#you are on your knees. you are gripping your son’s shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

[manygreetingsfriend]

i’m sooooooo normal about the god of war series. so incredibly normal i liked it a normal amount and would be so chill talking about it. don’t worry about the sign

[dellalyra]

you putting “megumi needs his mom rn” in the cw makes me wonder how he and the family reacted to yuuji dying after the detention center mission (and also what was the reaction to him coming back since i’m assuming gojo told reader before they revealed it to everyone else)

Family Formations - Part Eleven

Summary: Deja vu visits you when your son loses his best friend.

Warning: swearing, angst, acc kinda soft too, mourning, mentions of blood and vomiting, canon typical violence, MDNI

A/N: I had already started this fic when this request came through so loving the telepathy going on here. Also. This is sad. I’m sorry. I’ll make it worth it dw dw.

Recommended Listening:

Daylight - David Kushner

No Surprises - Radiohead

Ghost of You - 5 Seconds of Summer

Sparks - Coldplay

Your doorbell chimed, glancing at the clock hanging above the fireplace from you’d spot on the sofa, 8 pm? Satoru wasn’t due home until 9 pm plus - he just warped inside your home. Did he order your flowers again? You check the baby monitor and see your 4-month-old is still sound asleep in his crib.

Walking up to the door, you sensed a very familiar cursed energy. Megumi? What’s he doing here, it’s Wednesday.

You could hear the rain and thunder pouring and hitting your windows in waves.

You open the door, and you see nothing.

A whimper emanates from beside you, and on the ground – slumped against the doorway is your eldest boy.

You fall on your knees beside him.

“Megumi! Baby, what’s going on? You’re going to catch a cold.” You brush his hair out of his face, and you are stricken with the realisation that he is crying. His angular face is so devoid of any emotion, but the tears scream otherwise. You could count the number of times you’ve seen him cry in 10 years on one hand and you hadn’t been prepared for this tonight.

“Jesus, baby what’s going on?” You try to heave him up from the ground and he’s as limp as a rag doll as you try to guide him inside the door. The hallway is as far as you can manage his weight before you give in and shut the door to the outside world. He’s now just leaned against your sage green wall, if he wasn’t breathing, you’d think he was comatose.

Only now do you realise he’s bleeding. His lip is busted, and his eyebrow is too. But what type of curse would elicit this reaction?

“Megumi? Honey? Talk to me - what’s happened?” You kneel beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other on the top of his head.

Empty eyes, now a dull blue, look up at you through lashes soaked with rain and tears.

“He’s dead.” The tiniest voice, again, void of emotions.

Satoru? No – you had been on the phone with him 20 minutes ago.

“He killed him.” His eyes are facing you – but they’re looking straight through you.

“Who’s dead, Megumi?” You probe – anxiety gripping your stomach like a vice.

“Sukuna – ripped his heart out. In front of me. Just ripped it out. His heart. He’s dead.” The words are barely intelligible in the mumbles that come from his out and you’re still as confused, Sukuna? How could- oh my god Yuuji is dead.

Yuuji Itadori.

Dead.

“Oh my god – fuck. Megumi, my sweet boy.” At this point, he turned to you.

He looked into your eyes.

He turned his head and vomited on the floor beside him.

You pull him into you, tears flooding your face as you think about that sweet, sweet boy – a soul too good for this world so brutally ripped out of it.

You wipe his mouth on your sweater sleeve and once again haul him up into your grasp he almost falls but you pull on every muscle fibre you had – you needed to get him dry and cleaned up.

A memory played in your mind, a sense of déjà vu – Satoru vomiting and sobbing and you shaking with tears curled up together – the loss of another best friend. The fates were cruel masters to make you relive this scene again.

Once he was up the stairs you lay him on his bed. Where he just sat on the edge, legs still on the ground and stared at his shoes. He went to vomit again, and this time you caught it with a bucket you’d retrieved from the closet.

“I need to get a cloth. I’ll be right back.” He didn’t acknowledge this. You just needed a moment to gather yourself before you went back in - you’d be no good to him if you continue to try to help in the state you're in, a mess of shock and grief and anger. White hot anger.

You shut the en suite door of his room behind you, and you rush to the toilet and heave up all of your remaining food at the mental image of that darling boy laying cold and dead and gutted on the ground.

You give yourself a moment – your son and you breathe so that you can deal with everything later – wait, does Satoru know?

Grabbing a cloth – you go into the room, laying the cloth down for a moment, you go into your and Satoru’s room and grab one of his sweatshirts. In Megumi’s room, you pull sweatpants from his wardrobe and look at your son. He’s dripping rainwater onto the carpet and there’s blood from his injuries mingling, tinging it pink.

You think some of the puddles might be tears, his or your own, you don’t know.

You stand in front of him, remembering the times when you’d do this to help him into his frog pyjamas - he was only 6 back then – 16 now and 5ft 9 – almost a whole foot taller than you. You lift his arms and unzip his jacket – his T-shirt underneath is soaked through too. You peel them both from him and check for cuts on his torso – bruises, old and fresh – but no blood.

You pull Satoru’s sweatshirt over his head, and he doesn’t even seem to notice that you’re moving him. He’s just limp in your arms, and you swear to anyone who’s listening to if you could take that pain and shoulder, it yourself then you would.

You peel his slacks down, pulling his sweatpants (a Christmas present from your brother) onto his lanky legs you tuck his hair behind his ears and dry it with a cloth. You then dab at his bleeding wounds, they’re clotting now, and the bleeding is stopping.

You throw the cloth away to the far side of the room.

He’s seen enough blood for today.

Tears are flowing freely from you both as you sit beside him on the edge of the bed.

Your proximity must trigger him back to this plane of existence and he looks at you.

“I couldn’t save him.”

“I know sweet boy, but it’s not your fault. You did everything you could.”

“It was a special grade – he, the curse had a finger. Our mission didn’t say any of that.”

“A special grade? Was Satoru there?” He couldn’t have been, he was in Osaka today.

“No. Just me and Kugisaki and Itadori.” His voice quavers.

You knew exactly what happened. It was clear from even the bare minimum you had heard.

But – now was not the time. Willing yourself to push the thoughts aside. Megumi doesn’t need that right now.

“You did everything you could, ‘Gumi. There was nothing you could have done.”

This was his kryptonite. A heavy, choked sob broke through the air and his body collapsed onto you.

“His heart – he ripped it out. He was right there and he just – momma, he’s dead. I couldn’t save him, Momma.” You broke down, sobbing yourself, cradling this boy – this poor broken boy, into your chest as you hugged him so tight you could feel every shake of his body in your own. You carefully moved. you both so you could sit against his headboard with his sobbing head laid on your stomach.

You are so grateful that Akio is a heavy-sleeping baby because you need to focus on your oldest son now. He needed you, and you were his to protect him, 100%.

You stroke his hair and whisper placating nothing into his ear. Nothing will fix this. Nothing will make it easier or make it feel better. You just need to be here; you just need to hold him now. You can tell him until the cows come home that he did all he could, he couldn’t have stopped Sukuna, that it was not his fault – but all these worlds will refuse to sink in until he’s ready to hear them. Yet, you tell him anyway. Over and over again.

You’ve no idea how much time passes. Your tears mingle with the lingering water on the side of his head as you cry with him but eventually, the sobs turn into heavy breaths, and you realise he’s passed out. Sheer exhaustion has taken his body hostage and for a second, you’re put at peace knowing at least right now – his mind will be quiet.

You slip your phone from your pocket, without moving or disturbing the boy on your lap.

‘Please call me.’ A message from Satoru.

You ring him.

The phone barely dials once before you hear his voice – hoarse.

“Y/N. I –”

“I know ‘Toru. Megumi came home.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t there.” He sounds so broken.

“You have no reason to be sorry baby, we both know how this managed to come to pass.” You hated that he always still felt the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

“I’ll kill them all.” He says, and you know he’s serious.

“You could, but you won’t. Maybe 10 years ago – maybe then we’d have done it together. But not now, not anymore.” You reply, voice still thick with tears.

There’s silence.

“Where are you, ‘Toru?”

“The morgue.”

“Shoko?”

“On her way in.”

“I can’t leave the boys.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

He hangs up the phone. Nothing more needs to be said. These feelings are sadly all too familiar to you both. You realise Shoko will have to do the autopsy.

She delivered Akio 4 months ago. Now she’d be cutting up the corpse of the boy who waited outside of the labour ward for 16 hours.

You lean your head back – closing your eyes. Flashes of a pink head tossing back in laughter and strong arms hugging you in thanks, of meatballs served to you as you nurse your newborn and the Spider-Man lamp being plugged in making you smile at the giddy teenager. The faces change, now they’re old and wrinkled and whisper words with serpentine tongues laced with deceit and heartlessness in their actions. They knew what they were doing. Satoru wasn’t in Osaka for no reason. They knew.

They all fucking knew.

They sent him to his death, knowingly and intentionally. They sent three children into a trap all because they are scared. Cowards who hide behind words of ‘the good of society’ and the guise of ‘the greater good’. Satoru and you had screamed and pushed and threatened to stay the execution, but they found a loophole anyway.

They risked Megumi and Nobara – did they think you wouldn’t piece together the big picture? Did they think that you wouldn’t realise?

You don’t know how long you sat there but your phone buzzed again.

📲Satoruuuuu is Calling… ✅⛔️

You pick up.

“He’s alive.”

“What?”

“He’s alive. Yuuji’s alive. Sukuna woke him up…” There are so many tones in his voice and so many thoughts in your head you have to close your eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Well - he’s talking and walking so unless The Last of Us was accurate then…” he attempts a joke – relief clear in his voice.

You softly lift the head from your lap, and place it on the navy pillow. He doesn’t stir.

You walk out into your room, sitting on the balcony – the air was what you needed.

“I don’t know what to say.” That is all you can manage.

The torrent of emotions your mind went through was making you so dizzy you sat on the wooden chair looking at the sky.

“He’s not safe here, they’re going to come for him.” Satoru’s voice comes, quiet through the phone.

“What will we do?” You say.

“He needs time, he needs to train and learn to manipulate and use his cursed energy. If he can protect himself…” Satoru begins.

“We need to hide him. He can’t stay at school or come here.” Your sorcerer’s brain was switched on now.

“I can’t bring him to the Gojo estate either, the elders the family visit too much.” He speaks.

Lightbulb.

“They visit your family… but they’d never think to visit mine. Satoru, bring him to my mom’s. I’ll call her, you can train him there every day, and if we’re being watched it’s not suspicious to visit our own family. She’ll take care of him.” You say, you knew that your family would protect this boy with their lives, he was family to Megumi, family to you.

“Y/N… we can’t tell anyone. The only people who know are me, you, Shoko and Ijichi.” He says, and your heart stops.

You’ll have to lie to Megumi.

“Fuck. It’s too dangerous for him to know – if they catch wind of this, and they find out he knows…” you say.

“He’ll be branded a traitor. Who knows what they’d do for information.”

“He’s going to hate us.”

“He’ll understand. He’s a smart kid.”

“Come home to me, to us – ‘toru. Bring him to my parents and then please come home.” You whisper to him.

He agrees and tells you he loves you.

The weeks fly by as you feel yourself crumbling from the weight of the sadness spilling from your son, Kugisaki isn’t much better and Satoru is still reeling from the elder’s deceit. You stormed to the council meeting the following day and threatened to burn the place to the ground if they so much as considered harming a hair on the head of the other kids.

“Unfortunate circumstances occur on missions. Nobody knows the outcome of these situations.” They fought.

“Oh – you knew the outcome of this one. You knew full well. All of you, every single one of you knew and you allowed it. In legal terms, that’s murder. You’re all sociopaths and whatever awaits you in the next world, I hope it hurts even a fraction of the pain you’ve all caused. Endanger my family again, and I’ll deal with you all personally – never mind Satoru.”

The training was going well – you had gone to your mother’s house two days after his resurrection, after the water cooled and you were sure you weren’t being surveilled.

You had run to Yuuji, running your eyes and hands over every bit of him, checking for wounds and crying into his shoulder. He had died, and somehow you were being comforted by him.

Satoru and you explained the situation, taking turns to train with him. They came up with a ridiculous idea of Yuuji playing Jack in the Box at the exchange event all you could do was allow it.

Back home – you explained to Megumi that the mission had been a nefarious plot concocted by the elders and higher ups to get rid of Yuuji, since you and your husband kept getting in the way – they took the opportunity of your maternity leave to send Gojo to Osaka and place the kids in the path of a Special Grade Curse. You hoped being armed with this information would help him understand why you and Satoru had lied to him, and allowed him to grieve. It hurt you, but his safety was paramount.

When the day came and Yuuji was released, you stood beside Megumi as he and Nobara watched him return from the dead. Jaws hanging open, they couldn’t tear their eyes from their friend.

Reunions and rejoicing complete, you and Satoru pulled Megumi by the sleeve away from the scene, into your classroom.

When the door shut, you began to sob.

“‘Gumi, I’m so sorry. We didn’t have any choice but to keep it a secret. It –” Satoru wraps you into his chest.

“We had to keep it secret, because they would have killed anyone involved if they found out, kiddo. We had to keep you safe.” He says hand on Megumi’s shoulder and a crying wife clinging to him.

“It’s okay.” Megumi shrugs.

You freeze, you thought he’d never forgive you.

“What?” You and Satoru say in unison.

“I get why you did it. Thank you, guys, – for helping him, and uh – for protecting us all.” He says and God this boy will never fail to amaze you. His maturity was something you and Satoru could only have dreamed of at his age and even rarer was hearing such genuine praise from him – he was softer with you, but this was directed to you both.

Wordlessly, you and Satoru wrapped him in your arms and he begrudgingly and awkwardly reciprocated the affection.

Over his head, you looked at your husband. His crystalline eyes filled with relief and love for you and your patchwork family, and you pressed a soft kiss to his lips – a silent thank you for everything you do. The road was never easy, but God was it worth it.

TAGLIST: @vesta-ro @lilithlunas @mialexandruh @sassy-cat-in-town @madam-ri @cjm-cookiethief

[rollingsins]

all hers, part xiii

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: You deserve everything Ghostface is giving you, you know it deep down. Why should you live while the others died?

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, mention of murder. Ghost face spoilers for Scream 1-4.

word count: 4.5k

a/n: 👀 smashed through my writers block, let me know your 🔪🔪 theories.

You haven’t left the car - or Tara’s lap - by the time the police arrive. 

Sam greets them, watches as they make their way through the house, casing for strewn pieces of clothing, discarded weapons, footprints, handprints, anything. 

But there’s nothing to find. Ghostface is long gone. 

By the time they’re done, your anxiety is at an all time high, not even Tara’s arms around you enough to quell the fear inside you. Your chest thumps uncomfortably. Your palms are shaky, sweaty. Flashes of the mask, the knife raised against you. 

Is this how Tara’s victims felt in the end? Is this how Wes felt? 

The only difference between you and Wes is you’d survived. And he’d died innocent while you survived, guilty. It isn’t fair. You deserve everything Ghostface is giving you, you know it deep down. Your will to live is selfish, almost. 

Why should you live while the others died?

The answer is pressed to your side. She’s beautiful, as ever, squeezing your hand so tight the tips of your fingers turn white. Her knee bounces steadily, an indication of her nerves. Her dark eyes are wild, flitting from you to the house to the officers on the lawn. Scanning, as if Ghostface will jump out at any moment. God help him if he does, when she’s like this. White-faced, quietly stewing in her own anger and anxiety. You can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she runs wild with the possibilities of who it could be. 

The police have questions, what feels like millions of them. The most pressing is why. Why would Ghostface target you specifically? Of course, you know why. 

You don’t mention the other victims. You don’t mention Tara’s Ghostface mask hidden in a lockbox in her closet. You don’t mention the motive Ghostface had all but spit into your face. 

Someone who thinks you should pay. 

Tara, a little on edge, tires very quickly of their incessant questions. 

“There’s never a why, do you even live in this town?” Tara barks, voice hot with annoyance, “They’re random. They’ve always been random.” 

“That’s not exactly true.” It’s Sheriff Hicks. She climbs out of her squad car, slips her gun into her holster as she stands. 

Your chest tightens. She makes you so nervous. You’re so scared one of these days you’ll slip, blurt out the truth before it’s too late.  

“Billy Loomis blamed Sidney for his mother abandoning him. Nancy Loomis blamed her for killing her son. Roman Bridger and Jill Roberts wanted infamy.” She surveys you, hand resting gently on her holstered pistol, “The question is: what does this Ghostface want?” 

The back of your neck prickles uncomfortably under her gaze. You sink deeper into Tara, wear her almost like a shield. 

“Forget his motive, what are you going to do about catching him?” Tara says, arm tight around your waist, “I want a squad car here 24/7. I want officers escorting YN to school. I want a walkie talkie and a phone number so we can have direct contact with them whenever we need-”

The thought of stepping foot into that house sends shockwaves of panic through your body. You grip her waist, tight, trying to draw her attention. 

“I can’t go back in there.” You say, voice tight, “Tara, I can’t stay here tonight. I can’t sleep here.” 

If Tara’s surprised by this, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she wraps her arms tight around your shoulder and presses a long kiss to your forehead.  

“Okay baby.” She says, “We’ll stay with your parents, how about that?”

“I can post a squad car.” Sheriff Hicks interjects, “Two officers. I’ll give you their cell numbers. I’m afraid we’re all out of walkie-talkies.”

She looks at you, for the first time in a long time there’s sympathy in her eyes, “You’re going to be okay.” She promises, “My officers are the very best. But you call me if you remember anything. Anything at all that could help.” 

The moment is interrupted by the sheen of blinding headlights. You avert your gaze, blink away the stars in your eyes at the sudden intrusion. 

It’s a familiar truck, the heavy slam of the door signals the driver has exited the vehicle. You squint, make out Richie’s figure as he rushes towards you. 

“Hey. I came here as fast as I could. Where’s Sam, is she okay?” He’s out of breath, a little panicked as he scans the driveway for his girlfriend. 

“Sam’s fine.” Tara says, her shoulders tight, “YN was attacked.” 

Richie blinks. 

“By Ghostface? Are you alright?” 

“Of course she’s not alright.” Snaps Tara, “Some psycho just attacked her at knifepoint.”

She pauses, as if something has just occurred to her. Suspicion brews in her eyes. 

“Where have you been?” 

Richie draws his attention back to her. The lights of the police sirens flash across his face. 

“I was meeting some friends at a bar,” Richie says, “Is Sam in the house?” 

“What friends? You got an alibi?” Tara asks, her eyebrows drawn tight. 

“You’re not serious?” Richie stares back at her. 

The Sheriff tilts her head, suddenly interested. 

“Do you?” She reiterates, “Tara and Sam are accounted for. We’ll need to corroborate with any potential witnesses who can place you at the bar.” 

Richie opens his mouth in disbelief. He looks between the three of you, waiting for the punchline. 

“I didn’t make it there. Sam called-”

The Sheriff hums, scribbles something down on her notepad. 

“So no alibi.” Tara scoffs, “You’ve been here two weeks and the one night you go out, YN gets attacked.” 

“This is ridiculous.” Richie splutters, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, “Tara. Why would I attack YN? I have no motive.” 

But Tara’s mind is made up, she crosses her arms, glares at the Sheriff. 

“Are you going to arrest him or what?”

“Tara. I can’t just arrest people.” The Sheriff says, closing her notebook. She looks at Richie, “I suggest you outline to one of my officers the exact route you took to and from the bar. If we can place you on CCTV we can rule you out as a suspect.” 

“You can’t arrest people?” Tara challenges. There’s that fire, the one that’s been brewing for the last hour, finally emerging, “What kind of a Sheriff are you?”

“Tara.” You hiss. You turn back to the Sheriff, eyes wide, “I am so sorry, Sheriff, she’s just scared-”

“Scared?” Tara says, sounding outraged. Her dark eyes burn, “I’m furious. I have a prime suspect for you and you won’t arrest him-”

“Just because you don’t like me doesn’t mean I put on a Ghostface mask and tried to kill your girlfriend.” Richie argues, loudly. 

“What’s going on?” It’s Sam, finally emerging from the house. Richie and Tara both turn to face her, matching expressions of outrage on their faces. 

“What’s going on? Your creep of a boyfriend just tried to murder my girlfriend.” Tara snarls. 

Richie throws his hands up. 

“Why? Why would I want to kill her?”

“I don’t know.” Tara says, “You tell me. Because you’re twisted?”

“You know what,” Richie says, his nostrils flaring. He points his finger at her, “It definitely wasn’t me, because if I was going to murder anyone, it would be you-”

“Stop it!” Sam yells, “Both of you. God. You’re like fucking children.” 

They both fall silent. Glare at each other. Sam storms off, presumably back into the house. With a final dirty look at Tara, Richie turns and follows her inside. 

You take Tara’s hand, rub your fingers over the back of her hand reassuringly. Richie is a little strange, granted, but you seriously doubt he’d try and kill you. You’ll talk her down later tonight, you figure. Right now; you want out of here. 

“Do you have any more questions, Sheriff?” You ask, quietly hoping the answer is no, “I need to call my Dad.”

She surveys you for a moment. 

“I think we’re all good here.” She says, finally, “Call me if you remember anything.” 

-

Your Dad is freaked, rightfully so. 

In a panic, he demands you come home. He seems to be so frightened he doesn’t even protest when you tell him Tara’s coming too. 

She’s still glaring at Richie as she pulls out of the driveway, leaving the slew of officers and sirens behind as she makes her way to your parents home. One hand on the wheel, the other gripping your thigh, tight. 

“It’s him, I know it’s him.” She stews, hands tightening on the wheel, “How fucking suspicious can he be. Meeting with some friends, my ass.” 

“We don’t know that, babe.” You say, squeezing her hand, “He’s kind of right - what’s his motive? As far as I know we haven’t done anything to offend him.” 

“I’ve been on his ass since he got here.” Tara says, “Maybe he’s sick of me. Of us.” 

“Or maybe it’s someone else.” You say, staring out the window, “Someone related to the others. Sadie has a brother, I think. One of Aaron’s friends? One of Chase’s?”

There’s a long list of people who would want vengeance on the two of you. It hurts your head to think about. 

“Cool it on Richie, please babe. If he is Ghostface, the last thing we need is him getting spooked.”

“I need to get him away from Sam,” She says, chewing her bottom lip, “If he hurts her-”

“We don’t know it’s him, babe.” You say, pressing your hand over Tara’s, rub the back of her knuckles, “Besides, if he is Ghostface, he’s not going to kill her. His beef is with us.”

It doesn’t calm her down. Her knee is still bouncing when she pulls into your parents driveway, grip around thigh so tight it’s starting to hurt. She shuts off the car and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. 

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry baby.” She says, voice heavy. Despite the comfort she’s trying to give you, her eyes betray her. Brown, wide, swimming with worry, “No one’s going to hurt you, I promise. I’m not taking my eyes off you. You’re not going anywhere alone, I mean it. You’ll have to get used to me watching you pee.” 

You half think she’s kidding, until she follows you upstairs and into the bathroom. 

“Absolutely not.” You say, pressing your hand to her chest and pressing a kiss to her lips, “Wait here.”

“But-”

“Ghostface isn’t hiding in the bathtub, babe.” You tell her, and close the door behind you. 

You pause. Check the bathtub just in case. 

Your parents make a fuss, like you knew they would. Your mom rushes off to comfort cook, something she does best, and your Dad gets his power tools out, triple checks all the windows and doors for any shaky locks. 

If he minds Tara staying the night, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he hovers at the bedroom door, eyeing her up as he reiterates his safety mechanisms. 

“Keep the door locked,” He says, voice gruff as you climb onto the bed, next to Tara, “At all times. Front and back. I have a security specialist coming in tomorrow to install some cameras and alarms.” 

“Thanks Dad.” You say. It takes the weight of your chest, just a little. 

“I’ve got my shotgun loaded and ready to go,” He continues, “If you hear anything- anything at all - just call out and I’ll be here in a moment.” 

“Do you have a spare?” Tara asks suddenly, “Gun, that is? I’ll be a little closer, is all.” 

He watches her for a moment. That expression is on his face - the one he always wears when he sees Tara. Mild distaste, like he’s just taken a bite of something that’s gone bad. Briefly, you worry he’s going to try to kick her out. 

“I can’t give a gun to a kid.” He says, voice curt. Her brows furrow. 

“This kid might be the only person who’s able to protect her in time.” Tara challenges, “You’re all the way across the hall. What if he covers her mouth so she can’t cry out?”

“Babe.” You warn, “It’s fine. We’ll be fine.” 

Your Dad shifts his weight, staring Tara down. You know he doesn’t like her, it’s written all over his face. But if she goes, so do you. And he understands that, you know he does. 

“I have a handgun.” He says, finally. He looks at you, “I’ll give it to YN. Remember those lessons down at the cabin? You’re confident you know how to use it?” 

You nod. 

When you were younger, your Dad had taken you shooting, taught you how to fire a gun, how to load it - and most importantly, how not to hurt yourself doing it. The thought of drawing out a gun to protect Tara from Ghostface’s knife makes you feel only the slightest bit better. 

He looks back to Tara. The distaste is back in his expression. 

“It’s for her. You’re not to touch it. Understand?”

You can feel Tara fizzling next to you. Her fingers curl, and before she can give your Dad the dressing down you know she so desperately wants to give, you jump in. 

“She understands.” You say quickly, “Thanks Dad.”

“I don’t know what his problem is,” Tara complains, stormy-eyed, when he finally leaves, “I’m just trying to protect you.” 

“He’s just being a Dad,” You say, pulling her into your arms and quelling her mood with a kiss, “Don’t take it personally.”

Dinner’s awkward. 

Your head is a mess, heart pounding out of your chest every time you think of the looming threat. Tara grips your thigh under the table protectively, as if she’s afraid Ghostface might launch in any second and send the roast laid out on the table flying. 

Your Dad glares at Tara. Tara glares back at him. Your mom stares at you, worry in her eyes. 

You stare down at your plate, your appetite somewhat dissipated. 

“I just don’t understand.” Your mom says for what seems like the hundredth time this evening, “What does he want with you?”

“What does he want with any of them?” You mumble, “He’s a psycho, that’s all.” 

You push a rogue potato around your plate, starting to regret the choice to come home. At least Sam’s questions were easily combatted by one of Tara’s swiftly timed jabs. You could hardly expect Tara to snap at your Mom. 

“Let’s not talk about it.” Your Dad says, to your relief, “You’re freaking her out.” 

“I’m just saying,” Says your Mom, chewing her lip, “Are we sure he was there… for you?”

She lets it hang. The scrape of cutlery against plates stops momentarily, as the entire table takes in the implication. You frown, look up at your Mom. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing.” She says, hurriedly. You don’t miss the glance she sneaks at Tara. 

“Seriously?” You say, “You’re blaming Tara?”

“I’m not blaming anyone.” She says quickly, “I’m just saying-”

“Well, don’t.” You snap, standing up, “God. Tell me now if you don’t want us here and we’ll go.” 

“Of course we want you here.” Your Mom says, “YN, sit down, please sweetheart-”

“I’m not hungry.” You say, scooting yourself away from the table, “Thanks anyway. Come on, babe, let’s go to bed.” 

They don’t protest as you lead Tara upstairs and into your bedroom. You slip your pants off, curl up into bed, take Tara in your arms. 

“Your Mom’s right, you know.” She says, after a quiet moment, “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for me.” 

“Don’t say that.” You murmur. You press a kiss to her head, wrap your arms a little tighter around her. 

“It’s true.” 

It is true. But she doesn’t need to think that, not right now. You curl your fingers through her dark hair, scratch her scalp affectionately. 

“You-” You hesitate, picking your words carefully, “You’ve made some mistakes. But that’s in the past now. You turned over a new leaf, remember?”

You remember it vividly. The night after Amber’s death, making her swear black and blue she’d never kill again. Promising her she’d never have a reason. She shifts in your arms and looks up at you. There’s something in her eyes. Fear. Hesitance. 

“Baby,” She says, biting her lip, “Whoever this person is. I have to kill him. You know that, right?”

Your stomach flips. 

“No.” You say immediately, “No, Tara.”

“If he’s alive, he’ll hurt you. You know I can’t let that happen. We can’t turn him in, he knows too much. It’s the only way.” 

That sinking feeling is back. The one that had been there when Chase died. The one after Amber and the one after Wes. Like everything is crumbling around you. You squeeze her a little tighter. 

“I’ll do it.” You say. The thought makes you sick. The thought of her doing it makes you sicker. 

“No, baby.” Tara says. She presses a kiss to your shoulder, “Not after last time. Look at what Wes did to you.”

“I don’t care.” You say, shaking your head, “I don't want you doing it. You can’t-” 

Be trusted, is what you want to say. The Rage is terrifying, violent, and you don’t want to reawaken it. You hold it back, pull her closer to you. 

“I don’t want that part of you back. I don’t like that part of you.” 

Tara’s quiet a moment. 

“It’s already back, babe.” She says, pulls your hand to her chest. Her heartbeat is wild, out of control, “Don’t you see? It isn’t killing that prompts it. It’s anybody trying to get to you.”

You’re too tired to fight. Too tired to admit she might be right. At the end of the day if it’s her or him, you know what you’d rather her do. 

You lean down, press your lips to hers, try to redirect the conversation. 

“You will sleep tonight, right?” 

“Not likely.” She admits, her grip on your hips tightening. 

“Let’s take it in shifts.” You suggest, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, “Half and half so we both get some sleep.” 

She nuzzles her nose into the side of your neck. 

“Okay. I’ll take first watch.”

She looks towards the handgun your Dad left for you on the bedside table, tugs it carefully over to her side of the bed. 

“You know how to use that?” You ask, a little skeptical, “You know to turn the safety off?” 

“Yes babe, I know how to use a gun.” She assures, a little irritated you asked. 

“Alright, alright. Just checking. The last thing I need is you shooting yourself in the foot.” 

“Give me some credit,” She grumbles, “That’s something Chad would do.” 

You kiss her, softly, then snuggle down into her chest. Listen to the rise and fall of her breathing, her rampant, crazed heartbeat as it pumps in her chest. 

“Remember to wake me.” 

-

She doesn’t wake you, as you should have predicated. When you open your eyes it’s the next morning, and she’s pressing a warm kiss to your lips. 

You scrunch your eyes, blink her into view. 

“Babe? Did you stay up the whole night?” She kisses your forehead, nudges a warm cup of coffee into your hands. 

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. There was no point in me waking you.” 

“Baby.” You groan. Her eyes are red, tired. You press your hands to her cheeks, lean up to kiss her. 

“You’re exhausted.” 

“I’ll nap in science.” She promises, “Mrs. Fletcher is enough to put anyone to sleep. Besides. I needed to make sure you were safe.” 

She kisses you again.

“Speaking of: I asked Chad and Liv to stop by with a few supplies.” 

She reaches for a paper bag, empties out the contents onto your mattress. You sit up, interest piqued. 

It’s nothing less of an armory. You blink, hold up a small metal device. 

“A rape whistle and a taser?” You say, “Babe, how am I supposed to take this into school?”

“Keep them in your purse.” Tara says, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable request, “It’s not like they check our bags. It’s for emergencies.”

She presses a long kiss to your forehead, “But you won’t need them. I’m not leaving your side. Not for a minute.” 

“I have Chem today,” You say, heavily, “And you have English. We can’t be together all the time, Tara.” 

“We’re skipping.” Tara says, “I’m taking you home early.” 

“Tara, if the school calls my Dad and he finds out I’m skipping classes-”

“He’ll do nothing.” Tara says, fire behind her eyes, “You’re eighteen, he can’t force you home with him. And if he tries then I’ll-”

“You’re not killing my Dad.” You say, firmly. She pouts a little. 

“That isn’t what I was going to say,” She says, a little put out, “I’d give him a piece of my mind, is all.” 

You sit up, pull her into you. 

“Sorry, babe.” You apologize, soothe her with a kiss, “I’m just a little on edge.” 

“It’s fine,” She reassures, “Just please keep these on you. Please.” 

You agree for her sake. 

-

Word gets out quick. 

People stare in the hallways, everyone trying to get a glimpse of Ghostface’s latest victim. It’s unsettling, this much attention. You grip Tara’s hand tight in yours and try to ignore the leering of the other students as she walks you to your locker. 

When you reach it, Mindy, Chad and Liv are waiting for you. 

“Is it true you saw him?” Chad asks, wide-eyed. 

“Is it true he stabbed you?” Liv asks. 

You shoot her a look, open your locker and grab your books for first period. 

“Does it look like he stabbed me, Liv?” You ask, witheringly. 

“Give her some space guys,” Tara says, pushing Liv back slightly, “She’s not a zoo animal.” 

“Still.” Mindy says, “You survived a brush with Ghostface. Not many people can say that.” 

You ignore the hot flash of dread that zaps through you at the mention of him. He could be anyone. Maybe he’s even here now, watching you. Waiting to get you alone. It must flash through your face because suddenly Tara’s hands are on your waist, rubbing your back reassuringly.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it.” Tara says, a little protectively, “Why don’t we meet you guys in Math.” 

“Come on.” Mindy says, “Not talking about him gives him power. You don’t know who it is, right? Maybe we can help you figure it out.” 

“Maybe it’s you, Mindy.” Liv says, voice sweet, “After all, you’re obsessed with horror movies.” 

Mindy looks over, sharply. 

“What kind of motive is that?” She says, annoyed, “Besides, I’m not the only one who likes horror movies. Tara does too. Maybe even more than me.” 

“So Tara attacked her own girlfriend, that’s your theory?” Chad says, incredulous. 

Mindy shrugs, “It’s happened before.” 

She turns to you. 

“YN, ever get the feeling like Tara wants to kill you?”

“I’m going to kill you in a minute,” Tara growls. 

“Yeah.” Mindy nods, like her theory is confirmed, “Major Ghostface vibes.” 

“Stop it,” You say, reaching for your Math textbook, “Tara didn’t attack me, she was with Sam. And I’d really rather not talk about it.”

Mindy’s shoulders deflate a little. 

“Wes likes horror movies too.” Liv pipes up, “Maybe that’s why he ran away. He wanted us all to think he was dead so he could live his true life as Ghostface.” 

You roll your eyes. Let them bicker. As you grab your final textbook your finger catches on something soft. Something you didn’t put there. 

It’s a t-shirt, worn, gray, ACDC logo on the front. Your fingers curl around it, brows furrowing. Something hard is within the fabric. You fish it out, turn the cool plastic in your hand. It’s a DVD. Stab 2. Your stomach flips.

You slam your locker shut, white as a sheet. It draws the attention of the entire group. You feel a little dizzy, like you might pass out. Someone had been in your locker. It feels more of a violation than it should. Tara straightens, grips your hand. 

“What’s wrong, babe?” She asks immediately. 

“Bathroom.” You mumble. 

You don’t say goodbye to Tara’s friends. You tug her behind you hard and fast, not sure how much longer you’ll be able to stand upright. 

When you reach the bathroom, you slam the door closed, fish out the t-shirt and thrust it towards Tara. 

“What’s this?” She looks confused. Flips the t-shirt in her hands. 

“It’s Wes’,” You say. You take a heavy breath, try to quell the blood rushing to your ears. 

Tara swallows. Her fingers brush the DVD. 

“Stab 2.” She says, furrowing her brows, “What is this supposed to mean?” 

“I don’t know.’ You say, biting your lip, “Nothing good. How did he get into my locker?” 

“The school has cameras.” Tara says, thinking fast, “If I can get into the security feed I might be able to see who it was.” 

“How are you going to do that?” You ask,  

She bites her lip. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Please don’t get yourself in trouble,” You say, reaching for her hand. You entwine your fingers, “The last thing I need is you getting kicked out of school.” 

“I’ll be careful.” She promises. Dips down to kiss you. 

Then, she retracts, tosses the t-shirt and DVD in the trash. 

“Tara. What are you doing? What if we need that?” 

“We don’t need it, babe.” Tara assures, “Ghostface is trying to fuck with us, that’s all. Besides, the last thing we need is for the Sheriff to catch us with Wes’ old t-shirt and one of his movies.”

She pulls you in again, holds you tight. 

“Are you going to be okay in class?”

You nod, drop your forehead to her neck. Wrap your arms around her waist. Your hand catches on something in the back pocket of her jeans. You furrow your brow, then tug it out. 

“Tara!” You hiss,  mouth dropping, “You brought a knife to school?”

Tara blinks back at you. 

“Of course I did.” She says, “There’s some lunatic running around. You really thought I wouldn’t come prepared?” 

“Baby, if one of the teachers catches you with this-”

“I have it hidden.” She assures, “They’ll never see it. How am I supposed to protect you if I don’t have a weapon?”

You're more concerned with protecting her. There’s a horrible niggling feeling in the pit of your stomach. Like Ghostface has been a little too easy on her so far. The knife in her hand gives you only the slightest reprieve. 

“Let’s go to class.” She says, with a kiss to your cheek, “Do you have your rape whistle?”

You shoot her a look, tug at the string around your neck. She’d insisted you wear it at all times. 

“Right here, babe.” 

“Good girl.” She kisses you once more. 

Your fingers curl around the taser in your back pocket. Slip your phone into your backpack and head to class, Tara’s fingers entwined with your own. 

You take a deep breath. You're in school. In the middle of the day. Hundreds of students around.

Whoever Ghostface is, he wouldn't be so stupid to attack you in broad daylight.

Right?

next part

[allzelemonz]

Whipping Boy: Dutch Van der Linde X Male Reader

Pronouns: he/him, Reader referred to as ‘boy’, ‘son’, and ‘man’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: O’Driscoll Reader, Reader is the biggest virgin in the West, loss of virginity, grinding, thigh riding, masturbation, dom/sub-ish, overuse of ‘sir’, mentions of beatings, actively learning what sex is and why it’s hype Summary: When you finally get the chance to run away from the O’Driscolls after only ever being their punching bag, you end up in the hands of Colm’s rival and have to earn the protection you need.

The fire in front of you is a risk. Really everything is a risk now. You know Colm isn’t kind to traitors and he would certainly know that his favorite man to punish is missing. You’re not entirely sure why the man always blames you, why he enjoys beating you. It’s in the past now and you hope it stays that way, that’s what matters. The fire will go for another hour, just long enough to warm your hands because you can’t feel them, then you move on.

A stick breaks behind you and it takes all of your self control not to move. You need to wait and draw your gun when the time is right. But the time never comes, a rope catches your chest first. You try to reach the holster but your attacker beats you to it, throwing the gun aside and hogtying you with tight knots. From the footsteps, there are two of them, all you can hope is that they’re not Colm’s boys.

“What’d ya catch?” A twangy voice asks.

“Don’t know.” The one that tied you says with a bit of an accent. “Let’s see.”

The man pats you down, looking for pockets. He flips you over to do the same and finds nothing. You ran on a whim, no time to grab anything. The man that tied you is darker skinned than his friend, much better dressed too.

“He’s got nothing.” He sighs.

The other man comes closer, his eyes narrowing at you. He’s heavier set with a beard and half pinned up hat. “Hold on… he’s an O’Driscoll.”

You shake your head quickly. “N-No, sir. I’m not, I’m not, I swear I’m not.”

The bigger man laughs. “Squirrly too.”

“Should we take him back to Dutch?” The other asks. “He might have some information.”

That’s worse. That’s much worse than Colm’s boys, they’re Dutch’s.

“Sure.” The bigger one says. “Maybe he’ll be entertainin’.”

You struggle against your bindings. “L-Look, fellas, I’m not with Colm-”

“Horseshit!” The bigger one yells.

The other chuckles. “You all dress the same, cabrón. Hard to hide like that.”

He pulls you to your feet and shoves you towards the bigger man. You’re dragged to their horses, hidden in the trees, and hoisted onto the back of a large brown beast of a horse. The larger man isn’t gentle, he throws you in a way that makes your stomach feel the impact as you land.

“Sit still, fer yer own good, boy.” He says as he mounts.

You don’t argue. There’s no way you could. After all your time being at Colm’s mercy you’ve learned that fighting it gets you nowhere. The man still hits you along the ride, just for fun you assume. Perhaps you just have a punchable face.

When the horses stop you have a second of relief from the taunts and the violence, just a second before you’re roughly pulled from the horse and thrown on the ground. Your legs collapse from the extra pressure of the large man’s hand on your shoulder and you nearly swallow dust that’s kicked up from your landing. There’s shouting and footsteps before you’re pulled up to your knees and the familiar large hand grips roughly at your hair to make you look up at who you can only presume to be Dutch Van der Linde.

“What have we here?” He muses, hands on his gunbelt in a strikingly similar way to Colm. “Bill?”

The large man, Bill, answers in a smug voice. “Found ‘em out by the river, some O’Driscoll dog.”

“I can see that.” Dutch sighs, his eyes looking over the green vest you should’ve thrown away. “Let's see what he has to say. Bring him.”

Bill pulls you to your feet and drags you after Dutch to a large white tent. Inside it’s well kept, nicely decorated, very different from anything O’Driscoll. Dutch sits in a chair and picks up a cup to drink from.

“I will handle the boy, Bill.” Dutch says. “Cut him loose.”

“Ya sure, Dutch?”

“Go on.”

Bill grumbles to himself but cuts you free and disappears from the tent a second later. You move your eyes to Dutch, not quite meeting his.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t kill you, son?”

You watch as he calmly stirs the liquid in his cup as if the question he asked were a normal one. He looks up at you and catches your eyes for a moment before you get the chance to look away. The last time you looked Colm in the eye without permission he tied you up to the horse’s hitching post and left you out for the night in nothing but a union suit.

“Sir, I… I’m not with Colm.” You take a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be, anyway.”

“Why is that, son?”

You stare at his feet as you speak, unconsciously wringing your hands. “I just couldn’t stay there, sir.”

He chuckles. “You act like a frightened dog, son. Is there a reason for that?”

“Just don’t let him find me, sir.” You glance up at him for a second, just long enough to see an interested expression on his face. “You could let me go… or I could be useful to you, j-just don’t send me back to him or anything. I can’t be there.”

“Useful?” He muses. “How so?”

“Whatever you need, sir.” You say all too quickly, looking up enough to see a bit of a smirk on his face. “If you can protect me from Colm, I’ll do anything.”

He leans back in his chair, setting his cup down. “Come here, son.”

You step closer, just a foot away.

“Here, boy.” He points to the ground just in front of him.

You shiver as you lower yourself to your knees in the space he pointed to, right between his legs.

“You said anything, boy.” He leans forward, his hand slowly reaching out and tracing along your jaw. He holds your chin to make you look at him. “Did you mean it?”

“I-I suppose so, sir.”

“You suppose?”

“I… T-There are just some things I’ve never done before and I don’t know exactly what I-”

He shushes you and you go quiet. His hand is gentle as it travels up to cup your cheek. You look up at him and find only more gentleness in his expression.

“It’s alright, son.” He sighs as his thumb strokes your cheek. “Colm never used you?”

You blink a little rapidly at the question. Colm beat you, sure, but he never touched you. A couple of the boys might’ve gotten handsy when they were drunk, but no one had ever forced you or propositioned you beyond dirty comments in passing. It just never happened.

“No, sir.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he looks over your face. “It’s real simple, son. Just do as you’re told.” His thumb trails over to your lips, running along the bottom one and dragging it down a bit before letting it bounce back into place. “Ya seem good at that.”

Your breath catches for a moment from the touch. “Y-Yes, sir.”

“Stand up n’ strip for me, boy.”

You hesitate, your nerves getting the better of your tendency to obey. When you don’t move, Dutch’s hand grabs at your cheek harshly and you gasp.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

“S-Sorry, sir… Just that I’ve never…” You relax a bit as Dutch softens again, listening. “I’ve never been bare in front of somebody before.”

He smiles and you can’t quite place the expression but you know it isn’t an innocent one. “Never?”

“No, sir.”

“My, my…” He leans back in his seat. “Allright, son. Ya can earn your protection piece by piece.”

You nod, hoping for nothing more than to not be returned to Colm.

“Stand.” He orders.

You do, your knees aching in the process. He spreads his legs and pats one of his thighs. You timidly settle onto it, your own legs spreading apart to rest on top of him.

“That’s it, son.” Dutch smiles as he takes your hand and slowly places it over a hard bulge in his pants. “Now move yer hips n’ yer hand, just let it happen, son.”

You’ve never felt another man’s dick before and Dutch’s feels much bigger than you imagined most men should be. Given what he said, you’ll have to deal with it more later. Dutch’s hand squeezes yours, making it wrap around him. You take his hint, moving your hand against him and trying to think of what could feel good.

“Hips, son.” Dutch mutters, his head lulling back and his hand resting on your waist.

He grips your side tightly, urging you to move and you follow him. You buck your hips slightly, the unfamiliar motion feeling weird while perched on Dutch’s leg. But you feel it, what you assume Dutch is wanting you to feel. It’s barely there, but it gets better when you do it again and again. It feels good.

You try to keep your hand moving against Dutch in whatever way you can manage and he seems content, so your primary focus is on the movement of your hips. From the way he chuckles when you feel spasms overcome you, you assume it’s premature. Nonetheless, it rocks through you and Dutch moves his leg for you as you ride it out.

“Never came before, have you?” Dutch asks, his hands suddenly both on your waist and his lips close to your ear as if time had skipped.

“N-Never…” You say with heavy breath, the feeling still shooting pins through your body.

“Enjoy yourself?”

You nod, your head spinning a bit when you do.

“Next part could not be easier, son.” Dutch whispers, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. “Sit there and look pretty.”

He leans back in his chair, away from you. The lack of support makes you have to rest your hands on him to catch yourself. You watch as Dutch unfastens his pants and, for the first time aside from the occasional accident, you see another man’s dick. It’s not so different from yours, but it stands on its own, something you’ve never dared to remove your pants to see on yourself. Your lips part at the sight and you suddenly understand why some folks talk about using their mouth down there.

Dutch puts his hand on your cheek again, bringing your eyes back to his. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a man’s cock, boy.”

“I-I-I have… just never so… close and…”

“You like it, son?”

You try to avoid them but Dutch’s eyes are so nice to look at that you can’t help but hold their gaze when you catch it. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you watch real close.” Dutch says, holding his hand out in front of your mouth. “Spit for me.”

You gather saliva in your mouth and spit it into his hand as he asked.

“Good boy.”

Something about the phrase sends a shiver through you. Dutch brings his hand down to his dick, the one on your cheek tilting your head to ensure you watch as he spreads your spit over himself. You can’t think of anywhere else you want to look. His hand grips and begins to move up and down in slow pumps. You unconsciously wiggle against his leg, now feeling the stiffness of your own dick.

“Don’t look away, son.” Dutch orders as his hand moves faster. “But you can move.”

You keep your eyes fixed on Dutch’s hand, watching as he gives himself an occasional squeeze and rubs his thumb along his tip every once and a while, but you also move your hips like you did before. Now you know what you’re chasing and with Dutch’s demonstration, you cum within a minute. Dutch moves his leg against you again, helping you through the high, but he doesn’t falter on himself. When he releases, his cum lands on the floor behind you but some spurts onto your pants. You watch, transfixed, as Dutch strokes himself through it and wanting nothing more than his hand on you now that you know what it can do.

His other hand brings your head up, making you meet his eyes again. “More tomorrow, son. Alright?”

You nod slightly. “Y-Yes, sir.”

He pushes at your shoulder slightly and you retreat, standing and stepping back from him. You watch as he puts himself away and turns his focus back to you. His eyes look over you before he stands. He takes a rag from the table and dips it in a bucket of water, ringing it before bringing it over and wiping the bit of his cum from your pants, your own release hidden by the dark shade of the fabric.

“Come with me, son.” He says, tossing the rag aside and putting an arm around your shoulders. He leads you out of his tent and gestures to an older woman in a red dress. “Miss Grimshaw will take care of you ‘til I need you again.”

You nod. “Okay, sir.”

“Behave yourself, do as you’re told.” Dutch drops his arm from you and turns back to his tent. “Colm won’t find you here, you have my word.”

With that he disappears back into his tent and you’re left standing there with ruined pants and a newfound set of knowledge and feelings. You take a deep breath and step out onto the grass, already anticipating what Dutch will want tomorrow.

[shig-a-shig-ah]

TO CREATE IS DIVINE

You tell Tomura you want another baby, and his reaction is entirely unexpected.

» pairing: shigaraki tomura x fem!reader » word count: 1.5k » notes: I don’t have a breeding kink but I do have a ‘cranky Tomura  going feral and begrudgingly caving to base desires he’s conflicted about’ kink. Blame @lorlocks for this quick and dirty smut. » contains: established relationship, tiny bit of roughness, breeding, creampie. 18+, minors DNI. » ao3 mirror

"What?"

Tomura's voice is the flattest you've ever heard it as he stares at you from across the scuffed kitchen table. His tight jaw and unblinking gaze does nothing to quell the anxious knot in your stomach, but you still repeat the words you'd uttered two seconds ago—the same ones that had him looking so suddenly tense.

"I want another baby."

It's a bold request, you know. Tomura had been lukewarm about the accident that led to your son, even if he has settled into fatherhood surprisingly well in the subsequent few years. But neither of you have ever discussed having more children, let alone intentionally.

And now he's sitting still as a statue, watching you with an intent look that's hard to read but that almost certainly signals nothing good.

You fidget a little. "Or, I was hoping we could at least talk about it."

Tomura doesn't say anything, but you see the way the rise and fall of his chest grows more rapid, and his hands curl into tight fists. Then his chair is scraping against the hardwood as he pushes back from the table and rises abruptly.

"Fuck," he mutters, and that reaction isn't wholly unexpected, but the sudden grip of four calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist is. You're jerked to your feet before you can think about it, caught so off-guard and thrown so off-balance by the way he's suddenly dragging you down the hall that you barely notice where he's leading you. When he shoulders the bedroom door open and shoves you inside, that confusion only worsens.

"Tomura, what are you—" His mouth covers yours before you can finish the question, his tongue already lapping out to taste your own and his hands tearing at your shirt to peel it over your head as he drives you backwards. The back of your knees hit the mattress and then he’s pinning you against the blankets, his hot mouth working over your jaw, teeth nipping at your earlobe.

"What's it look like I’m doing?" His free hand is already sliding beneath the waistband of your pants, slipping between your thighs to probe roughly at the growing wetness there. "You want me to fuck a baby into you, I'll fuck a baby into you."

A second later one of those long digits is plunging past your folds, and you're hands are gripping tightly at his shirt, your back arching into that touch even as your brow furrows.

"You don't want"—you're briefly interrupted when he shoves another finger inside you—"you don't want to talk about it? Really?"

"Really," he hisses, irritation clear in his voice and an embarrassed flush on his cheeks even as his face stays tight. The mismatch between his tone and what he's saying and doing sends your brow furrowing, even as you gasp when he curls his fingers just right inside you. "Been driving myself insane thinking about this for months, barely manage to make myself pull out every time we fuck, and now here you are asking me to knock you up. So hell no, I don't want to talk about it."

He punctuates that statement with the bite of his teeth against your throat, his fingers pumping faster in and out of your cunt. A minute later he's withdrawing, wrapping them tight around the waistband of your pants and sending them to dust. He fumbles with the button his own jeans and then shoves them down under the jut of his hips, swollen cock springing free. He strokes himself a couple times, and then positions himself between your thighs.

"Fuck," he swears again, staring down at your sex as he ruts his length against your slit. "I know they're a pain in the ass but I can't stop picturing it—you with your tits all swollen, your belly huge with my kid. And then holding some tiny brat we made. 'S fucking infuriating." Tomura's tip nudges at your entrance, and then he seems to change his mind, pulling back and hooking one hand behind your thigh so he can shove your knee to your chest. He hooks his arm under your hips, angling them slightly and pulling you closer, grunting in satisfaction once he has you positioned just how he wants you.

He cock once again pushes at your opening, teasing you. Crimson eyes lock onto yours as he says, in a tone that sounds unmistakably like an order, "A girl this time."

"Tomura, I don't think it works like—" That, you were going to say, but he drives himself into you abruptly and the sudden sparks of heat at your center have the air rushing from your lungs, a lewd moan slipping past your lips. Tomura's intent expression barely budges, but you see the corner of his mouth curve up into the faintest of smirks.

"Want it that bad too, huh?" he mocks. When you nod, he rolls his hips harder, leaning down to kiss you hard.

Your only response is a whine and the wrapping of your arms around his neck. “Fuck, 's so good," you whimper against his lips, and Tomura groans, kissing his way down to where your shoulder meets your throat.

"Real good." His teeth nip at the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me," he pants, that faint edge entering his voice again. "Tell me what you—ngh—what you made me want."

"Want a baby," you manage, though it's getting harder to speak with every one of this thrusts, and with his arm wrapping tighter under your hips as though he can't get you close enough. "Your baby. Wanna keep a part of you in—a-ah—inside me long as I can."

Tomura swears at that, hips moving faster and thrusts managing to reach deeper, his pelvis grinding against your clit every time he bottoms out. The combination is dizzying, each stroke and rhythmic bit of pressure sending your walls tightening. It's almost too much, this abrupt rutting and the strange swell of emotions that comes with it. You'd agonized for months over this proposition, steeling yourself for rejection, and even though his ambivalence and begrudging tolerance of his own desire is a far cry from raw acceptance, it's better than you ever thought you'd get. Has you unexpectedly heated.

"Tomu, 'm close already." Your body rocks to meet his movements, sharp whines rising from deep in your throat. 

"Good," he growls, his pace increasing as he moves to let his forehead rest against yours, his eyes bright as he watches you with a rapt expression. "Gonna—hng—gonna come with you. Make sure you suck up every fucking drop."

The moan that promise draws from you is embarrassingly loud, one hand slapping reflexively over your mouth, but Tomura's quick to intervene, gathering both your wrists in one large palm and pinning them above your head as he slots his body every closer to yours. His movements are feverish now, a flush of exertion creeping down below his collar, but all those efforts are paying off, tension mounting in your core.

A few more well-placed thrusts and that tension is swelling, snapping, your walls clenching tight around Tomura as you come. He lets out a sharp hiss of breath, and a second later his own hips are stuttering.

"Ngh, that's a good girl," he groans, and then he's driving himself as deep as he can. "Gonna make you even more mine." He shudders, grinding himself against you, and you can feel his cock twitch as he hisses, "Take it all, fuck."

You do your best to obey—didn't even need the order when your greedy hips are angling already, instinctively working to capture every bit of cum as he spills over. With your walls still fluttering, you're hyperaware of that warmth flooding your insides, of the pleasant slickness pooling deep inside. The thought of it there, taking hold, sends a shiver up your spine, one last exquisite bit of tension before you go limp beneath him.

When Tomura finally withdraws, he's gentler than usual. Slips a pillow under your hips too before he settles himself between your thighs, eyes fixed on the sight of your puffy slit. His finger traces your folds, collecting what little bit of cum he'd let escape from your spent cunt.

His eyes flick to yours. "How long will it take to know?"

"Hmm?" You start to sit up, then think better of it and tug your knees tighter to your chest instead. "A few weeks, maybe?"

Tomura frowns, clearly displeased with that information as he flops down beside you on the mattress. His palm comes to rest on your lower belly, fingers tracing over that soft skin.  A moment later he’s rolling onto his side to look at you.

"That’s okay," he says, once again wearing that intent expression. Then he’s pinning you back against the mattress. "Until then we can just keep trying."

Taglist: @dabisqueen @kiwiimochi @simultaneously-sick-and-calm @nonobadcat @httptamaki @toughbook​ @xxjesshuxx​ @lawfulrhi​ @doomsthotstash​ @albedophoria​ @sukiirei​ @evilmortytrapremix​ @sunasb3tch​ @tomurastrashpanda​ @kinjuutsu​ @handvillain​ @nao-cchi​

[missesmckinnon]

Happy Birthday

James Potter x Regulus Black

Being at the Potter’s was strange at first. It still is, but it was such a drastic change when Regulus was fourteen, to go from a house with people who wished he was dead to a home full of smiles and laughter.

The first time Euphemia climbed the stairs to wish him a good night, Regulus had a panic attack out of fear of being beaten. What had he done wrong so early on?

It’s gotten easier being around everyone. He turned twenty an hour ago, and he knows that the second he leaves his room, James will be there. He’s requested nothing for his birthday, but James will have something for him anyway.

His birthdays aren’t his favourite, but he views them differently here. He’s no longer a year closer to death— well, he is, but he doesn’t focus on that. It’s a day to spend with the love of his life. His brother, too, and Effie and Monty. It’s a happy day now, not something to dread.

He doesn’t remember his birthday’s at Grimmauld well. He remembers Sirius bringing him a cupcake every year, but that’s it. He figures it ended in a Crucio, but he can’t be sure anymore.

The door to his bedroom creaks open. James pokes his head in and smiles when he makes eye contact with Regulus, who has his back against his headboard. He steps in, holding a wrapped box in his hand, small and square. The door closes behind him with a soft click and James sits across from Regulus on the bed. He grips the box tightly but doesn’t hand it over.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks. James can sleep anywhere, really.

James inhales and tosses the box between his hands. “No, actually. Nerves.”

“Nerves?”

“Nerves.”

He passes over to box, wrapping paper slightly crinkled from the pressure of his fingers.

“Happy birthday, Reggie.”

Regulus can’t help the smile on his face as he unwraps the box. It’s soft and velvet, and his smile falls slightly. Is this what he thinks it is?

“Open it, love.”

He opens the box. Right in the middle is a ring. Silver, with three diamond gemstones across the top, embedded in the ring so they don’t protrude. Regulus barely has time to admire the ring before the box is plucked out of his hands. James is on one knee now, clearly nervous but doing his best not to show it.

“Reggie…”

“James…”

“I love you. I never thought I could love someone the way I love you. Even back when you couldn’t do anything but scowl at me, you still made my heart skip a beat. Believe it or not, I can pinpoint the exact moment I knew I would marry you. It was last year, when we were watching Harry. You sat with him on the couch the whole time, showing him pictures of all our friends. He would babble and you would respond to him as if he were an adult. I loved you long before that, but that was the moment I knew. I knew I was destined to spend the rest of my life with you, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. You’re my other half.”

Regulus isn’t crying. His mouth is open in shock. He didn’t think people could ever like him, let alone love him. James was the last person he expected, but it’s true— they’re each other’s other half.

James takes the ring out of the box and holds it up. “Regulus Arcturus Black, will you marry me?”

The only thing he can do is nod. He feels the ring slip onto his finger and then James’s lips are on his, passionate and soft. The door opens a second time, and Sirius walks in with Effie and Monty.

Monty hugs Regulus first. “We love you, son.”

Son.

“Two of my boys,” Effie gushes. “Engaged.”

My boys.

“You know,” Sirius says from the windowsill where he decided was the most comfortable, bypassing the bed and the chair and everything else. “I thought I was your other half, Jamie.”

“I can have multiple halves, Sirius,” says James. “Hold on, we’re you three eavesdropping?”

The three of them stay silent and avoid eye contact.

“There’s your answer,” Regulus says, wrapping his arms around James’s waist. His arms come around Regulus’s shoulders.

Regulus knows the feeling, now.

Home.

[raineandsky]

#32

“You have a kid, right?”

The villain positively bristles at the question. “Don’t you dare bring my child into this.”

The hero deftly sidesteps a swing of his nemesis’s knife. “I’m just asking. I wanna make a bet I’m pretty sure I’ll win.”

“Why would I bet on something if I’m going to lose?” The villain makes another swipe, which the hero infuriatingly dodges. “And what has my son got to do with it?”

The hero retaliates with a swing of his fist, and the villain hops out of reach. “Because you’ll deny it.” 

“Hit me.”

“I’m trying, damn.” The hero delivers a skillful kick to her side, sending her stumbling slightly. “I think your kid might have joined the agency recently. He’s my sidekick.”

The villain frowns confusedly before letting out a sharp laugh. “Hey, he’s a good kid. He’s got his head on right, and I know for a fact he would never be so blind to join you.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know what your kid looks like,” the hero says with a shrug. He takes another swing but the villain slides just out of reach, taking the opportunity to run her blade along the hero’s arm as he passes. She smiles victoriously as the hero brings a hand up to push into the wound with a grimace.

“Next time he’s out, bring him my way.” The villain backs away, her telltale sign that the fight is over, “and I’ll prove you wrong.”

-

The hero is doing his usual rounds of the city three days later. His sidekick has tagged along for today, after the agency deemed the city safe enough for him to experience. His mask is pulled down hard to shade his face from onlookers.

“It was always really dingy in those parts,” the sidekick tells the hero idly. He keeps his gaze locked to anything other than his conversation partner. “I couldn’t really go outside to play like everyone else did.”

“The little corner of the city the villains have is abysmal,” the hero comments with a short nod. “At least you’re here now, so you can play as much as you like. It’s a lot safer in these parts.”

“Do you think I—”

The sidekick is cut off as the villain appears out of seemingly nowhere to cut off their path. “Well well,” she opens lightly. “Our hero has a little shadow.”

The sidekick moves behind the hero anxiously. “He’s not trained in combat yet,” the hero explains casually. “Just you and me for now.”

“Ah, of course, can’t have the child mercenaries trained to kill, can we?”

The hero moves first, closing the space between them to throw his fist at her. She smoothly steps to the side and away. She swings back fast, faster than the hero could anticipate, shoving the blade up to his throat. “That’s not mine,” she whispers once they’re close enough. “I’m offended you think he is. My son isn’t a coward.”

“He said he’s from the bad side,” the hero retorts with a scowl. “That’s your lot.”

“He could be anyone’s! I’m not the only person on earth with a kid, you know.”

The hero manages to kick into her knee, breaking her hold as she sinks to the floor with a startled yelp. “You!” the villain calls, her voice raised, and the sidekick jumps like he’s been shocked. “Take your mask off. Show me your face.”

She staggers to her feet and the sidekick takes a hearty step back. The hero puts his hand on her shoulder as she gets upright. “[Villain], it doesn’t matter. He’s not yours.”

“Yeah,” She dusts her coat off, “so whose is he?”

She wrenches herself out of his grip, pouncing on the sidekick with a sneer. The boy shrieks unabashedly as she tackles him to the dirty pavement, making a mad scramble for his face.

“Oh my god, she’s gonna kill me!” he wails, and the hero lurches forwards to rescue him from her clutches. He drags her back with no dignity, like he’s pulling a cat off some poor pigeon, but her fingers make one last grab for him as they're separated.

The sidekick’s mask clatters to the floor loudly, and both the hero and the villain pause in their fight to stare at the kid shying away from their attentions.

“Holy shit,” the villain breathes.

“Did I win the bet?” the hero asks hopefully and he huffs in annoyance when she shakes her head.

“What? No, he’s— oh god, what am I meant to tell him?”

“[Sidekick]?”

The villain gestures to where the hero’s sidekick is slowly making his getaway from the pair. “No, no, he… that’s [Supervillain]’s kid.”

[alexa-crowe]

As the World Caves In

Mulder/Scully: end of the world smut; Scully holding/squeezing Mulder’s hand during orgasm. Written for @xfpornbattle’s Sextember 2022. Title taken from the Matt Maltese song, but more specifically the Sarah Cothran cover of it. @today-in-fic

It starts, as they say, with a bang. Or maybe “ends” would be a more apt description.

For a few moments, all Scully is aware of is the thump of her heart, steadily beating its anxious rhythm: Danger. Danger. Danger. She forces her eyes open before they’re ready, flinging her arm to the other side of the bed. Muldermuldermuldermuldermulder her heart thumps, faster as she swipes her hand around on the sheets, looking for his warmth, for his assurance that it’s not happening. This is not happening.

Scully blinks furiously, stumbling out of bed to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a thick woolen shirt, pausing at the door to let her vision clear. “Mulder!?” she calls out, wandering around the house, hoping with everything she has left that she is terribly, terribly mistaken.

She frantically peaks through archways and slams open every door to no avail. Scully desperately jogs around various pieces of furniture to the front door, hastily tugging on boots and a thick winter jacket before exiting the house into the eerily still pre-dawn expanse.

“Mulder!” she cries out, the thick layer of snow from the night before crunching underfoot as she treks across the porch and down the stairs.

Another bang. In its aftermath, she hears an engine start around the side of the house and jogs over, finding Mulder rising from beside the generator, bundled much more securely than she.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, coming up behind him to wrap her arms around him. He startles for a moment but relaxes when he realizes that it’s her.

“Scully.”

“Don’t scare me like that,” Scully pleads, allowing Mulder to unwrap her arms from their grip around his torso so he can turn around.

“I’m sorry,” he says, burying his gloved hands in her tangled auburn tresses. “I got a message from the Gunmen.” No no no no no— “They’re on their way to your mother’s. They’ll take her to their bunker.”

No... “Mulder...”

“Hey, hey, hey...” he whispers, smoothing her hair back as he pulls her into him. “We’ve been preparing. We’ll be okay.”

“How can you say that, Mulder?” she cries, shaking her head against his coat.

“What’s the alternative, Scully? Panicking won’t help.”

“Blind optimism isn’t of use either—”

“Scully—Scully, look at me,” Mulder urges, taking her by the shoulders and bending down to look her in the eyes. “We have a plan. Okay? You and me—we have a plan. The Gunmen and your mom have a plan. Doggett and Reyes are getting William—they have a plan. Even Skinner has a plan. Just believe in me. Okay?”

She nods, sniffling. “Okay.” Five minutes ago, she was sleeping her last restful night in their bed before this great unknown. Oh, God. Thump thump thump. So many things left unfinished—William, their sweet baby son, still lost to them, but hopefully not for long. “Okay.”

***

They spend the day pacing agitatedly, waiting for updates from their friends, frantically switching between embracing and not being able to stand still enough to touch. After hours, Scully forces them to eat a bowl of soup each; each spoonful goes down, but barely.

The relief they both feel when the messages come through, only scant hours apart that evening, that everyone is safe nearly buckles Scully’s knees. “Oh my God,” she intones against his shoulder, his cheek, between his brows, his lips.

It’s warmer inside the house than outside, and blisteringly hot where Mulder’s hands skim the curves of her body beneath her shirt. “Scully,” he says, his well-maintained beard rasping against the sensitive skin beneath her ear.  “God, Scully.”

He walks her back to the stairs and she’s tempted to tug him down on top of her right there, but resists. Scully tugs his face away from her neck by his ears, breathless, and palms his cheeks. “Take me to bed, Mulder,” she tells him.

He kisses her heartily, face framed in his tender palms. “Come on.”

He is oh-so tender as he undresses her, and she is the same, but his callouses are still rough against her skin as he drags his hands down to her hips, tugging down her panties as he kneels on the floor. Love me, love me, love me. He kisses the healed bullet wound on her abdomen, a ritual after all these years of loving each other, but it makes her breath catch in her throat nonetheless.

Scully urges him up and tugs him with her onto their well-loved bed, letting her eyes fall closed in bliss as Mulder indulges himself in her breasts. He kisses a circle around each mound, teasing her mercilessly before finally nudging her nipple with the tip of his nose.

“Mulder...” she sighs, exasperated.

He chuckles and promptly sucks her into his mouth, yanking a lengthy sigh of pleasure out of her mouth as she slowly drags her foot up the back of his leg, opening herself up to his gently rocking hips. It is at once the most ordinary sex they’ve ever had—textbook for them, really—and the most ardent lovemaking session to date, even this early in.

Mulder lets her nipple go, leaving her flesh around it reddened from his beard, and swiftly moves to the other, bringing his hand to the nipple left wet with his saliva. He caresses her breasts in concert, one inside his mouth and the other with his hand. Where he sucks the one, he tugs the other; where he nips the one, he pinches the other. Eventually, it becomes too much, and Scully clasps his hand over her breast, flexing her toes as her chest heaves.

He hums and slides his hand free to support himself while he sends the other adventuring down past her hip to caress the inside of her thigh, venturing teasingly close to where her wetness his gathering before tugging her other leg up and over his hips so he can roll his erection against her at a better angle.

“Ahh...” Scully breathes, pushing her head back as his cock slips between her outer lips to rub against her slick inner ones.

Mulder groans, sinfully sexy, and her nipple slips away from him. “Jesus. Scully, you—”

He shakes his head and captures her lips instead, hiking himself further up the bed to do so and taking her legs with him. Scully cries out as his penis strokes against her clit, reflexively gripping his ass as he takes her lips again, grinding against her. She can feel her arousal practically dripping out of her to be spread by his cock, the interaction of their bodies lewd.

Just when she thinks he’ll reposition and slip inside of her, he instead begins his journey down her body, kissing down her chest and abdomen, straight to her pussy. Mulder doesn’t waste any time before roughly spreading her labia and pressing an incongruously tender kiss to her throbbing clit. Scully cards her fingers through his hair, breath stuttering as he teases her with the tip of his tongue.

He abruptly licks her with the flat of his tongue, a cry catching in her throat as she digs her heel into his back. Mulder places his hand on her abdomen, just above her pubic hair, and applies pressure, inserting his middle finger inside her at the same time. Scully meets his hooded gaze and whimpers, letting her head fall back against the pillow as he crooks his finger inside her, deftly stimulating her G-spot and sucking her clit into his mouth.

“Oh, God!” she cries out, gripping his hair in one hand and pressing his face against her by the nape of his neck with the other. “Mulder...”

He slips another finger inside and shifts by the foot of the bed, increasing his pace as Scully feels her orgasm begin to build. Faintly through the walls she can hear the generator running outside, and in the room the lewd shifting of body parts against the sheets and Mulder’s little satisfied noises as if he can’t get enough of her, and the little whimpers she can’t help but emit.

Slow and steady wins the race, she knows. He doesn’t do anything special, he simply follows her directions, pressing more firmly on her abdomen as she begins to roll her hips, encouraging her approaching orgasm. “Mulder,” she gasps.

“Come on, honey,” he mumbles against her clit. “Come on. Come for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” she intones, words devolving into a rich moan as her pussy begins to throb around his fingers.

They quickly disappear to be partly replaced by Mulder’s tongue as he licks her arousal, a man insatiable. Scully lets him linger until he’s satisfied, smoothing her hands across his shoulders and down his arms as he kisses his way back up her body, the first round of kisses like a trail of breadcrumbs. He drops a kiss on each of her stiff nipples before kissing the hollow at the base of her throat.

“Get up here,” she tells him, urging him back up to her lips with her hands on his biceps and a tender smile on her face.

Mulder’s done a good job of distracting her from humanity’s impending doom, but as Scully kisses him, scratching at his scalp in an unconscious effort to sooth herself through him, it all comes flooding back. She lowers her intensity, disconnecting their lips to nuzzle his face and reach between their bodies for his stiff erection.

“Scully,” he rumbles, pulling back enough to make eye contact, his hand coming up to cup her jaw and thumb her plump lower lip.

She teases his slit with the nail of her thumb and he gasps, jerking his hips, and she bites her lip and cocks her eyebrow. Scully never fails to enjoy leading him around by his dick. Mulder shifts his penis away from her hand and takes it in his own, lining them up and nestling the head of his cock in her entrance. They moan in harmony as he thrusts inside her pussy, lips tantalizingly brushing against each other, grinding his pelvis against hers.

Scully wraps her legs around his waist, holding him still to savor the moment; their breaths mingle, and time stills for a moment. “I love you, Mulder,” she tells him, voice barely carrying beyond the two of them.

He tips his forehead against hers, their eyes falling closed. “I love you, too, Scully.” Thus begins their slow unraveling.

Mulder pulls out almost all of the way and thrusts back inside her, making sure to grind against her clit. His wiry chest hair scratches at her breasts as Scully sucks in a sharp breath, his cock dragging along her G-spot with every well-angled thrust. He fucks her with ease after all these years, knows her inside and out, knows what makes her tick, how she loves it when he splays her legs wide with his hips, and how she likes his thrusts to get shallower and shallower the closer she gets to coming.

He gets the balance between dragging his cock against her G-spot from within and grinding his pelvis against her clit just right and she tenses up, brows furrowing as she feels the sensation building within her. Mulder turns his face to the side and rasps his beard along her skin, sucking a hickey just below her ear. Scully lets out a breathy moan, chest heaving against his, and digs her nails into his sacrum.

“Mulder...” she moans, pussy twitching around his cock as she fumbles her other hand beside her head, searching for his hand. “Oh...” Tears gather behind her eyelids, one escaping to streak down the side of her face as he tangles their fingers together. “Oh! Oh!” Her gasps begin to string together, legs twitching and clit pulsing as her cries gather in strength until— “Mulder!” she screams, clutching his hand as she clenches her thighs against his hips, cunt pulsing around his thick cock.

Mulder groans and kisses her, swallowing her moans and whimpers as he continues to drive into her, seeking his own imminent release. “God, you’re so sexy when you come, baby,” he says, reaching down to push her legs up a little further and really drive into her still-throbbing pussy.

“Yeah. Give it to me, Mulder,” she urges him, voice breathy. “I need it.” She purposefully clenches around him. “Come for me.”

He groans heavily and spurts inside of her, burying his dick inside of her on reflex as he nuzzles her face, pressing haphazard kisses everywhere he can reach. “Scully...” he groans, gyrating his hips in a circle to prolong their orgasms until he’s done.

They’re both left panting, damp with sweat, bodies pressed together so intimately that it’s difficult to tell where Scully begins and Mulder ends. She has no desire to disentangle them any time soon as she gently drags her fingers up and down his spine. Eventually, he picks up his head and presses a simple kiss to her chin, smiling sorrowfully down at her.

“This won’t be the end of us.”

“I believe you,” Scully admits, and for once, she’s telling the truth with no qualms or doubts to plague her.

[buckywritessometimes]

time.

I sometimes feel I can move through time with a simple twist of the fingers or turn of the lips.

I blink and I am six years old, curled up in a pile of blankets at the top of the stairs, my flannel nightgown far too warm for the sticky August nights of fireflies and mosquitoes. The television from downstairs is loud, and as I lay listening to my parents, deliberately and perfectly placed stuffed animals wrapped tightly in my arms, I think that I am happy. I now wonder how I could have ever thought that this feeling would be eternal.

I flinch and I am eleven years old, my legs shaking as I walk from car to ruined dreams, until my legs give out on the bricks (bigger than a Brooklyn apartment- we counted) and tears drip down my face, my heart slowly tearing itself in two. My home smells of smoke and panic, thick boards of wood torn violently from the teal front door (whose color I got to help pick out), shattered glass lying dead on the hardwood floors that are covered in fragments of my life. Hope does not live in this place.

I curl my lip and I am fourteen years old, standing shell-shocked outside of my best friends’ house, as the girl I love tilts up my chin and presses her lips to mine, before she dances away into the cold December night, blissfully ignorant to the pounding in my chest and the throbbing in my heart. She has no idea, I think to myself, as I watch her catch up with the rest of my laughing friends. 

I smile and I am ten years old, feeding chickens blades of grass and weeds through a fence as I wait for my father to finish his work at the school. It’s hot, far too hot for mid-June; my backpack straps press into my shoulders, my knees scuffing against the scratchy concrete. A mother and her son approach: would you like to come in and hold one? They say kindly, opening the gate. I learn that they are there to take care of the small birds for the week. I get to hold one- they’re soft, slightly squishy. I almost want to press my face into their feathers. My future self watches from a distance as a life-long love forms.

I nod and I am thirteen years old, bringing cookies and treats to my eighth-grade friends. They smile and laugh, thanking me, before turning around and pretending I do not exist. To me, they are my closest friends, to be trusted and loved and showered with warmth. To them, I am simply another part of school, a naive little girl who talks too loud and about the wrong things. School closes down as sickness grips the world. We fall out of touch almost immediately. It takes me several months to understand that I was used.

I blink a final time and I am sixteen years old, staring at my ancient laptop lovingly decorated with stickers. The keyboard seems to taunt me, whispering promises of freedom, if only I reveal myself to the world. This is your chance to stop running, it tells me, voice silky and smooth in my ear. This is how you’ll heal. 

I close my eyes and begin to write.

[lesbianopossumfriend]

Fictober 2023

10/01

Prompt: 17) “I never said it would be easy.”

Original Characters: Spencer Cartwright, Cole Adair, Estella Alonzo, Kori Al-El

Warning(s): gun violence

Read more under

Gun fire rings out. The echoes chase after them.

Running. Sweat soaked shirts sticking to hot bodies.

Shoes thumping hard against the ground as the two of them head for the garden, the soles of their shoes crunching the hard gravel, one of them skidding; losing their footing, “Spencer!”

The young woman, Spencer, grits her teeth as she gets up, the red head turning to her friend, “Keep going, Cole! I'm right behind you!”. The shots are getting closer, Spencer takes her own pistol out, holding it steady as she fires off three bullets, never blinking once.

Three bodies slump to the ground.

Spencer takes off, not looking back as she chases after Cole; her hard green eyes looking for them in the dim light. The manor gardens are both a blessing and a curse as they provide cover from being found, but are making it impossible to find Cole. Spencer goes from corner to long pathway, each step quick but calculated, “Cole? Cole?”, She calls out for them, peeking over a corner hedge, when she catches sight of the designated medic. They are on their knees, hands above their head, looking up at their captor.

It was Spencer’s Uncle. Uncle Leo, her father’s third in command.

Spencer holds the grip tighter, her knuckles almost going white, she leaves her hiding spot, leveling the gun at her uncle, “Leo. Let them go.”

Cole looks back at Spencer, their multicolored eyes full of terror, but also hope, “Hey, Spence. Sorry.”

“Shut up. No talkin’, kid.”, Leo grunts out, his deep brown eyes boring into Cole, before they move to Spencer, “This is stupid, Spencer. You’ll never get out. Just come back with me, and maybe I can get your dad to forget all this happened, water under the bridge. Come on, we’re family.”

Spencer looks at Cole, ignoring her uncle, “Don’t worry, doc. I’ll get us out of here, just hold tight.”

Cole shakes their head at Spencer, “Not a doctor.”

Green eyes roll, “‘Course you are, who else will stitch me back up?”

Leo clicks the hammer of the gun back, “Hey! This isn’t a social call!”, He levels the gun at Cole, still looking at Spencer, “This is a one time offer, Spencer. Take it.”

The Cartwright heir looks at her uncle, shrugging one shoulder, “No, thanks. I’m good.”, Spencer’s finger pulls the trigger back, two shots going into her uncle, Leo’s scream meeting the rose bushes as he crumples to the ground, gun falling from his hand, “Son of a bitch!”

Cole hurries to their feet, grabbing Leo’s fallen gun, putting in their own holster, turing towards Spencer, “Was that necessary?”

“He wasn’t going to let us go.” Spencer nudges at her uncle with her boot, “Come on, I didn’t kill him. One to the arm, one to shoulder, but he’ll be pissed when he wakes up.”

Cole sighs, running a hand through their shaggy black hair, “Please tell me Kori and Estella got what we came here for.”

Spencer digs out her phone, “Let me see”, she goes through their text thread, showing Cole a picture of Kori and Estella; Estella with an attache, and Kori with what looks like a very heavy black duffle bag, both of them looking very proud of themselves, “Looks like they did it.”

“Oh thank God. That means we can leave.”

Spencer laughs, playfully shoving at Cole, “What’s the matter, Adair? Not having fun?”

“This is not my idea of fun, no.”

Holstering her gun, Spencer laughs again, “Come on, doc. I’m trying to leave the mob. I never said it would be easy.”

Cole rolls their eyes, “I know, believe me. This is probably the easiest thing we’ll do.”

“Exactly! Only gets harder from here!”

“You’re the worst, Cartwright.”

“You love me.”

Spencer’s phone vibrates in her hand, a text from Kori,

“Car is ready, boss! :)”

“Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

The pair look around the garden once more, before running towards the rendezvous point, hopping the fence, their feet thudding as they land back on the street. The passenger side doors both open, Estella behind the wheel, “Come on. We’re not exactly safe yet.”

Cole jumps into the backseat, slamming the door behind them. Spencer looks back to the place where she grew up, trying to not let the fond memories of the place she once called home bubble up, and consume her, “Boss? You good?”, Kori calls from the backseat. Spencer shakes her head, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

She gets in the passenger seat, closing the door, then buckling herself in, “Let’s go. Dinner’s on the doc.”

“Hey!”

The car fills with laughter and Cole’s reluctant agreement to get them dinner.

[rosenallies]

hurt comfort list “death of a parent” maybe preachers son au 👀 like i have a vision of later on in life one of denalis parents is dying or dies and he is wrestling with how he feels about it

Awe I missed preacher’s son au 😌

——

“Babe-have you seen my-“ Rosé started, padding into the kitchen and stopping dead in his tracks when he saw his husband stood at the island in their kitchen, gripping the granite and staring at the floor.

He rushed to his side, a gentle hand on his arm pulling him from his trance. Tearful brown eyes met green ones, filled with concern.

“My dad’s dying,” he said slowly, the words thick and strange in his throat.

Rosé sucked in a breath, unsure of what to say. Did he approach with sympathy? Perhaps a softly whispered “I’m sorry, baby.” Should he approach how he really felt? A scoff and “it’s about time.”

“I don’t know how I feel about it,” Denali answered for him, shifting and leaning into Rosé, “I-I don’t want to see him, I know that, but I don’t know if I’m just completely not sad, you know?”

He nodded along like he understood, but truth be told, Rosé didn’t understand. If it were his own father or mother, he’d be devastated but leave it to Denali to find room in his big heart for someone that made his first 22 years a living hell. “I’m here for you no matter what.”

That was the last time they talked about until a week later when Denali got out of bed at 3am, whispering into the phone out in the hallway before crawling back into bed.

“That was my brother,” he said into the darkness, knowing Rosé had woken up after him, “he’s dead.”

“What are you feeling right now, darling?”

Denali breathed shakily, leaning into Rosé’s side. “I’m sad, Rosie. I’m sad and I’m angry that he never accepted me, that even on his deathbed he said horrible things about me. I grieved the loss of my father a long time ago, but I guess I didn’t realize there was a small part of me that thought maybe he’d eventually come around.”

Rosé wrapped a steady arm around his shoulders, holding him impossibly close like maybe if he held him tight enough it would fill the hole in him that his family, the people that brought him into this world, had punched directly through his chest with their words and their distain for everything Denali had become. “I’m sorry, baby, so, so sorry,” he said softly, meaning every word.

“Sometimes I just want my mom and dad but I want a version of them that doesn’t exist. I want to be little again and sit on my dad’s knee while he told me stories, before he couldn’t bear the sight of me. I want my mom to kiss my knee after I skin it and hand me a cookie and wink at me because it’s before dinner and I’m only 4 so she knows if I have that cookie I won’t want any dinner but it doesn’t matter. I still don’t understand why they don’t love me, Rosie, why don’t they love me?”

It had been so long since Denali had been trapped in that house in that small town, but sometimes it all came back to him and no matter how far away he was, it felt like the walls of that house were closing in around him, suffocating him.

“Because they’re fucking horrible people, baby, they’re close minded and awful. No one should put anyone through what they put you through, especially not your own flesh and blood.”

He hadn’t meant to let his own anger seep into his words, but he spent years putting Denali back together, piece by piece and he would be damned if they ruined it, even from the grave. “I love you and my family loves you like you’re their own. I wish I had a better explanation but I don’t know if there is one other than your parents are disgusting, selfish human beings and every day it baffles me how two cold and heartless people could have created you, someone so loving and kind with the biggest heart in the entire world.”

“I wish it didn’t still hurt.”

Rosé sighed, pressing his lips to his forehead and letting them linger. “I wish you never hurt, but I’m here for you whenever it does hurt, okay? We’re a family now.”

[megslovesbooks]

fuck it friday!

thanks for the tags @onward--upward and @messyhairdiaz!!

in true fuck-it fashion i've been writing the second installment of the Piano Player Eddie AU wildly out of order, but i realized I need to get this scene down in order to keep eddie's head space right in my own head for the back half of the fic. so. here we are.

if anyone cares this is pretty spoiliery for the fic??? i doubt that's an issue, but...just in case.

also since i've been tagged in so many of these lately and not answered any of them, here's a good long chunk.

They’re just stepping off the stage after a truly electric show, when Emily slides up to Eddie.

“Bobby needs to see you.”  She says, breaking through the adrenaline fueled buzz of chatter around him. 

“What?” he asks unhelpfully, his brain struggling to catch up, still caught in the pop and fizz of the stage. There’s something about the set of Emily’s shoulders he doesn't like. 

“Bobby needs to see you.”  she says again. “He’s in the office.” Then, as Chim takes a step in that direction she adds “Just Eddie.”

The others are clearly confused now too, he can feel Buck hovering just behind his left shoulder. He looks over and meets Hen’s eyes, and even though she smiles at him, he can see his own creeping dread reflected in her eyes. 

“Sure.”  He says, and his voice comes out unsteady. “Yeah.” 

“Eds–” Buck starts, his hand coming to rest on his elbow for a moment. Eddie wants nothing more than to lean back into that touch but instead he steps forward. 

“I’ll meet you guys back at the hotel.”  He says over his shoulder but doesn't look back.  

He makes the short trek to the cramped little touring office with his heart in his throat, there’s a feeling rising in his gut he hasn’t felt for years. Not since sand and blood and burning metal. Fight or flight. The ground giving way beneath his feet.  Bobby is standing in the middle of the room when he opens the door, his face gray and pinched. 

“Bobby?”  Eddie says, and its all he can get out before his mouth is too dry to speak. 

“Eddie.”  Bobby’s voice is steady, but his eyes…Eddie has to swallow down his rising panic. “Why don’t we sit?” 

“What’s going on?”  He doesn't sit. He can’t.  His manager studies him for a moment then steps closer, could reach out and touch him, but his hands remain at his sides. 

“We just got word.” Bobby says “Your Aunt called.  Eddie, there’s been an accident, a drunk driver struck the car Shannon was driving. I’m so sorry son, she didn’t make it.” 

There’s no air. There’s no air and Eddie is falling. He can’t breathe and he’s falling and oh god oh god oh god it can’t be true. It can’t be true. He’d spoken to her yesterday, it had been brief and halting and painful. Just a check in before he spoke to Chris. He remembers afterward wondering how long it would take them to find their footing again after the divorce. He’d missed her painfully, had been hopeful they could find their way to something different, something better.  Now they’ll never get the chance. Oh god. He can’t... 

“Ok.”  Bobby is saying. “Ok. Breathe Eddie, there you go.”  Somehow he’s ended up in one of the chairs in front of the desk, Bobby crouched in front of him, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his knee, the twin points of contact feel like the only thing keeping him from shattering. Shannon. Oh Christ. How–how–he should ask for details but he can’t do anything but suck ragged gasps of air into his too tight lungs. He isn’t crying, he registers dimly, he should be crying. How are they supposed to go on without her? He was just figuring out who to be without her as his wife, how can he live in a word now where she’s gone forever? What is Christopher supposed to do without his mother? 

“Chris.”  He rasps, reaching out and grabbing at the hand still resting on his knee in a desperate grip. “Christopher.”  Bobby’s face tightens.

“He was in the car.” No. No no no no no no no no no no no.  He must make some kind of noise because Bobby slides his free hand up to grip the back of his neck, forcing him to make eye contact. 

“He’s alive Eddie. He’s alive. He got a little banged up but your Aunt told me he’s home with her and your grandmother now. He’s going to be ok.”

“I have to get to him.”  He chokes out, everything else, all his horror and grief and sickness superseded by his need to be with his son, to hold him, feel his heartbeat. “I have to get to him Bobby.” 

“I know.”  Bobby says, his grip still firm, grounding. He waits until he’s sure Eddie’s really with him then says. “Maddie is booking your ticket right now. Emily’s going to drive you back to the hotel to get what you need then she’ll take you to the airport. We’re going to get you home as quickly as we can I promise.”

I promise I do actually write happy things sometimes too.

I'm not sure who's been tagged, already, but if you want to and haven't already I'll tag @spotsandsocks @paranoidbean @confetti-cupcake @ajunerose and @sibylsleaves

(also i know i'm real bad about doing these things lately, but if you like being tagged in things and i haven't tagged you please let me know and i'll add you to the list! i love being tagged and tagging in return!)

[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Pyramid Head (2/4)

Word count ; 4.2

*Edited.

Letting out a gasp of fright, I turned around, only to come face to face with an old woman. Her hair was fuzzy and knotted, hanging around her face. She looked like a witch in a horror movie. She held a staff and wore a dark, stained cloak that bled onto the ground. I could not see the rest of her body, except for the pale, wrinkled hands that appeared to have a tremor.

“H - hello,” I stuttered. “I don’t know what’s going on here. I’m trying to learn more about my little sister. She’s from here. Do you know where I could find information, food, anything?”

“We’ve all lost our children. Our worlds,” the woman moaned. “Our light. They deceived me. They’re evil. They’re hate. They hurt my child. They did terrible things to him. Jacob.”

Jacob. Had he truly been but a figment of Sharon’s imagination? Did she know him?

“I - I think my little sister knew your son—“

“You knew my son,” the woman cackled, grasping my shoulder tightly and painfully. “Oh, yes, I knew it was you. We must go there at once—“

“Ma-am, ma’am! Let go of me, you’re hurting—“

The woman didn’t heed my cries and began digging her nails into me in hopes of dragging me elsewhere. I struggled under her surprisingly strong grip, trying not to injure the clearly deranged woman. However, as I was pulled further from the ledge, I realized I’d have to use violence to escape. I grabbed her arm and twisted it away from my body. The woman let out a yelp and turned towards me in attempt of grabbing me again. However, I had a different idea as I shoved her onto the ground.

As bad as I felt for harming to mourning mother, I darted away down the main avenue, leaving her behind. I wasn’t much of a runner, though, so after a few streets, I slowed to a stop. I leaned over, grasping my knees and panting. What the woman had said was so difficult to digest, but all I knew is that whoever Sharon had imagined was a real boy. And he had lived here. The implication was that he was dead, but I couldn’t help but think that wasn’t it. After all, was Jacob the boy who had ran into the street? Or had been plaguing my dreams?

“Over here!” a childish voice called, and my gaze instantly darted to an alleyway.

There stood the boy who I assumed to be Jacob. The same dirty blonde hair, same blue eyes, same pudgy build, and same reddish-pink skin. He was waving to me from the end of an alleyway, and I staggered to my feet. I reached out towards the boy, about to call to him. However, he turned and ran.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

I took off after the boy, even if I was already out of breath. He was out of sight, but the minute I reached the end of the dark alleyway and rounded the corner, the boy continued running left down a different alleyway. Instead of shops, though, I was chasing the boy down rows of garages, having entered the suburban area of town. I was struggling to keep up, but I couldn’t let the boy get away. He knew something about Sharon. Or, at the very least, I could reunite him with his mother.

“Slow down, kid!” I shouted, my voice racking, as I tried to continue to breathe. The boy suddenly rounded another corner and began descending a set of steps. I almost ran right past it, calling out for him again. I reoriented myself, staring down the dark abyss of the staircase.

“Come on!” the boy called before laughing and disappearing around the bend.

“Kid, please, stop!” I groaned, too tired to keep running, so I simply went down the stairs at a normal rate.

A siren began wailing. It sounded like a tornado siren. I paused for but a moment before I kept going. I had to squint, as my surroundings darkened. The entire environment became pitch black, and I had to use my phone to light up the place. Everything was wet. I was able to see a bit better, as eventually, I became level with a murky basement. It smelt of rotting food and dead things, and there was a red hue to the entire room. There were chain-link fences and the large, unending room was empty.

Where had the little boy gone?

I began following the walls. I was too scared to call out for the little boy because of the strange atmosphere. Everything was far too silent for my liking. How had the little boy hidden in such a vast room? I surely would’ve heard some indication that he was here.

I entered a corridor, finally mustering up the courage. “Kid?” I rounded a bend, my nose filled with the everlasting stench of rusted iron. I could only hear my breathing and the clacking of my sneakers against the grate floor. “Kid?”

The place was an utter maze. My foot suddenly collided with trash bags, of which had been hidden in the darkness. I let out a small scream and dropped my phone, using my hands to keep balance. I regained balance and wiped my filthy hands on my jeans. Something brown had coated them. Sewage water, perhaps?

My phone was also wet, but I used my sweater. As much as it pained me to get clothes dirty, I’d rather avoid the inevitable diseases everything carried down here.

I began walking through the maze of fences. I noted the waterfalls that cascaded down tarps. My shoes were soggy due to the thin layer of water that coated the entire floor. My phone light struggled to illuminate the road ahead of me.

My heart started beating out of my chest as I encountered a tarp. Red liquid circled it. It was either fresh or diffused with water. I wasn’t dumb. Underneath that tarp was a body. And that red liquid was definitely blood.

Clang.

My heart almost jumped out of my chest as I turned. I can face to face with the boy, who had gripped the fence. “Hey! It’s not safe down here!” I shouted angrily, running up to the fence as the boy once again disappeared from view. As much as I wanted to leave, I knew I had to catch the boy. Not just for him, but for Sharon. Felt around the fence, analyzing my surroundings, until I spotted the cut-off of the fence. I shoved my shoulder into it, and it squeaked open just enough so I could squeeze through. I took off running again, although with caution as not to slip. I forced my fear to dessert me.

I saw the boy running further. I was starting to gain on him, but when I rounded a fence, he was gone. And instead, I was left face to face with a crucified corpse. I let out a scream of fright and stumbled back. My gaze was glued to the corpse, taking in every gruesome detail.

The head was covered in bandages and a helmet. The body itself was tied to the fence with barbed wire. The body was decomposing, and the stomach was cut open, organs spilling out all the way to the ground. I took a few steps back, and that’s when I realized: the corpse was huffing and puffing, blood-shot eyes wide and staring directly at me.

I backed right into another body. I turned and came face to face with a disgusting creature. It was in no way, shape, or form human, twisting and letting out guttural moans. Its head turned a direct one-eighty and I had no time to take in its sticky, veiny flesh composition. It let out a gurgled cry as it crept further, stepping closer to me.

I couldn’t help but scream even louder. The monster collapsed onto its knees and reached out for me. Its cries became more and more child-like, like a baby throwing a fit. Its grey skin warped and extended, eager to get its filthy tendrils on me. I backed directly into another shape, and at this point, I was entirely losing my mind. I jumped away from another monster that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. I began running down the corridor, not looking back. I felt violated, as though a thousand eyes were glued to my figure and eager to tear it apart.

I quickly found I was surrounded. The monsters were swarming me, having backed me up to the chain-link fence. I pressed my body to the fence. And began using my hands to guide me along it. I was erratic, the only thing running through my head being the words ‘oh my god.’

I ended up finding myself in a corner, and I desperately pulled at the fence. I screamed and screamed, and when I turned around, there was at least a dozen of the nightmarish creatures. I turned back to the fence, and as a last ditch effort, pulled myself up. With my erratic movements, I struggled to pull myself up. I took a breath in and tried to focus, and only then, was I able to effectively climb the fence.

I threw my body over the top. But I had yet to escape. In the new path I found myself in, there were monsters on both sides. I tried to run past one, but it grabbed me, filthy claws digging into my sweater. I kicked it away, although it took a torn piece of my sweater with it. I ran and ran, effectively dodging anything I found, until I came across a metal door. I threw my body into it. It moved but an inch, and despite the aches wracking me, I slammed my body into it several more times.

The door suddenly gave and I fell, hitting the ground hard. I wasted no time scrambling to get up and turned toward the door. I slammed into it with every fibre of my being, but not soon enough, as several arms grabbed in. I groaned as I pushed as hard as I could.

Suddenly, the monsters caved, some of the arms withdrawing back into the dank basement, and some falling clean off their bodies and writhing on the ground. I locked the door with a rusty key lodged in the keyhole, but was still too anxiety ridden to part with it, hearing the monsters’ cries and moans from the other side.

The moans slowly began to die out, along with the red light. I realized that I had lost my phone in the commotion, and I couldn’t help but be further panicked. I stomped on the dismembered arms as they began to evaporate into black goo that sizzled against the ground and vanished. I panted and coughed, my body collapsing against the door.

I… needed a breather. And I definitely needed to get the hell out of this town.

~~~

I was on the verge of tears when I made it back to the car. It was untouched, much to my joy, and the monsters had seemingly disappeared. The iron surroundings of the dank basement were far more terrifying than the cultish ghost town itself. I was rather glad to be all alone when I discovered the alternative was sticky demon spawns from hell.

I hopped into the front seat, wiping the sweat off my forehead. I knew that by the time I escaped - if I escaped - I’d be ripped as hell with all the running I was doing. I banged the steering wheel as I recalled the loss of my phone.

“Okay,” I talked to myself, “I assume that I can’t just drive off the end of the world. There has to be a place I need to go, something I have to find. I have to catch that little boy. He clearly knows what’s going on. But how…?”

I spent a few moments thinking back to my whole experience. Maybe if I could find that woman again…? Wait - Sharon’s notebook! The contents had completely changed the moment I entered. Maybe it’s a map!

I reached into the back and pulled the notepad to me. I started flipping through the pages, a bit perturbed when the innocent animal drawings morphed into disgusting black and rd blobs scribbled into the pages. I stopped at the picture of Sharon and her imaginary friend playing hopscotch. The contents of the drawing was different now; instead of Sharon, it was another little girl. And instead of normal hopscotch, the end result of ten was replaced with ‘HELL.’ Accompanying that was the dark, charred remains of a building while two eerie children played in the playground.

“This has to be it,” I muttered, brows furrowing. “A playground. Maybe there’s a park? No, a school. I’ve been dreaming about an elementary school since forever. That has to be it. The… elementary school is where I need to go.”

Hearing my own voice was rather comforting, even if I was hoarse and weary. It was better than silence or the wailing of hell spawns. I bit my lip and tossed my notepad to the passenger seat. Although I considered it would be handy since the contents were always changing, I had to be light on my feet. And it was better to keep it in one place than potentially drop and lose it while being confronted with those disgusting creatures.

It was probably because of the sirens. Maybe it was because I was inside a building, but the sirens just made sense for some reason.

“Ma’am, I want you to put both hands on the wheel!”

I gasped and was instantly relieved when the police officer from the other night hovered in front of my car. I was quick to do as she said, clasping the wheel tightly. I couldn’t help the tears streaming down my cheeks. I was saved! Hopefully.

“Why are you here, ma’am?” the officer interrogated seriously, coming around to the passenger side. Her gun was still pointed at me.

“Closure. My dead little sister was driven mad - by this place called Silent Hill. There’s - there’s something here that caused her to die, I know it,” I explained exasperatedly. “You have to believe me, officer! There’s something very wrong going on here —“

“Get out of the car.”

“O - okay,” I agreed, shakily stepping out of the car.

She suddenly began fiddling with her belt before shoving me against the car. I bit my lip anxiously, mortified when a resounding click came from my wrists.

“Ma’am, you’re under arrest.”

“Wh - what?”

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in court.”

“Officer, please! What crime have I committed? I’m just trying to get out of this hell hole! You gotta believe me.”

“Then you wouldn’t have sped off. Don’t worry, I’ll be escorting you down to the station to be interrogated.” She pulled a radio from her waist. “Officer Bennett to base, over. Base, do you copy, over?” Only static could be heard. “Shit.”

“…You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”

“Cracked my head on the road pretty good when my bike went down. Must’ve been out fo a while. You all right to walk?”

“Yeah?”

“Then it looks like we’ll be hiking back to Brahams.”

“I sure hope so,” I tittered. Although the officer’s aggression had scared me, I knew I was safer with her than I was by myself. Even if I longed to find the boy and what happened to my Sharon, it wasn’t worth dying over. This place called to me, but I refused to answer if it cost me my life.

We started hiking down the hill. With each step, I felt a little better. “Where were you planning to go?” she suddenly spoke, grip on my arm tightening.

“The elementary school. There’s this kid, this little boy, running around the town. It’s dangerous here, ya know? And he looked exactly like Sharon’s imaginary friend,” I recapped. “I looked through Sharon’s old drawings and there was one of her playing at the elementary school. Plus, it’s been in my dreams, so I aimed to go there. I just know that boy knows something about this town and what happened to my… my dearest Sharon.”

“…Your sis is really dead, huh?” she empathetically mumbled. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

“Yes, well, I’m glad you’re here. There’s some cult or something running this place,” I sighed. “I’m worried sick about that poor kid. You have to find him. He’s in danger.”

“Ma’am, are you under the influence of drugs?”

“N - no! There’s genuinely something awful about this place. There were these weird flesh monsters chasing me, dead bodies everywhere, and - and…” She was glaring at me to shut up. She… didn’t believe me. I guess there was no convincing her.

We came closer to the bridge - but there was none. Much to my disappointment and much to the officer’s shock, Silent Hill was completely cut off. Just like the other side of town had been. So… that meant we were stuck here.

She was exasperatedly staring off the cliff, so I called out, “Now do you believe me?”

The officer regained her composure and marched right back to me. She started pushing me back up the hill. “Get walking.”

“Can’t you just take the handcuffs off, miss…?”

“Cybil. And no. We need to head to the lookout tower. There should be a radio there.”

“Okay. I’m Y/n.”

We began marching up the road. We were starting to enter town, having just passed the welcome sign. I could tell from Cybil’s grip that she was beginning to get spooked. Of course, it was a classified ghost town. But she forced us to stop.

“Did you hear that?” she hissed, reaching for her gun.

I bit my lip, gaze glued to the old shack and chain-link fence. Something was moving. I hoped it was just a large rat, but knowing this town, it might actually end up being a large large rat.

“Hey, you up there! I’m a police officer!”

Suddenly, one of those gross, fleshy, armless monsters from earlier emerged from the gates. It let out an inhumane moan as it limped toward up.

“What the hell is that?” the office boomed.

The monster let out a shrill scream. “Jesus Christ, shoot it!” I exclaimed, getting as far away from the thing as I could.

“Stay where you are!” She tried reasoning as we both stepped back. “Stop!”

She finally began shooting. It spurted weird purple blood that sizzled and popped on the woman. I let out a scream. The monster finally began dissolving into a large purple blob before exploding. We both screamed and the woman was quick to realizing her helmet and jacket were dissolving, so she tore them off and tossed them to the ground just as they were burning into a crisp. I was far enough away to avoid most of the splatter.

“Are - are you okay?” I squealed, rushing over to her.

“Yeah,” she panted. “What was that thing?”

“I don’t know. But that’s the monster that was chasing me, except there was like hundreds.”

“Jesus… So, the elementary school, huh?”

“Yeah. I have a feeling that’s where we need to go.”

“…Let me get the handcuffs for you.”

~~~

We paused as we stared at the ancient, abandoned ruins of the elementary school. “So, you think this is the place?”

“It has to be.”

The entrance creaked open with a little give. The squeaks echoed down empty corridors that were lined with tiny lockers and classroom doors. It was dark and dreary, the only light shining through broken and dusty windows.

“Let’s go to the office. Maybe we can find some articles or documents,” I suggested.

“Good idea,” Cybil agreed. “Which way?”

I bit my lip, glancing right and left. “Hm… the right is the shorter side. It’s probably that way.”

Nothing else being said, we started walking. I occasionally stopped to investigate some of the open and rusted kiddie lockers, but it yielded no new information. But, I was right to go right, since after a few hallways, we ended up at the front office. It was deserted and messy. We got to work immediately, going through drawers, trash bins, anything that could possibly harbor some sort of explanation.

Because, at the end of the day, I was here for Sharon.

“Hey, I found a flashlight,” I announced, pulling it out of a drawer. I banged it on my hand and turned it on. A dull light illuminated the room.

“Good. I don’t think there’s anything here. We should search some classrooms.”

“Agreed.”

Cybil and I went to the end of the school. Most of the classrooms were locked up and the doors clearly weren’t budging. However, we reached a staircase that went up and down. We both stilled when we heard some shuffling. Tense and wary, we watched the bottom of the staircase.

A cage with a bird suddenly peaked through the bottom staircase’s door. I hid the flashlight, and making eye contact with Cybil, we unanimously agreed to book it.

We ran down the remaining hallway. We ended up winding up a staircase and running down a hallway. We heard shouts and footsteps following us, however, in a last ditch effort to escape, Cybil grabbed me and swung us into an open classroom and closed the door behind us as quietly as possible.

I was panting hard, and Cybil seemed to be just as tired out. She equipped her gun just as case. I went over to the window and peered outside, not spotting anyone. We also couldn’t hear anyone in the hallway.

“I think we lost them,” Cybil declared, beginning to inspect some of the cubby holes.

I nodded in agreement, walking down the row of desks. My shirt accidentally caught on one, making me jump. But then I noticed some intricate carvings into the desk; the same symbol from my dreams and that church. There were two fresh, small handprints on the desk, too. I crouched won to inspect further. ‘Witch’ was carved into them, and in the corner of the desk, was a small heart.

“Hey, Cybil, come look at this.”

I opened the dusty desk, a cloud of dirt falling to the ground, when Cybil joined me. Inside the desk were a few old notebooks, but one stood out in particular: one that belonged to Elysia Esposa. Hadn’t I heard that name before? Had Sharon said it once?”

I also noticed a small, crumpled up note in the corner. Cybil beat me to it, though, snatching it up and unraveling it. “Jacob and Elysia sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes the curse, second comes the murder, last comes Jacob the serial killer… Jacob and Elysia. That boy you mentioned —“

“His name was Jacob. Sharon always hallucinated and drew him, and he’s the same boy I’ve been seeing. One of the cult members, or whatever… he’s her son. Elysia, though… the name rings a bell. We should keep looking elsewhere. Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like we’re being led to these clues. It’s supernatural.”

“I don’t know anymore than you do. I’m following your lead.”

We checked the hallway before leaving. At the end of the hallway was an open wooden door. Cybil took out her gun and strode in first. We both jumped when a stall was slammed shut, so Cybil had her guard up. We entered a bathroom. It was the women’s bathroom. It was dank and vile; there was a permanent sewage stench.

“Who’s there?” Cybil boomed.

After a few minutes of nothing stirring, I took charge and opened the first stall door. Nothing. Cybil shoved open the next one. Nothing.

I pushed at the third door, but it wouldn’t give. I shoved my shoulder further, but it was locked tight. “Check underneath,” Cybil recommended.

I got on my knees and peered under the stall. I didn’t see anything, but I noticed feet disappeared from sight from the fourth. “Someone’s in the fourth. Jacob, Elysia, is that you?”

Cybil iced the fourth door open, gun at the ready. It was the handicapped stall, larger than the others. I couldn’t help but let out a mortified scream when we beheld the inside of the stall. Alike to the corpse from earlier, the body had been crucified, malformed grotesquely and head detached completely, wearing a janitor’s uniform with the name ‘Colin.’ Cybil had a worse reaction than I did, collapsing against the wall while retching.

On the walls, scrawled in fresh, dripping blood, was written ‘I DARE YOU, DOUBLE DARE YOU.’ With tears water falling down my cheeks, I took a step into the cell. I further inspected the body. Although the body was chained up against the wall, the head sat - moldy and grew - on the toilet seat, head open and eyes sewn shut. As though something was inside his mouth.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Cybil hissed.

I realized my hand had subconsciously began drifting toward the head. I gulped, ignoring the woman and kept going. My hand was trembling tremendously as my fingers brushed against his lips. Shivers ran down my spine. Cybil was trying to grab me, but that’s when I felt it.

“There’s something in here.”

[shurisneakers]

harmless (iv)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, guns, mention of war, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: good evening i’ve never been to any of the places i mention in this series so dont come @ me

if you have any ideas for future inventions/evil plans, lemme know! i might actually end up using them 

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

He spends the weekend doing nothing. It’s supposed to be relaxing. He finds it nauseatingly boring.

“No mini mission this week?” Steve asks him from across the couch. 

They’re supposed to be catching up on Star Wars but two prequels in and Bucky could feel himself lose his sanity. Anyone could present him with a random assortment of alphabets, call it a Star Wars species and he would have no reason not to believe them.

It’s not like he doesn’t like space. It’s just that he’s had enough of it and everything and everyone who came from it for the foreseeable future.

“No. Someone else is taking care of it.”

“Didn’t you volunteer for this?”

“I pulled myself out of the case.”

“I thought you were having fun.” 

Bucky’s head slowly turns to look at him. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged. “Looked like you were.”

Well, he wasn’t. He likes it here at home, glued to the TV. Popcorn beside him, sweatpants on. Refreshing, calming, slow, mundane, and Jesus Christ, so fucking boring-

His spiralling is interrupted by the dinging of the elevator to the common floor. No one was allowed up there unless it was extremely urgent. Guests were barely allowed into the Tower as it was. 

It reveals the receptionist from downstairs, Marie. She’s always a little reserved, a little shy. But Bucky had seen her chew and spit out trespassers or anyone who dared to get on her nerve. He adores her.

“Hey, Marie,” Steve says while Bucky sends her a friendly wave in greeting. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a hostage situation downtown,” she informs them. 

“Okay...” Steve drawls, waiting for a reason why this was an Avengers level threat.

“They’ve asked for Mr. Barnes by name.” She makes a mention towards him.

Bucky sits up straight. Bits of popcorn fall off his chest. 

“What?”

“They said, and I quote-” she looks down at her notepad. “‘Tell that grumpy motherfucker that I’m waiting for him and that he’s not getting out of this so easily because we have come too far.’ End quote. They’ve also told me to include a kissing emoji. And a skull.”

Steve and he look at each other.

“Well?” Steve prods. 

Bucky sighs and gets up to go get ready.

The entrance of Chuck E. Cheese is more crowded than he’d ever seen. He wasn’t even sure he’d seen people in the store before. If there were, they probably only came up till his waist. 

There are a few journalists, a few policemen standing together outside. Whispers of confusion and curiosity reigned free. 

Bucky gently pushes his way to the front. He gets a nod from a police officer who opens the door for him after a quick briefing. 

The place is darker than it usually would be. A trademark, it seemed. The blinds are drawn shut and most of the light is coming through whatever sneaks in through the crack. 

“Hey, Barnes.” Your voice is muffled by a mask that looks suspiciously like it was made out of classroom craft supplies.

There’s a person in a loose chokehold in your hand with a gun pressed against his head. Once again it looks straight out of a cartoon, purple with round disks lining its barrel. 

“What’s all this now?” He gestures around monotonously. 

“A hostage situation. Didn’t you get the memo?”

“Got that part down, genius,” he bites back. “But why?”

“Fucker kept harassing me when I was walkin’ down the street.” 

The guy’s helpless gaze met Bucky. 

“Catcalling me, stalking me.” You tighten the grip you have on him. “Call me darlin’ one more time, you son of a bitch. I dare you.”

He wasn’t impressed with his pleading eyes. He kinda felt like he deserved it. 

“Why’d you do it here?” The bright colours were starting to give him a heading. “And where are the staff?”

“It’s symbolic, Bucky,” you emphasise, “He deserves to be among other rat bastards.”

Of course.

“The staff?” he asks again. 

“Gave them thirty bucks and told them to leave. I’m not a monster.”

“Right.” He doesn’t bother refuting you. “Why’d you call me here?”

“Dunno.” You shrug. “Thought it’d be fun. You having fun yet?”

You shake the guy you’re holding. He gives a small whimper. 

Bucky doesn’t want to stop you. He had chugged enough Respect Juice in his lifetime to know that this guy probably deserved a threat or two.

Hell, he’d even help but you were more than capable of handling this on your own.

“Listen,” he sighed. “As much as I’m sure he deserves it, this is technically illegal and I’m required to stop you.”

“Sorry sarge, I thought you weren’t interested in playing this stupid game with me,” you mock, voice dropping to imitate him.

“I’m not.” It wasn’t entirely true. One Saturday with Jar Jar Binks had convinced him otherwise.

“Okay, so before you leave, do me a favour and call Hawkeye. I hear he looks mighty fine when he’s annoyed.”

His face involuntarily scrunched up. You were going to replace him with Clint? Clint?

He probably took it more as an insult than he should have.

“I’m not doing that.” Bless his foul mouthed friend, but he was a little shit who was too sarcastic for his own good. At least twice a week he’d say something stupid to Bucky and then take out his hearing aids when he tried to argue back. 

“You’re leavin’ me with no options here,” you groaned, using your thumb to flip a switch. The gun looks like it powered up, lights along the side turning red.

If he let you have this, it’d be a bad look for the Avengers.

New York man dies in Chuck E. Cheese lone hostage situation, unable to be saved by same superhero who tried to fight Thanos with a machine gun.

“Tell ya what,” he says instead, “If you kill him, there won’t even be a slight chance that you’ll see me again.”

Your grip on the gun falters.

“If I let him go...”

“I might consider coming back next week.” He’s trying to spin it, make it look like he’s the one with the upper hand here. “But you gotta let him go.”

You search his face for any signs of dishonesty.

“Let him go or you’ll never see me again.” It sounds too much like Clint’s arguments with his dog who brought a live squirrel into the house. 

“Fine,” you relent, a glint in your eye. “but say goodbye to this fuckface.”

Before Bucky can open his mouth to shout in protest, you pull the trigger. The man clenches his eyes shut, face red.

He expects blood to be splatter across his face.

Nothing happens.

A barrage of bubbles floats into the room.

“I meant it literally,” you say, pushing him off you. “Say goodbye. He’s leaving.”

The man stumbles to the ground and Bucky doesn’t make any attempt to catch him. He scrambles to his knees, picking himself up and scurrying out the door to a hoard of reporters.

The door shuts behind him with the chime of a bell.

“You’re annoying,” Bucky states, giving a small sigh.

“I’m well aware of that.” You pull off the mask, wiping the sweat off your brow.

“Where is the agent assigned to your case?” 

“Dunno. Last I saw he was crying on the driveway of my lair. I just figured he’d pick himself up later so I left him there.”

Bucky’s nose twitches. 

“You weren’t actually going to kill him, were you.” He shrugs with his shoulder towards the door. It wasn’t a question, more a statement. He knew you wouldn’t. 

“I could have.”

“But you weren’t going to,” he repeats. 

“No,” you admit. “I wasn’t. But I’m glad to see you showed up.”

“You held someone hostage as leverage.”

“No, no. I held someone hostage and then asked to see you. They were completely unrelated.”

“You’re evil.”

“You jumped to conclusions,” you point out. “Would you like a trampoline next time? Maybe a pogo stick, you clown?”

He has a very real gun in his holster. His very real metal death arm aches to use it. 

“No one else agreed to come,” he deflects. 

“We both know that’s a lie. You were going to come back anyway.” You stuff the bubble gun back into the bag. “I’m deliciously irresistible.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Then beg.” You give him a smirk and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, you win this round, sarge.”

He doesn’t say anything. He watches you remove your heist gear, revealing normal civilian clothes underneath.

You walk casually to the kitchen, intending to leave through the back door.

“But I can’t say I lost either.” You send him a wink before swiftly pushing open the door and leaving him behind.

He only watches you leave.

It doesn’t hit him until a few seconds later that he let a criminal out of his hands when there were several policemen and journalists outside.

He entertains the idea of chasing you down and handing you over. 

It takes him only a few seconds to decide that if they wanted you, they’d have to try themselves.

Next part 

[georgiapeach30513]

MAAM… STEVE??? AND BUCKY??????

Plz elaborate for the class

LISTEN! If ever Steve and Bucky are in ANY of my fics, please note, they have shared and/or been together themselves. It's an unspoken rule. But since you're so excited....we can go into the past of when they shared. Just for shits and giggles, this is going to be a reader insert.

🖤🖤🖤🖤

How You Make A Woman

Summary:  Steve and Bucky are SHOCKED

Pairings:  Steve Rogers X Brooklyn!Reader X Bucky Barnes

Rating:  explicit

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, PIV sex, oral sex (M&F receiving), slapping, pinching, biting, spit roast, cream pie, degradation, teasing, 18+ ONLY

Word Count:  1.6K

Desperate Lives AU Masterlist

Revisit Desperate Affairs Masterlist

You laugh at some stupid joke that Steve had told you, your back up against Bucky, legs draped over Steve’s and just having your friendly Friday night drinking with the boys. “So you’re telling me that a girl from Brooklyn, can’t find her a man to treat her right?”

You scoff sparing a quick glance at Bucky, “They’re all the same, big promises about their amazing game, and it’s just mediocre. Not even worth my time honestly. I can do better all by myself,” Steve raises an eyebrow at you, but laughs anyway. “What about you two? No ladies on the horizon waiting to scoop up the future Dr. Rogers and Dr. Barnes?”

“Wait...wait,” Bucky starts, he noticed that quick change from yourself to them. “Who is the best you’ve ever had?” you mumble out a bunch of nonsense, and shrug. “Come on, everyone has that someone that was just, boom.”

“Yeah, again, I do better all by myself.”

“Brooklyn?” Steve’s eyes slowly look up at you, a bit of pity laced through those pretty blue green eyes. “Which one made you cum?” while you’ve known these two your whole life, this is definitely not something you want to talk about. When you start to get up Bucky pulls you back down. “Brook, answer the question.”

“Don’t have to.”

“Well, that tells us everything we need to know. You don’t like sex, because you’ve been with assholes that made everything about them huh?” your eyes look down at your bottle of beer, not speaking, which tells Bucky everything. With the alcohol running wild in all three of your veins, and Bucky being a cocky son of a bitch anyways, you already know, the sinful thoughts running through his brain.  Because you’ve had those thoughts on more than on occasion.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not that...? Brooklyn, it’s a huge deal,” he adjusts himself on the couch, and pulls your head back to where you’re gazing up at him. “Brooklyn?”

“I don’t see what the big deal is with sex anyways,” you try to pull your body off of him, but he holds you tight. “What?”

“You haven’t had good sex, and it shows,” Steve responds. He scoots a bit closer to your body, and you can’t deny the heat that pools in your core. Your body starting to tingle, when Bucky’s hand rubs down the column of your neck. Timidly Steve’s hand rubs along your knee, but he stops. His eyes looking in front of him.

"It’s because I jumped into. I didn’t have fireworks. It works better, I’m sure, with someone you’re comfortable with.”

Bucky’s hands start massaging your shoulders slowly, laughing when you release a desperate mewl. “Admit it, you’ve never had a man make you orgasm,” you just give him a quick shrug, but he grips tighter to your shoulders.

“I’m sure I have.”

“Oh, sweet Brooklyn girl,” Steve coos, his body fully twists around, and both his hands rest on your knees, slowly sliding up your thighs, before back down. Each time getting higher, but not high enough. “You would know if you had. You’ve just had shitty dick.”

With just a whisper of a kiss, Bucky presses his lips against your temple, “W-w-well, I don’t see anyone knocking my door down.”

“We could help you out,” Bucky speaks so softly in your ear. Chills run up and down your spine, and Steve’s hands journey further north just a little bit more. “You know us, you’re comfortable with us. I bet we could make you feel real good without ever putting a cock in that pretty pussy.”

“‘S not,” you choke out, but can’t even finish when those sinful lips kiss up your neck.

“Oh it is, Brook. I can feel your warmth radiating off of you. Will you let me and Stevie take care of you? Show you how a man is supposed to make a woman feel?” your speechless and unmoving, but with the way the two of their hands roam over your body, you can’t help it, but with no words of confirmation, the two stop their motions, and start to pull back.

“Don’t stop,” your voice chokes out when you miss the feeling of their hands on your skin.

“What is it you want Brooklyn?” Steve shifts his weight to where he’s hovering over you. “You have to tell us sweetheart.”

“I want you to show me, but...”

“We’re just friends,” Bucky reminds you. Famous last words. When you answer that you’re ready, the two of their hands start kneading your body. Bucky still stays behind you, turning your head to ghost his lips over your cheeks. Getting lower, until slotting those pouty lips against yours. his hands roam to your tits, as they grope and tweak your nipples.

Steve’s fingers connect to your jeans, slowly undoing your button, his eyes never leaving you and Bucky before sliding them off. Bucky’s hand drifts down your body, and under the elastic of your panties. Moaning in your mouth when he roams your folds. “You’re fucking soaked Brook,” his voice gravelly and raw on your lips. “Get them offa her,” he grunts to Steve.

Still those tender motions of sliding the cotton off of you. Too much clothes still separate you and Bucky. Your hands go to remove your own shirt, and bra, “Wanna feel you,” you pant before he yanks his own shirt off. Once situated, Steve spreads your thighs, gazing at your drenched sex. His fingers spread around your arousal, giving a little pinch to your bundle of nerves, before sliding two fingers into your tight channel.  His thumb creating tight circles on your clit.  Your body naturally rocks with his motions, while Bucky is dominating your mouth.

Steve even stops his fingers.  Watching you continue to grind over his hand.  "You've needed this Brook.  Buck, watch her fuck my fingers," with a bite to your lip, Bucky pulls away.  Taking in the rolling of your hips over Stevie.  "You're so needy, sweetheart.  You think you can get off like this?" nodding your head quickly, they both chuckle at you.  "My fingers feel better than yours?"

"Yes, Stevie.”

"Gonna let us fuck you?" nodding, you work yourself harder over him.  Bucky squeezes tightly to your nipples and doesn't let go.  His teeth nipping along your shoulder, eyes still on your cunt sucking Steve's fingers back in.  Your hips start stuttering when you feel your belly heat up, but Bucky grabs your hips, forcing you to fuck Steve’s fingers through your orgasm.  "How did that feel?"

"Good.”

"I think we're done for the night," Bucky takes a hard bite of your neck, giving it a little suck, and you slap at his leg.  "You think you can handle more?"  giving him a nod, he pushes you off of him to your knees, gazing down at your puffy cunt, his own hand running through your folds before diving face first.  Messily eating your cunt like it's his last meal.  Your body squirming as he works you over.  Yelping when Steve starts to undress, and his cock bounces up to slap those heavenly thighs.  His tip angry and leaking, when he walks closer to you.  

His thumb rubs against your lips, before he pushes his length through.  Sliding all the way in, until his cock, cuts off your airways, "Breathe through your nose Brook, you're a big girl, you can handle this," removing himself you choke for air.  Your lungs on fire, as your eyes roll up to meet his.  "Good girl, sweetheart.  Buck, put her out of her misery and split her open.  She's a needy little thing."

Bucky's face glistening with your juices leans back to watch Steve face fuck you, while he undresses, whining when you can't fully see him the way you did Stevie, gets you a slap on your ass from Steve.  Still choking on his cock he leans over your body watching your pussy clench around nothing.  Letting a dribble of spit ooze down your slit.  "Didn't need that Stevie boy," Bucky's hand hold tight to your hip, his other running his blunt head through your folds, before sliding in.  Stopping only when he bottoms out, "Got her leaking on the couch already."

You can't speak when you're so full of Steven Grant Rogers, and you need Bucky to move.  Your body on edge, you push back over him, "See, such a needy little bitch, aren't ya," Steve gives you another smack.  When Bucky's hand grips the other hip, you know it's time.

The of them rut into you from both sides, and your body is in such a peaceful overwhelming state.  Tugging and pulling both of their cocks into you, while you're a drooling mess.  Not even caring about anything, but feeling free in this moment.  Letting your two best friends use your body in any way that they want.  Bucky pounds into your mercilessly.  Grunting that he'd take you apart slowly next time.  Next time?  Even Steve made a comment about it.  

The two of them so entuned with the other, their thrusts get sloppy at the same time.  "FUCK, Brooklyn!" Bucky shouts at you, struggling to hold on for your own release.  His hand slides down to stimulate your bundle of nerves, and that's all it took.  Your orgasm rushes through your limbs.  Cunt squeezing tightly to Bucky, and his warmth paints your walls.  Steve takes one more hard and deep stab into you, and his spend spurts into the back of your throat.  Feeling so full and spent from the two of them.

"And that's, how you make a woman orgasm, Brook," Bucky and Steve give themselves a high five.  Still such children.  The two of them, taking their time the rest of the night.  Playfully fondling you, riding on top of Stevie, sixty-nine-ing with Bucky, having your ass stretched out by Stevie, all of it blissful.  That should have been the end.  And it was...with Steve.

Masterlist