#something about being seen at your worst and CRADLED CRADLED CRADLED

[yieldtotemptation]

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right. 

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it. 

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1)      You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2)      Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3)      If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

 —

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her. 

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.  

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same. 

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”  

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated,  and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.  

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

 —

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.” 

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now���just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”

[eupheme]

— double the pleasure, triple the fun

[part iii of come on and show me | masterlist]

logan howlett x f!reader x wade wilson

rated e - 5.6k

tags: MMF threesome, mutual pining/crushes all around, dirty talk, poly relationship, multi-tasking, the world's worst romantic porposition, oral sex, vaginal fingering, ass play (fingering & rimming), double penetration, creampies, fluff and feelings

a/n: massive thank you to the wonderfully talented @avocado-writing, who kindly beta'd this for me! 💖

“Are you asking me out?” It comes slowly, in a rough rasp. 

It’s you that turns then, your eyes finding his. Your smile is sweet - a swirling heat of hope in your belly, “Depends on your answer.”

There’s something dark in his eyes. A curl of his lips, as his head dips. A kiss pressed against your spine, then lower. 

“Come on Wilson.” Logan husks, “Let’s get our girl ready.”

(Or, your two becomes three.)

“God, I want him to put a baby in me.”

Wade’s sigh rumbles beneath your ear, where your head cradles against his chest. 

Legs entwined as you stretch out together on the couch - a late-night wind-down after your boyfriend spent the evening picking out his To-Do List at Sister Margaret's.

To kill. Not fuck, apparently. Something he was quick to clarify.

“What are you watching?” Your eyes pull away from your own phone - seventeen chapters into an enemies-to-lovers slow burn you haven’t been able to put down all evening. 

A little stretch, as your head tilts to face him - knuckles propped under your chin, “That video has been looping for like, ten minutes.”

“And yet, still not long enough,” He sighs, flashing the screen at you, “Sir Mix-a-Lot, you never miss.”

The video flickers, a quick and skillful transition of clips - your eyes squinting at the screen from your angle.

“Is that... Logan?”

“Close, baby girl.” His finger boops against your nose, “Huge Ackman.”

There’s a little shake of your head, as your shoulder lifts, “I don’t know who that is.”

“And thank god,” He grins, letting the phone drop onto the cushions. A shift, as his hands dips against the small of your back, “If you did, you would divorce me so fast-“

Your eyes roll, as you bite back a grin, “I wouldn’t.”

“Definitely, maybe.”

Wade grunts as you push yourself with a huff - head dipping to press your lips against his. A low swirl in your belly, as his eyes go soft and his smile goes dopey. 

“I love you, Wade Winston Wilson,” You grin back, “New fake boyfriends and all, apparently.”

He hums, head tilting.

“And what about not-so-fake boyfriends?”

Your brow furrows.

“You are talking about Logan now, right?”

Wade’s knuckles brush your cheek, the humor in his eyes turning searching, “What do you think?”

And what a question it is. 

You’ve talked about it often. The occasional partner had cycled in for a night or two, but there had never been someone that struck you both like Logan had, arriving in your lives like a storm of thunder and lightning.

And you can’t deny that there’s feelings. Obvious ones, apparently, with how you acted in the past. Wade was still teasing you about your jealousy - you never had a handle on that emotion in the way he did. 

That innate knowledge of how he felt about someone, trusted them. Flirting was easy, but you’ve seen the way he looks at Logan, too.

It was different. Special.

“Two musketeers becoming the full set,” He holds his fingers up in front of you, two and then three, “Only unlike them, we’re fucking.”

You let out a sound of dissent, with the lift of a shoulder. 

“Oh, worm?” His brow raises, “Guess Disney wasn’t ready for that, either. Dibs on the religious one, then. I am a man of the cloth.”

“It’s a bad analogy, there’s four of them.”

He chuckles indulgently, “Okay, now I think you’re making things up-“

Now it’s your hand reaching, a finger tapping against his lips.

“I’d like that. I think Logan being our… boyfriend-” The word sends a rush of heat to your face as you stutter over it, Wade’s eyes gleaming.

“Oh my god, you are so fucking cute.” He crows, “We’ve fucked nasty-style and you can’t even say boyfriend-”

Your face buried in his chest, his name a muffled whine. A beat as the laughter still rumbles in his chest, before you peek at him.

“Do you think he wants that, too?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Wade hums, “That man is at least a 6 on the Yearning Richter scale. Felt by all, many frightened.”

You brighten at that prospect - your brain is already slipping ahead, “Do you think we should like, plan something? Ask him together?”

“Oh, don’t worry, gorgeous.” Wade grins.

“I’ll handle it.”

It's strange, seeing Logan in your space.

A good strange. A strange that feels nice - the subtle sweep of his eyes, as he takes in your apartment. The bag slung over his shoulder already tucked in your room, set on the ottoman at the foot of your bed.

He fits in, you think. Tucked into your couch as you put the finishing touches on dinner. Too used to being in their shared space at Wade’s. Of stolen moments when Althea was out. Hushed moments when she was home, muffled moans and bitten-back sighs.  

It will be nice to be able to take your time. 

They had arrived together, and there had been a certain thrill to that, too. 

Wade's knock that mimics the opening beats of "Smooth", before the door burst open. Funny to think about them crammed in a car together - they took Althea's, Wade tells you, when you later asked if they'd walked.

How he was already turning to you to referee, as you tip your head to kiss his cheek. 

"All I'm asking is if we're both sheathing our swords in the same scabbard, then why is he getting his panties in a twist about me putting my clothes in his bag?"

"Ignore him, sweetheart," Logan softens, leaning into the matching kiss you press against his jaw, "Been doing that for the last two months. It's good to see you."

And it is. Good to see both of them, something warm glowing bright in your chest.

The round table that always felt a little big for two feels perfect now - tucking between each other as dinner passes in a warm jumble of savory aromas and comfortable conversation. 

Smiling at the way they're both as engaged with your stories about your day, as you are about the work they've been doing together.

"-absolutely vaporized. It was disgusting, babe." Wade grimaces, "I was fine of course. Red, and all. But Lo here, eeugh. Still scrubbing the blood out of the nooks and crannies."

Logan makes a grunt of acknowledgement, "Had worse."

"Worse? Worse than getting gut-mist blasted across your chest?"

"I'll help, if you want." You offer, "Haven't seen your new suit yet."

At Wade's request, you try to keep out of his mercenary business - other than the stories he shares, the occasional repairs of his suit, or a late-night tryst. Doesn't want his life mixing, not after what's happened in the past. 

Dutiful boyfriend by day, mercenary by night. And also sometimes, by day. Evenings, weekends.

It’s an unsteady schedule, but it's one you've grown accustomed to. Maybe that’s what helps make this easy, the way you’ve already adjusted to mutant-regenerative-boyfriend-life. 

But it doesn't mean you're not curious. That you don't appreciate certain aspects when they’re offered for you explore - especially when they come in tightly wrapped in leather and lycra. 

And when you eventually rise to collect dishes, it's Logan that beats you to it. A finger sternly pointed towards the couch, Wade's hand at your back - already guiding you towards it, as you protest.

"Least we can do, sweetheart," Logan smiles, "Can't remember the last time I had a meal this good."

"Excuse me," Wade gasps, as he slips on elbow-length mis-matched gloves,"Did my midnight toaster strudels mean nothing to you?"

It's your turn now, to sit on the couch. To watch, as Wade supervises. The quiet talk that swiftly turns to bickering. A yelp and a splash of hot water, before he's retreating.

Sinking down on the seat next to you, as your thoughts swirl. Soft memories of past shared evenings, and the planting of something that you’ll tend to carefully, hoping it will flourish. 

"You're looking at him like he's got balls on his neck," Wade’s arm slings around your shoulders, tone knowing, "Got something on your mind, gorgeous?"

Your nose wrinkles at the visual, but then you turn thoughtful.

"Just like seeing both of you here." Your smile is soft, "It feels right, you know?"

He hums in agreement, and you glance his way, "Do you feel that way too?"

"Feels as right as Ryan Reynolds playing me in my upcoming biopic."

That has you cocking an eyebrow - whatever reference he's making flying over your head, "And that's... good?"

"Yeah, baby." He grins.

"Really fucking good." 

The hunger follows you into the bedroom, after. Your question about dessert gets swiftly turned around on you - hands catching at your waist. 

Threats and promises  to devour you instead - that the ice cream you bought can wait - as lips press against yours. Another mouth at your neck, in your slow and often-interrupted journey to the bedroom. 

Ganging up on you again, almost as if it were planned. 

And you’re not sure if it was, or whether they’ve unconsciously become more in-sync, between their hours together at the apartment and in their work. 

More alike than they are different, at their core - something you’re not sure you’d be able to convince them of, even though you see it.

It’s sweetly familiar, when you finally fall into bed together. Clothes already stripped off, a messy pile mixing together against the woven floral rug as you fit together. 

Spit pools on Logan’s tongue, as he sucks on his teeth. A low tilt of his head before his lips are parting, letting it drop where he has your thighs nudged apart, belly pressed down against the bed.

Warm, where it hits the cleft of your ass. His hand follows - a broad palm curving against soft skin, tugging you open. 

“What do I have to do to let me have you here?” Logan’s thumb smears his spit against the tight ring, voice low and honey-smooth. 

It makes you jolt, a soft sound pulling from your throat. Squirming, as his thumb comes back - rolling the pad against you. 

“She, shit-” Wade groans, as your mouth leaves his cock - the tip glistening as it drops against his belly, “Only lets people she’s dating fuck her ass.”

“Wade!” You whine, as your thighs try to close - Logan’s spreading to keep you open. 

A low rasp of a laugh, “Is that right?”

“Not me though. If you’re curious.” Wade hums, his arm still slung under the pillow, “Sometimes even a first date is too slow.”

Dark eyes drag up, to the shift of hips. Over the leaking cock, lying flushed and hard against Wade’s belly - something like hunger in the slow sweep up to the pulled-wide grin.

“This is you handling it?” You hiss.

“You’re acting like the man invented the elevator.” Wade shrugs - shifting to push himself up on an elbow, “Trust me, there is nothing more romantic than a ‘what are we’ conversation slipped into a discussion about double penetration. We’re multi-tasking, gorgeous.”

Some of the tension eases, with the way he smiles at you. There’s not an ounce of worry in his expression, only the dark shadow of desire, highlighted with humor. 

Waiting until you smile back, before he fixes Logan with a pointed look. 

“Look. I’m gonna level with you,” He sighs, as if divulging something imperative, ”Until you’re ready to commit to being Mr. Y/L/N, then fifth base is just gonna be out of the question.”

There’s the shake of a head, a low huff behind you. The slight stroke of fingers against your skin.

“Are you asking me out?” It comes slowly, in a rough rasp. As if putting pieces together. 

It’s you that turns then, your eyes finding his. Your smile is sweet - a swirling heat of hope in your belly, “Depends on your answer.”

There’s something dark in his eyes. A curl of his lips, as his head dips.

A kiss pressed against your spine, then lower. 

“Come on Wilson.” He husks, “Let’s get our girl ready.”

A moan rips from you. First, from his words - the jolting butterflies in your belly, a pooling warmth. The sound lengthening, as his tongue flattens where his fingers had teased. Your back arches as Wade pumps his fist, before throwing a filthy “I-Told-You-So” smirk your way.

It glances off you. Your fingers curled in the sheets, as Logan shoulders your thighs further apart. A wet swipe that travels from your cunt to your hole, smearing your slick and his spit against your skin. 

A finger nudging against you, as Wade leans - hand fumbling for the handle of the bedside table. 

“You think you can take both of us?” Logan purrs, as he carefully works you open. A fingertip sinking inside you, as you whine. 

”What, you think we were joking about role-playing?” Wade scoffs,”Why did you think all the dinner knives were missing? Lost ‘em all beneath the bed.”

There’s a shuffle, as he works himself further beneath you. A bottle of lube dropped on the bedspread, as his fingers reach - petting against your clit.

“Tried two before, didn’t we gorgeous? Me and the Pulverine, as we call him.” Wade coos, “Not as big as you, of course. But definitely a lot more sparkly.” 

“Toy’s not the same thing,” Logan hums, as you clench around him. Sinking deeper, slowly pumping, “‘s gonna be a tight fit, baby.”

The sensations are already overwhelming. Wade’s fingers slipping down - fitting one, and then two fingers inside your slick pussy. His thumb nudging against your clit, teasing.

Logan’s weight against you, shifting as his hips grind into the mattress. The messy swirl of his tongue, more spit added to the mess. His thick finger already feels like a lot, pressed down to the knuckle. Slow in the way he works you open, the hot embers in your belly roaring brighter.

“I want it.” You moan, “Want both of you.” 

Wanted it for a while now. Wondered if they’d take you like this. If you’d be able to take them, stuffed so full you could barely draw breath. Wanting to know what it feels like to come, with both of them pressed to the hilt inside you. 

Words fail you, soon after. There’s the cold smear of lube against your skin, a second finger notched. Your cry muffled with the press of Wade’s lips, tilting your face to his as their fingers find their rhythm together.

That steady swirl against your clit. How you’re clenching around them, your arousal slick on Wade’s palm. The sharp rhythmic slap ringing through your ears as you pant into his mouth. Logan’s teeth against the soft curve of your ass, a muffled groan as he fits a second inside you. 

It’s a mimicry of later, but it’s enough. Something bright burning in your belly, fueled by their desire. Hot breath against your skin, Wade’s cock grinding into your hip. 

“Come on, gorgeous.” He murmurs against you, “Let me feel you come with his fingers buried in your ass.”

You choke on your moan. Hips shifting, pushing one deeper and then the other as you chase the building high. The sharp stretch long spooling into pleasure, twisting around your guts, shimmering. 

“‘m gonna-” It’s breathed out, your eyes screwing shut. Focused on the countdown  that’s begun inside you, swiftly approaching with each crook of their fingers, “Fuck, I’m-”

Logan shifts, his breath ghosting against your spine, “Come for us, sweetheart.”

For us. 

Your face buries against Wade’s shoulder, as they bring you over the edge together. Working in tandem to take you apart, and they haven’t even really begun - fingers crooking and curling as a bright pleasure blooms in your belly. 

Wade had been right - it’s not the first time you’ve been full like this. But Logan was right, too. It’s different - the way you can feel them move together, as you whine. The orgasm ripples through you, the sensations drawing out as kisses are dropped between your shoulder blades. 

Soft crooning in your ear, but it’s all muted - barely aware of the palms that run across your skin. The press of mouths against your heated skin - until the pulses in your core fades, the room coming back into focus. 

They slip from you - first Wade, and then Logan. You’ve felt empty before but never like this, already missing the weight inside you. Craving more.

There’s a shift on the bed, Logan shouldering himself next to Wade, who you’re still stretched out on. 

“C’mere, baby. Fuck, need to feel you.”

Hand at your hips, coaxing you up. Encouraging you to straddle his thighs, but then Wade is tsking - reaching for you, trying to turn you around.

“Annnd I just gave myself a promotion to Director,” He adds with a long-suffering sigh, “When you want something done right, gotta do it yourself.”

Logan growls, as your weight leaves him, “The fuck you talking about?”

Wade’s brow arches, “The fuck I’m talking about is you doing this all wrong, peanut. When was the last time you partook in the devil’s threeway? Was it this century, at least?”

Hand gentle as he guides you to face away from Logan, your ass settling against the cradle of his hips.

“There you go,” He coos, “How am I going to give your pretty little kitty the attention she deserves if you have her all hidden away?”

Logan’s hard cock nestles against your belly, as your knees press into the mattress. Breath hitching as you gauge the size of him again. Hoping that the prep he did was enough - the soft buzz beneath your skin certainly has you feeling more than ready.

Slicking your fingers with more lube before they wrap around his shaft - a rough hiss sliding from his throat as they circle around, squeezing. Smearing it against swollen flesh, thumbing over the leaking head as you line yourself up. 

Wade shifting to watch, his head tilted against Logan’s shoulder, his fist already wrapped around his cock as you start to slowly sink down. 

“Sit on it, sweetheart, there you go.” Logan growls, as he breaches you. 

A sharp, inhaled breath as the tip sinks inside you. The building pressure and then the give - as you try not to clench down.

Pulling a rough sound from him. Fingers twitching at your hips - set on only steadying you. A rough edge creeping into his soft encouragement, “Nice and easy, baby.”

Another inch, but it feels like double. Sweat beading along the nape of your neck, as you stretch around him.

“Doing so good,” He rasps, “Take it slow.”

“Taking it like a fucking champ, baby.” Wade interjects, “Couldn’t have done it better myself, and Levy knows how often I thought about it.”

Your nails bite into his thighs, but it only makes his hips flex. Twin moans when it nudges him the rest of the way - your breath stolen when he’s seated flush inside you.

Not that different than when Wade’s fucked you, even with the length he’s got on Logan. But it’s the girth that has your lips parting - a ragged moan with the experimental roll of your hips.

“Pretty fucking sight.” Logan groans, through gritted teeth. Palms slipping around, gently tugging you back towards his chest.

His growl low in your ear, as his hips lift in an experiment thrust.

“Gonna stuff you full, gonna let us do the work.” He husks, a hissed breath when you clench around him. “Make you feel good, alright?”

Palming at your tits, as Wade shifts into position. Swallowing your begging, whined out “please-” as he kisses down your throat. 

Over your breasts. The back of Logan’s hand, against the curve of your belly. His fist still working at his cock, an audible moan of appreciation when he settles between Logan’s thighs.

“You look so good full of him.” It’s mumbled out against your hip, “God, I want to jerk off to this and let you use my cum as lube.”

Logan’s fingers tighten - pinching a peaked nipple as you moan, as kisses are peppered against your mound.

“Fuck us into your tight ass.”

You cry out, when his tongue flattens against your clit. Fingers teasing at your hole, dipping inside to test how full you feel. 

“Soaking wet, baby. You feeling good?” Wade croons, “Or does your greedy little pussy need more?”

“Wade,” You keen, desperate. Rocking into the slow pump of Logan’s hips, his breath harsh in your ear.

His fingers crook, and curl.

“You want us to take you there and back again to pound town?” 

“I swear to god,” You pant, desperate, “If you don’t get inside me, I’ll-, I’ll call Nate.”

His eyes gleam, “That right? Still thinking about riding the ol’ Cable car?”

It’s Logan’s added growl that finally gets him moving. A smile still pulling wide, as he slips from you. His own desperation betrayed by the wet smear against his belly.

The slick tip of his cock, as he ruts against your folds. Your breath held, as he notches himself.

His dark eyes on your blown-wide ones, as he starts to sink in. It has your thighs trembling, as you whine. Clenching down without meaning to, as Logan groans.

Feeling the way he inches into you. What little space left filled as your pussy makes room for him. The tight clutch of your walls, a moan at the way he can feel Logan through the thin layer of skin between them.

A choked-out moan punched from his chest. 

“Made to take us both. Weren’t you, gorgeous?” He murmurs, as his hips move, “Goddamn perfect fit.”

They both move inside you. Stilted thrusts, off rhythm as you squirm between them. Logan getting impatient - throwing a glare Wade’s way.

“Stop moving when I do.”

It’s met with a laugh, as Wade’s hip snap a little harder. Filling you, the force jolting you against Logan, as your nails bite into his biceps.

“I’m driving this thing.” He counters, “Call me Sandra Bullock, because I’m not about to let this bus dip below 50.”

His hand catching Logan’s wrist - resistance when he tugs, but then it’s going with him. Fitting the curve of his fingers against the base of your throat.

“You do what you do best and be the anchor. Keep her still for me, will you?” 

Logan’s fingers flex, but he grunts - the slightest pressure against your chest. 

A pat against your hip, with a wink, “Let Daddypool do all the work.”

You huff, but the sound turns strangled as the sets the pace. Hands at your hips, tugging you to meet his thrusts. Fucking you back on to Logan, when his weight presses into you.

“There we fucking go. How you feeling, baby?”

“Feels so good,”You gasp, as the movement gets familiar. The slick slide of them inside you, the back and forth as they stroke your walls, as your arousal gleams against their cocks. 

“Know it does.” Wade grins, “They don’t call me DP for nothing.”

Logan grunts beneath you. Something biting held back - distracted, as his other hand wanders. Slipping across your hip, then down.

Tracing over your mound. Feather-light against your folds, feeling how you stretch open each time Wade goes balls-deep. 

Your moan coming out ragged, when he teases your clit. Soft strokes with the pad of his finger, before two press and circle.

It makes you jolt, his laugh low in your ear.

Finding that familiar rhythm. Feeling the way your hips flex, seeking out his touch. How easily he’s able to wind you up now, from the times he’s taken you apart. 

How it’s almost overwhelming, with the stuffed-full pressure of them inside you. With the saw of Wade’s hips, as his cock nudges against the spongy spot inside you.

A rough hum when you clench down. Unable to do more than take what he gives you, with the way Logan cradles you against his chest.

It only adds to the surge of pleasure inside you. A near-divine pairing of sensations that has your fingers reaching, Wade’s name a soft cry on your lips. 

He flattens against you, to meet the way your mouth tips up. It’s messy, open-mouthed as his hips slow to a grind. Hands skating up your body, against hips and waist.

Letting him in when he deepens it. A groan as he licks against your teeth. Needy presses of his mouth, spit smeared across your lips when it breaks. Another kiss  peppered against your jaw, where Logan groans into your ear. 

A unconscious shift of his head, and then their lips are brushing.

Logan’s cock throbs inside you, as Wade goes stiff and still. It’s softer than it should be - no more than a shared breath, before Wade pulls back. 

The hand at your neck flexes. Loosens, as it slips between you. Wrapping around the back of Wade’s neck as he yanks him back down.

A growled out “fuck” when they meet again, insistant this time. Vicious with the scrape of teeth, the wet swipe of tongue as Logan’s nails bite into skin.

Messy, as they pant into each other's mouths. Calloused fingers drifting down from your clit to split against your folds. Teasing where you’re filled, as Wade’s moan turns filthy.

A matching sound escaping from Logan, long held back. 

“Fucking holding out on me,” Wade mumbles, when the kiss breaks, “Haven’t been this wet since Cap’s beard reveal.”

Eyes dark, when he feels how Logan moves inside you. Forgetting himself, as he chases the pleasure that threatens to peak inside him.

“Bet you love knowing you’ve been in all of our girl’s holes. Don’t you, handsome?” Wade grins. Eyes still watchful - catching the clench of a jaw, as his lips return to yours.

The kiss is sweeter this time, even as he begins to drive into you. Each of your breaths coming in a whining gasp, pleasure once again winding inside you.

His mouth running away from him, determined to send you both over, ”Should let me into some of yours. You know I’d treat you right.”

“Shut the fuck up. C-Can’t come with you running your mouth.” It’s panted out - half-hearted at best, and Wade’s eyes gleam.

“Fucking liar.” He crows, “Bet you jerk it all the time to the thought of us screaming your name.”

Voice pitches up then, in a mimicry of yours, “Oh, Logan. Fuck me right there with your monster dick-”

Logan strings tight beneath you with a snarl, as he tries to bury himself in your ass. The hand at your neck dipping to grasp at your hip, as the practiced rhythm turns sloppy.

Wade shifts - his weight leaned into your hips. Pinning you both down as he fucks into you, stroke after stroke.  

Logan’s touch is sloppy against your clit - but with the way your boyfriend’s cock pounds against that spot inside you, it’s enough.

You don’t even realize you’re whimpering. The way their names string together, the “please, please, please-” that catches in your throat.  

“You gonna come too, baby?” He coos - thrilled, “You’re both so fucking easy, aren’t you?”

Logan moans in your ear when you squeeze around him, fingers pressing harder. A little faster, and with the next plunge of Wade’s cock - you shatter. 

It’s all white noise, the faded star stickers on the ceiling becoming swirling the sky above as you’re pulled under. 

Helpless, with the way you’re pinned between them. Coming again with the tight swirls against your clit, with them fully sheathed inside you. 

The tight pulse of your orgasm around his sends Logan over. 

Even with Wade’s weight his hips still lift as he bows off the bed. A wounded groan, as he comes with you clenching down around him. Grinding himself into your hole as his cock throbs, emptying himself into you. 

There’s a sing-songed and muted “money shot” that has you groaning. Half-exasperation, half-mindless pleasure, as Logan’s hands roam. Holding you against him, ragged breath against your neck as you milk him empty.

Keeping you stuffed full, hilting his cock deeper when you squirm. Leaving Wade to catch up.

Shameless in the way he watches now, as molten pleasure thrums in your veins. Leaning back to see how you take them both. Picturing how you’ll look after, thoroughly-fucked holes that will drip with them until morning. 

Doesn’t notice when his breath turns short, but you do. 

“Wanna feel you come, baby.” You coo, your smile soft and pleasure-drunk. 

Hands tracing over his, overlapping and squeezing. The shallow lift of your hips to meet his thrusts, purposely squeezing him when he inches out - trying to keep him in.

“Make a fucking mess, Red.” Logan growls - joining you, “Let me feel you come inside her.”

“Jesus Titty-Fucking Christ,” The rough laugh turns into a groan, “Think I’m going to blow two loads at once-”

Hands overlapping, grasping on, holding you, as his hips pump faster. Head tipping - fitting between yours and Logans - as his back bows. 

Coming inside you with a muttered out “oh fuck. fuck yes-”, cock jerking with each needy rut of his hips. The sound turns into a whine when teeth sink his neck, hard enough to bruise. 

Yours on the other side, your soft moan in his ear as you feel the way he throbs as he spills into you again, and again. 

Intense, in a way you’ve never felt before. A connection that loops through you - from the press of your mouths, down to where you fit together. 

It’s fortunate that Logan’s hands still fit at your hips, with how fucked-out and boneless you feel. Trading one cock for another was one thing, but this - being claimed by both of them, the phantom ache as Logan withdraws- it’s something else entirely. 

Your head dropping back to rest against his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded as you wait for your pulse to stop galloping. Logan’s nose ghosting against your temple, an arm still thrown around your hips. 

A hiss, when Wade slips from you. You can feel the mess they’ve made, sticky against your thighs. How they drip from your fucked-out holes, when you clench around nothing. 

It must do something to him, the way Wade moans when he sits back. Fingers raising - mimicking a camera, complete with the click of his tongue as the shutter. 

“If that doesn’t win me an academy award,” He hums thoughtfully.

“Then I don’t know what the fuck will.”

Time slows down, after. The low hum of artificial rain from a device on your dresser, layering with the muted city outside. Doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours since he last moved, and he really can’t bring himself to care.

As long as it’s still dark, then he knows they’ve still got time. 

“So are you going to bake us a sex cake?” Wade yawns, “You know, for completely rocking your shit.”

“A what?” You stir against him - an eye cracking open. 

Logan grunts, his face buried in your shoulder. A hand splayed across your belly, a tug as he pulls you closer.

“Oh my god,” Wade chuckles to himself, “There I go, mixing up timelines again. I infinitely prefer this one, by the way.”

Logan lets the two of you bicker, his eyes slipping shut again. 

Your apartment is quieter than Wade’s. The bed comparable to the one they shared last time. Can’t remember the last time he’s felt a warmth like this. 

Soft, where your back tucks against his chest. His hand shifts to your hip, curving against soft flesh. Wade’s hand rests close enough to touch, fingers just brushing. Facing you, thighs twined together as he sandwiches you between them.

The shower had been nicer, as well. Snug, when you had pulled them in with you. Taking turns under the warm spray. He had commented on it - a way to drag out the scratch of fingers through his hair. The swirl of soap against his skin, and he had been too blissed out to bother with the facade when a second set of hands grabbed his ass. 

Staying just a little longer, as their hands found their way between your thighs. Wade thumbing at your clit as his own fingers fucked the cum deeper into your cunt. Twin marks sucked into your neck, as your legs threatened to give out - still shaky from before.

You stir against him. Words heavy with sleep.

“Wade didn’t say it earlier.” You yawn - shuffling, so you can help over to face him. 

Logan’s brow rises, as you clarify.

“There’s a caveat to our earlier question.”

“Good word choice.” Wade hums, “11 points, and I bet you were a real pleasure to have in class.”

A low chuckle, when your hips press back against his in warning - as your eyes flip up to Logan’s. 

“It’s a two-for-one deal,” The corner of your lips tug up, “It’s both of us, or nothing.”

“All for one, and one for all,” Wade’s chin hooks over your shoulder, ignoring how you elbow him, “And can you really afford not to take that?”

Supposes it’s cute, that you think you have to tell him this. That his eyes haven’t equally wandered, even if it’s only half-admitted. Too caught on wondering if the only something good he had will change, if he truly allows himself to want something. 

That it’s not only the feeling of your mouths on his cock that he revisits, though he does think of that often.

There’s other moments as well. Squeezing hands and smiles and the way you both look at him. The toothbrush that you had ready tonight, just incase he forgot his. The handle blue, when he slipped it in the cup - tucked next to red and purple.

Your words still spark brightly in his chest, settling low behind his ribs. It quells an uneasy twist that’s been lingering there for the past few weeks. 

Something unsteady, finally finding purchase. 

“Don’t know why you’re clarifying though, gorgeous.” His cheek rubs against yours like a cat. Those brown eyes meet his as well, and it’s hard to bite back the low inhale of breath.

“Considering he tongue-fucked the shit out of me earlier, I think he’s good.”

He huffs in reply, but he can’t bite back the curve of his lips. Not anymore - and he finds that he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah.” Logan agrees. That something turning soft inside him, the smile pulling just a little wider. 

“I’m good.”

thanks so much for reading!! 💖 there's a couple more moments I'd love to explore with them in the future! (but in case I'm not able to, I wanted to end it on this sweet note between them all. )

[rexhya]

What if the prince found out we were terminally ill and coughing blood and wasn’t suspected to live more then 6 months?

yandere!prince who doesn't initially notice the changes to your body. even he who watched you like a hawk couldn't detect the subtle differences from when he'd first seen your light sickness to when it was too late.

The trouble started up about a month ago, you'd contracted a cold from one of the other maids, that was nothing special. In fact, your other symptoms went away not long after but the hacking stayed persistent. You gone to see a general medic but he'd simply said it was a bad cough.

How wrong it was of you to trust him. "Are you still alright?" Anul asked, the two of you were in his room, his head resting on your lap as you ran cards through his hair.

"Yes I'm okay." Anul frowned, and flipped his body upwards so now he was facing you.

"You look pale, I should take you to Rosenwar. Rosenwar was the royal families personal doctor, she'd been serving the Royal Family for years, you had no place being tended to by someone of such importance.

"No, no that's quite alright, I've just been having allergies from the seasons changing that's all. There's no need for a doctor I'm quite alright." you patted Anul's hands as they cradled your face delicately. For a few moments he said nothing, simply stroking your cheek with his thumbs, his expression unreadable.

"Okay." he said, and his lips pressed to yours softly, it was the most innocent kiss you'd received from him in all the time you'd spent.

If only he knew it would be the last, he would have held It longer.

His coronation was only 3 weeks from now, days had passed without since that day in his bedroom and he was ready to be done with all the ceremonial and technical transfers from prince to king that kept him away from you.

Around 2pm in the afternoon, the hazy summer light falling into his bedroom, Anul found you on his bed, your back was turned and you were breathing so softly he almost didn't look at you, as to not wake you up.

But your sleeping face was never one he could resist. His heart fell into abysmal. Velvet red blood pooled at your mouth, it's why your breathing was so soft you were unconscious. He's frantic and scared at Rosenward examines you with her team of nurses, he's halfway into a heart attack when the doctor tells him you're most likely going to wake up today if not tomorrow.

He stays with you the entire time, abusing his power to keep the nurses on round the clock care for you, though your vitals never change and your heart never stops.

When you do finally open your eyes, Anul wants to scream at Rosenward, that wasn't today or tomorrow, it took a week for your body to recover from whatever horrible disease had gotten to it.

You look thin, Anul tries not to cry. "Sweetheart?" he asks tentatively, like speaking would somehow send you back into a week long coma only this time you'd never return.

"Water." you croak and the man brings you a glass within seconds.

Soon enough your body is examined, you contracted a rare disease from that maid, (one he's kept in mind to already kill). Mortuupulmonis only affected 1% of his kingdomes population, and worst of all, it had no cure.

He's wasted about two weeks of his coronation preparation time when he finds this out. The doctor estimated about a 6 months before he ran out of time. The coronation is post poned until then (his father is livid as usual) but Anul doesn't care not even in the slightest bit.

You get worse and worse everyday as Anul pours millions and millions of coin into finding a cure for you, he even goes international to make a statement and hopefully received something, anything but with not luck. He feels hopeless by month 3, your body is piratically crumbling at the seams and all he could do was watch. By month four he's broke, there was no more cures for him to spend, no more medicines to buy, there was nothing.

Nothing but you and your hosiptal bed srounned by things you loved.

"How you feeling today?" Anul whispers. "Mm." you haven't been much into talking these days.

He does his routine, clean your bedding, force feed you anything you'll take that day and check in with Rosenward on things you know didn't matter.

You were going to die, he knew it, you knew it, they both knew it.

On month six Anul doesn't renounce his coronation. Instead he stays by you side until the very end, even after youve took your last breath, Anul would probably stay with you until l your body rotted.

If only he knew. He would've kissed you harder.

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot (6) - Mattheo Riddle

Theo and Enzo had never been afraid of Mattheo Riddle. Sure, he was intimidating as hell—violent, unpredictable, and utterly terrifying when he wanted to be—but they’d seen him at his worst, his best, and all the moments in between. They were used to his temper, to the way he thrived on chaos and confrontation.

But there were two things that could truly set him off.

One: Someone messing with you.

Two: You being hurt.

Which was why, when Theo and Enzo stumbled into the Slytherin common room that evening and spotted you sitting on the couch with a busted lip, their immediate reaction was not concern for your well-being.

It was concern for whoever had done this to you.

“Holy shit,” Theo muttered under his breath, elbowing Enzo. “She’s injured.”

Enzo inhaled sharply. “Mattheo’s gonna lose it.”

You looked up at them, confused by their hushed conversation. “What?”

Theo pointed at your lip. “What happened?”

You waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing—”

Enzo snorted. “Yeah, okay, sure. Mattheo’s definitely gonna believe that.”

Theo shook his head. “Nah, she’s screwed. If Mattheo sees that—”

“If Mattheo sees what?”

The low, dangerous voice cut through the air, and both boys immediately straightened up like soldiers at attention.

You tensed, turning your head just in time to see Mattheo approaching, his dark eyes already narrowed in suspicion. His gaze flickered over you, and the second he spotted your split lip, his entire demeanor shifted.

His body went rigid. His jaw clenched.

And the temperature in the room dropped.

“What the fuck happened?” His voice was calm—too calm.

You swallowed, suddenly very aware that both Theo and Enzo were backing away like they wanted to disappear.

“Mattheo, it’s fine—”

“No.” He crouched in front of you, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so he could inspect the damage. His expression darkened. “Tell me what happened princess, right now.”

You hesitated. Mattheo was already on edge from his usual antics, and you didn’t want to add to it. But you also knew there was no way he was letting this go.

So, with a sigh, you muttered, “I got in a fight.”

Silence.

Then—

“What?”

You shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t a big deal—”

Mattheo stood up abruptly, running a hand through his curls, his expression a mixture of disbelief and frustration. “You don’t fight, darling. What happened?”

You bit your lip—ow—and looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Mattheo exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. “It matters to me.”

You knew you weren’t getting out of this. So, with a small, shaky breath, you finally admitted, “She was saying… things about you.”

Mattheo’s expression flickered. “What?”

Your throat tightened. “Hannah Abbott. She was talking shit about you, and I—I just couldn’t let her get away with it.”

Mattheo went very still.

Theo and Enzo, meanwhile, exchanged looks of complete and utter shock.

“She fought someone for him?” Theo whispered, eyes wide.

Enzo let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t see that coming.”

Mattheo ignored them completely, his focus entirely on you. His anger—the burning, violent rage that had been simmering in his chest—shifted into something else entirely.

His heart swelled.

“You…” He trailed off, staring at you like you’d just told him you would die for him.

You sniffled, a little overwhelmed, but nodded. “I know you don’t need anyone to defend you, but I just—she was being so awful, Mattheo. I couldn’t listen to it.”

Mattheo let out a breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as the sharp edges of his fury softened. He stepped closer, his hands coming to cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

“Oh, princess.” His voice was so, so soft. “You really are too good for this world.”

You huffed. “I don’t feel very good right now.”

His eyes darkened again, his fingers brushing against your lip so delicately, it almost made you shiver. “I hate seeing you hurt.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, though the warmth in your chest made it hard to keep up the act. “You should see her though, you’d be proud,” you managed to laugh slightly.

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, his fingers still tracing your skin like he needed to make sure you were real. Then, after a long pause, he murmured, “I don’t doubt it, beautiful. But leave the fighting to me from now on, yeah?”

You blinked. “Mattheo—”

“No, baby.” His voice was gentle but firm. “I know you were trying to protect me. And I love you for it. But you’re mine, and I don’t want to see you hurt.” He leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead. “Let me be the one to fight, okay?”

You bit your lip—again, ow—but nodded. “Okay.”

Mattheo smiled slightly, though his eyes still held a storm. “Good girl.”

Theo groaned dramatically from behind him. “Merlin’s sake, can you at least pretend to be scary right now? You were just about to go on a murder spree, and now you’re whispering the softest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Mattheo turned his head slightly, his expression immediately shifting into something terrifying. “Do you want me to start the murder spree with you, Theo?”

Theo held up his hands. “Nope. All good.”

Mattheo turned back to you, his gaze soft once again as he ran his fingers through your hair. “C’mon, let’s get you some ice.”

[diremoone]

it’s just a scratch! (it isn’t) | sylus.

a/n:: apparently receiving a head injury leaves plot bunnies behind too lol [ sylus fluff ;; tis mildly selfship coded ;; i whipped this drabble up in about an hour haha ]

Sylus watches you pause as you lift the mug to the cabinet. Your brows furrow and proceed to slowly spin the mug around curiously.

“Sylus?” You halfway turn to him to look from your peripheral.

He glances up and replies, “Yes?”

“What am I doing?”

“Unloading your dishwasher, I believe.”

A pause, then a small, “Oh,” escapes your lips. Then you put the mug up and close the dishwasher. He’d finish it for you later.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, eyes glancing up at you from the book in his hands.

“About the same… Uhm…” You space out, staring at the TV for a good ten seconds before coming back to reality. “Maybe more dumb than usual.”

Sylus chuckles. “You’re not dumb. You just sustained a head injury.”

“Which has made me feel dumber,” you point out.

“Which is why I’m here,” he adds.

“To tell me I’m dumb?”

He scoffs in disbelief and closes his book as he remarks, “To make sure you don’t smack your head into anything else while you’re recovering and on leave, sweetheart.”

You feel the fluster creep to your shoulders and your cheeks at the nickname, ducking your head down bashfully.

Sweetie, when he’s teasing. Sweetheart, when he’s being soft and caring. You often hear more of the latter nowadays.

“It’s just for a few days. My symptoms should clear up come the day I go back for a checkup,” you grumble. “And it wasn’t even that bad. My elbow took the brunt of it.”

“I’m aware of all that. And until then, I’ll be sticking around to make sure you’re okay, kitten.”

But the cute moment ends when you cuss profusely, hands flying to your head in the spot where you’d gotten hit. Sharp pains crawl down from the spot, nearly debilitating and making you hunch over.

You faintly register something hitting the couch, followed by large hands guiding you by your shoulder and waist to sit down.

Sylus doesn’t like the way your body rocks in his hold, head bobbing up and down while your eyes are screwed shut from the pain, hissing when it flares. He takes his hand and gently cradles the back of your head, pulling you to his shoulder to find rest. If you had been standing, he’s sure he would’ve had to catch you before you hit the ground.

Thirty seconds in total pass before the pain in your head finally dies down. You still feel a tingle, but don’t mention it.

You inhale, then speak softly, “It passed.”

It takes a few seconds for Sylus to reply. “That was the worst one yet.”

“That you’ve seen,” you try and joke. But the grumble of dissatisfaction tells you he’s anything but amused. In fact, you might’ve just put him in a worse mood.

“I guess that means I’ll be staying over for quite some time, even after your next doctor’s visit.”

You lift your head from his shoulder and stare pointedly. “Sylus, no.”

“What? You don’t like my company?”

“It’s just not necessary for you to stay and watch me. I’m a big girl,” you argue.

“A big girl with a head injury,” he “corrects” you with a grin. “And don’t worry about your little friends. I’ll disappear for awhile when they decide to come over.”

You sigh in defeat. “You’re making my head hurt.”

“Then stop arguing, kitten.” And then Sylus’s voice drops an octave, expression changing from cheeky to concerned. “Let me take care of you. Your head meeting that table after that giant Wanderer tossed you wasn’t pretty to watch, you know.”

This time, you finally hear him, and he sees it.

You know where this is coming from. You know this comes from whatever past you two had together that you can’t remember (but apparently Sylus does) for the life of you. His concern for you is always genuine, you know this. Underneath every layer of teasing and cheekiness, you know Sylus means it when he says he wants to take care of you. And you can only imagine what you must’ve looked like getting tossed like a ragdoll by that Wanderer you’d fought.

You sure as hell know what your head feels like.

“Alright, you win.” You shift yourself onto his lap, getting cozy and laying your head back on his shoulder and closing your eyes. “Just make sure to jet when my friends come over. The last thing I need is a tremendous headache about how the leader of Onychinus is in my living room tending to me.”

He chuckles, then presses a long, sweet kiss to the top of your head. “Deal.”

[bl00d-on-y0ur-h4nds]

𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of murder, toxic relationship, slight gore, some suggestiveness

HAVING A SERIAL KILLER FOR A BOYFRIEND IS ALREADY UNCONVENTIONAL, no matter how much Toby's eyes soften when he lays them on you or how he turns gentle when his hands touch your skin, the fact that they're used to tear away the life of someone else only moments before never leaves your mind. It often leaves you wondering how someone so brutal can be so soft with you, like an attack dog turning into a puppy once it's in the presence of it's master.

TOBY IS NOT EASY TO DEAL WITH, even if he is significantly different with you, that doesn't mean he changes completely. His mind is as cruel as a bear trap and his tongue is as sharp as a dagger, leading to him often speaking before thinking and hurting your feelings, even though you're the only thing that he can love in this rotten world. Even before he turned into the monster he is now, his mean words and vulgarities always got him into trouble no matter how much his mother washed his mouth with soap.

BUT LIKE A DOG he licks your wounds after he bites, eyes pleadingly staring at you and the same mouth used to spout the chaos in his mind being used to pour out the most desperate apologies. It's easy to assume it's a manipulation tactic, it wouldn't be far above him to use it if it meant getting what he wants (which is only you), But the cold calculation leaves his honey eyes the moment he realizes he messed up, instead welling them with passionate yearning for your attention and forgiveness.

AND HOW HE CRAVES YOUR ATTENTION, his body melting underneath you when you sit on his lap and pepper his face in kisses, a stupid smile on his face with your red lipstick marks all over it. Toby has always been beaten, rejected, outcasted; even when he tried to assimilate into society and survive long enough for those he used to love. It's not like being a killer made him all the more likable anyway, and true crime podcasts don't really count as positive attention. So when he finally receives that sweet affection, he can't help but cave under you and beg for more.

MAYBE YOU'RE THE CLOSEST THING HE HAS TO REDEMPTION, after all, you see him with eyes full of love and wanting, not interested in anyone else that isn't him; while others kick him to the curb like a mangy stray. Often times speaking to him like he's your best friend and you're boyfriend, giving him a taste of what a normal life could have been. Toby doesn't know what you see in him, or why you even gave him a chance after all of his cruelty, he wouldn't blame you for seeing him as a monstrous creature from the woods than a real person.

BUT IF HE'S A BETTER MAN IN YOUR EYES THAN HIS, despite everything he's done, then who is he to change your mind? You've had front row seats to his true nature, he's shown it to you through his bloodstained hands smearing crimson on your cheeks when he cradles them, he's shown it to you in the cruel jeers to those who hurt you and how he brings down his axe on them, tearing them limb from limb and turning them into human pudding, whether it's in front of you or not. He doesn't bother to hide his worst because you've seen his worst and choose him anyway, and something about that makes his heart flutter in way it's never had before.

YET HE'S ALSO SHOWN YOU HIS TRUE NATURE through soft kisses in the morning and picking you up bridal style to not dirty your shoes in a puddle (even though you can just walk around it). How he sometimes makes a joke without it involving dark humor, or how he tries to make food for you even if always ends up either undercooked or burnt, resorting to buying you takeout instead (don't ask where he got the money, just enjoy his gift). Not to mention how he comforts you, it feels so strange to have such a horrible man hold you in his arms and try his best to stop your tears, especially when he's caused you so many...

EVEN THROUGH HIS INTENSITY you still feel his love, especially through his eyes. Despite being a warm shade of brown, they feel like it pierces through your flesh and into your heart, stopping you like a deer in the headlights. They're trained on you like a cat chasing a mouse, even if it's admiring your face or chasing you through the forest during one of your escape attempts, it's like he doesn't have anything better to look at and if he does, it's only a task he has to do before returning his gaze to you. Even with his goggles on he still looks unnerving, just gazing at you from behind them.

AND WHAT HE DOESN'T SHOW WITH HIS EYES, he shows with his hands. They're always on you, resting on your hips, hugging you close to him from behind, cuddling you into him on his bed, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, even hanging a finger on your back pocket. He doesn't care if they smear blood on you, if anything it makes you all the more beautiful in his eyes, tainted with him, dirtying you up so now you're all his...yeah he's got a bit of a corruption kink. But the point is that his hands are never far from you, he's the type to make you sit on his lap even though there's a seat right next to him, why do you want that uncomfortable chair when you have him? :D

LIKE YOU SEE HIS TRUE NATURE, HE MAKES YOU EXPOSE YOURS. Whether it be through his word making your face heat up or his hands making you feel things you've never felt before, stripping you of everything until you're bare to his eyes, he'll make you just as vulnerable to him as he is to you. In a way it's how he communicates his love to you, showing you the effect you have on him, and reveling in seeing him have the same on you.

THE FUNNIEST PART ABOUT THIS is that Toby is one hell of a liar, twisting the truth for his sick games and to reach his end goal, he loves causing a ruckus in the minds of those around him; and yet he crumbles with you. Something about you hits a soft spot that exposes the scared little boy desperate for love hidden underneath the broken man only focused on surviving another day. Is it the innocence in your eyes when you look up at him? The softness of your kisses against his calloused hands? Or your own wise words shooting painfully through his heart? He doesn't know, but he loves it.

TOBY DIDN'T BELIEVE IN SOULMATES before meeting you, in fact he thought love was a justification for the shit people do and don't want to admit, that true love only exists in fairy tales. But now he's attached to the hip to you, going after you like some lovesick dog, and having the both of you in a relationship where your minds work in tandem, only meant for each other.

BECAUSE HE MIGHT NOT BE CERTAIN ABOUT WHERE HE'S GOING AFTER HE DIES, but he sure as hell knows the lengths he's willing to go in order to make sure he's right next to you when he does.

[asahisbunny]

SMOOTH AS SILK

── .✦Asahi azumane x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 Your husband, Asahi Azumane, is a famous designer in japan, but deadlines are his worst enemy. How would he react when his pretty wife offers to help him solve his multiple problems!?

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; smut, p in v, dirty talking,this man is so down bad, getting turned on over fashion? Asahi turns feral, teasing, breeding kink if you open your eyes (it's so obvious), cervix kissing, or smth, he's so whiny..until he isn't.

I'm not responsible for the content you consume MDNI

Asahi sat on his desk, hair no longer sitting in his stylish bun but cascading down his temples. in front of him sat his upcoming spring collection, all pieces finished except for an infuriating vest. he knew there was something missing, but as much as he kept on sketching he couldn't seem to find what it was, he is very meticulous with his designs, it doesn't matter if the deadline is in an hour, if there's something missing, he won't turn it in. But what did take him out of his perfectionist loop was being far away from home too long. His deadline was tomorrow, and he had already been away from home for two agonizing days. Killing himself slowly in his studio, accompanied by soulless mannequins and lavish fabrics.

Away from your love, your doting, your touch. He dreaded being away from you, so much that his thoughts distracted him from hearing the lock turn, and your quiet steps made their way inside. It was only when you snaked your arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek that he noticed your presence.

“‘sahiii” you whined playfully, making him smile fondly “good evening, my love” he spoke, turning around in his chair to get a better look at you. you cooed worriedly at his features “oh baby, look at your eyes, how long has it been since you slept?”

your hands cradled his face as of he was a sickly victorian child. well..he probably did look like that in your eyes. you pulled the strands of hair that framed his face behind his ears before kissing him on the lips. oh how sweet did your lips taste he though to himself.

Asahi all but melted into your touch, the blood in his veins ignoring his sleep deprived state and rushing blood south. with his lips still on yours, tongue swiping at your bottom lip to gain access, he took hold of your hips, squeezing them with want.

“Asahi, you need a good night's sleep and something other than instant noodles filling you up”

you reprimand him, hand on you hip like a scolding teacher

His face only turned flustered “what about me filling up my wife hmm?” his hands now snaking their way to the small of your back.

“Asahi!”

You basically walked in on that on your own.

After having to pry him away from your side, blush as bright as the night of your wedding, you made your way to the “kitchen” of the studio. the one which consisted of a microwave that had seen better days and an old coffee maker.

“I brought you some rice and side dishes from last night, ‘samu came to drop em off”

The only respond you received was a huff, worried you walked over to him again.

“What's the issue with the piece ‘sahi?”

He only deflated back on the chair, head thrown back as he rubbed his palm roughly down his face with a deep sigh.

Gods did he drive you mad, even in his disheveled state, your eyes drifted to his constricted bulge, your eyes getting all glossed up like some-

“You are so cruel you know, lovely?” he spoke with a breathy laugh, looking at you through his spread fingers on top of his face.

“‘m sorry, you were saying?” you were not faltering. Mhm not happening.

“don't be, come here” he pulled you by the side of your hip. showing you the sketch of the vest and what it was paired up with. Immediately, you know knew what caused him so much trouble. he observed your features closely, how you frowned slightly while looking at the buttons sampled on the side and the array of colors the other garments the model would wear, the more he looked at you, the more his cock would twitch with fervor

Get it together Azumane.

“I think I know what's missing ‘sahi” you say before eyeing him weirdly at his flustered expression and slightly dilated pupils. “All yours baby” he hands you the pencil, and much to his dismay, sit on his lap. “Baby, could you behave for just five minutes, hmm?” you teased, smiling when he nodded eagerly,not missing the way his cock twitched against you clothed pussy.

“It's a sleeveless vest, and I know for a fact that the model is Angelo cause the torso is rather long, so maybe the buttons should be a color that compliments his skin color better” you started, erasing slightly the buttons, adding annotations to the side

“Is the design alright” he asked, peeking at your work, setting his shin on the crook of your neck, breath hitching when you shifted on top of him to get comfortable, resulting in his hand grabbing your hip to stop you. “Asahii” you draw out his name in a warning tone “sorry baby, carry on” he huffed.

“Since the pants are a dark pomegranate color, maybe an embroidery design of the fruit on the left would be ideal. Does Angelo have his ears pierced?”

You were driving him insane

“‘Azumane”

“H-huh? Oh y-yeah he does” his cock was leaking so much precum it was pressing against his pants, soiling them.

“Good, then make sure he wears deep red ones” you enunciate deep, with a slow drag of your hips.

He once again threw his head back at the friction “please I'll be so quick then I'll take a small break beautiful, I need to be inside you” he all but whined, tears threatening to escape his eyelids.

“Honey, I need to concentrate” your voice was laced in such a syrupy essence as you patted his knee lovingly that it made him leak even more into his already ruined boxers.

“I think you could add a striped tie to bring out his elongated torso, maybe. I'll still draw it on the side to see if you like it when I'm done”

His body was here yet his mind was on your shared bed, with you spread open on his throbbing cock, load after load stuffed so deep in your womb you'd be lucky that you weren't pregnant by the end of it.

“All done, come look” His thoughts all but dissipated as he saw you leaning on his desk, your back to him, ass so inviting.

He caged your frame from behind, one hand keeping you pressed against his confined..problem

“My wife is so good at what she does, so hah- so talented baby” he whispered in your ear, now full on rutting into you

“I teach fashion for a reason baby, I'm good at my job” you reply, hands bucking at the intensity of the wave of arousal hitting you all of a sudden.

“please let me thank you bunny, I'll be so good to you, hmm? you'll let me?”

Oh how you loved when he rambled away when he was all pent up

“I'm all yours Asahi” you say, looking back at him with half lidded eyes, giving him one more drag against his bulge

In a second all his resolve dissolved into the softness of your hips. In an instant he rid the desk of all the papers and art supplies that adorned it, buttons flying to the floor, making you gasp

“I am not helping you re-do all that last minute Asahi!” you yelped in disbelief

“we won't have any time after I'm done with you anyway, I'll ask for an extension if I need to” he said, bending you over the now empty desk, pinning your arms behind your back. One hand keeping them in place sweat already beading on his forehead at the anticipation.

He tugged at the elastic of your panties, leading them down your legs, until it reached your ankles, hiking up the little dress he made you not long ago past your ass,he let out a guttural groan as he saw how slicked your folds were.

“Look at her, all pretty and ready for me, don't you think?” he laughed as his middle finger went in with ease causing a filthy sound to Come out of your lips.

“Can just shove my cock in her” You didn't even noticed when he got rid of his briefs but his tip was already teasing your dilated entrance “so wet already can just slip it riiiiiight in”

You mewled at the burning stretch. Asahi was big in all the senses, from his stature, his heart, to his inches. Yet you took it all, all 9 of ‘em

“so deep ‘sahi, you're in– nghh in so deep” your

“I know bunny, can feel it– fuck! Can feel it kissing it”

It made you shiver how he behaved so animalistic. Your usually pliant and kind husband became an animal in heat once sheathed inside you– and you love it!

“‘gonna fill you up so well and soo deep, gonna have you all round an’ swollen in a few months” he felt you clench with such vigor it made him dizzy.

“you like that honey, hm? yeah, I knew you would” his thrust were borderline inhumane, his tip violently rocking against your fertile womb, your moans and whines fueling him on.

Not long after, his thrust faltered as he spilled his sticky seed against your walls, painting them white, detonating your own orgasm in its tow.

“Oh shit- did I go too far?” he asked, worried, coming down from his high.

There he was, your gentle giant

“You really think once is gonna make it stick baby?”

You were gonna drive him mad.

©𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘, 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍...𝐁𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐅𝐒

[bumblehoneybee]

Hi, could you write about post-crash curly falling in love with a nurse who is taking care of him back on earth?

A Simple Touch

You were nervous when it wasn't you doing the work. That was immediately obvious, especially when your long day shift was handed over to the night shift nurse. Curly admittedly preferred you too, perhaps because he usually slept through the night, and therefore found himself in your company more than anyone else.

Besides, he liked your care. Your hands were gentle, voice soft but not in a way that made him feel like a child. You cared, and it was obvious in how you (gently) corrected the other staff that had to handle him and how you gave a seemingly unending list of responsibilities to the night staff. Curly appreciated it.

But what he really liked was you, not just your care.

You didn't let him rot away in a bed -- "That's how people get bedsores, Mister!" -- and you forced him out of isolation. Curly felt the most human when sat in his wheelchair being driven around the medical ship. He met the crew, watched them interact with you, some stern and polite, others teasing and joyful.

One particular crewmate, claiming to be your very best friend, always would lean over and make snide comments to Curly behind his hand, as though that would stop you from hearing him. It hurt to laugh, but he couldn't help it when you'd get pouty and snide right back, lamenting about how the two of them were teasing you.

He couldn't wait to get his voice back, to tell you his name, his story, to confess his sins to you and hopefully still remain your friend. The world had to know what he did wrong, but he didn't want to tell anyone but you first. Only you, who had seen him and his best, his worst, and everywhere in between.

But sadly, before he could get his voice, he had to get his limbs.

You were cheerful in your explanations, something about neural links and blood-driven motors. A beautiful combination of medicine and engineering, you chirped, as Curly picked out the designs he liked best. It meant that not only would Curly be able to move, but feel too.

A miracle of modern medicine.

The man installing the first set of prosthetics, the arms, was thankfully easy-going. He soothed both Curly's hisses of pain during the implementation of the bases as well as your nervous hovering and fretting. Once it was done, though, the arms could come out for a quick test.

They started with the right arm. At the instruction of the engineer, he lifted and lowered the prosthetic. He rotated his wrist, he bent his fingers, he made gestures. Nothing was too heavy, and any pain was just residual of the installation.

"Perfect," the man hummed, scribbling down notes on some sort of tablet, "then let's move on. Your sensory nerves should be connected, so you should be able to feel with your hand and fingers." He paused, and gave a warm grin. "What would you like to touch first?"

Curly didn't even need to think. Without hesitation, he reached out to where you hovered just behind the engineer. You immediately responded, scurrying over to Curly with furrowed brows and twitching fingers, only to jolt when his new hand brushed your cheek.

Instinctively, you leaned into his palm, your own hands coming up to cradle it. Curly could hear the engineer chuckling at him, but it didn't matter. He could feel the soft warmth of your skin, his fingers just barely brushing up into your hair. It was all he ever imagined, a simple pleasure now so overwhelming for him.

The heart monitor still rigged to his chest from the implantation started to beep faster and faster. Your smile only accelerated it more.

And for the rest of the testing period, your nerves were seemingly vanquished, Curly's as well, so long as his new hand was twisted up in yours.

[reiderwriter]

Satisfaction Feels Like a Distant Memory

Chapter Three of I Can't Help Myself

Summary: Your mounting attraction to Spencer Reid pushes you to the edge, turning begrudging friendship to deep hatred when he finally shows up on your doorstep. He's the only thing that can out you out of your misery even as you sink further into it.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, hate sex, rough sex, argument as foreplay, oral (f recieving) and face fucking, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, forced orgasms, "forced" submission, creampie, p in v penetrative sex, etc.

A/N: I've had about as much sleep as the reader in this fic has for the last week, but HERE IT IS! Chapter Three 🥰 You may need a bottle of water on standby, or at least a hand fan, because this one gets a bit heated....

Masterlist || Add yourself to the taglist!

You hesitated in front of your office door, which you supposed was going to become a bad habit of yours now. You tried lying to yourself, that nothing was different now, that you weren't attracted to him in a completely stupid way, but you still stood frozen in front of your own office door. 

Frozen and horny. 

Shit. 

You mentally went through a list of the worst things that could happen if you went in. 

1. He was there. 

2. He wasn't there. 

3. He was there, and he touched you again, and you moaned. 

4. He was there, and he didn't touch you again, but you still moaned. 

5. He was there, and you threw yourself at him immediately because why wouldn't you when you'd seen what you could be working with the night before? Fuck moaning once, moaning multiple times as he pushed you against the bookshelf would- 

“Are you gonna go in, or are you just going to fondle the door handle?” He asked from behind you. From too close behind you. 

You turned, keeping the doorknob in your grin, and immediately flattened yourself against the door as he took a step closer. 

So close. He was so fucking close and it was suddenly all you could think of. 

“W-What?”

“You know, the CDC warns that door handles should be washed every 20 to 40 hours To prevent bacteria like Escherchia coli and Staphylococcus aureus from-” You ignored his words, drowning everything else out as you tried to dampen the fire burning under your skin.

“Cock?” You said, all attempts obviously not working. 

“Staphylococcus, yes. It can cause Adenovirus, Rhinovirus, not to mention-” 

“Okay! Okay, Spencer. Taking my hand off the handle now.” 

Finally, you twisted it and walked backwards into your room, walking backwards a few steps before your foot caught on a stray pile of books. 

“What the-” you cried, waiting for the impact of your landing as you swung out your arms frantically for purchase, screwing your eyes shut as you found none. 

Instead, you found an arm snaked around your waist, another wrapping your hip tight as Spencer Reid cradled your body to his own. 

“Thanks,” you breathed out, not even hearing the words yourself for how much air was in them. How was it possible to expel air and hold your breath at the same time? Because that was how it felt being in his arms: at once a sigh and a stopping of all bodily functions barring want. 

“I thought this was your office, Y/N. Surely you should know the layout by now.”

Moment over. You pushed at his chest to stand upright, and he stepped backwards, removing his hands from your person. 

“Very funny. We both know these are your books. Setting traps for me now, Spencer?” 

You moved around the piles of books again as he flicked the light switch, moving the opposite way around your desks, before meeting you again next to yours. 

“You're usually more observant than this. Is there something wrong today?” 

“What, like Adenovirus or Rhinovirus?” 

“No, like something…” he searched for the right words, pace slowing as he tried not to scare you away by talking with you like this.

“Like something on your mind.” 

You snorted, leaning down to switch on your computer, and also to avoid his eye contact. Unfortunately, academic curiosity had gotten to you in the last few weeks, and you'd read some of his psychological papers. You knew exactly what it was the BAU was apparently so good at, and you didn't want him to know that you'd imagined him balls deep in you hours before. 

“Not friends, Spencer. If there's something I need to talk about, I'll talk to a friend,” you said, standing straight again and turning to him again. You still avoided eye contact, but it didn't matter. His eyes weren't on your face but angled further down, like he'd been checking out your ass as you bent over or something. 

No. No, you weren't going down that train of thought. 

“Or even better, my therapist.” You were planning on the words being a bit more playful, but your voice came out deeper than you expected it, more gravely somehow. 

Your bedroom voice, you were using your stupid fucking bedroom voice on Spencer Reid. 

You cut yourself off again before you said anything else. Before he touched you or didn't touch you, and you got to test your earlier theory about which would be the more demeaning reaction. 

“I have class in ten. Clean up before I get back,” you ordered, and you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up when he replied. 

“I don't take direction well, Y/N.” 

No, you didn't think he would. Neither did you though.

For a week, you tiptoed around the man, your words sharp, but your body weak to him. 

By day, you were hurling insults back and forth, messing up his papers and screwing with him via bookshelf again. 

“YOUR…FLY…IS….OPEN.” 

“VERY….MATURE.”

“MADE…YOU…LOOK…THOUGH.”

“BUSY….LOOKING…AT…OTHER….THINGS.”

“LIKE…THE…UNDERGRADS…THROWING…THEMSELVES…AT…YOU…?”

“LIKE…THE…PROFESSOR…I'M APPARENTLY…DATING” 

“Very fucking funny, Spencer,” you sighed at the last message, throwing the books off the shelf and pilling them up on the floor. 

“Don't even for a second entertain the idea of making that gossip a reality.” 

He grinned at you from behind his desk. 

“Okay.”

“Don't even - don't even think about it,” you said, stepping over his desk and poking at his chest as his smile deepened.

“Heard.” 

“I'm serious, Spencer, don't-” 

“You've thought about it.” You froze in shock at his words, as if your blood wasn't sure whether to run cold or burn hot and fast. 

“What?” You spat the words at him, unable to stop them coming out any other way. 

“You've thought about entertaining the gossip. You've thought about it a lot.” 

You needed to deny him, but he was right. By day, you tried to torment him, but by night, he did torment you. A week of wet dreams, of imagining him taking you over every inch of your office, of sleepless rest and failed orgams, and you could not escape. 

“No,” you said with a whisper, shaking your head and trying again even as your voice cracked from the lie and your body's cry for pleasure, for this man. 

“No, I haven’t- I don't-” You took a deep breath, but you knew it was no good, as his hand grabbed yours and flattened it against his chest. 

“Your pupils are dilated, your pulse is heightened, and your legs are practically clamped shut. Your mouth is dry, and I'm not sure if you've noticed yet, Y/N, but you're shaking.” 

“All signs of anger, Spencer, as you're well aware.” 

He let go of your wrist and sat back in his seat, just out of reach of you again. 

“Shame,” he whispered under his breath, nearly low enough that you didn't catch it, as he flipped open his book and continued whatever the fuck it was he even did in this office. 

You ignored it, anger really flooding you now, warring the heat of arousal that was firmly settled in your body for dominance. 

The anger won out. 

You grabbed books from your desk, files, and papers from the side table by the couch and your laptop from your desk and left the room quickly. 

You slammed the door, and you didn't look back, knowing that if you did, you'd see his winning smirk staring right back at you.

You marched yourself right to the staff administration office and put in for a week of leave. Spencer had one more week of work at the university, and then he would go back to being a regular FBI agent. 

Your paths wouldn't cross because you wouldn't let them cross, not when it meant for certain that you would give in.

You spent the week working to distract yourself from work. You finished books for your next semester courses, highlighting the better articles and essays to use, going through each bibliography to find better sources if they weren't good enough. You wrote more of a research paper you didn't have time to think about with so much going on. You corresponded with students, with TAs, with the other professors who wanted to know where you were. 

Okay, that was a lie. You aired the professors, but you did look out for any inboxes from him. Surprisingly, there were none. 

You spent a week throwing yourself head first into your work, and still, each night, you felt his phantom touch on you. No matter how exhausted, your brain still co jured images of his hands grasping your wrists, pushing them above your head and forcing his cock into you, his lips biting against your skin, the fire of his kisses leaving scars where they trailed down. 

You were running on three hours of sleep per night, sure, but at least you were as far as you could possibly get from the man ruining your life. 

You poured yourself a glass of wine the next Sunday, knowing that when you went back to work the next day, he'd be gone.

You wrapped yourself in blankets and put everything else off for the day, ordering food and eating it and not moving as you worked your way through boxes of pizza. 

It was when you finished your first glass and went to pour yourself another that there was a furious pounding at your door. 

“Y/N, I know you're in there, open the door.” His hand sounded again, and you nearly dropped the glass at the sound of Apencer Reid's voice. 

Your body acted alone, immediately following his directions as you damn near tripped over your own feet to open the door for him. 

Throughout all of your arguments, all of the quips you'd thrown at him, every stupid little thing you'd done to get under his skin, you had not once seen Spencer Reid looking this angry. 

His brow was furrowed uncomfortably, as if it were frozen in place. Gone was his perpetual smirk. 

“Spencer, what the fuck a-” 

“Thoughtless. Careless. Do you even know what you've done?” He snapped at you, stepping into your apartment and closing the door behind himself as he immediately walked into your space and began touching things.

“Stop! Fucking stop it, Spencer!” You said grabbing his arm and pulling him around to face you. He brushed you off quickly and worked his way through papers you'd left on your coffee table. 

“No. You stormed out over a week ago, you blocked my number, you did not answer any of my emails-” 

“I didn't get any emails,” you spit back, pushing yourself between him and your things now, bodies so close they were touching. 

“Then you blocked my email, too. You don't even know what I'm looking for or the damage you could have done, do you?” His hands were on you then, not threateningly, as you'd expect, his anger still burning through him if his shaking voice had anything to say for it. 

His hands stroked up your sides and back down again, smoothing away your need to think. 

“My files. My team sent me a file. It was on the coffee table, and you took it with you when you left. The case is ongoing, and I'm flying out tomorrow, and without some of the classified information in that file, we will be at a disadvantage. Our odds of catching our unsub fall from 83% to 47% without all of the pertinent information.” 

Your breath hitched as he leaned in closer. 

“So yes, I'm going to go through your things, and if you're a good girl, you'll root through with me and help me find it.” 

He stepped away then, and you held your tongue. As much as you hated him, he was right. You knew what he did, you knew who he was and to trust him not to lie to you about his chances without this information. 

“The files on the coffee table are research notes, everything I took from the office is in that case over there,” you said pointing at a bag still where you'd dropped it by the door a week earlier. 

He walked to it and rooted through it quickly before finding the file he obviously needed and letting some of the tension out of his shoulders. 

“You're probably glad to see the back of me, right?” He said, laughing bitterly as he turned back around to you. 

“Obviously not as happy as you are,” you spat back, stepping back over to him. 

“If you ever speak to me that way again,” you started, spitting at him in the most threatening voice you could muster. “It won't be a fucking unsub that ruins your life.” 

“And how are you going to manage that, Y/N?” He said, stepping closer to you until he had you backed up against the wall, trapped in by his bigger frame, using it to his advantage to intimidate. 

“How will you manage to ruin my life,” he said, his voice softer as he finished his sentence, but not by much. “When you shake with just every time I get close?” 

“This is not lust,” you growled the words out, but try as you damn might, you were shaking, vibrating even. 

“Then what is it?” 

“Hatred, dislike, loathing, detestation, abhorrence, fuck Spencer, you can pick up a thesaurus yourself and find out.”

“Yeah. Okay. I'll believe your lies for a second.” He walked away, he was walking away but the fire was ringing in your ears and you needed him to stay fucking put so he could take it all. 

“You're a jackass.”

“Original.” 

“You slammed into my life, expecting me to bend to your will and be at the mercy of your needs, your wants. Your office space, your fucking case files, your job-” 

“None of that was my choice.” 

“And it wasn't mine either, but at least I fucking left you alone. I spent the week in this apartment and left you the fuck alone, and you couldn't even allow me the same.”

His focus was back on you again, but you refused to be backed against a wall this time. 

“What did you say?” 

“You will not let me know peace. I have lost my security, my patience, my fucking sanity with each word you have said, my peace of mind, my sleep, my fucking sanity, Spencer.” Your chest was heaving, touching his with each exhale as he too held his place in front of you. He was so close, you'd practically spat the words directly into his mouth. 

“How is that my fault?” He whispered, voice still dripping with disdain even as his hands again wrapped themselves in your hair, and he tugged your head back, baring your neck to him as he leaned down into you. 

“How do you know that you're not doing the same to me?” 

You refused to answer, though, meeting his eyes for one last second before you grabbed his hair in your hands and yanked him down to your mouth. 

It wasn't so much a kiss as a battle for dominance, each trying to torture a surrender from the other with clashing tongues and teeth. 

You made the first move, but he was obviously expecting it, and he didn't even pause before launching his own attack, finally pushing past your strong defence to walk you back to the sofa you'd abandoned earlier. 

His tongue still lashed against yours as you retreated, refusing to give up your upper hand even as you moaned into his touch. The couch hit the back of your knees, buckling, and you silently cursed your lack of sleep for leaving you so unstable right now. 

No, that wasn't true. It was him. He had left you so unstable, moving between happy and playful to angry and wrathful in the space of a week without you, and you'd been denying yourself the ability to even entertain any of this happening. Now that it was, your body was unprepared, totally at his mercy, as he pushed you to your back and pushed up your skirt. 

“You're already so fucking wet,” he groaned slipping two fingers inside you as you moaned around him, no longer capable of thought. This was the moment, this was when he was going to make you submit to him finally. 

Instead, he dropped to his knees and you gasped as his to guess found your sweet cunt and he began sucking to your clit. 

You were on fire, skin scorched from the inside out, spreading in waves from your pussy to the furthest regions of your body. 

With one hand, he spread your thighs further apart and pushed his entire face further into your cunt, tongue pushing inside right by his fingers, nose pushed right up against your clit as he didn't relent. Every movement was another curse falling from your mouth. 

“Shit, Spencer, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimpered, hips rocking back and forth as you tried to fuck his face, begging for more. 

To your surprise, he didn't keep your hips still but let you keep riding his face, riding his fingers as you chased your first orgasm.  

It came quickly, overwhelming you with the impact, jolting through your body like a lightning bolt as he let your hips shake and crash across his tongue. 

When he finally pulled his face away, it was glistening, and he wasted no time shoving his tongue back in your mouth. His message was clear - he may have let you take whatever pleasure you'd wanted with him, but he was still the one in control. 

You trailed kisses along his cheeks, neck, shoulders as he divested himself of clothing, shirt, belt, pants, ripping at yours to free your body as well, until the two of you were only left with underwear and you'd picked up every last drop of your cum left on his skin.

“On your back, now,” he said, and you complied. You spread your legs, and rubbed at your still wet cunt, jolting as he finally lined himself up with your cunt. 

But he didn't push in yet. Instead he wrapped two arms under your knees and pulled you closer, so his cock rested over the top of your stomach, and leaned down, his face hovering inches over your own, holding himself up with a forearm rested just above your head. 

“You see that?” He said, glancing down. “That is how much I am going to fill you. That is how deep I am going to ease into you. That is how far I am going to go to claim you. You can take it like a good girl, right?” 

“Just shut up and put your cock inside me, Spencer.” 

“You're so fucking pushy for a submissive little slut,” he said, smiling finally. 

“I am not a-” you started to protest, but he slid inside of your hot cunt and you lost the ability to focus. 

“Not a what, Y/N? Speak up,” thrusting shallowly as your cunt grabbed him and held tight. 

“I'm not a- SPENCER!” You screamed his name as he pulled out quickly, thrusting into you again with a speed and strength that had you wrapping your arms and legs around him tightly, fighting for him to stay right there deep inside. 

“Not a sub? Y/N, you're whimpering and drooling right now. You're three seconds away from begging for my cock, why the fuck can you not be honest with yourself?” 

“Fuck…you,” you said between moans as he rutted into you like a beast. He wasn't man anymore, bit monster, and he was claiming you inch by disgustingly perfect inch. 

“Let go. Let me take care of you, let me control you. Come on, baby, you know how good it would feel,” he said, before ducking his head and wrapping his tongue around a nipple. 

You screamed his name again, but you still tried to resist. 

“Come on, Y/N. Show me. Cum on my cock.” 

For a brief moment, you'd thought you'd resisted the demand. But then your brain faded, and your nails cut into his back like daggers as your body followed his commands and you came on his cock for a second time that night. 

“Perfect. One more, you can do one more,” he said, kissing your lips and lifting himself back up so he was sitting on his knees as he again picked up the pace. 

You mumbled his name over and over again as he fucked out all of the frustration in your body. Every thing either of you had said or done melted away in the glow of pleasure, your body buzzing from the feeling of him taking ownership of you. 

“One more, Y/N. One more, you need to cum one more time.”

“I can't, I can't I can't I can't, Spencer I can't I really can't,” you said, voice growing pathetically whiny as the tears sprang to your eyes and you choked back a sob. 

“Yes you can, one more. Together, we can do it together,” he said, groaning as you clenched around him.” 

He claimed your mouth again, his hand wrapping around your throat as he cut off your air supply for a second, then two, then three, as your ears buzzed and you finally slipped over the edge again. 

But this time, as promised, you weren't the only one caught in the pain of pleasure. Spencer collapsed on top of you as his dick spurted inside you, holding you close as he unloaded everything he had into you. 

He sat there, warming his cock as he lazily kissed open mouth kisses into every inch of your shoulders, collar bone and chest. Everywhere he could reach without pulling out of you and leaving you there. 

After weeks of no sleep because of him, it was his soft lips that finally enticed you into the hands of the sandman, his weight a comfort as you closed your eyes. 

When you woke in your bed, clean and clothed, he was gone, and so was every sign that he'd ever been there in the first place. 

🔖 @stillhere197 @understandingsunrise @mindfullycriminal @aliteralsemicolon @r-3dlips @alexafromamazon15 @jasf444 @subunitless @thebloomingeagle @lackingoriginalthoughts @empressgraytea @nox-sprite @alondralolll @allspicestones @chiyozai @i_heart_mgg @2hiigh2cry @tiyuel @jiuseoks @readinglatenights @placidus @dreamsarebig @pisceslovrr @waywardgoddess66 @tampon_racecar @kbaby-024 @luvdella @feyresqueen @a1dyn @pleasantwitchgarden @kolasbombaf @lovehadlovelost @kissesforspence @moonchildooh @bubbleebubz @theoraekenslover @melagem02 @calypso-read @ari-aurelia

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[machveil]

CW: alluded to kidnapping, Simon is drunk and lonely and wants a spouse (@nightunite for plot reasons, I’m tagging you)

Fisherman!Simon Riley who reeks of salt and smoke, a looming figure who returns from sea only to hide away in the corner of a pub. really, it’s just him, his boat, and the crappy flat he would hesitantly call home. at best, he’s a hardworking man who does whatever needs to be done. no one who’s employed him has had any complaints, maybe the odd comment on how he only responds with grunts and nods. at worst? after months at sea he’s a drunkard, hiding it well enough at first glance - the only give away being the slight waver in his walk and the smell of it on his breath

Fisherman!Simon Riley who slowly makes his way down to the coast after one too many beers, off balance as he makes his way to the dock. it’s closer than his flat, and he’s used to the rocking of the water by now. but you catch his eye, he’s never seen anyone quite like you. shoving something deep inside a crevice between a wall of rocks, padding off to walk down the sand opposite of him. curiosity wins him over, nearly stumbling down the slope of the beach as he makes his way towards the rocks. standing a foot away from where you had been, he leans forward, something catching his eye

Fisherman!Simon Riley who reaches in, a couple uncoordinated tugs and he’s pulled out— oh? well he’ll be damned, what fisherman hasn’t heard about the odd selkie? your coat cradled in rope weathered, rough hands. he’s heard stories about them, does he remember it right? returning a selkie’s coat and… and that’s as good as a marriage proposal? maybe that’s not quite true, but the slurred thought rolls around in his head. a beat later he’s carrying it back to his boat, he can give it back to you later, clambering onto the deck as he makes his way inside the cabin. shoved somewhere - a closet? under his bed? - before he’s waiting on the dock. waiting for you. maybe it’s the alcohol, but from what he can remember, you were breathtaking

Fisherman!Simon Riley who waits for you to come walking up the beach again, unaware of what’s about to unfold. a gruff chuckle leaving him when he sees you reach between the rocks, pausing before panic sets in. you had put it there, you always leave your coat right here. eyes darting around, leaning up to look just above the rocks, quickly circling the area. “What’s wrong, love?”, a deep, raspy voice catching you off guard, turning around only to freeze, “Lost something?”. he’s big, throat tight as you swallow, eyes like a predator that has you cornered. frozen in place, deep brown, nearly black, eyes gazing down at you, “Why don’t you come with me? S’not safe by the water.”. a panicked little gasp leaves you as he grabs your wrist, tugging you with him towards the docks. he only scoffs when you try to pull away, glancing over his shoulder at you, “Wouldn’t want you swept away by the waves, pet.”

[swordsandholly]

Across the Way

Ch.3: The New Normal

Retired!Ghoap x Fem!Plus Size!Reader

MDNI

Ao3 | Previous - Next

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: You go to Scotland with high hopes for your future. After all, you have the bakery you always dreamed of and a whole new life to live. Plus, the men who own the butcher’s shop across the street seem nice.

Sometimes Simon still feels like he’s in a dream. The world around him seems effervescent - so ready to slip through his fingers at a moments notice. He expects to pass through Johnny, as though the man was never there, that this house and home and world will crumble and he’ll wake to that grey, cracked ceiling above his bunk in the basic training barracks again.

But then Johnny grumbles something under his breath - because the man cannot shut up, even in deep REM - and turns over, hand resting on Simon’s chest. Even in his sleep the Scot knows how to ground him like nothing else. Like a sixth sense.

He can see discomfort in his husband’s furrowed brow. The hand on his chest twitches.

Ah. He’s going to wake up to a bad day.

Simon figures he won’t be going back to sleep anytime soon, so he may as well prepare. Even he isn’t sure exactly how he knows what will be in store when Johnny opens his eyes but he knows. Every twinge and wince expertly memorized with the same precision that made him do so well in the SAS.

Speaking of, Simon checks his phone while he lines up Johnny’s pain medication. Today’s his call with Price. A monthly reoccurrence. Every third Thursday. The old man and his control issues could never let him or Johnny fully go - he insisted to keep in touch. Even if it is just a monthly call. Simon knows the real reason - that Price was worried about how two gung-ho soldiers would settle into civilian life but the man would never admit to such sentiment.

Johnny stirs, a low groan passing his lips as he tries to hoist himself up. Simon presses his hand to his husband’s back, stilling him with a gentle touch.

“Lay back. Let me ‘elp you up.” He murmurs, rearranging the pillows slowly before wrapping an arm around Johnny’s waist to pull him into a sitting position.

Johnny presses his forehead into his palm, screwing his eyes shut. A small whimper escapes his throat - the sound breaks Simon’s heart every time.

“Rate it.”

Johnny sighs, thinking for a moment. Taking stock of it all. “…Three…?”

“Love.” Simon levels a look at Johnny. One he knows will get the man cut the bullshit.

“…five.”

“Thank you.” Simon nods, turning on his heel to get the proper medication. It’s a particularly bad day, if Johnny is willing to admit to anything above a two or three. For anyone else that’s a seven easy. Stubborn bastard. Simon opens the cabinet to grab the stronger stuff - their on hand back up.

Johnny tries to take it sparingly. He doesn’t want to grow too much of a tolerance - doesn't want to get addicted. Simon isn’t too worried about that, but Johnny insists.

“‘Ere.” Simon holds out two little pills and a cup of water. “Need ‘elp takin’ it?”

Johnny grimaces but nods. Simon’s gut churns with worry. It’s rare for the man to put aside his pride. To allow Simon to carefully tip his head back, cradling it with tender care as Johnny slowly sips at the glass.

“Thanks…” He seems almost bashful despite this being easily the least compromising position Simon has seen Johnny in.

“We’ll take it easy today. Get some take out...” Simon mumbles, reaching under the bed for the heated blanket. On the worst days Johnny’s circulation in his limbs seems to nearly freeze up. How that happens because of a brain injury the doctors have never been able to say.

“Simon?” Johnny murmurs.

“Hm?”

“Kiss me?”

Simon barks out a laugh. The way he still blushes when he asks after all these years is too cute for words. Johnny can say the most salacious shit with a perfectly straight face and then when he asks for such a simple touch he’s flustered like a schoolgirl.

Of course, Simon would never deny him. It’s impossible to say no to those big baby blues.

“I’m going to let Riley out into the yard. Want t’ take a bath when I get back?” Simon offers as he pulls back, running a thumb over Johnny’s lip and hoping the medication will have kicked in by then.

”Tryin’ tae get my clothes off, Mr. Riley?”

Simon rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t ‘ave to scheme t’do that.”

Johnny clicks his tongue. “I’m no’ tha’ easy.”

“Tell that to the maintenance closet in Hereford.”

“Yer no better.” Johnny grins. “Brazil?”

“Shut it.” He makes a playful cutting motion by his neck. Johnny just laughs at him. Simon wishes, like every time before, that he could have the sound carved into his very marrow.

He clicks his tongue and Riley follows dutifully. They got her an automatic feeder long ago so she’s already had her breakfast. Really it was a necessity - back when Johnny was in too much pain the majority of the time for Simon to step away too long. She’s been so patient with them. She runs around the yard excitedly while he throws the ball a few times to get her energy out. Some outside time will tie her over until he can take her for a proper walk.

The weather’s nice today. Johnny will be disappointed he missed out on so much sun.

Simon turns on his heel to go up and get the water started. They installed an extra large tub not long after moving in. Baths together were a small luxury back in the day - cramming both of themselves into shitty hotel tubs and the base housing showers. They never quite fit - usually Simon’s leg would end up hooked over the side of the bath. Or Johnny’s. Working the man open and loose after a long, hard mission-

He stops that thought I’m it’s tracks. That’s not the line of thinking for today.

Simon settles Johnny in first thing. He’s lighter than he used to be. That extra layer of muscle worn down and away over all that time in hospital and in physical therapy. That scared Simon, at first. The idea that Johnny had become another fragile thing for him to ruin. Something he could break.

It was a selfish thought.

The water is hotter than Simon would usually like as he climbs in, but it’s based on Johnny’s preference. Plus it relaxes his muscles - the stinging in his nerves from misfires in his brain. The tremble in his hands.

Simon takes it all in, gently dragging his knuckles over Johnny’s perfect cheekbone. The tender motion no longer feels foreign, which is strange in and of itself.

“Comfortable?” He asks.

Johnny hums and nods.

They stay quiet while they sit. Johnny always seems to glow in the morning light. Angelic. If Simon were better with words he’d write poems. He tried a few times, though he’d never admit that out loud.

The closest he got were his vows (still not good enough). Nothing can encapsulate what it is to love John MacTavish.

“I worry.” Johnny sighs, pulling Simon from his thoughts.

“Bout what?” Simon turns toward him, lowering his reading glasses.

“The baker. She’s all alone over there y’know?” Johnny sighs.

Simon hums. His big hearted boy. “Y’should be worried about yourself.”

Johnny scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, cause you’re ‘opped up on goofberries.”

“Oh shut the fuck up.” Johnny laughs.

“C’mere.” Simon turns him so that Johnny’s back is against his chest, grabbing one of the extra shampoo bottles to scrub down his hair.

“Thinkin’ about getting’ rid of the mo-hawk…” He murmurs.

“Don’t you dare.” Simon blurts before he realizes, face heating at the admission. Johnny just laughs at him again.

“It’s no’ very dignified. Doesnnae scream grown-man-in-his-thirties.”

“No. But it screams Johnny MacTavish. ‘ow else am I goin’ t’find you in a crowd?”

“Fair point.” Johnny tilts his head back to look up at his husband, grinning. “More hair fer ye tae grab, though. Proper handle.”

Simon huffs. “See, now that’s just playin’ dirty.”

“Simon Jr. likes it.”

“Please stop callin’ it that. It’s been bloody fuckin’ years.”

“Never.”

Simon rolls his eyes. By the end of their exchange the water has started to get cold. He gives himself a very bare minimum scrub down - the perks of having buzzed hair - before climbing out to grab them towels and fresh pajamas.

Before all of this he’d never considered the importance of comfortable clothes. Layer-able. Soft. Breathable. Easy to maneuver in on a bad day when Johnny can hardly walk - though it hasn’t been that bad for a long while. Strange how needs change and fluctuate.

“D’you want to go downstairs or stay up ‘ere?” He asks, patting Johnny dry while he sits on the side of the tub.

“Definitely down.” Johnny nods decisively, wincing at the motion.

“A’right.” Simon scoops the man up bridal style. Back in the day he would’ve thrown Johnny over his shoulder with ease. These days he has to move slower, keeping Johnny steady so as not to jostle his head and irritate his pain. It’s been good, he thinks, to practice gentile touches for the first time in his life.

It’s easy to settle Johnny onto their large, L-shaped couch. To set him up on a throne of blankets and pillows that envelope his frame entirely. They throw on some rom-com as low background noise. It’s not long before he falls asleep, the medication finally fully taking effect and sending him into one of those deep sleeps that will last until his next dose around lunch.

Simon glances over to Johnny’s peacefully sleeping face. Lips parted, quietly snoring.

Might as well get his call done now while the man’s well and truly passed out.

“The prodigal son returns.” Price announces loudly on the other end of the phone.

“Y’talked t’ me last month.” Simon scoffs.

“Ach, well, have t’ give you some shite here an’ there. Gotta tap down that ego.” He sighs. There’s an edge to his voice despite the attempt at a playful tone.

“Y’sound tired, Cap.” Simon settles into the couch, keeping his voice low.

“You’re no better.” The old man grouses. His voice has only gotten grittier over time, though he won’t admit it to be the cigars’ doing “How’s he doin’?”

There’s always a hint of guilt in his voice when he asks. Even four years later, he can’t let it go - can’t forgive the damage done to Johnny. The best of them. None of them could ever blame him for it. There isn’t any blame to be had.

“Alright.” Simon shrugs to no one. “Bad day today but he’s been better on the whole.”

“Good.” Price sighs. There’s a creaking noise - like he’s settling back into an office chair. “You solid?”

Simon huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Got a new bakery in town. That was enough to have the area properly twitterpated all week.”

“Any good?”

“Actually, yes. Johnny’s taken a shine to the owner.”

“That boy would take a shine to a black hole.”

“Ah, you’d like ‘er. Soft little thing - that’s your whole deal innit?”

Price splutters, Simon laughs. It’s the only thing that can get the Captain off kilter. Throw a live grenade at the man and he’s steady as a rock; mention anything about his love life and he’s no better than a flustered teenager.

There’s a pause.

“Kyle is up for Lieutenant.” Price says.

Simon freezes, swallowing roughly. It’s not that he’s not happy for Gaz - hell the boy deserves it more than anyone - but his thoughts go to Johnny. How he’ll react. He’s been doing so well, these past several months. The news could make him spiral… or he could take it perfectly fine.

It’s a fifty-fifty.

“Yeah, I was worried about how Soap would take it, too.” Price sighs. “Figured I should tell you first.”

“He’ll be fine…He’ll be fine.” The repetition is more to convince himself, really. Simon shakes his head. “Might wait to tell ‘im until ‘e feels better, though.”

“Probably for the best.”

Simon hums.

“How are you doing, Riley?”

“Fine.”

“Y’sure?” Price knows him too well, Simon thinks. Knows how much the military meant to him - how much he needed it.

“I’ve got Johnny.” Simon looks wistfully at his husband, still snoring on the couch in his mass of pillows and blankets. “What else could I ever need?”

Price laughs - loud and full bodied. “You’ve become a sap in your old age, eh?”

“Who’s callin’ who old, here? You’re practically a bloody fossil.”

“Oi, watch it.”

“S’good to talk t’you, Cap.” Simon sighs, sinking further into the couch.

“You too, kid.” Price sighs as well. “I’ve got to go but… do you want me to let you know when Kyle’s ceremony is?”

Simon clicks his tongue. “Yeah. As much as I hate the pomp and circumstance.”

“We all do.”

“Yeah.”

“Take care of each other.” Simon can practically see the way Price is most likely nodding along to the words.

“Always.” Simon nods. He rests his head on the back of the couch, tossing his phone off to the side and staring up at the ceiling.

If he thinks about it too hard - about the SAS and Price and Gaz… that whole life - his chest begins to ache. The military saved him, in many ways. The military gave him his greatest love despite all the fear and strangeness that came with that.

Simon looks over at Johnny’s sleeping form.

He’s worth it.

He’s always been worth it.

Between the three month long coma - the even longer physical therapy - Johnny’s been through hell, to say the least. Truly came back from the dead. What is it, in the grand scheme, for Simon to have to make a career change in order to grasp onto this second chance?

Who knows if he would have even been able to stay in the military if Johnny died. He’d break, surely. He broke the first time Johnny crashed. Fractured upon the second. Died with him on the third.

His therapist says it’s not good for him to romanticize and aggrandize that kind of trauma. She’s probably right but there are worse ways to frame it.

They’re both broken. They’re both healing.

His thoughts drift to you as all things seem to recently. Why do you always seem so sad? Your eyes a far more tired than your age would suggest - the eyes of a woman on her deathbed and ready to go. He’s seen that look too many times in his own reflection not to know it by heart.

He’ll check on you when he goes to the shop tomorrow. For Johnny’s sake.

~~~

“Simon! How are you?” You smile wide. Always smiling. It’s not bright, like Johnny’s, though. There’s a pull at the edges. It doesn’t always reach your eyes.

“Fine.” Simon says more gruffly than he means to.

You swallow nervously. He can tell he makes you uncomfortable. Squirrelly. You don’t shrink away, though. Brave little thing, he thinks. “Uh, Johnny stay home today?”

He nods solemnly. “Migraine started up yesterday.”

“Oh, I hate that.” You frown. So genuine. “I’ve got some extra white bread. Easy on the stomach. I could-“

“That’s kind, but not why I’m ‘ere.” He cuts you off. It’s rude, yeah, but he’s seen the way you can chatter and has a point to get to.

“O-oh?” You squeak.

He steps closer, setting a little sticky note on your counter with two numbers messily scrawled across it, each labeled as his and Johnny’s. Maybe he should’ve gotten Johnny to write it. At least his twos and sevens don’t look alike. “Johnny mentioned you were woozy, when you first met. Said you have a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head. “And?”

It’s defensive. Your shoulders are more square than before, lips slightly pursed and arms crossing over yourself involuntarily. It looks wrong on you, if he’s honest.

“And you don’t seem t’ ‘ave anyone around to look after you.” Simon continues bluntly. “If you need anythin’ you give us a call.”

Your expression morphs into surprise, then bashfulness. He takes it in categorically just like everything else. “Th-that’s really sweet… you don’t have to-“

“It’s only right.” He cuts you off again.

It is. You’re a young woman all alone in a new country with some sort of illness. Something chronic based on Riley’s alert. Simon might be cold but he isn’t heartless - not anymore, at least. Johnny saw to that. Even if he doesn’t know what it is, even if you’re obviously smart and independent, there are too many variables for his or Johnny’s liking.

Simon doesn’t know how to interpret the look you give him. It’s grateful. Soft in the same way as when he gave you that little cut of beef. There’s something else on the edges - not quite desperation. Not quite fear. Something that furrows your brow minutely and has your eyes flicking wildly between his.

You’re afraid of an ulterior motive.

“Take care.” Simon nods once, turning on his heel to leave.

“W-wait-“ He feels a tug on the sleeve of his hoodie. When he turns your eyes are wide, shining. “I… uh…”

“Yes?”

You bite your lip, a consistent habit if the chapped skin is anything to go by. You pull your hand back quickly, pressing it to your chest. “S-sorry, never mind…”

Simon doesn’t press. He never does. Far be it for a man like him to try to force secrets out of someone. So, with another good-bye and a nod, he makes his way out of the shop and starts toward the car to go home. At least, he should.

Instead he stops a little way down the street. Far enough he can still see into your shop without you noticing him. He watches the way you pick up the paper carefully, cradling it in your soft fingers. The way you frown at it, taking a deep breath before pocketing it and disappearing into the back of the shop. He can’t place what compels him to watch you. What keeps pulling them both in.

When he pushes the door open, he expects a quiet house. Dark and silent as Johnny sleeps his pain away upstairs. Instead, he’s greeted with the sounds of pots and pans and Johnny’s voice echoing down the hall - singing along to Celine Dion (though he’d never admit to it if asked).

“Johnny?” Simon turns to corner.

“Och, welcome home!” The Scot shoots him a grin over his shoulder.

“You should be in bed.” Simon kicks off his boots and meanders to the kitchen.

“A man cannae cook fer his husband?”

“Johnny.”

Johnny turns, grinning wide. “I’m fine, Si. Really. Trust me.”

Simon sighs, stepping forward and resting his hands on Johnny’s waist. “I trust you. Y’know that. I just worry.”

“I ken, I ken.” Johnny chuckles, planting a series of kisses across Simon’s face.

Simon sighs, leaning against the kitchen counter while Johnny gets back to cooking. So domestic. Still so strange that this is their normal.

“Kyle is up for Lieutenant.” It comes out in a jumble - more uncertain than Simon is used to.

Johnny pauses, hand flexing around the spatula in his grip. It’s so brief you could almost miss it before going back to sautéing the vegetables in the pan. “Good. He deserves it.”

Simon hums, watching, waiting for a reaction. Eyeing his husband with all the scrutiny he can muster. “Price invited us to the ceremony.”

“Aye.” Johnny nods. “We should go.”

“Are… you alright with that?”

Johnny turns, a slight furrow in his perfect brow. “Why wouldnnae I be?”

Simon searches his face - tries to gather any evidence to the contrary. He finds none. Just a genuine look of confusion at what he said.

Good lad.

“We’ll go, then.”

“Hope there’s an open bar.” Johnny chuckles and turns back to dinner. Normal, casual, comfortable.

They’re both healing.

A/N: I’m not totally in love with how this chapter turned out but I’d rather get it out and get to the next than lose motivation bc I got stuck.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Full fic of this blurb

Bucky had a love, hate relationship with his arm. He loved that it was something that he could use if you ever needed protection. It was always on him, so he was always ready to save you if anything ever happened. He liked how it made him feel whole again. Missing an arm really makes you feel less than at times but having his arm on made him feel like a normal person again, especially when it was covered in a sleeve, and he was able to forget that it's made of metal.

But at the same time, he hated it. No matter the benefits that came with the arm, he couldn't find it in him to not hate it. It was a weapon. It's what made him a weapon. It was a constant reminder of his past, but even though he hated looking at it, he hated not having it on even more. Without it, he didn't feel like a man worthy of you, and that outweighed the hatred tremendously.

You had asked him about it before. It was easy to see that he wasn't comfortable with the arm still, so you asked if he'd be more comfortable with having it off when the two of you were alone at your apartment. You immediately regretted your words when you saw him visibly stiffen, your eyes widened, and you were quick to try and take back your words. "Buck, I... I just want you to be comfortable, that's all." You kissed his shoulder and felt him relax against you. "I am comfortable, doll." He half-heartedly mumbled and gave you a weak smile, but that was enough for you to drop the subject for the time being.

He wasn't lying fully... he was comfortable around you. He just wasn't comfortable with the idea of you seeing him without it just yet. Maybe one day in the future, it'd happen organically, but for now, the idea of you seeing him without his arm made his mind race. What if you were disturbed by it? It wasn't every day you saw someone missing a limb. What if you wanted to know the story behind him losing his arm? He's never really told anyone that story people just seemed to already know it. what if you viewed him as less than? As not worthy for you. He couldn't bear having you think of him the way he thinks of himself.

Later that night, the two of you went to bed, and for the first time in your relationship, Bucky was the first one to fall asleep. You followed shortly after, but not before taking the opportunity to take in his peaceful form. With a kiss on his chest, you finally closed your eyes, ready for a peaceful sleep.

Unfortunately, peacefulness between the two of you were short lived. Maybe it was because he fell asleep more aware of his arm, more aware of his past, but whatever it was caused Bucky to have one of the worst nightmares he's had in a while.

The first thing that stirred you awake was Bucky's groans and mumbles. It wasn't uncommon for him to get nightmares and as you were starting to wake yourself up so you can help him wake from the dream, before you could do anything though his left hand grabbed onto your arm with a tightness that left you worried he was going to break it. This was the first time you ever truly noticed how strong Bucky could be.

"Bucky...baby, you have to get up." You called out to him as you tried to loosen his grip on your arm. The more you tried to fight his grip, the tighter it got. "James!" You cried out loudly as you watched your wrist starting to bruise under his hand. Relief flooded your body as you see Bucky's blue eyes flutter open. Horrific gasps fall from his lips when he takes in the sight in front of him.

Dropping your arm quickly, he stumbled out of the bed just as fast. You cradled your arm and looked up at him, leaning against the shared dresser that was across the room, trying to think of a way to reassure him that this was a complete accident.

"Doll...I-" He choked on a sob; his eyes can't focus on anything other than your injured arm. An injury his arm caused... and injury he caused. You watched from the bed as he fell to the floor, crying harder than you've ever seen before. Cautious for your injured arm you got up to go sit beside him; "James I'm okay, it's okay" You rubbed his back softly as you continued whispering affirmations in hope to calming him down. Once he started to breathe calmly again, he finally found the courage to look you in the eyes. His heart broke seeing the eyes of the one he loved more than anything. Those eyes usually brought relief, and now they brought guilt.

"I hurt you..." He mumbled in disbelief; his head was spiraling, but your soft touch was still the one thing to bring him back. "I'm really okay, it's not broken." You moved it around so he could see that you weren't in too much pain. "It's a little sore, but nothing serious, and I'm still breathing. You're still breathing. We're okay, baby, I promise." He shook his head at your reassurance. "I could've..." a shake breath falls before he could finish the sentence and tears fill his eyes all over again, "I'm too dangerous for you to be around" He tried to sound confident saying that, so there was a better chance that you would listen, but it came out weak and tearful.

It was your turn to shake your head at his words. "You are not a dangerous man; you are not the winter solider anymore. Baby, tell me who you are, " you asked, knowing his name would be able to bring him back to reality easier than you could. He took a deeper breath in before responding to your question. " I am James Buchanan Barnes." He visibly relaxed after repeating those words a few times.

"I still hurt you, doll. I don't care how bad it was this time it could've been worse...it might be worse next time." He said while staring at your bruising arm. Seeing you hurt by his doing made him realize what he needed to do. "I can't let this happen again." Your eyes widen at his words, and for the first time that night, fear coursed through your veins. "What do you mean?" you whispered, scared he'll answer with wanting to break up.

Standing from the floor, he turned around from you before removing his arm and laying it on the dresser you were still leaning against. "I can't hurt you as badly with just this old thing," he said with a chuckle as he held his right hand out to help you up. Taking his hand with your non injured arm, the two of you made eye contact.

Unspoken words that were clear for the both of you to read were exchanged in your glances. Unspoken vows that the two of you will get through this tough spot together.

"How about we get to bed, huh? It's way too early to be up." He muttered into your hair line as he kissed the crown of your head before leading you to the bed. Now, for the first time in a long time, Bucky felt safe sleeping next to you. And against what he believed, not having his arm on made him feel more like the man you deserved and less of a weapon that he needed to shield you from.

Tagging a few people who's been waiting for this:

@jtthompson

@19blackbutterfly97-blog

@calengalad

@toomuchbucky

@buckyinmyuniverse

[revelboo]

This isn’t an anonymous ask you need to respond to or anything: I just really wanted to say that your Armada Starscream fic is wonderful, and I’m enjoying reading it. It touched base on some things I grew up with, and I remember always imagining Starscream or any of my other favorites swooping down to save me as a teen/young adult. Thank you for writing it, my inner teen/young adult self is jumping for joy at it so far! You have amazing writing, and every story I’ve read has been great. So great that I find myself thinking about your stories often and wondering what you’ll write next.

I hope you have a great day and great week; and a wonderful holiday season (if you celebrate any!)

I try not to get into too much detail on readers with bad pasts so my writing isn’t triggering if I can help it, but I try to design readers that need something the mech can offer and that might heal them in return by giving it if that makes sense

Even If It Kills Me Pt 6

Armada Starscream x Reader

• You’re crooning to Sonar, the mini-con’s head against you. Still treating them like sparklings, despite telling you that they’re not. A human thing? Maybe just needing to take care of someone else regardless of whether they need it, but he doesn’t bother correcting you again. Not when the mini-cons seem enamored with the attention and though he’ll never admit it, there is something soothing about listening to your little voice. And it makes you smile, for some reason seeing that spreads warm through him. The bruises on your skin are slowly fading to a sickly yellow, but he knows there will still be scars on the inside that won’t ever fade away. That you can smile at all, instead of being bitter is something he can’t understand as he watches you walk your fingertips over Sonar’s arm to make the mini-con chirp.

• You don’t need to look to know he’s frowning down at you again. Not when you can feel the weight of his stare. Slowly learning that these sweet little guys are actually a weapon he wields and you can’t help but be uncomfortable with that idea. But from what you understand, they’re at war and have been for a very long time. Starscream volunteers so little, speaks rarely. Though you suspect it’s more from being used to his opinion not mattering or being dismissed outright and that’s something you can understand. Part of you wanting to let go of the past, but unable to get over the fear that this is something that will just be taken from you eventually. That you’re not allowed this. To be happy. “When you get tired of me,” you begin, avoiding looking up at the much bigger mech. “Can you carry me somewhere far from where you found me?” Anywhere but back there. So far away he’ll never find you and drag you back.

• Little head down so your hair falls forward to hide your features, his servos still on his datapad. Because the defeated way you say that reminds him of when he’d found you. Decided to take you with him because you were him, trapped and slowly being broken. You’d seen him, assumed the worst, and had just accepted it, because you’d learned to expect pain. Might even think you deserve it and that spills like an inky wave through his processor, strangling his spark. Bending to reach for you, hearing your little noise of surprise and Sonar’s chirp of protest as his servos curl around your little frame and he lifts you.

• What’s he thinking? Did you make him mad? Hands on his big servos, you tense waiting for him to lash out. Breath shuddering out of you when he leans back and cradles you against his chassis. Feeling his warmth and the faint thrum of him under you. The tip of a servo sliding so very gently over your head and then you’re trembling. Because anger, yelling you can deal with, but this achingly cautious touch? You don’t know how to deal with this, because it’s been so long since someone just held you like this, wanting nothing in return. And you don’t know if you can trust it, even as you lean into him and sink your teeth into the side of your fist to keep from crying. Needing pain to keep you from coming apart. “I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to comfort others,” he murmurs, venting to stir your hair.

• Can feel you trembling against his servos as he tips his head back against his chair. Feels the wetness on his servos and knows you’re leaking again, those eyes welling like he’s seen you do sometimes when you should be resting. And he doesn’t know how to help you when he’s as broken as you are. There’s not enough of him left to fix, but maybe he can piece you back together. Maybe he wasn’t too late for you, even though he’s certain it is for him. Venting roughly, he keeps running his servos along your spine, feeling how insubstantial you are in his grip. Not knowing if his touch soothes or just frightens you.

Previous

Next

[angelx]

do you think you can write something about soft bf katsuki who has a gf who's struggling with her mental health (PLEASE FOR BPD REPRESENTATION) and she also struggling with self harm??

need to see how he takes care of his beloved gf 😭😭🙏🙏

as a girlie with BPD, i thank you for requesting this, i feel seen too by writing this

cw: soft bf Katsuki x BPD!reader | tw: self-harm, emotional dysregulation, comfort, hurt/comfort, heavy on reassurance, safe ending

"Always you..."

It starts with silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that feels like your brain is underwater, everything too loud and too quiet at the same time.

You're curled up on the edge of the bed like you’re afraid of taking up space, wearing that hoodie Katsuki gave you—the one that smells like him, the one you stole off the floor because you needed something. Your sleeves are pulled down low over your hands, your fingers twitching at the hem like you're trying to keep yourself from doing something worse.

Katsuki sees you.

He's always watching, even when you don’t think he is.

He doesn’t barge in. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t panic.

He just walks over and kneels in front of you like you’re holy, like you’re breakable but not broken.

“…Hey,” he says softly, like he’s scared of scaring you off. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing over your wrist. His thumb grazes a fresh bandage—one you put on fast, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He did.

“Please don’t be mad,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I didn’t know what else to do, Katsuki, I just—my head—everything felt too much and then not enough and I thought if I could just feel something real—”

“Baby.”

His voice is gentle, but it grounds you like a thunderclap.

He cups your cheek and tilts your face toward him, just enough that you see the look in his eyes. No anger. No disappointment.

Just love. Raw and stubborn and aching.

“You don’t gotta do that to be or feel real,” he says. “You don’t gotta hurt yourself just ‘cause your brain’s being a bitch today.”

You hiccup a sob. “You’re gonna leave. I’m gonna push you too far one day and you’re gonna realize I’m too much.”

He frowns like you just said the dumbest shit he’s ever heard. “I already know how much you are. And I want all of you, dumbass.”

“I’m not lovable like this—”

“You are.” Katsuki says it with steel in his voice now, not because he’s mad, but because he wants to hammer it into your heart. “I don’t give a shit how bad it gets. You’re not your worst thoughts. You’re not your mood swings. You’re mine. And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You cry harder then, ugly and loud, because it’s too much. He’s too much.

He pulls you into his arms like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. Lets you cling. Lets you cry into his shoulder until your throat hurts. He rocks you a little, like it’s instinct. Like you’re something precious he has to protect from the world—and sometimes, from yourself.

“You know what we’re gonna do?” he murmurs into your hair. “We’re gonna breathe together. We’re gonna drink some water. I’m gonna help you clean up the sharp shit you hid under the sink. Then we’re gonna watch that dumbass comfort show you like until you fall asleep on me. And tomorrow? We’re gonna do it all again if we have to.”

“…Even if I spiral again?”

“Especially if you spiral again.”

Your voice cracks. “Why?”

Katsuki pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. His hand cradles the back of your head. His thumb brushes a tear off your cheek.

“‘Cause I fuckin’ love you,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “All of you. Even the parts you think make you unlovable. Especially those.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

this is my first time writing shoto. i don't think it's better than my katsuki one but i tried😭😭

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

[blurredfloweryblood]

I think people overlook just how complex Bloberta is. Yes, she is not a good mother, she's neglectful and cold and uncaring most of the times, but that's the point. Neither Bloberta or Clay should've had a family, due to their own self hatred. The worst people in all time got married and make it everyone's problem.

Bloberta married out of desperation. Imagine being a middle child that's not even a ghost in her own house. You don't haunt anything because that means that you would be something, but as far as your mother is concerned, there's just you, and piece of furniture in everyone's way, the body in the corner of every family photo.

And your father plays with his fingers and looks down, apologetic, with his mouth shut. He drinks out of a flask, and you're his everything. The liquor eases his throat and his voice is syrupy. You are someone, and your reflection is dim, but your father looks at you, and you're seen, but not known, and thus, you're not loved.

And all your friends have pretty rings on their fingers that they show when they talk, moving their hands. They giggle and gush and raise their voices to octaves, cradling with the palm of their hands their faces with blush on them. You wonder what it feels like. Does love bubble? Is it fluttering in their soul and blood? Does it make you twitch and yearn? How's it like to have a man's attention, with their smirks and eyes, promises made in front of an altar. Someone to have in the palm of your hand. You want to be someone's wife, a shadowy silhouette that comes home, and calls you dear. In your stomach, there's an emptiness, but what else can you do?

There is no world beyond the town. Or at least, no world for you. You're not the smartest, not the prettiest. God made a plan, so he made you for something, right? There's something you can do, something nobody else can do, but you.

And at a wedding, where the bride, in a pompous white dress, kiss her husband and throws her rosey flowers, you don't catch it. You don't know if that means anything, really. You're getting old, and your smile is showing, and you're afraid of never leaving your fucking house. Because that place was never a home. You were never supposed live there.

And the man you meet, he's, well, nice to look at, you guess? I mean, you could live with it. He has a blue suit and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. You pat down your dress, and clutch your gloved hands when you ask him to go to the reception. Please don't leave. Don't leave because nobody wants me. Nobody else will marry. Maybe that's why, you've been here all your life. Or whatever the fuck it is.

And you sit and talk and he's all awkward and gangly. And that's fine. That's fine, you can work on that. He speaks about reading the bible and your fingers are tapping the table. But he's fine, and you can't go back to that house ringless. You won't go back to that house a failure, nothing. A talentless, out of place, nothing.

You get order drinks. When your father drinks, he's nice, and you feel the warmth of what could be his love. It isn't quite love, but it's as close as you can get. And he drinks, and drinks and drinks. And you want him to stop. Because he turns into this idiot, an imbecilic sack of shit. And you feel your cheeks burn, your fists clench. He's not what you thought he was. He needs to learn. You'll take care of him, he's broken, and you fix things. You could be his wife and fix him, and on the way, it'll fix you too. God made you a little twisted, a little wrong. But it's fixable. It always is.

And you hit him, straight in the face. It knocks him out and leaves an ugly reddish mark. You out his head on your lap and the salon is empty. You look down at him as he opens his eyes and you say: " I'll take care of you." And he nods, and you stay there.

But what are you now? You look up at the ceiling and there's a muffled sound of children and his snoring. The ceiling is cracking and needs to be repainted. There's not a spot of mold in this house because it's the only thing you can fix and shape. Cleanliness is the way to god, the way to holy fixing. Your house and it's white, clean floors sweep your feelings away. Like dust beneath a rug, there are muffled. But they always come back up, creeping up your throat.

You hate him. Repulsive, needy, whining man that cries and moans and will drink himself to death. You hope he does. You hope you both go to sleep and never wake up. Your bodies a testament, of failures in your life. Maybe your mother was right. Maybe God didn't make you to be happy. There's no plan for you, and you make do for a life that's crooked and empty. There's not a home within this walls. And you're a shadow. Just another piece of the furniture on display.

Nobody wants your body, and it has never been touched with love. Maybe you are disgusting, and you two were meant to be. Why not marry him? Why not staying? Where else could you go? When there is nothing for you. Just this town, just this church, just this God.

Just this husband, and children. And a ring on your finger, never shining under the sun.

[munv]

Savannahclaw 009! (Leona, right? Bad with number memory lol)

Leona would hate becoming a bunny. Compeltly despise that he's turned into such a small, fragile herbivore. I'd like for the reader to find that the bunny is Leona from the bunny stealing from the prefect, ruggie, or jack and the prefect detemining it's leona by the way it naps on the stolen item that reminds him of his two dorm mates and his herbivore. The prefect is allowed to tease bunny leona and normal leona about the cuddliness and if leona eats a veggie during his bunny time

HIP HOP!

im POSTING THE REST OF THE REQS NOW BECAUSE IM SO SICK AND TIRED OF BEING SICK IM GONNA EXPLODE

Event is OFFICIALLY ENDEDDD

discord server

There had been more thefts — on your account, sadly. For some nonsensical reason, every single time that you had came across a bunny on campus, something disappeared along with it. And this time? It wasn't just your pride.

You had let a lot of things slide thus far. Such as false advertisement for renovation (crowley's doing). Broken beds, bad heating, Grim's fire related incidents that resulted in more trouble that could possibly be made in potionology, but the slipper?

Oh sweet heavens, the damn slipper was your last straw.

The same dorm slipper that you wore on your left foot, upon the wickedly cold and especially dusty nights at ramshackle? The one thing that allowed you to let things slide because it was better than nothing? It was gone.

And what made it worse? It was the dissatisfaction of having one other good slipper, but not having the other to wear. So thirty minutes into trying to find it? You knew something was up. Especially when you found furniture you didn't even know you owned.

So as slipperless and spiteful as you were, you set out that morning into the hallway with Grim waddling beside you.

"this? this is a vandetta Grim"

His tail swished anxiously as he stared at you. "Some damn rabbit out here thinks that they're slick, and im gonna find it, and turn it into our bathroom rug."

Grim shivered.

That's when Ruggie came skidding across the corner, nearly slamming into the wall. In his hand? a half eaten carrot.

"PREFECT!" his eyes wide with something akin to disbelief "Tell me im not crazy—"

"You're crazy" Grim deadpanned. Ruggie ignored him in favor to shoving the half eaten vegetable into your face. "I just found this in Leona's room"

You blinked at him, slowly processing his words. "A..carrot??.." You didn't like where this was going.

"YES" Ruggie stressed. "But that?..Oh sevens..that isnt even the worst part!"

His tail flickered violently and his ears were pressed against his head. Honestly? you have never seen Ruggie so stressed in his life.

"there's stuff piling up in his room?! it's like some weird dragon hoard!" he paused "and he's not eve n in there!"

Grim eyed him warily. Probably still on about that food grudge from a month or two ago. "What typa stuff? oh! is it tuna? maybe some extra grub!"

"Socks, bedsheets, wands, slippers—"

Your eyes narrowed. "Wait. Ruggie, did you just say..slippers?" Grim jumped at the mention "they're gonna snap!" he whispered.

"Oh...I know who it is," your fists clenched, annoyance lacing your tone. "That thieving little bastard-"

Before you could finish, the three of you turned at the heavy footsteps that suddenly echoed down the hall. Jack approached your group, looking just as confused as the rest of you. He cradled was an awkwardly large bunny.

"uh.." he glanced between the tension that radiated off your group "I found this guy snacking on the collard greens from the greenhouse. I know that you were looking for bunnies but..it smelt familiar"

"Leona." You stared at the bunny that twitched in annoyance, its green eyes narrowed in fury and defiance. He stared back. A silence overcame the hallway as he wriggled out of Jack's hold, flopped onto the floor with a thud, and hopped over to you. Only to sit in your bag and curl inside of it.

Ruggie let out a gasp, "that's leonas napping face..!"

Jack grimaced, "It's definitely him"

The bunny sneered and turned away. "how's it feel to embrace the herbivore life?" he bristled

"what's wrong with bein a bunny?" Grim asked,

"everything" Jack replied dully. "yah..of course you would know. Wouldnt ya jack?" Grim taunted

"shut it."

The next morning, you sat on your couch, drinking tea with a more human like leona in front of you. "You ate carrots"

He growled at you from the other side of the couch. "..It was for survival"

"You chewed it, antagonizingly slow may I add. "

"I'm gutting your stupid slipper"