doesn't sound offended, not even amused - voice plain, like he is inquiring if you really believed the earth to be flat. Like you really are stupid.

And you start to feel stupid, too. There was never a chance. You never had a chance. Your death was sealed, determined the second John stepped into the hotel.

You were stupid to believe you could outrun or beat him. You are stupid. And John has every right to show you, teach you, punish you for it.

Giving your cunt another firm slap, John watches your hips twitch, hears your pussy squelching and soft moans falling from your lips. "Shit", you sigh and he slaps your wet pussy once more, feels your slick folds wetting the palm of his hand.

"D'you like that, girl?", and as your only response are wanton gasps falling from your mouth John chuckles deeply, gives your pulsating cunt another two firm slaps. Seeing how he is pulling you apart, how good he makes you feel really seems to do it for him, gets him quite talkative.

"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, quite illiterate, watching him stroking your flushed, hot cunt with two of his fingers. Shivers run down your spine.

And then he leans back in, licks a fat stripe over your sensitive, flushed cunt, from the hole up to the clit.

You squirm, mewl as his beard brushes over your overstimulated skin, leaving a slight burn that mingles deliciously with a fresh wave of arousal that floods your body scalp to toes.

The muscles in your abdomen clench as two of his fingers circle your fluttering hole and then push in, rubbing along your plush walls agonizingly slowly and you can feel yourself tightening around it. Your juices squelch from your cunt as you squirt against his tongue and your slick runs down your folds, wets his fingers and palm while his tongue laps at your pussy, tasting your sweetness.

John pushes is fingers deeper as you moan and sigh, hands fisting his hair and hips moving against his tongue, his digits thrusting into you.

"Oh god", you huff as his lips close in around your clit, sucking on it and the tip of his tongue flicking against it occasionally.

Another wave of fresh wetness floods your cunt as you squirt once more, wetting the sheets below, your slick running down John's wrist.

John parts from your clit, nudges it with his tongue, his beard glistening with your juices.

"Yeah, that's fucking it", another one of his thick fingers pumps itself into your tight little hole and his other hand - also slick with your juices - grabs your thigh, "That's a good girl."

You feel so full, your spine feels like it's on fire and your brain tingles with it, sends wave of pleasure down down down your body; muscles in your loins clenching, chest heaving. It becomes all too much as he leans back in, rubs his tongue over your clit, lips sucking and teasing your folds.

The slight burn of John's beard tickling your plush, hot cunt. His fingers working your open and stretching your tight little hole open far and wide, obscene squelching sounds filling the air as he works you open, brushing against your g-spot occasionally and making you see stars.

But it's too little. It's just not enough.

"Fuck", you whine as John's thick fingers brush over your g-spot with quite some force, tongue lapping at your seeping cunt, "Shit, please. Please, just fuck me, please!"

You can feel him grinning against your wet cunt, beard a little sticky with your juices, letting go of your pussy with an obscene pop. "Yeah", he licks his lips, tastes you on his tongue, "D'you want my cock?"

And that - that might be what makes you lose your mind. Because yes. Yes, you do.

You have been craving to touch it, to feel it since it had pressed against your clothed pussy earlier. Thus, all dignity leaves your body with one, clean whine that breaks free from your throat.

"Yes, fuck - oh god, John", you brabble, legs falling apart further, inviting him in, his digits sinking deeper into your soaking wet hole, "Shit, please fuck me, John - please, please, please --"

Pleas are still falling from your lips like a chant, as a surprising noise breaks the silence, so strangely beautiful that it has you nearly shuddering: John is laughing. It's a nice baritone sound, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle with it - it's so beautiful, that it drowns the world out. You watch him in awe, as he shakes his head, avoids your gaze.

"Jesus. Look at you", he huffs, voice dripping thickly with amusement, "If you need it that badly--"

Straightening back up and kneeling between your legs, John slips his fingers from your cunt and makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers. The second he frees is cock, you start to drool like a fucking pavlovian-dog.

His dick is so fucking huge. It is nicely curved and cut, the bulbous pink head glistening with pre-cum and a thick, pumping vein at the bottom that rakes from the base to the tip, as it rests between trimmed, dark pubic hair. His cock bobs against his abdomen as it bounces free, smears the pre-cum along the pale skin, twitches at the sudden contact. And Jesus fucking Christ, you just want to fucking touch it, feel its velvety skin in your palm. But you just know that you won't even be able to wrap your hand around its base fully, it's impossible, it--

"I-it won't fit", you whisper, a little taken aback by his sheer size.

"Oh, I'll make it fit, baby."

John takes his cock in one hand, thumb right beneath its head, and rubs it against your slit. And Jesus fucking Christ. Your hips snap up, meet his movements, and he grunts while he spreads his pre-cum along your cunt, gathers your slick. The thick head of his dick prods against your entrance and you take a deep breath, looking down between your legs. You watch how he slooowly pushes in and you gasp at the sudden intrusion, the delicious stretch making you moan.

His cock feels so fucking big, hot, and heavy, as he nestles the tip in, your hole clenching around it. John's brows furrow, and he doesn't wait long until he pushes his cock in further.

The thick base starts to stretch your slim rings of muscles, a sharp pain shooting through it. He can feel your hole protesting, can see you wincing. "Breathe, baby", he hums, "Let me do the rest."

His coarse voice mingles with his words and the waves of pleasure shooting through your body despite the dull pain, conjures up a pretty pretty image that floods your brain - there's sunlight everywhere, orange rays of it hitting a bed covered in white sheets, sweaty bodies on top of it; limbs entangled, hands intertwined with their golden rings shining brightly in the warm light, heavy breathing and sloppy kisses, and lazy thrusts as his cock fucks you awake. The thought makes you dizzy, your legs falling apart and hole fluttering open, inviting him in.

The slight burn leaves you a gasping, whimpering mess as he pushes himself in deep, nestles his huge cock in between your aching, hot, and tight walls.

And John feels like he is going to pass out. No blow to the head, no bullet to the chest, no knife to the stomach could ever make him feel as dizzy as the feeling of your hot cunt squeezing him does right now. His whole body is vibrating with want and lust and he just really hopes that you don't notice that he has gotten a little rusty. The thought quickly gets drowned-out as he looks down, where his thick cock practically splits you open, vanishes in your hole.

"Shit", he huffs out, places one large hand on your stomach and thrusts. Feeling himself moving inside of you has him moaning, gaze shooting up to you, meeting your eyes, as his hand presses down. "You feel me right here, baby?", he rasps and you nod, mouth agape by the sheer force of his thrust, tip of his cock prodding your cervix.

John can see his cock moving inside of you, the way your stomach bulges a little. He gets a little dizzy with, and then his eyes make the mistake of moving up to your face. And it takes a whole lot of fucking will-power of him to not just thrust and thrust and thrust and fuck you until you cry, bleed.

You are so fucking pretty. Mouth agape you watch how his cock vanishes between your legs, splits your cunt open, with his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Your lips are plush and red from his assault.

Your hands grip the sheets and your breasts heave with your deep breaths, that grow a little more flaccid. Next to you lays his gun, knife still buried into the mattress. His eyes drop to the weapons and his breath hitches. And for a split second, like a flash of light, he wonders what in God's name he's doing here. He is a professional. The Ballerina works like that. He doesn't.

A sweet, sweet noise rips him out of his thoughts. "J-john", you mewl, eyes still trained on his massive dick splitting you open, "I-it, it's --"

"Yeah?", he breathes, the sound all soft and careful around the edges.

"Heavy", you breathe.

"Does it hurt?", he kind of wants it to. Make you pay for what you did to him. He kind of doesn't want it to. Make you enjoy what he's got to give.

John realizes he is fucked.

You nod, head flying back into the cushions, while your brows dart together.

John's free hand flies to your clit, nudges it gently, before slowly rubbing wide circles over it. You gasp, as you feel fresh wetness flooding your cunt and dripping down your folds to where his cock splits your hole open, pools around it. He carefully pulls out a little and then pushes back in, assisted by your slick. The way you moan spurs him on and the circles on your clit grow faster and smaller.

Aching your back, you lean into the touch. "That's a good girl", he whispers, voice raw and coarse, dripping with lust and the exhaustion of holding back. John bottoms out, while continuing to rub your clit and he can feel your walls growing plush, your hole fluttering around his dick, relaxing with your hot, seeping cunt inviting him in. "Feels good?"

"Yeah, fuck", you feel like you are being split open, with his thick cock filling you to the brim and rubbing along your walls with every little movement, the thick head prodding gently against your cervix, "Shit, John."

It feels so fucking good, all thoughts being washed away from your brain as he starts to move carefully, thrusts into you once, twice. You moan, lips slightly parted, before your gaze flies to him.

And Fuck. John's chest is flushed a little, muscles of his abdomen flexing with every thrust while his gaze is trained down to where his cock fucks into you, brows darted together a little and his breathing audible.

"John?", you whisper, and his gaze immediately shoots up to you as your comparably tiny hand wraps around the wrist of his hand that is still rubbing your clit.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

For a long moment, he just looks at you and you think - no, you are convinced - that you can see a glimpse of the human being he once was. Caring, sweet and gentle; as he seems to really take it into consideration if you are ready yet, if you know what you are begging for.

Apparently, he does deem you prepared enough, and the soft gaze gets replaced by a dark gleam as all gentleness vanishes from his face once more. Without a warning, John rolls his hips back only to thrust into you again, deep, and hard, immediately picking up a quick rhythm.

It comes as a genuine surprise to you and you gasp, mewling but it quickly feels just so fucking good, practically lights your body up and leaves every nerve-ending on fire, each thrust has you moaning loudly.

It spurs him on, makes him grunt and for a while, you both just watch him gliding in and out of your tight hole, with him feeling your muscles squeezing him and you feeling his cock stretching your open further and further. Your lips as slightly parted and his brows are furrowed as he rolls his hips into yours and you feel time getting lost on you, the only thing of importance remaining is the feeling of him filling you up. John's hands roam your body, wandering over your thighs and your stomach, your hips before angling your leg, pushing the heel of your foot on his shoulder, and grabbing your ankle with one hand, his dick slips into you even further, balls slapping against your ass heavily with each thrust.

You can tell that John has not fucked in a long, long time. It's not the way he does it - all fluid, languid thrust of his hips, muscles dancing under the soft skin. It's mostly the way he pants and grunts - sounds just as desperate as you feel. And still, he has the stamina of a racehorse.

You can feel that he wants to prove it, too, as his free hand grabs your thigh and hoists your other leg over his hip bone, practically pulling your lower half off the bed in the process. Your pelvis now clings to his, obscene sounds of his cock fucking into your wet pussy filling the air while he huffs with his thrusts, yet does not slow down.

The grip on both, your ankle and your thigh are hard, and you are certain his hands will leave a bruise but you just cannot bring yourself to care. Deep down you know, that someone will see them: your maids, your friends, your family.

But all thoughts, all worries get swapped from your brain as your gaze wanders up from where John's dick hammers into you steadily, rakes over his defined stomach and chest and finally, finally lands on his face.

He looks downright, utterly, and breathtakingly -- pornographic.

John's dark pupils blown wide gleaming with arousal, his cheeks are slightly blushed and a thin layer of sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the living room falling onto the bed. It surrounds him like a halo, a Saint of Death and Decay, with his dark hair falling into his forehead and onto his shoulders. He brushes it out of the way with his stunted hand, a ragged breath making his chest heave. There is still some of your slick wetting his beard.

You can't help your mind from going there, from wondering how different things could have been. What it would be like if you had met me in a bar instead of him entering your suite, leaving the hallway behind him looking like a slaughterhouse. Maybe he would have laughed at your jokes, in the dim light of your favorite bar in the city. Maybe he would have liked the same music as you do. Maybe, just maybe, he would have brought you home only to stay the night and fuck you until you would have lost your goddamn mind.

Your hand wanders down your body, strokes your waist and hip in the process, before it languidly drops between your spread legs, two fingers darting out and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

John moves quickly, his usual deadly precision shattering your peaceful fantasy, his hand ditching your thigh and closing in around your waist. "Don't you fuckin' touch yourself", he growls, and it's the first time you hear real, actual emotion dwelling in his throat - not his toneless, cold and mechanical rumble. He sounds pissed. Offended.

And the best part is: it seems to get him fucking going.

John leans in, your calf still resting on his shoulder and the slight pain of the stretch is delicious as he nearly folds your body in half. You can feel his dick sliding in even deeper into your hole and you gasp and whine, one hand coming up to dig into his biceps to just hold on. Hold on, while he pounds into you with perfectly angled, deep and strong thrusts, hitting your g-spot with every single one of them.

You know that the suite's door is in shambles, that anyone could walk in here and see you having your brains fucked out by the man who is here to kill you - but you don't care. Part of it is, because the gun is still resting next to your head on the sheets. You could just grab it and shoot anyone dead in heartbeat, whoever is trying to disturb the pleasure that shoots through your body.

But it is also him.

It's the way John is towering over you, back hunched, looking all wide and powerful and deadly, with the way he shields your body from view and harm as he thrusts into you. As he pushes all his rage, adrenaline, and strength into your tight hole, groans, and pants into your ear.

There is nothing you can do, despite holding onto him, nails digging into his back, clutching his broad shoulders, fingers running over his tattoos desperately. He is fucking the living daylight out of you, your body moving like a ragdoll underneath the mountain of muscles and strength. Your cunt is being split open by his cock, as you feel him hammering into you and you feel like you are going to lose your mind, panting and moaning with each of his thrusts.

"John, fuck", you moan sweetly, eyes rolling into your skull as he pounds into you, "You feel so fucking good, shit --"

"Yeah", he huffs, his forehead slowly sinking onto yours, "You too, baby."

You can see his eyelids fluttering, feel his upper body heaving beneath your hands, smell the blood on his skin, mingling with his musky scent. Blaming it on the sickening cocktail of hormones that is flooding both - your brain and your body - you lean in, your lips desperately smacking against his.

And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.

Kisses you like he is starving for it, licking back into your mouth - his body pressing yours into the mattress with his whole weight and muscle, while still thrusting into you.

Your hands tangle into his hair, tugging at it. John moans against your lips and your stomach flutters at the sound, and you want more. One hand moves to lay at the crook of his neck and your tongue presses against his, licking back into his mouth. Adding some force to his neck you invite John deeper into the kiss, and he follows suite, steals you the last bit of air your lungs were holding. Panting you part from him, thumb brushing over the crook of his neck.

Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself. You feel so alive and you want him to wreck you, to leave something behind that you will remember for every day your heart continues to beat. Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself but to whisper: "Harder."

John blinks, hips stuttering. And then, he grunts. His hand digs into your waist as he grabs you there, hold you in place will his hips rut into you. Picking up a near brutal rhythm, obscene sounds of your slick being pushed in and out and in out of your hole as he jackhammers into your g-spot, the bedframe rattling as John's thrusts pound it into the wall - leaving you a gasping and moaning mess. His belt clinks with his thrusts and you cling onto him, sharp whines escaping your throat.

"John John John", his name leaves your mouth like a mantra, sharp and high-pitched. His head falls forward, dark locks brushing over your cheek as his temple rests against yours and then you hear it.

John moans.

It's a deep, carnal sound. Your stomach flutters and lust shoots through your body at the noise, your tight cunt squeezing his thick cock as you squirt around his cock like a broken fucking hose, wetting his pubic hair. You can feel it rubbing along your wet folds, the sensation making you mewl, leaves your hips shuddering.

"Shit", you breathe, hands cradling his muscular back and then you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, accompanied by yet another one of his sweet, sweet moans, "Fuck, John--"

He raises his head and your gazes connect, before he leans in, presses his lips onto yours once more. The kiss is surprisingly soft and in stark contrast to the way he ruts and pounds into you and then he hits the spot once more and -

Everything goes white as your muscles clench and unclench suddenly, as you nearly scream against his lips; your hole practically milking his cock as you cum, pussy gushing and squirting around him like a broken hose.

John continues to fuck you through your orgasm and his heavy breathing reaches your ears through the cotton candy, that slowly wraps you in as everything turns light and bright. He moans deeply against your cheek as he comes, too - shoots hot ropes of cum into you and paints your walls with it.

His movements still as he buries himself deep into you, cock twitching with each thick rope of his cum and you can feel him fill you up, as his massive frame slowly sinks down onto you.

Your legs grow heavy and the stretch of your left leg is turning painful and you - a little clumsily - pull it away from his shoulder, stretch it out. Your limbs start to shake and you close your eyes, drawing in deep breaths through your nose.

The room is silent, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex.

Your chest still heaves with the remains of your orgasm, bliss still spreading in your brain and your veins, making you feel like you are flying. Your heart is still racing, as you feel him moving again.

Blinking up at him, you can see him grabbing the gun.

"Don't", you say softly, voice coarse from screaming your lungs out in pleasure just moments ago, "Please, don't." You are not ready to scream yet again. Not ready to scream in pain, instead of pleasure.

John does not reply. He pulls the hammer back, checks the chamber - all with one hand.

"Kill him instead, please."

He freezes, eyes locking with yours. "Who?", he sounds just as exhausted as you. The wolf, tired out. The deer, bleeding, limping.

Call it Post Nut Clarity, call it Finally Taking Your Future In Your Own Hands, call it Emancipating Yourself. Call it Having Wrapped A Deadly Assassin Around Your Pinky.

You were not safer here. You never were. Just more isolated. Easier to locate.

Easier to kill.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head, your vision swimming.

See? I will not die today.

"My father. Kill him."

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part 5

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.5k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Stalking. Brief mention of domestic violence. Feelings of fear, self loathing, and anxiety. Vomiting. Panic attack/comfort. Medical inaccuracies, hospital setting. A little bit of praise. Johnny is a flirt and a menace.

“Ye’re off yer head.” 

“I’m not.” Johnny expects Simon to relent, to give it up, but when he doesn’t budge, something hot sizzles alive in the pit of Johnny’s stomach, desire roaring to life in his veins. 

“Jus’ like that? Ye’re goin’ let me see yer bonnie face finally?” He slurs, lifting the bottle to his lips, and Simon nods.

“Only if you win."

“And if ye win?” Simon moves closer, his chest brushing against Johnny’s, balaclava covered face dipping down, noses nudging against one another’s in a tentative, teasing way. 

“If I win, you’ll remove something of my choosing instead.” 

Your phone is ringing.

In your sleep, you hardly recognize it, but your subconscious is well trained, and your hand seeks the source of the noise effortlessly, dragging it from the nightstand and next to your face, to squint blearily at it, awareness coming quickly when you recognize the charge nurse’s work line.

“Hello?” You clear the cobwebs of sleep from your throat.

“Hey, sorry to wake you.”

“No, ‘s alright. What’s going on?”

“I know it’s your day off, but-“

“You’re short.” You fill in the blanks, and she huffs.

“We’ve got two out with flu like symptoms, and I’m floating another to-“

“It’s okay.” You swing your feet over the edge of the bed, rubbing your eyes. “I got you. Just give me like, an hour? I have to get ready and stuff.”

“Of course. Thanks so much, you’re a lifesaver.” You zone out for a moment, plotting out the rest of your day, and mumble something like ‘don’t worry about it’, ending the call with your thumb.

The hotel carpet is plush. It’s cushioned and soft, and it gives a little when you stand and stretch, pulling your arms over your head, twisting and turning with tired bones, shaking loose the stupor that holds your neck too straight, too tightly.

OT isn’t the worst thing in the world right now, considering you’re paying for a long term stay in a hotel, you tell yourself more than a few times as you shower and dress. You should be grateful for it. Understaffing has it’s benefits, financially.

The only wrench about coming in on your day off this week is you’re supposed to be collecting more things from your flat. Particularly, clothing. You’ve only got a short rotation of outfits, scrubs, both in short supply, and… no clean underwear. You had planned to move large chunks of your wardrobe over today, probably at least two trips worth, but will now have to settle for stopping by fairly quick to grab what you can.

It will be fine, you think, casually checking your surroundings as you step off the platform. In and out and on with your day.

You were wrong.

You see it immediately, stepping through the door. The locks are in place, handle, deadbolt, extra one at the top, but you can tell, you can feel, that someone has been in here. Your blood thickens in your veins, freezing to a stop, sluggishly propelled by your frenzied heart. You can hear it in your ears, the thunder of your panic, can feel the fear twisting itself into a sailor’s knot and holding you hostage.

Your feeling is confirmed, rationalized, when you push your bedroom door ajar and see the carnage of what’s been left behind on top of your bed.

Shredded panties.

The entire underwear drawer has been spilled out across your sheets, lace and cotton and silk all ripped to pieces, torn edges clearly made by hands, not knives, not scissors, but the personal touch of fingers, of fists.

Your breath catches in your chest, oxygen in the room falling away, leaving you panting, gasping for your next inhale as you cautiously pick up a pair close to you. They’re grey cotton boy shorts, and your stomach flips up into your throat when they stand as stiff as a board, some sort of dried substance splattered across them, rendering the fabric firm and inflexible.

Not… not just some dried substance… you realize in horror, scanning the pile of panties, noticing the stains on most of them, a milky white color shining against black silk.

You can’t breathe. You stumble away, back slamming into your dresser, sinking down onto the floor, hands covering your ears.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. 

This is sick, even for him. An escalation of disturbing behavior that sends a chill down your spine, frightening you even more than you already were. You knew he’d get in, hoped he would buy your carefully crafted lie: the appearance of you still living there… but to act so brazenly, to do something like… this.

Does he know, does he realize, you’re not actually living in the flat now? 

He’s really going to kill you this time. 

You race to the toilet, heaving yourself over the seat as your breakfast rushes past your lips, a cup of coffee and half eaten muffin accentuated by the sting of bile, and you gag, spitting and hacking until you’re finished, flushing it all away.

You don’t look at the girl in the mirror. You don’t want to see her. Don’t want to tell her all the ways you’re letting her down. She thinks you’re smarter than this, stronger. Braver. She believes you’ve done it once before, you’ve escaped, you’ve hid, and you can do it again.

She doesn’t know you’re not sure you have the heart for it now. She doesn’t realize you’re tired, you’re afraid. She doesn’t understand that you like the life you’ve made, that running is exhausting, that sometimes, in the very darkest corners of your mind, you think that letting him win might be easiest.

So, you don’t look at her. You mourn your pile of panties for a too long second and lock the apartment up tight.

Get it together. Get yourself together. 

You coach yourself the entire way to work, trying to ignore the rubbing and bunching of your scrub pants, an unfortunate consequence of being forced to go commando.

Deep breath. You can do this. 

You still have your sanctuary. 

You had hoped, for a miniscule moment, that your day might improve once you step foot in the hospital, and you pushed away the inkling that suggested that optimism may be linked the fact that you’ll get to see Simon and Johnny, opting not to even acknowledge the strange sensations swirling about inside your heart whenever you think about the other day. The day when the world stood still and Johnny touched your hand so gently, stroking his fingers over your skin, or when the elevator doors parted to reveal Simon and their baby, a sweet baby girl safe in his arms, his eyes alight and adoring, your knees almost giving out at the sight.

Needless to say, you’re eager to badge in.

The day is quickly derailed, when within a half an hour of getting settled into your routine, an alarm goes off for two sixty-eight: thirty-nine degrees.

Your mind immediately somersaults to the pain in his upper right quadrant from your last shift, logical thought leaping all around as you jog down the hall.

You notated it. You passed it on in shift report. It’s only thirty-nine. You did everything right. No one here would just disregard something like that. Deep breath. 

Still… 

Bile leak. Abscess. Infection. Or worse… hepatic artery pseudoaneurysm, hemorrhaging. Big things that could lead to worse things, worse outcomes, worse- 

The door comes up quicker than you realize, and without hesitating, you slip inside.

“Hi.” You’re a little breathless, and Simon’s eyes snap to yours, taking you in, studying from head to toe, brow knitted together. Johnny’s asleep, and you’re not sure if that makes you feel better, or worse.

“Everything alright?” Of course. He’s too perceptive. Get control of yourself, it could be nothing.

“Yeah, I ah… have to draw some blood.” You really do not want to wake your patient, or alarm Simon, but you refuse to lie. You fire off a text to the attending on call, advising him of Johnny’s temperature and reminding him of the upper right quadrant pain, letting him know he can expect labs as soon as you get them downstairs. You give Simon a nod, turning to slide the draw open quietly, pulling out everything you’ll need. His gaze burns a hole in your scrubs, the ever-present scrutiny impossible to escape, and sometimes you wonder if he’s reading your mind.

“What’s wrong? He just fell asleep, Pen was here all morning, tired him out.” His protest is husky, and you think he’s frowning behind the mask. You imagine a strong mouth pulled downwards in consternation; wide jaw gnashed tight with worry.

“He’s running just a bit of a fever.” He jolts, and you shake your head, hoping to soothe his fear. “It’s not too high. I’m not super worried, but we’ll need to check his white cell count, just in case, okay? And then we’ll go from there.” He nods.

“You said this could happen.” You smile. It feels unsteady, but you hope he can’t tell.

“I did. I promised, that if there was something to panic about, I would tell you. We’re not there yet.” It’s not a lie. Your wild spiral from a few minutes ago was an extreme, not reality, and you need to keep your head on.

“Okay.”

“Right. So, just going to do a quick blood draw and get it downstairs so we can find out what’s going on.” Simon shifts uncomfortably, and you carefully squeeze Johnny's arm, wrapping him with the tie and swabbing the inside of his elbow as fast as possible.

He blinks, eyes opening slowly, confused brow smoothing when he realizes you’re leaning over him, and his gaze darts to Simon before landing back on you. “There’s our bunny.” He mumbles softly, and your face heats, eyes widening in surprise before you regulate your reaction, and Simon coughs. Loudly. Bunny? 

“Such a flirt, MacTavish.” You playfully chastise him, relieved he’s feeling like himself. “I just need to get some blood and then I’ll leave you in peace to sleep.” He shrugs, but Simon rubs a thumb against his thigh in tiny little circles, too fast to be considered comfort, and Johnny clucks. “Ah, come on Si.”

“You’re runnin’ a fever, Johnny.”

“Ach. ‘s nothing.” He brushes it off, but his eyes are slow to track Simon’s movements, and you casually sneak a peek at the monitor, noting his blood pressure.

“Could be.” You assure him, smoothing a hand over his shoulder and taping a small patch of gauze over the puncture. “But better safe than sorry, right?”

The labs are inconclusive. The attending hems and haws before finally asking you to schedule a stat ultrasound of his abdomen, and you manage to bump him to the front of the queue, pulling a few strings here and there by rattling off some bullshit about being higher priority.

In the time it takes for the tech to get to two sixty-eight with the machine, you get a new admission. Intubated, but awake, and getting them and their family squared away takes longer than you would have liked, the patient’s middle-aged husband a wreck of nerves and worry, the kind of anxiety that makes you sit with him in the room for a little while, patting his hand and promising that you’ll be there for them, every step of the way.

By the time you step out of that room, it’s been nearly an hour. You catch a glimpse of Simon in the chairs outside two sixty-eight, and you throw him one of your best work smiles, hoping to reassure him, soothe his nerves. You want to go to him, want to sit beside him and talk him through everything, the outcomes, the possibilities, but you still need to add the notes for your new admit, and-

Someone catches your eye from the end of the hall. It’s a man, white, with brown hair, in regular clothes, and he stands taller than the others around him, shoulders rolled back just- just like-

No. You force yourself to look, to truly see him, taking in his facial features, the slope of his nose, and it’s hardly a second before you’re realizing it’s not who you thought it was. It’s not him. 

The second doesn’t matter to your heart. It’s already racing, tripling it’s steady pace inside your chest. You’re shaking, trembling in the middle of the hall, frantically looking for the nearest closet, or empty room, or…

Stairwell. There’s a stairwell just beyond where Simon is anxiously waiting, and you beeline to it, nearly tripping over your own feet past him. You think you hear your name being called, but the blood rushing in your ears is too loud, and you can’t be sure. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters right now is getting away. Hiding. Not letting yourself be noticed.

You take the first flight down, stopping on the landing to rest your face against the polished, cold wall, desperately trying to fill your lungs with air, encouraging yourself to breathe.

It wasn’t him. You’re safe. 

Deep breath. You can do this. 

Your fingers dig into your hips, squeezing through the numbness, through the overwhelming feeling of your impending doom, and your head swims, lightheadedness nearly knocking you off balance.

“It wasn’t him.” You whisper aloud. “It’s not him. You’re safe. Get it together.” You chant, eyes clenched tight. Your heart is still pounding, no sign of relenting, and your lungs burn, screaming inside you, desperate for air. The feeling of suffocating, of dying, grows stronger, gaining momentum, and your eyes slam shut, your mind and body locked in a tomb of panic and fear. 

You hear your name again. It’s sharper, authoritative, but you can’t open your eyes, too overwhelmed to even make sense of it. Deep breath, just breathe.  

Something touches your shoulder. It’s unexpected, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you register it as gentle, but you’re too far gone, too far buried beneath your fear and your panic and your shame. It triggers you into a defensive posture, and you flinch so hard you jostle yourself into the wall, turning into the corner, hands out in front of your face.

“Hey, hey.” It’s Simon. Simon is standing in the stairwell with you, palms open, concern heavy in his eyes, and you vaguely realize he’s talking, soft, deep words washing over you. “-to breathe?” He comes closer, only half a step, but it’s enough to startle you back into the corner, and he stops short. “It’s alright. I’m not going to touch you.” He soothes, and you recognize the pitch, the calm, affectionate tone from Johnny’s bedside. Sour nausea surges in your stomach, and your lungs fight the invisible hand that tightens around them. “Can you take a deep breath?” You shake your head, and he huffs a soft chuckle. “You can do it, just try. Through your nose, like this.” His chest expands, eye contact never breaking, and you try to follow suit, getting halfway before your head spins, vision tunneling. “You’re alright.”

You’re not alright. None of this is alright. You’re having a panic attack, in the stairwell at your job, in front of a patient’s partner. 

You can’t speak, so you shake your head instead. No.

“Yes, you are.” He assures. “Everything’s okay. Focus on your breathing. Try another one for me.” His hand covers his heart, and you focus on the way it ebbs and flows with the movement of his diaphragm, the pace of his breaths.

You manage to get one full inhale and exhale. And then you get another. Then a third, a fourth, until it’s coming easier, and your head doesn’t feel as fuzzy.

“Good job, that’s it.” Your fingers twist together, the grating noise of your jagged breathing smoothing out even more, and Simon nods encouragingly. “You’re doing great, sweetheart. Nice and slow.” Sweetheart. The word is bright, boundless and sweet as honey, the sentiment settling in your belly and growing warm. The two of you stand there, just breathing, staring at one another, for what feels like an eternity, until you find the strength to summon words. 

“I-I’m sorry.” You finally choke once you’ve got a better handle on yourself, hands going lax at your thighs.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” You’re about to brush it off, thorny lies starting to form in your mind, excuses and carefully crafted explanations fusing together when your work phone beeps, the low frequency different from the ones related to patient care. Shit. Already? Simon’s glances at it in your pocket and cocks his head.

“End of my shift.” You explain, moving towards the stairs, your hand trembling on the button to silence the alarm. The muscles in his neck flex, molars grinding together.

“Still feeling a little shaky?” He observes, and you look down to your feet, mortification crawling up your spine, blooming across your cheeks through heated blood vessels.

“Um…”

“Would you mind, maybe sitting with Johnny for a bit?” You do still have notes to do. “If his test is done? I have to run home, help the Prices' put Penny down. She’s been a bit fickle, lately. Missin’ her Da.” He rubs the back of his neck, chest flexing inside the charcoal grey hoodie, and for a weird, too long second, you wonder what it might be like to fall asleep there, or just close your eyes for a minute, even though it's something sweet and far away, unobtainable in every facet. Simon says your name, jogging your attention, and then takes the first step, partially turning like he wants to reach for you, but thinks better of it.

“Uh. Yeah, I… I can.”

You badge out and grab your stuff, keeping your tablet so you can complete your notes while you sit with Johnny. You’ve already checked his results, and when you slip inside the room, the attending is updating them, explaining how he has a very small bile leak, and will need an endoscopic procedure tomorrow morning.

The attending excuses himself, giving you a quick nod, and then Simon leans down, knocking their foreheads together tenderly. 

“Keep an eye on him, I hear he likes to make trouble.” Johnny smiles, pink-red color creeping up his neck into his cheeks, and Simon seems like he’s smiling, before he turns serious. “Behave. I won’t be too long.”

“I always behave.” He pats the side of the bed, beckoning you, and you shake your head, plopping down in the recliner to his right.

“I hear ye’re keepin’ me company, pretty girl?”

“I am. Got some notes to finish, heard this chair was pretty comfortable.” You quip back easily, and it feels natural, to be joking and laughing, to be hiding again.

“Well, I’ll try not to distract ye then.”

Your tablet clicks dark with a satisfying shutter, and when you place it face down, Johnny gives you one of his stupidly handsome smiles. “All finished?”

“Yeah, not too bad.” His phone vibrates against the tabletop, and with his good hand, he opens the message, turning it to show you the screen. It’s a picture of Penny, half asleep against Simon, clad in a pink onesie covered in little ducks. Her cheek is squished against him, long baby lashes fluttering on her skin. “She’s so cute.” You say, and he nods, flushed with pride. You glance at the contact name, Lou, and before you can stop yourself, a question bursts out: “Who’s Lou?”

“Our captain’s wife. She’s been helpin’ a lot, with Pen. Which is great, they’re getting a lot of girl time.”

“Your captain?”

“Aye.”

“Is that…” you want to ask but trail off. You don’t want to admit that you’ve heard gossip about them.

“Military. Simon an’ I work together, in a task force.” A task force. A task force sounds eerily close to special ops, and your nausea comes back with a vengeance.

“What… what kind of task force?”

“Global ops. Anti-terrorism, domestic threats, the lot. How I ended up here, with ye.” The image of your ex looms, his body tense in his gear, or the memory of his boots, sitting shiny by the door, one of them pulling back, swinging towards your stomach. “Bun?” Bun?

“Huh?” you blink. “Oh, sorry. Spaced out there for a second.”

“That’s alright. Simon said ye had a bit of a scare earlier?”

“No I uh, just couldn’t catch my breath, but I was fine. It was fine.” You deflect, moving on as quick as you can manage. “Did you call me bun? And… didn’t you call me bunny, earlier?” He gives you a sheepish look.

“Aye. Is our nickname for ye.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Well… ye look a bit like a bunny, and ye had that sticker the other day that Penny noticed.” Your face heats. “I know ye’re probably real soft like a bun, too.” Real soft? Is he… does he mean- your eyes widen, and he smirks.

“Johnny.” You flounder, helplessly, confused by his attention, this flirtation that seems to have grown into real affection, and he shifts slightly, leaning forward, reaching for your hand.

“Ye dinnae need to be afraid.” He coos. The words are a moon above a tide, pulling and reaching, dragging the swell of the waves higher and higher, until they threaten to pull you under, overwhelm you and drown you.

“I…” I don’t understand? I thought you were gay? I don’t know what is happening here? Johnny grimaces, and you immediately forget about the conversation and leap into action, jumping to your feet. “What is it? Where’s your pain?” Your hands hover over his belly, and he points to where his liver currently sits, slowly leaking inside his body, spilling bile that could eventually kill him if it hadn’t been caught. You pull down the blanket, unsnapping his gown to push it aside, checking for anything physically observable, site swelling, a rash, anything. “Does this hurt?” You cautiously press down, tapping slightly, watching his face for a reaction.

“No.” he says, and when you reach over to his other side, turning to watch his facial expressions, he moves with you, barely leaning, chin pointed in your direction.

His face is suddenly incredibly close to your face. And he looks… so handsome. So pretty, with his bright blue eyes and perfect bones, soft lips that part with an inhale. He dazzles you. Distracts you.

This is your patient, get it together. You’re a professional, act like it. 

“Does that hurt?” You croak, and his lips quirk into a half smile, a warm palm gliding over the small of your back.

“It doesnae hurt, bun.” He winks.

“Oh my god, were you faking?” You try to stand up, but the pressure on your spine is firm, and he chuckles.

“Can I tell ye a secret?” He’s fully serious now, question whispered just above your ear, and you nod.

“Of course.”

“Ye’v been drivin’ me mad today, pretty girl. Walkin’ around here wit’ no panties on.” Oh. Oh… my god. You shoot upwards, hand covering your mouth in shock, and he laughs, raising an eyebrow before his gaze drifts over the curve of your hip.

“Johnny!” you hiss, scandalized, and then guilt hits you like a train, like two tons of rocks have been dropped on top of you. Simon. “Johnny, you… you and Simon, you’re-“

“We’re lucky ye’ve come into our lives.” He finishes, and you frown, confused. “We think ye’re really special.” We. We?

“What did I miss?” Simon says from the doorway, and you jerk, stepping back like Johnny’s bed is on fire and you’ve just been burnt, eyes wide and wild. You feel like a child, caught with a hand in the cookie jar, but Simon doesn’t look angry. Just curious.

“Jus’ talking.” Johnny replies, and he starts to lower his bed, watching you with heavy eyes.

“Well. I should get going. I’ve got a few trains to make.” You glance at the clock, and then give them both a polite smile. Simon crosses his arms.

“Looks like you tired him out.” He comments, and they glance at one another, some sort of communication happening silently before he shrugs. “Let me drive you.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. It’s not… you just got back, and I’m fine, really. It’s not that far, I-“

“If it’s not that far, let him drive ye.” Johnny pipes up, and Simon piles on easily. 

"He's not going to let this go, and neither am I. Let me get you home safely, please." You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. "It's the least we can do." Your shoulders slump in defeat. It’s just a ride. It’s not crossing a line.

“Okay, then.” Johnny smiles, and Simon moves to his side, brushing his mask covered mouth against his forehead.

“She go down okay?” Johnny murmurs, tenderly cupping his cheek. 

“Like a champ. Promised I’d bring her tomorrow morning. Think she understood me.”

“Aye. She’s smarter than ye, so probably.” He teases, and they share a lighthearted laugh before Johnny’s bidding you a goodbye, and Simon directs you out the door.

“Uh, right here is fine.” You point to the curb, and Simon slows the car to a stop, turning to face you with that ever-present scrutiny, brows shoved down above his eyes.

“A hotel?” You swallow.

“My um, my flat is being renovated. It’s a whole thing so I just figured I wo-would stay somewhere else.” You want to flee, run out of this car and away from him, but he holds you in place so easily with just his eyes, so you sit there, frozen, one hand on the door handle, the other splayed against your thigh.

“Is everything alright? Earlier-“

“I’m fine.” You rush out, cutting him off. It’s well practiced, the denial, the avoidance, these things that you normally excel out.

But nothing is normal with them. 

He cocks his head, and then nods, and you breathe a little easier, turning to push the door open.

“Wait.” A hand tugs at you, thick, warm fingers lightly touching your wrist, and you whip back around to face him, eyes wide. “If you ever need anything, Johnny and I… we’re here.” Why is your heart beating so fast? 

“Oh, I uh… I’m fine, I don’t need-“

“That doesn’t work on me. Johnny either, pretty girl.” He tells you, and it’s so firm, so strong backed, that your mouth goes dry, and you gape at him. What? What doesn’t work? Is he… is he saying he doesn’t buy it? Doesn’t believe you? He’s reading your mind, subtly raising an eyebrow, and then nodding. “Put my number in your phone.” He instructs, and like a robot, like a vampire’s Thrall, you pull it from your bag, swiping open the contact list and pressing each number in the order he gives it. “We’ll see you tomorrow?” He asks once you’re finished, and you mumble a shaky yes, finally pushing the door open, and climbing out.

“Alright, well. Good night.” You bend at the waist, giving him a wave through the window, and his jaw moves beneath the mask, shifting to the side, eyes squinting at the corners. He's smiling. 

“Good night, bunny.”

[yandere-writer-momo]

As a follower who is also fatherless over the past few years, yes please, more Jack Henry. I want to make him my new daddy. And I want him to make me a mommy… 🙈🙈🙈🍆💦

Is this who we are as a society? 😭😭 because me too.

@amisalami03

First piece: You Are My Sunshine

Yandere Head Canon: Hold Onto Me

Yandere Dilf Sheriff x Afab Reader

TW: breeding kink, body worship, dubcon (alcohol), etc

His calloused hands eagerly ran over the smooth skin of your stomach and hips. His lips fervently pressed against your navel, his scruff lightly scratching your delicate skin like tiny knives. It tickled

Earlier you had downed so much beer until your head rested on his shoulder and your hands squeezed his biceps. You told him he was strong and handsome… didn’t that mean you wanted him too?

Jack ignored the way you drunkenly tried to push his head away. You’d want this… you cried on his shoulder about how you couldn’t find a husband and he was more than willing to take that spot after he made you his woman tonight. And every night that followed

Jack ran his tongue down the fabric of your panties. He was undaunted from the way your body instantly recoiled at the touch.

“These have to go, darlin.” Jack huskily whispered, his fingers hook around the band of your underwear before he teasingly slid them down your thighs.

A low whistle escaped his lips as he eyed your bare body up and down. “Such a pretty thing you are… can’t believe you was hidin this under all yer clothes.”

You can only whine when he pressed a lingeries kiss to your lower regions before he dove right in. His lips eagerly sucked and licked you like you were his last meal.

Your head spun from the alcohol and the tumultuous lust that began to be built up in you from his ministrations. Your fingers tangled in his brown locks as you arched your back.

“Taste so fuckin good… ya’ve probably never had a man do this to ya.” Jack chuckled before he pulled his head away, his lips covered in your juices. “But I can take ya to new levels of pleasure.”

Jack guides your hand to touch the thick bulge in his boxers. You could feel him twitch in your palm in excitement.

“I’m gonna make ya my wife but first…” Jack guided your hand to pull down his boxers. His erect cock nearly jumped out to greet you. “I’m gonna make ya a mother.”

Jack scrambled to kneel between your legs. The sheriff spits a little on his palm to rub it up and down his shaft. The precum and saliva mixed together for more lubricant. “I’ve been wantin to do this fer so long now… ya have no idea how much a I want you.”

You try to scoot back but Jack grabs your leg and yanks you back towards him. A chuckle left his muscular chest. “No need to be so shy… I ain’t gonna bite ya… not yet at least.”

You gasp when you feel him slide the tip up and down your slit. Your eyes wide and your lips slightly parted as fear begun to over take you. There was no way he’d fit in you… he was so big.

“(Your name)? I love ya.” A scream erupted from your lips when he fully sheathed himself into you in one thrust. Your nails dug into his back to try to deal with the pain of the stretch. Your body trembled as it stretched to accommodate him. A hiss escaped Jack’s throat.

“So fuckin tight! I knew yer pussy would be good…” You just hold onto him as he stayed still and peppered your face with tender kisses. “My wife’s so perfect…”

You gasp when he gave one shallow thrust. Pleasure consumed your body from how deep he was. How he hit spots you didn’t even know you had… and Jack noticed your shift in mood immediately. A smirk now on his lips.

“Ya like that? Well,” Jack leaned down to whisper, his scruff tickled the shell of your ear. “This ‘ere is just the beginnin. Haven’t even started yet, darlin.”

And that’s when he begins to thrust. Your hands held him close as the mattress creaked beneath the two of you. You could see the bulge on your stomach from where his body met yours. The older man mumbled incoherent curses and praises as he began to fuck into you like a wild animal

“I’m gonna get your fuckin pregnant. Gonna give you a baby.” Jack hissed as his thrusts became sloppy. “Won’t let ya say no to bein mine. Gonna fuck this ‘ere perfect pussy every fuckin day till you know who you belong to…”

You only moan and gasp as he throws your legs over his shoulders so that you’re in a perfect mating press. His lips pressed against yours in a searing kiss as you felt your high slowly start to approach.

“Love ya so much… just be mine.” Jack hissed as he moved his lips to press hot kisses on your neck. “Yer all mine… my beautiful darlin.”

And that’s when he bit down on the junction between your shoulder and neck. The coil within you unraveled as you screamed out his name.

“Jack! Jack!” And that’s when you feel him shudder as a hot, sticky substance fills your womb. The sheriff whined as he continued to fuck into you , desperate to keep his and your high going for as long as possible until he inevitably goes soft.

“Fuck… fuck.” Jack collapsed on you and kissed the angry red mark he left on your neck. His mark. “That was amazin, darlin.”

You gasp when he suddenly flips your body on top of his. A smirk on his rugged face. “But it’s not over yet. Gotta make sure yer gonna be bearin my child.”

Jack rubbed your lovehandles with a smirk. “Now ya gonna ride this cowboy all night, darlin. Till the neighbors know my name and whose god damn baby yer gonna be havin.”

[slytherinshua]

HOLD MY HEART, KEEP IT SAFE

genre. hurt/comfort. mafia au. this is a part 2 to my other jeno fic (your wounds wrapped with my love)!! warnings. death, blood, knives, guns, gas chambers, & jeno almost dying all mentioned. reader going through immense guilt and complicated emotions bcuz of killing someone for the first time, nightmares, crying... i think that's it? pairing. husband!jeno x fem!reader. wc. 1.4k. request. requested by @blue-jisungs unofficially but i took it as an official request bcuz she's my baby all the rest of you are losers. a/n. read part 1 here!! this fic can be read as a standalone, but it's still part of the same universe so i recommend reading pt 1 if you haven't already!!

You woke up heaving in short and painful gasps, tears pricking at your waterline. The nightmares were almost like routine, yet they still felt so real everytime that you could never get used to them. You hadn’t enjoyed a good night’s rest in weeks. You could only fall asleep wrapped tightly in your husband’s arms, and even then you would always wake up from the dreams. 

When you had first met Jeno, you knew that getting yourself involved with someone who worked with crime was a risky choice to take. You knew the dangers, but Jeno was worth it to you. You swore to never mess with the stuff firsthand, though. Jeno insisted that you train enough to defend yourself in an emergency, so you were no stranger to a gun’s mechanisms or the best technique to stab someone in the throat with a knife. But you never touched his guns or daggers unless it was for training, you never went along on missions, and you certainly never took a life with your own hands.

That was, until 2 weeks ago.

It was your first wedding anniversary with Jeno, but, of course, you couldn’t expect that you would be able to have a romantic day like other couples. Jeno’s biggest enemy had baited him with an opportunity that was too important to pass up. But the risk was extreme. You trusted your husband without a doubt, but you knew in your gut that something would go wrong. And you were right.

Jeno had smoothly been able to get in and take out almost all of the henchmen, but he hadn’t anticipated that they would lure him into a locked room with a highly advanced gas system installed. There were no windows, the door was barricaded and too heavy duty to break, and Jeno had no way to stop the gas. 

If you hadn’t trusted your instincts and followed him to the base, you wouldn’t have been able to stop the gas flow and disarm the enemy. Thanks to your training with knives, you were able to take him out before he could harm your husband anymore. If you hadn’t taken that risk, Jeno wouldn’t be alive to this day.

In the moment, your only concern was saving your husband’s life, but the lingering regret and guilt from having a death on your hands was eating you whole. You couldn’t get it out of your head— the power you felt driving the knife straight through the man’s stomach, the horror that followed once you heard his blood curdling screams, and then the deafening silence. You had no idea how Jeno did it for a living. 

You heard your husband stir beside you, probably sensing your distress or the slight noise of the sheets shuffling. He trained himself to be an incredibly light sleeper for his own safety. He would wake up to the sound of a pin dropping when he knew there was an active threat.

He knew that there was no threat right now. You had made sure of that 2 weeks ago. But Jeno still sat up, letting his tired eyes fall to your figure, his heart clenching in his chest at the sight. He knew exactly how you felt. He had experienced the same thing when he was still training under Johnny and Ten. The knowledge that someone had died at your hands was unlike any other. No matter how justified the death was, it still felt the same.

He reached out his hand, gently tracing a line on the top of your hand before he threaded his fingers with yours and squeezed. Slow rubs of his thumb over your knuckles was a small amount of comfort for how much you were feeling, but Jeno knew it was all that was needed to calm you down. Any conversation immediately about the nightmare would only lead to more tears. Once Jeno heard that your breathing had evened, he spoke up.

“I wouldn’t be here right now if you hadn’t killed him. I know it was hard.” He cupped your cheek and kissed your forehead, his lips soothing your hot skin. 

“Can you wash them again?” You asked, referencing your hands that Jeno still held. 

It had become obsessive ever since that day. The image of your hands soaked in blood never left your mind. You had already washed away any remnants of the red stains 2 weeks ago, but in your brain, they were still there. The constant scrubbing had caused damage to your skin. Jeno took over washing them for you, knowing that he would be gentler on your skin than you would in your current state. He was patient with you, obliging in anything that you asked for in hopes that it would help you feel better.

He led you to the sink of the bathroom and turned on the tap, finding the right temperature before he let your hands fall under the stream of water. He had bought soap that was extra gentle on the skin just for you. Squirting some into his palm, he massaged it into your hands as gently as possible. He was thorough yet soft with how he washed you, handling your hands as if they were the most precious thing. They were what had saved his life, after all.

He guided you back to bed, gathering the covers over your figure and sliding under them himself. He tucked himself next to you so that his head was mere inches from yours, lying on pillows side by side, you resting safely in his arms. You wanted to thank him a million times as your eyes wandered over his face gazing back at you with so much love. He had so much to worry about already just from the nature of his job. You hated to add to his burden in any way.

Truly, if it had been anyone else, Jeno would not have been able to be so patient and caring. His fellow assassins were well able to handle a few deaths. They were prepared for what a mission would look like and had time to separate whatever happened on the job from their everyday life. You weren’t prepared for that, and unable to make that switch in your brain. Everything that had happened that night lingered in your mind whether you wanted to think about it or not.

“I still feel sorry for ruining our anniversary night. I wanted to take you out on a nice date, show you how much I love you. When you feel better I’ll make it up to you, yeah? I’ll plan something 10 times as nice as I originally had in mind. Just for you.” He whispered, tucking your hair behind your ear, admiring your beauty. 

“The ruined anniversary is the last thing on my mind. You almost died, Jeno.” Tears welled in your eyes as you said it out loud. By the time you had killed the man and unlocked the door to the gas chamber, Jeno could barely stand on his own. Although you had stopped the gas flow beforehand, he had inhaled enough that it was hindering his breathing. Had you taken much longer, he would have already been dead by the time you got to him.

“I’ve almost died a million times. It’s not like it’s new.” He muttered.

“I haven’t seen you almost die before. Don’t say that it doesn’t matter. How am I supposed to live if you die?” You were crying again at this point. 

Jeno sighed. He wanted you to see it from his perspective, but it wasn’t worth a fight. Especially not right now. You were already distressed.

“I know, darling. I’m sorry.” He pulled you closer, head resting against his chest so you could hear his heartbeat. He was alive. That was all that mattered to you.

“Go back to sleep, Y/n. I’m right here.” He whispered, stroking your back to lull you into dreamland. 

Being in his arms felt warm and comforting. Others would say that he was a cold man, too dangerous to even approach. It was true that his job was uncertain and risky, illegal at many points, and only succeeded, in some cases, at the cost of others' lives. But his heart was warm. For you, he would risk everything. 

Despite what anyone else said, you knew that Jeno was a good man. He was not the first person to capture your heart, but he was the only one who you trusted enough to keep it safe. He could carry it with him wherever he went and bring it back to you unscathed. He would never need to give it back to you, though, nor did you ever want him to. You wanted him to keep it until the end of time, safe in his possession, and you, safe in his arms.

↳ nct dream taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @lexeees,, @nyukyusnz,, @lovesuhng,,

@planetkiimchi,, @ujisworld,, @heavenfilm,, @sobun1est,, @emmylksblog,,

@bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,, @chenleszone,, @talking-saxy,,

@cupidslovearrows

[distantdarlings]

TAUNTING // e. berkshire

RATING: R / 3.5K WORDS

Lorenzo Berkshire x Fem Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested, based on this and this* After hearing some rumors traveling about that Enzo Berkshire might have a thing for you, you decide to make him as jealous as you can.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! PIV, Oral sex (m!receiving), Dom!Enzo, Sub!Reader, slight degradation, praise, (1) slap, language, brief mention of alcohol, brief mention of drugs, brief mention of masturbation Fem Reader Insert, not fully proof-read (if I left anything out, please lmk!!!)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Who Do You Want? - Ex Habit

You were being mean. You knew you were. But you couldn’t help it.

Every tick of his jaw, every twitch of his eyes, every snarl of his lips…it was intoxicating. You couldn’t believe you’d never noticed it before.

Enzo…his jealousy, his desire to touch you, to feel you, to be yours… His lust radiated off of him like heat waves, blistering your skin like radiation.

The sweat beading over your lips and across your forehead slid over the sides of your face, slicing down your flesh like knives. The hands on your waist tightened against your bones, clutching their fingers possessively into your body.

Despite the beat of the music threatening to vibrate your heart out of your chest, you could see his envy so clearly.

Through the haze and the sweat and the bodies, you could see his eyes harden and his knuckles bleed white. You just hoped that the little game you were playing with him wouldn’t lead to Theo getting hurt.

Precious Theo… Though the two of you had broken up over six months ago, it had been mutual and you both craved each other from time-to-time. You’d only slept together once since you’d broken up but you were getting antsy.

It had started with Pansy Parkinson telling you that she’d heard a rumor being spread around. A particularly dirty rumor that threatened to ruin a gorgeous boy’s social ego. You thought back to what she’d said.

“A couple girls from Ravenclaw that sit behind us in Potions swear Enzo gets a hard-on every time you slip your robe off.” Pansy giggled and slapped a hand over her lips to cover up any raucous laughter that threatened to slip out.

“Pansy! That’s such a lie!” you’d shrieked, giggling along with her. “Lorenzo Berkshire does not like me, let alone get a hard-on every time I take my robe off.” You’d whispered that last part, not wanting any walkers-by to hear your dirty conversation.

“It’s at least worth a check, just to see if it’s true.”

And that evening, during the last class of the day, you’d let your robe slide down your arms and land against the back of your chair. You’d turned back to glance at Enzo and, sure enough, his eyes were already on yours. When you made contact with him, he quickly glanced away and dropped his hand into his lap. You refrained from an evil smirk.

And now, here you were, dancing against Theo, your ex, trying your hardest to elicit a response from the boy eyeing you from across the room.

It was an end of semester party, just before the big exams and the end of the school year. You didn’t want to wait to see him again. Between exams and packing, you wouldn’t get another chance to do anything with him for a couple months.

You turned back toward Theo, letting your hair slide over your shoulder and brush across the back of your neck.

“Teddy, baby, will you do me a favor?” You pulled yourself close against him, whispering into his ear. The music and the amount of firewhisky in his system probably had half of your words drowned out.

“Of course,” he slurred. “What is it, darling?” Everytime he was drunk, his accent popped out tenfold. There was a time when he was absolutely irresistible to you, but now, you had your sights set on another.

“I’ll explain later, but—” you paused, hands on Theo’s face, his hands on your waist, and glanced back at Enzo to make sure he was watching— “I need you to kiss me hard.”

He pulled away and looked at you with a bit of shock. “Is this for me or someone else?”

“Someone else…is that okay?”

“I suppose,” he joked, rolling his eyes. “I’ll probably get someone else tonight anyway.”

“Ew, you whore.” The two of you laughed.

“You’re one to fucking talk, bella,” he teased, scraping his teeth gently against your jaw. You giggled and slapped him away quickly before refocusing.

Theo locked in and tangled a tight grip in your hair, yanking your face towards his. His lips found yours in a rough heat, claiming what used to be his. His lips tasted like firewhisky and his hands were dominating. It was almost enough to make you forget about poor little Enzo waiting across the hall for you like a kicked puppy.

You slowly pulled away from Theo, whispered a small thanks, and turned back to Enzo. Or, rather, the lack thereof. The space that was once occupied by the brooding boy was completely empty. Fuck. Maybe you’d gone too far.

You pushed your hair out of your face and moved away from the lanky boy you’d just been grinding on for the last half-hour. He’d busy himself elsewhere.

Swallowing thickly, you pushed through the bustling crowd, weaving in and around hot, sweating bodies reenacting what Theo and you had been doing, and what you and Enzo should be doing.

Once you came to a clearing where only a few stragglers stood around, and the dim light from the hallway torches contrasted against the cool-toned strobes above, you found him.

The hazy clouds of herbal smoke clouded your vision and senses; the second-hand inhales nearly made you light-headed.

Enzo stood with his back toward you, broad shoulder leaned against the doorframe, head tilted toward the sky, fingers clutching a messily-rolled joint.

His dark hair was shoved away from his face with a light gel that allowed his natural curl to peak out just a bit. Two silvery studs decorated his ears and matched the chain around his neck, that framed the slit of bare chest that was revealed by the black button-up he wore only half-buttoned. You nearly dragged him to your dorm right then and there.

You stalked over to him, moving briskly past your intoxicated peers, ignoring any call that came from any of them.

“Hey, En—”

Your voice was cut off by one of the random people standing behind you.

“Enzo! Where were you at practice tonight, man?”

One of his fellow Quidditch team members jogged up to him from behind you. Enzo turned to see who had called his name and, whilst finding his friend’s attention, he caught yours as well. You smiled just a bit, watching him closely.

As his friend ranted about what a great practice Enzo had missed, you watched as your dark-haired target of the night barely paid any mind to the boy in front of him, and looked you up and down slowly. You felt as if he was devouring every inch of your body with his eyes.

You smirked at his reaction to seeing you, but he didn’t return the smile. His jaw clenched tightly and he seemed almost angry. You wondered if you had pushed him too far.

“Yeah, yeah, man, I’ll talk to you later,” Enzo finally interrupted the boy and gave him a dismissive pat on the shoulder. Understanding that Enzo was done with the conversation, the boy broke away and wandered back into the bouncing crowd.

When the boy was gone, he took a long drag from the joint, and turned away from you. He was mad.

You rolled your eyes at how your plan seemed to have backfired and closed the distance between the two of you.

With a slow start, you slid around to the front of him, catching his eyes seductively. He stared at you but said nothing.

“En, I was wondering if I could speak with you?”

He took another long drag, tilted his chiseled jaw upwards, and blew the smoke toward the sky.

“I’m surprised you still have a voice, considering you just had Theo’s entire tongue shoved down your throat.” You blushed, embarrassed, and glanced towards the floor. You placed your hands innocently behind your back and glanced up at him.

“I was trying to make you jealous,” you whispered.

“What was that?” he dropped his head toward yours to try and meet your eyes. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Speak up.” He was demanding and stern but it only intrigued you more.

“I said I was trying to make you jealous.” You finally looked at him. He took another drag and glanced around, once behind him, then once farther into the party, before turning back around. He placed his hand onto the wall above your head, caging you completely against his broad body.

“Can I?” you asked, glancing down. Your eyes refused to leave his.

With his free hand, he gently but firmly pressed your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted your head up and placed the joint between your lips, his smoky fingers brushing across them in the process. He watched as you took a deep inhale and your eyes fluttered as the drug filled your system. You knew you would feel it soon enough.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice low and dark. “Good girl.”

Even after you exhaled, he refused to remove his hand from your face as he took another inhale, dropped the joint to the stone ground, and stamped it out with his shoe.

“So, you were trying to make me jealous by rubbing your ass all over your ex and kissing him in front of me?” he asked.

You nodded. “Did it work?”

The peace in his eyes drained, leaving deep, angry voids. “Yes.”

His fingers drifted from your chin down to your throat where they wrapped stiffly around you. The light pressure he applied made it feel as though the drug was seeping into your system faster.

He pressed his face between your head and shoulder, lips brushing up against your skin.

“Every day in class you’d let that fucking robe slide down your body, you’d let your hair fall across your back, and you’d glance back at me with that fucking look on your face. Were you trying to get a rise out of me? Is this what you wanted?” he growled.

His hands were rough on you and his words were mean but he pressed a gentle kiss on your neck to soften the whole situation.

“Mmhmm,” you sighed to the air, your eyes fluttering closed once more.

“And then in there with Theo?” he growled. “What's your game?”

When you didn’t answer, he wrapped his fingers tightly into your hair and held your head against the wall behind you, keeping you tightly in place. His eyes found yours once more, then your lips.

“Answer me,” he demanded.

“You, En…” you gasped. “I want you to fall in love with me so I thought I’d make you jealous.”

“Why did you think that would work?” he whispered, his voice menacing and cruel. “I don’t want to fall in love with you now, sweet girl…now I want Theo to watch me fuck you.”

His words made your knees buckle pathetically. Surely he didn’t mean what he said, but the thought of Enzo touching himself at night to voyeuristic fantasies of you and him made you want him even more. You nodded your head.

“Yeah? You want that, baby?” he cooed against your skin, eliciting chills across your chest and shoulders. His free hand trailed a gentle fingertip down your throat, then your collarbone, then between the split of fabric that pressed your cleavage together. The touch of his warm, rough fingers against your breasts made your breath stutter in your throat.

“Well, that’s too fucking bad.”

He pulled away suddenly, grabbed your hand, and roughly pulled you into the direction of the dungeon’s lavatories. You weren’t sure what he had in mind with the two of you going in there, but you were sure it couldn’t be anything good. Though at this point, your desire outweighed any threat of punishment from any form of authority. All you wanted was him.

He slammed the male lavatory door open and shoved you through, his movements rough and dominant. You stumbled over the threshold, the tiles slipping beneath your shoes.

In an attempt to catch your balance, you placed yourself against one of the small porcelain sinks lined against the western wall. Taking advantage of your current position, Enzo placed a wandless locking charm on the door and crossed over to you in milliseconds.

His head dropped below yours as his arms wrapped around the swell of your ass. He propped you up onto the sink behind you, careful to block the faucet from poking into your back.

With little regard for the increasing issue between your legs, he placed rough hands around your waist and ground your hips into his, allowing you to feel every inch of the issue he was also having.

You stifled a moan, your lips parting just a bit. He smirked meanly, his dazzlingly sharp teeth showcasing themselves between the slivers of moonlight sliding through the windows above.

“En, please…” you begged, your arms wrapping around his neck, trying to urge his lips towards yours.

“Ah, you can dole out the teasing, but you can’t take it, right?” he smirked. “Can you take it, baby?”

At his words, a single hand slid down briefly and skirted over the core of your body through the material of your dress. You gasped at the sensation.

“Please, baby, I’ll do anything!” you whined, pathetically reaching your hips back towards his.

“You’ll do anything?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow. You nodded quickly.

“Okay, baby,” he said, yanking you off the edge of the sink. Your feet hit the floor with a jolt that shot up your entire body.

“On your knees.” His voice was demanding and his eyes were cold. The lust that blossomed beneath his waist did little to melt the ice pooled in his pupils. You swallowed thickly, briefly wondering what you’d gotten yourself into. Whatever it was, you liked it.

You promptly obeyed and dropped to your knees, the thin flesh there bruising quickly. He wrapped your hair into a makeshift ponytail and tilted your head up to make eye contact.

“Suck.”

A shiver ran through your body as you quickly got to work sliding the button of his pants apart, and ripping the zipper down to the ground. Despite the layer of his briefs still between him and your mouth, you marveled at how big he was. You were slightly concerned you weren’t going to be able to fit him anywhere after having not been with anyone since Theo.

Nevertheless, you dropped his pants and briefs to the floor, his belt clinking on the way down. He was enormous but you refused to back down from any challenge handed to you. With a deep, shuddering breath, you wrapped your hands around the base of him and replaced the negative space with your mouth.

At the sensation of your tongue laying across him, the grip in your hair tightened significantly and Enzo groaned roughly. His free hand grasped the edge of the sink where you once sat in an effort to keep his stuttering knees afloat. The effect you appeared to be having on him made you all the more desperate for him.

“Good job, baby,” he groaned. “That’s so good.”

His words made the wetness pool between your legs more and more by the minute. If you didn’t have him within the next few minutes, you were going to have to give yourself something.

You pushed your head back against the hand holding you in place. He released his hold on your hair and looked down at you, a single bead of sweat dripping down the side of his jaw.

“What is it?” he panted.

“I want you,” you whined.

“No, I think you got enough from Theo.” His eyes were serious and biting. Blood drained from your face at the thought of not getting to feel him.

“No, please,” you begged, placing your hands against the edge of his stomach. “Please give me something…anything. I need you so bad.”

He seemed to be contemplating your words for a moment before he clicked his tongue and pulled you up by your hair. The slight burn on your scalp pulled a whimper from your lips as he directed your body right into the space he had just been occupying.

You were pressed back against the sink with his hips pressed into the back of you. A shudder passed across your lips as he turned your head to the mirror before you and demanded a single word: “Watch.”

Your lips parted in a gasp of disbelief as he flipped your dress over your back and roughly yanked your bottoms down around your ankles.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, his fingers ghosting over every part of where you needed him most. Your eyes fell shut as you reveled in the feeling of him touching you.

“Eyes open,” he asserted, bumping you into the sink a bit with his hips. You could feel the hot length of him against you.

When he decided he was ready to start with you, he placed hot fingers over your waist and guided you back and onto him.

At the stretch of him inside you, breath escaped you. Your heart pounded up and out of your chest, through your throat, and out onto the mirror before you. You felt as though you might collapse if it weren’t for the boy behind you holding you up.

You watched as his eyes fluttered shut behind you and a silent moan pierced his face. The expression of his pleasure, the size of him, and the fact you hadn’t been touched in months was almost enough to push you right over the edge.

His pace was set rather quickly. It was brutal and demanding, just like his personality. Your fingers wrapped tightly around the porcelain sink, begging for purchase on anything.

You watched him beat into you from behind, lathering in the feeling of him taking full and utter control of you. He was mean now, and he knew it as well.

A melody of moans and gasps escaped you as he hit everything he was supposed to with raging ferocity. His jaw clenched and his eyes opened a bit wider.

“Can Nott do this? Huh? He ever fuck you like this, baby?” he growled, fingernails clutching into your soft flesh. You whined at the feeling.

At the lack of your ability to reply, he grunted in frustration and laid a sharp slap to your ass. You gasped at the biting sensation and felt your pleasure begin to push itself over the edge.

“Answer me.”

“No! Nobody but you, baby. Nobody makes me feel this good.” You choked on your words, sweat dribbling across your throat.

The tail of your dress was clutched in his free hand and he used it as a kind of leverage to slam himself into you at record pace. You wouldn’t last for much longer if he continued his brutalization of your body. You felt delicate and helpless in his arms.

His form of fucking was so much different than Theo’s. Where Theo was long and thin and softer and let you take control from time-to-time, Enzo was thick and rough and kept you pinned down. Merlin, help.

As you quickly approached your end, your eyes rolled far back into your skull, demanding release from the inside-out. Your body couldn’t withstand anymore of Enzo’s cruelty—you were going to shamelessly finish against him, of which you breathlessly warned him.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me.”

He leaned against you, forcing himself into you even deeper, and pressed his lips against the shell of your ear.

“Say my name—not his… mine.”

“Enzo, baby…,” you whispered, his words against your skin dropping chills down your spine.

“Say it again,” he groaned, his pace becoming more desperate and his voice more strained.

“Enzo…”

“Again,” he moaned, his fingers tightening against you.

“I’m fucking close, Enzo,” you whined. His speed quickened.

“Oh, I’ve touched myself to the thought of you saying that to me, baby,” he groaned, breath fanning against your cheek.

At his sinful words, you could feel your body be shoved over the edge.

You came with a breathless scream, the sensation hitting you harder than Enzo’s hips pounding against you.

Seconds after you’d rode out the edge of your finish, Enzo released a high-pitched moan against your ear—one so beautifully contrasting to his deep, demanding voice from earlier.

When the two of you had finally finished and come back to your senses, breaths heaving and lips swollen, you laughed hysterically.

Despite the weight of the situation only moments before, the two of you could feel the glee just from being able to finally touch the other.

The pent-up desire Enzo harbored for you and the newfound lust planted in your heart had created a heat-fueled rush that caught you both off guard. But neither of you could lie, it was far better than anything you’d felt in a while. No offense, Theo.

Tag List: @lilymurphy03 , @mypolicemanharryyy , @clairesjointshurt , @bunbunbl0gs , @acornacreacure, @niktwazny303 , @thestarlithideout , @sarahskakskskskajakwwnwjw , @yhiiil, @ravenclawprincess33, @xxrougefangxx , @thatblackthorn, @robinyx , @starsval , @jolly4holly , @blvebanisters , @chgrch

[am-i-interrupting]

Reaction to You Doming

(Part one— the gals)

Alastor

An eyebrow raise and a widen of his smile.

Alastor doesn’t participate in sex where he’s touched or stimulated often but even so, the idea is something he finds amusing.

You really think you can take the Radio Demon? Hilarious.

He’ll indulge you.

You’ve got to fight for it though because he is going to struggle.

Pining him down, tying him up, even if he can easily get out of it if he so wishes, he’s surprised to find himself enjoying it.

Whips, chains, knives, biting, he finds himself enjoying the things he normally uses on you.

He will get bratty if you try to edge him though. That he’s not used to.

When he gets hard, he normally deals with it quickly after being touched.

He’s able to ignore any hard on he gets for a while if he doesn’t touch it or stimulated it but as soon as he does, he normally comes within five minutes.

You edging him and teasing him, barely dragging the tip of your fingers along his dick, giving his tip kitten licks, sucking his balls instead of his cock. It’s all torture. He loves it.

He’d be a fan of urethral sounding.

The feel of a stretch, a full was where it’s not supposed to be, stopping him from being able to come. Once again, he hates it but he loves it.

You’d surprise him when you’re able to tame him and he’d enjoy every second of it.

When he’s done though, he’s done and probably won’t let you do it for several weeks if not months.

Husk

Husk is not opposed. No, he’s not opposed at all.

He’s not exactly the most sexually active. He’s got a low to normal libido and it takes a bit of build up to get him in the right mood.

Slow, sloppy make out sessions, preening his wings, cuddling on the couch while playing with his tail.

The most sure fire way though would be a massage.

He has a lot of tension and getting it pushed and rubbed out of him is something that slowly builds up his arousal as he feels more and more safe.

He’s purring putty in your hands.

At that point, you can prop him up and get him off.

If you’re behind him, he’s hiding his head in the crook of your neck and you can feel his purrs against your skin.

If you’re in front of him, he’s cupping your face gently with his paws, tangling his claws in your hair, running a hand over your skin, just desperate to touch you.

Or you could tell him to suck and he will. It won’t be precise but it will be earnest and warm and you’ll be teased with the vibration of his vocal cords.

If you pet him or brush him, his purrs will get even louder.

He won’t ever get desperate or beg. He might do a bit of whining if you stall his release but he feels warm and safe with you.

He knows you’ll take care of him eventually. He’s not too worried about how long it’ll take.

He’ll look at you with eyes completely overtaken by his dilated pupils the entire time.

Lucifer

Lucifer is immediately on board. Sort of like a “I’m glad you asked before I had to.”

The only thing that stopped him from begging for you to dominate him was the pure embarrassment opening the conversation would give him.

He’s the sun of pride, not lust. He put his pride just a bit before it. Although, he was about to turn to Ozzie for advice on how to start the conversation without turning completely red in the face.

He is such a good boy for you.

He sinks into the sub-space so quickly.

He will do absolutely anything you ask.

He’s got a praise kink.

He loves and hates being tied up. He loves being a pretty play thing for you but hates that he can’t touch you.

Mouth open, ready for you to ride his tongue without even having to ask.

One of his favorite things is to suck on you, your clit/dick, your nipples, your fingers, your skin, whatever. He doesn’t care. He has an oral fixation.

Loves to be filled.

Fuck him into the mattress until he can’t speak, please.

Vox

He has an image to upkeep. It’s hard for him to let go of the idea that people are constantly watching him.

When he does though, he’s either a brat or the perfect little boy, no in between.

He likes to feel small.

If you’ll just squeeze his neck or put pressure on his dick, he’ll be in the sub-space so quickly.

He loves and adores you showing him you have power over him.

Edge him. Make him wear a cock cage. He’ll be so bratty but so whiny when he comes.

He likes being driven to tears.

Overwhelm him.

Embarrass him.

Praise him.

If you put him in any form of bondage, he’s trying to get out of it. He’s got to touch you. He needs to.

His favorite feeling is your mouth and fingers on his dick teasing him with ghost touches.

He will come untouched from words and anal stimulation alone.

If you tease him with the tip of your dick/strap on and then slowly inch inside him, he’s tearing up the sheets as he whines and writhes.

[bangtanficsforyou]

Fine Line (JJK)

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader.

Au: Enemies to lovers.

Word count: 2.4K

Genre: angst, smut, fluff (i am ninety percent sure I'll write a part two at some point with all the spice)

Summary: You hate Jungkook. Jungkook hates you. It's simple. Until it isn't.

A/N: here's my patreon for early access to all my works and exclusive drabbles and aneek peaks!

"You're beautiful," he speaks loudly to be heard over the loud blaring music.

"Thank you," you express your appreciation not only through your words but also through your red hot cheeks and shy smile.

His hand tightens around your waist as the both of you sway gently along with the music. "You're welcome, pretty."

Chuckling, you place one of your palms on his chest and look up at him.

The night has been filled with subtle touches, light teasing and full of laughter. You didn't expect you'd have this much fun when you agreed to go on a date with the guy you matched with, a few weeks ago. But it has been a pleasant surprise so far and you have been feeling glad over the decision of going out tonight.

You both dance with low giggles and occasional compliments are thrown in the air. That is until the music changes into something more upbeat.

"Would you like to go to the bar?"

You're relieved on hearing that question and couldn't agree sooner. It's not unknown to you that with the change of music comes the typical club activity aka grinding on each other. And you're not in the mood for that so it's rather wise to remove yourself from the dance floor.

One might question, why then did you choose a club of all places? Simple reason, a crowded place is safe for a first date. Why not a restaurant? Because you were not really that excited about the date at first and a restaurant felt a bit too intimate. What if there's no flow of conversation? What will you do then? Sit there awkwardly and enjoy the sounds of knives and forks?

Hence, clubbing.

You two sit yourselves next to each other on stools and ask the bartender to make the both of you drinks. Something sweet for you, something strong for him.

"What's the last book that you have indulged yourself in?"

You perk up at the mention of books. You had mentioned to him previously that you absolutely love reading books and you would stay in fictional worlds if you could. And you're impressed that he remembers that small piece of detail.

You tell him about the book you're currently reading and all the reasons why you love it. You get even more excited when he adds his recent reading experiences and from then on, there's no stopping the chit-chat between you two.

The conversation moves on from books to people in both of your lives and then to food and then lord knows, to what.

At some point, you both get tipsy and you can tell he's more affected by the drinks than you are. It gets to the point where you feel like it's better for him to head home now before he gets to a stage where he cannot get home by himself.

"You should probably stop with the drinks now," you suggest, softly. "Would you like for me to book you a cab?"

He dismisses your words with a wave of his hand. "Nah, sweetheart, I am only getting started."

He throws his hand in the air and before you can register what's happening, he's placing them over your shoulders. His fingers rub the skin of your arms and he grins at you. You squirm in your seat, suddenly finding his grin to be not that attractive. You try to tell yourself that there's nothing to be scared of, some people tend to get a little touchy when they get drunk.

"The night has only got started, sweetheart," he mutters, getting incredibly close to you. You think he's attempting that thing where someone whispers in your ears in a sexy gruff voice in hopes that it'd be attractive. But if anything, you shiver in disgust and fear.

You try to put some distance between the two of you but he doesn't budge. It's only when you put a little more force that you're successful at your attempts.

He's taken off guard by your sudden use of force but his surprise fades and he smirks. "Do you like it rough, babygirl?"

Okay, that's it.

"I need to go use the washroom," you come up with the most basic excuse ever but you doubt in his drunk state, he'd ever pay attention to how lame you sound.

You're right in your assumption that he doesn't pay attention. However, he's not happy that you're leaving him. "You should not leave me here. We should leave together for my place."

The lopsided grin on his face makes your stomach churn in a bad way. Before you can get a word out to come up with some excuse, a glass of shot is being placed in front of him.

"Sir, your order," the bartender says and that seems to be the magic words as he seems to forget that he had an issue with you leaving him moments ago.

You ease up a little bit and don't miss the look the bartender is giving you. She seems to be telling you with her eyes that she will make sure that your date doesn't follow you.

The relief on your face is the only thing that serves as a mode of expressing your gratitude as you quickly flee the spot. Not knowing any place better, you actually do find yourself in the washroom. What if you were to stand outside the club and somehow he catches up with you? In the washroom, at least there will be other girls.

You take your phone out and hesitate for a brief moment. Would it be the right thing to do to ask your best friend, Jisoo, to come and pick you up? You could take a cab but with the sudden turn of events, you feel scared to be alone.

Pushing your hesitance aside you shoot her a text, knowing she would be very mad if she were to learn you didn't text her when in need.

You: can you please come and pick me up?

Jis 🥵: sure can

Jis 🥵: but is everything alright?

You chew on your lower lip and decide this is no time to go into details.

You: I'll tell you once I reach home

Jis 🥵: sure

Jis 🥵: i can see your location

Jis 🥵: I'll be there in fifteen

You sigh in relief when you read the text. You wait for exactly twelve minutes before stepping out of the washroom, getting a little impatient to get out of the club.

However, the moment you step out, you're met with a figure that you recognise immediately. Jungkook. And by the looks of it, he looks agitated about something as he looks at his phone screen.

You're no fool to think that Jungkook being here is a mere coincidence and walk towards him. The sound of your heels catches his attention and he looks up, finally noticing you.

"Why are my calls not reaching you?" He asks, looking absolutely pissed. Any other time, you'd have felt extremely satisfied at that but you fail to feel any of that right now.

To address his question, his calls are not reaching you because you have him blocked. Why?

Before answering the why, you should probably get into how you and Jungkook know each other.

You see Jisoo has a boyfriend, Taehyung. And Taehyung, bless his sweet soul, has an absolute devil of a best friend, Jungkook.

You never imagined that you'd ever have this much animosity with your best friend's boyfriend's best friend. But for some reason unknown, you and Jungkook just simply do not get along. You both are involved in constant bickering, pulling pranks and throwing insults at each other.

Which leads to the why, you have Jungkook blocked. Last time, he posted an advertisement on his social media saying there's a need for someone who can do a good Minnie Mouse impression and put your phone number at the bottom of it. For several days people kept calling you asking if they can give you their demo. Some didn't even bother asking, they thought saying hello in the Minnie Mouse voice would earn them brownie points. It made you so incredibly furious that out of sheer pettiness, you blocked Jungkook.

"Why are you here?" You ask instead of answering his initial question.

"What? I'm your prince charming for tonight," Jungkook smirks, his previous agitation melting away and it immediately irks you. "I heard you needed a ride and so here I am."

Your eyes follow his and you immediately shake your head when you realise he's asking you to get on his bike. Jungkook and his bike go hand in hand, so much so that you hadn't paid attention to it when you first saw him. However, now you feel incredibly stupid for not realising any sooner that his bike is supposed to be your ride for the night.

"No, no, no, I'm not getting on that," you shake your head vehemently.

Jungkook raises a brow. "You have no other choice, sweetheart."

"I'll book a cab," you grumble, knowing very well that you are not quite fond of that idea.

"I'm already here. Just get on the bike Y/N."

You don't reply for a few moments before sighing when you realise how your argument is incredibly stupid. "Fine."

Jungkook grins and gets on the bike. He starts the engine and motions you to take your seat. You hesitate for a moment but then get behind him. He hands you a helmet before putting one on himself.

You wait for him to start the bike but you are confused when Jungkook doesn't do so. "What are you waiting for?"

"For you to wrap your arms around me," just by the tone of his voice, you can tell he's enjoying this thoroughly.

You scoff. "Why would I ever do that?"

Your question is answered when he revs the engine and the force of it makes you stumble forward. Involuntarily, your arms wrap around his torso as you cling to him for dear life.

"There's my good girl," Jungkook comments with a cheeky grin on his face and takes off.

With how fast he's going, you find yourself feeling scared and hold on to him tighter. His hard back presses against your chest and you rest your chin on his right shoulder, soon finding the position comfortable and despising it at the same time. You both spend the entire journey to your place in this manner and in absolute silence.

You're surprised at how quickly you reach your destination. It's like his motorbike flies. Untangling yourself from Jungkook, you get off the bike. You remove the helmet and throw it at him, not wanting to spend another moment in his presence.

But before you can walk inside your home, he grabs your hand. "Woah, woah, woah. Do I not get a thank you?"

"Fuck off, asshole," you roll your eyes and free yourself from his grip. You're aware that if you were to ask anyone they'd tell you, you are the one who's being an asshole but you and Jungkook simply do not share the kind of dynamic, where one thanks the other. If it were Jungkook in your place, he'd probably say something cheeky or call you names. He'd do everything but not say thank you.

You take the key out of your purse and are about to unlock your door, when you're swiftly turned around in the blink of an eye and the next thing you know, you are caged between your front door and Jungkook.

"What do you want, Jungkook?"

The corner of his lips lift up. "A simple thank you."

You smile too, the only difference being yours is sarcastic. "Thank you so much Jungkook for coming to pick me up because Jisoo asked you to."

"She didn't ask me to," he replies, immediately, shaking his head. The action causes a few of his curls to fall on his face and with him being this close to you, you let your mind drift to how easy it would be for you to just gently remove those strands out his face. However, you control yourself, getting annoyed with the whole situation.

"Of course, she didn't ask you to! You came because you wanted to really help me." Your words are so sweet that they drip venom.

Jungkook observes you closely, before curiosity gets the best of him. "Why do you hate me so much?"

You're caught off guard by his question. The hate between you and Jungkook has always been mutual and reciprocated. None of you have ever questioned it. Hating each other is what feels right, what feels natural. You never imagined that any of you would ever question it.

"Well…you know," you stutter, finding yourself at a loss of words.

"No, I don't," he challenges. "Tell me Y/N, what have I done for you to hate me so much?"

"Y-you know, y-you know you are not a good guy," the words sound lame to even your own ears but that's the best you come up with.

"That's it, huh?"

You roll your eyes and look away from him, not wanting to make it obvious that you do not have a proper answer to give. However, Jungkook grabs your chin and makes you look at him.

He leans in incredibly close and you feel his breath on your skin. It makes you wonder what he's doing, it makes you wonder if he's going to kiss you and it makes you wonder why you aren't moving away from him. Your breathing speeds up and your chest heaves to give testimony to that. Your eyes drop to his lips and for the first time you find the previously annoying mole under them, cute. Just when you think he's about to close the distance he goes straight to your ears.

"I think you want me to be the bad guy," he whispers. "Because you know I'd be too good to you."

He nips at your earlobe before backing away, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

"What are you doing?" You may not have been kissed but you sound just as breathless as one gets after a heavy session of kissing.

"Good night princess," he winks at you before getting on his bike. "Have sweet dreams."

What just happened?

Part two is available here.

[after-witch]

Biological Function [Yandere Knives x Reader]

Title: Biological Function [Yandere Knives x Reader]

Synopsis: You get your period. At least it means you're getting enough to get. Trigun Maximum-verse.

Word count: 2082

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, reader gets their period, mentions of starvation and murder

The red smear on your underwear that greets you in the morning, a wisp of deep red against the simple white linen, is not entirely an unwelcome sight.

After all, on Gunsmoke, menstruation means that you’re actually getting enough food to eat. It wasn’t uncommon for women to skip periods or see them come and go so half-heartedly that they might as well have never been there. Deprivation does awful things to the body, and you--like most--had your fair share of it. 

Yet here it was now, in all its horrible glory. A sign that you were healthy enough to bleed, a sign that your body was functioning, a sign that you were functioning. 

Physically, at least. It seems your body did not account for the fact that you were only getting enough food to eat because of the inhuman being keeping you captive.

Being, yes, that’s what he was. Not a man, not a human; and if you ever said so, he might just kill you for it.

Should you tell him about this? The thought made you feel sick, on top of the low cramps aching in your guts. You didn’t tell him anything unless he asked--he rarely did--and even then, it wasn’t like you told him anything important. Anything personal. 

The redness in your underwear was definitely personal. It was your body, wasn’t it? You should be allowed to keep something to yourself, if you couldn’t have your freedom. 

The thought comes, unbidden: did your mother ever tell your father about her monthlies?

Perhaps he knew when she withdrew from him in bed. Your memories of them both are fuzzy, vague; he drank himself sick one night and never came home from the bar (a fight, your mother said, that ended with a gunshot) and she wasted away some years later from a disease no one bothered to diagnose.

You couldn’t afford a proper doctor, even if one might have helped, and the local woman called upon when people had fevers simply tsked and gave her something to sleep away the pain. 

But on the subject of periods, your mother hadn’t spoken much outside of that first frenzied conversation when you’d told her that something was wrong with you, you were bleeding, you were dying, you were--

And her eyebrows had raised and then a slow, dimpled smile had crossed her lips, and she pulled you aside for a conversation about how you were a woman now and what to do and how to ease the pain and how you must never ever let a man touch you unless he was your husband.

She didn’t say if that husband would share in the knowledge of this red secret between your thighs.

Not that Knives was your husband. Perish the thought. Or that he’d ever touched you like one, or touched you at all. Except when you were thrown over his shoulder like a sack of coveted flour or on the rare occasions that he gripped your wrist with an unrelenting strength and dragged you somewhere. 

He would probably find menstruation disgusting. He found anything human disgusting. It would be a sign of your base nature, or something as ridiculous as that. The thought of dealing with more insults made you want to curl up--perhaps that was the cramps, too--and so, yes. You would keep it a secret from him, then. For as long as you could, however you could. 

But you didn’t have much privacy, here or anywhere that he took you. The airships, the bases, the abandoned houses. Sometimes, they had to be emptied of any occupants first--it was worse, when they had to be emptied. 

Mornings are the exception, which is why it is an unwelcome surprise when Knives saunters into the sparse space serving as your bedroom, eyebrows furrowed, no doubt some command on his lips--

Only to spot you staring down at your underwear, nightgown hawked up above your thighs. Your eyes meet for a fraction before you yank the underwear up and shove your gown down, but it’s too late. He’s seen you--he’s seen the red mess--and something awful and static seems to hover between you.

A moment or two or three. Your fingers clench into the fabric of your night dress. Humiliation burns but dread burns hotter, and it’s dread that makes you tremble. 

“Clean yourself up,” he says, finally, with an air of quiet, low disdain.

He pivots, whatever he had come to say earlier forgotten or unimportant, and leaves the room.

The cramps in your stomach feel hollow. It could have gone worse. It could have gone better--if he hadn’t come in at all--but there’s no fixing it now.

Clean yourself up.

A command to be obeyed, but how? 

Easy enough to head into the bathroom and wash up for the moment. (Access to clean running water, to hot showers and baths, is another benefit of your captive life.) But afterwards? 

You don’t suppose he has any sanitary napkins on hand--or one of those complicated contraptions your mother wore now and then, with a belt to hold everything in place. It’s not something you’ll be asking him about. If you must--if the bleeding continues every month, well-fed captive that you are--you’ll ask the doctor that Knives has at his beck and call.  

For now, you’ll have to settle for finding some rags to stuff into your underwear and hope for the best.

--

Knives does not typically sit down for meals. Certainly not with you, although you sometimes wonder if he and the doctor drink wine and discuss the doctor’s findings together.

Yet here he is, sitting at the table in this abandoned house, drinking a glass of water and actually eating the simple meal the doctor prepared that afternoon. Some kind of meat, vegetables, grains, all mixed together for a fortifying meal that you might have eaten up heartily yesterday. 

But today it makes you feel sick. The smell, maybe, or just the fact that your insides felt like they were rearranging themselves in the most awful way.

Nausea claws its way up your throat, and you set the fork down. Another bite would be impossible.

“Finish your meal.” Knives speaks to you for the first time since this morning. It is no more pleasant than his earlier clipped command, and no less authoritative. 

Your hands instinctively pick up the fork--obedience has been drilled into you--but your stomach rebels. 

“I can’t,” you say, clearing your throat. “My stomach hurts.” 

No flicker of sympathy or understanding in his face, but it doesn’t surprise you. He had no sympathy for the countless people he’s killed, or had killed with a simple word, so why should something as miniscule as your stomach pains bother him? 

"Be grateful,” he says, low, “that you have something to eat at all.” 

“I am grateful,” you spit, and it’s the truth, however bitterly said. You hate being here, you hate him, but it’s been so long since you’ve been hungry that the memories of half-starvation are simply that--memories. The body appreciates what the mind doesn’t, at least. 

His eyebrows raise a bit at that and you regret speaking at all. A little too much honesty, from your end. You don’t want him to know that your mind sometimes fights over enjoying the comforts of your captivity. Food, water, knowing that bandits won’t come in the night to plunder, knowing you won’t wind up in some shootout at your lunch break at the bar. 

If only it didn’t take being the restricted--pet? Captive? Whatever you are to him--of a plant to get those things. 

But as quick as the moment comes, it’s over, and there’s no insight to be given on how he took your words. His gaze slides away from you, and he gestures his chin at Conrad. “She needs more iron,” he says, simply. “On account of her menstruation.”

You choke on your spit, and Conrad chokes on his meal.

Is it possible to die from embarrassment? 

“Do you have supplements?” Knives asks casually. 

Conrad swallows, clears his throat, and dabs at his mouth with a napkin with a delicate gesture. Before Knives had taken him, he’d been living a comfortable life in some mansion, squirreled away with trinkets and good food. Or so Elendira had told you, and you could never be sure if she was telling you the truth. 

“No,” Conrad says, slowly. “But they aren’t too difficult to come by. We can pick them up in the next city.”

The words come, muttered, without thought.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Knives doesn’t acknowledge it, nor does Conrad. Your part in the conversation is done.

"I'd also like you to monitor her menstrual periods," Knives continues, and if there was a way to sink into the floor, you would do it into a heartbeat. "To make sure they're regular."

Stomach rolling back and forth, you pick up a forkful of food and force it down. 

--

“I’ve had to delay my plans for an entire day.”

Curled up on your bed, a pillow shoved against your aching lower body, you don’t respond. You merely squeeze your eyes shut and will the pain--and Knives--away.

Neither leaves. 

“You’re incredibly inconvenient. A nuisance.”

Yes, yes, yes, I know, and I don’t give a damn. It takes every ounce of self-preservation left in your body not to snap these words at him. Your fingers dig hard into the pillow as another wave of cramps rolls through you. 

Dinner had been hastily shoved down to no avail; it was currently resting in the trash can of the bathroom. You had been on the toilet, willing your awful cramps to disappear, when the nausea came again with such force that you had no choice but to heave it all back up into the bin.

Now, the cramps throb and squeeze and you curl up tighter, but it doesn’t help.

Fuck. Were they always this bad?

They’re awful enough that you make a noise, despite Knives hovering next to your bed, admonishing you like a child for daring to be sick. A whimper, pitiful, low, stupid.

You hear him huff. You expect to hear the sound of him turning around, his boots against the hard floor as he leaves you to your mistery.

Instead--

His hand is on your stomach, slightly cool to the touch, and you jerk, eyes wide and afraid as the words stutter out--

“What are you--”

There’s no time to finish the words before a strange feeling surges through you. Something humming and light, almost like a low tickle. It’s--pleasant. A word you had never associated with Knives before, and certainly not a word you ever expected to associate with his touch. 

“I’m making you less of a burden,” he murmurs, and it’s a wonder venom doesn’t actually drip from his lips. “I won’t be delayed again tomorrow.”

If you were stronger, you might argue back. You might tell him that you’ll delay him as much as you want, that he can go fuck himself.

But you’re not any of those things. You’re bleeding and tired and the awful nausea-inducing cramps that were keeping you bedridden are gone, eased away by that blossoming feeling induced by his fingertips.

Is this what plants could do, when they weren’t trapped in those bulbs? Heal? (And hurt--and kill?) 

Knives’ hand is still resting on your stomach, pressing lightly into the flesh. When you glance up at him, he doesn’t match your gaze. Instead, he stares down at his hand, quiet, clearly thinking. But of what? 

It’s hard to care, now that you don’t feel like your body wants to tear itself apart from the inside. You could sleep, now. Rest easily and wake up ready to take on another day of this strange life you’ve been forced into; it’s enough to make you close your eyes, exhausted, fluttering.

Knives’ fingers remove themselves from your stomach slowly. He doesn’t leave yet. He’s still there, and part of you wants to open your eyes and take a guess at what he’s thinking; to see if he’s staring at you, or through you, or if he’s not even bothering to watch you curled up on the bed. The other part of you is terrified of finding out. 

Just when you might actually open your eyes, you hear him scoff. It’s a surprisingly comforting sound. Familiar territory once again. 

“Ungrateful,” he murmurs. “I should kill you to spare myself this annoyance.”

He could kill you. Easily. In a second. Without mercy or compassion or regret, you think, considering how many have fallen under his orders. 

Instead, he lets you fall asleep without another word.

You don’t hear him walk away before sleep takes you.

[postmortemnivis]

could be read as a part two of this post

“when i met you,” price started, “you were a mess of a man.”

simon grunted in response, his arms crossed over his chest almost as if he wanted to protect, shield himself from price’s words. each cut deeper than knives, aiming straight for the strong walls he’d built around his heart, the ones that only you had been able to tear down.

a mess of a man. he knew it, he didn’t need to hear about it too.

“at first, i honestly didn’t think you were going to ever become someone.” the older man admitted.

johnny’s laughter could be heard from the living room, where he and kyle were chatting about god knows what, probably the last poor girl johnny shagged in a bathroom stall at a pub the previous night.

“you didn’t?”

price shook his head. “as i said, a mess of a man, simon.”

a mess of a man. simon knew himself, he knew he was no saint, no good: he was a murdered, the angel of death that could be seen in the middle of the field, his dark glow foretelling the end of anyone who found himself in the middle of his bloody path. his hands were stained with the blood of many, the same hands he refused to touch you with; the only thing that kept him sane was knowing he wasn’t ghost, ghost’s crimes were shielded from simon by his black gloves and balaclava.

simon looked at price as his hand rested on his shoulder. he remembered what it felt to be neglected by his own father, and price knew it. price always seemed to know everything about his boys, he could see right through him. what simon needed was guidance, and price would’ve given it to him.

“nothing to be ashamed of,” he continued, “most of you boys are, you seek for something more. think of johnny, he enlisted when he was sixteen. you enlisted the day of your eighteenth birthday. we all know that if you’re a responsible man you don’t run to the army. we’re all crazy, messed up men.”

price also knew they were reckless, a suicidal loyalty bound to him. after all, their job attracted the beasts, the outcasts, the sadists, the worst of society.

simon rolled his eyes when price referred to them as boys. the man was less than ten years younger than simon, but he still felt the paternal pressure and instinct to protect the boys. his boys.

“wha’ made you change your mind?”

price motioned simon to move further into the kitchen, away from the people that were invited to his house.

“her.”

your voice echoed as you walked out of the bathroom, letting johnny finally hold his little niece. gary was walking behind you with the brightest smile on his face. gaz made a comment about how the three weeks old baby looked just like you, with simon’s dark eyes and pale blonde hair. if only he knew you helped simon dye it every month and a half, him sat on the edge of the bathtub and you standing between his thighs, his hands firm on your waist as he—for once—looked up at you instead the other way round.

you agreed with a chuckle, looking around for simon.

“look a’ the lassie, she’s already an uncles gal!” johnny’s laughter filled the flat. from the corner of his eyes, simon could see the person he’d grown to call his brother hold his newborn daughter.

“her?” he looked at you, the softest and most subtle smile crawling on his scarred face. simon struggled to hold back his smirk.

price nodded. “i remember we all could tell that you met someone. you’d become less… rigid. you’d smile more, were more clement with the recruits.”

“she changed me.” simon shrugged, attempting to hide the smile that would try to crawl on his face anytime he’d think about you. even after years, between a marriage and now a child, his eyes would light up at your thought alone. that’s the impact, the effect you had on him.

“that’s good, simon.” price spoke. “we’re all happy you’re doing better. we remember how you used to-”

“okay, got the message.” simon interrupted him. “loud an’ clear, john.”

his life before you seemed so distant and he almost couldn’t remember of a time where you weren’t by his side yet. like a far away dream, closer to a nightmare than a dream, but still something that didn’t look like the life he was living now. he didn’t need to remember a bit of it, what was the use? he had you now, everything before the day you met didn’t matter anymore, it didn’t exist anymore.

price sighed, looking to the ceiling as he tried to find something in his pocket. “coming outside for a smoke?”

simon shook his head, arms crossed over his chest. “nah, capt. quit a while ago.”

it’d been months since you’d showed him the pregnancy test that shook his whole world. he’d fallen to his knees in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by worried recruits, johnny immediately sprinting close enough to check whether his lieutenant was okay but far enough to give you two privacy.

“promise me ‘m not dreamin’.” he murmured, pulling you closer by wrapping his arms around your waist, hiding his face in your chest.

you brushed his short blond hair back, biting your lip as you smiled. you could feel your eyes tingling, tears threatening to spill at any given minute. “you’re not, si. we’re gonna be parents.”

you chuckled, leaning down to kiss his head and felt your white work shirt getting wet by his tears. you looked around at the faces of the confused recruits, and you smiled, because you knew you were the only person who’d ever truly know how the scary lieutenant, the ghost, really was.

“we are.” he whispered before kissing your still flat stomach, getting back up and giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. “thank you.”

in the nine months he’d been taking care of you like a person on their deathbed—really not necessary, si, i can still do the dishes by myself—he’d stopped smoking, and treated himself to just one beer every first sunday of the month.

he had worked on himself, hard.

for you and for your daughter. he wanted to be a better person, a good man. he wanted to be nothing like his father, that having haunted and scared him for so long and being the main reason he always tried to postpone having children, what truly held him back,, but he tried to be a better man.

that was what distinguished him from his father, he tried to be better.

leaving the military was sure next, after fixing the downstairs bathroom faucet and oil the doorknob of the closet. he wondered how the boys would take it, but in the end he didn’t really care, he knew they’d understand.

“quit.” price repeated, eyebrows raised as he put his lighter back in pocket. he wasn’t a social smoker, but knew better than to smoke near a baby, even if he would’ve excused himself to the balcony.

simon smiled as he heard you scold johnny for throwing the little girl in the air. “what if you drop her?”

“ah wid never, lass.” he reassured you, laughing at the slap he got on his scruff.

“you’re a good man, simon.” prices hand found its way on simon’s shoulder again. “you went through a lot, but you’re still fighting for a good cause, you didn’t let it change you. that’s what makes you a good man.”

simon was about to deny, say he wasn’t, he was the worst man there was, but then you walked into the kitchen, all smiles.

“hey si.” you smiled. “baby’s hungry.”

simon immediately stretched out his arms to hold the baby, a bottle already in his hands as soon as those words left your plush lips, your lashes batting up at him.

you wrapped your arms around one of his strong biceps and smiled up at him and then at price.

“cute, isn’t she?”

“is indeed.” john nodded, smiling under his thick moustache.

before he decided to leave the kitchen to leave you three some privacy and join the boys in the living room, where johnny had apparently put on a rugby match—“scotland-wales, for fucks sake, lad!”—he shot simon one final knowing glance.

simon returned the look, your eyes too focused on the little girl in her charcoal grey onesies to notice.

“you okay, si?” you whispered, but your husband's eyes were unfocused, staring off into space as price’s words kept replaying in his head like a broken record.

he nodded, kissing your forehead almost instinctively. “yes, love.”

you smiled up at him and then at your daughter, simon’s mind travelling an hundred miles an hour, waiting to crash on itself and get brought back to reality. price’s words echoed in the background of his brain, quieter each second that passed.

a good man.

tagging who asked:

@mr-sol @v1x3n @m4dyy @softangelheart @redzluvvesage @nittoka

[the-s1lly-corner]

Crps but you're all having a sleepover

thats right baby we're returning to the 2010s creepypasta fandom for this one, where everyone lived in the slender mansion and shit obvious hc derailment from my normal posting but im feeling a little nostalgic </3 the way i portray characters is the same as i usually do it, theyre all just roommates now notes: reader is gn, platonic post really since its just talking about what everyone is doing in the mansion, admin is attempting to catch the energy of 2010s quotev/wattpad creepypasta x reader fics/quizzes... including only characters that were a "standard" for the mansion stuff, at least with the stuff i looked at! splendorman and nina are here though even though they dont fall under that, a LOT of parts are connected with each other and reference one another cws: none

SLENDERMAN

he usually doesnt like getting wrapped into the chaos that happens when everyone decides to spend the night in the common area of the mansion- and he never quite saw the appeal in sleepovers

if you need a break from the chaos inside, you can find him holed up in his office or out in the woods

if hes out in the woods and you go searching, it doesnt take you long to find him

or rather, it doesnt take him long to find you- he knew you stepped out the second your feet touched the grass

you keep each other company... its a quiet night out..

he wrongly assumes everyone is going to behave and that he doesnt need to check in on them

SPLENDORMAN

looooooves sleepovers, acts as a sort of "supervisor" to make sure no one gets hurt and nothing gets set on fire... hes... not very good at it since theres so many people and theres so much going on

attempts to orchestrate games so everyone can have fun together- and while some people do form a small group to play, most of everyone else is doing their own thing throughout the night!

hangs around you if you need a break from the chaos, talks to you to pass the time

checks in on you and everyone else to make sure everyone is having fun

he kind of gives off those "are you winning son?" dads but hes asking everyone is theyre having fun

JEFF THE KILLER

throwing knives into the fireplace trying to hit the same spot over and over, he offers you his knife to let you give it a try! nina might come by and join you two at some point!

loudly talks shit about some of the other people in the area... cough cough jane cough cough

its a miracle a fight hasnt broke out yet... but its definitely very likely

hes the one responsible for the music, and of course, its all his personal taste... but if you ask nicely and if its a good enough suggestion he might just let you play a couple songs!

at some point you two decide to go help laughing jack make snacks... more on that in his part!

JANE THE KILLER

doing her best to ignore the chaos around her as she sits with sally and plays with her... there arent many other creepypastas around that are in her age group, and jane doesnt want to make her feel left out

she does end up spending most of the night downstairs with everyone else but she does take breaks to step outside to clear her head, its way too loud and theres way too much going on

offers to let you come outside with her, if you want

you both kind of just end up talking outside on the porch before heading back inside

you try to help convince nina and sally to go upstairs to play, you both might just be successful!

wont be sleeping with everyone else downstairs, shes probably going to retreat to her room at some point to sleep

NINA THE KILLER

also sitting with sally, theyre making friendship bracelets! if you want you can join in and make some with her!

ninas an absolute pro at making bracelets, they easily outdoes everyone sitting in your group!

offers to paint your nails or experiment with some makeup on your face! doesnt push too hard though because shes all for a good time, doesnt want to make you feel uncomfortable

playing music against jeff's music, total genre clash that hardly sounds pleasant- perhaps the four of you can retreat to sallys room?

joins in on the snack making at some point in the night, and while she doesnt start a fire she does make something diabolical

think the monster and sour airhead strip thing

LAUGHING JACK

he does NOT know how to cook but he wants to give it a shot now that no one is in the kitchen

you guys probably start a small fire while trying to make popcorn, absolute chaos breaks out- jack is eating burnt kennels, you're trying to whack the flame out, jeff is cackling, and splendorman is rushing in to see whats going on and he nearly has a heart attack

prior to that jack is passing out candy and doing his own thing, you might be able to convince him to wind down and watch a movie with you and some of the others!

last one to fall asleep, if you can call what he does sleep... he... doesnt need to sleep, he just pretend sleeps

will instantly rush over if you offer him to join in on an activity youre doing, whether youre by yourself or with someone else

EYELESS JACK

pretty tame, all he's doing is streaming movies in the living room so theres something to watch- or more sound to add to the background

has enough sense to turn on subtitles so you know whats actually being said against whats going on around you

he would sneak you snacks if he had them, but he didnt think to grab anything thats friendly for you- that sort of thing doesnt cross his mind that often since he doesnt... eat normal people food

pro at tuning everyone else out, he might just end up tuning you out because hes so used to things descending into chaos

you both might end up having a conversation about anything at some point, really any topic is on the table

BEN DROWNED

one of the rare occasions where hes out and about rather than being confined to his devices- surely he will use his limited time to hang out with everyone in bulk!

right..?

you thought! sure he might come down every now and then to hang out- namely hang out with jeff or sally for a few minutes, but hes going to be spending a lot of his time in his room upstairs playing video games

and youre more than welcome to join him! just be aware that hes likely going to be using cheats and hacks!

love the idea that ben is friends with a lot of the other gaming creepypastas so theres a chance theyre also going to be playing with you guys, even if theyre not there in person

absolute insanity ensues, mostly due to all of the cheats

SALLY

wants to hang out with everyone and while shes not totally dismissed, she ends up spending her night on the floor drawing- but jane and nina do join her at some point to keep her company

over the moon when you come over and sit with her!! shes already made you a friendship bracelet, nina showed her how! in fact shes already made one for everyone!

do ghosts sleep...? if so youre probably going to have to take her to bed at some point, whether it be at her bedtime or if she simply falls asleep while you hang out

as soon as nina offers to do your hair or makeup, sally is immediately jumping up and offering to help

will probably ask for her hair to be done as well

MASKY

its either him or hoodie, but one of them is going to end up being the one to put out that fire laughing jack starts in the kitchen

cannot stand the excess noise so hes probably going to step outside to clear his head or go upstairs

its best to give him a few minutes before offering to join him, he needs that window of alone time to depressurized

basically plays babysitter next to splendorman, basically making sure nothing gets wrecked inside or outside

you guys dont really talk out on the porch, there isnt much to talk about

offers to walk with you through the woods before returning inside

you both kind of just hang around in the corner keeping an eye on everyone

one of the last ones to fall asleep as well

HOODIE

similar to masky in the "hes making sure nothing is getting too insane and nothing is being damaged", he might default to the couch with eyeless jack

switches between watching the movie thats being played and scanning the room to make sure everyone is mostly behaving

unlike ej, he did think to keep some small snacks on him and hes willing to share with you if you ask

will keep the good stuff/his favorite stuff for himself though

doesnt sleep in the living room, will eventually go back up to his room at some point to go to bed... with the exception of characters who outright dont sleep, hoodies 100% the one staying up the longest

asks you about the movie when it ends, if you know sign or have some way for him to communicate with you

TICCI TOBY

probably gets caught up in the energy- in multiple ways! i do think at some point hes going to get overstimulated and need a step back but for a while hes hanging around with everyone else and kind of leaning into the chaos

briefly joins jeff in the "weapon throwing" activity, naturally wants to use his hatchets

at some point you both kind of just sit on the floor in a corner and just talk about- literally anything

you look through stuff on your phone, probably leads to introducing him to a lot of internet stuff... he uh... isnt on the internet all that much

oh you guys are definitely taking random quizzes and stuff

nina might join you guys for a bit at some point- leads to you guys taking quotev quizzes and things get more... silly

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Who Taught You How to Love Like That? (König x F!OC)

Part 3/3 of Valkyrie

(Part 2 here)

(Part 1 here)

Summary: König gets an order to make a female SpecGru sniper talk, but König doesn't want to hurt women.

Category: Smut 🔞, angst, fluff

Tags & warnings: Explicit mature content +18 audiences only, strangers to lovers (slight enemies to lovers), dubious consent, threats of rape, virgin!König, size kink, size difference, p in v, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, squirting, hugs and cuddles, super fluffy ending. König will be named in later chapters. 

A/N: KorTac and SpecGru are rivaling military contractors, Conor is König's superior (and a huge villain), and I just wanted to write angsty smut featuring our favourite Austrian boi. 

The first thing she noticed was the combat dummy in the corner of the room. There was no light in the ceiling, only a small table lamp on the floor next to his bed... Which was really only a thin mattress placed on the floor with a meticulously tucked bed sheet on it. There was no furniture to speak of except for the tall gun safe and some bland table where he had a kettle and a half-open bag of bread lying next to a toaster. There was a small fridge under the table, and deposited there on top of it, out of direct sight, a simple knuckle duster.

Piles of books lay on the floor next to his so called bed, and she was pleasantly surprised: he didn't strike her as a bookworm type of guy. She briefly caught sight of a few titles, mostly nonfiction: he had volumes on rifles and combat sports like krav maga and escrima, along with some German books about hunting, knives…— and there were knives all over the place: hanging from a lone hook on the wall, lying on the table, next to a pile of books, next to the mattress. Probably hidden ones, too, but where in all this minimalistic scarceness, she couldn't tell.

He didn't have a television. There was no computer, not even a laptop. She wondered how his officers got in touch with him, for it was dubious that he even owned a phone.

"This is where I sleep," he introduced his apartment, waving a hand in a vague gesture that said It's not much, but it's home.

She didn't know whether to feel pity or terror. She was relatively sure she was the first girl to set foot in here. The red flags were all over the place, but she only felt a tug near her heart from the realization that this guy was lonely. Like really, really lonely. Potential school shooter who grew up kind of lonely.

God, why did she have to have a soft spot for lunatics like him...

"Would you like some coffee?"

He turned to look at her, and she felt tightness in her chest from that drained, sad stare. He had been so carefree, so giddy, but all of that was gone. She had seen it in the pub already, the moment she laid eyes on him, that something was terribly wrong. She wondered who was the one responsible for making this man lose his goofiness. Shed that lovely, inculpable nature that made him singularly him. Whoever it was, she wanted to smack them in the head. Hard.

Without his gear and mask or even that black face paint, he looked more human. There were no barriers between them, no profession stamped on him: he was simply…him. But the intensity was there, always there. He was an outrageously tall, athletic man, and teeming with latent violence.

She wasn’t intimidated by that, per se. She had fired her rifle alongside dozens of big, dangerous men. Menacing men. It was something else, something essential in this man's character that made her feel a little on edge.

If her mother could see where she was now, in a dark flat filled with nothing but weapons and white bread and a towering, introverted dynamite stick of a man, she would probably deem the situation more dangerous for her than Russia and Brazil combined.

"No thanks, I'm good."

He ran his fingers through his hair, which was much longer than 8 months ago. He still had that side shave, but the light ash curls on top were unkempt and fell partly on his forehead.

"Or tea? I think I got tea here somewhere… "

And there he was: that adorable, silly man she had fallen for.

If nothing more, she would make it her mission to at least get him to smile.

She shook her head slowly before walking to him and grabbing two fistfuls of his black t-shirt. He straightened like someone had called ten-hut, making it clear that she wasn't the only one who felt like a tightly coiled spring. But someone had to make the first move. Someone had to do something.

He had shaved a day, maybe two ago, and the stubble that dusted his chin and the top of his upper lip was only a faint shadow, but still coarse enough to sting her skin as she got up on her toes to kiss him.

He closed his eyes and bent into it. He didn't touch her, wouldn't reach for her, just opened his mouth against hers and moaned. Like a tortured man about to break.

"Mh- I've thought about you every day," she whispered, still clinging to his shirt, and he finally wrapped his arms around her. "Every damn day…"

"Meine kleine Walküre…"

"I thought I would go mad at some point."

I didn't know who you were, I couldn't come back to you, I knew nothing about you.

"I know."

He knew.

He knew the slow descent into madness, the craving. The mornings that felt like waking up in a limbo. The nights that only sharpened the pain.

And of course he did.

"You kept me alive," he said as his erection pressed against her, and her mind was flooded with memories of the grey room, the bleak light in the ceiling, the ropes biting into her wrists, the way he fucked her like they were both going to die the next day.

And she realized that he was real. He wasn't a schizophrenic dream or an erotic nightmare. He wasn't even a soldier; he was a man, a person.

He was a real, actual person under that hood and face paint and tactical vest and ammo pouches. He had an apartment and dirty socks on the floor, and he drank lager, and he had toast and a toaster, and he owned relatively normal clothes.

And right now, even though her panties were soaked, she didn't want him inside her.

"I'm a bit nervous," she said, stiff and near the point of breaking into a cold sweat. He caressed the small of her back and shoved his crotch against her even more eagerly.

"König, please… Could you just… hold me?"

He stopped and swallowed, and his hands traveled back up.

"I will do whatever you wish."

"Perhaps we could lie down? And just… hug, you know?"

"I'd love that," he said, sounding genuinely enthusiastic.

His sheets smelled of him, and she felt the cold sweat intensify. Her stomach sank, and she was glad that she was lying down because her feet wouldn't probably carry her at this point. He laid himself down next to her and gave her his pillow. It was a lovely gesture, but she felt like she was lying down with a murderer. Which he was. Which she was. They both had killed, her confirmed body count reaching 23 when she had left the SpecGru. His count was probably much higher...

She snuggled closer, tucked her head under his chin, and let him hold her. His whole body was tense, but he eased into the embrace after ten or twenty breaths. Cuddling usually came after the sex; after the release of stress and tension, and right now, they were both like teenagers in an empty house with the parents gone. Sweating with the jitters of coming to know how the other person's body felt like.

She dragged a leg over him at some point, and he sank his own between hers, and they just breathed each other. She wondered how they must look, her small form and light blue jeans and white shirt swallowed by all that black he wore. A fair little lady cuddled by a dark giant. A giant who everyone could tell, just by the clothes he wore, was either an employed soldier or a crazy militarist. And she liked that. She fucking loved that he didn't disguise himself as an ordinary civilian. Unlike she did, and she felt like a liar... along with feeling tired of pretending that she wanted the next bachelor when all she really wanted was a guy like him.

Finally, her nerves calmed down, and she could hear the silence of the room, the sound of his breathing, could feel the warmth of his arms around her.

"This feels good," she told him.

"This feels better than anything," he answered.

He seemed peaceful too. All that shifting around had turned into deep breaths and a steady heartbeat. She caressed his back, closed her eyes, and pressed her cheek more firmly against his chest — how many times had she dreamed of this moment? She inhaled him, and the scent aroused different memories this time, making her feel like a balloon drifting up to the ceiling.

"I like you, König." She squeezed him against her. "Like, a lot."

He squeezed her back and announced: "I love you."

Her mind went blank and then screamed error.

She wriggled out of his grasp, propped herself on her elbow, and looked down at him. He stared at her like a dog waiting for a treat from a well-done trick.

"You can't say that, König."

His long, pale lashes batted a few times, and a vertical wrinkle appeared between his brows.

"No, you... You didn't do anything wrong. I'm sorry. It's just that..." She pursed her lips, bit her lower lip, and placed a hand on his chest. "We barely know each other."

His eyes darted from her lips to her eyes, confused. "But I already know I love you."

How could she argue with a man who looked at her like that? Who looked like a dog being scolded for things he didn’t know he wasn't supposed to do…

I went to therapy because of you.

We met in a fucking bunker where you were asking politely if I would co-operate in you raping me. Fucking co-operate…

And you looked like Death…

"König… Baby, I don't even know your name."

He wrapped an arm around her waist in an attempt to pull her closer.

"Julius."

He said it from the back of his throat, it rolled off his tongue and ended in a soft hiss, and she felt lighter in the head by the minute.

Julius, like… Julius Caesar.

Or July. June and July.

This was so fucked up…

"Can I taste you?"

The wintry eyes looked at her, begging.

"Let me taste you, June. Please…"

Oh God… Yes, please, yes.

"Umm. Sure.."

He moved immediately, and she was almost thrown to lie on her back while he reached for her jeans to take them off, his large hands clumsy and cold against her exposed skin. She raised her hips to help him as he pulled them down, trying to stifle a giggle that was bubbling inside at seeing him so keen on giving her head. The pants got stuck on her ankles, and he tugged them off one leg at a time, causing one sock to come off and the other to come halfway down. And he just left it there, being too preoccupied with getting back between her legs to reach for her panties.

She thanked herself for having put on the smaller, black brazilian knickers instead of some comfortable, worn-out hipsters. And that she had shaved...

He was much more attentive with this piece of clothing, sliding it down like he was opening a gift. And when he took the panties off and still left that lonely sock unattended, crumpled, and forgotten, she couldn't help but snicker.

"Was?"

He looked at her with a perplexed smirk, clueless as to what was so funny — but smiling just for the sake of having made her laugh. The black underwear looked tiny in his hands as he placed it next to the bed.

She remembered how he had left her socks on in the bunker, too, perhaps because he was in a nervous hurry. Or perhaps because he didn't want her to feel cold.

She bent her leg and took it off herself, throwing it somewhere behind him.

"Nothing. Except that you're officially the cutest."

He ran a hand through his hair again. That bashful, boyish attitude made her realize just how much she had missed him. His gaze flicked to her eyes, darted between her legs, flew to examine the floor… and she could see the tent in his pants even though there was little light in the room.

"And now the shirt," she rose to seated and raised her hands up, making it clear what she wanted him to do. He wasted no time pulling it over her head but froze when he was met with the black, laced bra, the only barrier left between him and her complete nakedness.

As much as she wanted to, she didn't tease him by making him figure out the mechanism. She reached for the clasp, and he leaned slightly back when she took it off with little ceremony and threw it on the floor with the rest of her clothing. When she grabbed his hand to bring it to her breast, he looked like he had stopped breathing altogether.

"Everything good?"

"Perfekt," he said, looking terrified.

"Come here," she pulled him by the neck all the way down to lay on top of her. He supported himself on his elbows while his hands came to cradle her head. He was tense again, and she wondered whether the cuddling had been a bad idea — he had relaxed too much and was now overstimulated.

The whole body on her was rigid, but his mouth was soft and warm as he kissed her — so greedily that her legs began to ride up along his sides. When he moved to wolf her neck, her weakest spot, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he finally melted against her.

"I dreamed of you," he breathed against her skin, making her eyes flutter open and her pussy clench around nothing. "Every night…"

Through the euphoria of his accent and lips, she deciphered that what he actually meant was that he had masturbated on thoughts of her. And she had done the same: stroked herself night after night on thoughts of him telling her how tight and good she felt around him. It was downright sinful how many times she had reminisced the high-pitched sighs, that vulnerable look he had when he shot his cum inside her.

"Did you ever think of me?" He asked with a frail voice.

She had gone on a few dates, had a few fucks. Ended up feeling disappointed, and even more lonely. Dirty and sad — like she was cheating on him…

"If only you knew just how much," she whispered to the ceiling above her.

He brushed a trembling thumb over her cheek and buried himself even deeper in her neck.

"Shit… Ist das dein Ernst?"

She loved it when he spoke German. And hated how most of the time, she couldn’t understand what the hell he was saying.

"June... Du machst mich verrückt."

"What are you saying, silly…"

"You drive me crazy."

He was so… present, devoted. So unlike the men who almost screamed "Score" when they got this far. He was saying stupid, lovely things that didn't sound at all like a yucky romcom, not when they came from him. He ripped her clothes off because he wanted to please her, taste her... And had no trouble pressing against her while having his own clothes still on — those black pants that would get stained if he continued to grind against her drenched pussy like that.

"You'll drive me crazy too if you don't finish what you started..."

He chuckled and resumed giving her those tiny kisses that only left her wanting more.

"Don't worry, little one." He planted a last kiss on her collarbone before diving down.

"I'm not -"

The rest of the sentence turned into a gasp as his lips swept over her sternum, her nipples, sent shivers across her stomach as he trailed down, down…

"Yes you are," he muttered against her mound, going further down still. Like a man with a purpose.

Hot air hit her as his tongue swept through her folds, first pointed and quivering, then flat and hungry. Her hand shot out to grasp his hair, those stupid, adorable curls that drove her to the brink of insanity.

"Mmh," he moaned in her pussy, pressing his lips against her and opening his mouth. She didn't have time to worry about the bite of his stubble, for he pushed his tongue out. Either he had an excellent memory, or then it was beginner's luck, but he hit just the right spot as the hot, wet tongue plunged slightly inside her.

"Oh - fuck.. "

He got the cue to the full, shoving even deeper, sweeping arms around her thighs to pull her against his face. He decoded her within minutes with a combination of flicks, sweeps, and thrusts. She opened her legs wider, felt herself open like a flower, felt the juices leak out while he was at it like a tried and true engine. So tireless that it sent her thighs quivering. They never did that — at least not with anyone else. It was his unique talent to make a mess of her. If he proved smart enough to apply fingers, she would lose her goddamn mind.

"You are dripping," he informed from among the sloppy sounds she was perfectly aware of. "Like a honeycomb…"

What was it with this man that nearly made her cry?

He kissed her with devotion, almost like he was kissing her lips. The languid pecks and slow nips soon turned into french kissing as he applied tongue again. Her fingers curled into his hair on their own accord and pulled. She could feel his mouth open into a grin before a soft huff hit her.

"Heh…" he kissed her again, "Gierig.."

"What does… ah -.. that mean?"

She could’ve cried from frustration when he slowly got back up to his knees. His lips and chin glistened with her - and he was grinning adorably. That earlier naive cuteness made such a comeback that she had a hard time catching her breath.

"Greedy." He licked his lips. "You like it?"

She nodded a few times, many times, and the impish, pussy-drunk grin of his only widened.

"Gut."

He made a move to return down there, looking like he had received the best assignment ever.

"König… Uh, Julius?" She pronounced it like July, and he corrected her immediately.

"Julius."

So husky and sweet from those soaked lips — like music.

"Julius," she rose back to seated, thighs still trembling, and grabbed the front of his shirt. "Could you take this off?"

He reached back with both hands and pulled it off, leaving his hair all tousled once the fabric was drawn over his head. She vaguely knew what to expect, but the amount of muscle still made her gawk like a goldfish.

The man was like a roman sculpture. Not an artificial, overly shredded fitness type of thing, but a man who used his body like it was meant to be used. The light brown hair between the plates of his chest was simply irresistible. She placed a hand on it, and he looked down, fascinated by what she was doing. She ran her fingers through the soft, sparse hair, trailed the breath of it all the way down to his navel. The muscles there rippled at her touch. He was ticklish… and some stupid part of her brain squealed at the discovery.

She wondered whether he had been touched before, whether he had been touched much at all. He had an ungodly shoulders to hips ratio, and a broad, toned physique, which alone should've made women want to crawl all over him. Perhaps he had walked through life half invisible because he wanted to stay that way - in hiding. And suddenly she felt special, outright exceptional... for having been chosen, having been granted access to him. His world.

He trusted her. It should've been a compliment, even a turn-on, but she felt like she didn't deserve it. And it was too late to turn back...

Looking up to his eyes which were fixed on her, expectant and dark, her fingers dropped to his pants, curled under the waistband, and gave it a tug.

"And everything else, too."

He sat back on his legs, opened the belt, undid the zipper, and stood up to take his pants off. From where she was looking, he was like a god, the muscles on his thighs bunching as he switched his weight from one leg to the other to yank his pants down and socks away. When he was finally free of those clothes, he grabbed that monster between his legs with one hand, lifted it, and stroked it absentmindedly while looking down at her, all hungry. Possessive...

Car lights flashed through the window and painted shadows on the wall, on him, painting him with blue and black just before he descended upon her. She greeted him with spread legs and open arms as he got down, carefully, like a man preparing to pray. With his hand still wrapped around himself, he guided the tip to her folds, brows knit together like he was on a serious mission that required all his attention. She reached a hand to grab him too, and it was like a dream, the way they directed him inside together.

Her inner muscles welcomed him home with a greedy pull, not bothered by the stretch that only felt fucking delicious.

She pushed him further in with her legs, wrapped around his hips like a starfish around prey. He was forced to fall on his hands, and he exhaled like someone easing into a hot bath, blowing air from the raw sensation — although he was dipping into somewhere far better than that, she presumed.

She noticed a scar on his neck as he exposed his throat, half-lidded eyes drifting closed with pleasure. Her hand rose on its own will to touch the white protrusion, fingertips caressing the spot where someone had tried to finish him and failed.

And she knew that she didn’t want to spend her life without this man.

Didn’t want to spend a day without him anymore.

He flinched at her touch, looking like he was the one being fucked and not the other way around. Her touch was a reminder that someone had gotten too close - way too close. And had probably paid the full price for their insolence.

“Baby…” she whispered, and his head dropped with a broken sigh, hanging heavy against his chest as he slid in and out of her. It was supposed to be a homecoming, a sweet reunion, but he was shaking and sobbing, grunting between the thrusts.

She knew he was repeating the words in his head, the words he thought she didn’t want to hear.

Fuck it… I love you too.

It was a deafening declaration in her head, one she couldn’t snuff out, one that only got louder as he thrust deeper, pressed against her, and moaned as he buried his face in her hair.

“You feel so good… taste so good,” he said, “smell so good…”

Having the biggest, baddest mercenary of a rivaling military contractor between her legs, sighing how good she was, might be reason enough to seek therapy — but it was also the one thing she knew would send her straight to heaven.

And it was too much.

He was too much. She didn't want to cry, and she didn't want him to hold her, to slide in and out slowly, fondly, lovingly. Just the way he was doing right now… She wanted to drown the blooming intimacy, she wanted him to shut the fuck up and fuck her.

More than anything, she wanted to escape the feeling that she belonged here, with him.

“Please… just..”

“Talk to me, Engel.”

Shit.. It was a purr.

“I need you harder.”

He only slowed down, confused.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” she said, hating herself for tearing apart the one thing she loved most about him.

But he did as he was bid, upping the tempo, going deeper, breaking her in all the ways she wanted him to. Needed him to.

"Like this?" The voice was abrupt, metallic, almost freezing. It didn't belong to a man, it belonged to a soldier executing an order.

“Yes…”

He was looking at her, and this time it was her turn to avoid the gaze. She already knew it was filled with confusion and hunger and sadness. She looked at his muscles at work, the ridiculously large cock disappearing into her, she looked at the scars... That scar, the one that screamed that not only he was lucky that the weapon had missed by an inch. That she should count her blessings, too.

At some point, he grunted in frustration and moved to throw her legs over his shoulders. He could pound inside even deeper like this, and it didn’t hurt at all, even though she felt a strange warmth pool somewhere deep in her abdomen.

He fucked her on that thin mattress and all she could think about was whether he would offer her tea or coffee after, or bring her toast to the bed.

“Harder..”

The sheet started to come off, the slick sounds bordering on pornographic, his chest getting covered in sweat.

God, she made him sweat. She wanted to wash him after, smear him with whatever stupid shower gel he had in his apartment that reeked of loneliness, a fragrance she knew more than well.

She wondered if he would want to cuddle again after they had showered together. Or cuddle before, so she could inhale his scent, the full brunt of him. If she could stay for the night. Fuck…

“Harder.”

He dared to whimper, dared to look at her all helpless. But obeyed.

Shit, he felt good. Too good. Too fucking….

"Wait..."

She was about to come, but something was different.

"Wait-"

Something was wrong and right at the same time, the thickness and length pressing onto something unusually delicious. It left her shaking, caused her to feel full to the brim. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out, and he wouldn't relent with the thrusts, but he had to soon enough, for she burst, literally, with wetness that spread through the sheets under them and caused his cock to fly out of her with a gush of moisture.

Oh jesusfuckinggod… -

He was between her legs, cock bouncing up and down. It was sheened with an insane amount of natural lube, and he was looking down at what she had done.

"What happened?"

The innocent question, the humiliation made her cheeks pang with heat.

Take a deep breath, calm down, calm the fuck down..

"It's…"

It's called squirting, you adorable big puppy. You just made me fucking squirt.

"It's a woman's orgasm but times ten?"

She wanted to add Jesus Christ I'm sorry, and it's a good thing, trust me, but she didn't need to.

"I… made you do that?"

She nodded, and another wide grin slowly spread on his face. He adored the scene, amazed and eyes sparkling like it was Christmas morning and he had walked up to see that there were presents under the tree.

He reached for his cock to insert himself back inside, but she jerked away.

"No, wait… It - it might happen again," she stuttered a warning. She wasn't sure, but she didn't want to take the risk. This kind of thing had never occurred, even if she knew what it was. Even envied those who had had the experience. But for the love of god, why did it have to be him out of all men who got to witness it when it finally happened…

But he only looked even more reckless. Almost wild.

"So let's do it again!" He was so excited that his voice spiked up a few notes.

"But your sheets…"

"Nevermind them," he huffed, ecstatic, and crawled forward. He pushed inside, fast and luscious, and she knew right then and there that it would definitely happen again.

He began to ruin her with a frenzy that was almost eerie. The rhythm of slick sounds told her enough, told her that he pistoned her with a pace that would soon drive her insane.

“You’re a fucking fantasy, June,” he groaned, the darker parts of what made him a ruthless professional soldier leaking through.

"Oh God," she breathed this time, deciding she could feel ashamed later. "It feels so fucking good…"

"I'll be good to you, Engel, I'll be good," he grunted as he continued to fuck her brains out.

She cursed and moaned and wailed, letting all his neighbours know that the big, quiet soldier boy was good at what he did. Fucking best. And she knew she should've said her prayers when her eyes rolled in her head and she started to see white.

It didn't take longer than a second or two before it happened again, this time with a force that nearly made her snap and split in half. More than a few squirts hit him as he pulled out. His jaw hung open like he was looking at fireworks.

“Huh -mh, yeah,” he wheezed, sounding dazed. “Verdammt - scheiße…”

She was writhing, crying, shedding actual tears — grabbing the sheet next to her head with one hand and beside her thigh with the other. Her legs were spread like she was on display, her thighs shaking like the muscles there had been permanently damaged. Kate had been more right than should've been legally fair…

"Gott, du bist schön," he commented on the sight while stroking himself, eased by the fluids all over his cock.

She thought about helping him, but couldn't get up, couldn't even move her hands, could only pant and shudder as he milked himself before her to a quick release.

He threw his head back and almost roared, and the only thing on her mind was the phrase saddest people cum the hardest as his seed shot out in generous spurts, hitting her almost in the face. The first gush already ran down her neck by the time the second fell, a thick rope of cum landing on her breasts, the rest on her stomach.

Something twisted in her stomach when she realized he had called her beautiful one moment and proceeded to cover her with cum the next.

Men…

But it was so fucking good that she only wanted to raise a hand and spread his seed all over her. He was breathing heavily with a softening cock in his fist, the last of the cum dripping to join the mess she had made.

"I hope you got a spare one," she looked at the destroyed sheet between them.

"Yeah," he panted still, half-lidded eyes looking at her up and down like he was piss-drunk and about to pass out.

She patted the space next to her, and he collapsed there, staring at the ceiling, probably trying to remember his name. She took his arm and raised it to wiggle herself under it and against him.

It felt good, being glued to him like this… Naked and spent and sweaty. He shifted, turned to face her, and took her in his arms as they both lay on their side, breathing heavily. She was pressed against the damp hair on his chest while his cum trailed little pathways between them.

"Please tell me you're mine, little Valkyrie," he whispered in her hair. He inhaled deeply and exhaled fully, like he had been in the thin mountain air and only now got enough oxygen again.

"June, I want you and no one else."

Oh, honey… it's just the mind-blowing sex talking.

It was pillow talk and hormones and trauma and all that shit. She was now 110 % sure that he had lost his virginity in that bunker. He wasn't the first nor the last man who thought they had fallen in love with a woman, not realizing what they had really fallen for was sex.

"I love you, June. If you don't want to hear it anymore, I won't say it. But it's true."

"Look…" she sighed.

This was so fucking awkward...

"Have you ever been in love before..?"

"No."

"Listen. I like you, you're a nice guy. And I want to get to know you, really, I do…-"

His breath had shallowed — far too much. The large chest beside her heaved, and she could both hear and feel his heart thumping. He shifted away from her, and she snapped her mouth shut. Slowly, she raised to look at him, and the sight drove a fucking lance through her heart.

She didn’t really know what a panic attack was, but was fairly positive that he was about to have one. He was laying on his back, big palms against his head, and he slid them over his eyes, trying to hide from her. His breathing was getting out of hand by the minute.

Fuck… Why did she have to fucking ruin everything?

"Hey, baby. It's alright. Everything's all right, just.. Breathe. Or talk to me…?"

He balanced on the edge of hyperventilation, still holding his head with his hands, eyes squeezed shut and that beautiful face distorted into agony and pain.

"You don't… want me."

Ice seeped into the pit of her stomach.

"Yeah, it's true I've never been with anyone. I was too shy. Ich habe nie bekommen, was ich wirklich will. Alle lachten und nannten mich Schwul… Und das war nicht das Einzige- mmh."

He was sweating from the German confession she understood but a few words of.

The only thing she caught was something about everyone laughing at him. People were horrible sometimes… or usually. People were vile, they were fucking bullies. But even if he was a bit too kind, a little too eager to please, and socially more than a bit on the awkward side of things, she had thought it a miracle that anyone would pester someone of his size. But exclusion and words could hurt too.

And she felt like an asshole.

She was good at bringing down strong, beautiful things. She liked to drag them through the mud. She was talented at taking aim at the most vulnerable parts and pulling the trigger... But he was already there. He was looking at her from a pool of blood and shit and tears. And she was not the only one who got traumatized in that box made of cement. She was not the only one who had had it rough growing up. From what she could tell, he had had it much worse.

"June, you feel so good that it hurts."

Shit…

Her stomach burst with golden fireflies, a warmth that spread to her heart, her whole chest. Ice and gold and fire mixed together, and she knew it was dangerous… He was dangerous. He was the most frightening thing she had ever faced.

She reached to brush his chest, feeling clumsy, like a child. A total amateur when it came to these things.

"You feel good too," she whispered. "So good. I'm just- I'm scared. It's scary."

She put her arm around him and pulled, then yanked when he wouldn't move. He turned, and she took him in her arms. His head pressed inelegantly between her breasts as she gave him a hug that she hoped would deliver all her affection.

He almost trembled in her arms, and the stabbing, burning feeling in her chest wouldn't stop.

"You really stole my heart, you know? Right from the start."

A breath of warm air crashed against her skin as she slowly stroked the back of his head and whispered in his hair.

"And I've thought about you ever since. It's ok if you want to say it. If that's how you truly feel. But please don't say that I don't want you. Because that sure as hell ain't true."

"...Ok," he muttered in her tits — a quiet, damped breath.

"König, could you just give me some… time? Just take it slow, if that's ok with you."

She refused to say his real name, knowing she wouldn't be able to lie anymore if she did. That she was just as far gone as he was, and having a radical acceptance moment about it. Even her therapist would’ve been proud… Or not. But she really didn't give a fuck.

She released her death grip on him a little, and he slowly raised his head to look at her. It was oddly charming that he was looking up at her and not the other way around.

"Take it slow. Ok. I promise I'll be good to you."

She tried her best not to burst into tears. She tried her very best to keep her hand steady as it caressed his hair, his neck, his back.

"You're so sweet."

She moved to kiss him, a pure cinematic kiss that was unhurried, exquisite, and just the kind of starved that told her he was the one.

"Anybody ever told you how sweet you are?" She whispered in his mouth and could feel how the muscles on his stomach contracted.

"Nein," he rasped back, voice so low that she nearly didn't recognize it belonged to him. He was getting hard again, too.

"Well, now you know," She kissed the top of his nose. She wondered if he had the kind of skin type that was full of freckles in summer.

"You're sweet," he said, the warmth of his words melting her like snow in spring, "like.. cotton candy. Or Apfelstrudel."

"Did you just call me a Strudel?"

"It's a dessert," he explained.

"I know it's a dessert, you… bear," she sputtered with her lack of words.

"Is that the best you can do?" He hummed against her lips, laughter barely a breath away.

"No. But it's your fault that my brain stops working."

He rolled partly on top of her again, his scent hitting her like a drug. The stubble scratched her skin, over and over again, as he kissed her, added tongue, sucked her lip, pressed against her like she was dying and he needed to give her mouth-to-mouth CPR asap.

When he withdrew, only an inch, she was breathless again. And he was smiling.

"Could you say it..? Please, just once. That you're my girl," he pressed his forehead on hers, his eyes betraying all the things she had no courage to show. He was many things, but he was certainly not a coward.

"I'm yours, King. I'm your girl."

"And I'm all yours, June."

She closed her eyes, savored those words, relished the feeling of commitment that was completely novel to her.

"When will you head back?"

"I… cannot tell you that."

She wondered how exactly she was supposed to go home with the knowledge that he would be out there in the field, changing mags amidst grenades and bullets.

"Soon."

"I gotta text Kate that I'm staying over. So she won't worry…"

"You'll stay for the night?"

He sounded so delighted. Excited. Like a dog wagging a tail... She wanted to crush him into another hug and cry until she felt raw.

"Yeah, if you change that sheet.”

She got up, walked to get her jacket, groped through the pockets — and her fingers caught to something small and bendy. Magical thinking or not, it felt like fate, and her lips curled into a small smile.

She found her phone, sent a text to Kate, then put it on mute, shoved it back into the pocket, and twiddled the plastic toy for a moment before closing it inside her palm.

When she returned to him, she had to do a double take. He looked so wiped out - so thoroughly drowsy and content - that it made the gold melt and spread inside her like fire.

"I have something for you."

He rose to his elbows, and she crouched beside him, took his hand, and dropped the small, olive-green toy soldier in his palm.

"It's my lucky charm. Had it on me on every mission."

It had a short key chain attached to it. She wondered whether he would tuck it inside his pocket, or if he would keep it on a table beside his bed. Or attach it somewhere, to bring him luck as it had brought to her. Even on that mission when KorTac had taken her as a prisoner. Especially on that mission…

"Can I ask something in return?"

"Anything."

She looked for it, found it on the floor, and picked it up.

"Can I have this?" She held up his black t-shirt and then brought it to her heart, grasping it tightly with two hands like a plush toy. "It smells of you," she explained, although it must've been obvious why she wanted it. The impact of her request on him was a swelling erection that twitched as he watched her, lips pursed tight, brows drawn together. He was blinking rapidly, trying to dry the tears that had started to form.

"Of course you can, Liebling."

"I can wrap myself in you even when you're away."

A miserable little groan escaped him as his lips tightened even more. She placed his shirt down and crawled back to the bed next to him.

"The downside is that it might stop having your scent in it," she pouted a lip, "but you can always bring me a fresh one when you come back, right?"

His sigh was heartbreaking.

"I can't help it, June."

"June, please don't take this the wrong way. I ask this question because you need to address it someday. Now… Is there any part of you that enjoyed it?"

She had thought of him every fucking day for the past 8 months now. She had thought of his hands, his cock, his puppy eyes, and most of all, that sad, abandoned look he gave her right before she turned and left.

"Did you like him?"

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"This is a place where you can safely say whatever is on your mind."

So what if it didn't make any sense? Who the fuck cared anyway?

Fuck it.

Just fuck it.

As if it was going to get any better by not saying it. Nothing could be worse than those months without him.

"You know what… I can't help it either. And I don't wanna take it slow."

---

"You've been kinda up lately."

Zero munched on whatever was on the menu today — König hadn't really paid mind to what it was.

"Leave went well?"

All eyes turned on him, and he was glad of the hood.

If only they knew just how well…

It had been the best leave ever. She hadn't stayed just for one night; she had stayed for three.

They had gone to see a new Marvel movie, and her kisses had tasted of popcorn and lemonade in the dark theatre. Half of the movie rolled past without him noticing what it was about. She had wanted to go to a sushi restaurant after and make him try all kinds of weird rolls — she had practically fed him with her own chopsticks, wanting to see what kind of reaction he had to each bite. They had gone to that pub for another round, and he had made her taste different types of beers, and when they got to pilsner and unfiltered witbier, she had stuck her tongue out and made a face. "You drink piss in Austria?"

They had gone to the gym, and he had taught her how to do a power clean, and she had insisted on staying in front of him when he did squats — for the purpose of giving him a quick kiss every time he did a rep, she informed him. He was supposed to do a series of 8 but ended up doing at least 12 reps, even with all that weight on his back.

He had shown her his favorite scope, detached it for her inspection from the SAKO he had in the safe. She said it was cool, but she knew a few better ones. And then she looked at him with a mischievous grin and said he should be fingering her instead of gun parts.

They had made love several times a day, just unhinged sex, until he felt soft in the head. Sex in the morning and sex in the evening, and sex at night when the other had woken up, too excited to sleep. They had showered together and done it there, too. He had dried her with his towel and carried her back to bed, all wet and giggling and soft and so sweet he had no words for her, neither in German nor English.

They had ordered takeaway on the last night, and he had watched as she ate it straight from the box, wearing only - and only - one of his shirts that looked huge on her. He had eaten her out not shortly after.

She gave him his first blowjob in the hallway of his apartment, just before he had to leave. He had almost missed the plane. Only when he was running to the gates that were already closing had it occurred to him that perhaps that's what she had aimed for.

And when the plane finally took off, he was blanketed by everything she said. That he was an adorable dumbass and her big boy and a gentleman and how good he was in bed, and that she would count the days to when they would see each other again. And that if he got killed, she would come and raise him from the dead and kill him again for daring to leave her.

"Ja, I got that pint. And the… girl."

"König got laid?" Fender nearly choked on his spaghetti.

Zero gave a hearty laugh, and König felt his cheeks grow hot under the mask.

"That's my man!"

He felt a slap on his back and Conor's eyes on him from across the table but didn't care.

They would eventually get interested in the toy soldier attached to his rifle, dangling from a key chain. The token bestowed upon him... her blessing. Physical evidence that she was real and had left with his shirt and now slept in it.

A reminder that he had a home to go back to.

[wntrs0ldier]

AN OFFER II · 05

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 3,3k warnings: mafia, language, violence (graphic descriptions), minor character death, mature themes, dark themes, angst, smut, toxic behavior, blood and injury, abuse and sexual abuse, hurt/comfort,

Taking his eyes off you, Bucky turned to Sam. “Go get Clint,” he ordered, his voice — just like his stare — lacking a particular tone; it was emotionless, perhaps with a hint of cooling anger, the seed of which got there completely naturally. Then he looked at Steve, his jaw clenched again. “Get her out of here.”

series masterlist

The exhibition, crowning the last few months of your work, was going surprisingly well for something you had initially occupied yourself with just to pass the time.

It all started with Bucky’s absence and now he was there — keeping his hand on your lower back, stroking it in a comforting manner, he made you forget about all the things that could go wrong. You watched some people admiring the artwork you’ve collected, exchanged some words, shook some hands, and Bucky didn't leave your side for a second. 

At some point, Tracy appeared right next to you, touching your shoulder to get your attention. “There’s a call from Connie. She couldn’t reach your phone, so she called the gallery. I put her through to your office.”

Your friend, whom you had fortunately dissuaded from the idea of using her leave to attend the exhibition, was currently enjoying her free time on a real vacation. It certainly would have been nice to have her around, but it wasn't worth it; besides, you had solid support coming from not only your husband, but also Steve, Sam and Clint.

“Thanks,” you said, and when Tracy left, you turned to Bucky to hand him your glass with the wine you haven’t had the chance to finish. “I'll be back in a few minutes. An hour tops,” you informed, smirking. 

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirked up. “Sure. Got any knives I could juggle?” He raised his eyebrows. “You know, to entertain your guests.”

You sized him up, your eyes narrowed. “Do you really know how to juggle..?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged casually. “I can show you somewhere a little more private.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, smacking his shoulder. 

Bucky’s mouth stretched into a much wider smile as your laugh reached his ears. “I’ll be waiting here,” he promised. Still grinning, you cupped his face and kissed him, then went to the stairs. 

Having hurried into your office, you got to the phone. “Connie?” you spoke with undisguised excitement. 

“Hi, babe,” Connie giggled. “How’s the exhibition? How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, the exhibition is fine…” you sighed, resting your free hand on the desktop. “I have a lot of buyers, actually. It's better than I thought.” 

“Is one of those buyers your filthy rich husband?” she asked, and if she was here, right beside you, she would probably pinch you teasingly. 

A bright smile came to your lips. “He’s banned from doing that, and is here only for support.”

“That’s really great,” when you heard that, you also heard her smile fade away. “I'm sorry I can't be there for you.”

“Oh, come on, Connie. We talked about this. You deserve a rest, especially from those uptight bankers.” 

Connie said something else, but you got distracted by the sound of the door opening. You looked over your shoulder, and to your surprise, saw Adrian. 

“Y/N? Can you hear me?”

“Uh, Connie? I’ll call you back, okay?” Without waiting for your friend's answer, you hung up the phone. “Can I help you..?” you asked flatly, turning to Adrian. 

“Have you made a decision? About Paris?”

Your eyebrows rose; you secretly hoped that Adrian would eventually use his common sense, and as a result, realize how ridiculous the idea was. “I told you already. I can’t come to Paris with you.”

In a moment of weakness it crossed your mind that, perhaps, you should agree for the sake of the gallery. But Bucky was right — you couldn't sell Adrian your time; not when he was pushing the limits that way, treating you like an object he could do whatever he liked with.

“You are making a mistake. Big mistake,” he stated slowly, and just as slowly covered the space between the door and the desk.

You understood that you were just a woman — a fragile, weak woman, left alone with an offended man; the only thing in that room more fragile than you was only Adrian's pride. And yet, when he approached you, you didn't even flinch, didn’t take your stern gaze off him. 

“Are you sure, Y/N?” he questioned, giving you the last chance to change your mind. “Are you sure what you are doing? You are rejecting the opportunity of a lifetime. And it will cost you a lot. Can you afford it?”

He grabbed your forearm rapidly. Twisting it, turning your body, stiff and paralyzed with sudden panic, he pushed you, then pressed against the desk. The moment you collided with the hard surface, the air abruptly spilled out of your lungs, leaving you breathless, and the hit your chin took from crashing onto the desktop cut your bottom lip open; the rusty taste of blood settled on your tongue. 

One of Adrian's hands, which had wrapped around your forearm earlier, moved to the nape of your neck and pressed your torso down to the glass surface; his legs pinned your thighs to the edge, at the same time opening them for easier access. His other hand struggled with the fabric of your dress until it finally gave in and chose to betray you with a deep rip on the side.

“Adrian,” you grated, your breath heavy as you unsuccessfully tried to fight back, “get the fuck off me.” 

“Stand still, bitch,” he hissed, pressing your body even harder. You were losing your breath again, since your chest didn't have enough room. “And shut up.”

Struck by the sudden return of panic spreading at an alarming speed, you became numb when Adrian lifted your dress. His sickeningly cold and wet hands, touching your skin directly, without any additional layers protecting your body, turned your stomach sick. 

Until that moment, you were clinging to the hope that you could get out of it, or that Adrian would come to his senses. But now, it didn't appear that either of those things were going to happen; Adrian was going to get his way, he was going to take something from you, to break you.

Despite the shock of realizing what your fate would be, you swept your hand over the desktop to scan the area. In the process, you knocked down the phone, which Adrian considered to be continued attempts to fight, and eventually found something that, judging by its shape, was a stapler — an useless tool. A moment later, your hand felt something thin and oblong. A pen. Without much thought, you clenched it tightly in your palm and, pushed by adrenaline, blindly slammed your weapon into whatever happened to be behind you. All you knew was that it went in deep.

Adrian let out a loud, inhuman noise. The pressure of his hold loosened enough that you were able to break free. You darted to the door, and when you opened it, you ran into Bucky standing on the other side, clashing with his body. With your heart beating painfully fast, you lifted your gaze to him — your eyes still carried terror and distress, but there was a little room for relief as well.

In Bucky's case, it was different. With his forehead creased and his lips parted in devastation at what he had in front of him, he examined you closely — the ripped dress, the broken shoulder strap, the cut lip. His mouth snapped shut in a hard line, his jaw clenched so tightly that you could easily see that familiar twitch below his cheekbone, his nostrils flared. And although just a moment ago his eyes expressed so much — helplessness, fear, disbelief, disappointment — in a split second they became cold, dead. They passed you, as if you weren’t there anymore, and switched to Adrian.

Adrian looked around in a frantic search for an escape route, but the only exit from the office was blocked by you and Bucky. 

Having placed his hands on your arms, Bucky moved you carefully to the side, then made his way to Adrian. You immediately looked over your shoulder, and the rest of your body followed. 

“Hey, man, let’s talk-”

Bucky rammed into Adrian, and the kick that reached his stomach was charged with force so powerful that the man crashed into the cabinet standing against the wall. There was glass splattered everywhere — it came from the cabinet door, and from broken bottles; a few pieces cut Adrian's skin harmlessly, although it would have been better for him if one had killed him instantly. Bucky didn't wait for his target's reaction; he got on top of him, and, heedless of protests, pleas or pathetic screams, punched him in his face. Again, and again, and again.

“Stop. Please, don’t-” Adrian managed to choke out. He tried to defend himself, but was unable to block Bucky's blows, driven by tremendous power and speed. “I can pay you! I can pay you a-” 

To Bucky, his words meant nothing, his money worth nothing. What really mattered to him — what kept replaying in his head, boiling the blood in his veins, steering him to the only possible ending — was the fact that some man, no matter who he was or how much he had to offer, hurt his wife. He touched her. He touched in a way that made her too terrified to even cry. 

With each repeated punch, a little blood sprinkled out — Lancy spit and choked with it, coughing and screaming, but Bucky still didn't pay the slightest attention to it; he stopped feeling his own hand — the pain spread through his metacarpus at first, but that soon went numb — instead, he felt Adrian's bones break and crumble under his fist; he felt his nose snapping, his jaw cracking, his cheekbones collapsing. He felt only that; no shame, no regret, no remorse. Why should he, when none of these things were shown to you?

Bucky did what he had to do — he beat the life out of Adrian Lancy with his bare hands. But to Bucky, he was no Adrian, no young investor with a bright future. He was a scumbag that attacked his wife and before that, put her on a short leash. 

Breathing hard and slowly, Bucky stood up. For another brief moment he stared at the lifeless body, feeling a little less disgust. Despite the fact that instead of his face, Adrian now had a bloody, still steaming hole, he no longer evoked such disgust in Bucky.

He turned around. Blood covered his hands, especially the right one; crimson specks now decorated his face and his white shirt. You didn't feel the slightest need to run away, and if any shiver ran through your body, it was a shiver of admiration, of delight. 

You didn't know when exactly, but at some point Steve and Sam showed up; Steve stood right next to you, Sam stayed somewhere behind your back. 

Taking his eyes off you, Bucky turned to Sam. “Go get Clint,” he ordered, his voice — just like his stare — lacking a particular tone; it was emotionless, perhaps with a hint of cooling anger, the seed of which got there completely naturally. Then he looked at Steve, his jaw clenched again. “Get her out of here.”

You've lost track of time; you haven't checked it once since you and Bucky separated. Staring stubbornly, and without any purpose, at the darkness outside the bedroom window, you stood frozen, numb, wearing his t-shirt, that wrapped around you like a safe embrace.

Your skin was still aching from the almost burning water and excessive rubbing — you tried to deeply wash off Adrian’s scent and touch, but you could’ve sworn you still felt him. His smell — unpleasantly strong, hitting your nostrils aggressively — lingered in the air, and his hands, cold, sweaty, driven by evil intentions, remained on your body. A repulsive tingling plagued the places where he touched you, making you sick.

The door opened carefully, letting in some warm light from the corridor. You turned away from the window; Bucky entered the room, and then, keeping his eyes on you, came closer with a cautious step. And this time he scrutinized your figure intently.

In contrast to his shirt, there was no trace of blood on his face or hands. He washed it away along with the memory of that man, so it wouldn't clutter his mind. Instead, he knew that he would never forget that he had failed you; that he should have protected you better.

Without any words, you started unbuttoning his shirt; your fingers worked quickly and smoothly — you, too, wanted as soon as possible to get away from everything that reminded you of the events of a few hours earlier. When you were done, and the shirt tails opened, showing Bucky's tensed stomach muscles, you cupped his face and pulled him in for a kiss. By instinct, he placed his hands on your hips and pressed his body against yours, his tongue slid into your mouth, and despite your lip stinging, you eagerly accepted it, meeting it with yours. You already knew the way you could wash Adrian off you.

Bucky bent his knees to lower himself a bit; he moved his hands under your ass to lift you, causing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He walked to the bed and sat down; Bucky, as well, was fully aware of what you needed. 

He laid down, pulling you with him — without breaking away from his lips, relishing the taste of the man who had done something so thrilling for you, to the point of intoxication, you began rubbing against his crotch. Both of you breathed heavily into each other's mouths as your core, now wet and throbbing with desire, grinded on Bucky's bulge. But it wasn't enough — you needed him inside you, immediately.

You backed away just enough to be able to unzip his pants. He raised his hips, lifting you along with them, in order to slip his pants lower. At that moment, neither of you thought about taking the time to remove all your clothes; it was only about gratification, about forgetting, about pleasure.

You rose, wrapped your hand around his engorged cock and guided it to your entrance, then sank down on it slowly, a quiet, breathy moan leaving your lips. At first, Bucky looked at you with concentration, as if making sure you could handle it without his help, and when he got the proof, he relaxed slightly. Feeling your pussy swallow more and more of his cock, he groaned, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, but soon returned his gaze to you. He had to — there was nothing that could draw him away from the pleasure of watching you. 

You grabbed the ends of the t-shirt you were wearing and stripped it off. Seeing your body almost in all its glory, feeling it on his own, Bucky pressed his lips together, the devotion and worship visible in his stare only deepened.

Now, it was you who had the control you so badly needed to regain; you needed to regain yourself, and that's what seemed to be the best way to do it. Bucky's dick was plunging into you with your every move, penetrating you, hitting that sweet spot just right, but it was you who was fucking him. The bliss overpowered you enough that, forgetting the previous damage, you sank your teeth into your bottom lip. Bucky kept looking at you — your face overtaken by delight, your body moving up and down, the way you were riding him flawlessly — and the view alone would have been enough to make him cum.

Lifting his torso off the mattress, Bucky sat up. Your back arched as you propped your hands somewhere behind, your hips rolling in circles. Bucky slid his tongue between your breasts up to your neck, leaving a wet trail on your skin. With his hand supporting the back of your head, his mouth traveled all over your face and jaw, dropping sloppy kisses. 

Sensing some weakness creeping into the dynamic you had set up, Bucky returned on the mattress, taking you with him. And you let him, knowing it would be worth it. 

“Take my hand,” he whispered between heavy gasps. You followed his request without a second thought; the hand that only a few hours before had brought death was now holding yours. His fingers, intertwined with yours, reminded you that he was here for you; fully consciously, voluntarily, not just to satisfy some animal needs.

Bucky's spare arm embraced your back, pressing you as tightly as possible to his body. His hips began to move fast but not violently, he was moaning softly, pumping his cock into your cunt. It was hard for you to concentrate on anything other than that delicious sensation of being filled like that — your brain was melting, making you nothing more than a body to fuck, but the same brain told you to look at Bucky. So you looked at his lips, parted, swollen, in that familiar deep shade of pink they had turned from biting, and finally decided to occupy them with yours, devouring his warm, plush mouth.

The space between you, if such a thing had any right to exist, was filled with Bucky's loud breaths and grunts, your soft whines and his name — the sweet promise that you belonged to him only.

Bucky went still, letting out an interrupted whimper. A single, strong shiver ran through his body, his seed filled you up. When his mind regained a small percentage of sobriety, he continued thrusting into you. You straightened up to the sitting position, but still held tightly to Bucky’s hand. The tension building in your stomach released — orgasm shook your body, sending it into strong spasms, throwing your head back, squeezing only a heavy exhale out of your lungs. 

Bucky looked up at you; he admired your jawline, your arched neck, the blue gemstone of the chain he gave you hanging in the middle of your collarbones, the single drop of sweat running down between your breasts. You were the most beautiful creation he had a chance to experience.

You gazed at him too, tears shimmered in your eyes, one of them dropped unexpectedly on Bucky's chest. 

He furrowed, and, gripped by a burning panic and worry looming over, sat up; one of his hands was instantly on your cheek, the other brushed a few strands of hair away from your face. “It’s okay,” Bucky said softly. Sniffling, you nodded, the tears still streaming down your cheeks. “It’s okay…” he repeated more to himself, his eyes studying your face nervously, helplessly. With his thumb, he quickly wiped off another teardrop that escaped from your eye, then leaned closer and kissed away a new one, the salty taste smeared on his lips.

“Nothing-” you sobbed, then took a deep, shuddering breath. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me,” you choke out. Bucky's jaw clenched, his eyes filled with sadness. Nothing like this has ever happened to you, and now that you were his wife, it did. On his watch. He was convinced that the blame lay with him, but he didn't admit it out loud — he wasn't going to make a victim of himself, all that mattered was you. “I shouldn't have let him-”

“No,” Bucky interrupted you strongly. He looked you in the eye. “It's not your fault, Y/N. You hear me?”

In response, you only sniffled again, dropping your gaze. “You told me something like this could happen. And I didn't listen.”

“Hey,” he said to get your attention, his voice gentle, but you didn't have the courage to bring your eyes back to his. Yet, with his hands on your cheeks, he made you look up at him. “Don’t do that. That fucker had no right to touch you even with his finger. That’s not on you.” 

You weren't sure about that — your mind wasn't in a place that would allow you to believe Bucky's assurances. The wounds were still too fresh, the memories too vivid. However, one thing you were sure of; you had washed Adrian off of you. Bucky's scent clung to your skin, but your body was also marked with his sweat, his spit, his cum.

You started crying all over again — you needed this kind of purification. Bucky got that, so he wrapped his arms around you and pressed to his chest. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, stroking your hair.

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

taglist: @goldensunflowe-r @nefri-black @vickie5446 @learisa @sjsmith56 @aya-fay @hhiggs @wishingwell-2 @buckysgirl01 @emily-roberts @prettylittlepluviophile @leaaa008 @itvy5601 @melsunshine @pattiemac1 @marvel-fandom23 @rabbitrabbit12321 @xsecretsirenx @heyyitsreign @xhollycowx @samfreakingwinchester @thrnlvr @samjuarezzz @loustan90 @kandis-mom @abaker74 @gabshouse @casa-boiardi @globetrotter28 @fand0mskullfa1ry @iateall-yourcookies @swordofawriter @theroyalmanatee @midnightvitality @thebuckybarnesvault @milanaasblog @itsmytimetoodream @talesofadragon @r-a-d-i-0-n-0-w-h-e-r-e @bbiaa420 @funkybarnes @sebastians-love @walkingwithoutreason @hereticdance @abitofblues @purple-vegan @queenashen @oqueano @yourdryadwife @lethallyprotected @abbyyourlocalmilf @sapphirebarnes @matchat3a

[marchsfreakshow]

How Dangerously Beautiful [Peter Maximoff]

Fluff

You like collecting knives, and the first time Peter comes over, he's interested in the love you have for the maybe weapons.

Yet another Maximoff fic I'm not sorry. I am love Maximoff :3

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

"We literally just got off the phone Maximoff!" You squealed as the front door was flung open. Nothing could ever make you used to the speedster's mutant powers. No matter how many times he sped himself over to you; outside, at his house, in your garden, at work... it always freaked you out a little. But a grin appeared as Maximoff stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"well, you asked me to come over. And here I am, over." He breathed out, looking around, then speeding up the stairs. It made a sigh escape your tired body and rushed behind the speedster.

As Maximoff stood by a closed door, he pointed at it, almost quizzically. "Is this your room?"

"Well, do you see another closed doors that have a sign saying my name?"

"ah, yeah." He then just grinned at you and stepped in, immediately taking in the decorations and everything almost cluttering the walls. No mess Maximoff wasn't used to, but still looked around in slight confusion. "And here I thought you were the cleaner one in the relationship." A small chuckle escaped him as you just shrugged and stepped past the speedster.

Your eyes focused on the knife collection you owned with nerves. Sure people around the world liked making different things, selling and buying. But yours was an odd one, and it was the first thing on your mind while your silver-haired boyfriend explored your room. "Well...you know, I try to be." A deep breath when you started your sentence.

Just as soon as you let out a sigh, Peter noticed what you were staring at. He was entranced by the different coloured metals shining in the mid-day light. Entranced by the little details on the handles, and how they seemed to be crafted. "Woah man. These are...fuckin rad..." He whispered, fingernails lightly tracing one of the knives.

A gargled "no!" escaped you as you ran to stand in front of Maximoff. It was useless, he always stood taller than you. "Don't. Don't, touch them." Your voice came out as a shaky whisper rather than a loud and confident command.

"why not?"

"they're precious!!"

"You're precious but I touch you all the time all over."

"oh shut up." Gritted teeth but a blush at his off-handed flirt. Something you were used to, but in a situation like this it overrided your mind. "Just...be careful. Please?"

"Always am babe don't sweat." Another little grin as Maximoff picked up your favourite knife, by complete coincidence. It was a wine red on the handle, covered with little black designs. A spider on the end, a cliché broken heart on the same middle spot on both sides. Little lines and dots around here, there, over and around. Sharpened recently by the looks of it. The blade was dusty looking; the wine red covered in a deep dusk top, perhaps to save the sharpened edge that was new and shiny.

Peter was in love with it. He looked at it like he looked at you whilst you were on top, eyes full of stars...wonder, and just pure amazement. "This is... beautiful.." a small voice coming out of the usually loud and energetic man. As a response you kissed his cheek, staring at your most priceless collectable with the same wonder.

"It's my favourite one, and custom-made. My cousin had it made for me last year on my birthday." It was a bit of random information but probably the only good response you had at that minute. Another little kiss on his cheek as Maximoff placed the knife back in its holder.

"All of these are so pretty. Just like you." Grabbing you by the side and pulling you before him, admiring the small collection. Reds, greens, blues, all shades and colours. They almost sparkled in Peter's eyes as you looked up to him as best you could. "I mean, why knives though babe? They're dangeroussss!" A little singsongy voice, knowing you knew the dangers of having potential weapons such as these.

Small shrug as you wrapped your hands around Maximoff's arms. "I know they're dangerous. But I just, look at them. They're wonderful..."

A small chuckle as kisses were placed around the sides of your face. "Again, beautiful like you. They suit you and I think, you should get a full silver one. Just pure silver."

"what for you?"

"Absolutely!" Both of you laughed to yourselves, just admiring the wall of coloured metal in front of you.

"not a totally stupid idea...I'll think about it."

"you should." Another little laugh as another little set of kisses were peppered over your face.

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tag: @silverzoomies @babygorewhore @taintandviolent @coentinim @nahoyasboyfriend @newwavesylviaplath @fear-is-truth @slutforgarlogan @slvt4jamesmarch @bluerthanvelvet444 @briaroftheroses

[gococogo]

Hello would it be ok to have a destiel fanfic with prompts "Just like we promised" and "I've missed your touch" i love ur work <3

Prompt 1 | Destiel

Synopsis: Dean has been out on a hunt for over a month and hasn't called Cas at all. He's still getting use to this whole fucking an angel thing.

Word Count: 2.9K

Pairing: Dean Winchester / Castiel

Warnings: Angst. Sappy. Smutty.

Notes: It's more than okay to want this. This was a pleasure to write and I hope you enjoy what i created! Enjoy!

The pacing became a constant thing on the fourth week. On the fifth, the nail biting had started. A bad habit he’s picked up from Sam out of all people, a nasty human habit. But the satisfaction behind it to relieve stress almost calms Cas’s nerves. He had paced from the main foyer to the kitchen to Dean’s room. Dean’s room is one of the main places that Castiel had resided.

When the sixth week came around, Cas’s nails were all chewed off and he had began picking at the skin around them. Dean was meant to call an entire week ago. No SMS either. No even a single prayer. Complete radio silence.

Sam had given Castiel Charlie’s number in case he got bored. Dean had made a comment about Charlie’s Angels. Something Cas didn’t understand until he had looked it up on his own phone later that day. But Sam had insisted yet Castiel declined saying he would be perfectly fine, for angel’s cannot feel human depths of boredom, just passing time.

One thousand and eight hours and six minutes to be exact. So, the angel isn’t bored per say, just very, deathly worried about Dean. And Sam.

The fourth day of the sixth week, the chunk and click of the bunker door snaps Castiel out of his trance in the main foyer. He stands up from where he sits at the table as laughter and voices burst into the bunker. By God is it good to hear their voices but at the same time it brings out so many bad emotions that vibrate his being and make him grind his teeth.

Sam is first to walk down the stairs, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a grin upon his face. When he spots the angel, his smile faulters. He tries his best to play it off but Cas sees the uncertainty.

“Oh, Castiel!” Sam says more surprised than anything, “I didn’t expect you to still be here!” He speaks as if the conversation they had over a month ago never happened. Which only -what’s that word Dean uses- pisses him off even more.

“I’ve been here this entire time,” Cas grumbles.

Which is below an angel of the lord like himself but the frustration flickering around inside of him is something that he hasn’t felt in a good while. Probably since apocalypse days.

“Cas!”

All eyes go to the older brother making his way down the stairs. Unlike Sam, Dean isn’t unscathed. His lip is busted, and his entire right eye is blackened. His eyebrow is split, and three gauze strips hold it together.

As soon as Dean comes down the last set of stairs, Cas is already across the room pushing past Sam to press two fingers to his forehead. The hunter straightens up at the sudden wellness that comes over him. His bruising disappears and fades into yellow and the cuts and scrapes heal without a scar. He goes to thank the angel but all he sees is a very frustrated one in front of him.

“You were suppose to contact me,” Castiel speaks firmly. Like angel of the lord firm. “But I received none of the sort.”

Sam goes deathly quiet behind them. He places his duffle bag of guns and knives on the table which make a louder noise than he originally intended. As if the sound is cutting through the thick tension in the room.  

Dean sucks in air through teeth as he tries to avoid eye contact with the angel. But it doesn’t matter where he looks because Cas is only a few inches from him. So those deep blue eyes is all he sees.

“The hunt got very busy, Cas you know how it gets,” Dean argues poorly as he shrugs his shoulders. “We didn’t have time.”

“We had plenty of time,” Sam comments from the table.

Castiel slowly turns his attention towards Sam with a frown. All while Dean looks to his brother with a look of betrayal mixed with disgust. Sam swallows thickly and picks up his duffle bag.

“I’ll go put these away in the stash,” Sam grins sheepishly as he scoots himself across the room.

Blue returns back to green who looks more like a hurt child than anything. And all that anger and frustration is slow to wash away as Cas brings a hand to Dean’s cheek. The hunter flinches away slightly at first but stays in the warm touch of the angel.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing, Cas,” Dean murmurs.

The angel lets out a deep sigh that has his shoulders drooping. Oh Dean.

“I’m…” The hunter clears his throat, readjusting his tone to something more manlier. “I’m still very new to this. To us.”

Cas holds Dean’s face in both his hands, almost engulfing his face but the hunter stays so still. Why still keep up this façade that doesn’t work on the angel? He’s seen him break and cry and become soft so many times. Why still keep up daddy’s good lil soldier in front of him?

A soft kiss is planted on Dean’s forehead over his once black eye. Then, like all the other times Cas has kissed Dean, he kisses the hunter gently and warmly. The heat that the angel radiates is like a furnace yet so inviting.

Dean grabs onto Castiel’s trench coat as he leans forward, deepening the kiss a little. In this moment, Cas can put his own irritation aside for this. He holds Dean, taste the hint of jerky on his mouth from the trip here. It isn’t the most pleasant of tastes, but Dean has kissed him with worst. Much worse.

Calloused hands make their way under Cas’s coat to his waist. This, this is something the angel has missed. Even if it has been a month and two weeks. Too long for his own good.

Unlike Cas, Dean pulls away to inhale a breath of air. The hunter smiles something wicked and Cas’s eyes slightly widen. Dean’s fingers loop into Cas’s belt and flips the buckle open a little too swiftly and a little too eagerly. A soft grip latches onto his wrist, stopping him in his movements. Dean raises a brow at the angel.

“I don’t think Sam will be too impressed if he catches us out here,” Castiel points out sternly, “Like last time.”

Dean barks out a fit of laughter, the memory coming to mind of Sam’s horrified face at the sight of the two. Dean splayed out on the table with the angel over him, his blue eyes as wide as saucepans. Both stark ass naked with the angel’s white butt out on full display.

“Why not?” Dean chuckles out.

Cas can’t help but roll his eyes. With his grip still on Dean’s wrist he begins backing up slowly across the foyer, dragging Dean along.

“You worry too much,” Dean grins.

“I don’t think I worry enough,” Cas bites back playfully.

Dean stops the angel and draws him into for another deep kiss. One that has him gripping the back of Cas’s hair and looping his fingers back into his belt. Dean pulls away but only mere millimetres, not wanting to stay away for too long.

Those green eyes lock onto the angel and Cas won’t lie, he’s missed those emeralds. He runs a thumb over Dean’s freckled cheek and smiles softly when he sees that everything is the same. No more bruises or cuts. Dean follows the notion with a side eye, almost wanting to pull away but staying still and stiffens under the touch.

It takes both of them a good while to get back to Dean’s room. Having to push the hunter there rather than drag him along since he kept stopping Cas. He isn’t vocal about it but he can tell that the hunter can’t keep his hands off of Cas.

Clothes come off a little too easily and Cas can’t help but frown when he spots more cuts and bruises on Dean’s frame. With soft touches, Cas heals them without a second thought. Dean shivers under the touch, his eyes tracking every movement. With a warm glow, Cas heals a deep purple bruise on Dean’s chest that has the hunter breathing a little easier. But with that he pushes Dean back onto the bed. The springs creak under his weight and he disrupts the perfectly made blankets. Cas’s work.

Dean tries to sit up on the bed but is pushed down again when Cas straddles his lap. He runs his hands over Dean’s body once more, making sure that he hasn’t missed any nicks and cuts. He could heal Dean in one go, but where’s the fun in that?

“I’ve…” Dean hesitates, adverting his gaze downwards to the angel’s hands. “I’ve missed your touch.”

“Hmm,” Cas hums at that with a smile.

“I wish I had called,” Dean continues. “Or sent a text. But I’m scared alright. As stupid as that sounds.”

The angel’s smile falls at that. To respond to that, he clasps the hunter’s face in his hands and kisses him softly unlike before. He moves his hips down on Dean as well, making the hunter squirm under his weight. Maybe he can forgive Dean after all.

In between the kisses, the angel mumbles out, “It’s not stupid at all.”

The result of watching Dean’s face go beet red is a reward in it’s own. Cas kisses him again, humming into his mouth with satisfaction. Such a human thing to do. How much he’s changed since being around Dean. He’s changed him so much. Does Dean realize just how much he’s done for the angel? Or is he blind to that fact? Maybe he might have to ask him one day. But not now.

Not when he feels Dean’s grip tighten on his hips, wanting him to grind down harder into him. The friction is something that the hunter craves at this moment. He grows hard and his dick rubs in between the angel’s cheeks. Precum leaks from Dean’s dick, making the glide easier.

Cas sits up slowly and as if out of nowhere, he holds Dean’s bottle of lube in hand. Dean’s stares at it bug eyed for a moment but doesn’t question it because he knows he left that in the bottom draw of his dresser. Where it normally stays. Either Cas miraculously brought the bottle to his hand or it was always on the bed and he just didn’t see it. Either either, both make sense for the angel.

“Let me,” Dean says as he takes the bottle from him.

Lathering his fingers up generously, Dean a little too eagerly brings his hand around Cas’s ass and inserts two fingers. The angel grunts at the sudden penetration, his eyes fluttering shut. With Dean’s other hand as he sets a quick pace to open up Cas, he kneads his thumb into the angel’s hips. Holding on as if he’s going to fly away with those wings of his.

Cas towers over Dean, scrunching up the blankets into his fists next to the hunter’s head. More lube is added and then a third finger is fitted right to the next others. Cas’s breathing becomes heavy, every nerve in his body buzzing and every inch of his grace humming. He can feel everything a little too well for his own good. The stretch of the three fingers, the way his hard cock rubs up against Dean’s, the way that he’s been wanting to feel Dean’s touch once more. Too much.

Deeming the angel ready, Dean brings his lubed fingers to slick his own dick up. He exhales shakily, holding himself together by a thread. The entire hunt, the Angel of Thursday was on his mind yet he was too coward to send a simple prayer. Next time. Next time we won’t be so stupid.

Cas exhales shakily, opening his eyes to meet a lustful green graze. The angel looks into those eyes fondly with a smile coming upon his reddened lips. He kisses Dean again, this time deepening it and grinding down on the hunter again. Dean grunts under him and digs that thumb into his hip a little more.

Dean guides the head of his dick to Cas’s ass, rubbing himself between his cheeks a few times. He pushes the tip of his dick in, humming in the kiss at the warmth he feels. He pushes in a little deeper and breaks the kiss, his face scrunching up into something needy. Cas continues lining Dean’s exposed neck though with small kisses, sucking and biting lightly. Dean groans as he grabs onto the angel’s hips with both hands to help guide him down.

Cas winces but moans something whiny into the hunter’s skin. He still smells like the hunt. Gun powder, cheap pharmacy cologne and musk. Dean grunts with every push. He fucks into Cas eagerly, but the angel isn’t going to stop him. He’s enjoying this too much. He’s missed Dean too much to let this pass. His body buzzes and constricts with pleasure that he can’t help the noises that comes his mouth. He can feel himself shaking in the hunter’s hold, his grace vibrating within.

Dean pushes Cas down onto him until he’s flush against his hips. The angel groans and breathes heavily as Dean only gives him a few seconds of adjustment before he begins a quick pace again. Each time he thrusts into Cas, he brings the angel down just as hard that gets a satisfying grunt from him.

The hunter sits up suddenly, still holding onto Cas so that they’re flush against each other. With each movement, Cas’s dick rubs up against their stomachs. The angel holds onto him as he lets the hunter fucks out everything from the hunt. Dean groans deep within his throat as he keeps moving at a constant pace, thrusting into Cas on his lap. It’s more of an awkward bob at this point, both being too desperate to do much more. But both are satisfied right now.

But Dean wants more.  Suddenly, he flips and throws Cas onto the bed with little effort. He grabs onto the back of the angel’s knees and pushes his legs up so that he’s almost folded in half. He lines himself up again, this time slipping in easier than the last.  

The new angle has Cas shivering and grunting with each thrust into him. He digs his fingernails into Dean’s shoulder, unable to gain control of the delicious noises coming from his throat.

Through shaky pants, Dean is able to grumble out a deep, “I’ve missed you.”

Another shiver runs down Cas’s back, earning a whimper like sound from him. The hunter’s cock passes by that sweet bundle of nerves inside of Cas that has him grunting with each movement. Cas wraps his legs around Dean, holding him close as the hunter’s thrust become short and shallow. Dean comes down for a sloppy kiss, mostly broken by breaths of shaky inhales.

“I’ve-“ Dean pecks Cas on the mouth, cutting him off. “missed you-“ another kiss, “…too.”

Dean brings a hand down to wrap about the angel’s leaking cock, flicking a thumb over his tip with every stroke. Cas arches his back the best he can in the position he’s in and startles out a cry. By God, he can feel himself getting close. His body buzzes and feels like tv static with just a simple touch. He doesn’t want this to be over already, but with Dean abusing that sweet part inside of him he can’t hold on at all.

Cas chokes out a strangled cry as his whole body and grace feels like it’s going to explode. He releases hot strips into Dean’s hand as he digs his bitten nails deeper into the hunter’s shoulders. He heals the bruising before it even comes about, even in his stare of high. Dean keeps fucking through his orgasm, making it ten times more intense.

“Dean,” Cas grits out.

With a few couple of more hard thrusts, Dean drives his cock deeper into Cas as he reaches his own orgasm. Dean stiffens up, unmoving as he cums hot and deep within the angel. Who would have thought. Fucking an angel of the lord.

Cas shivers at the new sensation of the warmth inside of him. He grits his teeth, holding Dean in place. He doesn’t think he can handle the hunter moving at this given moment. Both stay still for a good few minutes, a panting and sweaty mess. Cas can’t help but shake faintly, his breathing ragged and uneven. He can feel his grace is all over the place and he tries his best to collect himself.

But it’s very hard when Dean lands on top of the angel with an audible, “Oof,” slipping out of the angel in the process. Cas places a hand on his back and gives him a light pat on the shoulder. But Dean doesn’t move and inch, his face flat against the nape of his neck.

“I’m coming with you next time,” Cas grumbles out.

Whatever Dean says next, it’s lost into a mumble and jumble of words in the angel’s neck. This earns a short chuff from the angel, knowing full well that the hunter can’t stop him in doing so. What he says goes. But right now, he’s fully content in laying in for a few minutes. He’s fine in letting time pass by when it’s with Dean Winchester.

-

Have an amazing day/night ;)

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

it's very bad no good cupcake baking time for the hotel crew (save them) (charlie did you think this throu-) (NO)

Charlie: “I have! The most brilliant plan for a group bonding activity!”

Angel Dust: “Oooh~ Bondin’ or bond-”

Vaggie: “You live here for free.”

Angel Dust: “Buy my silence, Vaggity Fair, cause’ it sure ain’t free.”

Vaggie: (groans) (slips him a twenty) “Go on babe, what’s the mission statement?”

Charlie: “We should all bake CUPCAKES together!!”

Hotel Crew: "......"

Husk: “…Why.”

Charlie: “Beeeecaaaause it’d be so SWEET!”

Vaggie: “And you also live here for free.”

Husk: “Not of my own free will I don’t.”

Charlie: “Aw c’mon Husk, please? Baking is probably KINDA like drink mixing, right?”

Husk: “It’s not.”

Vaggie: (SIGHS) (slips him a twenty)

Husk: “I’ve got cooking sherry around here somewhere, I think.”

Alastor: “How thrilling! Extreme heat sources, flammable liquids, and so many little bottles and vials that couldn’t possibly get mix up with anything in the pest control cabinet!”

Niffty: “Hee hee hee…. Rat poison~”

Vaggie: “Twenty bucks and you LOCK that cabinet, okay?”

Niffty: “Thirty and a new knife set!”

Vaggie: (has given up) “Fine.”

Niffty: “OKAY!”

Charlie: “We need to go shopping anyway. We’ll need flour and sugar and uhhhh flavory things of some kind probably and um, those little paper thingies- the cup cake… skirts?”

Alastor: “Glad to see how prepared our intrepid leader is for this marvelous expedition!”

Charlie: “Cup cake… dollies…?”

Vaggie: “I’ll handle it. You remember how to pre-heat the oven?”

Charlie: “NOT with actual fire!”

Alastor: “Aww.”

Angel Dust: (handing back the twenty) “I want a new pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs. Mine broke~”

Vaggie: “I don’t want to know.”

Husk: (handing his twenty back too) “Beer.”

Vaggie: “Beer? You run the hotel BAR.”

Husk: “What, you think I nip stuff under the table at work?”

Alastor: “Oh there isn’t much thought needed when it comes to you, I’m afraid.”

Husk: “You think I LIKE that I do that? That’s the stupid hotel’s shit, can’t relax sneaking shots that aren’t mine, racking up a tab like that. This beer is gonna be only for me.”

Charlie: “Husk…”

Vaggie: “Great whatever, guilt free beer for the alcoholic.”

Alastor: “How touching. And I require-”

Vaggie: “What YOU need is a-”

Charlie: “Happy place!”

Vaggie: “-which I’m not picking up for you. I’ll get more cleaning supplies too while I’m at it.”

Charlie: “More? Vaggie, have some faith! We’re all adults here! It’s not gonna be THAT messy. We just need to measure things, maybe chop some stuff up first-”

Niffty: “KNIVES.”

Charlie: “-put all in a- blender-? A blender would work for mixing, right? Then pour the batter in the things and into the oven! Which I WILL remember to preheat this time. Without fire.”

Vaggie: “Good point.”

Charlie: “See!”

Vaggie: “We should stock up on first aid stuff too.”

Charlie: (pouting) “We’ll talk about it on the way.”

Vaggie: “Sweetie, thanks for wanting to help carry groceries, but I really think we need to divide and conquer here.”

Charlie: “Huh?”

Vaggie: “Husk is already halfway to the wine cellar.”

Charlie: “He wh- Husk wait! You can’t help make friendship cupcakes if you’re blackout drunk!”

Angel Dust: “Toots that’s the whole idea.”

Vaggie: “Fifty bucks if he’s still conscious when I get back. I’ll need him in the kitchen later if we’re gonna get through this alive.”

Angel Dust: “Spend it on getting’ him a really NICE beer and you’ve gotta deal.”

Vaggie: (eye twitch) “Why is all my money turning into drugs and sex toys?”

Niffty: “And KNIVES!”

Vaggie: “The one silver lining…”

Alastor: “You know, if you won’t extend simple shopping list courtesies to me, then I suppose I shall have to go shopping myself as well.”

Vaggie: “Keep your shopping on the other side of town from me or I’m coming home with a flat screen tv.”

Alastor: (annoyed channel switch sound) “….Noted!”

– LATER –

Hotel Crew: “………….”

Oven: (DING)

Vaggie: “…”

Vaggie: “….cupcakes are done.”

Charlie: “Oh yay. Whoo. Hoo.”

Hotel Crew: “…….”

Vaggie: “If no one takes them out they’re gonna burn.”

Angel Dust: “Let ‘em.”

Husk: “Little fuckers deserve to fry.”

Charlie: (exhausted) “No one deserves to burn for all eternity.”

Niffty: “Yeah! I wanna RIP THEM APART and STAB THE CRUMBS.”

Alastor: “Well that’s two votes for burning and two for rescuing, to a certain extent. I myself would like to try out these DARLING cupcake toppers that I found while out doing my shopping completely alone.”

Vaggie: “Oh my girlfriend’s dad shut up. You won’t die just because no one was listening to you for ten minutes.”

Alastor: “In any case, that makes three for rescue and two for burn, with you as the undecided vote, Vaggie. Choose wisely~!”

Vaggie: (sighing) “Someone hand me the oven mitts.”

Husk: “They’re in the fucking blender.”

Angel Dust: “What’s left of ‘em.”

Vaggie: “Fine. Someone move the pile of dirty dishes off Charlie so SHE can be our oven mitts.”

Charlie: “It’s so peaceful under here…”

Vaggie: “The friendship cupcakes are dying, babe.”

Charlie: “UggghHHHHHH ‘kay. Coming.”

Angel Dust “That’s what she sa-”

Vaggie: “KNIVES.”

Angel Dust “-cough cough cough! I didn’t say nothin’, I got a piece of walnut shell stuck in my throat!”

Alastor: “Usual night for you then, hmm?”

Husk: “Who the fuck put in walnuts?”

Vaggie: “Who cares. If they shelled them then it’s at least better than the coconut thing.”

Charlie: “Did we add anything that wasn’t nut related?”

Vaggie: “Uhhh.”

Angel Dust “Nope!”

Husk: “Is that the only thing you were keeping track of.”

Angel Dust “Hey I know my strengths and I’m stickn’ to ‘em!”

Charlie: “Speaking of strength and sticking… um…”

Hotel Crew: “……….”

Charlie: “They’re bubbling.”

Vaggie: “Yeah.”

Charlie: “Or, breathing?”

Vaggie: “Yeah…”

Charlie: “Is that normal? It feels kinda… not normal.”

Vaggie: “It’s. Impressive.”

Niftty: “They’re ALIVE!” (knife) “For now.”

Charlie: “Well I guess we shouldn’t REALLY judge them until we’ve actually seen what they taste like-”

Angel Dust “Not it!”

Husk: “Fuck no.”

Alastor: “I’m terribly afraid that I am on a diet.”

Vaggie: “You eat rotting deer carcasses.”

Alastor: “And THEY aren’t still moving when I chow in, ha ha!”

Charlie: “Okay well, I guess I’ll just…”

Vaggie: “Wait. You’re probably immune to half the stuff that’d kill us.”

Charlie: “Right, so I should-”

Vaggie: “You’re not a good example of what happens when a non-demon princess person eats these, sweetie. If wanna test for uh, quality control, it shouldn’t be with you.”

Hotel Crew: “…..”

Vaggie: “….hand me a cupcake.”

Husk: (edges out of the splash zone)

Charlie: “You don’t have to do this.”

Angel Dust: “But you totally should! After I get my phone out though, hold on a sec-”

Vaggie: “I’m standing right in front of Radio Head over here so don’t even THINK about recording this.”

Alastor: “Aww my dear little angel-”

Charlie: “Alastor.” (calm smile) (horns out) “Her name is Vaggie.”

Alastor: “-Vaggie, yes, I would almost be willing to make an exception to my own morals for you.” (grins at angel dust) “Almost.”

Angel Dust: (lowering his phone) “I was jus’ takin’ a selfie. You know. Since I’m covered in sticky white shit anyway.”

Husk: “This fucking sucks.” (shakes his paws)

Vaggie: “No. THIS does.”

Vaggie: (bites cupcake)

Hotel Crew: “……………..”

Vaggie: “….hm.”

Hotel Crew: (STEPS BACK)

Vaggie: “It’s… well it’s kinda…”

Charlie: (cringing) “Break up worthy??”

Niffty: “PAINFUL?”

Vaggie: “It’s.. Fruity..?”

Hotel Crew: (stares at still moving cupcakes)

Angel Dust: “No. Fuckin’. Way.”

Husk: “Since the fuck WHEN did they have fruit in them?”

Angel Dust: “They didn’t! I swear I checked!”

Charlie: “Are they, um, edible?”

Vaggie: “Well I wouldn’t sign them up for a baking competition but I’m not dying either, so.”

Charlie: (excited) “So we did it? We all made actual cupcakes together?”

Vaggie: (smiling) “We did it. Mission cupcake completed.”

Charlie: “HAHA YUS!” (fist pump) “FRIENDSHIP POWERRRRRRR!!!!”

Alastor: “Now now now, no cupcake is fully complete without a lovely floral topper!”

Angel Dust: “Ain’t THAT the truth~”

Alastor: “Which I bought. Alone. Without any second opinion to rely on.”

Vaggie: (rolls eye)

Charlie: “And they’re so cute! Thank you Alastor- you picked wonderfully. Everyone, get decorating!”

Niffty: (drooping) “No stabbing?”

Vaggie: “You can poke ‘em each with a knife to check that they’re done.”

Niffty: “HEHEHEH.”

Vaggie: “Poke them with the knife ONCE Niffty- hey- NO- don’t leave it inside-”

Angel Dust: “That’s what-”

Husk: “Will be on your gravestone if she fucking hears you.”

Charlie: “Awww~ Now they’re adorable AND delicious!”

Husk: “Don’t.”

Angel Dust: “I didn’t say nothin’!”

Vaggie: “I actually kinda wish you’d go back to sex jokes instead of whatever you’re doing to that cupcake”

Angel Dust: “There’s more than one kind of oral performance in the world~”

Vaggie: “Say that and then look at what Niffty’s doing to her cupcake.”

Husk: “Unholy fucking shit!!”

Niffty: (GLEEFUL CACKLING)

Charlie: “Okay well, we clearly each have our own… unique ways of enjoying these cupcakes. Some more uh, graphic and concerning than others-”

Angel Dust: “Why the fuck are the insides RED like that?! Who put in red dye???”

Charlie: “-but the point is we all came together to make these sweets! Which. Taste like strawberries?”

Vaggie: “I didn’t buy strawberries.”

Charlie: “A-at least it and the redness go with the rose themed toppers!”

Angel Dust: “Yeah, I mean, is it weird that out of this whole maybe-living cupcake thing, the professional spun sugar parts are the ones with the funkiest taste to ‘em?”

Vaggie: “….”

Vaggie: “Alastor. Where the fuck did you buy the rose themed cupcake toppers.”

Alastor: “Hmm? Does my private, SOLITARY shopping FINALLY interest you?”

Vaggie: “Where you literally on the other side of Pentagram City from me.”

Alastor: “I do believe that is what you requested, and I, being a proper gentleman even to someone who might be considered a less than proper lady, was only too happy to oblige!”

Charlie: “Vaggie are you okay? You’re looking kinda pale.”

Vaggie: “I’m.”

Vaggie: “Alastor did you get these rose themed toppers-"

Vaggie: "-in Cannibal Town?”

Angel Dust: “WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Alastor: “I did.”

Angel Dust: “FUCK!!!”

Husk: (hairball noise)

Charlie: “Oh no.”

Alastor: “Dear Rosie gave me quite the discount. Wasn’t that sweet of her?”

Charlie: “Oh. Nooooooooo-”

Alastor: “I think it utterly darling of her~”

Niffty: “Alastor, hey hey!”

Alastor: “Yes, murder of my eye?”

Niffty: “I stabbed my cupcake topper heheheh WHO did I just stab????”

Charlie: “NOOOOOO-”

Alastor: “I believe it was an unsatisfactory husband by the name of Bill.”

Niffty: (grinning) “A BAD boy?”

Alastor: “Not bad enough to escape Rosie’s Emporium intact but yes, in a manner of speaking.”

Niffty: “Oooh.”

Niffty: (snatches up another cupcake and hugs it) “For my collection.”

Charlie: “GAAAHM NOT HEARING THIS! I DIDN’T HEAR IT!”

Angel Dust: “GREAT CAN YA MAKE IT SO’S I DIDN’T EAT ANY OF IT EITHER!??!”

Alastor: “Not to your tastes, Angel Dust? And here I though you enjoyed have strange men in your mouth.”

Charlie: “DO WE KNOW HIS ADDRESS SO I CAN SEND AN APOLOGY LETTER???”

Alastor: “I suppose his business card might still be in the hand Rose tore off him-”

Charlie: “AAAAAGH!”

Vaggie: “Hostia. You really can’t not be the center of attention for five minutes can you.”

Alastor: “I can, truly I can and very happily! It seems however that YOU cannot withstand the consequences of your own, short-sighted actions.”

Charlie: “Um guys-”

Vaggie: “Oh yeah? You’re not the only monster here, dumbass.”

Charlie: “We’re getting a little off topic-”

Alastor: "But as I am the only one not mired in glorious self-pity, certainly I am the most impressive specimen here.”

Charlie: “Okay this is going a bit-”

Vaggie: “Impressive HA! Fuck your empty grin and your stupid suits. You’re not even the one with the highest body count.”

Angel Dust: “Are we talkin’ sex stuff orrr-?”

Vaggie: (takes topper off her cupcake and pops it in her mouth)

Hotel Crew: “………”

Vaggie: “What?”

Charlie: “Vaggie, um. Person.” (points) “Person food.”

Vaggie: “Sweetie, you know how murder crazy exorcist are. You really never thought we didn’t lick a little blood off our weapons now and then, to feel extra badass about slaughtering people sometimes?”

Charlie: (dazed) “I’m thinking about it now.” (covers cheeks)

Niffty: “BLOOD!”

Angel Dust: “Oh ew. Oh you're getting off on that- Oh that’s just-”

Charlie: “Part of her past, a thing EVERYONE has.”

Angel Dust: “BLEH.”

Husk: “Also step one to seeing her shitfaced.”

Charlie: “Ha haaa…” (claps hands) “Okay everyone- that’s a wrap on today’s bonding activities! I uh, I think we can save the clean up until we’ve all recovered from the actual cupcakes a bit, right Vaggie?”

Vaggie: (shrug) “Whatever.”

Husk: “About damn time.” (sighs) (walks out) “I’ll get the fucking vodka.”

Niffty: "HEE HEE." (carrying cupcake over her head) "TO THE COLLECTION!"

Angel Dust: “Hold up baby! I wanna get shitfaced too after this!”

Charlie: “Well I think it’s all very interesting! Angel stuff is interesting, isn’t it Alastor?”

Alastor: “Yes. Quite.”

Vaggie: “Uh-huh.” (slumps and drops cupcake) “Bill tastes boring as hell, by the way, maybe let Rosie know before she sells anymore of these.”

Charlie: “Oh? Maybe THAT’S why she gave such a steep discount?”

Alastor: “Perhaps.”

Charlie: “Awww cheer up Alastor. You can bring her some of our cupcakes as a thank you, now that we uh, we’ve um, had our fill of them already.”

Alastor: “Hmph.”

Vaggie: “Think I’ll head up now.”

Alastor: “While grabbing a drink along way, hmm?”

Vaggie: “Yeah. Why not.”

Charlie: “Vaggie-” (catches her hand) (squeezes) “-grab one for me, too? I’ll be right behind you.”

Vaggie: “…wine from the cellar then, huh?”

Charlie: “I’m having whatever you’re having.”

Vaggie: “Sweetie, you hate the shit I drink.” (small smile) “I’ll get us something from the cellar. Meet you up there.”

Charlie: “In a heartbeat.”

Charlie: “….”

Charlie: “Alastor.”

Alastor: “Oh don’t scold me for her baggage, dear, I don’t make her carry it.”

Charlie: “I’m not scolding. I just- I get that you have this whole-” (air quotes) “-annoying big brother who hates being ignored thing going on with Vaggie, and while it IS kinda sweet-”

Alastor: (microphone feedback) “Excuse me?”

Charlie: “Could you turn it down a tiny bit when it comes the exorcist stuff?”

Alastor: “I do not-”

Charlie: “I know I know you don’t mean to make her all droopy like this, it’s boring for you, totally a killjoy-”

Alastor: “There is NOTHING enjoyable about that woman!”

Charlie: “-So maaaaaaybe back off a little when things get too serious?”

Alastor: “NO!”

Charlie: “Think about it okay?” (pats his shoulder) “Anyway, thanks for sticking around for the friendship cupcakes, see you at the next hotel bonding session, Dadastor!”

Alastor: “At the next-”

Alastor: “………”

Alastor: (hissing) “DADastor!?”