#red blood cell packs

[wikipediapictures]

Packed red blood cells

[joga-blog]

Exploring the Packed Cell Volume (PCV) Test: Procedure, Results, and Clinical Implications

The Packed Cell Volume (PCV) test, also known as hematocrit, is a common diagnostic tool used in medicine to measure the proportion of blood volume occupied by red blood cells (RBCs). This test provides valuable information about a person's overall health and helps in diagnosing various medical conditions. Understanding the PCV test, its significance, and interpretation is essential for both healthcare professionals and patients alike.

What is PCV?

Packed Cell Volume (pcv), and it refers to the volume of red blood cells in a given volume of blood after centrifugation. It is expressed as a percentage of the total blood volume. For example, a PCV of 40% means that 40% of the blood volume consists of red blood cells, while the remaining 60% comprises plasma and other blood components.

Importance of PCV Test:

The PCV test is crucial in assessing the oxygen-carrying capacity of the blood. Red blood cells contain hemoglobin, a protein that binds to oxygen and transports it to various tissues and organs throughout the body. A decrease in PCV indicates anemia, a condition characterized by low levels of hemoglobin or fewer red blood cells. Conversely, an increase in PCV may suggest dehydration or certain medical conditions such as polycythemia vera, a rare blood disorder characterized by the overproduction of red blood cells.

Indications for PCV Test:

Healthcare providers may order a PCV test for various reasons, including:

1. Evaluation of anemia: 

A low PCV may indicate different types of anemia, including iron deficiency anemia, vitamin deficiency anemia, or hemolytic anemia.

2. Monitoring of blood disorders: 

Patients with blood disorders such as polycythemia vera or thalassemia require regular PCV tests to monitor their condition and response to treatment.

3. Assessment of hydration status: 

Dehydration can cause an increase in PCV due to the hemoconcentration of blood.

4. Preoperative assessment: 

PCV levels are often checked before surgery to ensure adequate oxygen-carrying capacity and overall health status.

Procedure for PCV Test:

The PCV test is typically performed as part of a complete blood count (CBC). A small sample of blood is drawn from a vein, usually in the arm, using a needle and syringe or through a finger prick. The blood sample is then placed in a special tube and centrifuged at high speed to separate the cellular components from the plasma. The PCV is calculated by measuring the height of the packed red blood cells relative to the total height of the blood column in the tube.

Interpretation of PCV Results:

The interpretation of PCV results depends on various factors, including age, sex, altitude, and underlying health conditions. In general, a PCV within the normal range (usually 40-50% in adults) is considered normal. However, deviations from the normal range may indicate underlying health issues:

1. Low PCV (Anemia): 

A PCV below the normal range suggests anemia, which may be caused by factors such as iron deficiency, vitamin deficiencies, blood loss, or underlying medical conditions affecting red blood cell production or lifespan.

2. High PCV (Polycythemia): 

An elevated PCV may indicate dehydration, lung disease, smoking, or conditions such as polycythemia vera, where there is an abnormal increase in red blood cell production.

Conclusion:

The PCV test is a valuable tool in the diagnosis and management of various medical conditions, particularly those affecting the blood and oxygen-carrying capacity. Understanding the significance of PCV results and their interpretation is essential for healthcare providers to make accurate diagnoses and formulate appropriate treatment plans. Additionally, patients can benefit from knowing about the PCV test and its implications for their health and well-being. Regular monitoring of PCV levels, along with other relevant tests, can help ensure timely intervention and optimal management of underlying health issues.

[yanderenightmare]

Ryomen Sukuna

TW: suggestive noncon, threats, Sukuna in general

gn reader

Thinking about sorcerer ! reader – only instead of having a really offensive technique, it's purely defensive.

A power to pacify. Creating the ultimate stalemate. All attacks are nullified – people can’t even throw one measly punch your way.

– which obviously means you’re the ultimate babysitter for trigger-happy curses like Sukuna.

The only issue is…. you don’t at all behave in accordance with your technique. 

You are perhaps the most childish and bratty sorcerer he’s ever been forced to share air with. Even worse than that white-haired prick. Where with him – he could at least spar. But you? You just monitor him while making the most meaningless and ever-so-grating conversation.

“I read in an old book that you’re a cannibal.” You muse with a smile. Eyes vibrant with curiosity – playful even – as though the prospect of him eating human flesh shouldn’t be making your own skin run raw with goosebumps. “Is that true?” 

His brow raises at your eagerness. His mouth is a prim line before muttering an unenthusiastic. “Yes.”

“Really?” You jump. “Why? Does it taste good?”

It’s an awfully stupid question – he thinks with an ever-growing wrinkle furrowing his brows. But suppose explaining to you how it’s meant to strike fear into people’s hearts would only make you laugh.

He huffs.

“Tastes like meat.”

“Right~” You sing-song as though it was a satisfying answer – but then almost immediately add onto it. “So, like chicken or beef?” 

You really are such a nuisance, he thinks. Grumbling. “Pig.”

You hum – then smack your lips. And he feels another onset of annoyance – expecting another moronic query to come pouring gracelessly from your lips.

“You’re a little disappointing – you know that?” You say instead.

He picks his head up at that – finally looking back at you through the bars of his cell to where you sit opposite way on a chair – looking straight back at him, fearing no harm.

There are about a million seals covering the walls, keeping him trapped. Though you’d feel just as safe without them.

“I’d thought you’d have more to say, but…” You pout. “Turns out you’re just boring.”

His nose makes an offended scrunch – eyes narrowed. “Watch how you speak to me.”

You laugh – your chuckle in itself is something that makes the hairs at the back of his neck rise out of ire. That smug smile on your face enough to have his fists ball at his sides – and at the moment you lick your lips, saying, “Or what?” he’s already on his feet with his hands wrapped tight around the bars – knuckles turning white in his grip.

His skin sizzles from the cursed energy imbued in the metal – like holy water to a demon – and still, he doesn’t let go. Four eyes, blood red, glaring at you with a look that’s nothing short of deadly. If he could, you knew he’d have your heart in his hand forever ago. But the fact that he doesn’t – the fact that he can’t – only makes your grin ever sharper.

“Wow~” You tease. “Look at that face~” Giggling. “So scary~”

His nostrils flare as he releases the bars. Hands healed shortly after. “One of these days, brat – I’ll have you on your knees.”

You feign a gasp. “Sukuna~ so indecent~” Your grin lessens into a coy smirk. “To think the King of Curses is flirting with little ole me~” You bite your lip, looking kittenish – eyes amused while watching him recede into the dark of his cell.

You break from the act with another laugh.

Beginning anew. “I do have a question, though.”

“Naturally.” He mutters, stretching his arms – all four – one pair above his head and the other behind his back.

“Are you double-packed down there as well? The same with the rest of you? Or~”

His spine cracks between tensed shoulders – and you think, to be a thousand-year-old specter, he’s awfully easy to rile up.

But then he laughs – a throaty, low-tuned snicker that echoes against the cell walls. 

“As I said – one of these days…” He walks up to the bars again, his chin fitting through them. “You’ll find out.”

There’s another chuckle – his eyes slim with something that makes you feel naked. Suddenly flushed – smile gone – you watch him lick his lips.

“And to answer your next question, you insufferable brat.” 

You gulp.

“I think you’ll taste like peaches.”

[pseudowho]

Monster

Your colleague, Higuruma Hiromi, has seemed so tired, for so long. You'd do anything to help him...right?

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Vampire!Higuruma, blood consumption, male masturbation, female masturbation, thigh fucking, PIV, m!receiving oral, f!receiving oral, sex-pollenish/aphrodisiac effects and vampirism

(dis)honourable mention to @delirious-donna for helping me to decide on the location of this flagrant sluttiness.

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Higuruma Hiromi was driven to skin-clawing distraction by daydreams of the taste of you, in more ways than one.

You never knew this, of course. Late-nights alone in the office invariably turned into debauched scenes of Hiromi, fucking into his fist and wishing it was your pussy instead; teeth piercing his own blood from his hand and being lapped up by his whining mouth, wishing it was your throat instead. Too many times had he needed to wipe droplets of blood and milky cum off his paperwork, shuddering with the remnants of his orgasm, his cock still semi-hard in his fist.

His latest cunning plan to sate this desperate hunger, had been unsuccessful. Sat at your desk, and breathing deeply of one of the scarves you had left in your drawer, had set his cock hardening against his thigh humiliatingly fast. Hiromi had tugged at the roots of his own hair, head thrown back and growling in frustration. Fumbling around in his bag, he had clumsily slopped lube into a pocket-pussy, and withdrawn the unit of packed red blood cells he had managed to steal from the local hospital.

Messy, and sweaty, Hiromi had drunk from this pack, while the slick sounds of his frantic self-pleasuring and fractured, sandy moans filled the empty office. Your scarf, steeped in the smell of you, remained draped over his face and nose the whole time.

With each passing day you grew sweeter, and riper. He could not cope. He could not cope. He would not last.

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One day, you hoped, you might arrive in the office before Hiromi. Whatever the time of year, he arrived before the break of dawn, and left after the sun had set. Vitamin D supplements had entered into your head as the next possible way to help him, and you shook yourself for being so ridiculous-- although...

"I...you don't have to buy me coffee every morning," Hiromi whispered, something tender coiling in his belly when you slipped a large black coffee and a bagged pastry onto his desk, "let alone breakfast."

"Well," you hummed, benign, "would you eat or drink if I didn't feed you?" Hiromi narrowed his eyes, a challenging little smile within them. A scoff.

"If I lied to you, would you believe me?"

"You're a great lawyer, Hiromi. But not smart enough to lie to me."

His laughter, rich and genuine, burst in you, a stunning puff of petals. You couldn't laugh with him, as your heart stalled in place. How could you not help him, when a match struck in his eyes, just from looking at you?

"Not that I ever would." Hiromi assured, low and smooth. His eyes never left yours once. His gravity threatened to pull you straight into his arms. "Lie to you, that is. You're the only thing that..." Hiromi trailed off, clearing his throat. He looked back to his papers, pale. You missed the tremor in his hands. You couldn't feel how he held himself back from taking you, in every way, here on his desk.

If only he knew you would let him.

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How the fuck did he find himself in the driving rain, three floors up, looking through your balcony windows? How the fuck had it gotten this bad? You were a drug. Forbidden fruit. Hiromi had not drunk from a person in so long, instead surviving on a knife's edge, from stolen blood bags and wild deer. He couldn't recall what came first; needing to be inside you, or needing you inside him. It all equated to hunger, anyway. He was starved.

Even a morsel would do. That's how he found himself outside your bedroom, in a storm, watching you fuck yourself in your bedroom when you should have been sleeping. The rainwater seeped through his black suit, doing nothing to cool the hot, velvet throb between his legs. His hair was swept back off his forehead, drenched, squinting against the biting wind as he marvelled at the image of you.

Clearly, you were unable to distract yourself from the ache in your belly, and the little memories of past orgasms that throbbed through your clit. Every time the thought of Hiromi fucking into you had crossed your mind, you reached for something in your drawer that would never satisfy that urge like he would.

You lay on your belly, stretched and stuffed all the way to your cervix with a dildo and rabbit. You had spent your generous paycheck on an expensive toy, one that thrusted. You knew, deep down, humping the dildo inside you with a pillow between your legs, that it would never be able to replicate the real thing. You felt the blunt little punch of the mechanical dildo against your belly, fucking it into you, as if it would soothe your spiritual famine. Your pleasure was dulled, without the accompanying tenderness of the man that you wanted...needed.

You wore an oversized t-shirt, and nothing else, and Hiromi watched how your back arched and undulated, rolling your cunt against the pillow. You gripped another pillow between your arms, biting into it, mewling at the deliciousness of being filled with something, anything. Hiromi's animalistic senses could hear your little cries, and the muffled buzz of your toys. He could smell the silky arousal that spilled out around your dildo. He could taste you on the air, almost.

It took every ounce of self-restraint not to allow his inhuman strength to take over, punch a hole through the glass and step in, silhouetted against the moonlight. Hiromi would allow his own musk, a curious trap in the art of seduction and predation, to seep over you. Hiromi would watch as you became pliable, supple. You wouldn't fight as he shushed you, pulling the dildo from you and licking it clean. You would whimper for him to replace the emptiness he had left behind, and he would, of course, oblige you. He would press you down by the back of your neck, as if you would ever resist him, and promise you that it wouldn't hurt. He would drink down your cries and your blood as he fucked you down against the sheets, his mouth lapping so fervently at your throat.

He hadn't even noticed how close to his own peak he had come, but as you tensed and keened against your pillow, he felt the dangerous tug of his balls tightening against the base of his cock. He wasn't even touching himself, how could he possibly--

"...H-Hiromi...haaaaah please please fuck me please...oooooohhhh 'm cumming--"

Hiromi came with a shout, with next to no warning, to hear you cry out his name. He convulsed, hunched and doubled-over, cursing and feeling thick ropes of his seed pulse through his jerking cock, diluting with rainwater and trickling down his thighs. He was stunned, panting against the glass, and he nearly swallowed his own heart when he heard the rustle of sheets, and a timid little voice pipe through the dark.

"Hello? Who's there?"

By the time you had pulled the dildo from yourself with a shiver, and opened the balcony door, there was nothing left behind but the churning storm. Clinging to the underside of your balcony, still panting and covered in his own cum, Hiromi knew that something deep within him had fractured completely.

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You were astounded to find yourself alone in the office as the sun set. Hiromi had left before you, with a sickly-looking smile, and a languid wave of that long, pale hand. While you were thrilled that he was going home at a normal time, you couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. He knew you were staying to work late on a case...and had, apparently, chosen this one night to leave before nightfall.

Night had, indeed, fallen fast. The sunset blotted out quickly behind grey rolling clouds. Another storm swept in, dragging the night along with it. You opened a window, seeking the earthy petrichor to balm your weary soul. You sunk your lovesickness into a bitter coffee, as if it was enough to replace the lackadaisical cleverness of the man who haunted your every waking moment.

You tried to distract yourself, awash in case notes. The hours dragged, long and lonely. Rubbing your eyes as the clock struck midnight, you stood to collect the key to lock the office, only to find it missing.

"Shit..." you murmured, sitting back at your desk to rummage in the drawers. You rummaged in all the drawers-- your boss's, your colleagues, Hiromi's...

The lights above you went out with a click. One by one, throughout the length of the office, the lights went out, out, out, and you were plunged into darkness. You felt a lick of ice down the nape of your neck, and every hair stood on end. You were being watched.

"Shit...shit... where's the key... where's the fucking key?" You hissed to yourself, terror crawling across your skin.

Hiromi was barely himself anymore as he stalked you from the shadows. His belly was a cavernous pit. The unholy combination of starvation and desire stirred the monster within. He lay in waiting, allowing you to be drawn in, running to him while you thought you were running away.

You had tried every nook, every pigeon hole, every secret hook throughout the office, but fear made you sloppy. You couldn't go home too late, when the streets were empty. Not with all the tales of hungry beasts hunting for lone prey in the night.

Why, then, as you approached the expansive boardroom at the end of the corridor, did you find yourself becoming so...mellow? You felt light, airy. You floated on an otherworldly, heady musk, so alluring. It reminded you of someone...but who? You couldn't remember, so many drinks deep into this odd botanical tonic. It throbbed through you, intoxicating and warm and your heart was beating between your legs by the time you swayed into the boardroom, undoing your hair, loosening the buttons of your blouse--

"...I'm sorry. I can't let you leave."

You blinked, slow and drunk. Frowning as your vision cleared, you saw Hiromi, illuminated by moonlight. He sat in the executive's chair, at the head of the great boardroom table. A flash of lightning set his features in dramatic clarity, his Roman nose casting deep shadows across his profile. Still, you thought, with your little hum or surprise, he looked pale. Tense. Tortured.

"...Hiromi...Hiro..." you whispered, padding over to him, barefoot. You couldn't remember when you had shed your shoes. Hiromi's skin prickled. The way your voice, sweet and breathy, ran straight to his cock, had him biting one finger between gradually lengthening canines, his other fingertips steepled against his deeply frowning forehead.

"...wouldn't leave anyway...not when I've...finally got you all to myself..." You slurred, grinning, a happy drunk. Hiromi couldn't help but bite one lip, smiling back at you, as you sat with a thud on his lap. His deadly, predatory pheromones increased against his will, to feel your soft, plush curves pressed to his lap. Hiromi trailed one arm around your waist. The part of him that screamed for him to stop, was trapped in a glass box in his mind.

"Yeah?" Hiromi whispered, one pale hand cupping your jaw. "You've been wanting me all alone? Tell me." She wants this it's okay it's not a trap she'll help me she'd always help me god she's so beautiful--

"I have. For months. I dream about you." The words left your mouth unbidden, dragged from you by some irresistible force. Hiromi drank them down, needing to hear you confess your desire for him.

"And what do you do?" Hiromi urged, his voice rough with need. "What do you do, when you dream of me? Tell me. Now."

"I touch myself and...and wish it was you, instead." Hiromi shivered.

"Until you cum? To the thought of my cock inside you? Until you're calling out for me?" You nodded, hurried and floppy. Hiromi cursed under his breath, a thumb brushing over your lips, salivating at the memory of you on your bed, crying out his name.

"Yeah," you promised, almost tearful now with the weight of your confessions, "I do, I cum so hard, but it's not enough, it's not the same as-- as--"

You slid a hand up Hiromi's chest, his sloppy tie and partially unbuttoned shirt, and were surprised by how cool he felt. He groaned beneath your touch, and you shivered, turning and pressing your chest to his. Hiromi panted beneath you, his face contorted, barely restrained. His hands felt so strong, trapping you to him by your waist, and you were sure there would be bruises left behind.

"Let me taste you," Hiromi convinced, his voice low and persuasive, "just once...you're going to help me." His fingers tangled in your hair now, angling your face up, and you blinked slowly, dazed and unquestioning. His teeth were sharp, bared. You could feel the length of his cock, throbbing against your belly. The frantic rise and fall of his chest made you feel like you were on a little boat, rocking over waves.

You had barely begun to nod, before he pulled you in for a kiss so deep, your head swam. Hiromi groaned into your mouth, forcing your lips to part with his own, devouring you with bliss and fervour. You had never felt so alive, your little heart beating like hummingbird wings. The taste of him was sinful. He wanted to carve out your soul and tie it to his, enshrined, fit for worship. By the time his tongue had plunged into your mouth, you were loose and supple on his lap.

Every ounce of uncertainty had left you. Just as Hiromi's mouth began to trail across your jaw, towards your neck, your hand slipped beneath his belt. Hiromi's lips released the lovebite he had just made above your pulse point with a pop, and his head flung back against the executive's chair's headrest. The moan that left his lips was more pornographic than you had ever dreamt. His silky foreskin seared beneath your touch.

"--f-fuck, god, I-- squeeze me harde--- oooohh-ooohhh shit...hnnnn--'

Hiromi's hands gripped the armrests, white-knuckled, and the two monsters inside him fought a bloody fight to see you slip to your knees between his own, batting his thighs aside. Your hand had released his cock, and if he didn't have it back again, or your blood in his mouth, he would break.

"Will you help me, or not?" He hissed at you, imploring you to spill your soul to him. Lost in this curious haze, you found yourself unable to refuse him an answer.

"...always help you, Hiromi." You mumbled, your fingers deftly undoing his belt. Your teeth unzipped his trousers, and the way Hiromi blushed when your eyes shot him such a filthy look, made you giggle. Maybe I'm the one in danger, he thought vaguely. You hummed, rubbing the pre-cum wet tip of his freed cock against your lips, glossing them. Hiromi's teeth bared again in a snarl, and he panted, bucking up into your hand. You teased him, stroking his length slowly, rolling his aching balls in one hand. Hiromi was frayed, furious with so many unfulfilled needs. He snapped.

"Open your mouth and let me fuck it or I swear--" Hiromi's uncharacteristic threats broke off into a strangled moan, when you took him into your mouth, hot and wet and all at once. Sucking at the tip, curling your tongue to cup the underside of his cockhead, you let the bobs of your head, and swirls of your tongue run smooth and sloppy.

The very air around you felt steeped in wildflowers, and the bizarre pseudo-alcoholic rush heightened every sensation. Even though there was clearly something very wrong with the man you had lusted after for so long, his taste his moans his fingers in your hair his trembling thrusts into your mouth, felt so right.

"--more tongue...deeper deeper yesssss...good girl, fuck-- f-fuck, good girl...wanna come in your mouth-- swallow it-- swallow me--"

You obliged him, and your consciousness remained dragged just a millisecond after your movements as you sunk your mouth lower, swallowing around his cockhead until your nose brushed his downy black happy-trail, and your throat constricted around his tip. Hiromi felt a slam of pleasure behind his navel as his orgasm hit, everything in him tightening with his release.

Hiromi's cries, so frantic and needy, crescendoed through the boardroom, and you felt cool ropes of cum spurt against the back of your tongue. Hiromi watched you swallow around his jerking cock, certain he must be dreaming the eroticism of this. By the time your dewy eyes opened again to look up at him, his cock still hard against your white-spattered tongue, Hiromi had lost all composure. Something white-hot and terrifying rolled off him, and you pulled away, spit and semen connecting you in a thread to his twitching cockhead. Your heart clenched, suddenly feeling a flicker of fear.

"...Hiromi? What's wrong?" You asked, cautious as you rose, scooting backwards onto the boardroom table and sliding yourself away from him. Hiromi stood, slow and deliberate. Something had changed within him. Every action of his seemed clipped, hyper-efficient and intentional. You felt your heady drunkenness increase, a thick pulse of desire shooting through your core, and you tried to ignore it with a whimper.

A flash of lightning illuminated you both-- for the briefest moment, you swore you could see the shadow of great wings behind Hiromi's lean, predatory form. A rumble of thunder rattled the boardroom. Drifts of rain swept the glass wall.

"...knew you'd work it out in the end." Hiromi cooed, his words licking at you, coaxing you back. "Clever girl. I told you I couldn't let you leave, didn't I?" He began to crawl along the table towards you, seemingly weightless, his movement so fluid-- so inhuman.

"You won't-- you won't kill me." You stated, as much to convince him as yourself. Hiromi swallowed, his pupils dilated, still crawling to catch up with you. As you darted back, he leapt forwards, dragging you to him by your ankle and caging you against the table beneath him. Only then, did you see the turmoil in him.

"I'd never. I could never. I wouldn't, ever." Hiromi spat, beseeching. You softened. He saw how you squirmed beneath him, knew how his hormones had ensnared you, making you desperate. Seeing you clutch your thighs together for relief, your nipples pebbled and almost freed beneath your blouse, Hiromi gulped again.

"I'm so-- so hungry." Hiromi growled, canines sharp against his lower lip, "And I need-- need-- I can make this good...for both of us. I can make you, if I need to, but I-- I'd rather not. Trust me. Please." He did not need to beg or force, when you were already undressing beneath him, as if you hadn't been waiting for him to take you since the first time your name had fallen from his lips.

"I trust you. Just...just...please." You begged now, and Hiromi shuddered, his eyes black as another flash of lightning flashed on his exquisite profile. He watched you, breasts heaving, now in just your bra and underwear. A burst of pheromones from him left you whimpering, your neck stretched to the side. He raised one strong, fine-boned hand to circle your throat, protecting it from himself as his mouth moved down your body.

"...so close already, aren't you? My beauty...best thing I've ever tasted." Hiromi whispered, his lips ghosting over one freed nipple, pre-cum dripping where his cock dragged against your thighs, "Need you sweeter...before I drink you." You whimpered beneath his mouth, suckling on your nipple until you cried out, your hands tangling in his inky, grey-streaked locks of hair. His hand kneaded at your other breast, relishing the softly yielding squish beneath his fingers.

Your thighs parted for just long enough to clamp Hiromi's cock between them, slick with his dripping pre-cum and your arousal. Hiromi gasped, canines grazing against your nipple, and your thighs clamped harder, Hiromi jerking with a cursing groan above you. He rutted spontaneously, sliding his cock between the plush of your thighs with a shaky, prolonged moan. Hiromi stayed this way for a few minutes, lapping and kneading at your breasts, fucking himself between your thighs. His pleasure threatened to peak again, and he hissed, slipping his cock free of the hot glove your thighs had made for him.

"Don't...don't." Hiromi growled, nipping your belly in warning as he slid himself down, shooting you a look to burn. "I'm not cumming on this fucking table, when I could cum inside you." Your breath hitched with the promise, feeling so weightless as Hiromi stripped your underwear from you. He took a moment to admire the glistening petals around your core, before sinking his tongue and nose between them with a moan.

Hiromi didn't allow you to last. Already so close to your peak, Hiromi's essence pulsed through you with your taste on his tongue. You were washed through with a skin-prickling, burning orgasm, plundering through you like wildfire. Hiromi had gripped you, and would not let you go, and with his mouth desperately lapping at your clit, your orgasm simply did not end.

You were a wreck, writhing and twisting and begging, all frantic cries of his name, alternately trying to shove Hiromi's head away and pull him closer. With one particularly hard push against him, Hiromi drew away, and bit onto the soft inside of your thigh in warning. You squealed as he drew blood.

You almost heard his heartbeat stop, enthralled by the droplets of blood running down your thigh. His tongue darted out, capturing them before they hit the table, your blood and arousal mixing on his tongue. You suddenly felt the danger you were in, in the jaws of a god as Hiromi's eyes turned up to you, settling on your neck. His eyes stayed fixed, his mouth puckering around the bite wound on your thigh, sucking just once before sealing the wound with a trembling tongue.

"...I'm going to fuck you, now." Hiromi stated, blunt, in warning, as he crawled back up your body. His cockhead grazed over your folds, and Hiromi grasped himself, lining his cock up with your fluttering core. "And you'll stay still...or I...I can't...you'll get hurt."

You couldn't possibly have refused at this stage. Hiromi was possessed by something stronger than himself, and you yearned to heal the fractured core of him. Grasping your wrists in one of his hands, and pressing them above your head, Hiromi coiled one hand in your hair, tilting your neck to the side.

You felt the insistent press of his cock filling you, as his teeth punctured your skin. You jolted, crying out, and Hiromi snarled against you, gripping you tighter. Hiromi felt the hot, salty, copper tang of your blood flooding his tongue, and his hips took on a life of their own. He slammed into you, again, and again, tasting your delicious little squeaks, bound beneath him with no means of escape. The human core of him was disgusted; the monster relished every second.

Allowing his otherworldly bliss to roll over you again, Hiromi felt you go languid and supple, your pussy clenching involuntarily around the bullying pace of his cockhead against your belly. Breathless moans muffled into your neck, interspersed with his gulps. Hiromi burst with adoration for you, and how well you were taking him. He had never felt so alive.

Hiromi felt your pulse fluttering in your wrists, and, convinced it was growing weaker, released your throat with a whine and a gasp, pressing his tongue against you again to seal the wounds. Hesitating only briefly, Hiromi fucked into you harder, faster, crimson dripping down his chin, dopey and lovesick. His hand tangled in your hair, pressing a bloody kiss to your cheek, feeling his orgasm creep up his back. His fingers plaited with your own above your head.

You were his, completely, happy to be used. The fervent thrust of his blunt, leaking cockhead against your sweet spot, his sandy whispers and gasps-- "...the best fucking medicine...I swear to god-- keep me forever, please, shit-- cum inside you, gonna cum inside you-- fffuck--" -- and the waves of Hiromi's strange, floral aphrodisiac, sent you tumbling over the edge again. Hiromi cursed, moaning, to feel you clench, writhing and arching beneath him, your cries rising in pitch as Hiromi fucked into you with total abandon, mesmerised by you.

"--more more moremoremore please-- Hiromi-- don't stop--"

Hiromi gritted his teeth, drawing himself out for as long as he could. Feeling the pummel and stretch of his cock inside you, slick and wet, set your eyes rolling back. When you bit into Hiromi's shoulder, he broke, buckling onto his elbows with a roar. His second orgasm blinded him, his balls emptying in violent contractions, thick white seed filling your belly and cunt in long, agonisingly pleasurable spurts. Hiromi swore, cursing and convulsing, crushing your body beneath his.

By the time Hiromi's vision returned, he was more human than he'd felt in months, as if giving into the monster was the only thing keeping him at bay. You floated back down to earth with him, feathersoft, on your bed of meadowsweet. A faint blush spread across Hiromi's nose at the sight of you, fucked-out, messy and spread beneath him.

"...I understand we have some important things to talk about," Hiromi said, bizarrely formal for a man whose cock was still inside you, "and I understand if you don't want to see me again after this, so we can organise a public date and time--"

Hiromi's voice muffled, still trying to talk as you pulled him to you by his tie, shutting him up with a kiss.

[dreamgrlarchive]

High Maintenance 101

Prissy Girl Beauty Regimens 🎀

my prissy girl guide to beauty services and building a beauty lifestyle that fits you 💗

Skincare:

Essential Skincare Routine ❤︎︎

twice daily, in the morning and at night

daytime: gentle cleanser, toner, serum, eye cream, moisturizer, SPF

prep and protect skin

nighttime: double cleansing with oil and cleanser, exfoliation, treatments, moisturizer

wash away the day and help skin accept treatments and actives during your beauty sleep

products will change depending on skin type and goals, but sequence will more or less stay the same

Face Masks + Treatments ❤︎︎

Face Masks -

typically done at home 1-3x/week

clay, gel, mud, cream, liquid

my fav masks at home:

aha + bha liquid mask by the ordinary: a literal overhaul of my pores. it’s refining and helps reduce texture and hyperpigmentation. 1-2 x/week

korean modeling mask: i use this after doing everything in my routine. it’s super cooling and smooths my skin out. the low temp of the mask reduces flushing of my skin and helps the steps in my routine absorb better. 2-3 x/week

Treatments -

done either 1-3x/week and/or exclusively at night

consumer grade Retinols, AHAs, BHAs at high strength

little extra things i like to use to enhance my routine:

gua sha, ice pack, rose quartz roller, however often i choose

Facials ❤︎︎

done every 1-2 months by licensed estheticians

often includes exfoliation and extraction

Classic Facial: cleanse, extract, massage, moisturize

HydraFacials: extracts pores while infusing serums to boost skin’s vitamin and nutrient content

dry, dehydrated skin

Microdermabrasion: microabrasive tool removes outermost, textured, damaged layer of skin using suction to reveal a smooth and refined new layer of skin

sun damaged, aged, textured skin or skin with hyperpigmentation

Chemical Peel: application of medical grade AHA, BHA, Lactic Acid, Fruit Enzymes, or Retinol to peel away top layers of skin over the course of 1-2 weeks

pore refining, brightening, and anti-aging

after care is crucial. skin will be peeling and sensitivity to sun is increased. SPF MUST be used. it’s heavily advised that clients stay home for the first few days.

HydroJelly Facial: facial made of electrolytes, algae, organic white grain oat flour, rice flour, and white willow bark powder. leaving your skin hydrated, plump, and nourished. forms a vacuum-like seal that compresses facial contours.

there are 25 different hydrojelly pro masks for most skin concerns you may have, check here

More Facials ❤︎︎

Contouring Facial: sculpting, tightening, and lifting of facial muscles

LED Facial: uses LED light to soothe inflammation, aiding in acne healing and prevention

Vampire Facial: plumps skin and improves wrinkles by extracting blood, removing its platelets, then either re-injecting it into the skin or applying it topically

Diamond File Facial: finely ground diamonds resurface skin by filing to improve dark spots

Glass Skin Botox: multiple tiny botox injections just below the surface of the skin. alleviate fine lines, redness, texture, and more achieving glass skin

AquaGold Facial: microinjections that combine vampire facial methods, hyaluronic acid, botox, stem cells, antioxidants, vitamins, peptides, etc. improves fine lines, wrinkles, pores, pigmentation, acne scarring, dryness, tone, texture, skin elasticity, and more

cite

Hair:

Hair Care ❤︎︎

Wash Routines:

curly textured: wash and condition every 2-3 weeks, deep condition every 1-2 weeks

straight: wash and condition every 2-3 days, deep condition every 2-3 weeks

Styling ︎❤︎︎

Hair should have a style everyday! At home hairstyling is limitless and really depends on your taste and lifestyle. The everyday woman does her own her once every 1-4 weeks using natural hair products, heat, or other tools.

Professional Stylists:

hair is styled every 1-3 months: uses heat to straighten or curl, extensions to lengthen and add volume, shears to maintain/attain a shape and length

trim ends: every 6-8 weeks

hair color: touched up roughly every 6-8 weeks (depending on how fast your hair is growing and how fast your color will fade)

Silk Press:

after a clarifying wash and deep conditioning, natural hair is straightened using flat iron and/or pressing comb, then usually curled in feathers or pin curls to preserve the style

lasts 3-4 weeks depending on maintenance

preserved by wrapping hair at night, keep hands out of hair, and using a wide toothed comb only

can be further styled with different kind of rollers, or with pin curls

Braids:

afrocentric hairstyles typically done to protect hair while maintaining beauty

lasts 3-8 weeks

styles include knotless braids, faux locs, stitch braids, french braids, etc

Extensions:

hair added to natural hair to enhance length or volume

can be done at home with patience and proper materials

sew-in extensions: (my personal fav) 1-2 months

your natural hair gets braided down flush to your scalp and the bundles are sewn on by the wefts in a flat pattern typically with a section of hair left out to cover the wefts $100-600

microlinks: up to 4 months

i-tip extension is added to hair using micropliers, clippers and loop tool. takes far longer than most extension methods but looks the absolute most natural $500-1000

tape-in extensions: up to a year, touch ups every 4-6 weeks

medical grade tape is used to attach extensions to small sections of hair $200-400

clip-in extensions: 3-6 months

extensions are clipped on by the wefts. the hair itself can last up to six months, but it’s not recommended to sleep, shower, or swim with the extensions in $50-100

Natural Styles:

all last roughly 1-2 weeks at most. allowing hair to completely DRY is crucial for these styles. your natural hair can be further changed in styles like buns, puffs, etc once dry

natural hair essentials: scalp oil, leave in conditioner, detangling brush, wide tooth comb, curling cream, styling gel, edge control and edge brush

wash n’ go

wash and detangle, then use leave in conditioner to keep hair moist. oil on the scalp and ends is recommended for growth and healthy ends

bantu knots

a traditionally african style where the hair is cleanly sectioned (usually parted in a cute pattern) and twisted into knots. style can be worn just like this or taken down for curls

braid/twist out

a specific pattern of curls is achieved after hair is twisted or braided with curl preserving products. end result depends on how big your twists or braids are

roller set

hair is sprayed with water and curl cream applied before roller of your choice is added. hair is left to dry usually overnight for springy well formed curls

Brows and Lashes:

Brow Shaping ❤︎︎

in salon or at home

Waxing - every 3 weeks

Threading- every 2-3 weeks

Razor Shaping - weekly

Brow Enhancement ❤︎︎

Tinting - monthly

can be done at home or by pro in the salon

Microblading - every 1-3 years + annual touch ups, exclusively professional work

cosmetic tattooing using a manual tool with nearly invisible hair-like needles to inject pigment in brows to create your desired brow look

Lash Enhancements ❤︎︎

*done exclusively by professionals

Lifts - every 6 weeks

basically a perm for your lashes to curl them semi-permanently for lashes to appear longer

Lash Extensions - new set every 6-8 weeks, fill ins every 2-3 weeks depending on quality and style

false individual strands of lashes glued to natural lashes to create semi-permanent length and/or volume

lash baths: wet lashes and apply a small amount of gentle cleanser or a “lash bath” to lashes. cleanse lashes and eyelids for about 10 seconds. hold a towel under your eye and use a nozzle bottle to flush soap and bacteria from lashes then dry with a disposable lint free towel. finish by brushing your lashes with a spoolie. daily.

Lash Styles:

Classic: one lash on each fan, thin lashes

Volume: fluffier lashes with more lashes on each fan

Hybrid: uses classic and volume lashes to make an alternated look

Russian: volume lashes made with very thin individuals, 5-6 extensions per natural lash, fanned out look

DIY Lash Extensions - lasts about a week (sometimes longer)

lash fragments or individual wisps are glued either under the lashes or on the lash line. KISS Falscara is a product that makes this concept simple and easy

Nails:

all these services can be done at home with the proper materials and KNOWLEDGE

Classic Manicure ❤︎︎

every 1-2 weeks

nail service that consists of soaking hands in warm soapy water then drying them. nails are trimmed, filed, and buffed. cuticles are pushed back before applying nail polish (base coat, color, top coat), then finally cuticle oil is applied.

nails can be enhanced with rhinestones, glitter, or charms and attached with uv gel or nail glue

my fav styles are pink, cream, white, black and any french tip using those colors

Pedicure ❤︎︎

every 2-4 weeks

sister to the classic manicure, but can be upgraded depending on materials. steps are similar to manicure, except feet are scrubbed and exfoliated before feet are washed and dried to apply nail color

regular polish, acrylic, or gel can be used on toenails

Gel or Shellac Mani ❤︎︎

every 2-3 weeks

same process as the classic manicure, but traditional nail polish is replaced with uv base coat, gel or CND Shellac polish, then uv top coat that’s cured in a UV or LED lamp

longer lasting and more strong/3d than classic mani and is typically removed by soaking in acetone

Apres Gel-X Nails ❤︎︎

every 2-3 weeks

my personal fav at home nails using the artme yoko matsuda nails. after doing a classic mani sans polish, you apply a dehydrator and primer to prep nail for gel. then you apply builder gel to your natural nail and cure. then you apply that same builder to the nail extension after etching it using an electric drill or acetone. marry the gel to your nail and cure. then just shape to your liking and top with uv top coat. tutorial here

Acrylic Nails ❤︎︎

every 2-3 weeks, nails are fully grown out after 6 weeks

manicure done with liquid monomer and acrylic powder to build and extend natural nail, then polished with color or just a top coat if desired

Russian Mani ❤︎︎

every 4-5 weeks

essentially a gel manicure, but more invasive. the eponychium is snipped away so polish can be applied more closely and flush to the cuticle. this aids in visuals and longevity

service is seen as risky because the skin is more susceptible to fungal or bacterial infection. this is actually how i do my nails at home.

Body:

Bathing ❤︎︎

2x daily

self explanatory, we all know how to bathe. i have other posts that talk about my shower and bath routines.

use a gentle cleanser then a scented body wash to complement perfume and smell fresh all day.

if needed, you can use body soaps with actives like aha, bha or retinol to exfoliate or treat skin at night

exfoliation - 2-3x/week. using scrubs, loofahs, bath brushes, etc.

Hair Removal ❤︎︎

shaving - 2-3x/week

waxing - every 3-5 weeks

sugaring - monthly

ipl device - a device that uses light therapy to slowly destroy hair follicles and unwanted pigment in skin. i use mine after every 5-6 shaves but i could really use it more often.

Vajacial ❤︎︎

1-2x/month

a “facial” for your lady area

the esthetician will first wax, then cleanse and apply an enzyme exfoliant. then they extract any blackheads or ingrown hairs from the area before applying a soothing mask usually in the jelly form.

Moisture and Hydration ❤︎︎

body cream or lotion - daily right after bathing to hydrate skin

body oil - daily to seal in moisture and protect skin from debris and dryness

masks - weekly to address particular skin concerns

ex. when i was having eczema flare ups on my back, i used a dead sea mud mask every 1-2 weeks to help treat it

done at home or at spa

glycolic, clay, mud, salicylic, etc.

Enhancement Procedures:

the goal is to look younger and balance facial features. all these services are exclusively done by professionals usually in a medspa and are widely considered luxury.

Botox ❤︎︎

every 6-8 months; between brows, smile lines, outer corners of eyes, etc

discourages muscle movement to reduce wrinkles

Lifts ❤︎︎

lasts about 10 years; face, neck, brow, eyelids

skin is lifted to desired look, then excess skin is removed

Fillers ︎❤︎︎

every 6-12 months; under-eye, lips, jawline, wrinkle sites, cheekbones

injects acids (usually naturally occurring) like Hyaluronic Acid and Calcium Hydroxylapatite to add volume to your face

Body Contouring ❤︎︎

every 2-4 months until desired results are achieved

non invasive liposuction to achieve desired physique

CoolSculpting - cryolipolysis freezes fat cells for the body to the metabolize and and remove them

SculpSure - essentially the same as CoolSculpting, but uses heat and laser technology to destroy fat cells

Laser Hair Removal ❤︎︎

every 5-6 weeks; bikini, underarms, legs, arms

touch ups done every 1-2 years

hair growth is inhibited by exposing follicles to light at frequencies that kill them

Building the Regimen 🗒️💕:

when making appointments with your “glam squad” you can stagger your services by week depending on what’s being done. for example you can get your mani and pedi done one week. then your facials, brows and lashes another week.

Things to Keep in Mind 💭💞:

these frequencies won’t be the same for everyone depending on personal wants, budgets, etc. but will most likely land somewhere in the ranges i gave. if you need touch ups or redos any sooner than i mapped out, then the service most likely was of poor quality.

anything done at home may or may not be up to the level of detail and longevity as salon or spa work. if you see yourself doing the majority of your beauty maintenance at home, this can save money but may end up taking more time than professional services. so it’s a give and take.

More Resources:

manage your routines, services and products using a beauty binder

a look at my skincare routine

at home beauty treatments for the summer

my hair care routine at home

pretty on purpose by @shefromhouston

monthly beauty routine by @angeljpg

dream girl routines by me

[punk-in-docs]

A song of liars and beggars: part II

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 5.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter; mainly violence and cruelty and mentions of death/imprisonment. also this has turned long winded im so sorry- i wish i could just bang out some gratuitous smut but noooo i need 7k of angst before penetration apparently --

The cell you are thrown into is poky small.

When the guards push you into it, you stumble and you fall. Stone breaks your landing. Collapsing in the dusty dirt. Soiling your pretty blue dress. The sea blue churned into mud. Into filth. Spoiled tide.

Bloody grit and sand sticking to your chin that still drips blood. Ichor dripped on your silk chest. Lip throbbing. Body bruised into the colour of nightshade petals.

You twist back, eyes blurred with tears, to see the dark expression under the Roman guards helmet.

Who spits at your feet and calls you a traitorous whore. He was the same one whose ring of fingertip bruises now circled your upper arm. Even though you were in chains.

Your surroundings are grim. There’s no window. No bearings. A bucket with filthy stagnant water sits in the corner.

The air is stale. Packed close and scorching. It reeks of piss and decay. Necrosis. Festering. Yellow bleached skulls. You hear the wailing shouts of men. The rattle of chains. You will be left down here until they come to take you. In whatever form that may be. Beheading. Or a stoning.

Maybe the Emperors really are gods. Those twin golden growling wolves. And now they’ve thrown you down to the underworld. Left you down here with the dying and the dirt and the vermin for company.

The walls are grimy stone, and strung with chains. Torches the only lick of civilised orange light in these otherwise miserable caverns. Rats creep along the floors - the scurry and click of claws. Not that they’ll find any scrap of food near here. There’s none to be had. Not even corpses. Death isn’t merciful enough to visit here.

Bile coats the back of your tongue. Sour and acetic. The men in the cells opposite you m, sneer and call filthy propositions in the dark. Dark so thick it was like wool. Ask to see under your pretty dress. Leering at you. Puckering kisses.

You are a rare drop of clean ocean in this savagery to them. Pure. A blue crocus blossoming in a crack in the barren dessert. Wash away the sin. Their rotten teeth shine in the dark like knives. Hungry and waiting.

You curl into a ball in the corner. Bring your knees to your chest. Cower in the shadows as the rats run past your feet. Clammy tails flicking over your toes.

You sob quietly. Arms folded. One smashed elbow drying to sticky blood, stuck with grit from your collapse.

Your father was torn away before you could see what happened or where they took him. You heard his shouts at Macrinus, his begging, but couldn’t see where he was taken. You couldn’t bear thinking about the alternative.

Your brothers body will be laying in a paupers grave somewhere you’ll never know. Never be able to go and lay orange gladiolus flowers before his headstone. Forgotten. Your mother will be told nothing of this- of you. Of the supposed treason-

Or maybe a garrison of soldiers were already marching on their way to deliver news. To slaughter the traitors family in that white villa by the sea. Smear crimson up the walls- droplets of red splashed on the jasmine petals. You think of the linen shifts your sisters ramble around in. You think how the perfect hues of soft blues and olives greens will be ruined with the garish red of blood-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Drops of salty ocean squeezing down your cheeks. And even that is of no use to you now. Landed sea nymph. Away from the oceans call. And now you’re bound for desolation. Gasping. Dying. Dragged to land by men who want to pick at your scales and leave you raw, bare.

You never should’ve left home. Not for a distant hollow man and his even emptier words.

Sleep doesn’t come to you. Nor are you awake. You slouch, curled on the cold dirty floor and envelop yourself into the grit and dirt. Abrasive on your soft milk-and-honey skin. The cornflower blue of your dress matted with mucky earth.

You enter a state between waking and sleep. A shallow one, spliced with sliced necks, pooling blood on biscuit coloured sand, and your brothers final cry.

Sounds start chipping at you. The slap of metal. Clicking and shuffling steps.

A jolt across your cell rouses you from your purgatory. Head snapping up on your shoulders. When you accustomed your eyes to the dim, the sight of the person unlocking your cell, makes your stomach plummet.

General Acacius.

There’s no mistaking him for another. That unmistakably noble profile. The firm set of his brow. His aquiline nose. The curl and bend of his greying hair. The way he looks at you - it might just be the kindest thing you’ve been awarded in this abrasive hell you find yourself in.

You raise to your wobbly feet. Heart felt like it had taken to thudding in your throat. Choking tempo as it beats there. Muscle thick and ticking on the back of your tongue.

One thought echoed around your mind; this was to be the path to your death.

You were being led by the General of the armies of Rome. It seemed a grand imposition for escorting a mere slip of a traitor to her death.

War has thickened his body. Muscular arms swing from a wide back and shoulders. Sun weathered skin which spoke of his time out in the elements, fighting for the glories and victories of Rome. Age lay in the silver threaded though his hair. The muted pain in his gait of past injuries catching up with him. Body littered with scars that probably ache and tug. Mars made flesh. Glory for Rome. Victory.

You swallowed. Throat dry. Easing your way to the door on uncertain feet. Hands clasped in chains still. They feel heavy as mountains to carry along. He’s come with guards. Four of them. Armed and marching to the beat of his strides. A valorous man indeed.

You step close to the heavily armoured man. Salty tears leaking down your cheeks that you don’t care to bat away. Atleast one spec of home will cling to your skin when life is gone. Even if it is only your silly scared tears.

He leans close to you when you come to the door

Suddenly a warm hand - calluses and hard furrows that only come from years of grasping a sword hilt - is around your forearm to steady. He unlocks the iron heavy chains and cuffs that surround your wrists. The chafing welts they left circling your wrists as the only impression of your imprisonment.

It’s the kindest touch you’ve felt in what seems like years.

You look at him with incredulity. He claims it all off you so easily. You were easy to devour. Every emotion worn open on your face.

Your lashes glued together with tears. Eyes so wide. Big and shining and they must reflect spring sun off beaded waves like a blanket of sapphires. A question lingers, tucked back shyly behind your teeth. Unable to wander off the curl of your tongue.

Why are you unlocking my hands?

He tilts his head at you. It’s almost chiding.

An unexpected warmth flows from his dark eyes. It’s too dark down here in this filthy stuffy pit to discern their colour. They swing somewhere between bronze and amber.

There is a mercy in them, a mercy to him, you’ve seldom seen anywhere else. Let alone a man as slaked in blood as he is.

Maybe it’s mercy- more likely that it’s pity.

He throws the shackles aside to the guard. Eyes for a long moment the way the iron has cut into your wrists. Raw skin. Damaging such a fine beautifully untouched creature.

He’s certain there’s worse damage to come to you.

His voice when he speaks is honey thick. Deep as it carved down all the rock walls around you. Louder than the clanking of chains and the wails from prisoners. Whom, you noticed, suddenly quieted down. They were whipped when they spoke up, you guess. So they go quiet. Like cowed dogs.

“I’ve slaughtered many a traitor in my time. You don’t seem a danger to me, or my men.” He observed. It’s both a warning and a comment.

It’s ridiculous really. The thought you could be a threat. All slippery, skin soft and coveted as a purely formed ocean pearl.

When you are in fact shivering in a silky thin dress the colour of harmless cornflowers. Huddled in your cell corner gently spilling tears. No hint of resistance or fiery hatred. No storm to be found here in your veins that houses entire oceans and their tempestuous wrath.

He knows innocence when he sees it. That rare, very rare, taste that clings to his tongue like sugary sweet ripe fruit. Something to cut and slice through all the ichor and viscera he all too well knows the flavour of. There’s a calmness to you. A damned sort of acceptance. Calm as still waters.

“Come.” He tilts his head. “The likes of you doesn’t belong down here.” You with your stock of noble blood, shouldn’t perish forgotten in these filthy caverns.

He walks to the pathway that you vaguely recall you were led down. The one that ascends steps and up into daylight. Out from the dust and the dirt and the still living bones of the trapped and the damned.

“General. Pray tell me. Is my father dead?” You ask. Whisper a pathetic imitation of your voice. Raw and weak. Choking on the unknown.

His face is stiff. He doesn’t seem inclined to reply.

“I cannot give you answers.” He chides. He turned his back to you. And his brute tone slaughtered any further enquiry you may have felt compelled to make.

You shrink down as you fell into step. Being led in your dirty dress, littered in cuts and scrapes.

Numerous guards form a metal lined wall around and behind you. Shields and swords and the metal clink of their steps. Trapping you. Armoured cage for a pretty captive. You wince when the new sunlight hits your eyes. Bright and acidic. Gulp for thick air that meets your lungs like ambrosia.

You walk and follow, silently. Waiting to come to the place you’d die.

Expecting to be led to gallows. Or an executioners block. Maybe even a court lined with people, one where you’d be trialed to death for a plot you’d no idea even existed. Maybe you’d be shoved into the coliseum on the next fight to be mauled to shreds by lions. Gouged by teeth and claw. Die screaming in the same dirt as your brother did.

It doesn’t come. None of that comes.

Your surroundings change again and you find yourself outside the grand walls of the coliseum. Looking up at the huge enormity of its powerful walls. The golden stone standing proud against the searing blue sky.

You’re marched across the dusty dirt of a yard, to yet another cage; this one held bars just like your previous one. A cage built on the back of a cart that has two horses ready to pull it along the capital roads. The general opens the barred door and gestures guards in around you.

One of the soldiers hit you forwards with a harsh shove. The back of his sword hilt. A hard enough shove for you to know it would purple to a bruise soon enough. Mulberry purple staining your skin at the back of your hip. You barely even yelp.

The general admonishes the soldier harshly for his rough treatment. You were to be brought - unmolested.

A word the Emperor had ordered with a growing wolfish grin.

“Where am I being taken?” You dare ask. Words crack out your throat. Unused. Thirsty. Timid. Ocean starved. All this dry land is making you dizzy and miserable.

He explained. Tone grave. Before you are pulled inside the bars. Caged once more.

“You’ve been summoned.”

“By whom?” You seek.

His eyes weight into you. Wrapped in pity and severity. His words clang around your head. Coffin nails. Just like bars he shut around you.

“You’ve been requested by the Emperor himself.”

~

You struggle to comprehend the enormity of the palace before you.

Palatine hill boasted of the richest and finest palaces in all of Rome. Including the imperial palace. The huge sprawling building. The importance and grandeur of these halls weighted on you like tonne heavy rocks.

You feel like a smear of dirt among these polished white walls and halls. Crawling with servants and guards. Stuffed with so much riches and finery. You’ve heard tale of how Emperors were hand picked by the gods. They were gods to the people they reigned over.

You are escorted once again out of a yard and into this place you’d heard only grand things about. Marched along corridors longer than you’d ever known. You saw fountains spitting streams of clear crystalline water and imperial gardens with huge tropical plants. Statues of marble and tiled mosaic floors that shine as if recently scrubbed.

Guards at every door. Servants clad in cloth finer than you’ve ever owned - or touched - they carry huge platters of bread or bowls spilling over with plump fruits. Large amphora jugs of wine held aloft in careful hands. This seemed like a luxurious heaven. You wondered if you’d see clouds, goddesses and sun beams even from your lowly mortal perch.

The guards keep you in step. Hauled along so fast you feel blisters aching at the balls of your feet. As you’re traipsed in. Bloodied and low. Beaten down. Your split lip has dried to a cut. You worry it with your tongue. The little whip cracks of pain a reminder of your mortality - one you’re certain you will be relieved of soon.

You are brought to a set of huge imperial doors by the general. Who is bid to enter right away.

Your eyes don’t know where to settle first; the room is one of the richest displays you’ve ever seen. Orange fabric the colour of vibrant mandarins, hangs in drapes over the open arches and doorways. Mosiac floors polished to a shine. There’s gold and marble statues and plinths. Paintings in dark deep colours of battle scenes. Swords and blood and male glory. As if it had come to life right before your eyes. This room is threaded with gold and devotion to male gods.

As is the man who sits leisurely awaiting you on a padded lectus. One spilling with tasseled silken cushions to soften his seat. Emperor Geta.

His robes were the same as when you last saw him. Dark jewel colours of black and blue. Gems cast in gold on each finger. Dark cloths with gold items of jewellery on his breast in the form of a broach. So much gold you don’t now where to test your eyes first.

Maybe he is a god. He certainly has all the riches of one. Stood before you as if he were Jupiter and all his delights. Thunderbolts seeping from his powerful fingers.

A golden crown of laurels ringing his light waved hair. His eyes was where true darkness laid; dark kohl ringing eyes the colour of the darkest Umbrian. Earth of shadow.

He was idly picking at food laid on a rose petal strewn table before him. You’ve never seen an offering of food so large and all for one. Cups of wine. Bread. Dried Fruit and a tiered stand flowing with fresh fruit. Some cheeses. Meats and fish. All laid on plates for him to pick over and discard, or saviour at his behest.

You wonder which category you’d fall into- the former appears the more likely.

Your stomach pangs for the smell of the freshly baked bread. The sweetness of the fruit. The tart wine. Tongue dry as sand and sluggish in your mouth.

“There you are. My little sea nymph.” He sneers over at you. One side of his lip curls upwards.

In panic, you bend the knee and bow your head, subservient, meek, and that makes him smile more.

He’s snapped his regal bejewelled fingers and had you bought to him. Bloodied and blinking dust out your eyes. Dirt stroked on your once fine dress. It now hangs in shredded tatters at the hem by your sandals. Blood spots dried like rusted petals. Brutal handling from guards lay in the bruises now scattering your lovely arms and the welts banding your wrists.

You want to cower behind the wall of guards. But you are rudely thrown forwards. Those shadowy eyes trace over your poorly clad form; you do feel like a minuscule scrap of dirt. A crack in a looking glass. A tarnish on something gleaming golden. The smear of imperfection allowed to exist in this heavenly palace.

He sees your hands are loose by your sides; unbound.

“Why is she not in chains, General? Have we stopped chaining our prisoners” He asks. Ire woven into his words. Eyes unflinching and hard and he scowls at Acacius. Who remained unmoved even in the face of his petulant wrath.

“I saw no need to chain her. Emperor. Such a woman in her position could surely not be a threat to you.” It’s a barb. A small sensible thorn, perhaps.

You flick your eyes across to the General.

“I didn’t even have to draw my sword or threaten her. She came willingly.” He tells his Emperor.

Like a sweetly led fool. A sacrificial creature led blindly to her own slaughter.

The guards stand to attention. Unwavering. Wall of armour and swords around your back as you cower. Eyes cast to the floor as you’re being discussed like a slab of meat. Something without autonomy or feeling.

You can feel Getas eyes on you still. Hard and weighty as warm metal. Searing into your skin. The way livestock are branded.

Those eyes are unrelenting. Violating. Scouring you up and down some more. Inspecting the span of your hips. The dip of your waist. The fall of your chest. Plump of your breasts and hips. The once pristine coil of your knotted hair.

Goddesses would envy you. The furies would want to tear down your beauty and goodness in wrath. Scratch out your eyes. Shear your hair. Anything to steal the golden thread of goodness from you.

Juno had blessed you and kept you indeed. Like you’re fresh out of her temple and sparkling with promise. He knew it the second he saw you. He made up his mind to have you then.

You had something. Something wrapped inside yourself like a shell protecting a pearl. Something good and virtuous. He wanted you all for himself.

If he was good as a god, then blessing himself with a wife who was a gift from the most beloved goddess was his right.

He can smell lemons and salt. And wondered if he inhaled the nubile skin of your neck and hair if then he’d find the source of it. Made him want to bite down on that supple neck and leave his mark-

“An unlikely source for a traitor do you not think so, General?” He asks.

General doesn’t answer but his expression is very telling. “My spies tell me she was not in the capital for two days before the suspected treason.” He offers.

Your stomach lurches, manages to tie itself into knots. Clammy sweat prickles your brow and your neck.

“Maybe she wasn’t aware of the plot. An unwilling participant dragged into the sordid scheme.” Geta speculates.

No answer comes from you still.

“Is she mute? I certainly heard her screams well enough at the coliseum.” He mocks. Impatient.

“Speak. Your Emperor demands it.” The General barks at you. You flinch at his sudden raised voice. Finally trailing your eyes from the mosaic tiles.

“I am not mute. Your majesty.” You explain. Feeling the tickle of humiliated tears at your eyes.

“I can offer no plea for innocence, except the truth that I had no knowledge as to my fathers schemes.”

Because no such schemes existed. Macrinus should be here in chains instead of you. The lying snake. He orchestrated the whole thing.

Geta savours your words. Drinks them in the way he’d taste wine. Rolls them around in his mouth.

He merely nods slightly. You hold your breath for his response.

“Come.” He sneers. “There’s something I want you to see.”

He guides you across to the huge marble pillars which guarded the open mouth of the balcony.

You walk behind him and come to the balustrade of white marble. Peering over the ledge. Out into the courtyard below where a cluster of soldiers and horses are gathered close.

“The soldiers will ride on my command.” He tells you. Sick delight in the power he wields.

When they pull away, and the sight below is exposed to you, your entire body wrenches forwards. Desperation grips you violently. A cry shattered out your throat.

They were going to quarter your father before your very eyes.

He stood, small and beaten, blood pouring from a gash to his head, in a filthy cloth tunic, because they’d humiliated him. Had him stripped of his noble senate robes.

His limbs each tied to separate riders on separate horses. When they galloped off in different directions, he would be torn to pieces. Barbaric.

Through a blackened eye and a swollen brow your father gazes up at you. Despair on his face. A once strong man brought so very low. It wounds you.

Geta is drinking in your every expression. The full horror and pain writ across your pretty face.

“No. No, mercy, please. Your majesty. I beg of you. Mercy.” You babble.

Eyes wide with desperation. Voice breaking as surely as your heart was. Cracking in two in your chest. Sharp as glass shards. Clinking to pieces sharp enough to make your insides bleed anew.

“Why should I spare a liar? Salacia?” He asks you. “Why should I not make an example of what happens to traitors in my court…” He demands. Eyes locked on you.

“He’s offered me things I don’t want or need to delay his death. Money. Information. I cannot help but feel it’s inevitably drawn him closer to it.”

He raises his hand, calmly. You sob. The riders bolt to attention. One more move and that would be it.

You flew for him. Unrestrained. Desperate. Willing to beg on your knees if needs be. You put yourself in front of him. Put your hands to him.

The General and his guards drew swords and came close. Geta turned and and ushered them back with a harsh wave of his fingers. He was enjoying this too much. The nature of despair- the clammy stench of desperation pouring off you like ocean waves.

You could only think of one instance that might appease his lust for blood-

Dying in the place of your elder for his crimes was all you had. All you clutched in your empty injured hands.

“Let me take his place. Put the bonds on me instead. Let me take his punishment. Make me the example.” You beg. Tears shiver and fall down your cheeks. Burning drips of salt spear at your lash-line.

In your desperation you cling to Getas chest. Your nails raking gold and the fine threads of the fabric coat he wore. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed amused by it.

“Little Salacia.” The way he used your name with a brazenly satisfied smirk altered something in you.

An arm winds itself around your hip. Cups the back. Pressed a bruise that you want to hiss in pain at. But can’t.

His other hand rings your neck. Ghosts his thumb over the curve of your chin. Smearing tears with the gold and jewels on his fingers. You gasp. Air emptying out your lungs in one fell swoop.

“You have so much more to offer your Emperor than your death.” He says quietly. His meaning became intimate. Wrapped in insinuation.

Your mouth opened, no sound came. Your lower lip trembles. You glance down at your father who is crying. Straining, wrenching forwards at his bonds. Desperate to keep you from this.

Geta takes his hand and runs his hand through one knotted lock of it for a moment. Leaning in to savour the smell of you. He moans with it.

Definitely lemons. Mixed with something briny salt, the ocean. In odes to your name.

Your father sees this. The closeness. The insulation that this man would take you. He shouts from his bonds below. Begging.

“By the gods, spare her.” He cries.

“Not my daughter. It is my crime. Take me. I am here. Take me!”

With your father and oldest brother dead, your mothers and sisters would be destitute. They would be reduced to beggars. Brought low. With him alive they were respectable- reduced in honour perhaps, but at least they’d live.

Tears bite at your eyes. You let them. Blink them away.

“What’s say you? My patience is wearing thin…” Geta bullies. Hand dropping from your hair.

It pushes you to act.

“Servitude of my body. I will enslave myself to your every whim. Emperor.” You say through tears. Every sordid whim.

“Exile him.” Youoffer.

Geta’s eyes gleam to that. Intrigued. You would exile and dishonour your own father?

“Exile him from Rome and the Senate, and send him back to Corsica to be with my mother and sisters. Where he is needed.” You implore.

“And what of you, how will you serve me?” He drawls.

“I will stay here and act as your servant in whatever manner you wish.” You accept.

“I have servants. Little nymph. I don’t require any more servants. I don’t need whores or courtesans. What I do require, however, is a wife. One who will give me strong heirs.” He smiles. Clutching your hip in a strong, thick fingered hand.

Your throat constricts. Tears squeeze. As if he’s fisted a hand around your throat and squeezed and choked until you gave. Melted into his hands pliant.

Geta has you exactly where he wanted you. As he planned.

“I need your word you’ll spare him if I agree.” You counter. Eyes hard as diamond tips. Still watery and half logged in tears.

“My word is bond. He will leave this city unharmed.” He assures. Displeased at your doubt.

Clever little nymph, too. To bargain with a god.

Asking an Emperor like him to pledge his fealty. Were you any other commoner he’d have your tongue cut out for that insolence.

Then again, cornered creatures will snap and bite and claw for survival. They will do anything.

“Then I agree.” You cry. “I accept.”

His smirk grows. Wolfish. Unsticking a coil of hair from the blood on your cheek. And he’s close. Too close for your comfort.

“You will be my Empress.” He decides.

“My wife and my property. I will own you in every manner there is. You will give me healthy sons that will dethrone my brother.”

Those words make you shrivel inside.

What have you just agreed to. You may have delayed your fathers demise. But it appears you’ve just turned the sword aimed his way to your belly. Chalked a target on your own back instead- an eye for an eye-

He turns, keeping you in his hold, he lowers his hand.

“Exile that snake out of Rome. This instant-“ He orders sharply. “Take him to the city walls and tell him never to return or I will have his head on a platter for me and my wife.”

You watch with thinly veiled relief as the guards come in to cut his bonds and drag him by the collar.

You want to run to him. You want to embrace him and tell him to return to mother with kind words and love. He is dragged away out of sight.

Bleeding and battered. But safe.

You lock eyes. Same colour as yours, shaded ocean, surrounded by bloated skin and blood sheeting his face. Cut with paths of tears rolling down, before he is gruffly marched away. Dazed, bound, and bleeding. He is choking on his sobs too.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Nothing. No familial words. No kindness.

He was torn from you. Now your every whim is stolen away. Dictated by this man. This cruel stranger. One who would bed you and keep you cowed like a broodmare.

You stood there. Watching down on the scuffled marks in the dirt where he’d once been. Dust clouding. Now empty. It seemed like an illusion. Had it all just passed like air. Like a warm sea breeze. Your life altered in one brief moment of mercy and begging.

Geta turns to his General. “You are dismissed. Leave. Go win my wars.” He sneers curtly.

Acacius took his leave with a frown and a bow. Look directed to you as he did. “Emperor. Empress.”

The Emperor snapped his fingers. And within seconds, servants scurried silently from other rooms. A handful of maidens came. Long hair unbound. Robes of orange and blue. He snapped his orders at them. They folded their hands in front of themselves. Heads low as they obeyed.

“Escort my new bride to her chambers. Have her bathed and made presentable. Put her in something decent. We will marry at dusk.” He informs. Glancing you up and down with a leer.

“Then she will grace my bed. Doing her duty like a proper wife.”

He strides over to you where you stand on the balcony, the marble thing holding you up. All strength sapped. Your knees and arms and bones were water. Not marrow.

It was always foam whipped off the waves that made you up. And now you sagged with it. Plaint and drowning. A sad drowned maiden in her brook. A doomed saint of the sea.

“Leave her hair unbound. I like it down.” He orders. Wrenching his hand to the back of your neck. You wither under his touch. He senses this.

“Be grateful. I spared your filthy treasonous father. But I can still make your existence an unpleasant one if I choose.” He warns.

He leans close to claim your mouth in a kiss so sudden and brazen it makes you weak.

His lips are pillow soft and anything but delicate. His tongue seeks your mouth, licks the blood off the healing cut. Moans sordidly when he does. He kisses like a starving hound.

A trail of spit connects your mouths when he pulls away. He smears it to your chin with a finger. Rubs his essence into your skin to stay forever stained.

“I eagerly await to taste more of you later. Empress. Don’t disappoint me. It’s not a wrath you want to risk.”

“Yes, Emperor.” You sigh.

He leaves you so quick, you almost keel over. The servants wait patiently to escort you out in his absence.

In the faraway sky, over the capital, new clouds sag and bloat. Darkly stalking across the once clear blue. The sky turns to grey and churning clouds. It’s too bad you couldn’t see the sea. You had a feeling there would thrashing, heaving storms and waves double the size of these damned palace walls.

Thunder crashes in the distant gathering dark. The ocean wanted you back. Neptune’s rage for the loss of you. You picture home. Humble white walls. The wind so fierce it ripped petals clean off the climbing vines of jasmine. The lemon trees swaying and rocked violently. News of treason and abduction reaching your sisters’ horrified ears. Your mothers cries in situ with the storm.

You watch at the sky until rain pelts the marble walls like lashes. Rain dots your skin. Cold stroking your hair and shoulders. Marring dark blue arrows down your ruined dress. Maybe you’re grieving-

A servant girl has to hook a hand on your shoulder and kindly try to urge you inside. Your tears entwined with the howling rain. It feels like that’s all that’s left of you.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[wh0re43van]

Boyfriend Pt 2 (Warren Lipka x Reader)

Summary: Your boyfriend catches Warren being a little too friendly with you, causing a fight to break out. Warren expresses that he wants to be more than a secret booty call.

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: smut, violence (not really directed at reader), blood, weed

Pt 1 , Pt 3

I wake up to my cell phone buzzing on Dakota’s nightstand. I groan, throwing the unconscious boy off me as I roll over to grab the small rectangle of plastic. I check the digital alarm clock.

2:35 in the morning. Who the fuck is calling me?

My stomach flips when I see Warrens name lighting up on my phone. I run out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Warren it’s 2:30 in the morning,” I giggle quietly as I lock the door.

“I know, I know,” he laughs. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I hear the bong bubbling in the background. My cheeks burn red. “I just got some crazy bud if you wanna come smoke,” I can hear his smirk through the phone. “I can pick you up,” he offers. I smile at his extremely tempting offer.

“I can’t,” I sigh, disappointing both Warren and myself. “I’m at Dakotas. He’ll wake up and I already agreed to drive him to the gaming store first thing in morning,” I explain. He’s silent for a moment.

“Alright,” I can hear frustration in his voice. “Yeah, I’m the side piece, I forgot,” he scoffs. My heart sinks.

“Warren, I’m sorry,” I want to cry.

“No,” he sighs. “I understand I guess. I will see you soon though,” he says calmly.

“Of course,” I sigh in relief that he still wants to see me.

“I’ll see you around, beautiful,” he says, then the line goes dead. I delete the recent call before crawling back into bed, but I’m unable to sleep. I miss Warrens voice so much. I kick myself for not accept his offer as I toss and turn for the rest of the night.

•

•

The next afternoon, I sit across from Dakota in a small local diner, playing with the spoon sticking out of my coffee mug as he talks on his cellphone to one of his friends about a football game or something, I’m not too sure honestly. I’m not really listening.

A car door slams catching my attention. I look out the condensation covered window next to our booth to see Warren and a guy I’ve never seen before step out of a vehicle. My eyes light up.

“I’m gonna go smoke a cig real quick,” I sputter in one breath, taking my pack of Camels and running out the door before Dakota even responds. I walk up behind warren without him seeing me, as he talks to the other guy getting out of the car.

“Got a light?” I ask, popping a menthol in my mouth as I smile from ear to ear, tapping his shoulder. He turns around with his eyebrows threaded in confusion, but immediately matches my expression as soon as he sees me.

“Y/n,” he pulls me into a hug. “Spencer gimme your lighter,” he demands the other guy. He tosses a blue bic lighter to Warren.

“Who’s-“ Spencer begins to ask.

“Just go get us a seat, man,” Warren cuts him off. The awkward boy walks away quietly. Warren turns back to me, his grin returning as he lights the menthol cigarette between my lips.

“Thanks,” I smile, feeling butterflies in my stomach as he watches me remove the cigarette from my lips, exhaling the smoke.

“Mind if I bum one? Spencer locked mine in his car,” he motions to the pack of Newports trapped on the passenger seat. I giggle, handing him a cig.

“You here by yourself?” he asks as the orange flame from the lighter lights up his face and reflects an auburn glow in his dark eyes.

“Uh, no, actually,” I take another drag, motioning my cigarette towards the window of the dinner. Warren tuns to see Dakota talking on his phone, still unaware of my departure.

“Oh,” his grin faulters.

“I’m, uhm, free after this though,” I offer. Just like that, his dimples have returned.

“I have some stuff to go over with Spencer,” he throws his thumb over his shoulder in reference to the awkward boy in dinner, then ashes his cigarette. “But I’m free tonight,” he stares into my eyes. I can’t contain the huge grin plastered on my face. Warren reaches his free hand out to slowly release some loose strands of my hair that the wind blew into my lip gloss. His hand lingers on my face, we lock gazes as his thumb caresses my cheek, I close my eyes and lean into his touch.

“What the fuck are you doing with my girl, man?” Dakota shouts, quickly approaching Warren. He swiftly turns around to face my angry boyfriend.

“Just calm down man. I wasn’t-“ Warren laughs, tossing his cigarette on the ground, but Dakota cuts him off by shoving his chest, hard. He doesn’t budge, but easily retaliates the gesture, sending Dakota stumbling backwards a foot or two. I know it’s wrong, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say its insanely hot watching Warren get angry.

“Keep your hands off me, douchebag or ill kick your ass right here in front of your girl,” he spits in Dakotas face, literally. Dakota looks at me, wiping Warrens’ saliva off his face, then quickly hits Warren with a right hook. Warren’s head snaps to the side with the loud thud of knuckles on skin. Warren looks back at Dakota in shock, wiping the small trickle of blood from his nose. I watch completely stunned, even though I want to stop them, I can’t move. This all happened so fast.

“You hit like a pussy,” Warren chuckles before uppercutting Dakota so hard that his neck cracks as his head flies backward. I snap out of my haze, running over to Dakota as he steadies himself. I grab his arm in attempt to help him.

“Come on, Dakota let’s just go,” I plead, not wanting to watch him get his ass laid out on the frozen pavement.

“Get off me, bitch!” he screams, back handing me, not taking his eyes off Warren. I grab my cheek, about to cuss him out when Warren takes Dakotas collar into his fists, shoving him against Spencer’s car. Warren grabs his throat, holding his head steady, so his already bruised knuckles can strike as hard as possible against Dakota’s jaw. Blood immediately pours out of his busted lip.

“Don’t fucking talk to y/n like that!” he screams, just inches from my boyfriend’s face. The veins popping out of his neck, his knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping onto Dakota. Warren spits the blood that’s dripped from his nose between his lips into Dakota’s face. “Does that make you feel strong, pussy boy? Huh? You feel like man when you bitch slap your girlfriend?” he growls, his fist contacting Dakotas abdomen this time, knocking wind out of him, leaving my boyfriend wheezing.

When Warren screams that last phrase, that’s when I realize; Dakota is fighting for his masculinity, Warren’s fighting for me. I turn on my heels to run inside the dinner, finding the boy that Warren arrived with.

“Spencer, right?” I ask out of breath. He nods his head, confused. “Warrens beating the shit out of my boyfriend, I need you to help me stop him before he kills him,” I explain breathlessly.

“Oh,” Spencer says processing what I’m saying. “Oh my- Oh my god!” He jumps from the seat, running out the door with me.

“Warren, dude come on, you’re gonna get arrested!” Spencer shouts, cautiously approaching the scuffling boys. It seems like this isn’t the first time Spencer has witnessed this. It appears that Dakota managed to get another hit or two in, because Warrens eyebrow appears busted and they’re on the ground now, a small pool of blood forming on the frosted pavement underneath Dakota.

“Fuck off, Spence,” Warren growls about to strike again.

“Please Warren! You’re gonna kill him!” I shriek. Warren pauses, Spencer takes the opportunity to pull Warren off Dakota. I run over to my boyfriend, trying to help him up.

“Get off of me you stupid bitch!” Dakota shouts, slapping me off him as he tries to stand on his shaky legs.

“Hey!” Warren shouts in the background, Spencer holds him back again.

“Dakota, please. You need help,” I plead feeling bad for him.

“This is your fault! If you weren’t out here whoring it up with this clown, this wouldn’t have happened,” he screams in my face, blood dripping from multiple different wounds on his face, his nose already purple.

“Just let me drive you home,” I sigh, feeling less guilty since he had the audacity to call me a whore, when he slept with my cousin in my own car two months ago. Actually, after remembering that, I don’t feel bad for him at all anymore.

“No! I’m walking! Fuck off! And fuck all of you! You too Spencer!” he shouts as he limps away, holding his stomach.

 I guess spencer was the mutual friend.

 I turn to see Warren leaning against Spencer’s car, smoking one of his Newports.

“What did I do?” I hear spencer ask, I ignore him.

“Warren I’m so-“ my eyes well up with tears, my cheek still stinging as the cold wind blows against the hand print on my face.

“Come here, are you okay?” He pulls me into a quick hug then examines my cheek. Placing a bloody hand on my cheek.

“Of course I’m fine,” I sigh grabbing his face. “Look at you,” I frown, putting a gentle hand on his face. He winces against my touch. His bottom lip and right eyebrow are both busted. There’s blood coming from his nose, flowing over his lips and onto his chin. His right cheek is bright red and swollen.

“You should see the other guy,” he chuckles, popping the cigarette back into his mouth. How can he joke at a time like this. Nevertheless, I laugh lightly, shaking my head.

“Let me get you cleaned up,” I offer.

“I’ll go get your keys and stuff,” he smiles.

“No, Warren, I can get them. Just stay here,” I dash back into the dinner, everyone giving me weird looks. I smile awkwardly, throwing a 10 down on the table, then run back to the boys, the bells on the doors jingling loudly behind me.

“Okay, come on,” I take Warrens hand.

“Should, uh, should I just go home then?” Spencer asks awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, Spence. Get the fuck out of here,” Warren dismisses him, half joking with the timid boy. I can tell that their friendship has an interesting dynamic.

•

•

“Thank god my folks ain’t here,” Warren sighs as he unlocks his front door, allowing me to enter the home first.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” I ask looking around the house, which is becoming a familiar scene.

“I’ll grab it, just head down to my room,” he says motioning to the basement door as he walks up the carpet steps. I obey, making my way to his bedroom.

I sit down on his couch, a few moments later, Warren enters with the first aid kit.

“Is the worst of it on your face?” I ask the mangled boy in front of me as I pop the plastic box open. He winces as he pulls his black t-shirt up and over his head. He turns around to reveal a nasty patch of road rash stretching from his spine over to his left shoulder. “Oh, Warren,” I gasp, sadness in my voice. I feel horrible for him. He sits down on the couch next to me.

“He got the best of me for about four seconds, but it was enough to fuck my back up pretty bad,” he laughs. Somehow still smiling even though he’s covered in dried blood-most of it not his- and his lip is busted.

“I’m sorry about that, Warren. I should have just stayed in the diner,” I shake my head as I open a gauze pad and grab the rubbing alcohol.

“But if you’d done that, you wouldn’t be sitting in my room right now,” he grins, but winces a bit. It probably hurts to smile; His cheek is bruised pretty bad.

“Yeah, but at least you wouldn’t be in pain,” I say as I pour the strong smelling alcohol onto the gauze.

“Worth it,” he smirks, resting his busted knuckles on my thigh.

“This is gonna sting,” I say, taking a deep breath. He nods, closing his eyes. I press the alcohol soaked cotton onto his split eyebrow.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts through gritted teeth, squeezing my thigh.

“I know, I know,” I pat the wound a couple more times before removing it. “I’m sorry,” I dampen another gauze pad, moving to his lip. He hisses again but allows me to clean the gash. Finally, I have him stand and turn so I can clean his shoulder. I can’t help but admire his back, running my fingers gently over the undamaged skin, leaving goosebumps behind every trace. The room is quiet, just the faint buzz of the dim overhead lights and Warrens breathing.

“Does it look bad?” he breaks the silence, looking at me over his shoulder.

“No, uh,” I clear my throat. “Sorry just uhm,” I clumsily grab a new cotton pad and the alcohol, naturally spilling it a bit, embarrassed that he caught me staring. “No, it’s not too bad,” I say as I fumble with the cotton.

“Why are you so nervous all the-“ he laughs, then I push the alcohol to his cuts. “Shit! Fuck, Y/n warn me next time!” he shouts. I wince at his loud tone as all the muscles in his back tense. I pull away, tears begin to form in my eyes. The past hour has been so stressful and him raising his voice sent me over the edge. I know he didn’t mean anything by it, that I just caught him off guard, but I can’t help how my body responded.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he quickly turns around, seemingly forgetting about the pain, bringing me into a tight hug as a couple tears roll down my cheeks. “I didn’t mean-“

“I know,” I smile up at him as he wipes the stray tear from my face. He looks so pretty, even when he’s doused in dried blood and half his face is bruised. “I’m sorry, I’m just stressed… I really need to smoke,” I sigh.

“Ditto,” he agrees, pulling away. “I’m gonna shower real quick. If you could, would you grab me the icepacks out of the freezer in the kitchen? Then I’ll bust out the bong,” he winks as he walks towards the bathroom in just his blood stained jeans. I smile and nod, then turn to walk up the steps.

•

•

After locating the ice packs, I run to my car to grab my weed. I go back inside, making my way to the steps, hearing a The Offspring cd playing as I descend into the basement. I see Warren already sitting on the couch, wearing nothing but a towel, his damp dark hair stuck to his forehead.

“Hey beautiful, what took so long?” he asks as I take a seat next to him.

“Oh, I ran out to my car to grab my bud so I could match you,” I explain as I set the jar on the table, then I hold an ice pack to his cheek. “You poor thing,” I sigh. He looks much better now that he’s cleaned up, but now I can see the wounds for what they really are.

“Come on y/n, you know I’m not gonna let you match me,” he laughs, continuing to break up the weed.

“Warren, I insist. I already feel bad enough that I got you into a fight,” I open the jar, but he snatches it out of my hand.

“No,” he says sternly, looking into my eyes. “And don’t say that. You had nothing to do with the fight, that dumbass came out swinging and disrespecting you. That’s all on him,” he says seriously. I just nod, a bit intimidated by his stern tone. He grabs the lighter and the bong handing it to me,

“Ladies first,” he winks, the mood much lighter now. He takes the icepack into his own hand so I can hit the bong. He watches me as I take a big hit. The warm smoke filling my lungs quickly. I blow the milky smoke towards the ceiling, as I sink into the couch.

“What?” I giggle when I realize that Warrens still watching me.

“You’re just so pretty, I never want to take my eyes off of you,” he smiles, setting the icepack down to take the glass out of my hand, pulling a huge hit. I see his muscles relax almost instantly.

“You’re pretty too,” I chuckle, taking one more hit. It doesn’t take long to feel the effects, I feel light but heavy at the same time; like I’m floating, but my limbs are too dense to move. This is one of my favorite feelings in the world.

“I was, until I got my face banged up,” he frowns, putting his mouth to the opening of the bong.

“I don’t think it’s a bad look,” I say honestly. “I know you’re in pain, but you do look pretty badass. It’s kinda sexy actually,” I giggle, the THC clouding my brain doesn’t allow me to keep that last thought to myself. Warrens ears perk up at the word ‘sexy’. He sets the bong down, scooching closer to me, the towel wrapped around his toned torso falls a bit, exposing his V-line and a bit of brown hair right below it. The sight makes me moan internally.

“Is that so?” he smirks, his face coming closer to me.

“Mhm,” I smile, bringing my hand up to feel his bare chest. He hovers above me as I lay heavy in between the couch cushions. “Even sexier than normal,” I smile, looking at him through lidded eyes. Warren leans down, pressing his busted lip against mine, I kiss back gently.

“I’ve missed your lips,” he smiles, resting his forehead against mine.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I ask, cupping his uninjured cheek in my hand.

“Nah, you fixed me up real good Doc,” he chuckles. “Plus, I’m pretty stoned right now. As they say, weed’s the best medicine,” he says bringing me into another kiss. I melt completely into him; This is all I’ve craved in the two weeks it’s been since I’ve seen him last.

“I’ve missed you so much, Warren,” I admit into the kiss.

“Lay down darling, I owe you for fixin’ me up,” he says helping me turn to lay down the couch.

“Warren, you should just take it easy, baby. You’ve been through a lot,” I rub my hand up and down his arm, over his silly tattoo. He smiles at the pet name, reaching for the waistband of my pants.

“I am taking it easy, beautiful. Weed might be the best medicine, but you’re a close second,” he smirks, taking my pants and underwear off in one swoop, making my stomach flip. I’m almost ashamed of how easily I become puddy in his hands. “Mmm, so pretty,” he gently runs his hands up my thighs as I spread my legs for him, he doesn’t even have to ask. I’m always ready for him.

“Warren you really don’t have-“ he places a quick kiss on lips.

“Shh, I don’t wanna hear you speak unless you’re moaning my name, okay, beautiful,” he says gently but sternly, a small smile plastered on his face. I can’t help but giggle as excitement courses through my body. I simply nod my head ‘yes’.

He slides down my body admiring me in all my glory. He gently slides a finger over my heat, watching me intently.

“Sucha pretty girl,” he coos as he settles his head between my legs. He wraps his arms around my thighs, holding them open as he begins licking at my clit, quickly earning a moan of approval from me. He gently sticks a finger inside of me as he continues working on my nub. “Does that feel good baby,” he asks against my core.

“Mhm,” I moan out, bringing a hand to hold onto his damp hair. The amount of weed in my system amplifies the pleasure by 100. He sucks gently on my bundle of nerves as his finger pumps into me, curling perfectly.

“Fuck warren,” I pant, curling my toes, my breath becomes shallow. He continues his steady pace, the pleasure winding in my stomach begging for release. I begin grinding against his face, begging for more contact as his tongue works expertly against me. He moans against my sensitive skin, sending chills down my spine.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” I come undone, gripping hard onto his hair as my hips continue to grind into his face, covering him in my release. He pulls away proudly, licking his fingers as I try to catch my breath.

“You taste just as good as you look,” he winks making me blush. He sighs happily, before grabbing the bong, taking another hit.

“That’s all I get?” I ask as he passes me the glass. He looks at me confused. I take a quick hit- not worried about the weed, I want him inside of me. I reach over, further removing the loosely draped towel covering his torso, revealing his erection.

“I was treating you, baby,” he laughs, “but if you insist,” he lays me back down on the couch once again as he presses a gentle kiss to my lips. He gives himself a couple pumps before lining himself into me, those dark bloodshot eyes gazing into mine makes my heart skip a beat.

“Fuck, I love how you stretch me out,” I moan as he pushes into me, a proud smirk appears on his bruised face.

“You feel so good, beautiful,” he grunts, grabbing my hips as he begins to thrust in and out of me. He’s so deep; I swear I can feel him poking my stomach.

“You fuck me so good warren, faster, please,” I whine, begging for more. I’m defenseless against him, the amount of pleasure he brings me is inhuman. He obeys, fucking me faster and deeper. I wrap my legs around him as he leans down, placing a sloppy kiss to my lips. “I want you to cum in me warren,” I pant against his lips, his eyes go wide. “I’m on the pill,” I giggle. “Please Warren I want to feel you cum inside me, I’ve never let anyone else do it, please,” I beg. His eyes cloud with even more lust, something I didn’t think was possible. He groans, sitting up so he can pull my hips flush against his with every thrust. He brings one hand down to play with my bundle of nerves, I’m unable to contain my noises of pleasure, moaning out his name.

“Fuck,” he groans lowly to himself as he rocks his hips into me. “Who’s pussy is this?” he asks in a deep growl, goosebumps appear on my skin. “Y/n, who’s fucking pussy is this?” he asks again as he thrusts hard hitting my g-spot perfectly.

“Fuck!” I scream. “Yours! It’s all yours Warren,” I pant desperately, my tone that of one you’d hear in a cheesy porno. His possessiveness and the way he’s hitting the deepest parts of me mixed with the weed brings me to my second orgasm of the night.

“That’s fucking right,” he growls, grabbing my face. My walls clench around him as his powerful thrusts become sloppy. I scream out his name, euphoria enveloping me as he shoots his cum deep inside me, I’ve never experienced anything as erotic as him fucking his seed into me as it leaks out of my throbbing cunt onto his couch. Warren pulls out reluctantly, his legs visibly shaking. I lay limp in the same spot, trying to steady my breathing and stop my own legs from shaking.

“Are you okay?” he laughs helping me sit up.

“Yeah,” I giggle. “I’ve just never been fucked like-“ I stop when I see his lip gushing blood. “Warren, baby, your lips bleeding again,” I stand up quickly to find the gauze, I ignore his cum that begins to run down my thigh.

“Leave it” he waves his hand, laying back on the couch. “I feel too good to care,” he laughs. “Come lay with me,” he pats the couch. I pick up an alcohol soaked cotton pad, then sit next to him.

“Let me clean this first,” I say. He nods reluctantly, hissing as the pad hits his lip. The bleeding stops soon. “You need to put some antibacterial ointment on that. Mouth abrasions can get infected really easily,” I begin to explain.

“You should break up with your boyfriend,” he blurts out. I don’t think he was listening to anything I said. He stares at me nervously awaiting my response.

“I know I should,” I sigh, he reaches over to the coffee table handing me my phone. “What? Now?” I ask shocked. He nods his head.

“I want you to be mine, all mine. I can’t go another two weeks without seeing you, having you too busy with that douche to see me, and I sure as fuck don’t want anyone else touching you like I just did,” he pours his heart out, not dropping my gaze once. I look away, biting my lip. He’s right, as always. I belong with him; Anyone can see that.

“Well, at least wait until the morning,” I sigh looking back at him. “I mean you did just beat the shit of the guy and cum in his girlfriend, isn’t that enough for one night,” I smile lightly, not sure how he’ll feel about the idea.

“If you stay with me tonight, and do it very first thing in the morning, then I’ll agree,” he offers with a small smile. I agree, cuddling into his side. He lays a kiss on my forehead.

I should feel guilty, but I don’t, not towards Dakota at least. I feel guilty about getting Warren hurt, but my bitch ass boyfriend had it coming. I’ve finally found someone who cares about me, and I refuse to lose that, even if this is just a fling.

[jflemings]

— the smallest man who ever lived

pairing: jessie fleming x reader, jessie fleming x child!reader

synopsis: your ex-partner comes looking to make amends

warnings: angst, absent father, unknown unresolved trauma

a/n: timeline doesn’t exist to me i just talk shit

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead? / Did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed? / Were you writing a book? Were you a sleeper cell spy? / In fifty years, will all this be declassified?

you clap and wave to fans as you walk around the pitch, kyra coming up behind you to sling an arm over your shoulder. arsenal had just won against spurs on penalties at meadow park and the home crowd was only making the winning high more intense.

instead of sitting on the bench, piper was in the stands with jessie. it was a rare occasion that jessie got to come to one of your games she wasn’t playing in, so she took the opportunity for what it was and made a day out of it with piper.

she had made pancakes for the two of them before getting her dressed in your arsenal jersey and doing her hair in two little buns, smiling as piper sang north london forever and repeated cloé and katie’s chants. she made sure to pack snacks and raphael up in her ninja turtle bag and then the two of them went to the coffee shop near your place to get hot chocolate’s before heading to the game.

you wave to them from where they sit before taking a few photos and signing some things, finishing your lap with kyra still hanging off you like a sloth.

“is jessie in an arsenal jersey?” kyra asks as she waves to them

you can’t help but roll your eyes “as if. i think she’s wearing red socks though”

kyra snickers and pulls you along, kicking at steph’s feet as she passes “i’m sure she’s having the time of her life”

“piper will make sure of that”

your short conversation is cut short when leah grabs kyra’s shoulders from behind “where’s my partner in crime! i thought she’d be on the pitch with all of us”

you lean your head back against kyra’s arm to look at her “jessie’s got her. they’re sitting in the stands”

leah rolls her eyes playfully and throws an arm over the younger australian, breaking kyra’s hold on you and dragging her into half of a headlock as she continues talking to “make sure she knows where her loyalties lie l/n, we can’t have her becoming a blue”

“she sleeps in her catley jersey before every game day and sings north london forever at the top of her lungs when we get her dressed. she’s gonna be fine” you point at her “but i cannot be at fault if she wears a chelsea jersey to a match, she’s a mama’s girl”

“she’s also auntie ky’s girl” kyra pipes up as she wrestles with leah’s arm “which has to mean something”

kyra breaks out of leah’s hold and slaps her on the forehead before running off laughing. leah surges forward and tires to nab the back of her jersey but misses before calling out to steph to grab her. leah too jogs off, leaving you by yourself for a few moments.

you’re scanning the crowd of supporters when a man standing near the tunnel catches your eye. his arms are crossed tightly over his chest and he’s not got any fan gear on, just a plain grey shirt under a black windbreaker and black jeans. you squint slightly and cock your brow as you try to subtly get a look at him. only when he uncrosses his arms and tucks his hands into his pockets does a lightbulb go off in your head.

your blood runs cold and you speed walk off the pitch, your face set in stone as you approach him. he cocks his head slightly and steps back when you get closer, allowing you to properly look at him for the first time in four years.

his hair is shorter and his eyes still hold the same passiveness they did before. his skin isn’t tanned like it always was when you were teenagers so you guess that he might have been in london for a while. a scowl settles on your face.

“what are you doing here” you harshly whisper whilst dragging him to an area with more cover “you shouldn’t be here”

“y/n” he says placidly

your mouth goes dry at the sound of your name coming out of his mouth, a pit forming in your stomach at how easy it rolls off his tongue.

“you shouldn’t be here” you repeat firmly, looking behind you to make sure none of your teammates are watching.

he tuts “i came here to talk to you”

“at my game and after four years of nothing? i don’t think so” you spit, further backing him into a corner and hiding him away from any prying eyes “i gave you a chance to talk years ago and you told me to fuck off”

“and i shouldn’t have done that” he says calmly “but you didn’t give me much time to think about it before you moved to london”

you can’t help but scoff “didn’t give you much time?, liam, you had a year before i moved! you shut me out”

he throws his arms out and drops his jaw “i didn’t know what else to do i—

“y/n?”

you snap your head around to the new, oh so recognisable voice, and sigh. your face softens at the sight of jessie standing there with a worried expression on her face, her hands reaching for you, and piper no where to be found.

she looks over your shoulder briefly before locking eyes with you “you alright?”

“he was just leaving” you wave off half, your attention now fully on your partner.

“no, actually, we need to talk”

“no, actually, we don’t” you say forcefully, grabbing jessie by the arm and standing in front of her slightly “we have nothing to talk about, you made that very clear when you told me you wanted nothing to do with me when i got pregnant”

liam looks from jessie to you, his brown eyes swirling with desperation “i made a mistake, i was young and stupid and wasn’t ready for a kid”

“and you think i was? you think i was ready to be a mother, to have to potentially end my career?” your grip tightens on jessie’s arm and you feel her hand lay over yours “do you think i was ready to have all my friends shut me out and be completely isolated from everyone i knew? i wasn’t ready but i made a choice, and every single day i make sure that i am the best mother for her that i can be” your voice wavers slightly and you feel jessie’s thumb draw circles on your knuckles.

this isn’t the place to have this conversation. fans are still filtering out of the stands and your teammates are fifty metres away and your girlfriend, your ever loving, kind, worried, girlfriend is standing behind you as you try to get your ex to leave you alone.

you had hoped that him saying that he wanted nothing to do with you or piper would be the end of it. because despite how many times you tried to contact him the first six months of piper’s life, he ignored you. he didn’t want to know you or your baby and it wasn’t fair that he got to show up on a random sunday and try to make amends.

liam looks behind you again and draws his mouth into a thin line, his eyes cold as he refuses to verbally acknowledge jessie “i want to know my daughter. she needs two parents”

the tears that were building behind your eyes disappear and are replaced with white hot fury “she’s got two” you grit out “and a whole lot of family that would do anything for her”

“teammates aren’t family” he stresses to you, his voice now pleading as he tries to convince you of something that isn’t true.

“a teammate is the one who was in the delivery room with me when i gave birth. my teammates were the ones that flew from all over the world to meet her. my teammates have given her more love than you would ever have to offer” you begin to raise your voice as your breathing goes ragged “my teammates, my family, have helped me give her the best life i could ever offer her.” you get right up in his face as jessie holds your arm in a silent plea to not make a scene.

she pulls you slightly and you step back against her. your brows furrow and a frown has settled on your face. you can tell by how she’s holding you that jessie is probably wearing a matching expression. he stands tall and looks down the bridge of his nose at you, apparently unfazed about what you just told him.

“jessie can’t replace her father” liam snapped at you, his brows drawing together.

“there is no father to replace” your face goes rock hard as you try your best to not let your anger simmer over more “and even if there were, she’s done a great fucking job at doing it”

he falters and his eyes go wide in shock. his facade quickly drops and he rushes to pull a piece of paper out of his pocket as you turn your back “y/n— wait, can you just— here’s my number and my address. please just give me a call, i want to know piper”

you reach and snatch the paper out of his hands before pointing at him “you do not get to insult my partner and then turn around and say that you want to know my daughter. jessie is everything to her, absolutely everything, and there is nothing or no one that will ever replace that”

jessie leads you away from him and into the tunnel, rubbing your back up and down as you hold back tears. you stop for a moment once you’re far enough down and lean on the wall “piper?” you question quietly.

“with leah and manu” the canadian answers softly “are you okay?”

you look up just as your hands start to shake. tears cloud your vision “he shouldn’t be here”

“i know”

“he gave me nothing when i got pregnant” you stress to her, your voice cracking “he told me that he didn’t want to be apart of our baby’s life and then told me to fuck off when i told him she had been born” you cry to her “jessie he didn’t even want to know her name”

jessie‘a face twists into a scowl and her hands flex by her side before pulling you in by your shoulders. you cry into her shoulder softly as she twirls her fingers through your ponytail and holds the back of your neck “do you wanna go home and talk about it? we can see if leah will take piper for the night”

you nod and pull yourself off of her, wiping your tears with the heel of your palm “let me just go get my stuff and talk to leah”

jessie swipes her thumb under your eye and nods, watching you go into the change rooms.

“mummy!” piper yells, standing up on katie’s cubby “you played so good!” she praises, reaching her arms up and wrapping her legs right around your waist.

“thank you baby” you reply, kissing her on the forehead. you set her down again and walk to leah who’s packing the last of her things in her bag.

“can you take piper tonight? i know this is so last minute, and it’s alright if you can’t, but jessie and i need to sort some things out”

leah looks over her shoulder and frowns slightly “of course, are you okay?”

you nod and plaster a fake smile onto your face “yeah i’m all good”

if leah notices your clipped tone she doesn’t say anything about it. she hands piper her backpack to put on as she puts her toiletries bag in her own backpack.

you lean down to be at your daughter’s eye level “you’re gonna stay with auntie leah tonight okay?”

“but what about ice cream!” piper pouts cutely. you sigh and brush her check affectionately.

“i’m sure if you ask nicely leah will take you”

piper immediately turns and pulls on the hem of leah’s shorts “leah” she draws “can we please get ice cream?”

leah smiles down at her and pats her head affectionately “of course we can. i’ll even get you a double scoop”

piper’s eyes brighten and she claps with glee, her little buns bouncing as she rapidly nods her head. she turns to you again and wraps her arms around her neck “bye mummy, be good”

you scrunch your nose as she pulls away “you be good” you tap the tip of her nose before standing, now looking at leah “if you need anything just let me know and i’ll drop it over”

leah winks and waves you off, allowing you to quickly go to your own cubby and grab your things. you skip a shower and push the door to the dressing room open, speed walking to get back to jessie.

she’s leaning against the wall with one hand in her pocket whilst she scrolls on her phone, her cap low on her head. when she hears your cleats on the concrete she turns to you “ready?”

you hum and nod affirmatively and let jessie take your bag off your hands and sling it over her shoulder. the two of you walk out to her car in silence, the only sound surrounding you being the rushed, rhythmic sound of your cleats on gravel and the afternoon breeze that’s blowing past your ears.

the car ride is silent as well. you keep thinking about the interaction over and over again whilst jessie drives, stealing glances at you every so often. the tension in the car is thick but you’re too in your head to notice it.

you’re on autopilot from the moment jessie pulls up to the moment you finally strip yourself of your kit and get in the shower. the steam encapsulates you, allowing you to feel like you can finally breathe. this shouldn’t be how your afternoon goes. normally after a win you’d celebrate with the girls in the dressing room and then take piper for ice cream, not stand in the shower on the verge of tears after your ex decided to show up to a game.

you feel horrible. not only had you caused a scene, but you had done it in front of jessie. all she was doing was coming to check on you and she got insulted by the man who couldn’t look at you after you told him you were a lesbian. it made your gut swirl.

beads of water run hot down your back as you finally break, choked sobs escape your throat and tears fall down your face uncontrollably. you can’t even bring yourself to care that you’re not alone in the house, you just need to get everything that’s built up out. 

when you turn off the water you’re still crying but make the attempt to dry your face with the towel. as you get dressed you still sniffle, not being able to get the image of your twenty year old pregnant self out of your head.

it was fucked up. so, so unbelievably fucked up that someone who was barely an adult, who was still figuring out who they were, had to care for a baby. you wouldn’t change it for the world, but that doesn’t mean that you deserved to get tossed aside during the most vulnerable time of your life the way you did.

hanging your head, you lean on the counter and cry harder, completely missing the knocking on the door. you aren’t even aware that jessie had come to check on you until her arms are wrapped around your body, one hand coming up to cradle your head comfortingly.

you drop your weight into her arms “it’s not fair!” you wail “he can’t do this to me! he can’t fucking do this to me!”

jessie coos in your ear “i know. i know, he can’t. he doesn’t have that right”

“he left me, h-he left me when i needed support the most!” you choke, standing up to wipe your eyes “steph was the only person in the delivery room with me when it should’ve been him! ellie, and mackenzie, and alanna, and lydia were outside waiting to meet her, not him! sam got on the first flight out when she heard that i was in the hospital. how dare he say that my teammates aren’t my family when they were all i had”

jessie’s jaw drops as you tell her this. she knew that your national teammates were there for piper’s first moments, and you had said in passing that one of them was in the delivery room with you, but she had no idea that steph was the only one with you.

“and then he says that she doesn’t have two parents, are you fucking kidding me!”

wrapping her arms around you securely, jessie guides you to sit on the toilet and catch your breath. you sob into her neck as she squeezes you, trying to make you feel as secure as she can.

she’d never felt hatred like this before. hot fury courses through her like lava and completely overtakes her body. there were a few things that you hadn’t told her about your ex, and she never pushed you or asked questions. she knew your feelings towards him and how he treated you when the two of you initially broke up, but she had no idea how seeing him again would affect you.

she kind of wishes she didn’t hold you back when she did.

you lift your head from her neck “i don’t want to see him. he can’t meet piper, i won’t put her in that position” you determine “i don’t want her confused when she has you, it wouldn’t be fair to either of you”

the canadian nods “okay” she says firmly “it wont happen”

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

CAKE FOR A DEAD MAN (I)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER II

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 4.6k

WARNINGS: Angst, problems with food & image, mentions of stalking, unwanted gifts, death, violence, gore, blood, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Color, as most would say, is one of the best aspects of sight. It allows such a myriad of emotions to be expressed—even felt. Red reminds us of passion; navy for elegance and a certain mystique. Not only seen but processed on such a deeper level. Refractions of light that explode into the retina, rod and cone cells that send signals to the brain to help detect that phenomenon like a gift of evolution. 

But when you can’t see any of that—color—who’s to explain what the red of the roses actually looks like above a deep shade of gray? That navy blue looks even darker, too. Closer to black. Light purple becomes the same hue as the curtains your mother hangs on the windows, but you can’t tell if that’s really purple or not. How can it be anything other than slate? People tell you it is…at least, those who’ve already met their partners. Their soulmates. 

But there’s little hope for you on that front, really.

You wave to the photographer, calling out a broken Russian goodbye as he smiles warmly at you, nodding his head in your direction before watching you walk out of the studio room’s doors. A large gaggle of other finely-clad women surrounds you on the way to the changing rooms. 

Even with three-and-a-half years of living in this northern country, your mastery of the native language starts and ends with simple pleasantries.

The modeling agency was packed today and you still had so much to do. You stuff down your internal list of scheduled fittings, meetings, and more booked photoshoots that extend into the chilled evening of Yekaterinburg, Russia. There was just so little time. 

Gray hallways and white overhead lights meet your eyes between blinks, potted plants boring and drab. If you could see the shades in between the leaves you’d know you would find them beautiful, but like this…well, they’re just sad.

You shake your head and shuffle to the back of the group, throwing tiny smiles to the kind, and stunning, women who you’ve had little real conversation with. One kisses you on the cheek and pats your shoulder, and you laugh brightly before pulling to the rear, face heating.

“The bastard is finally dead!” The familiar voice causes you to freeze with one heeled foot in the air—fingers picking at the strap of your silk dress absentmindedly before it, too, stills. They were always forcing you into silk with feathered accent pieces of intricate detail. Like a bird, or, Seraph, more precisely. 

Blinking in surprise, you turn around just in time to lock onto the drained shades that make up Alyona Arkadyevna Solovyova before she grips your shoulders harshly. 

Her collarbone-length hair swishes heavily, but it’s not as violent as the smile on her sharp face. 

“Finally, little Солнышко! This is perfect news. The bastard is dead!” Alyona’s English is very good, and of course, it would be—when she was younger she dreamed of being an English teacher. That was before she realized she was just about the most attractive woman of her generation. The harsh Russian accent still bleeds through.

You laugh and grip her long, pale, arms; seeing her in a blouse and pencil skirt as you tilt your head, asking, “Christ, Alyona, give me a warning next time. If I rip anything I’m in deep shit.” 

“Gah,” Your friend waves a hand and releases you, tiny eyes creasing, “forget about that—did you not hear me the first time? My father, Seraph, listen to me! He is finally dead! It happened just this morning but I only got word ten minutes ago.” She laughs, throwing her hands up, and you hide your amused exasperation, limbs tired but it won’t stop you from appreciating your friend’s enthusiasm. Alyona squeals, “A train hit him!”

You cringe internally, face pulling taunt. “Oh,” your chest sputters as you clear your throat, “that’s, uh, that’s…great?”

“Of course it is!” Hands capture your cheeks, squishing as you worry about the state of your makeup. Alyona speaks brightly, “We need to celebrate, Солнышко. Come.”

Before you can protest she’s dragging you away from the other women and the direction of the changing rooms, all had stopped and were listening intently from behind; nosey. Everyone in the Allurement Modeling Agency building, AMA for short, just had that way about them—your business was their business and vice versa. 

And Alyona had no problem airing out her grievances with her estranged father to the choir. She lived for drama.

“Aly,” You huff a soft breath at her and her bobbing hair. She said it was blonde and you had no other option but to believe her. Not yellow-blonde, she had specified. Ice-blonde. “I can’t go out in company property. Plus, I have a photoshoot for Chanel in under an hour. The photographer needs me to be ready.”

But it seems your concerns fall on deaf ears and you can’t help but chuckle and grin at your friend's lack of care about work. She herself was a model, but the entire company halted when she said it should. 

You were truly surprised they hadn’t fired her yet. 

“And I’m sure Chanel has an absolutely hideous dress for you, my Seraph.” Ashen eyes turn back to stare at you, and once she realizes you wouldn’t fight her, her grip releases. “Some Медовик will do you good before the vultures close in, yes? Let us hope they don’t shackle you to those damning lace lingerie sets over cake.” 

Your head tilts with a short sigh, and you walk beside the woman in your clacking heels. The sound of the authentic honey cake seemed to itself to coat your insides with a lust for it—dripping layers of plush gray sponge with pale cream. Your mouth waters. 

“I’m only eating half a piece.” You settle slowly, though you hate your own words as your stomach rolls with hunger. Some time outside will do you good, anyway. Perhaps you’ll learn to photosynthesize like a plant. “I still have to be able to fit into those fabric contraptions, you know.”

Alyona squeals and loops her arm in yours easily, bright teeth in a grin like a cat. Ever one to run into objects and lacking a general ability to walk in a straight line, the support from Alyona was much appreciated. Her help with lending an arm went far, especially for you. 

Your heart warms with soft care.

“I’ll take it! We can split one.” When you both make it to the front of the building, having grabbed your jackets and purses on the way there, you come to three familiar faces while chatting with Alyona about both of your upcoming bookings. 

“I was under the impression you had the day filled,” Petya speaks, heavy accent like stone. The clean-shaven man in his late thirties was built and wearing a dark suit, the tallest out of the other two—Aleksandr and Yefim—who both wear similar outfits. They were resting in the front seating area of AMA as they’d been doing for weeks already, waiting for you to come and go like escorts.

Well, bodyguards, to be more precise. Yours.

You smile politely to them while Yefim sends one back with his boyish charm and dimples. “On break. We’re off to get some Medovik down the street. I can pay for you if you’d want a piece.” 

“Of course, the three will have to tag along, hm?” Alyona huffs, staring blandly as you both slow to a stop near the large white entrance, colored as if it was Heaven’s gates. Your friend had said coloring around this building was rare. Whites and grays. Green chairs, apparently. “I’m just ecstatic.” 

Petya didn’t like you, and, you assumed, Aleksandr didn’t either. With the ladder, his sharp face was always too blank to tell; body tight and unwelcoming with weasel-like eyes. Petya was simpler, blatantly more outward with his distaste.

“Not a smart idea. This isn’t a game to play, девушка.” Alyona’s face tightens, and you swiftly placate her with a squeeze to her bicep. You level Petya with a tilt of your head and a calm look. 

“What harm could a bite to eat do? It won’t cost you your life.” You chuckle smoothly. “Let me get you all something—it’s nearly noon, I’m sure you’re all hungry.”

“I could eat,” Yefim eases in, hands resting in his pockets as he stares at you. His accent was calmer than the others, and his face softer. Out of all of them, you liked him best. 

Your eyes rest on Yefim with a thankful expression. He smirks and nods. Aleksandr, as always, says nothing beyond a small scoff and a look around the room with shifting feet. 

When the tallest of the group does nothing to push back his sneer and heavy glare, you hum under your breath as you expect the words before they rush from his sharp mouth.

“I will have to speak to your mother about this.” The accent makes him sound so stiff—like a statue. A man built up of gravel and snow; concrete in his veins instead of blood. 

“Oh, yes,” Alyona mutters, “the Consul herself.” 

Your nose moves in a sigh, but you ease the situation with a simple, “Do whatever you need to, Petya. I know it’s your job and I’m thankful regardless, but we’ll be back in less than an hour. It’s no big deal.” You pause, plastering on an innocent look. “We’re hungry.”

 For whatever reason you always envisioned Petya with dark eyes—blacks more deep than the clothes they put Alyona in to off-set your given whites when you two are fitted together. But the man’s eyes were so painfully light it made you not want to stare into them. 

Petya grunts and continues to glare, working his jaw. After a moment he lets off a large huff and shakes his head in disapproval.

“Half-an-hour. No more.” 

Alyona manhandles you out the door quickly, growling, “I do not know how you can stand this, Seraph. Bullshit, all of it.” 

“It’s only until everything goes back to normal,” you reason, hearing three sets of footsteps behind you as the guards follow into the chilled air of Yekaterinburg. There was no reason to take a car, everything was within walking distance of one another in this dense city populated by over one million people. “My mother’s worried is all. I’m not going to make their lives harder while they’re only doing what they’re told to do.” 

Light eyes dart to your face, your friend’s hand guiding you along the concrete with a dim concern. “I do not like all of this, Солнышко. It’s been months…Are the gifts still coming?”

Your expression tightens, lips going stiff. Alyona notices and changes the subject for now.

“Ah, but what am I doing—I’m ruining the celebration! Come, come, we will talk about my engagement to Nikifor while we eat.” 

Nikifor, her soulmate. The one who brought her color and music with his performance at a nightclub two years ago; the only thing standing in the way of their marriage was Alyona’s strict father. Something about the man wanting someone with higher standing than a musician for his famous daughter. 

“How is he?” You ask, blinking away the thought of finally being able to see color for the first time and how that must feel. A piece of you would always be envious of that. 

Alyona must have blushed because she always tilts her nose lower when she does. You smile and chuckle under your breath. 

“Wonderful,” is all she offers, but the giddy grin on her lips is knowledge enough. 

You both make it to the small bakery at the end of the long street, heels clicking and cheeks chilled. People had turned to look at you, gaping at the two models still in their expensive clothes and attempting to take pictures on their phones. All were strong-armed by the three men close behind you who bark things in Russian. 

Alyona opens the door of the bakery for you and you accidentally knock your shoulder into the frame, giving a sheepish smile before carefully walking to your regular corner table. Your tall friend goes to order while you take your seat with a sigh, Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim all shuffling in and sending glances to you; looking over the interior with sharp and calculating eyes. 

It’s like they think the sky’s going to fall, you surmise, twitching your lips their way. They’ve been here before with me, do they still not trust it?

Back when things had been less serious they’d allowed you to go where you wished with them—parks, for walks, stores—now it was only work and home. As if you didn’t already feel so trapped. 

“You boys can pick what you want,” you call to them softly. “My treat.”

“On the job,” is all Petya grunts before he takes his normal seat at the table closest to the door; everything in his bright sight. Your hand lightly tightens on the table, but you keep your expression placid. 

You’d tried to get him to lighten up, Aleksandr too, but the two weren’t as open to you as Yefim. There was a blatant distrust of Westerners here, even if you had given up your citizenship to move where your mother works in the Consulate building of this very city. 

While she was still employed by the American government, that didn’t stand in any sense with you. But on top of you being a famous model, your mother was well-known, regardless, and that ultimately fell back on you. 

Yefim’s gray eyes flickered to a case of Bird Milk Cake with a hidden longing as he grasped the back of his chair and slid into it—floorboards creaking loudly. You notice and chuckle under your breath, cheeks heating at the sight as the man’s gaze moves to you and blinks in surprise. He quickly averts his gaze and clears his throat, fixing the collar of his dress shirt.

You’d buy him a piece before you left; maybe kiss his cheek just to see him go all blurry-eyed. He certainly was adorable.

“The baker’s boy is staring again,” Alyona’s voice snaps into your head, and you peer at your friend’s face, startled. 

“What?” You ask as a plate is set in the middle of the table holding a single piece of Medovik. Your mouth fills with saliva, fingers immediately moving like a starved dog to grab a fork and cut into the layers; you shovel it into your mouth before you hiss to pace yourself. 

You chew slowly, swallow, and give Alyona a confused look.

She slides you an unimpressed frown. “The boy. At the front.”

“He’s probably gaping at you,” you take another bite, rubbing at your cheek with your free hand as people walking by the front window peek in with wide eyes; your men glare and move their chairs as the ground squeaks again. 

Your friend scoffs and mutters in Russian, shaking her head. Her hand waves quickly, barking, “Look!” 

Rolling your eyes with a small smile, you look over and dab your face with a napkin before you get locked into a staring match with the dark eyes of the man up-front. 

He wears an apron, head a mess of curls, and his upper arms stained with flour. You blink and pause, wondering if…perhaps…A pause, a sickly hope in your chest…but nothing happens and the contact is broken when he ducks his head before looking at the counter. 

Gritting your teeth, you focus back on your cake and shove aside the sinking feeling in your chest. 

Idiot, you criticize yourself. Now why would you think that would work?

“Nothing, then?” Alyona clicks her tongue and takes up her own fork. “Do not fret, we will find him eventually, Seraph.”

“It’s not like I would know.” The air goes a temperature warmer—bodies stilling. 

While soulmate colorblindness was simply the reality of life, diagnosed colorblindness was still a curse that couldn’t be solved. If you ever saw your soulmate…you wouldn’t even know it. 

All because of that stupid accident. 

You act unbothered by the shift in the conversation and sigh. “You said you wanted to talk about your engagement,” your words remind the woman and she sets off into a tangent about the dress and the location after a moment of quiet concern. A church, she explained, the big one down the road where they’ll be a few days after the civil ceremony and the outer city venue. 

Alyona is only twenty, but you know that it’s incredibly common here to get married this early. Listening, you offer input here and there, but as it always does, the topic falls back to you as you eat the slice of cake dedicated to a dead man. 

Your knife-driven problem. 

The gifts. 

Already, you begin feeling uncomfortable.

“Aly,” you try to grumble, resisting the urge to eat the entire piece of Медовик as you put your utensil down. Your hand jerks over the table and you glare down at it in annoyance, ignoring the tensed nerves. “It’s not important—”

“How many more pieces of jewelry has he sent, hm? Letters?” The woman shivers and rubs at her arms. “It is horrendous behavior. Total fuck-up. And the fact that no one has caught him? Gah!”  

Your spine straightens itself, eyes sliding to the people gawking outside the window and seeing the multiple faces, shuffling bodies that pile next to each other like sardines in a can. 

“I just don’t want to think about it, okay?” You shake your head, turning away as a pit forms in your gut; realizing the fragility of your psyche when you think about the fact that anyone outside could be the source of your problem. The stalker. “If it’s just the gifts I can deal with them—the letters I never even read. If I ignore it they’ll stop eventually. All of this can be one big bad dream.” 

Your hand continues to shake on the table, not exactly in your realm of control just as the inability to walk in a straight line is. It was no wonder why they never let you do runway shows, you think sarcastically. You’d be stuck in a photographer’s room for the rest of your career.

Alyona pushes a strand of her hair out of her face. 

“Seraph…you know it does not work like that.” Of course you did, but asking for help was never your strong suit. And your mother had already given you three well-trained bodyguards to escort you to and from work—that was more than enough protection. 

When you think of the expensive parcels that had been dropped at AMA’s front desk you had to restrain the honey cake coming back up your gullet. All of them had been expensive; pieces you could afford on a model's pension but still wildly elegant to even touch much less own in multitude. Gold bracelets inlay with black opal and sapphire, necklaces with Tanzanite, and rings of ruby, your mother had told you this when you had brought them to her off of only seeing washed-out tones on your part. 

You never showed anyone the letters; they lived in a lockbox under the bed in your apartment. Concerningly, lately the ‘presents’ had been losing the plot. Random bits of glass and shiny items—a slow deterioration but somehow even more scary. 

Even the older women at the front desk were softening the usual sneers they wore when you walked in every day, no longer chiding you in Russian they know you can’t understand. The way they seemed pitiful rubbed you the wrong way.

You pull your jacket closer to you and rub a hand slowly along your thigh in a soothing gesture. Aly pulls her brows in. 

“I want to help you, little Солнышко, but I don’t think this is something I can fix with my womanly charms.” Your lips release a snort, tiny chuckles hitting the air. 

Alyona joins you before silence once again lapses. 

“...Do you feel alright?” Your friend asks honestly. Worry was plain on her face. 

You smile, but your lungs tighten in your chest while your heart acts like a dancer and lightly skips beats. “By next month,” your hand shakes over your thigh, “all of this will be in the past. No one could keep this up forever. I just have to…wait it out. It’s only the gifts, I can live with that—jewelry isn’t hurting anybody except his wallet.” 

The woman narrows her eyes at you and frowns, but it’s not long before she goes back to her half of the Медовик and takes a bite with a moan of enjoyment. You rarely lied, so you supposed she had no trouble believing you.

If only you could fraud yourself like that.

“Quite a wealthy bastard, though, no?” Alyona slyly pokes fun and you blink quickly. 

“Aly!” 

“I am just saying!” 

You press your hand to your lips to hide your loud laugh, Yefim looking over with a certain airiness to his expression before Aleksandr jerks his shoulder to face him back forward. The two glare at each other as Petya stares violently at the front door—daring those outside to try and come in and ask for a picture. 

While you hadn’t come back to this bakery in a while, the three men always seemed to pick the exact same table; the one with the perfect view of everything going on near the door. While it was a small distance away, it allowed for quick action in any direction. 

You blink away as the wooden boards under the bodyguards’ table creak again, loud enough to cause Alyona to frown in that direction. Petya sends an annoyed look down and scowls. 

“How do you know he’s not just stealing them,” you bring back the conversation, smirking. “You know? Maybe he’s a,” your voice lowers an octave in fake secrecy and Aly’s eyes roll, amused, “jewel thief.”

“God above,” the woman huffs. “That would be the twist.”

The both of you joked and picked fun, but that half an hour went past quickly, and soon it was time to get back to the agency so you could change again. The photographer couldn’t take pictures of air and play it off as you with a smile and a nervous stutter. 

As you stand you stare long at the cases of baked goods, licking the remnants of cream off your lips 

“We can buy another, Seraph,” Aly suggests, fixing her coat. You shake your head immediately. 

“No, no, I’ve already had enough sugar. I had two muffins for breakfast. Chocolate.” Your face pulls into a cringe at the words. “Cheat day.” 

Alyona’s lips go tighter, but she says nothing as her hair is puffed out of her face. She out of everyone knows how demanding modeling can be—your entire life is dictated by two things: calories, and appointments. 

You turn to Yefim with his wavy hair and his soft, dimpled, smile; casual eyes. Not your soulmate, based on his lack of reaction the first time you had met, but in that time you’d grown a tiny crush on the man, admittingly. He was kind and treated you with respect. Capable and reliable—how could you ask for more than that? 

“Yefim?” Your voice calls out, a smile on your lips. The man looks over and blinks in surprise. He clears his throat, stuttering as he shifts in his seat. The wood tilts slightly under him and he steadies himself on the edge of the table.

“Да, Ma’am?” 

Restraining a giggle, you cock your head as Alyona snorts.

“Do you want a slice of Bird Milk Cake?” Petya slides you a blank look and Aleksandr taps his fingers to the table. You poke fun, “For when you’re on break, of course.” 

Yefim’s eyes sparkle in their colorless state, a handsome smile taking his lips back along his face. He makes a move to stand up, floorboards squealing loudly as weight is lessened. 

“I would be in your debt—”

The world explodes into a slate-gray blaze of heat and hellfire. 

Your body is thrown back before you can even begin to understand that you’re in danger, panic completely bypassed for a total blank sensation of confusion. Spine slapping into the glass of the window, your form is hurled by a vast boom out of the bakery entirely before it slams to the concrete multiple feet away. 

You slide, rolling in a mess of limbs and ripped silk. For a good moment, you have no idea what just transpired, confusedly lifting your head from the ground and blinking below you as everything rings. Your hand grips the side of your head, the thick liquid seeping in between your fingers as you peel it back and look with shaky vision. 

Blackened blood is coated along your palm, slipping along your wrist as you tilt your hand up in horrified uncertainty. 

Everything comes back in a millisecond of screaming and running feet; like a switch being flipped. You snap your head back to what remains of the bakery as blood slides down your temple. 

“A-Alyona?!” Heels sliding, you stand but stumble back down just as quickly, hands slapping against the ground as you raggedly cough more, chest burning from the force at which you’d been thrown. 

What the hell had just happened? An explosion? 

There was little left of the bakery beside the front door, smoke billowing out of the broken windows as gray flames spark with the familiar sound of burning material—a sharp burn is taken into your nostrils. 

Dragging an arm forward, you grasp something warm and wet in an attempt to get up again. You look to the side and immediately scream at what you see.

Yefim’s upper body was completely fine besides the burns and the lack of his hair, the peeling flesh…it was the absence of the entire lower body that struck you with waves of horror. You slam a hand to your lips and wail, slipping back on kicking legs as tears well in your tear ducts.

Guts were leaking over the concrete, and the dark, gaping, wound spread a fast puddle out around the sputtering that made his chest look like it was moving. Eyes flutter, lashes flapping quickly. 

He looked confused, and that was perhaps the worst part of it. 

Yefim died only half a man, his entrails pooling out of his ribcage, only twenty seconds after you’d asked him if he wanted a piece of cake. Your fingers hide the loud sobs as you stare into this blank expression, hand shaking so bad that it hits your nose. 

“I…I,” you stutter, shapes and flashes rushing back and forth at the sides of your vision. Pressure holds at your left shoulder. 

“Seraph!” The sentence falls off into feminine Russian cursing and screaming, a grip shaking you back and forth, urging you to listen. 

There are wails and the roar of cars, but you don’t have to be given a speech to know the truth about the toll as the fire burns hotter and the blood runs faster. Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim are dead. They had been sitting on top of something that had triggered when Yefim had released weight from it. 

The creaky floorboards. 

“Seraph!” Alyona tries again, grabbing you under the shoulders and dragging you away from the corpse as bystanders’ phones flash with pictures being taken. There’s just so much screaming. “Seraph, please, we need to move! The fire is spreading!”

They had been sitting right on top of it. But…but they always sat there…they…they were always…

In the corner of your eye, a dark phantom looms across the street as the first sirens of the police cars race down the road; a burning silhouette of black mist and ashen smoke.

As the bakery burns and the corpse of Yefim grows cold, it slips away into the forming crowd.

TAGS:

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[theambitiouswoman]

Kefir is one of the healthiest things on the planet 🌎 that you can consume.

Kefir is a fermented milk🥛that is packed with probiotics, vitamins, minerals and is a must for gut health.

🐄🌿 Benefits:

- Probiotics for gut health & boost immune system.

- Helps with digestion

- High protein & keeps you feeling full

- Contains AHA (great for your skin)

- Packed with calcium, vitamin D, and K

- Helps improve sleep quality

- Great for blood sugar and cholesterol

- Anti inflammatory

- Has B12. Important for red blood cell formation & neurological function.

- Has Biotin and B1 (thiamine) which helps converts food into energy and helps promote healthy skin, hair & brain function.

- Has antibacterial properties

+ more 🐮

**please consult with your doctor if you have stomach issues, a weak immune system, diabetes or are unsure if you can combine probiotics with your medication 💗

[wikipediapictures]

Packed red blood cells

[ghostlyforxst]

this literally happened today to me. I fell asleep and when I woke up I suddenly had one of the worst nosebleeds I have ever had. There was blood all over the lower half of my face, my entire hand, my bed, and my cell phone. So how would the Upper Moons react if Reader fell asleep normally, woke up and then frantically tried to find tissues because they got such a bad nosebleed out of nowhere

GENDER: Gender Neutral Reader

WARNINGS: Blood Metions (Nosebleeds)

CHARACTERS: Kokushibo, Douma, and Akaza

A/N- Here ya go, I written the upper three. But, if you'll like me to write the rest of them in the future let me know!

KOKUSHIBO

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 Your hand cupped nose as you stumbled out the bedroom, going through cabinets for any tissue or cloth to cease your sudden nosebleed. But plainly, Kokushibo was lacking some human necessities.

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 You cursed under your breath before whirling around, now frantic for tissues, but you collided into Kokushibo.

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 His six eyes observed your panicky and blood-smeared face, frowning deeper.

“What happened?” Kokushibo asked, toneless.

“Nosebleed.”

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 Expressionless, Kokushibo is not much expressive, but within he's concerned.

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 Taking your hand, he tugs you to a section of the minka, and showing you where the tissues are kept. He’ll watch you clean yourself up and pack your nostrils with the tissue paper before tilting your head back, learning for next time.

DOUMA

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 You stared down at your ruddy hands, stunned, bloody from your leaking nostrils.

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 You nimbly hop to your feet, rushing to the door, but Douma bet you it. There he stood in the entrance, grinning, and stepped towards you.

“Oh, what happened here?”

You shrugged, “nosebleed.”

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 He is concern, genuinely, unusual for him since a lot of the times his emotion are false—though not necessarily with you.

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 In a fraction of a second Douma was gone and back, proudly presenting two tampons. Your eyes widen comically before snatching them from his hands and laughing, shaking your head no and searching for tissue yourself and with the help of his cultist.

AKAZA

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 Your body rocked, hands frantically wakening you from your rest. You squinted up at the silhouette, Akaza’s panic-stricken face becoming discernible through haziness.

You frowned, “s’matter?”

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 You felt it, wetness trickling down to your lips and onto the bedding.You gaped at the redness and up at Akaza who was quick to retrieve tissues, tilting your head back and wiping the blood from your skin and packing your nostrils with the cotton.

𓂃𓍊𓋼𓂂𓏸 He’s distressed, immediately thinking the worst, he doesn’t need his human dying. He’ll retrieve the doctor, demanding an explanation, before he feels at ease.

"You got cancer!? Wait! Why don't you become a demon!?"

"( ͡❛  ͟ʖ ͡❛)- chill tf out."

[cherrycocaineee]

35. Joker - Safe With Me

*Warning: I’ve incorporated characters from both Gotham and Suicide Squad. Mention of Violence. Abuse. Legal Age Gap. Whatever else is considered a warning.*

Synopsis: After one of the most intense beatings she’s ever experienced by her father, Paisley runs away; only taking a pre-packed backup with her and ditching her cell. Not wanting to go to the Joker, afraid of what he’d do to her father if she did, she goes to an abandoned building instead. But being the property of the Joker means that he knows where she’s at at all times.

* Paisley’s p.o.v *

It was the worst it had ever been before; and even though it had been two hours since I had just experienced the most gruesome beating in my life, the pain was still fresh. The bruises formed almost immediately, and there were popped blood vessels in my eye coloring the white part red. My face was sticky with old tears, new ones adding to the mess as I looked at the mirror in my room. I hadn’t done anything wrong that warranted this type of outburst, in fact, it had nothing to do with me at all. Apparently, dad was going through some things at work that had him considering leaving Gotham; which I found out meant that he might lose his job if he stayed. He was so stressed out that he drank too much before coming home to take his drunken frustration out on me to make himself feel better.

   I moved some of my blonde hair out of my face; dry blood had crusted into my hair from the cut that it hid. My other hand reached up and touched my busted lip, wincing as I felt the sting of how fresh it was. I tried not to look at the thousands of bruises littering my body or the sharp pain in my ribs that might indicate a broken bone. The only thing I could think of the entire time I cried and looked at my wounds was that I couldn’t do this anymore, and that I deserved better than what I was getting. So I quietly opened my closet door, listening intently to the television downstairs, then grabbed my pre-packed bag out from underneath a few extra quilts and blankets. I was never worried about dad going through my belongings, I was worried about Freddy going through my things and finding stuff that I didn’t want to have to explain to him or my dad.

I didn’t plan on taking my cell phone with me, so I made sure to block the Joker’s number and hope that when I did see him again, he’d understand. I even deleted our messages so no one could go through them when they realized I was gone. I opened my underwear drawer and pulled out a wad of cash that I had been saving up from allowances. Once I had everything that I needed, I opened my window and crawled onto the extended tree limb that normally helped me sneak back in after my nights with Mister J. As soon as my feet touched the ground, I took off down the streets as quietly and quickly as I could. I didn’t want to catch anyone’s attention. All I wanted to do was get away from this man who was no longer my father.

    There really wasn’t anywhere I could go where someone didn’t recognize me; the whole city practically knew who my dad was, even the criminals knew. I’d go to the Joker later but right now, I was afraid of what he’d do once he saw me in this state. In the meantime, I dodged anyone I thought could recognize me and call home to inform my dad that I was wandering the streets of Gotham late at night. After some time, I had managed to walk my way into some abandoned building that I’d never noticed before. Glass covered every inch of the ground, mixing with the gray sand and dead grass, all of the windows were boarded up and I wondered if maybe the windows were broken on purpose when they closed down. It also could have been teenagers breaking in, similar to what I was doing. I could read the sign that was painted on the moldy bricks because it was too faded.

  “God,” I mumbled, “This is definitely how people die.”

  But even that was a better fate than being alive and beaten.

Taking a large breath, I made my way into the building. There were no lights on but the small cracks in the foundation allowed a few slips of moonlight to give me direction. In the distance, I could hear a small bubbling sound coming from a room. A green, illuminated light peeped underneath the door that contained it. Swallowing hard, I shuffled to the door and pushed it open; an eerie creek echoed off the empty, damp walls. Leading through the room was a high pavement of metal that looked wet like everything else in the building, however, surprisingly it wasn’t rusted. I placed my foot on the metal carefully and listened for anything that would indicate I’d fall to my doom. When I was reassured that it was safe, I started walking further into the room. Underneath the walkway were enormous vats of green, steaming liquid that I recognized easily; the only reason I knew what it was was because of the lesson we did in chemistry class. It was acid. I was quickly reminded of Harley’s beginning, how it all started for her here. Part of me always wondered if the Joker kept me around to fill in the hole Harley left, if he really cared about me at all or was he doing it all to help him then toss me to the side. I was afraid to tell him that, to see what his reaction would be. Would he hit me like my father did when he was angry? Would he just leave me? Would I ruin something that I considered perfect in its own way?

    I eventually made it to the edge of the path and peered down at the rolling acid beneath me. I remembered telling Mister J that I didn’t want to end up diving into a pit of acid and becoming the new Harley, and he had been okay with it but I still wondered if that were the case. Sighing gently, I sat down and let my feet dangle over the edge. The drop looked further than it probably was, like if I was peering down at the mess beneath me from a tower. More tears slid down my cheeks and I buried my head into my hands as I started to sob uncontrollably like I had at home.

Time seemed to speed by while I sat alone, crying and wallowing in my own self pity. When I was officially cried out, I wiped all of the tears away as well as the small amount of snot bubbling at the end of my nose. I was so preoccupied that I didn’t notice the door opening or feet approaching me until I had a feeling someone was standing behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, sending a rush of fear rolling through my body. I was afraid that my dad had found me here and that I would receive more than what I’d gotten earlier. But that fear was tossed out the window when I heard the Joker’s voice.

   “What do you think you’re doing?” He hissed, angry by the fact that I had blocked his number.

 “I just needed some time to think,” I whispered, never making eye contact with him so he couldn’t see my face.

  “You blocked my number,” his breathing was huffier, angrier, “Is that your way of telling me you’re done with me?”

  That time, I couldn’t even form the words to explain myself. All of the emotions resurfaced as I began to choke on sobs again, covering my mouth to quiet them to no avail. Mister J kneeled beside me, gripping my shoulders hard and forcing me to look at him. His eyes were cold and hard, dangerous and calculating; probably all of the ways to kill me. Then they softened and relaxed when he saw the condition I was in.

  “I had to leave,” I cried, “It was so much worse than…than before. And I had to block your number so he wouldn’t see I’d been speaking to you, in case he found me.”

 “Why didn’t you come to me, Paisley?”

 “Because I don’t want you to kill him! He’s my fa-father!”

I buried my head into the silk of his shirt, gripping the leather of his jacket while more sobs escaped. Drool started gathering onto his shirt creating a wet stain but he didn’t say anything. Instead, Mister J wrapped his strong, thick arms around me in comfort while brushing my hair with his fingers. When his fingers found the blood tangled in my hair, he froze but still kept whatever was brewing in his head to himself. Once again, I felt cried out so I pulled away, wiping away the drool and tears from my face as well as his shirt, at least the best I could.

  “I sh-shouldn’t have blocked you,” I croaked, “but I didn’t know what else to…to do. I’m so tired. Drained.”

  Mister J sat beside me, keeping his arm around me firmly.

 “Luckily,” Mister J muttered, his voice still rough with anger, “I know exactly how to find someone when I need to.”

 “How did you find me?” I asked, sniffling.

 “Someone I work close to saw you walking down the street with a frightened face. I figured it was because you were scared of me finding you but now that I’m looking at you, I know that wasn’t the case.”

  Mister J pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and clicked around before putting the phone to his ear. I stared up at him, wondering who he was calling right now.

 “Frost,” he said, answering my unspoken question, “Go to Paisley’s home and collect the rest of her things to bring back home. And take her dad too.”

My eyes widened and I tried to tell him no or anything else that would get him to leave my dad alone. When he hung up on Frost, I pushed him off of me angrily.

“I told you I didn’t want you to kill him!” I snapped.

  Mister J stared at me with a large grin on his face. His silver teeth glowing in the moonlight and the green, illuminating acid. I shook my head; it felt like he wasn’t taking any of this seriously. I climbed to my feet and grabbed my pre-packed runaway kit then started to leave. Mister J was quick to his own feet and grabbed my arm to keep me from leaving.

 “He hurt you and he continues to hurt you. He wants to take you away from me too, and I can’t allow that. I won’t allow that. As long as you and I are together, Paisley, you belong to me, and I won’t allow anything to happen to you like with Harley. Especially when I could have put an end to it. I listened, I didn’t go near him and I didn’t kill him like you asked but enough's enough.”

  My bag slipped off my shoulder, hitting the metal with a loud thud.

 “But I…what will I do?” I whispered.

 “You’ll come stay with me like we’ve talked about.”

 “People will come looking for me.”

 “We’ll fake your own death. They’ll think you and your dad died.”

 “What if I want to go out and get coffee or just for a walk or to pick something up?”

 “Then you’ll go with the guards so they can watch and protect you, otherwise, you’ll be with me. You’ll be safe, Paisley.”

I wiped away the remaining tears and looked up at his icy blue eyes with my own. He was watching me, reading everything he could off my face to see if I’d agree or not. How could I say no? He’d always taken care of me before, he listened and didn’t act when he discovered my dad was beating me or that he wanted to take me out of Gotham. Mister J had never given me a reason to distrust him, even his anger and the way he acted sometimes didn’t scare me because he didn’t take his anger out on me. In fact, he treated me like a princess all the time.

  I reached out and took the hand that wasn’t grabbing onto me. It was covered in tattoos and thick calluses. I led him back to where we had been sitting and pulled him down beside me. I rested my head against his shoulder and sighed. Our outer thighs touched and I kept our hands entwined with one another.

   “Okay,” I said, “I’ll come stay with you. But I swear to God, if you ever lay your hands on me the way he did…”

  No more words left my mouth as Mister J burst into laughter, the sound stretching across the room creating an echo.

  “I’m serious,” I protested.

 “I know,” he laughed, “that’s what makes it hilarious because you think I’d stoop so low as to hit someone as pretty as you.”

  “You’re so unlike yourself when you’re around me.” A giggle left my own lips.

 “Is that so?” He hummed.

I nodded.

And it was true too. Everyone knew how the Joker really was to people; he was a ruthless killer who had no problem manipulating his way out of any situation so he could get what he wanted. But that had never been the case with me; he had approached me, he asked me to be with him, and he continued to see me afterwards without asking for anything besides my loyalty. I didn’t even have to get him out of Arkham when he wound up in there, I just had to promise to come see him on the days I visited my mom and had to be with him once he got out. It was like our relationship was purely based on a need for someone to love him because he didn’t have that anymore. How he ended up falling in love with me was still a mystery but I knew how I fell in love with him. And I didn’t regret being in love with him. If Mister J swore he was going to take care of me and treat me the way I deserved to be treated, then I didn’t mind the darker side of him.

   “Paisley,” Mister J called out.

  I looked up at him and hummed in acknowledgment.

   “I love you.”

  It was the first time he had ever said that to me before. I smiled, nibbling on my bottom lip as I felt happiness erupt inside me.

  “I love you too, Mister J.”

  He climbed to his feet and held out his hand. I didn’t hesitate to take it and he easily pulled me off the metal platform. Not another word was spoken between the two of us as we left the abandoned building. And for the first time in a long time, I knew I was going to be able to sleep peacefully without the fear of being woken in the middle of the night to be punished.

 It was refreshing.

Taglist: @w4nt-h1s-d1ck @leaveitbythewave @ellatitanium @gaymistakeboi @erika-solic @weepingwitchofthewest

[philomenie]

KILLING ME SOFTLY

Hitman!Jolly fic

CN murder, violence, sex, organized crime, blood, 18+

@jilliemiw86 @nojoyontheburn @reyadawn 😘

ONE

Jolly breathes in and out calmly, his pulse has slowed down, he is highly concentrated.

His left eye is closed and he is looking through the scope of his Barrett M82 with his right.

He has no idea how long he has been lying on this cursed roof, he has completely lost track of time.

Patience and calm are two immensely important things in his job, if you can call what he does a job.

But he doesn't have time to think about that right now, it would only distract him unnecessarily and distraction would be poison, if not his own death, because the person he is supposed to take out is extremely careful and surrounded by dozens of bodyguards.

But not so careful after all, otherwise he wouldn't have angered Kolja, the son of Russian mafia boss Semjon.

Jolly doesn't know what exactly happened, but Kolja was fuming with rage and Semjon has tasked him with getting rid of Kolja's problem.

Once again.

Jolly doesn't think much of Kolja, Semjon's puppy, but he does of Semjon. He'd be crazy if he didn't. Jolly has been around far too long for that.

In the organization, he is only known as the Swede. The man for special tasks.

Semjon has enough men for the rough stuff, Jolly is more responsible for the inconspicuous elimination of unpleasant people and he's good at it. Very good, in fact.

Jolly tenses as the dark limousine he has been waiting for all this time turns the corner.

He closes his eyes briefly and concentrates.

The limousine stops in front of the hotel with the posh restaurant where his assignment is going today.

The doors of the limousine open and a man of about 30 gets out. Broad, handsome, perfectly dressed. He holds out his hand, waiting.... There must have been someone else in the car.

:readmore:

A slender hand appears from inside, then a slender leg tucked into tight black leather pants and black high heels.

A woman gets out who Jolly recognizes immediately. Tatjana. One of Kolja's favorites.

Fuck, that's why you have to lose your life, Jolly thinks to himself, because you're fucking Kolja's playmate. Better you had left your cock in your pants, sighs Jolly mentally.

Tatjana hooks herself up to the man and the four bodyguards shield her and look around.

The moment they climb the steps to the hotel, it happens. Two dull shots, perfectly muffled by the silencer, echo through the air and hit the man's head, who immediately collapses.

Tatjana screams shrilly and is beside herself....

Jolly pays no further attention to the scene below him, routinely and quickly packs up his rifle, stands up and hides the rifle in the transport case under his black coat.

He is dressed completely in black. Coat, trousers, turtleneck sweater, shoes. He calmly puts on his leather gloves and collects the two cartridge cases, puts the boxes back where he was lying and makes his way to the stairwell. He enters late and when he sees no one, he continues on his way. He walks down the stairs without hurrying, putting a black baseball cap on his head and sunglasses on his nose.

His long dark hair is combed back tightly and tied into a knot at the back of his neck so that it doesn't get in the way of his work.

As he steps out onto the street, there is a great deal of hustle and bustle on the opposite side of the road. People are gawping and the first police car is just arriving.

You're quick this time, boys, Jolly thinks to himself and has to smile.

He continues on his way to the parking garage where his car is parked. As he sits in it, he dials Semjon's number, which he has saved under 1.

When the phone is answered, he says just one sentence, "All done!"

"Hmm," hums the other end and Semyon hangs up.

At a red light, he briefly considers where he should go. Back to the organization or back to his apartment here.

The decision is taken from him without further ado when his cell phone rings. He grimaces in disgust. Kolja.

He considers ignoring the call. Kolya has nothing to say to him, as he is not yet a full member of the mafia. But he is Semjon's puppy, his crown prince, his successor, since his two older brothers were killed.

It always happens to the wrong people, Jolly thinks. Kolya's brothers Demyan and Artyom would both have made worthy successors to Semyon. Kolya, on the other hand, is a weakling and that is precisely what makes him unpredictable and dangerous, Jolly knows.

He also knows that if he doesn't answer the phone, Kolya will be annoyed, so Jolly answers with a sigh.

"Well done!" Kolja praises him.

"Hmm" grumbles Jolly in response.

"Come to the club, I've got a reward for you!" grins Kolja.

Jolly sighs, "I actually wanted to go home, I don't feel like partying right now!"

"Don't be a spoilsport, come here!" Kolja urges him.

Jolly rolls his eyes, he knows Kolja's parties and today he just doesn't feel like it.

"You won't regret it!" Kolja tempts him.

"Okay, but let me change first. I'll come later!" Jolly squeezes out.

"Great! I'll wait for you later!" Kolja nods and hangs up.

FUCK!!! Jolly angrily hits the steering wheel, so he can forget the evening.

Jolly parks his car in his parking space in the underground garage and walks to the elevator. The apartment he lives in here belongs to the Russian mafia, just like him.

No one would have guessed that this is the case, because the apartment is in an average high-rise building in an average neighborhood in New York and is therefore inconspicuous, which is exactly what Jolly and his boss want.

The fact that both belongs to Semjon is another story.....

When the elevator stops on his floor, he gets out and walks to his apartment, unlocks the door and is about to go in when the door next to him opens and Olivia, his neighbor, steps out.

Their eyes meet.

Olivia's mouth curls into a small smile, revealing her dimples and making her full red lips appear even fuller. Her dark green eyes shimmer like emeralds.

She has pinned her brown curls up in a casual bun and is wearing blue loose jeans and a short white shirt, with a black leather jacket, boots and her large leather bag over it, as Jolly notes with a quick glance.

This woman is a problem.

"Closing time?" she wants to know from him.

"Hmm," Jolly nods and actually wants to go back to his apartment, but the rest of the words come to his lips as if automatically.

"And you? Start of shift?" he asks.

"Yes, night duty!" sighs Olivia, "Emergency room... I hope it will be quiet!"

"Wish you luck that it is!" he mutters harshly.

"Thank you!" she smiles, gives him a quick wave and heads for the elevator.

Jolly looks after her with a burning stare.

FUCK!!! This woman is definitely a problem for him!

He normally has no contact with his neighbors. The fact that it came to this with Olivia, of all people, was his own stupid mistake.

He should have brushed her off when she knocked on his door to inform him that there had been water damage and the water had been turned off for a few hours.

He should have opened the front door just a crack, not so wide that she could see the blood on his hand, which came from a stab wound he'd just sustained on a job.

But when Olivia saw his bleeding hand and then the stab, the cursed knife went through the back of his hand, it was too late.

Resolutely, she had simply ignored him and given him a choice. Either she takes him to an emergency room or she takes care of the whole thing.

Jolly has to grin at the memory, Olivia hadn't even asked where the stab wound had come from, but had simply grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back to her apartment.

He still has to shake his head at this reckless action. Simply taking a stranger into her apartment just because he was bleeding. He could have been anyone with bad intentions. They didn't even know each other at the time.

But Jolly now knows that's typical of Olivia. She has too big a heart and helps wherever she can.

That's why she became a doctor, to help people.

They couldn't be more different.

Olivia tries to save lives and he takes lives.... A real irony, Jolly snorts and looks again at Olivia, who is just getting into the elevator, then looks at his hand with the scar, which is slowly fading.

He's told her something about a fight, about rioting idiots who wanted to break up the club he happened to be in.

Olivia didn't question it any further. Never asked him what he did for a living.... No, that's not true. She once asked him if he only plays the guitar for his own pleasure or if he does it professionally. But since he answered evasively, she didn't ask any more questions.

Jolly slams the front door behind him and puts his rifle against the wall to get rid of his coat and baseball cap. As he walks, he loosens his hair, massages his scalp lightly and takes off his turtleneck sweater.

Sighing, he stands in his bedroom. God knows what he would do just to be able to have some peace and quiet now, cook himself something, read something, play the guitar. NO, he has to go to fucking Kolja in his fucking club.

Annoyed, he gets rid of the rest of his clothes and goes into the bathroom, gets into the shower and lets the hot water rush over his body. Moaning pleasantly, he slowly relaxes.

His muscular body is covered in tattoos and scars. Jolly can still remember the cause of each one. Especially the one on his back.....

Shaking his head, he dispels the thought, turns off the water and dries himself off.

Naked, he walks back to his bedroom and grabs some fresh clothes from his wardrobe.

He chooses a black tank top, black suit trousers and a black shirt.

Once he is dressed, he puts on his silver chain with the dagger, a memento of his father, and fastens the earring with the hanging cross to his ear.

Jolly looks discontentedly in the mirror, that should work, he thinks to himself and finally puts his top hair in a bun so that it doesn't fall into his face.

He doesn't want to be irritated by anything when he's with Kolja. Kolja is not only a weakling, but also a sneaky snake.

Before he leaves, he stows his rifle in the secret compartment in his cupboard. He looks around. Nothing in his apartment indicates that he works as a contract killer for the Russian mafia, and he wants to keep it that way.

Arriving at the club, Jolly parks in the private parking lot for special guests and mafia members... Next to Kolja's car, a souped-up Mercedes AMG GT, is the car of Artur, Kolja's right-hand man and man for the rough stuff and just as much of an idiot as Kolja himself, in Jolly's opinion. The other cars belong to Kolja's personal entourage.

Wonderful, he thinks sarcastically, the evening can only be a success!

As he walks towards the entrance, he is greeted by the two bouncers and waved in.

There's not much going on inside the club yet, which is no wonder as it's only 9 pm and it doesn't officially open until 11 pm.

One of the bartenders nods to Jolly and points upstairs. Kolja and his entourage are on the second floor, in the VIP area. As usual.

Jolly takes two steps at once and can hear the increasingly loud voices of men and women, their laughter and shrieks.

Fantastic, most of them are drunk or high on drugs.

When Jolly comes into Kolja's field of vision, he falls silent. Then he raises his hands, stands up and walks towards him.

"JOLLY!" he shouts and takes Jolly in his arms, "The Swede has proved once again that you can rely on him!"

Jolly has to suppress the inner urge not to push Kolja away, instead he nods, "Wasn't really a problem for me!"

"Ohhh, he's modest too!" roars Kolja and puts an arm around Jolly's shoulder, which looks a bit strange as Kolja is about half a head shorter than Jolly. Kolja resembles his mother, is just as straw-blond as she is and has water-blue eyes

The others join in his laughter.

"Why exactly am I here?" Jolly wants to know, hoping that this will pass quickly and he can disappear again.

"You've earned a reward. That asshole was a wanker! Made eyes at Tatjana...." explains Kolja with a grin, "Celebrate with us, Swede, you won't regret it!"

FUCK, that's exactly what Jolly was afraid of. But what else can he do?

So he sits down out of necessity.

"What do you want to drink?" Kolja wants to know.

"Beer's fine!" Jolly nods, which makes the others laugh again.

"Beer for the man then!" explains Kolja and waves one of the girls in charge of the drinks over.

Jolly leans back, takes a sip from his bottle and watches everything out of the corner of his eye.

Kolja's bodyguards are standing by in the background, as always. Semjon doesn't let his puppy leave his fortress for a second without adequate protection. He has made this mistake twice and paid for it with the death of his older sons. There is probably no better guarded person in all of New York than Kolja, the crown prince of the Russian mafia, successor to Semjon Dimitrovich Volkov.

Sighing, he takes another sip as a hand rests on his thigh and squeezes.

"Nadja!" he grumbles.

"Swede... or should I say Joakim? Jolly?" smiles a dark female voice.

Jolly looks at her, "You know it!" he growls, tired of the games.

"Hmmm, Jolly....." she lets his name slip across her lips, "You never told me why you have that nickname...."

Jolly shrugs his shoulder, "Why too...." he blocks.

The dark blonde woman scoots closer to him, rests her elbow on the back of the couch and puts one leg over his thigh.

"Nadja...." sighs Jolly, "I'm too tired for your games today!"

"What games?" she whispers, stroking his cheek.

Jolly holds her wrist tightly, "This one!" he growls dangerously.

"This isn't a game!" she breathes, kissing his lips, "I'm part of your reward!"

Joakim raises an eyebrow. Looks at Kolja, who grins at him.

FUCK, that too.... Not that he doesn't like Nadja, he and she have already gotten to know each other's bodies more than extensively, but right now at the behest of Kolja, so to speak, BEFORE his entourage, no thanks!!!

Before Jolly can get up, Nadja puts her hand on his crotch and holds him down.

"FUCK, Nadja, cut the crap!" he gasps, startled, and is about to pull her hand away when Hanna, a new girl that Kolja has taken a liking to, joins them and straddles Jolly's thighs.

She opens her eyes lasciviously, "Let's have some fun together!"

Jolly presses his jaws together. The offer is tempting, he has to admit, but he's certainly not going to be paraded in front of all these people.

So he takes another deep swig from his beer bottle before replying, "You two, then?"

Nadja strokes his cheek, "Are you unhappy?" she teases him.

Jolly shakes his head, "No.... But I don't like being put on show!" he growls softly, "I'm certainly not putting on a show for Kolja and his mob!" and looks Nadja sharply in her dark blue eyes.

Nadja's lips curl up, a pearly laugh comes out of her mouth, "I knew it!" she giggles, then turns to Kolja triumphantly, "I was right, you lost!"

Kolja shrugs his shoulders, "Even I can be wrong!" then looks at Hanna, "Come here, Milyy (darling), our Swede is a man of principle!" which makes the others laugh again.

"You'd better have some too!" he growls quietly, so that only Nadja can hear, who then punches him in the side.

"Quiet!" she hisses, "Or do you want to upset him? Lose your life?"

Jolly's eyes flash as he looks at her, but then he just shakes his head, "Not today, anyway!" he mutters.

"You're really weird sometimes... you know that?" Nadja shakes her head.

"Could be...." Jolly replies, stretching and finishes his beer, putting the bottle down on the floor.

When he looks up again, Artur is standing in front of him holding out a small suitcase, "For you!" he growls. Artur can't stand Jolly any more than Jolly can stand Artur, which is because Jolly has clearly shown the braggart WHO is the better shot by shooting half his ear off in a duel forced on him by Kolja.

Jolly looks at him, then looks at his ear, raises an eyebrow and takes the case from his hand.

"SUKIN SYN (son of a bitch)!!!" spits Artur in front of him, but is immediately whistled back by Kolja, "Artur.... Shut up!"

Artur turns away angrily and sits back down in his seat. The beefy, black-haired man looks at Jolly with narrowed eyes.

"Open up!" Kolja demands of Jolly.

Jolly opens the small suitcase and is astonished. In front of him is a brand new Heckler & Koch handgun in black. Jolly reverently takes it out of the padding, examines it and picks it up.

It is heavy, has a good weight to it and immediately feels familiar.

"A custom-made gun, just for you! It's supposed to be the best pistol at the moment," Kolja smiles patronizingly, "You've earned it, my friend!"

Jolly looks at the gun again and sees that it has a J engraved on it. Not big, just barely recognizable.

"So, what do you think?" Kolja wants to know.

Jolly nods his head, "Thank you!" he then presses out, "A really nice weapon!"

Kolja bursts out laughing, "You're really amusing, Swede!" he gasps, "Put it away, drink with us!"

Jolly puts the gun away and is handed another beer by one of the girls.

Nadja leans over to him, "Don't mess with him!" she warns him.

Jolly looks at her, then nods, "I'm not completely tired of life!"

"Hmmm, maybe we should do something about that?!" she whispers in his ear and bites his earlobe.

The sharp pain makes Jolly flinch and grab Nadja by her upper arms, "Careful!" he growls.

He knows that he is playing a dangerous game with Nadja, as she is the daughter of Semjon's right-hand man Oleg and also Semjon's goddaughter.

But Nadja sets her own rules and Jolly is still highly favored by Semjon and is sometimes regarded and referred to as his foster son. So what goes on between the two is tolerated. However, neither of them can allow it to go any further, which is more than all right with Jolly.

A woman simply has no place in his life, even if he sometimes secretly wishes she did.... To get out and live a peaceful life with his wife and possibly children after all the violence and killing.

Jolly is aware that this will remain a pipe dream. NOBODY gets out of the Russian mafia and returns to a normal life, and he certainly doesn't.

"Hmm, maybe we should find a quiet corner here!" Nadja breathes into his ear and runs her hands over his chest, running her thumbnail over his nipples, which makes him gasp.

"Everyone's watching us!" Jolly grumbles.

Nadja turns to the others, then looks back at Jolly, "So what?" she giggles, "They ALL know we're fucking anyway! Don't you like an audience?"

"Nadja....." sighs Jolly, "Not today...... We should stop this!"

Nadja rolls her eyes and sits down next to Jolly, reaching for her champagne glass and downing the contents down her throat, watching him through narrowed eyes.

"You're a spoilsport!" she grumbles and gets up and sits down with the other girls.

Jolly would like to leave now, but he can't without offending Kolja, so he stays and waves to the girl to bring him another beer.

The evening progresses and the club fills up. Loud beats blast through the speakers and the air is thick with cigarette smoke, perfume and sweat.

Nadja and her friends dance to the music in front of him and the other men. Meanwhile, Kolja and Hanna have disappeared into Kolja's private rooms.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jolly sees Artur still looking at him grimly.

Asshole, Jolly thinks to himself and finishes his beer, gets up because he wants to go to the toilet.

Just as he is washing his hands, the door opens and Nadja stands behind him, locking the door.

Jolly turns to her with his eyebrows furrowed, but before he can say anything, Nadja is with him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him greedily, forcing her tongue between his lips. Jolly's mouth opens willingly and he runs his large, tattooed hands over her body, then pushes the silky material of the hint of nothing she's wearing tonight up over her hips.

Nadja arches hungrily towards him.

His hands grip her bottom, pushing her even closer to him.

Nadja pulls his shirt off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

Her hands roam over his muscular arms, his strong hands. Jolly's fingers close around hers, pushing her arms back and he greedily kisses her neck, the sensitive crook of her neck.

Nadja moans excitedly, presses herself harder against Jolly and can clearly feel his excitement in his pants.

Jolly easily grips Nadja's wrists with one hand, the other plays with the leg opening of her panties. His fingers slowly move on to her mons veneris, caressing the delicate skin there, moving on to her folds, stroking them gently.

Nadja moans and wants to free her hands, but Jolly holds them firmly in his grip.

"So impatient and so needy!" he shakes his head and his eyes darken.

He pushes her panties aside, runs his fingers between her folds, finds her bud and begins to stimulate it with circular movements.

Nadja trembles, pushes against his touch, gasps "More!"

Jolly pushes his fingers inside her, widening her for him, not surprised that Nadja is now completely wet.

He laughs softly and skillfully twists his fingers inside her, making her moan loudly. He knows that if he continues at this pace, it won't take him long to make Nadja come through his fingers.

And he's right, not long before she starts to tremble, pressing herself against him and only able to make inarticulate sounds, ending in a long moan as her inner walls clench around his fingers and her orgasm comes over her.

Jolly doesn't give her time to recover, even as she leans against him, trembling and whimpering, he opens his pants with one hand, pulls out his hard cock, strokes up and down a few times and then grabs Nadja, turns her towards the sink and bends her down so that she has to hold on tight to keep from falling forward.

Almost hastily, he pushes her pantie aside and thrusts into her without further warning, causing her to cry out in surprise.

Jolly claws his hands into her hips and starts to thrust into her at a merciless pace. Nadja has no problem withstanding it, lifts her head and looks at Jolly triumphantly in the mirror. Their eyes meet and Jolly knows that this is exactly what Nadja wanted all along and that he is once again just her willing plaything.

Angry with himself for getting carried away again, he thrusts into her even more relentlessly until his own orgasm rushes through him and he bends down on her back, panting, resting his forehead on her back.

After a few seconds, Nadja wriggles out from under him, casually takes a couple of paper towels, hands two of them to Jolly and uses the rest to wipe his semen off her thighs and vagina.

Jolly watches her silently, cleans himself up and then zips up his pants.

Nadja stands in front of him smiling, leans over and wants to kiss him, but Jolly turns away, "I was serious earlier... we should really stop this!" he growls.

"Why? Because of Sergei?" Nadja wants to know.

"Like what?!" hisses Jolly, "You'll be officially engaged in two weeks!"

"It's arranged and you know it!" explains Nadja, annoyed, "It doesn't have to change anything between us! We can still have our fun!"

"No.... I don't want that anymore!" Jolly shakes his head.

Nadja raises her eyebrow mockingly, "Oh, I just realized THAT!"

"Leave it!" growls Jolly and goes to the door, unlocks it and storms out.

Clenching his teeth, he picks up his present, then steps up to Kolja, "Thank you for everything... I'd like to go home now. Your father wants to see me tomorrow. Probably a new job!" he explains.

Kolja nods, "OK, don't let yourself be stopped!".

Relieved, Jolly goes to the stairs and runs down, pushing his way through the crowds of people in the club to the exit.

When he finally stands outside the club in the fresh air, he breathes in and out deeply. Damn, his life is fucked up and complicated, he thinks.

[sinon36]

Ghost x undercover!reader (HC) Part I

Warnings: torture, blood, pain, unconscious Ghost and basically kinda useless, really capable YOU persona ;), rushed writing, possible mistakes, reader is pretty neutral so far

P.S. Don’t judge the unexplained inconsistency of how a guy like Ghost gets captured, but spy you get to waltz around unbothered, yeah, you’re that good, so good you got plot armour. Besos!   

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

- the first time you meet it's messy. He's supposed to extract an agent from behind enemy lines but instead he gets captured

-  you pose as a computer science PhD who is in charge of the enemy base cyber security, when in reality you're there to install a backdoor with remote access.

- you know someone should come to help make your exit, but when no infiltration is reported panic starts to rise in your chest

- you start investigating, searching through the facility trying to find out if something happened.

- you gain access to a part of the facility you don't have clearance for.

- you stumble upon a gruesome scene in one of the holding cell in the underground levels

- you find a man tied to the ceiling, bare feet barely touching the floor, muscles stretching under the tension ready to snap

- a black hood is thrown over his head and he's shirtless, remnants of once black cargo pants hang on his hips.

- he was tortured, for days by looks of it

- you know enough about that to know that he hasn't cracked yet, otherwise he'd be dead not hanging there in the damp cold cell.

- you take your chances and take the hood off

- he groggily turns his head to look down at you, he’s a big that much you can say

- blonde whisps of hair matted to his scalp stained a dark red, pale skin the same blood oozing from small cuts on his cheeks dripping down on his pectorals. From behind black and blue and inflammation two brown eyes scan your face

- 'the wolf walks alone' you quietly utter the code phrase for identity verification

- he watches you like an owl watches a mouse with cautious patience but he gives no indication that he'll answer

- you can't stay there too long; someone might catch you here or someone could report that you never came back from the bathroom break

- you reach for the hood to place it back on the prisoner’s head, knowing that you can't do anything for him and in this state he can't even provide a distraction for you to slip out unnoticed

-as you get closer tiptoeing to reach above his head he grunts, you stop in your tracks making eye contact

- his dried and busted lips start to quiver you wait for a moment giving him a chance to prove you wrong

- 'But the pack's got its back...' he draws out in a deep guttural voice laced with a thick Manchester accent

- phrase matching your own, you get to work hastily finding a way to get him down

- as you unlock the chains wounded around his wrists you try to support his weight which proves impossible

- you barely manage to break his fall turning yourself in a cushion under his massive form

- you huff and try to pull him up ' I can't carry you' you mutter to him. 'You gotta get up, soldier' you try and nudge him, you slip and talk in the familiar British accent

- he stalls, taking in deep breaths trying to surpass the pain and ache, multiple bones broken, muscles tumefied, and skin bearing to many cuts and bruises. Blood covers him like a deathly veil

- he tries and with your help he manages to stand but he can barely walk on his own, he can barely see, he can barely think, having sustained multiple concussions

- with great difficulty you get moving, praying to yourself that the guard might be gone, taking a piss or having a smoke

- your prayers are answered, no one is on the otherwise busy hallways this late at night, many having called it a night going back to their rooms

- as you pass the med bay your quick thinking finds a credible disguise: you steal a lab coat and a doctor's key card, some glasses that make your vision blurry once you put them on, and get the wounded soldier in a wheel chair

-he huffs but you can clearly see the relief overtaking him as he no longer has to stand

-you throw a medical gown over him concealing the dried blood on his bare torso

-once you clean his face a little and bandage his whole head to cover his identity, you grab a few bottles of morphine and a med kit for later and push the wheelchair out the door

- you aim for the underground parking lot, where civilians’ workers such as your cover, keep their personal cars

-you hope that the sentinels stationed at the gates won't look too closely at your backseat as you carefully push the wounded man in the car

- everything goes smooth from there, the guards wishing you a good night, no questions ask as to your departure from the base

- once you get farther away you start speeding eyeing for any police cars that might stop you or any military vehicle that might chase you

- to your dumb surprise no one follows you the mountain road dark and deserted

- you head to your safehouse where you have stashed money, fake id's, a new disguise and another car.

- once you change everything and make sure that the soldier still breathes in the back of the SUV, after you've administered some first help giving him the relief of morphine, you burn everything down

- the wooden house the other car, everything, nothing can be left behind to be tracked to you or to the MI6, you have taken precautions that borderline OCD, but you know that you have to be through, no detail to small

- once you're back on the road you contact your handler, a tired voice but you can hear the sound of relief as he hears your voice

- he's pleased that everything went smooth, no alarm was triggered, no shot was fired, no chase happened and you even managed to save your would-be saviour, sent specifically to get you out of that den of wolves

- you announce your E.T.A. to the agreed pickup location and you are annoyed to hear you'll have to wait a bit, your nerves are starting to fray, and body to tire

- you don't have the manpower nor the firepower to make a stand in the woods until the heli gets there

-but you do as you're told, as always

- you grab the pistol you keep under the passenger seat and place it in your lap; the heaviness in your lap gives very little reassurance

- but not long passes and you can hear the lovely sound of an Apache helicopter

- in a whirlwind of dust and voices shouting out instructions both you and the soldier are placed in the metal beast's bowls

-you inform the medics of the dosage of morphine you gave to the soldier as they start hooking him to machines that monitor his vital signs

-you don't even know his name and he definitely doesn't know yours as per protocol, and you doubt you'll ever see him again

-you won't even be there when he'll wake up, he'll probably never know of your act of kindness; you could have left him behind but instead you risked your safety for his

- any other agent would've done it, but not you, you couldn't leave one of your own behind

- you still hold your breath, eager to cross the border and get back to HQ where meetings and debriefs will be held, and rapports will be written then redacted

-you expect the compliments at a job well done and the proud pats on the back from your superiors, even though for you that's just a show

- you know you will get a free month at best to recover and then you'll be shipped somewhere else to do it all over again

- it's a lonely life, and full of danger but it makes you sleep better at night knowing you helped soil some plans that could be used to hurt innocents

- once the pilot announces that you crossed the borders you slightly relax on the padded bench, closing your eyes in relief but not allowing yourself to fall asleep yet

- when you feel the heli dipping down towards the tarmac you open your eyes eager to get off the noisy thing and looking forward for some commodities you know wait ready inside the base

- you watch as the soldier gets rolled toward the med bay and you get pulled by a Sargent that informs you, he's there to take you to the commander of the base

- you'd hopped to at least get a few hours of sleep before the rounds of interrogations start, but the higher-ups are hungry for the confirmation of a successful mission

- you trudge behind the Sargent mentally preparing for the onslaught of questions and can't help but wonder what of the wounded soldier

-you subconsciously hope he'll pull through

Next part here.

[mambalae-s]

wc: 7.8k words

cw: milf! reader; reader is described as a plus sized black woman; masturbation (m); public masturbation (m); no penetrative sex; fantasizing — throat fucking; one (1) mention of a daddy kink; one sided sexual tension; wakatoshi is a simp; he’s down bad; let me know if i’m forgetting anything!

notes from author: so, i’d wound myself up for an entire month working on this and i still had so much i wanted to write for it despite it already being nearly 8,000 words long…! i’ll certainly try my best to make a second part for this, one i’ll want to write from our reader’s experience too! this, truthfully, wasn’t the first idea for my milf reader idea, but i think it’s so much better, and i’m happy with the plot i settled with! i hope that, at least even a little bit, it’ll be satisfying for you to read, too!

it’s amidst a blistering summer’s day when you move into the house next to his.

there’s blood pumping beneath ushijima wakatoshi’s skin and boiling beneath each heavy breath that wafts from his swollen lips. his feet pound against the paved roads as he jogs at a steady pace, and he feels his fibers tinge with a static as they blaze beneath the sweltering noon’s heat, a familiar ache ebbing deep within his muscles and crawling through his veins. the sweat clinging to his brow burns like a toxin that pours out through every cell, his heart beating with the drums that pound through his airpods and teach him a dance he’d learned many times before. iwaizumi had told him once that running could be as addictive as any drug, and here, beneath clear blue skies and through heavy draws of air, wakatoshi considers that maybe he was right.

he takes a deep breath as he mounds the slight hill that leads to his house, and abruptly, his pace halts, chest heaving still as his eyes take to the moving truck parked out in front of the house next to his; a house that had, for a while, remained empty, certainly gathering dust and stale air after the elderly couple had moved away nearly a month long past. it had been easy for him to forget all about the vacant space, what with him dedicating his days to training and months of traveling for practice and tournaments, and it seems that, within that time, someone’s finally purchased it and were moving in today.

he’d been gone long enough for the hard working men to have finished their work, wakatoshi muses, as he watches them pack away their trollies and begin making to either door of their truck. though, as he stands there, he feels puzzled, confused and seeking reason to something he can’t find. there’s nothing spectacular about seeing these two men readying to go about their day, nothing that should keep wakatoshi’s feet planted and his laboured breaths stilling beneath the wind, yet he finds himself waiting, lulled into a curiosity that he can’t explain as he watches the break lights glow red and listens to the engine roaring to life.

and then, he sees you.

you, who wears a gorgeous sundress, deep purple fabric woven like a tapestry of flowers that blossom over a body of voluptuous curves. he finds himself enraptured by your brown skin that shines beneath the scorching sun like smoky quartz, by the sweat that lines your brow as he likens the glistening sight of it to beautiful jewels that shine around your smile and set you alight with the luster of ten thousand diamonds. the strands of your black hair, they sheen on the painting of the midnight sky; dark and elegantly falling around your round face and pouring like a river of obsidian and black tourmaline across your busty chest.

“thank you so much once again,” your voice comes through with fluency in his mother tongue, the japanese you speak perhaps a little regional… osaka, he considers, or kyoto? your voice sings on the breathlessness of intense labour, and wakatoshi deludes himself into thinking that the exhaustion on your sultry voice mirrors the intensely beating heart that stirs in his chest with a restlessness that he doesn’t attribute to his run. “seriously, you two… i can’t tell you how much i appreciate coming all this way!”

the older men you speak to are friendly in their departure, cheering with bright smiles that resemble yours in their warmth and openness as they drive down the deep slope, passing him by the side and far from his mind as he loses his focus on you. suddenly, the fog that clouds his mind doesn’t come from a sweltering summer’s day, but instead from the picture of you, hot and bothered and eyes squeezed shut as you try to wave cool air over your wet skin. the daze that locks around his tongue is the one of your sheen-covered lips as they part and let pass the heavy breaths that sit on your chest, of the rise and fall of your large breasts and the bit of tummy that he can see atop your curves. that daze that consumes wakatoshi, he tells it to lust — a venom that crawls through his bloodstream and tinges his tongue with desire unchecked, so that he becomes consumed by you and the deceptively innocent visage that burns itself into his skin. and suddenly, wakatoshi feels too damn hot, his heart beats so hard he fears it’ll leap right from his throat, and his pants are too damn tight.

oh. fuck… how embarrassing could it be to get a hard on in front of your new neighbour? he didn’t think he’d ever have to ponder such a specific scenario, and he certainly isn’t happy to have a taste of it first hand. even worse, what is he supposed to do when the very same neighbour turns her eyes to him and catches him staring like some demented creep? wakatoshi’s face burns with a heat that far precedes the blazing sun and he wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole as his mouth starts to taste of sand and parchment paper. really, he shames himself, how appallingly embarrassing!

just like a guilty child, he averts his eyes as his blood boils across his neck. his feet act on their own, guided by the desire to disappear as quickly as he can with hurried steps and trembling hands that are more than eager to open his front door and seal him behind their sanctuary, and he feels even more guilt for awkwardly avoiding the kind yet confused smile you’d sent his way as you watched the large man scurry up his front steps. the protruding bulge that pokes out from his trousers is so painfully obvious, almost aching behind its confines as he prays that you hadn’t had enough time to notice it. and even then, behind his barrier of safety, he’s left with a problem — a very big one that powders his nose red and takes his breath on laboured climbs.

huffing, wakatoshi trudges to the kitchen, desperately searching his refrigerator for the coldest bottle of water he can find and starts chugging right away. arctic drops spill between his lips and down his throat, though the chill does nothing to dissipate the heat coursing beneath his skin and inside his pants. he doesn’t intend to slam the now half empty bottle down on his counter the way he does, but he loses control and water spills over, and his olive eyes only glare at the puddle that drips over on his marbled floor with something of disdain and increasing frustration.

for all that was holy, he can’t stop thinking of you. even now, with cold water sticking to his skin and poured over his bare feet, wakatoshi cannot get this image of you out of his mind and is rendered powerless to the aching boner that refuses to go away. within just one moment, you’ve seeped into his mind like a parasite that morphs and festers on sin and fornication, plaguing him with your large breasts and plump thighs that sheened with sweat and poured out from beneath your sundress. it’s a hard battle he faces with himself, feeling morally disgusted by the thoughts he finds himself with, and all about a stranger, no less. there’s no way he could be acting so depraved, right? is he a man so starved that the mere sight of an admittedly attractive woman could send him reeling like a damn teenage boy?

once more, wakatoshi heaves a heavy sigh, slouching for a moment with hands clenching the edge of his black stone counter before he rises to his full height. it’ll do him good to at least clean up this spill, and perhaps, he thinks, he aught to keep himself busy — surely then, he’ll forget all about you, and this glaring problem beneath his trousers will forget you too.

thankfully, it’s easier than he’d had hoped to fill the hours of his day. after taking care of his spill, wakatoshi takes to his home gym and continues working out till the late evening, when he showers and prepares himself to settle in with a cup of white wine and a book that he’d bought himself a while back, though only just recently had the time to begin. it’s only so rare for him to be able to enjoy slow days like this between training and volleyball tournaments, and he finds himself at peace with this lull in his schedule. finally, he feels relaxed and at ease, and his stressful situation from the afternoon earlier is far from his mind, until there’s a knock at his front door, and his heart lurches in his chest.

apprehensive, he turns his jade coloured eyes to the smoky glass panels by his entrance, and he feels his tongue turn heavy when he sees you waiting. for a moment, he hopes that you’ll give up if he doesn’t answer, though he immediately feels a bit guilty for thinking that. you’re only wanting to greet your new neighbour and make a good first impression, he considers, and it certainly isn’t any fault of yours the situation he’d found himself in earlier that day. you’re entirely blameless, and it’s really him who apparently needs to mature and grow a bit more than he’d thought. taking a long sip from his glass of chardonnay, wakatoshi builds himself on liquid courage and meets you by his doorway — though there’s no amount of wine that could’ve possibly prepared him for the sight that greets him once he opens the door.

you’re here, but you hadn’t come alone. hiding behind each leg are a young boy and girl who look about the same age and share striking resemblance to your own soft features. heads topped by black, wavy curls, with her tied in pigtails and his cut to his shoulders, there’s curiosity in their dark brown eyes as they appraise him, and he feels almost as if they’re judging him with something that he can’t identify. and you, you smile sweetly at him, your lips painted with a clear gloss that shines golden beneath the lights of his entryway’s chandelier.

“i’m sorry for disturbing you so late in the night, mister,” you offer your apology, and wakatoshi can hear more clearly the distinction in your accent that he’d only briefly heard before. now, as he listens attentively, unconsciously taking in the sultriness of your voice as your words flow from your two-toned lips, he’s certain that it really is a kansai dialect. “i’d just wanted to introduce ourselves since we’d just moved into the neighbourhood.” you lift your hands, that he now notices are not empty, to present a beautifully packaged basket with a little pink bow tying it closed. “and we also brought you these as a gift — a thank you gift, kind of! for having us here with you!”

wakatoshi accepts the gift basket from your hands, trying his best not to focus on the way you tuck your hair behind your ears and beam brightly up at him. standing so close, he’s able to notice new things about you that he wishes he didn’t feel so curious about; like the way you style yourself elegantly, your straight black hair parted to the side, curling the smaller hairs surrounding your forehead so that they lay neatly and perfectly brushed to frame your round face, or the fact that you stand several inches shorter than him, perhaps only barely reaching his chest. he wishes he doesn’t take in the clothes you wear and how they fit your beautiful figure, how your white cardigan hangs elegantly over a beige tank top and khaki coloured pants that accentuate your mature body. he tries, not to notice these many things about you, and so hopelessly fails, as he clears his throat and tries to offer you a polite smile that he hopes doesn’t come off as a grimace.

“thank you for being so thoughtful,” he says, and your smile widens, your eyes creasing around your expression as you respectfully bow.

“it’s my pleasure! i really should be thanking you for welcoming us this late!” theres a timidness to your grin as you lift yourself to full standing once more and you bashfully laugh. “it took us a little longer than we thought to prepare all our gift baskets — oh, right!” your eyes widen on a realization, “my name’s (l/n) (f/n), and these two here,” gesturing to the two children behind you, you bend down a bit to rest a hand on either of their backs. “this here is asahi, and this is makoto.”

the two young children, with your encouragement, bow their heads in greeting to him, with the boy — asahi — quickly returning to hide behind your leg, while makoto continues to stare at him, now with her curiosity unbridled and what looks like an eagerness that roars beneath her brown eyes.

he looks back up at you and offers a bow of his own, ducking his head with the basket clutched to his chest. “my name’s ushijima wakatoshi,” he says his name, and immediately, he hears two simultaneous gasps from the children by your feet. though, at least in this moment, he decides not to ponder too much on the expression. “thank you for introducing yourselves and for bringing a gift.”

you wave your hand in a ‘shoo shoo’ motion and shake your head. “no need for thanks, ushijima-san,” you hum, “really, it’s nothing much, but i hope you’ll be able to find good use for them— ”

“are you a volleyball player?”

suddenly, the little girl, makoto, blurts out a question that causes your eyes to widen and catches him off guard as you both turn your attention to her. she continues to stare up at him, as if awaiting his answer despite you reaching for her hand to gently pull her back. “makoto!” you exhale, a bit surprised, it seemed, as if you hadn’t expected her to ask something like that. though wakatoshi, he doesn’t take any issue at all with her question, and he simply nods his head, once more offering the most polite of smiles he can muster.

“that’s right. i play volleyball.”

you seem to recognize something within the awe-filled gazes of the two children that he doesn’t, because before either of them can get a word out, you’re hurriedly reaching for their hands and making your way down the stairs. “thanks so much again, mr. ushijima!” you call back to him with one free hand, leaving the man standing stunned inside his doorway as you walk away from him. “let’s get along well from now on!” when you think you’re far enough, he thinks he hears your voice taking to astonishment as the little girl whines a complaint — “but mom, we saw him on tv! it’s really him!” and your response heavily pouring with your dialect as you lightly scold her for blurting out so suddenly.

he’s left here, basket in his hand as he hears several gears creaking to their abrupt stops and clanking as they fall apart in his mind. mom? she’d said mom, hadn’t she? with ghostly steps that are far too quiet for a man of his stature, wakatoshi shuffles to his expansive living room where he sets your gift atop his clear glass coffee table, right next to his glass of wine and his book, and collapses into the black suede sofa behind him. you’re a mother? the guilt that consumes him tastes bitter and threatens to crawl up his throat. he sits, hands folded above his lips as his elbows dig into his thighs, and he stays this way for one minute, then two, constantly replaying the sound of your daughter calling you mom. your daughter, your daughter and son, you have a daughter and a son who both call you mom—

wearily, wakatoshi’s eyes glaze over your cutely packaged gift and straight to the glass of wine that sits like a pretty temptation, and cruelly, he thinks of how you are just the same. a beautiful and painfully enticing temptation that will surely render him helpless if he gets any more involved with you. he groans, hissing under his breath as he reaches for the glass and stands up. it’ll serve him better to retire for the night, he concedes, a hand nursing the growing migraine that sits on either side of his head. he’ll finish his glass and read his book peacefully in bed, and for the second time this day, wakatoshi will forget all about you.

except, he doesn’t.

amidst his waking dreams and long night, forgetting you is impossible. how can he, when you come to him here in his bed, the straps of your purple dress falling from your brown shoulders and your breasts pouring out from the thin material? how is wakatoshi supposed to forget you when in his dreams, you tease him with the likeness of a vixen, when you lift the edges of your skirt to show him just how plump and fleshy your thighs and ass are, whispering “do you wish to touch me, mr. ushijima?” in that sultry, silk-like voice of yours. he dreams of the way your eyes would roll back into your skull if he brushes his fingers over that sweet spot between your legs, if his tongue traces lines over your panties until your knees buck and you fall right on top of him. in his dreams, he wants you so much that it’s an ache he needs to fill, until he’s unconsciously fucking his mattress and squeezing his pillows with a vice. his breathing is laboured and tasting of honey as he begs you yes, yes, please, i need you… need you so bad, please i need to touch you—

his climax rocks his body like an earthquake and tears him away from sleep with a jolt, his chest heaving as sweat clings to his skin and his eyes, disoriented, search his dark room for your image before they fall to the soiled mess leaking through his boxers and between his thighs. his damn cock is twitching, still painfully sensitive, and wakatoshi stutters through a gasp as his hips buck uncontrollably, as if chasing some phantom feeling, cum still continuing to spurt from the angry red tip. he reels from pure shock and a bit of morbid amazement as he reflects on his dream, and as he recalls those dirty visuals his mind managed to conjure, he lets out a loud, frustrated cry and falls flat against his mattress. really, is this the man he is? a perverted fool who has inappropriate thoughts and dreams about another man’s wife?

he curses himself, and curses his mind too, as he begrudgingly swings his legs over the edge of his california king and. sleep evades him now, he certainly fears reliving that dream that felt far too realistic, your touches, the taste of you — all far too real that it leaves him shaken. one hand lifts to brush his sweat-matted hair away from his forehead as his eyes disdainfully behold the mess he’s left all over his dark sheets, where his semen sits in a large puddle while there are still drops running down his thighs, and he unwillingly thinks about you once more. those sounds that your voice made in his dream, all those dirty songs and cries of his name that you’d uttered, the way your skin felt so supple and soft beneath his hands as he felt you up and spread your legs apart—

a surprised moan causes wakatoshi to slap a hand around his mouth as his cock twitches in his soiled boxers, still very hard and leaking through the now cold material. no, he decides, he really won’t be able to fall asleep again — not like this, at least. but wakatoshi has practice in the morning, and within all his years of playing volleyball, he’d never gone a night without proper sleep. for the umpteenth time, he groans helplessly, flopping back down on the edge of his bed. he glares at his boner, wishing it would just peacefully deflate and that, really this time, he could forget you and just go back to bed; and again, once again, he sighs, and submits himself to a decision he’s certain that he’ll immediately curse himself for as he pulls out his cock and wraps his fist around it.

he hates himself for it, but it’s so easy for him to build a perfect fantasy of you. one where you’re sitting prettily on your knees and batting those doe-brown eyes up at him through your lashes. his hand squeezes softly around his erection and at first, he moves slowly, choking back each heavy breath of air that threatens to burst through tightly pursed lips. but god, he thinks of the way you’d tease him, slowly tracing your mouth over the tip and leaving a trail of saliva and strawberry flavoured lip-gloss while your manicured nails would trace tantalizingly lines down his thighs. his hips buck impatiently into his own fist and his chest heaves with soft grunts that become more uninhibited as he imagines you finally slipping him into your warm mouth and his very spirit crumbles on the lust that consumes him.

“does that feel good, mr. ushijima?” you’d beseech him, so eager to please as you’d trace your tongue across his leaking slit, collecting the drops of precum that poured out and smear it around your lips. and he’d be just as breathless as he feels in his fantasy, trying and failing to conceal each gasp that evades him as he nods, “yes.. yes, your mouth feels so fucking good.” he’d force you to swallow him whole, pushing your head down to the base until you’d choke and your eyes would water as he’d throw his head back — without his will, his hand moves faster around his cock and fills his dark bedroom with filthy, sloppy noises. “take every inch, don’t you fucking dare spit it out. that’s it, shit…just like that. swallow it all the way down.”

he thinks of how fleshy and warm the back of your throat would feel as you’d gag around him and dig your nails into his thigh, struggling to take even a single breath through your nostrils as he’d mercilessly fuck your face. he’d drag you off him suddenly and slap his cock against those messy lips, and he’d get to admire the way you’d fall apart as your mouth lolls open as if begging him to put it back in. “ohh, such a greedy little slut, aren’t you?” he’d taunt, and a particularly loud, wanton moan rises from his chest as he imagines the way you’d use your hands all while staring up at him. you’d be the very picture of salaciousnes as your hands wrap around his smeared length, teasing the underside of him with your tongue and groaning through your own arousal. he imagines how he’d wrap his hand around your throat as he’d tower over you; he’d have your face pressed right up to his stomach while he’d reach down and grab a handful of your breasts, reeling at how soft and squishy they’d feel pouring between his already large hands before he’d twist your nipples, and you’d whine like a helpless nymph from how sensitive your body would become. “go on, then.” he’d hum, and he wouldn’t give you even a second to prepare before he’d have you choking around his length, groaning as spit would bubble around his erection and pour from your nostrils. “use those pretty little lips of yours. mhm, let daddy feel your tongue on his dick while he fucks your throat.”

and its as he pictures the way your eyes would roll into the back of your head, cheeks puffed and stuffed full as you whine around him that, for the second time that night, wakatoshi cums into his fist. pleasure sears through his teeth and down his spine as spurts of semen explode from his slit and he forgets himself on the suddenness of his orgasm. “shit… ahh— aahhhh, shit!” the spots in his vision and the heat that consumes him from his bone and to his skin, it all coalescences on a pleasure he’d never once felt in his thirty-three years of living. his entire body trembles and his cock twitches against his abs, cum splashing against his sweat-sheened skin and dripping over his skin like hot, molten lava. the afterglow of pleasure is forsaken for the adrenaline that courses through his blood and turns the taste of his tongue to metals untold.

through his bliss, wakatoshi reaches clarity, and is overwhelmed by an intense wave of disgust and repulsion as he glares at his cock so feebly slapping against his stomach; it’s still hard, the damn thing, and every cell in his body craves ravenously for more, more, more…but he refuses. absolutely refuses to repeat what he’d just done. for christ’s sake, you are a mother — a wife to someone who you return to each night, who gets to hold you and touch you, to whom you may give your heart and gentle affections to. tonight had been a mistake, he tells himself; an irrational lapse in judgement, and come morning — he means it this time, really! truthfully! — he’ll forget all about this sin, and forget about you. you’ll be nothing more than a new neighbour who moved in with your family, and your interactions will be few and far between, enough that he’ll be forgiven for the immorality that he’d let himself fall to.

but the devil, oh, the devil, bless his soul, he has his tricks, and he loves to play.

wakatoshi hasn’t at all forgotten about the previous night, but he pretends that he has. on the cusp of dawn, when the rising sun sinks her warm fingers through his tousled hair, he focuses on his beating heart and his laboured breath as he jogs through the park and back through his gated community. he pretends that he didn’t jerk off to his new neighbour and envision her doing the dirtiest things to him, and he almost succeeds.

almost.

he nearly swears when he walks out of his front door the next morning and bumps into you at the earliest hours of dawn. there you are, where you shouldn’t be — not this early in the morning before the sun had risen, when he’d made sure to leave early enough that he would’ve avoided this situation exactly. it’s summer, isn’t it? why, wakatoshi wonders, had you woken up so early? could he really be do unlucky? he sees you and your two children, and he’s now certain that they must be twins, and you’re too busy fixing their backpacks on their backs and fussing over their hair and faces to even notice him awkwardly frozen by his doorstep.

“you both have everything you need, right?” your voice reaches him on tones of faint worry and anxiousness as you lean down over your children, unwittingly showing off your rack for him to see between the button up blouse you wear. even from where he stands, it’s such a clear picture that he feels his head spin as his eyes remain glued there. “you’ve got your toothbrushes and toothpaste? lotion? shampoo and conditioner?”

your son, asahi, tries to escape your busy hands, though it doesn’t dissuade you very much it seems. “mama, we already have everything!” he grumbles with a slight pout, “we’ll be alright.”

a quiet sigh falls from your lips as, finally, you relent, kneeling down to hug your two children. “i know you will be, asahi,” you whisper softly before pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. “promise me you’ll both be good and have lots of fun, alright? can you send me a text when you get there safely?” both the twins nod their head yes before placing a kiss on either of your cheeks, and wakatoshi finds the sight endearing as he sees your smile brighten on tenderness and motherly affection. a part of him feels as if he’s intruding on what should be a family’s private and treasured moment, something precious that should only be seen by your husband and not the creepy neighbour next door. his stomach turns in on itself and, like a demon he can’t escape, guilt and shame crawl over his neck.

“bye mama!” makoto is the first one to hop on to her bike, waving her hand excitedly and full of energy despite the early morning, while her twin follows in a far less eager manner as he waves at you too. “i love you!”

“i love you mama..!”

“i love you both, you two!” now standing at full height, you wave both your hands as both asahi and makoto start to pedal away. “make sure to have lots of fun!”

before long, both your children have gone down the hill and you’re left alone with a wistful smile, and wakatoshi finds himself desperate to go before you have the chance to notice him standing. his normally sure feet fail him on a moment as he stumbles in his hurriedness, and in his attempt to steady himself, his hands fall slack and drop the very large, very metal he’d bottle been carrying with a loud clang! that causes your head to whip around. he meets your gaze, shame bubbling in his gut and he wishes that lightning would just fall from the sky and take him from his misery. what happened to avoiding you as best as he could? he wonders, what happened to leaving at the crack of dawn and being on his way before he’d need to lay eyes on you again so soon after last night?

wakatoshi is so embarrassed that he could die.

“ah! good morning, mr. ushijima.” you, oblivious to his plight, greet him politely, bowing your head. he notices the way you absentmindedly pull your cardigan over your sheer night dress, the chill from the morning mist having caused you to shiver a little. your nipples have turned hard and poke through the thin white material, and are very, very visible without him needing to try and see them. he purses his lips, sighs through his nostrils and averts his gaze, focusing instead on retrieving his traitorous waterbottle and praying that his grey slacks do well to hide the problem that now begins to grow beneath them.

“good morning, mrs. (l/n.)”

he tries to focus on his feet as he descends down his front steps, ensuring that he doesn’t lose his footing once more rather than looking at you. and yet, he can’t help the awkwardness that he feels as every muscle in his body seems to have tensed up despite him having gone jogging to warm himself up. you remain none the wiser, something he’s thankful for, as he hopes and prays that he can get past you and on his way before you notice his strange demeanour.

“do you normally get up this early?” you ask in a polite attempt at making small talk, to which wakatoshi offers you a slight nod as he gives you just enough of his attention.

“yes,” and, admittedly, he’s also curious, and he returns a question against his better judgement. “do you?”

laughter bubbles up from your lips as you shake your head. “goodness, no!” you chime playfully, lifting your watch to see the hour; 5:39. “it’s too early for me, but asahi and makoto are about to start summer camp for their club — i’d only been seeing them off today.”

he offers an understanding nod, similarly recalling the days of his youth where he’d also attended summer camps during elementary through high school. right now, he considers would be a perfect time to end this conversation and see himself away now that he’s heard what he wanted from you, but something in him urges him to stay, to talk to you more and spend some time with you. he knows he’s not the best at small talk, is all too aware that his social skills are terrible, at their worst, incredibly abysmal, but he wants to try — against his better moment, and he’s reminding himself all the while that you’re a mother and a married woman, but despite that, he wants to talk more with you. perhaps, and it’s a delusion that he forces himself to believe, he’d want to be friendly with you. it’ll certainly be easier than perpetually avoiding you when you’d done nothing wrong to him, after all.

“are you—” fuck, his voice sounds scratchy as he clears his throat, blush creeping over his cheeks. “are you um… headed back to bed then?”

as you ponder his question, he gets to take in your morning appearance. your hair’s been brushed and tied back with a little white bow, and your lips look air brushed and as soft as rose petals. hugging your sides beneath your cardigan, you shiver, and wakatoshi notices the way you slightly lean back and forth on your heels. “i guess it’d be a waste to try and sleep again now,” you hum with your gaze turned towards the horizon, where the sun begins to peak over the far off mountain on soft blue touched by golden hues. “i’ll need to be ready for work in a few hours.” you turn your gaze to him with a cheekish grin, and his heart skips a beat. “why not start my morning now, right?”

oh. oh, this is bad. for the second time, waktoshi tries to clear his throat with a hand covering his mouth and averts his eyes from your beaming face. “i’ll let you get to it then,” he says, his voice sounding so small and timid to him that he feels his mind reeling and his tongue turning heavy. “enjoy the rest of your morning, ms. (l/n).”

“thank you, ushijima-san! you do the same, okay?” for a second, he lets his eyes find yours, and they dazzle him within just that moment that he has to look away. he leaves as you re-enter your home, and it’s the only thing he can do to squeeze the straps of his bag to rid himself of the jittery feeling racking through his spine. his heart beats too loudly and he feels dazed, as if he walks on clouds and forgets how to even breathe.

he doesn’t— no, he can’t be; his feet break from the slow pace as he breaks into a jog, each muscle within him burning cold and begging for release from the thoughts in his mind. there’s no way… he doesn’t like you, does he? why else would he have dreamt of you the way he had? why else would he feel so nervous and timid when you stand face to face? the morning dew tastes like liquid mercury and sets through his veins on a violent rush as he runs, as far away from you as he can get, hoping to immediately expel you from his thoughts, to escape this hold that you seem to have locked around him.

he laughs at himself, helpless and bewildered; is he really nothing more than a foolish boy? at thirty-something years old, ushijima wakatoshi is developing a crush on his married neighbour — even the mere notion to him is so adamantly ridiculous that he could throw himself off a bridge. he feels embarrassed, utterly and completely mortified, and it’s for his sake that he tries to push the notion far, far away, so that, at least for the day, he wouldn’t have to think about it. he suppresses these budding epiphanies in the face of his teammates, who tease him for being seven minutes later than he usually is and tries to ignore the fact that it’s all because he’d stayed and talked with you. he tries to forget about you through the drills and practice rounds, lets the heavy beating of his heart turn its turmoil into adrenaline and sweat that seeps through his thin shirt. wakatoshi falls into routine and this time, certainly, this time, he’s moved on. the feelings that soaked through his core on the early morning’s dawn have disappeared and melted away on summer’s blistering heat, and he thinks that finally, he can let go of that ghost that’s haunted him from the night until morn.

but noon, as it always does, succeeds the dawn, and there you are.

the burn in his muscles turns to a seething fire that he fears will consume him right where he stands, amidst the people around him going about their days while he remains glued in place. his heart, oh the poor thing, it beats on the fallings of a thousand horses and threatens to rip right from between his rips and spill itself out on the pavement. wakatoshi wants to run, he wants to take flight and escape into the burning sun, but his feet fail him on the jolts that run through his aching muscles when your eyes, oh, he imagines he sees the world in them, find his amidst the sea that threatens to swallow him whole.

“ah? mr. ushjimima!” your voice calls out to him a surprise he thinks he feels on tenfold as you approach the man. god, how many hours has it been, even? he’d only just seen you this morning, isn’t it too soon for him to be put through this never-ending crisis? he doesn’t feel as if he’s ready, as if he can look you in the eyes while trying to force away the memories of last night, or the turbulent mess that dances and ties red knots around his throbbing heart. “i didn’t expect to see you here too.”

neither did i, he thinks helplessly, though he offers a single words that sounds choked up in his throat, “practice.”

“oh!” you chime, your eyes gazing behind him to where the large sports gym stays only so many paces behind — if he really wants, wakatoshi could easily pretend that he has to return if only to escape from you, but he doesn’t — for some incomprehensible reason, his tongue betrays him with the phantom taste of you.

“well,” you smile, and laughter spills from your lips as you tuck your hair behind your ear and meet his eyes from behind your lashes. “i didn’t think i’d see you again so soon — and at my place of work, no less.”

i didn’t think i would, either, wakatoshi thinks to himself, and then your words rewind in his mind and everything halts. your place of work? the question spills from his lips before he can even think to stop it. “you work here?”

you nod with a hum, gesturing with your palm to the academic buildings that span the expansive lot. “i teach vocal composition and contemporary piano courses here.”

“ah.” of course. wakatoshi is bewildered; how unlucky could he be? for the married woman he fantasized about to be working at the very same university that his team frequents for volleyball practice? he takes a moment to curse the heavens and the cruel gods within them because certainly, they must find humour in his agony.

like lasers, wakatoshi’s eyes become too hyperfocused on you all at once. there’s sweat gleaming down your neck and dipping between your breasts and trailing wet marks down your v-line as you, absentmindedly, fan at yourself. he takes in the way your eyes scrunch together and your lips part with a heavy breath, a sigh that, to his ears, sounds lewd and filthy, and on that single breath, his world runs like a viscous furnace. he’s like a moth drawn to each and every detail about you that swells on the summer’s heat and as he stands here, everything consumes him — the slight pout of your full, puffy lips, the display of your breasts that look so big that they could pop out of your low button up dress at any second, those big, doe-like eyes of yours that are so close to rolling back beneath the agonizing heat — every bit of you accords into a vision of immeasurable pleasure and lust, and then you look at him, head tilted back and panting ever so slightly, and it’s enough and too much all at the same time.

“it’s awfully hot today, isn’t it, mr. ushijima?”

wakatoshi thinks he’ll lose his mind.

something breaks like a faucet and pours scalding water all over himself as he feels his grey sweats becoming too tight, too confining, just like the situation he finds himself in and he decides that now would be the perfect time to leave. “i have to head back.” he nearly stutters over his abrupt sentence, and he sees the slightly startled look that comes over your sun kissed face. again, he feels guilty for fooling you, for lying straight to those innocently pure eyes that are none the wiser of the effects you have on him. in a pathetic attempt that he doubts you’ll even believe, he tries to dissuade you with a simple, yet suffocated, “practice is gonna start soon.”

“oh, of course!” his lie seems to work, and wakatoshi hopes that the relief that locks inside his throat isn’t too obvious as you turn your feet to the opposite direction. “i didn’t mean to hold you up, i’m so sorry!”

“no, it’s alright.” it’s not, but what is he supposed to say? “i’m sure you’ll need to prepare for your next class soon.”

you giggle, hiding your smile behind your hand, and your eyes crinkle at the corners. “you’re right. it was a very nice surprise to see you again, mr. ushijima!”

as he makes his pathetic escape, wakatoshi prays that you don’t find him weird after this, but perhaps if you’d have any inclination of what he’d done, what he’s about to do, would you look at him in disgust? of course you would — he asks himself, how could you not? his feet can’t take him to the secluded gym fast enough as he forsakes everything about himself, purely fueled now by this burning desire that’s carnal in its awakening. the bathroom door locks and the bolt slams with a loud click, the ac languidly blowing through this confined area not nearly enough to quell the fire blazing across his skin. it’s immoral and utterly deprived what he considers doing, and the shame he feels is bound to be an eternal scar. yet in this moment, with his cock so painfully hard and pressing uncomfortably against his thigh, leaking so much precum that it stains through the thick material of his shorts, wakatoshi doesn’t care — not for the ungodliness of the act he’ll commit, nor for the consequences that could follow him. not now, at least. as he releases his throbbing member from its binds and wraps his fists around it, it’s the farthest thing from his mind as he thinks about you. again, it’s you.

the wind in his lungs is knocked out from his mouth as he rapidly pumps his dick. in an instant, the empty bathroom is filled with the squelching noises that bounce and echo off the tiled walls, only contested by his laboured breaths and groans. his knees threaten to lose their ground, and he desperately clutches the cold edge of the sink, the chill consuming his palm almost jarring to the aggressive heat that pours all through him. the image of you with your head tilted towards the sky, of your lips hanging open on salacious cries of his name as he envisions you on top of him, it all drives him to the brink of insanity.

wakatoshi thinks of your body in that tight button up dress blue dress. he thinks of how elegant and put together you looked, the picture perfect woman, and how he wants to tear apart only the top pins open and let your breasts fall out so that he could take them between his lips. how would you sound, he wondered, if he rolled your nipples between his teeth, sucked on them with his tongue until they’d turn hard and perky? would you cry out his name just like you always do? would that sweet voice of yours sing out on torrential pleasure as you’d call out to him, your thighs squeezing around his waist while your hips buck and wriggle over his cock? that innocent façade you wear, how quickly could he make you abandon all reason for desire, until you begged him with your words of honey for him to destroy you?

his fantasy falls apart and rips through him like a comet as cum explodes from his throbbing member and spills through his fingers, ever so narrowly missing his pants and spurting out on the tiled floors. it’s non-stop, this horrible, horrible mess that keeps on growing, his body jolting and knees feeling weak and he struggles to hold himself up because he can’t stop coming, so consumed in his fantasy that the moans he fought so hard to contain now ring freely inside the empty bathroom as his hand continues to milk every drop that jolts out of him. you’re the only thing in his mind, consuming him with hellfire as pleasure winds him up and tears him apart over and over again, and he knows he needs to stop, he’s being too loud, too careless, he could get caught, but god, does this taboo feel so good that he loses control. his depraved mind wonders on you catching him, cumming all over his hands like a depraved beast, all because of you?

there’s a daze that overcomes wakatoshi, heat fading to a warmth that fights for some kind of structure to hold on to as he, breathlessly, leans over the sink. his eyes look down between his legs, the length of his cock still twitching in his palm and cum smeared around it and webbing along his fingers. it doesn’t yet come to him, the reality of what he’s done, and its awakening is slow and steady, until it crashes all around him with the last wisps of adrenaline trickling out of his system. for a long time, he stares at his hands, at the mess smeared in his palm and all over his pants, and he meets his stare in his reflection. he stares, but doesn’t comprehend as a minute becomes two, and then five, and when it’s been far beyond ten, his body flushes over with red-hot embarrassment as he clenches his teeth and drops his head.

wakatoshi, filled with shame, wishes he could throw himself into the sun.

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