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safetypinxtales · 3 months

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400 years | Azriel

summary: drinking with your best friend takes a turn when you happen upon some of Feyre's art supplies.

words: 3.2k

warnings: steamy 18+ mdni, nudity, sex is insinuated but not described, kissing, alcohol consumption (drink responsibly), reader and azriel are drunk, making out, big dick azriel, fluff, no use of y/n, neutrally described reader/no reader description

notes: happy valentines day, here's some azriel for youuu🤍 I got the inspiration for this whilst reading this fic by @solbaby7 bc who wouldn't want to draw az like one of your French girls?? Frankly there is nothing I would like to do more. Their fic is amazing and you guys should totally check it out if you haven't already! Anyways, I'm sorry for the "shut the door" type ending, but I cannot write smut to save my life so this will have to do. Hope you enjoy!🤍

masterlist

Thud.

The sound of Azriel accidentally smacking his head on the wall as he plopped down on the sofa across from you echoed within the walls of the cabin, and you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of you. Azriel’s own shaking shoulders and scrunched up nose let you know that he couldn’t help it either.

But that was to be expected wasn’t it? The past hour had been filled with nothing but bubbling laughter from the both of you, giggles from Az, and some very graceful snorts… also definitely from Azriel.

The reason why he had brought you to Rhys’ cabin in the mountains was long forgotten after the two nearly empty bottles of alcohol on the table in front of you. The heartache of getting stood up on your date earlier that evening buried under a considerable amount of drinks.

“As long as the glass is never empty in between refills, they don’t count.”

Azriel’s words from earlier came back to you, only fuelling your cramp inducing giggles.

That had always been your motto in times like these. A consistency that had lasted centuries.

“I can’t breathe,” you wheezed out in between fits of hysteria, your arms coming up to wrap around yourself. But your laughter didn’t die down, and neither did Azriel’s. Your uttered words only seemed to fire him on as he tipped over on his side, hand landing a slap on the armrest.

Seeing him like this, so free and relaxed, was rare. You could probably count each separate occasion on your hands. He only really let go like this when you needed it. When the urge to drink your walls down and flush the pain away seemed like the only remedy to whatever situation you were dealing with.

It was a very rare occurrence indeed. But one of your favourites.

Azriel’s carefree giggles, that luminous light in his eyes; you swore it could make budding flowers bloom.

You sat up straight, and the situation stopped feeling so funny as you laid eyes on Azriel’s still laughing frame. The uncontrolled giggles, and the way his wings shook in time with his chest. It was enchanting, the sight of your best friend being so relaxed, so happy.

The shadows that were usually crowding his frame were nowhere to be seen – with the exception of the lone swirl of darkness slowly snaking its way around your wrist, coming down to entwine with your fingers every now and again.

It took a couple more minutes until Azriel’s laughter had finally seized. You both sat on separate sofas, smiles stretched wide and eyes glazed over from the alcohol you had ingested, and as your breathing started to return to normal a thought struck.

“What?” Azirel asked as he leaned forward on his elbows, a curious glint in his eyes.

“What?” You prodded back, more confused than curious, blinking a few times to try and rid the alcohol-induced veil that surrounded you. What was he on about?

“Well,” he waved one floppy hand in your direction, “you just perked up, it was like you grew ten inches,” he exclaimed, before continuing in a slightly lowered, bemused voice, ”and that means you just had one of your ideas.”

The corners of your mouth quirked upwards as you slowly nodded your head. He was right – you had come up with an idea.

“Well, I was just thinking about how Feyre mentioned after the last time she was here,” you stood up from your seat, swaying slightly but quickly finding your balance, doing your very best to not bump into the table separating you. “Something about forgotten art supplies.”

Like a predator sighting a prey, Azriel’s interest piqued in a moment. His razor sharp focus was on your every step as you walked towards the supply closet at the other side of the room.

The closet was unusually dusty, a strange thing for being Rhysand’s property. He was usually very meticulous when it came to things always being spotless and presentable. But you supposed that a small, rarely used supply closet in the family cabin wasn’t a priority of his. Keeping it clean was not a good enough use of his magic.

Luckily for you, that just made your quest easier. You just had to look for whatever was covered in the least amount of dust bunnies.

“Aha!” You whipped around to face your friend, triumphantly displaying the sketch pad and charcoals in your hands.

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up at your revelation, grin still present on his beautiful face.

“That’s your big idea? Drawing?”

“You should know I used to be quite the whiz with the charcoals when I was younger,” you rebutted and Azriel’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly.

“I have seen your penmanship, so I will believe this talent of yours when I see it,” he muttered and you couldn’t help but gasp at the sheer audacity in his words. Your penmanship was not that bad.

Taking a few steps back in his direction with a huff, you flipped through the sketch pad in search of an unused sheet of parchment. You were gonna show him, alright…

You couldn’t help but admire Feyre’s old sketches as you went through the pages. Some you recognised as early-version sketches of paintings you had seen around the river house, and some were–

“Oh!” Your fingers froze as your eyes landed on what seemed to be an anatomical study. A very detailed, very beautiful, anatomical study of – oh my Gods. You felt your cheeks heat up.

“Is that Rhysand?!”

At the screech in your voice and the mention of his brother’s name, Azriel shot up off the sofa to get a peek at whatever had managed to pull such a reaction from you.

The warmth of his body radiated into your side as he peered over your shoulder at the drawing of the very naked high lord.

You noticed him stiffening out of the corner of your eyes and then, like a tether snapping, laughter started to boom inside the walls of the cabin. With a steadying hand on your shoulder he doubled over in giggles so contagious it didn’t take long before you joined in with his hysterics.

“No way,” he wheezed, “oh Gods – I can’t wait to tell Cassian!”

The mere thought of how Cassian would react to such a revelation, the look on his face, had you clutching your stomach. Poor Rhys would never hear the end of it.

And by the cauldron, if you don’t wake up with rippling abs tomorrow from the amount of laughter this night had brought….

“You can’t blame her though,” you mused once you managed to get your giggles under control, “I mean, nice job Feyre.” A low whistle left you as you peered down at your clearly blessed high lord.

The laughter quieted down beside you and you raised your gaze to look at Azriel, only to be met with an incredulous look.

“What, I’m just calling it as I see it!” You exclaimed and raised your hands in defence, charcoals and disrobed Rhysand still in your grasp.

His eyes flicked down to the sketch pad, before slowly coming back up to meet yours, that look never leaving his face.

“Oh, please.”

The words fell from his lips with such cool confidence your smile faltered momentarily, eyebrows knotting together.

“You can’t be serious?” He asked, and when you stayed quiet he continued, “that’s nothing.”

Nothing?

From where you were standing, respectfully, it looked like everything.

“What? Like you can do better?”

Your challenge seemed to light a spark in his eyes and time slowed as he took a step backwards, fingers coming down to grip the hem of his t-shirt.

One swift movement and his shirt was off, muscles rippling under his bronzed skin as he tossed the dark fabric on the floor, his eyes not once straying from yours.

He kept backing up, step after torturous step, until his legs hit the sofa. The corners of his mouth tugged up in a smirk as he plopped down, arms behind his head, far leg propped up, large wings casually draped over the armrest.

“Draw me then, whiz,” he challenged, using your word from earlier, “let me be your muse.”

The heat crawling up your neck, scorching the tips of your ears, were not solely from the liquor as you padded over to the opposite sofa.

No, it was from something very different. Something strikingly sobering, yet oh-so intoxicating.

You sat down and carefully placed the pad in your lap, flipping through it until you reached a blank page. You moved some hair out of your eyes and tucked it behind your ear, picked up a charcoal and brought it to the parchment – when you felt yourself hesitate. You took your lip between your teeth as you contemplated your next move. The risk. The absurdity. The excitement.

He was your friend. Your best friend, and yet…

You lifted your gaze to find Azriel’s eyes locked to yours with such focus, such challenge. Like he was sizing up an opponent on the battlefield.

His eyes flicked down to your hand, if only for a split second, as you gently put down the charcoal. He cocked an eyebrow when his gaze once again found yours.

“I just,” you took a deep breath, “I just don’t think it’s really fair on Rhys, you know?” The shadow around your wrist flickered, as if sensing what you were about to do. The lines you were about to cross.

You watched as Azriel’s eyebrows drew together, and you fought the twitching of your lips as you continued, “I mean, you are still half clothed.”

With a slight shrug of your shoulders, you watched as your words sank in. How his eyes seemed to darken, the corner of his mouth raised in the smallest of smirks.

“Is that so?” He mused, and you tried your best to level his stare. To not back down. Not shy away.

With an incline of your head, you nodded. And watched his hand inch closer to his pants. Down past that dark trail of hair, to the laces tied together at the waistband. Watched as he grabbed a hold of the string… and pulled.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t focus on anything other than his hand. How his fingers untied the font of his pants so slowly, so delicately it felt like torture. You were transfixed by his fingers. Loosening the laces, his thumb slipping beneath the waistband…

You snapped your gaze up to his face, to find him still looking at you – studying you.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sound of his pants hitting the floor. With your eyes still locked to his, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you wondered what you had gotten yourself into. Here you were, in front of your fully naked best friend – about to draw him.

Let me be your muse.

His words from earlier echoed in your mind as you tore your gaze from his face and dragged it lower, and lower, until…

Your head emptied. Your tongue felt about as dry as the beaches you had visited in Summer last year. Because the sight that beheld you was breath-taking.

The length between his legs, standing aroused and proud, really did make Rhysand’s portrait look like nothing.

A part of you had almost hoped that Azriel’s confidence had just been for show. That it was just his competitiveness shining through, a feat to best his brother.

The reality?

Monstruos would have been a fitting word had the sight not compelled you so. Had it not caused you to burn for him. Crave him.

Delicious seemed to be a better word to describe your friend. Beautiful. Mouth-watering. A thing of art.

Which is why you picked up your discarded charcoal and put it to the parchment.

You studied the planes of his body, the hard lines, the soft skin. The muscles that could have been carved by the Mother herself. You avoided looking at his face though, instead focusing on the various scars that marred his skin, telling stories of battles and fights. Of brawls with his brothers.

You felt him looking at you, however. He hadn’t stopped looking at you. Not since the sketch pad came into play.

It made it annoyingly hard to focus.

The scratching sound of charcoal on paper stopped.

“How long have we known each other?” Your voice wavered, mouth dry. You cleared your throat and raised your gaze to finally meet his.

Azriel tipped his head to the side, contemplating, “about 400 years.”

400 years. And never before had you seen him naked. Not like this. Not splayed out like a feast, waiting to be devoured. Not with his gaze so burning you were afraid it was going to singe your clothes to ashes.

“Right,” you mumbled, eyes flicking back down to your hands. They were smudged with soot, your thumb and index finger blackened, that lone shadow still curiously snaking around your wrist.

That is a very long time.

Azriel seemed to notice how the little confidence you had faltered, for he straightened somewhat from his leisurely sprawl.

“You okay?” There was only soft concern enveloping his words, a drastic change from the tension flooding the space between you just seconds before.

It was a very long time, indeed. So why didn’t this feel wrong?

You let out a deep breath, “yes, I think so.”

Your answer apparently didn’t settle his worries though, because he raised from the sofa and rounded the table between you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him as he stopped in front of where you sat.

Only when he lowered his hand – fingers coming to rest under your chin, tipping you face up – did you meet his eye.

The heartbreaking concern written all over his face seized your heart. The soft furrow of his brow. The slight dip at the corners of his pouty lips. The brutal softness swimming in those hazel eyes.

It took your breath away.

“Are you sure?” He questioned, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t trust your voice, not with the vulnerable proximity between you. All you managed was a meager nod. A small up and down bob of your head.

His fingers tugged on your chin, and as if in a trance, you followed the wordless command and rose to your feet.

“I need you to use your words here, sweetheart,” his voice was soft, but the underlying command was undeniable, “please.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you swallowed and managed to breathe out “I’m okay.”

That seemed enough to ease Azriel’s concern, a breath of relief fanning across your face.

“Good,” he murmured, almost as if more to himself.

His eyes left yours, and flicked down. To your mouth, you realised, as his thumb moved from your chin up to graze your bottom lip.

That intensity was back in his gaze, that predatory focus – all directed at you. His thumb pulled at your lip before letting go, and the shudder that overtook your body could have made the earth shake.

There couldn’t be more than a foot of space between you.

So dangerously close.

He was your friend.

Right?

“400 years,” you whispered, eyes flicking down to follow the bob of his throat as he swallowed. “400 years of friendship.”

You felt light headed. 400 years, and all could be thrown away as easy as breathing. All you had to do was take half a step.

“Three,” Azriel’s voice grumbled above you as your eyes trailed down to inspect the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Hmm?” Your mumble was absent minded, your thoughts being too preoccupied by the male in front of you. What he would feel like. Taste like. The sounds he would make if you dipped your head and licked up the drops of sweat beading at the center of his chest.

“That’s how long I’ve loved you. Three hundred years.”

You froze.

The thickness coating Azriel’s voice was not something you were familiar with. Nor were the words he uttered.

Your gaze snapped up to his, scanning his features for any sign that he was, for some reason, making the cruellest joke in all of Pythian’s history. But all you found was open, unguarded truth.

Azriel loved you?

Azriel loved you.

The rapid beating of your heart was a stark contrast to just how very safe you felt. How right it seemed to take that half step forward. To cradle his face in your hand, the other coming to rest on that glorious chest – right over his own heart. And as you felt that wild drumming beneath his ribs echo your own, nothing seemed as easy as rising up on the tips of your toes and slotting your mouth against his.

The kiss was tentative, like the two of you were just dipping your toes in – testing the waters. You moved your lips against his, gently, savouring the feel of his pillowy lips. The feel of his body so close to yours. How the scent of him seemed to envelop you. You savoured how easily he took all of your senses hostage.

He was everywhere.

The sound of Azriel’s wings rustling behind him, the rapid beating of his heart in his chest, the taste of liquor on his lips – it intoxicated you in a way you didn’t know was possible.

You stayed like that, gently exploring each other's lips, savouring each other's closeness, until you had no other choice but to break away for air.

You pulled away only a few inches, rapid breaths fanning your faces. The pounding of your heart didn’t seize, and neither did his. You could feel every rapid beat under the hand still planted on his warm chest.

“Your heart is beating very fast,” you whispered, voice shaky from your breathlessness.

He swallowed, “It is.”

“So is mine,” you revealed.

“Yes, I can hear it.”

Oh.

“Will you kiss me again?” Your voice was so low, you wouldn’t have known he heard you if not for the strangled sound he let out.

Or for how he grabbed you by your waist and captured your lips with his.

This time the kiss was less gentle. This time he pressed your body against his as he devoured you. It was all tongues, and teeth, and needy gasps.

His teeth pulled on your bottom lip and you thanked the Mother he was holding you so tightly, for your knees almost gave out. A throaty groan escaped you as his hand cupped the back of your neck, angling your head upwards and deepening the kiss further.

Your own hands found his hair – and pulled. The deep rumbling in his chest and the way he moaned your name into the kiss was your undoing.

This kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative.

It was claiming.

And so you let him claim you.

Your clothes were quickly discarded as you laid down on the sofa, Azriel’s body on top of yours. And as you crashed together, entangled limbs and sworn promises, you let those 400 years of friendship, of tension, of longing dictate the start of this new chapter.

A chapter of what would hopefully be 400 years of something more.

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tags: @missus-shadowsinger

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #a court of thorns and roses #azriel fluff #azriel fanfic #azriel imagine

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seijorhi · 1 month

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Oleander

Oikawa Tooru x female reader x Iwaizumi Hajime w.c 8.6k tw: yandere, mentions of child abuse and neglect, references to underage kissing, murder, horror themes, pseudo-cest (foster siblings), blanket dub/non-con vibes for a good portion of this

The patisserie smells of sugar, vanilla and freshly baked croissants. In a word; delicious.

For several minutes now, your brother’s been standing bent at the waist, studying the display case stacked full of cakes and desserts with an intense kind of focus. Considering. Deliberating. Inadvertently placing himself, and by extension you, as an obstacle for other people trying to do the same.

“Alright, the crepe cake or the fancy looking chocolate one, the…” Heisuke squints at the display case, trying to decipher the label, “gateaux? Or should we go for the red one with the strawberry mousse thing?”

Bingo. You hold back a smile.

“Go the strawberry one.” Nobody loves strawberries like your mom loves strawberries.

“Ok, great. We’ll grab that, a bottle of nice wine, hit the florist and I think that should do it.” He nods to himself, satisfied. “She’ll be over the moon.”

He’s not wrong. The woman you’ve called a mother for the past ten years would fall over herself for something as simple as a birthday card, regardless of the fact that your dad insists on going all out every year.

“She’s already over the moon; you’re home for the week.” The admission’s soft, hesitant – poking a little too close to an open wound for you to feel entirely comfortable voicing it. Hei gives you an odd look, but it mellows into something more genuine when he realises you’re not taking a stab at him.

Baby steps.

Finally, Heisuke steps up to the counter to order. Within minutes the cake’s boxed up, with little ice-packs slipped in to keep it cool, and paid for, and the two of you head out, you holding the door open for Hei to carefully maneuver his way out without jostling the precious, expensive cargo.

“You’re good at this stuff, y’know,” he says as the two of you fall into step together.

“At… picking cakes?”

He snorts, “No. I meant the whole… I don’t know. You’re good at remembering stuff, the cakes mom likes, dad’s weird habits. You probably already know what flowers we’re going to pick for her, don’t you?”

This time you don’t bother hiding your smile – peonies, pink ones.

You go to tell him as much when a loud voice calls out your name. On instinct, you both spin to the source, and when you meet those piercing, olive green eyes, bearing down at you from the other side of the street, your heart leaps into your throat.

A ghost.

You can’t breathe. For a moment you can’t even think. Your hand stretches out, blindly seeking Heisuke, an anchor, anything–

Before your fingers can brush his sleeve, a hard, lean body collides with yours, sweeping you up into a crushing hug. Not Iwaizumi, though.

Oikawa, taller, broader than the last time you saw him, smelling of citrus, summer and salt lets out a breathy noise, halfway between amazement and disbelief.

“There you are,” he beams, setting you back on unsteady legs.

Found you, the glint in his eyes seems to say.

Rather than let you go, step back and give you some much needed space to breathe, his palm instead slides to rest on your hip, taking your chin between the index finger and thumb of his other hand in order to look at you properly, dark eyes poring over you for signs of anything amiss – bruises, tear-tracks, red eyes, swollen, split lips.

Your mouth goes dry.

On one side, there’s your brother, bewildered, arm half outstretched as if he can’t make his mind up whether he should be intervening or not. Iwa’s already jogging across the street, snarling at a driver who lays on his horn.

The weight of Oikawa’s appraisal is as familiar to you as it is oppressive, and while his touch is delicate, featherlight, it burns to the marrow. Suddenly you’re fourteen again, trying to duck past him before he can notice the state of you.

‘It’s nothing, Tooru, don’t worry about it!’

And just like back then, there’s a knot in your chest that doesn’t loosen until satisfaction melts the too sharp edge to his grin – right as Iwa joins you two. Three, you suppose, because while Heisuke remains in stunned silence, eyes darting between you and Oikawa, he’s still party to this, still a witness, and the thought makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear forever.

(You shove down the fleeting rush of warmth at the relief you find there, the voice in your head that coos that he still cares enough to check. You don’t want him to care.)

“Holy fuck,” Iwa laughs, and Oikawa’s shoved aside, both of you ignoring the indignant grumbling as your rigid body’s pulled into his chest, his hand finding its way to the back of your head. He breathes in slow. Deep.

He still smells the same, earthy and masculine, the faintest tinge of his last cigarette still clinging to his jacket. Back then, he used to steal them from your foster father. You imagine that now, he probably has the money to go off and buy his own.

“I’m sorry, who are you? What– can you let her go, please?”

If it wasn’t them, the sheer absurdity of the moment might’ve made you giggle. Heisuke’s ears are bright red, a flush that extends down his neck. He doesn’t look angry per se, uncomfortable, absolutely, but from the pinched expression on his face, it’s clear he’s fighting the urge to bite out something far less polite.

None of this, least of all the way they’re tugging you between them like a rag-doll, feels very polite to begin with.

As it is, Heisuke’s interruption has the intended effect. The fingers wound in your hair twitch, the cage of his arms drawing you closer. You almost expect the baring of teeth, a possessive snarl, yet it’s a small, almost imperceptible thing. He retreats – reluctantly – turning to glance at your brother, Oikawa by his side.

Judging from the stony, almost bored expression he levels at Hei, he’s not impressed.

“Friend of yours, imouto?” Oikawa’s purr skitters down your spine like ice. Unlike Iwa, there’s nothing less than friendly curiosity on the surface. He’s even smiling.

Tongue darting out to wet your lips, you find your voice.

“Hei, this is Iwaizumi and Oikawa,” you say, gesturing at each respectively. “We were in the same foster home for a while.” Sparing the two of them half a glance, you continue, “We’re actually right in the middle of something, if you’ll excuse us.”

The explicit dismissal’s bolder than you feel, but you’re proud that your voice doesn’t waver. You can’t say the same for your hand when you reach for Heisuke’s spare one, uttering the words that’ll only damn you further, “C’mon, nii-san. Mom and dad are waiting.”

Heisuke doesn’t blink. His hand slips into yours, the two of you sidestepping the pair and walking off towards the car without a backwards glance.

Neither one of you speaks until you’re buckled into the passenger seat, Heisuke adjusting the rear-view mirror, the cake safely stashed away in the back. Until you’re pulling out onto the main road and there’s distance between you and them.

If only the gnawing, unsettling feeling in your stomach would go with it.

“Sorry,” you mumble, blankly staring out the window at the passing scenery. At the clouds hanging overhead, dark and threatening. Funny, that. Fitting. The skies were clear when you left home this morning. “About the nii-san thing, and grabbing your hand,” you clarify, because whether it was rude or not, you’ll be damned before you apologise for brushing them off.

That’s not your relationship with Hei. It’s never been that.

He eyes you for a beat. “You know, I never understood why mom wanted to adopt so bad. Dad too, but mom was always the one pushing for it. We were happy, the three of us. I wasn’t a screw up, their marriage was solid. I couldn’t understand the need to bring someone else in. Our family was fine, perfect the way it was.”

His thumb taps against the steering wheel, his shoulders loose and relaxed. You can’t quite pin the mood he’s in, where he’s going with this.

“Oh,” you say, mostly because it feels like he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it.

None of what he’s saying is news to you. None of it’s anything you haven’t wondered yourself a thousand times over. It’s just that Heisuke… you’ve never talked about this. Your adoption, your relationship with him, none of it. This sort of honesty is brand new territory for you both.

You’re not so sure you’re loving the development.

“When they committed to it, I thought they’d bring home a baby, a kid, not some weird, skittish fourteen year old who wanted nothing to do with me.”

Ah.

Your cheeks heat, and you find yourself wishing you were anywhere but here. If Heisuke notices how you shift in your seat, the small tightening of your expression, he plows on regardless.

“You wouldn’t look at me, would barely talk to me. Hell, you acted like I had the plague most of the time. You didn’t hate me, I don’t think, you just… didn’t want to be anywhere near me, and it bugged the hell out of me. I couldn’t figure it out; who wouldn’t want an older brother to look out for them?” His next words hit you like a sledgehammer, cracking at something vital in your chest. It hurts before he opens his mouth.

“It was them, wasn’t it? The reason you steered clear ‘til I moved out of home.”

“Heis–”

He cuts you off with a look. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he demands.

“Can we just– it doesn’t matter, alright? Can we move on?”

From the unhappy set of his jaw – the first true sign of discontent he’s expressed since getting in the car with you – it’s obvious there’s more he wants to say. You can’t blame him for that, curiosity’s only human.

But you’re still too raw. It’s too soon.

You’ve spent too long burying those secrets deep to rip yourself apart to bring them to light.

“Please, Hei. Let’s focus on mom’s birthday.” You force a smile, tiny and wrong, “The florist is next, yeah?”

You get a grunt of acknowledgement and not much more than that, your brother’s attention pulling back to the drive. The silence that settles in the car should bring some relief. It’s what you wanted, and yet, amongst the churning feeling in your guts, the prickling at the back of your neck that hasn’t left you since you first spotted Iwa across the road, there’s a sense of discomfort that has nothing to do with crossing paths with your past life.

Like a slap in the face, it hits you that you’re floundering for something to say, something – anything – to bridge the sudden, stark divide between you. Something that won’t sound hollow and meaningless.

This thing you have with Heisuke. It took years, and maybe it’s skin deep and miles from what it should be, but the thought of losing it leaves you feeling oddly panicked.

It’ll… hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, because it’s about all you can give him right now, a tried and true method of soothing egos and hurt.

Heisuke doesn’t say anything for the remainder of the drive, and you resign yourself to the very real possibility that in the course of a single conversation, you’ve managed to fracture this fragile thing between you two.

Until you go for the door, and a hand on your wrist stops you. “Hey. I’m glad they did.”

—

When you startle awake a little after midnight, it’s because he’s yelling again.

Mr. Furukawa had been in fine form at dinner, already three beers deep. You can only begin to imagine what’s set him off now, hours after lights out. His wife, probably. Although it’s equally possible he’s caught the oldest sneaking back in from seeing his girlfriend, or the twins trying to break into the pantry for a midnight snack. Or he tripped and stubbed his toe, or thought someone stole the rest of his beer when in reality he’d already swallowed it down.

The reasons don’t really matter when he’s been drinking like that, in the same way that the initial target of his ire doesn’t matter. Once his voice reaches that slurred, furious pitch, anyone’s fair game.

There’s a pair of headphones in the top drawer, you have every intention of yanking them out and putting on one of your sleep playlists, drowning out the noise of your foster father’s drunken raging until he wears himself out or you fall back to sleep when you hear the thumping of his feet on the staircase.

“Where’s that fucking bitch?”

Eyes wide in the darkness, clutching at the comforter, your pulse jumps.

Again, it’s possible he’s talking about Mrs. Furukawa, or one of your foster sisters – the older one hunched over in the bed opposite yours, watching you shrewdly.

“Well go on then,” she sneers. “Run to your big brothers.”

You don’t bother to respond, any hesitation you might’ve had over leaving her to fend for herself shrivelling up under the mocking bitterness she’s sending your way. Fine, whatever. You don’t care what she thinks, scrambling from the warmth of your bed and hurrying for the door.

He’s halfway up the staircase when you reach their room. You’d knock – it’s the polite thing to do – except you definitely don’t want to be out in plain view when your foster father hits the landing.

“Hajime?” you whisper into the darkness, slipping inside and shutting the door behind you, “Tooru?”

“Shit, c’mere.” At Hajime’s voice, the calloused, rough hands that guide you onto his mattress, the vice around your chest loosens. He won’t come in here, not after Hajime socked him in the face after catching sight of the raised, discoloured flesh of your cheek from your last run in. You’ve gotten better at using make-up to conceal the marks since then, but there’s also been less of a need for it.

“Can I stay for a bit?” you ask. Until he calms down and passes out. Until the sun rises and you can sneak back into your room. Until you feel safe again. It’s kind of a pointless question, considering how many times you’ve done this before and how many times they’ve let you. You ask it anyway.

The scoff that sounds moments before the mattress dips on your other side is answer enough. “You should probably just move in at this point. We’ll kick Iwa out, he can go sleep in bitch-face’s room.”

Although you know you shouldn’t, a not-so-nice grin tugs at your lips, nestling into Tooru’s side under the arm he offers, “She’d drive him homicidal in a week.”

“Doesn’t she already?” Hajime mutters. “And fuck off, if anyone’s moving out it’s you.”

“You’d miss me too much.”

Absentmindedly, he rubs at your arm like it’s second nature. “In your dreams, Shitty-kawa.”

You can still hear Mr. Furukawa stomping around outside, snarling and snapping at no-one and nothing. Your pulse skitters, an inbuilt panic response. But the lights are off, you’re not being too noisy, and he’s wary of the other two.

He won’t come in here.

“Relax, we’ve got you,” Tooru breathes, his nose nudging at your temple. “Where were you this afternoon?” His voice is so soft, a soothing rumble that it takes you a second to register what he’s said.

“This afternoon?”

“Mm. You didn’t come home when you were supposed to. We were worried.”

He’s pouting, you can tell. Which– he can’t be genuinely bothered by it, it was only a few hours, and the Furukawas don’t care where you are or what you do so long as you’re back before curfew. You were.

A distraction then?

“I went out with some friends. We hung out at the arcade for a bit,” your expression brightens, thinking of the lights and the laughter, your feet blurring as you hit the sensors on Dance Dance Revolution… poorly. “It was actually pretty fun!”

Tooru hums again, “Which friends?” at the same time that Hajime says, “You didn’t tell us you were going out.”

“I didn’t realise I had to check in.” And because the slightly bitter and very defensive edge to your tone catches even you by surprise, you sigh, softening. “I’m allowed to have friends, aren’t I? A social life?”

You’ve been in this home for a few months now, and this is the first time any of your classmates have invited you anywhere.

This time it’s Tooru who sighs. He coaxes your face upwards with a hand on your cheek, peering through the dim light at you, “I’m not saying this to be cruel or hurt you, but… I need you to be more careful, okay?”

You frown, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His thumb glides across your cheek bone, hesitating on whatever it is he wants to say– at least until Hajime huffs and mutters, “Just tell her, dude. You’re the one that brought it up.”

“Tell me what?”

“You’re a foster kid,” he reminds you, as if this is vital information that’s somehow slipped your mind. “That’s all they see when they look at us, all they’ll ever see. No money, no family, nothing worth wasting their time on. We’re charity cases at best, at worst…” he trails off, the sentence dangling in the air.

He thinks it’s a trick, you realise. He thinks they’re setting you up in an elaborate joke where you’re the punchline.

Bright blue eyes and a crooked grin flash in your head. Cheeks dusted pink and the warmth of his hand in yours.

“That’s not true,” you defend, though the words sound weak even to your ears.

Now that your eyes have adjusted to the dark, the gentle, pitying expression on his face twists at your insides like a knife. You hardly notice Hajime scooching closer, shifting the blankets so they cover you both, too busy staring at your foster brother with wide eyes and parted lips, a thick lump of emotion lodging itself in your throat. Tears prickle in the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back.

You won’t cry in front of them over this. You refuse.

“No? You’ve been here for months now. If they wanted to be your friend, truly, genuinely wanted that, why haven’t they made an effort before now? I’m not trying to be a dick,” he murmurs when your breathing hitches, “The kids in this town, they’re assholes. I just can’t bear the thought of someone hurting you.”

Hajime nods. “We only wanna protect you, imouto.”

But you don’t need to be protected. Omori isn’t like that. His friends aren’t either.

—

When the last bell rings for the day, you walk down to the gates to find Hajime there, leaning against the brickwork with a pilfered cigarette dangling between his fingers.

That in and of itself isn’t a surprise. Lately they’ve taken up the habit of ditching their last period to make the half mile trek to your school in order to walk back home with you. Most days, you don’t mind. Today, however–

“I sent you a message at lunch, you didn’t need to come all the way down here, I’m going to a friend’s place to study. Sorry, I thought you would’ve seen it before you left.”

He drops the cherry red remnants of his cigarette to the ground and grinds the butt under his heel, eyeing you slowly from head to toe. “Which friend?”

“When did you become so nosey?” you laugh, a touch uneasily. “It’s only for an hour or so, I’ll be back before dinner, promise. I’m all yours after that.” The last part’s meant to lighten the mood a little, yet something flashes in his eyes, a twitch in his jaw, and you get the sense that he doesn’t find it all that funny.

“Which friend? That slimy piece of shit you were hanging out with last weekend?”

Omori? How does he–

You frown, “We went to the movies, Hajime, it’s not illegal. And he’s not slimy or a little shit, he’s my friend.” A friend who sets butterflies loose in your stomach and makes you weak at the knees, but Hajime doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, I’m sure he wants to be your friend,” he mutters darkly.

Your cheeks burn hotly, “Why are you being like this? He’s a nice guy. Besides, it’s not him. I’m going to Masako’s to work on a group presentation we’ve got due in a few days. I didn’t think you’d make such a big deal out of it!”

“Your mistake,” he says, as if you’re the one being unreasonable here, and before you can spit out a retort, his hand is curled around your bicep, tugging you down the road. “C’mon, we’re going home. Tell your little friend you can work on your project tomorrow at lunch.”

“Ha-Hajime!” His too tight grip on you doesn’t relent, his stride doesn’t falter. Nervously, you dart a glance around, half hoping that someone will intercede, all the while praying that no one’s actually noticed him dragging you off like a misbehaving toddler.

As always, you’re not that lucky. The sight of your classmates pointing your way, giggling behind their hands sends a hot pulse of shame flooding through you.

“You know you’re not my actual brother, I don’t need your permission!”

That does stop him, turning back around to throw a scowl at you, “No? Because I don’t see anyone else lining up to stop you from spreading your legs for the first asshole who comes sniffing around. Jesus Christ, weren’t you listening the other day?”

“I’m fourteen!” you shriek, ripping your arm away from him. “Stop being gross and leave me alone, I already told you I’m going to Masako’s. We have a project. For school!”

In an instant, he closes the gap between you. Hajime isn’t as tall as Tooru, but at two years older, he still towers over you, all broad shouldered and intense, and while he’s always cut an intimidating figure, it strikes you that this is the first time you’ve ever looked at him and felt afraid.

A split second later, and he exhales with a mumbled curse, the tension deflating from his body like a pin’s been pulled. In a quieter voice, hooking an arm over your neck to press a fleeting kiss to your hair, he says, “Sometimes it feels like I’m losing my damn mind trying to keep us all safe and sane and fucking together.”

It’s not exactly an apology. Still…you shift on your feet, nibbling at your bottom lip. “I’m sorry for snapping,” you mumble – an olive branch, even if you’re not feeling particularly charitable right now. The problem is, you do understand where he’s coming from. In two years, they’ll both age out, free to go and do whatever the hell they want. There’s a not insignificant part of you that’s terrified that when that time comes, they’re not gonna hang around another two years waiting for you.

You’re not sure you can hold them to that promise.

And that’s if nothing happens before then. Foster kids in group homes get shuffled all the time, there’s no guarantee all three of you will still be with the Furukawas come their 18th birthdays.

Of course he’s over-protective. Of course he’s being a little nuts about it.

Hajime nods, pats you on the head and gives you a rare smile, “Good. Now get your ass moving, we gotta get home.”

“Wait, but I thought–” you’d apologised, he’d admitted he was overreacting… sort of. Isn’t that enough?

“Social worker’s coming by this afternoon. Furukawa wants us to play happy families ‘til they’re gone. Your friend’s gonna have to wait.”

And that’s that.

Dejection washes over you, trudging back home with Hajime – trying not to be childish and petty and hold it against him.

The social worker never shows, but there’s a message waiting on your phone when you finally manage to pry yourself away from Hajime and Tooru.

Your brother’s a dick. Raincheck? ;)

Butterflies erupt.

—

You’ve been biting your lip again.

The raw, chapped evidence stares back at you in the mirror.

A few days ago, they were a little swollen, rough and reddened. The sight of it sent a giddy sort of thrill through you, a physical – if not sore – reminder of your afternoon spent kissing a cute boy with very pretty blue eyes.

Now, the state of your lips is the least of your worries. You’ll bite your lips, gnaw on your fingernails right down to the quick, pace and think and pace and think, fingers tap, tap tapping at your side.

“You look tired.”

The arms that loop around your shoulders, dragging you back into a loose hug don’t bring the sense of comfort they usually do. Things have been weird between you. Off.

Ever since Tooru caught sight of your face that day, saw the messages on your phone.

‘I never took you for a liar, imouto.’

The resultant argument left you choking on sobs, heart-broken and beaten down in a way that you haven’t felt since you found out your parents died.

It’s a strange, alienating thing to be cut so viciously by the only people who give a damn about you.

At first, you had Omori there to help pick up the pieces. He wasn’t allowed over, of course, and even if he were, you doubt it’d do anything but throw a whole gallon of kerosene on the fire. Still, being able to message and vent to him felt like a lifeline.

And then he simply… stopped replying. Your last message sitting there for two days on read.

You tried not to feel hurt. Maybe this whole thing was too intense, too quick. My god, you weren’t even dating officially, he was just, you were–

It was fine. Not everyone’s tied to their phone, and he doesn’t owe you anything. Maybe something came up, maybe his phone died.

But then, come Monday, he wasn’t in school.

On Tuesday morning, sitting in first period maths, a grim-faced man in a dull suit informs your class that Omori’s been missing since Saturday morning. You’re passed a business card with the detective’s name and phone number printed in crisp, black font and encouraged to contact him if there’s anything you can think of that might help them.

Uneasy looks are shared. No one says a word.

Which brings you to today, to the hug Tooru’s drawn you into and his voice murmuring at your ear.

“Aren’t you still mad at me?”

His laugh rumbles at your back, “Maybe I miss you too much.”

You should tell him to shove it. Whether you’re in the right or the wrong, it’s not fair of him to play hot and cold with you like this. Being at odds with your brothers is painful enough on its own, dealing with that on top of everything with Omori – it’s too much. You’ll drown under the weight of it.

And so you turn, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying yourself against him. “I don’t wanna fight anymore. I’m sorry.”

While he doesn’t say anything back, he does squeeze you that little bit tighter. You’re content with that, soaking up the affection and comfort you’ve sorely been without. It’s an apology, yes. It’s also forgiveness.

“Where’s Hajime?” you ask after a little while. They aren’t inseparable by any means, but you don’t think you’ve seen him this afternoon at all.

Rather than answering you, the brunet pulls back enough to meet your gaze, a twinkle in his eyes, “We’re going out tonight.”

The words bring you up short. “But–”

“Furukawa won’t know a thing. It’ll be fun, pinky promise.” He holds out said pinky, the grin on his face infectious enough that you offer a tiny one of your own, locking your finger around his.

He winks.

—

“Sweetheart, shall we open the wine?”

She hasn’t stopped beaming all afternoon, delighted at the flowers and the gifts, your dad humming away in the kitchen, cooking enough to feed a small army.

Heisuke’s already plucking a bottle from the fridge, glasses set out on the counter. He lifts a questioning brow in your direction and you nod with as much of a smile as you can muster. Nothing sounds more appealing to you right now than a drink.

Several of them, actually. You’ll start with one.

“Thanks,” you murmur when he passes it to you.

Quietly enough that your parents won’t hear, he asks, “You good?”

“I’m good,” you reassure him, lying through your teeth. His knuckles knock against yours, and when you glance up, there’s a wordless promise that the two of you aren’t done with this.

He’s been watching you ever since you got home. Not in the predatory, possessive way they used to, just… you very reluctantly gave him crumbs – not even that much – yet he’s staring at you like you’re a piece of a puzzle he’s desperate to solve. He’s looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, and you don’t know how to deal with it.

It makes you nervous.

“Did something happen between you two?” The quiet voice at your side startles you – perhaps you’re more on edge than you’d like to admit, because your whole body flinches, the wine in your glass sloshing up over the rim, just barely avoiding your dress and the edge of the couch.

You hadn’t even noticed your mom had sat down.

Cursing under your breath, you jump up before she can, snatching some paper towels from the kitchen, paying no mind the slight, disapproving tilt to your father’s mein (the one which, to his credit, he does try to hide) to mop up the mess on the floor.

“Sorry,” you throw out, both for the spill and for swearing, because that too is something neither of your parents are fond of, but your mom’s quick to wave it away.

“Nonsense. You’re fine, sweet girl. Come, sit!” She pats the seat you’ve vacated. “Relax.”

Your dad’s in the kitchen, laughing with Hei. Your mom’s still happy – it’s slowly leaching from her eyes the longer she looks at you, the more she sees. Relax.

Today’s supposed to be a happy day.

Relax.

You can’t.

They know some of your past. Bits and pieces.

In ten years, you’ve never uttered a single word about them. Not to anyone.

The more you shove it down, the more it fights back, bubbling away inside of you like the tempest of a storm. You can feel yourself cracking, unshed tears burning at your eyes.

You can’t.

“… Mom–”

A knock cuts through the rising tide of emotion battering through you, and all four of you start.

Your dad moves first, drying his hands and striding on over to answer it. On his way, he glances to where you and your mom are sitting – instinctively. Unthinkingly. He glances her way a thousand times a day – to check in, to see what she’s doing, to catch those little expressions she makes, only this time he isn’t met with the picture of a happy wife and daughter. You see it when it hits him, the tension, your wrought expression, the hand your mom’s slipped you in the seconds since, holding you tight and keeping you tethered.

You see it when he does a double take, sharp surprise quickly overtaken by alarm.

Another knock at the door. Louder.

His head snaps back towards the door, glaring at it like it’s personally wronged him. “One sec,” he mutters to no one in particular, and your mom squeezes your hand as he yanks it open with a touch more force than necessary.

“Yes?”

The air punches out of your lungs.

From where you’re sitting, the door cracked ajar, your dad’s frame blocking the gap, you can’t see who’s there. Not until he peeks over your dad’s shoulder, his charming grin widening into something shark-like and predatory when he spots you, delighted.

An elevator careening out of control, your stomach plummets.

Ignoring your dad – your family as a whole – entirely, Oikawa addresses you. “You dropped this this morning. Clumsy girl.”

Iwa passes him something, your wallet, you realise when he holds it out to you, waving it like a dog treat.

Your wallet with your ID, this address, tucked away inside.

The wallet you absolutely, in no way dropped.

Primarily on instinct, shaking like a newborn foal, you start to rise, to stumble forward and take it from him, only it’s Heisuke who moves first. Angrier than you think you’ve ever seen him, he plants himself between you, one arm outstretched as if to keep you back, his withering gaze fixed on the duo.

“Thank you for returning it,” he bites out. “You can leave now.”

For your parents, already on edge, suspicious by their familiarity and your reaction to it, it’s enough to set their hackles up. Gone is any semblance of politeness when your father snatches your wallet from Oikawa’s fingers, “Go.”

Up until now, Oikawa’s paid them all the attention one would a gnat, an annoyance maybe, but one hardly worth acknowledging. That changes as his head tilts, dark eyes appraising your father.

“What’s the rush?” he asks, reaching behind him. You can’t see it, what with your dad and now Heisuke standing between you, but there’s movement, your dad lets out a sudden, choked off gurgle, lurching back inside.

Your eyes widen, a bone chilling horror taking hold of you as you spy the sleek black handle of a knife sticking out his gut, a slow stain of red seeping out around it.

“We’ve still got so much catching up to do.”

—

You’ve never been this far into the woods before.

Stars glitter overhead, condensation from your breath puffing out with every exhale. It’s cold out. The path you’re walking isn’t one of the trails they lay for hikers and tourists, and you’ve been walking for a while.

Still, Tooru’s hand is warm entwined with yours, and there’s that wicked thrill in your belly that comes from breaking the rules, doing secret, exciting things in the dead of night.

“Is Hajime waiting for us?” you ask, when you can hold the question back no longer.

“Always Hajime with you, isn’t it,” he teases. “Y’know, a guy could develop a complex with all this favouritism being thrown around.”

You’re pulled closer into his side even as he says it, and you go happily. You’ve got your brothers back – tonight you’re only thinking good thoughts.

Tonight he promised you fun.

A giddy bounce in your step, you follow where your big brother leads until you spot a glow in the trees ahead, smell the smoke on the mid-autumn breeze.

Tooru grins in the dark, “Have you ever been to a bonfire?”

You shake your head.

It takes another few minutes before you can see the fire in all its grandeur, Hajime standing off to the side, warming his hands against the flames. They dance through the clearing, bright and high and hot, hot enough that you briefly consider shedding the jacket Tooru swaddled you up in before you left.

A bonfire?

They built this for you?

You look incredulously to Tooru, “This is where he’s been all day?”

“More or less.”

“Do you like it, pretty girl?” Hajime calls out when you’re closer. Your hand slips from Tooru’s as you leap forward, allowing him to catch you in his arms and tug you against him, and like earlier with Tooru, it eases some of the hurt weighing you down. He’s here, he’s not angry anymore, you can fight and argue like siblings but they aren’t going anywhere.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, smoothing down your hair. “It’s pretty cool,” you tell him with a decisive nod, making him chuckle.

“Maybe we should add more accelerant,” Tooru says, eyeing the flames with a considering look. “I don’t know if it’s hot enough.”

Hajime scoffs, “We don’t need any more accelerant.”

“But–”

“It’s fine, dumbass. Leave it.”

Heaving out a long suffering sigh, Tooru takes the space on your other side. In the Western movies you’ve seen, these bonfire things usually have more of a party-like vibe. There’s music and dancing. Drinking. This is something wholly different.

You don’t mind the quiet, though, sitting between your brothers on the fallen log they dragged over. Listening to the crackle of the fire. Watching red embers spark and fly off into the night.

You’ve missed this. Them.

In the hypnosis of the fire, the heat that covers you like a blanket – burning strongly enough, despite what Tooru thinks, that down to a tee-shirt, leaning into Hajime’s side, Tooru playing with your fingers, you feel you could so easily drift off to sleep, sated and content.

“You love us, don’t you?” Tooru says it so quietly, so off-handedly, that for a moment you don’t hear the stinging accusation beneath the words.

When it does, whatever fleeting contentment you’d managed to wrap yourself up in is ripped away, leaving you cold and exposed.

A slap in the face might’ve stung less.

You gape at him. At the both of them. “How can you ask me that?”

Tooru shrugs, casual and cruel, “I dunno. You lied to us. Multiple times.”

“Snuck around behind our backs,” Hajime adds.

“Kept things from us. Don’t think we haven’t noticed the new lock on your phone, imouto. Doesn’t sound like love to me.”

“I– I’ve already apologised.” You try to keep your voice calm and level, but with every word that pours out of you, the faster your heart beats and the more distress leaks into your tone. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I went behind your backs, I’m sorry I kissed him! I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t know how to fix this!”

Hot tears spring to your eyes, stinging as you ferociously blink them back.

If you start crying now, they’ll probably just mock you. That, or they’ll claim that you’re trying to manipulate them into feeling bad with crocodile tears and hiccuping sniffles.

In a tiny voice, you say, “I didn’t do any of it to hurt you. Please,” you beg helplessly. “You can’t keep holding it over my head and punishing me for it.”

“You think we’re punishing you?” Tooru asks, still in that cold, flat tone that makes you want to sob.

Aren’t they? Sure feels like it.

Hajime lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head and staring up at the night sky. “You still don’t fucking get it.”

Hands slip under your armpits and without warning you find yourself hoisted onto Tooru’s lap. It’s whiplash, especially when he curls around you, those lithe arms caging you in, and presses a kiss to your burning cheek. “Iwa, brute that he is, is right. You’re not listening to us. This isn’t punishment. You can pretend to hate us, cry, yell, fight. You can try to shut us out if that’s what you feel you need, but this,” his chin juts out at the bonfire crackling merrily a few feet away, “this is love.” He shivers as he says it, voice like honey. “We did it for you, and I’d do so much more.”

Your head’s still spinning, reeling from being yanked from one extreme to another. Hot and cold. Spiteful to affectionate. You stare at the fire, but you don’t understand.

“Yeah, like you didn’t enjoy the hell out of it,” Hajime snorts, which makes even less sense.

“…You mean the– the bonfire?”

Tooru laughs. His nose skims along the shell of your ear, earning him a shiver of your own. “Hm, almost.”

So you peer at the fire like it’s supposed to give you the answers you need. There’s nothing. It’s a fire, there’s nothing special about…

Oh.

You learn forward – as much as the cage of his embrace will allow, at any rate – squinting a little. Nestled beneath the stacked logs and kindling, there’s an oddly shaped lump, black and gnarled, with ridges and a scooped out hollow that kinda looks like–

Your blood runs cold.

“What’s the matter, baby?” he croons. “You’ve been so sad all week, wondering where your friend up and disappeared to. Aren’t you glad to see him again?”

“No.” Whisper soft, the noise lost to the crackling of the fire. You shake your head, “This– you’re being cruel. Stop it, it’s not funny.”

But the tears you’ve so valiantly held back are falling, your breath coming in short, panicky gasps. The skull in the fire doesn’t look fake, and if this is a prank, it’s gone beyond too far.

Your head grows light and all too heavy at the same time, “That isn’t– you didn’t– you… you– you wouldn’t–”

“No?” the voice at your ear questions, low and dangerous. “You think I wouldn’t stab the little fuck after you kissed him?”

“Stop it,” you tearfully beg, squeezing your eyes shut. The skull’s still there, burned into the back of your eyelids.

No, no, no. Omori isn’t dead.

Omori isn’t dead.

Your heart slams against your ribs, a violent chorus to the swell of sick dread and fear you’re desperately trying to tamp down. Omori isn’t dead!

“STOP IT!”

They wouldn’t kill him.

The crunch of footsteps sounds, and you don’t need your vision to know that Hajime’s now crouching in front of you. When rough fingers seize your jaw, holding you in place, and he leans in close, almost nose to nose, they fly open regardless.

“You ever try that shit again, and next time we’ll drag you by the fucking hair and do it in front of you,” he promises, calm despite the fury that rages in his eyes.

Caged between them, Hajime appraises you, taking in your hysteria, the tears dripping down your face, your bottom lip quivering – as though he’s committing the sight to memory. His eyes dart to Tooru’s for a brief second, the latter squeezing your side, before he speaks. “If you’d listened to us in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. Don’t make us into monsters, sweetheart.”

Your fault is what you hear.

There’s a loud pop from the fire, and you lose it entirely.

You explode. Elbows flying, kicking, clawing. A wild, terrified, desperate thing, and it takes them by surprise – enough to catch Tooru in the gut, loosening his grip. Enough to knock Hajime back onto his ass. A gap, however small, for you to scramble to your knees, violently kicking back when a hand snatches at your ankle, and flee through the woods in the dark, away from the furious shouts, the raging footsteps chasing after you.

You run and your lungs burn, heaving for every breath.

The light of the bonfire disappears behind you, plunging the forest into an inky black, and the shouts and yells turn into calls of your name, then coaxing pleas, almost sounding worried. Eventually, those grow distant too, and fade away altogether.

You keep running, uncertain of where you’re going. No, blind to it entirely. All that matters is keeping out of their reach. You’ll run to the ends of the earth if you have to.

And so you push until your legs scream for a reprieve, until you taste iron on your tongue and when your body can keep the pace no longer, you stumble through the underbrush, tripping over roots and branches instead, pausing every once in a while to lean against a tree and catch your breath.

As your adrenaline fades and the sweat dampening your clothes cools, the cold night air bites like needles at your skin, you start to shiver, rubbing at your exposed arms in an effort to generate a little warmth. Bitterly, you remember that the jacket that you’d brought, the one Tooru had all but forced on you before you’d left, is back at the bonfire, slung over a nearby log. Useless to you now.

But the shivers that wrack your body aren’t solely from the dropping temperature.

Every snapping branch, hoot of an owl, rustle of leaves sends a fresh wave of terror spiking through you. You think of Tooru’s cruel smirk and Hajime’s bruising grip, of Omori’s skull staring back at you from the fire, flesh melted to the bone, black and twisted, and a ragged, distraught sob brings you to your knees.

Hopelessly lost, cold, frightened and alone, you curl into the dirt and cry.

—

Hikers find you at dawn.

Emergency services are called – an ambulance to take you to the nearest hospital to be poked and prodded, police to question why a fourteen year old girl was wandering the woods alone at night.

They treat you for dehydration and mild hypothermia, a few small cuts and scrapes, and when a soft spoken nurse pulls the curtain around your bed and gently asks if you’d like them to perform a rape kit, you blanch and shake your head. Eventually, they allow the detective into the room. In his late forties, bespectacled, a smattering of grey dusted throughout his close cropped black hair, he pulls up a chair beside the bed and patiently asks how you’re feeling.

If you were a better person, you’d tell him everything. The Furukawas’ abuse, your foster brothers’ increasingly overprotective behaviour, sneaking behind their back to see Omori and the fight that followed that nearly ripped you apart.

The bonfire.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

Omori deserves that much. His parents should know what happened to their son.

Your jacket lying forgotten by his bones.

“Please don’t take me back there,” you mumble, tears shining in your eyes.

Back to the woods, or the Furukawas. Back to the boys you’d loved who’d murdered for you.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter that that’s all they can get out of you. A traumatised teenager found miles from home without a single soul raising the alarm would be one thing. When that traumatised teenager’s a girl supposedly under the care of government approved guardians, it raises red flags not even they can ignore.

By lunch, they’ve arranged for you to be placed back in an all-girl orphanage until a more suitable, long term solution can be found.

—

Some nights you dream that you’re back there, in their bedroom at the Furukawas’. It’s dark and cozy, there’s an arm slung over your waist and you find yourself drifting off to the steady beat of the heart behind you, soft snores by your ear.

They’re nice dreams. You feel safe, loved.

Tucked away in your subconscious, nothing exists but the sanctuary of them, and when you inevitably feel that tug of awareness coaxing you awake, you sink your fingers in and cling to it for dear life.

Just another minute. Another few seconds. Please.

Right now, you’d give anything to wake up and have this be nothing more than a nightmare you can banish.

But there’s no escaping this one. Your dad’s on the living room floor by the couch, hunkered over, pale and sweaty, pressing what was once a clean dish towel to the wound in his stomach. The coffee table’s been pushed to the side, Heisuke and your mom sat on the chairs Oikawa dragged into its place, ankles zip-tied to the legs, wrists bound, duct tape slapped across both of their mouths. Between the knife Oikawa idly toys with, still wet with blood, the handgun held loosely in Iwa’s palm and your dad slowly bleeding out on the floor, they’ve been compliant.

Much like you have, although you’re neither bound nor gagged, sitting in the armchair Iwa ushered you to, arms looped around your knees with the man himself perched against the backrest.

The only one of you making any kind of noise at all is your dad, his voice a slurring mumble, words near intelligible. He’s begging, you can tell that much. Pleading through gritted teeth for them to let you go, not to hurt you, your mom, Hei.

You desperately wanna tell him to save his breath, but you can’t even look at him – at any of them – without wanting to throw up.

“Do you still love us, imouto?”

Your eyes track Oikawa as he leans over the two chairs, the edge of his knife carelessly poised above Heisuke’s shoulder. From your periphery you see him flinch and stiffen, the sharp uptick of his breath smothered by duct tape, but you don’t dare shift your attention from the brunet smiling genially back at you.

Your heart squeezes, clenched by an invisible fist. Buried deep beneath the guilt and the paralysing dread, a slightly hysterical part of you almost wants to laugh.

“Do you think I could ever stop?”

Surprise flashes in his eyes and his grin widens. “You ran,” he accuses.

“You ran again this morning,” Iwa adds, sounding far less amused.

“I was scared.”

“Of us?” Iwa slides off the back of the couch, straightening up. In an instant, his hand’s wrapped around your throat, the broad pad of his thumb forcing your jaw upwards. “You think we’d ever fucking hurt you?” he growls, looking genuinely angry.

Distantly you register the sound of Heisuke’s muffled indignation, another gasping wheeze from your dad, but all that fades to the background as Iwa’s mouth crashes against yours.

He doesn’t kiss you sweetly. It’s invasive, rough. His hand flexes around your throat, forcing a gasp to drive his tongue between your lips, and you can feel every ounce of possession, of pent up need and frustration as he drags it on despite the awkward angle.

When he does break away, eyes darkened and simmering, he holds your gaze, ignoring the pointed throat clearing from the other side of the room. “Never,” he swears, waiting for you to nod before finally relaxing his grip. “Good girl.” To Oikawa, watching you both with a barely constrained hunger, he says, “Enough screwing around. Do it and let’s go.”

Oikawa huffs, rolling his eyes, “Fine. Should’ve known you’d get all impatient after you had a taste.”

“Like you’re not?”

There’s not enough air in the room, your heart’s doing somersaults in your chest, your pulse hammering through your veins. Oikawa stares at you, head tilted, the corner of his lip slowly curling up as you start to tremble, shaking your head, tears beading at your lashes, “I guess we could hurry it along.”

“No, please–”

“Shh, sweet girl. It’s okay.” You try to stand up, but Iwa takes a hold of your shoulder and forces you back down. “Me and Iwa, we were gonna give you a choice. Let you pick. If you could kill one of them, we’d let the other two go.”

A strangled sob rips its way free, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. We’re not gonna make you do that,” he comforts, side-stepping your now thrashing brother to make his way over towards you. “Cause the thing is, they kept you from us. Lied to you. Manipulated you. Whether they meant to or not, they hurt you. I don’t think they deserve that kind of mercy, do you?”

“No, no, no, please! Please don’t, please don’t hurt them–”

Abandoning his knife, he drops to a crouch in front of you, “We’re gonna make it right, and then we’ll go home, okay? We’ll take care of it.”

“Please, Tooru! I’ll do anything!”

There’s a kiss pressed to the crown of your head, the cushion behind your back being tugged free. “You don’t need to do anything,” Iwa says, the cold cocking of his gun echoing like a death knell.

“We love you. This one’s on us.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa tooru #yandere iwaizumi hajime #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere iwaizumi x reader #tw: dubcon #tw: noncon

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aurorawritestoescape · 24 days

Text

AMERICAN BEAUTY

best friend’s dad Joel Miller x f!reader || 2,7k

Summary: Joel sees you in a wet dream. Then you make his dream a reality.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, Joel’s pov, horny!Joel, age gap (reader’s in her early 20s, Joel’s in his late 40s), m/f masturbation, mention of f!oral, mention of piv, m!oral, light degradation/slut shaming, swearing. Pics are for the mood, reader has no specific physical descriptions.

A/n: This is for Jett’s Flora and Fauna Challenge 🌸 Thank you @morallyinept for hosting such an amazing event!💜Hugs and kisses to @iamasaddie for the gif in the m/b♥️Javi’s forehead smooch to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Hope you all will enjoy this filth🌹

Part 2 PLEASE, SIR || MASTERLIST

*****

It’s late. Exhausted after a long work day, Joel is sitting on the couch with a bottle of beer in his hand. He’s mindlessly flipping through channels, taking a sip of the warm alcohol from time to time.

The dark room is lit only by the TV and his pupils jump every time the screen goes black and then explodes with another picture.

A movie catches his attention and he stops pushing the button on the remote control. “American Beauty”. He’s seen it a couple of times, years ago.

He watches a little and then changes the channel. While his eyes are set on an old infomercial, his thoughts wander back to the movie. The iconic scene flashes in his mind - a beautiful girl is lying naked, surrounded by a myriad of red rose petals. Joel chuckles at the irony of him stumbling on that movie but drives the worrying thoughts away. He’s too tired for this.

Soon the exhaustion and the alcohol in his blood take their toll and his eyes close by themselves.

When they open, he sees you. Sarah’s college friend, who is staying with them this spring break. When Sarah asked him if you could crash with them for a few days, he didn’t mind. He was glad that she would have a friend to have fun with.

But the moment he saw you, he knew that he was fucked. When you smiled at him the first time, he blushed like a teenager. You were a knockout beauty. Your voice was the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Your body made his cock twitch every time he laid eyes on you and your sexy crop tops, daisy dukes and bikinis didn’t help. Be damned Austin and its hot weather!

It’s not surprising that he’s dreaming about you now. It’s fucked up but hey, it’s just a dream.

As if his mind is mocking him, he sees you completely naked, while only crimson rose petals are covering your breasts and pussy as well as every inch around you. Some of them are floating around, swirling, dancing in the air.

You look perfect, lying there like an offering to him and he craves to see more. All of you. So he blows on the petals on your chest and they fly away in slow motion, revealing your beautiful breasts. You moan when the soft flowers graze your hardened nipples, and the sound makes Joel’s cock throb with need.

Can he touch you? As soon as this thought crosses his mind he sees his hand splayed on your sternum. He swears he can feel your heartbeat under his calloused palm. He glides his hand to your breast and kneads it. Your lips open and he hears your needy whimper.

He wants to tell you, ‘yes, baby, I’ll make you feel good soon, so soon,’ but his mouth is silent. He’ll have to show you then.

His gaze travels lower, to the heaven of your body, covered by the red petals. He glances up and sees your almost pained expression. Oh how you want his fat cock! ‘I’ll give it to you good, baby, don’t you worry. Spread your legs for me.’ His wordless wish is your command and your legs part oh so slowly, while he’s holding his breath in anticipation.

In front of his lustful eyes, your pussy blooms for him, still mostly hidden by the flowers.

‘Let me see’, he wishes, “Let me in.”

He carefully picks one petal off your mound and throws it away. You pleasantly surprise him when you lift your legs, and holding your knees with your hands, open your thighs wide for him.

‘Good girl,’ he thinks.

In a second his mouth is hovering over your pussy, and the sweet scent of your arousal makes his head spin. He darts his tongue out and presses it to the petal on the crease of your thigh. It sticks and he glides his tongue over it, before taking it out of his mouth with his fingers.

He does the same with another petal, which rests right on your clit. You moan when his hot tongue grazes your bud.

He picks the petals one after another with his mouth, lips, tongue, slowly and deliberately, almost edging you and himself in the process but he can’t help it. He wants to prolong this pleasant moment.

When all the petals are gone, his eyes feast on the sight of your bare cunt in front of him, glistening, crying for his attention. He lowers his face and his mouth latches onto your waiting pussy. The taste, the feel of you make his whole body tremble, his cock aches, desperate to be touched, and the sensation is so strong, he immediately wakes up.

He’s panting heavily, eyes darting around the dark room, his mind slowly coming back to reality.

The TV is still on, illuminating his surroundings, and he sees a wet spot on his jeans. His bulge is huge and his cock is pulsating under the confines of the clothes. He needs to jerk off.

Joel listens to the sounds upstairs but hears nothing. You and Sarah must be already sleeping. He contemplates turning on porn but stops himself. He can just remember what he saw a few seconds ago. It was so fucking hot and looked real.

So he unzips his jeans and pulls his throbbing cock out of his wet boxers. It’s big and hard, ready to explode from the slightest touch.

He holds it at the base, rests his head back against the couch and shuts his eyes. The image of you splayed naked, surrounded by roses, comes back to his mind and he begins slowly stroking his cock. He brings back the memory of his mouth on your pussy, him sucking, licking your soaked hole, gathering your arousal with the tip of his tongue and drinking your juices.

Joel is close and he wants to come inside you. If only in his fantasy. He forms his thumb and index finger into a small circle and brings them to the tip of his cock. Imitating your tight pussy, he slowly pushes the head through the opening between his fingers and moans your name, followed by “Oh, baby.”

“Mr Miller?”

Joel’s heart plummets into his stomach when he hears your soft voice, coming from the hall. To his horror, he sees you standing in the doorway. He’s not sure if you saw him or what he was doing at that angle, but his heart is pounding in his chest. He roughly tucks his hard cock back into the jeans, hissing in pain, grabs his plaid shirt off the side of the couch and covers his tent.

“ ‘s late. Go to bed, sweetheart,” he throws in your direction, almost out of the room, but your hand on his biceps stops him in his tracks.

“Mr Miller?”

His head whips your way,

“If ya need anythin’, just ask Sarah. I’m headin’ to bed.” He takes a step out and you say,

“Don’t I get to enjoy it?”

He freezes and looks back at you.

“Enjoy what?”

“That,” you point at his crotch with your chin, “Your boner. I heard you say my name so… I guess you should thank me for it.”

He gawks at you at first, not believing his own ears, but then his gaze narrows and slides from your face down your body. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time just now.

A smirk tugs at his lips.

“Oh, you’re a slut?”

It comes out as half a question-half a statement and you reply with a smile, “I wouldn’t put it like that, Mr Miller.”

He turns to you, dropping his hands, not hiding his huge tent anymore, and you stare at it shamelessly, biting your lip at the sight.

“And how would you put it? Cos ya surely sound like one,” he says, coming up close to you. His eyes slide up and down your body, taking in your hardened nipples under a soft tee, tiny sleeping shorts, barely covering anything. Your big doe eyes are staring up at him as you purr,

“I just take what I want. Whoever I want.”

“Yeah, that’s a slut. Maybe I don’t like sluts,” he growls, taking a step and caging you against the doorframe. He doesn’t touch you but the arousal oozing from the both of you electrifies the air.

“Your hard-on says otherwise,” you retort and he takes a sharp breath. “Let me help you with it, Mr Miller.”

You say his name in a sultry voice, and a shiver goes down his spine. Fuck, he needs to come soon or he’ll bust a load in his pants.

Joel shifts his jaw in thought, staring at you. You lick your lower lip, looking crazy hot, and the decision is made. By his head or his cock, doesn’t matter.. .You gave him this raging boner so you’ll have to deal with it now. Morals be damned.

Joel walks to the couch and plops down with a grunt. He manspreads and you come up to him.

“I ain’t fuckin’ you, girl,” he grunts, looking up at you from under his brows. Faking a shy smile, you kneel between his legs on the floor. The sight of you standing on your knees, so obedient to him, makes his cock leak precum.

“Can I suck your cock, daddy?”

“Fuck no, no daddies,” he growls, furrowing his brows at you.

You pout your lips in thought, scratching his jean-clad thighs with your nails.

“Mr Miller?”

He smiles. “Much better.”

“Sir?”

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” his cock practically vibrates when you call him that.

“Mr Miller it is then,” you smirk and unzip his jeans.

He lets you pull down his jeans and boxers to his mid thigh while he’s watching you, his big arm resting on the headrest of the couch, the other hand on his naked thigh.

The moment your fingers touch his stiff length, Joel curses and starts breathing heavily. He tries to keep his cool, but it’s almost impossible.

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, that is standing at attention, red angry tip glistening with precum.

“Wow,” you breathe out, and he notices a trace of fear in your expression.

“ ‘s right. Think twice before you take on the task, baby.”

Baby. That word does something to you, he sees it. You squirm between his legs, blown eyes set on his twitching cock.

You take a deep breath, collecting yourself, and lower your head. All his muscles tense up as he anticipates the feeling of your warm mouth on his cock, but you freeze midway and glance up at him, beautiful eyes glinting in the darkness of the room.

“Was I a good girl in your fantasy?”

He bucks his hips in need and replies, “Very good girl.”

His tormenting mind brings back the images of you in the sea of red roses and a clear drop of precum beads on his slit.

You smile and murmur, “Let’s see if I can do better than her.”

With that, you lick off the arousal of his fat head and he moans at the sensation.

You start taking him in slowly but confidently, pressing your hot tongue to the underside of his shaft. Your hand is cupping his heavy balls, gently massaging them. You’re already drooling around him and he thinks, that’s what heaven feels like.

“What a nice sloppy mouth you’ve got there, little slut.”

His harsh praise makes you moan around his cock. You start bobbing your head, your mouth moving up and down his length rhythmically. Joel shuts his eyes, as the image of you working his cock adds to the ecstasy and pushes him towards the edge faster and faster. He can’t come so soon. He wants himself forever buried in your sloppy warm mouth. Or in your tight wet cunt. Fuck, why is he doing it to himself?

His balls get tight and move in your palm, and your mouth leaves his cock.

“Don’t come yet. I want it on my pussy.”

“I said I ain’t fucking ya,” Joel growls, clenching his teeth.

“I said on my pussy,” you roll your eyes and add, “Think of a dead dog or something.”

You fucking wink at him and get back to sucking his poor cock.

Your lips and tongue are massaging every inch of his length and Joel closes his eyes again, hastily trying to find something in his mind that can stop him from squirting his hot cum down your throat.

His truck needs an oil change, yeah, he’ll deal with it tomorrow. It helps for a second but then he pictures you all oiled up and glistening. This very moment your face nuzzles his lower belly as you take him so deep in your throat, he feels you swallowing around him.

Joel opens his eyes and sees tears roll down your cheeks, your lips wrapped around the base of his member, your eyes empty and full of lust.

He quickly grabs you by the hair and pulls you off his cock, trying not to hurt you. You whine and he hisses,

“Shit…gonna come.”

“On my pussy, please, please!”

Joel groans and grabs you by the arm, lifting you on your feet. He tosses you on the couch, takes off your shorts and snarls, “ ‘course, no panties, little slut.”

He kneels between your legs, his hand braced on the headrest, the other wrapped around his ready-to explode cock.

“Show me your kitty, baby.”

“Oh, so is it ‘slut’ or ‘baby’, Mr Miller?” You purr, pouting your lips, but spread your thighs nonetheless.

“Right now you’re a fuckin’ brat,” he snaps and you smile, pulling your knees to your chest, just like in his dream. You lift your shirt, offering your breasts for his view as your hand darts to your pussy to spread your folds with your fingers, so he could paint every inch of you.

He points the tip at your soaked cunt, pumps his cock once, twice and the first jet of his cum shoots and lands right on your clit. You whimper into the back of your hand and your fingers get to work, swirling your bud, using his cum as lube. Joel doesn’t tear his eyes off the sight, milking his pulsating cock and giving you more, more, coating your pussy with a thick layer of his creamy load.

You’re wriggling under him, your nipples hard, belly heaving and when one more squirt hits your clit, you come, silently screaming and squeezing your eyes shut in euphoria. Joel sees your hole clench around nothing, and regrets not fucking your little pussy.

He’s panting, hovering over you, drinking you in and trying to memorize every little detail for his spank bank, while waves of pleasure hit you again and again, your body shaking and trembling.

“Oh, sir,” you whimper and he smiles triumphantly.

When your climax subsides, Joel goes to the bathroom. As he’s soaking a towel with warm water, he stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is tousled, face flushed. The realization of what he’s just done slowly sinks in and he curses at the reflection, “Fuckin’ dumbass.”

He returns and hands you the towel. You sit up and start wiping his cum off.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sarah. Or anyone else,” you say, looking up at him.

Joel nods, and his hand darts to touch your face but he stops himself. You get up and grab your soaked shorts off the floor before turning to him.

“How about we watch a movie tomorrow, Mr Miller?” You ask, coming up to him with a gorgeous smile on your lips that makes him blush. “Same time, just you and me?”

Joel’s looking into your eyes, fruitlessly trying to hide his infatuation with you, and his hand rises to your face. He gently brushes your lower lip with his thumb and mumbles bitterly, “Think I know what movie to pick.”

Your face lights up and you purr with a wink, “Can’t wait to not watch it with you. Sweet dreams, daddy.”

Joel grunts disapprovingly and slaps your naked ass, when you turn to leave. You gasp, looking back at him, and bite your lip.

Before going upstairs, you give him a charming smile and he takes a deep breath.

Yeah, he’s fucked.

*****

Thank you for reading!🌹

Please consider commenting and reblogging if you enjoyed the fic!♥️

Pt 2 PLEASE, SIR || Masterlist

Tag list:@milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @survivingandenduring @missannwinchester @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @littlemisspascal @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild

Tagging lovelies who showed interest in the wip post🌸 @604to647 @fruityreads @joelmillerisapunk @corazondebeskar @janaispunk @bubble-pop-eclectic

If you'd like to be tagged in my future fics, let me know!💕

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #jettsflora&faunachallenge #joel miller x you #pedro pascal characters #the last of us #joel miller tlou #pedro pascal smut #joel miller fanfiction #no outbreak!joel miller #joel fic #joel fanfiction #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fic #Joel jacks off #american beauty

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c0mbatchameleon · 3 months

Text

Snippet / microfic / something idk

Aka where Regulus wakes up half drunk on the floor of his brother’s apartment and forgets that the spare bedroom is no longer a spare bedroom

The moonlight has carved out a hollowness into the room when Regulus opens his eyes. There’s music playing, still, for an audience of empty cups and a few toppled chairs and the snoring bodies of his friends on the couch.

Barty is splayed out over Evan, face buried into his neck like he doesn’t need air, but rather, he lives and breathes the boy beneath him. Evan’s hand has planted roots in his skull, twisted into matted hair. Flecks of glitter sprinkle every inch of the boys, a sparkle here and there in their hair, embedded in their skin, their eyelashes and parted lips. They’re a grimy sort of angelic in their blacked-out state, sleep blanketing them in an innocence you’d never find otherwise.

It’s not the first time he’s waken here, stiff back and sour taste in his mouth. He stumbles to the kitchen sink and sticks his head in, letting the water run rivers down his face and neck as he drinks it in gulps. It’s about a full minute of that, and then running his hands over his face for good measure, before he continues his trek to the bathroom, scouring the cabinet for mouthwash and taking a swig straight from the bottle and then swishing it and spitting into the sink, hands gripping the porcelain to hold up his own weight. It’s a wonder he’s been able to stand for this long with exhaustion dragging him down like an anchor tied to his limbs.

He trails behind himself into the hall and then his usual room, hands held out in front of him in the absence of sight. It takes a minute to find the bed. Once he does, he’s unceremoniously tugging back the covers and collapsing onto the mattress, sleep already overtaking him.

He sighs, half in relief and half in pain, pulling up the covers and-

“Well this is new.”

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.”

Regulus’s skull collides with the headboard before he can form a cohesive thought.

Sleep has made a hasty retreat, driven out by adrenaline and pure fear. The man in his bed—James, to be specific—instinctively shoots a hand out, clasping onto his arm.

“Shit, are you okay?”

“What the fuck are you doing here!?” Regulus whisper-yells, propped halfway up on his arm with the other hand clutching his head.

“What am I doing in my bed?”

Regulus blinks. Fuck. He forgot this bed actually belonged to someone. Not just someone. Of course, never just someone.

“I… forgot you lived here.”

His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, now. He watches James stare at him, dumbfounded, for a few beats. And then he bursts into a fit of laughter.

Of course the fucker is laughing. It blooms on his face like Spring itself; even here, dimly lit and squinting, it’s blinding. Rays of sunlight cutting through his teeth as he gasps for breath inbetween. Flower and leaf and fruit sprouting from his throat, and Regulus is just too tipsy to avoid the vines coiling around him, his arms and legs and chest, taking root in his own throat, planting seeds in his lungs.

He’s too tired to fight the branches stretching out like hands and pulling at the corners of his own lips, coercing a smaller laugh. He doesn’t even think it’s that funny, maybe James is just delirious. Maybe he’s still a little drunk, too.

“You forgot I lived here. In my room. In my apartment.” James relays, his hysterics reigned in to a splitting grin. Blinding, blinding, still blinding. He’s on his side, head resting in his hand—the other hand is still on Regulus, a light touch burning holes through his clothes, the skin on his shoulder, the muscle and bone marrow, planting more seeds, sprouting more life. He’s staring up at Regulus with sparkling eyes. Who gave him this much joy? Who gave him the idea to direct any of it his way?

Even here, in the middle of the night, waking him up just to shed glitter on his clean sheets and yell at him for existing in his own home.

Regulus doesn’t deserve it. But he can’t find it in himself to deny it right now.

“I may have, uh, passed out in here drunk a few times when you weren’t here last year.”

“A few times?” James asked, eyebrows raised, hand still there.

“Ok. Maybe a lot. Forgot it wasn’t actually mine,” Regulus admits, trying not to shortcircuit from the contact. Trying to relocate the mask of indifference he misplaced after the 3rd or 4th shot. He can just barely feel he’s still smiling, stupidly. He can’t find the right muscles to make it go away.

The analog clock on the dresser across the room reads 3:27 AM in a blue glow. Regulus knows the sensible thing to do now is get up, but the soft arms of sleep are extending from somewhere below, furling around his body and pulling down. The mattress, James’s mattress, might be the softest thing he’s ever laid rest on and it’s enveloping him like quicksand. He lets his head drop forward like dead weight as he musters the strength to move.

“Well don’t let me stop you, then,” James says, amusement and something strangely resembling adoration painted on his face. “I can sleep on the couch, if you want.”

It’s all way too casual for the absolutely absurd offer.

Regulus stares at him in disbelief. “You’re just gonna let me kick you out of your own bed.”

James shrugs, “You look comfy.”

There’s the distant hum of a car engine passing outside, an intermittent clicking sound from the run down heater in the room. The window shade is somewhat transparent, which defeats the whole fucking purpose of the thing, much to Regulus’s annoyance—he’s awoken, against his will to many a sunrise in this room—and a nearby streetlight gently pollutes the darkness, illuminating James from behind in a halo of muted yellow light.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Regulus replies, still not moving. James laughs softly. A few daisies sprout in the garden growing between them. “Barty and Evan are on the couch, anyway.”

“I’ll take the floor then.”

“You’re not sleeping on the fucking floor for me.”

“Well I’m more than happy to share, then.”

“You’re not- what?” His bemusement distracts him momentarily from the growing effort of keeping his eyes open. James squeezes his shoulder lightly, the bastard, drawing a small breath from him that he hopes to god goes unheard, before finally drawing back his hand.

“I sleep on the floor or we both sleep here. Your choice.”

“And if I sleep on the floor?”

“I’ll still sleep on the floor out of spite. I don’t think you could get up if you tried, right now, anyway.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Regulus groans. He fully collapses in defeat onto the pillow as he says it, which might take some of the edge out of the remark.

“I really don’t mind the floor, love. Good for the back and all. I’ve got tons of extra pillows and blankets, anyway,” James says, gesturing to the floor next to his bed.

“Just sleep in the god damn bed,” Regulus sighs. He shuffles so he’s on his back, one arm bent over his head rather dramatically, and closes his eyes. He’s fully relented in his battle with his own exhaustion now, and it’s closing in fast.

James doesn’t move for a moment. Regulus can feel his gaze like a beam of sunlight through a magnifying glass. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to smell his own clothes begin to smoke in the wake of it. “Are you sure?” he finally asks, playful tone receding. “I just- I should warn you I’m a bit of an.. active sleeper. And I know you don’t always like people touching you-“

“It’s alright when it’s you.”

It comes out nearly a whisper now as he sinks. He’ll blame it on alcohol or delirium, tomorrow, if he’s not outright denying having said it. He doesn’t actually know why he said it out loud. Regulus usually keeps the truth to himself, as a general rule.

The last thing he hears before falling asleep is James’s small intake of breath, followed by a faint “Oh. Yeah?” and then reality rescinds entirely.

#this is my first time writing fanfiction since I was 13 #it’s also a random scene from a bigger story that’s been in my head the past couple months #but yeah #idk what I’m doing #jegulus microfic #jegulus fic #jegulus #james x regulus #regulus black #james potter #starchaser #sunseeker #unnamed physics fic #writing stuff and things

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luxurychristmaspudding · 2 months

Text

Mutual | Lucien Flores x f!Reader

summary: you and lucien have both been invited to this dinner with explicit instructions: play nice. but it's kind of hard when you can't stand each other. even harder when the meaning begins to blur with his hands on you.

pairing: lucien flores x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. smoking, drinking. idk, hate fucking essentially. misuse of a champagne bottle, edging?, sexual tension, f!masturbation, unprotected p in v (you know what to do, and it's not this), oral (f!receiving). reader wears a dress and is implied to be shorter than lucien, but is otherwise undescribed.

wc: 4.8k

an: i succumbed.

The only thing you and Lucien Flores have in common is the need for a cigarette after dinner.

Nothing else.

You stand on opposite sides of the patio outside the open glass doors which lead back into Anna and Alex’s house, and you know that Anna, at the very least, will be watching you. Making sure you play nice.

Something you’d vowed to do when she’d called to invite you to this dinner party. Lucien will be there, she’d said, it’d be great for me, for us, if you two just tried to get along.

So far, you’ve succeeded. You’d listened politely to his stories at the table, hadn't even rolled your eyes when he laughed and joked and flirted with your fellow guests. You’d drunk your wine and stayed quiet through it all, offering your own contributions to the equal delight of the friends who'd gathered. You’d been surprised when Lucien had smiled along with them, even going so far as to chuckle at your story about the dog next door.

And now, outside, the rule still stands. You eye each other as you smoke, finding yourself amazed again by the way he doesn’t speak. Not a snide thing to say, no quip to make, just him watching you. Eyes flitting from your legs, to your hips, to your chest, to your face. And you’d tell him to quit it if you weren’t doing the same thing. If you weren’t enjoying the way his silk shirt hangs off his broad shoulders, the way his curls flop over his forehead, the way his chains catch the light, the way his stupid, pretty eyes glitter across from you. You hate yourself for it, want to crack some nasty sentiment across the stone, but you don’t.

You’re on your best behaviour, after all.

Something which Lucien has clearly forgotten as he pushes himself off from the wall he’s leaned against, stepping closer, closer to you by the bush with the red flowers. You brace yourself for whatever it is he’s about to say, for whatever smoke he’s about to blow in your face, gearing up for the taunt you’ll throw back.

He stops before you, barely an arms length away. You tense, waiting.

He holds out the bottle of champagne he’d swiped from the table on his way out. You blink at him.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m playing nice.’

You stare at him, sceptical. This is not Lucien. This is not something you’re used to.

But maybe he’s trying, too.

You take the bottle from him, and he lets it go easily. You watch him as you bring it to your lips, tipping it up until the bright fizz of the bubbles meets your tongue. He watches your mouth, pink slip of his tongue flicking out over his bottom lip as he drops the butt of his finished cigarette to the floor, not looking where it lands. You swallow, take another gulp for good measure, and hand it back to him. His fingers graze yours as you do.

You freeze at the jolt of electricity his touch brings, hand remaining outstretched as he brings the bottle back to his side. You watch, aloof, as he plucks your cigarette from your fingers and flicks it into the darkness before slotting your hands together, mind swirling as he pulls you closer.

‘Come on. Want to show you something.’

Maybe it’s the wine, but you can’t find the words to protest as he tugs you away to a deeper part of the garden.

Lucien turns you to face him at the furthest wall he can find, and you finally find your words as your back hits the concrete.

‘What did you want to show me?’

You glance around behind him at the flowers that burst from the ground, bright even in the darkening half light. The water feature Alex had installed last year trickles musically somewhere to your left, though you can't see it.

His answering grin is dirty, something fluttering in your tummy as you grind your teeth, nostrils flaring. You do not have the patience for this man, or the butterflies churning in your stomach.

‘Lucien.’

His hands find your waist and the curve of your ass in a flurry of movement, his grip strong, the bottle cold through the material of your dress. The air leaves your lungs. He hums as he draws himself close to your lips.

‘How beautiful you look tonight.’

You snort at him, disbelieving. He can’t be fucking serious.

‘Lucien, what the fuck -’

He cuts you off quickly, dipping to fit his mouth to yours in a searing kiss, hand moving from your ass to your jaw as he licks into your mouth. Your blood roars in your ears as your own hands scrabble to find purchase on his chest, slipping against the silk. You mean to push him away, but somehow you pull him closer, your body doing the opposite of what it’s told as you open your mouth further to him, groaning softly. He tastes like champagne and cigarettes, and you grip his neck to bring him further in, your other hand smoothing over his bunched shoulder, his strong bicep, down to his waist, fisting his shirt. He chuckles against your lips, and sharp anger surges in your gut. Shit. This is Lucien.

You use the hand at his middle to push him roughly away from you.

‘Get the fuck off me.’

He smirks, one hand still on your hip as he takes a swig from the bottle of champagne. You watch him, breathing heavily, stare as his lips close around the mouth of the bottle, and you're betrayed by what you’ve only pictured in your most secret moments. Your eyelids flutter, fingers twitch for him, cunt clenches around something that isn't there. He comes towards you again, and this time you close the gap, leaning forward to crash your mouth against his. You lick at the seam of his lips but he keeps them obstinately shut, and with irritation flashing through you, you drag your nails hard down his forearm in retaliation. He grips the nape of your neck, pulling your head back, and taking advantage of your open lips, spills the champagne off his tongue and onto yours. It's warm, still sparkling. Tastes like him. You swallow it down greedily, reminding yourself that you should be disgusted, certainly shouldn’t be pulling him in to kiss him again, shouldn’t moan so loud when he grinds his hips against yours as he rumbles how you drive him fucking insane against your neck. Shouldn’t be so wet, pinned up against this wall by a man you have long held such disdain for, shouldn’t grind back against him, shouldn’t be panting into his mouth like some kind of dog, shouldn't be forgetting where you are, who you’re with -

This time, you’re more forceful. Lucien stumbles back with hooded eyes and shining, swollen lips, his own breathing coming fast and deep. You stare back at him, still stunned, and without meaning to, your eyes drop down to his crotch, finding the fabric there tight with his arousal. He’s big, must be with the way his zipper is straining. Your mouth runs dry, your stomach swoops. Fuck.

You watch with as much disgust as you can manage as he palms himself roughly to relieve some of the ache, your own hands itching to do the same.

‘So pretty, baby,’ he teases, stepping forwards, head falling towards yours again. Why won’t he stay away? ‘So pretty, wanting me like this -’

‘Stop,’ you hiss. It’s unconvincing even to your ears, and he smirks like he knows. He knows. ‘I don’t - I don’t want you like this -’

He presses his forehead to yours, not touching you this time, instead letting his nose trace your cheekbone, your jaw, down to your neck.

‘You don’t want me like this?’ He purrs. You manage to shake your head. You can feel his smile as he laves a hungry, open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, and you whimper, hot all over, so wet, so needy for him. He chuckles again. ‘No,’ he confirms. ‘Then maybe… like this.’

He sinks to his knees in front of you, curls mussed, lips parted, eyes blown. He stares up at you, reverent, taunting, as he skates his broad palms over the tops of your thighs, stroking the skin, murmuring how soft you are. Oh, and you are so fucking angry. So fucking angry as he grips and soothes your flesh, as he squeezes and kneads your ass, as you hold onto his strong shoulders and breathe his name. Even more pissed when he doesn’t have some kind of asshole comment to make, furious as he leans into you and presses kisses to where his hands have been, mouthing at your skin, leaving it wet with his spit, with champagne, so fucking mad as he sips from the bottle again and spills the liquid from his mouth onto your thighs, as he kneels back to watch it trickle over your knees, down your shins, to your feet, to drip onto the floor. You are on fire.

‘See? Beautiful.’ He murmurs. And oh, what you’d do. What you’d do to him. You’d pull at his hair and scratch at his chest and bite into his neck and you’d make him suffer, make him ache, make him feel the same heat you’re feeling. You just can’t seem to move.

Can’t seem to move as he brings his mouth closer to your cunt, splitting the folds of your wrap dress further, pushing his hands up to your hips, holding you still as he takes in your lace panties, the only thing covering you from him. He looks up to you again, burning with desire. Your cunt pulses painfully, and you hiss his name.

He smiles, cruelly.

‘Relax, sweetheart,’ he murmurs, ‘We’re playing nice, remember?’

Your retort dies in your throat as he presses his face to your clothed cunt and breathes in deeply. He moans loudly, and you whimper in response, hands flying to his hair at the feeling of his hot breath on you, tugging as he mouths at your pussy through the material. You feel his tongue, warm and strong, drag over the lace covering your clit and you groan, going slack against the wall. He nudges the swollen nub with his nose, his free hand coming between your legs to touch you.

‘So wet,’ he breathes, ‘That what I’m doing to you?’

You shake your head no even though he can’t see you, still playing with your pussy through your underwear. A plea bubbles up your throat, and you swallow it down. You will not beg Lucien Flores to touch you. You don’t even know how you got here in the first place.

But that’s forgotten as he moves again, kissing your clit through the fabric as he brings his other hand, still holding the bottle, between your legs. You hiss as he presses the lip of it to your hole, all protests forgotten as he grinds it against you, the pressure easing a small amount of the ache you feel.

You forget that it’s wrong as he uses it to push your panties to the side. Forget as he runs the cold glass through your wetness, almost do beg him to touch you, to lick you, to do something before he settles it against your slit, right where you think you might need it most.

‘Still don’t want me?’ he breathes against your skin.

A shallow breath escapes you.

‘Fuck you.’ You whisper, no conviction behind your words. He rests his forehead against your hip, and begins to press, begins to relieve some of that ache, that want -

‘Luce?’ Anna calls out from the direction of the house. You freeze, fist tightening around his curls, but Lucien is unphased, working the mouth of the bottle past the tight opening of your pussy. You gasp brokenly at the cool feel of it, fingers constricting even further. Lucien moans beneath you, moving to nose at the crease between your thigh and your cunt, pushing the neck of the bottle further in. You moan loudly, knees giving a little, and he clutches your hip tighter to keep you from falling.

‘Luce?’ Anna calls again, a little closer this time. You groan his name in response, torn between wanting more and wanting this to end before disaster.

The next Lucien? comes even closer, and you use your grip on his hair to pull his face away from you, tipping his head back so that he meets your eye.

‘Stop.’ You bite out. He grins and gives one more pump of the neck of the bottle. You whimper, head falling back to the concrete behind you as he removes it completely, rising to his feet with a groan. You watch, bleary eyed, leaking, chest heaving, as he dusts off his pants and adjusts himself, his eyes never leaving yours. He steps back and away, eyes raking over your body as he raises the bottle to his mouth, licking around the neck before taking a deep drink and disappearing back up the path.

He’s sick. You hate him.

You return to the house on shaky legs through the backdoor, hoping to make it to the bathroom, only to be intercepted by Alex. He’s scraping leftover food into the bin, and smiles as you enter before double taking at your appearance. You must look wrecked.

‘Are you alright?’ He asks, brow creasing with concern.

You hum, clearing your throat before answering.

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

Alex raises an eyebrow at you.

‘Did he say something to you?’ he asks.

‘Did he - what?’

‘Lucien. Did he upset you?’

You blink at him. Right. Play nice.

‘I - no. He didn’t. He was actually quite pleasant.’

Alex stares at you.

‘Pleasant?’

‘Yeah.’

You hold his gaze for a little longer, feel a guilty little heat crawl its way through your belly.

You’re warm, so unbearably warm.

‘Is it alright if I go and lay down upstairs for a bit?’ You ask. ‘I feel kind of funny.’

Alex frowns, placing the plate he was holding on the counter.

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘Do you need anything?’

You smile weakly, shaking your head.

‘No,’ you reassure him, ‘That’s okay, thank you. I just need a moment.’

The guest room on the top floor is cool, and the curtains are open. Warm, orange light floods in from the street outside, and you settle yourself on the middle of the bed, ready to get this over with. There’s no way you can go back downstairs with this need, this coil wound so tight in your belly. You swoop your palms over your body, nipples tightening beneath your dress, feeling the swirl, the drip of yourself between your legs. You grind the heel of your palm against your mound and moan softly, rucking your dress up to your hips so you can slip your fingers beneath the lace.

Fuck, you are so wet. So goddamn turned on by that stupid man that you may as well throw your underwear away. You sweep a finger over your clit, hips twitching at the contact, eyes falling shut as you dip the digit to your entrance to collect your arousal, working the nub in tight circles.

Your legs fall slack as you build yourself up, moans falling from your mouth in quick succession as you imagine what it would have been like to have him take you there, against the wall. What it would have been like to be fucked with the bottle, to have his tongue really on you, mimicking your movements now, to fall apart against his mouth, see him pull away with your slick covering his face. You rock your hips against your hand, quickening your movements, fingers dipping in and out of your slit between working your clit as the coil tightens and tightens, as the hot, heavy feeling grows and grows, as sweat beads at your temples and the valley between your breasts, as you try not to moan his name -

Like you’ve summoned him, Lucien clears his throat in the doorway.

You snap your legs shut, heart hammering in your chest, heat blooming through your cheeks.

‘You fucking - asshole -’ you seethe, and he laughs, eyes roving over your sweaty body. ‘Get out.’

‘Wanted to check you were alright.’

You gape at him.

‘Fucking bullshit, Lucien,’ you grit, snatching your hand out of your soaked cunt. You bundle it in the silk of your dress as you try to cover yourself, but his eyes follow, tracing the glint of your slick in the dim light.

‘Seems like you’re okay, though,’ he continues, slouching against the doorframe. ‘Just look like you could do with some help.’

You choke on a laugh, frozen, glaring at him from the bed. He bites his lip.

‘You’re fucking insane.’

‘Insane enough to fuck you.’

You inhale sharply, trying to ignore the flash of arousal that shoots through you, clenching your jaw.

‘You are not going to fuck me.’

Lucien steps away from the doorframe, moving into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. Without looking, he reaches out with one hand and twists the lock with a click.

He comes towards you slowly, eyes hungry. Your heart is in your mouth as you watch him, adrenaline kicking in so hard even you’re not sure what you want. Aren’t sure whether you can admit what you want.

He reaches the end of the bed before dropping a knee onto the mattress, reaching out to grab an ankle, pulling your leg flat. You burn at the feel of him holding you, preventing you from moving, from hiding.

‘Then stop me.’

You don’t. You can’t as he crawls his way up your body, as he touches every inch of skin he can so gently, so delicately. Fresh slick pools out of you at the feeling, at the sight -

His stupid puppy dog eyes and floppy curls and broad shoulders beneath his silk shirt, silk shirt that looks like sin as it drapes over him, moves with him like water, and his chains, his chains, how they’d look swinging over you as he buries himself inside you, raw and hungry and -

You can’t stop the moan that slips from your lips as his hand cups your cunt, as his mouth finds your neck. Body quickly liquid, molten beneath his touch, legs falling open.

‘Please -’ it slips from your mouth before you can stop it, but it feels good, finally, to have him give you what you need.

‘Good girl,’ he says, ‘Playing so nice.’

He slips his hand beneath the lace of your panties, trailing two fingers through your arousal, mirroring your moan as he does. He circles your clit, dragging you back to where you were, drinking down your noises with his mouth close enough to swallow your breath, but not close enough to kiss. You stare up at him, eyes wide, mouth open, a line forming between your brows. You gasp, so pretty, and he hums, slowing his movements to an agonising pace before slipping them from your heat entirely. You whine at the loss, huffing against the mattress, pouting at him pathetically as he smiles down at you.

‘Let’s get these off.’

He kneels back to pull your underwear away from you, and you wriggle at the cool air that comes into contact with your cunt. You watch, breathless, as he bundles them up and slips them into his back pocket, irritated, but not irritated enough to demand them back. They were expensive.

He drinks in the sight of your bare pussy with ravenous eyes, resting his cheek against the flesh of your thigh. The scruff of his beard tickles and scratches, the feel of it so Lucien, but you can't find it within yourself to care. He brings a single finger up to trace through your folds, and you whine desperately, embarrassingly at the sensation.

‘Pretty enough to make a grown man cry, baby,’ he hums, nuzzling your thigh as he blinks up at you with burning eyes. ‘You ever made a man cry before?’

‘Yeah,’ you breathe, ‘Wanna see if I can make you cry, too?’

He grins, a dirty little thing, before closing his teeth over the soft skin at your hip. You moan again, and he leans in closer, licking a long, hot, wet stripe from your hole to your clit. You shudder, a broken sound escaping your mouth. God, what is wrong with you?

‘So sweet,’ he murmurs, ‘You always this wet when someone teases you?’

You arch your back against him, head turning in the sheets.

‘No,’ you groan, ‘Get this wet when I’m about to make myself come.’

He huffs a laugh against you before driving his tongue against your clit, sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth. He is hot and wet against you, so strong and soft like velvet as he tastes you, holds your thighs apart with his strong hands, fingers pressing in so hard you’re sure they’ll bruise. You writhe beneath him, hands flying to his hair, grinding up into his face. He licks and licks, devouring you, moving his head from side to side, gripping your hips to keep you moving against him as he quickly builds you again back to your high, sliding two fingers inside easily, curling them up into the spot deep inside you.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him, the strong curves of his body, the sweat on his forehead, the way his eyelids flutter at your noises, those deep brown eyes watching you with something carnal, something possessive in them.

You whine and moan above him, keening as he reaches his other hand up to swipe a thumb over your nipple, pinching it as you plead for more, as you tighten around his fingers, as you flood his mouth, as the toil tightens again, as you teeter on the edge -

Lucien pulls his mouth from you with a wet sound, withdrawing his fingers at the same time.

You cry out.

‘No,’ you whimper, ‘No, Lucien, please -’

‘Atta girl,’ he says, ‘I knew you could ask nicely. Knew you’d beg.’

Your back flies off the mattress as you reach to claw at him, ready to rip him to shreds, but he’s too quick, kneeling back again to undo his belt, unzip his fly, pull himself out, and oh -

Oh. Fuck. He’s big. The heavy weight of him held in his fist as he pumps himself slowly over you turns your clawing into gentler hands, and he moves so you can wrap yourself around his cock. He feels like silk, so close to his shirt, rock-hard and twitching as you move your hand languidly up and down his length, squeezing, swiping your thumb over his tip as it drips precum. It's hard not to admire him like this, hard to remember why you hate him so much. The ache between your legs borders on unbearable.

He groans loudly, rocking his hips before wrapping his hand around yours, untangling your fingers to hold himself again, guiding his cock towards your entrance. He runs his length back and forth between your folds, covering himself in your slick, feeling your clit twitch beneath him until you beg again - ‘Please, Lucien, please - fuck me -’ before he’s sliding home in one long stroke.

The air is knocked from you at the feeling, at how full you are. He hinges to cage you with his arms, and you clutch at his shirt as he begins to move, slow, so slow. He licks his lips as he watches your face, your mouth in a little ‘o’, neck straining against the pillow, and you move a hand to the back of his neck, wanting to kiss him, wanting to taste him, taste him taste of you. You want to take his plush bottom lip between your teeth and hold it there, hold it there until you taste blood. Bu he picks up the pace, thrusting harder and faster, and you lose your grip, back arching as the delicious burn returns yet again.

‘Fuck -’ you gasp, ‘Holy fuck, Lucien, oh my god -’

‘I know, baby,’ he whispers, fucked out and broken as you already. ‘I know.’

He groans from somewhere deep in his throat, head thrown back to expose his neck, and you want to kiss him again, swallow him down, consume him whole.

You close your teeth over the chain that’s swinging in your face so he can't pull away, and he moans, forehead knocking against yours. You bite down harder, wanting it to break, wanting to shatter it, shatter him. As if he can feel it, he grinds deeper, harder inside of you. You feel yourself clench, feel it begin to spiral. You spit the jewellery out to whimper, scratch down the length of his back over his shirt. He feels so good. Feels so fucking good, and it’s infuriating.

‘I hate you,’ you whine breathlessly. He moans into your neck, breath hot and damp against your skin.

‘Yeah,’ he gasps, ‘Feeling’s mutual, baby.’

He marks the sentiment with a particularly dirty kiss to your throat, and with that, you see stars. You clench and break and stutter around him, splintering and bursting around his cock, crying out so loudly that he secures his large palm over your mouth.

‘Yeah, good girl,’ he pants, ‘Good fucking girl.’

You moan again, and he can feel your body twitch with the aftershocks, contracting and leaking around him. He takes both your legs in his hands and places them on his shoulders, folding you into yourself, fucking into you deeper, harder than before, hitting another angle even more intense than the last. You cry desperately into the pillow, wincing as you tighten again, impossibly fast, too intense, too far away to warn him. But he knows. He can feel it. Tries to hold himself back a little longer to fuck you through it, reaching down to thumb your clit, swiping through the mess you’ve made, he’s made, entranced by the sounds you’re making, the slick sound of him moving in and out of your cunt, the lightheaded feeling he’s got, the desperation, the urge, the need -

He breathes in the scent of your skin as his thrusts get sloppier, inhaling deeply through his nose. He wishes he could kiss you again. Wants to feel the press of your mouth against his, the breaths you take, your tongue against his.

But if he does, it’ll be over. The game will be up, because he won’t be able to hold back the real want he feels, where all this anger stems from. He’s so nasty, so mean because he wants you so bad. So bad, from the moment you met. From the moment you looked him up and down and listened to his arrogant introduction with a little sneer. He wants that attitude - wants to fuck it right out of you.

Your ankle smells sweet against his cheek, and he turns his head to kiss and bite the bone there, feeling you tense and pulse around him at the scrape of his teeth. You twist in the sheets, breathing ragged, eyes scrunched shut, fists clenching the cotton as you moan his name, as you try and bite back the gasps and cries of your second orgasm.

‘Again,’ he grits out, ‘Again.’

‘Lucien -' you cry, reaching for him, ‘Lucien, fuck -'

He comes at the first flutter as you clamp down around him. Buries himself right down to the hilt as he spills inside you, coming with a pained moan and a murmur of your name, eyes fluttering shut as he rocks in and out of your pulsing cunt, fucking his spend deep. He lets your legs fall from his shoulders as he catches his breath, steadying himself with a palm on the mattress as he watches you come down, staring at the rise and fall of your chest beneath your dress, nipples still straining against the fabric. He wants to take them in his mouth, wants to work you up to take you again, but he slips out instead, brushes his hair back from his forehead, watches his cum begin to dribble out of your puffy cunt. You catch him and reach down to run your fingers through the mess of you both, and Lucien looses a strangled groan as you feed it to yourself, tongue working over your digits. You remove them with a pop, sliding your legs closed and settling yourself on your elbows.

He kneels back on the bed, tucking himself back into his pants, trying to focus on something that’s not you for just a moment as you rearrange your dress and swing your legs off the bed. He feels like he should say something, something to cut across what you've just done. Something appropriately callous, but he can't bring himself to. Can't find it within him.

He hasn’t even finished buttoning his pants before you swan out of the room, dress as perfect as it was before, clinging to your curves, moving with your steps. You don’t look back at him as you leave, don’t utter a word.

That familiar flare of anger rises in his chest again. A muscle ticks in his cheek, and he sits down heavily on the bed, clasping his hands together over his knees. He takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose. He soothes himself with the thought of your cunt leaking his cum all over your seat downstairs, thinks about how it’ll ruin your pretty little dress. Tries not to think about how he won’t be tearing you out of it later, won’t be able to taste himself mixing with you like he wants to.

Tries not to think about the perfume you had applied to your ankles.

Tries not to think about how maybe, just maybe, you’ve thought about this, too.

#lucien flores #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #lucien flores fanfiction #the uninvited #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #lucien flores smut

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katyawriteswhump · 10 days

Text

(You’re just) too good to be true

For @astrangersummer week 3 prompts, flowers and/or hugs. Thanks to bananas and yesdanger on discord for the extra prompts to get me going. I have tried to get as many in as possible.

Summary: Steve wakes up in hospital after everything is over and can’t quite believe how well everything has turned out…

Rating: T. WC: 1460 CW: None. Other tags: Steddie, platonic stobin, angst, sickfic, hurt/comfort, temporary amnesia, fix-it fic, everybody lives.

…

Steve flutters his eyes open and spies Robin sitting by his bed. Mascara streams down her face, and her hair’s a literal disaster zone.

“Steve! You’re awake!” She grabs his hand. “You’re gonna be okay. The doctor should be here any minute.”

Doctor!?! Where the heck am I?

His throat proves too dry for words. Robin garbles way too fast for him to understand and she’s wringing his fingers ever tighter.

If she’s touching me, I guess it can't be rabies.

His memory triggered, the shitshow slams back. First, the bats, the bites. Then everything that happened after, until they journeyed again into the Upside Down to try to kill Vecna.

Oh hold on, scratch that.

To fail to kill Vecna.

Staring blankly through Robin, he fixates on the terrible parts. Eddie lying bloodied and dead in Dustin’s arms. Dustin sobbing his eyes out. Max was pretty much lost too, and Vecna was alive, gone to ground, and…

What happened next? Why am I in a hospital bed? Jesus, I was fine!

There’s one of those IV thingies in his arm. He shivers though can’t tell if he’s cold or hot. The doctor arrives, jostles him, talks at him, shines lights in his eyes. He’s not in pain, but his brain is all woolly, and he’s confused and weak and lost.

He needs a hug more than ever in his life. Robin peeps at him over the doctor’s shoulder, bouncing like a spooked bunny-rabbit, then she’s gone.

It’s all too much.

He quits, sinking back into the darkness.

…

When Steve next pries an eyelid open, he spies Eddie breezing into the hospital room. Eddie joins Robin, who has moved to the window to pick at her nail polish.

Eddie is gone, which means… Oh, no, no, no, no, no! I’m dead too? Or dreaming?

His throat is achy and tight. He closes his eyes again, hot tears welling. More memories trickle back.

“Make him pay,” Eddie had said.

He recalls that last, lingering look between them. The one that slammed him like a freight train, because... Wtf? For some strange reason, that moment doesn’t feel like the end of a story anymore.

It feels like a beginning. Which is just dumb.

Eddie is no more.

He peeps again, watching a dude who is very definitely Eddie pouring bottled water into a vase of flowers on the windowsill. Robin seizes the bottle from him: “What are you doing, shit-bird? Those are silk—his mom brought them. They don’t need water.”

“Riiiight.” Eddie pulls a silly face, which Steve finds freakish levels of adorable. Suddenly, he wants to crush Eddie to him, tell him that he’s insanely happy he’s here, even if this is some crazy dreamworld, and…

… he wants to shove his tongue into Eddie’s mouth and kiss him stupid.

Huh?

Steve licks dry lips. Most bewildering of all, he somehow knows how awesome kissing Eddie is. As if they’ve done it before.

More than once.

Eddie sneezes dramatically. “If those flowers are fake, I’m allergic to WASP chintz. Which checks out, I guess.”

Robin laughs, though it’s sad and nervy. He catches a glimpse of Eddie’s bambi eyes, and they’re anxious, haunted, too. Then Lucas and Max walk in.

MAX? She’s in a coma!

Steve’s head throbs miserably from trying to make sense of this mad place.

He quits and drifts back to the darkness.

…

When he next peeps, Robin and Eleven are sitting by his bed, sharing a packet of cool ranch doritos.

Which makes less sense than ANY OF IT.

Robin’s gotten real picky lately about sharing food. At least, with anybody but him. He’s vaguely pissed, because these two hardly know each other. The way they’re huddled on the same chair, like close buddies, suggests otherwise.

Yeah, he’s vaguely pissed. And kinda jealous. He sort of hates himself for being needy... but he really wants that hug.

Then another memory flashes back. Some alien desert landscape, with Eleven blasting Vecna with everything she’s got. Eddie sprinting toward him—tailed by what looks like a medium-to-large demogorgon with at least a dozen extra flailing limbs—and Robin yelling, “Steve! El’s got this—help Eddie!”

He finally forces his eyes wide enough for them to see he’s watching. “R-Robin?” he croaks.

“Steve!” She leaps to her feet, nearly knocking El and the chair flying. “You’re really, actually awake this time? Please say yes.”

There’s noise and confusion. The doctor arrives again, checks Steve’s vitals, then bitches that there’s too many kids in the room: “It should be family only,” she says.

“We’re his family,” argues Robin. “His parents only come during official visiting hours.”

Robin is allowed to remain. She helps him sip water, and then he says, “Look, I think was dreaming earlier, or off my head on meds, because I saw you with Eddie, and I know that’s impossible, because…” He swallows hard, mumbles the hateful words: “He's gone, right?”

“Oh my God, you don’t remember?”

“Jesus, Robin! Remember what?”

“We won, Steve. Everyone lived. We even got Crissy back. Vecna’s the only one who’s history. If you hadn’t got hurt, it would’ve been the perfect revenge.”

This time, he manages to take more of her story in. He gets lost in the part where Robin and Dustin figure out time travel—some crazy shit about the proximity of alternate dimensions causing rumples in the space-time continuum. The rest of her tale unleashes a slew of badass memories that squish all the terrible ones into the dirt. Instead of Eddie being dead, he recalls…

“You and Eddie totally slayed this nasty-ass demo-squid-monster,” says Robin. “It got pretty intense, and when you survived, you had, like, an EPIC hug. Aaaand might’ve kissed. Then, later, you threw yourself at Eddie to save him from flying debris, then you rolled into a crater, and he wound up on top, and…”

Steve suddenly recalls that moment vividly. Eddie straddled his hips, and his own hands landed not entirely accidentally on Eddie’s butt. Once they’d gathered their breaths, Eddie leaned forward, swiped hair from his face, and whispered:

“About what you said to Wheeler. If you still want to win her back, that’s fine, I’ll back off, but… just so you know, six kids is cool with me, Stevie. Not like we need to adopt. When you’re around, they simply rock up.”

“So, yeah,” Robin says, ripping Steve from these mind-blowing revelations, “it took us half a dozen attempts to get things right. In the final boss-fight, it was just you, me, Eleven and Eddie. We were lost in the Upside Down for weeks, before we exploded Vecna into a billion disgusting pieces. Because you're you, you were closest, got caught in the blast. You lost a lot of blood, but all important appendages are still present and correct, including, um… any important appendages you were particularly worried about. Not that I’m saying you were, but… Ugh!” She facepalms. “This so isn’t where I meant to go with that.”

He faintly smirks. “You dug that hole, not me, Buckley.”

“No need to gloat. You’re gonna be fine. Everyone is going to be just fine.”

It’s still too much to take in. One question bugs him the most: “Eddie and me, erm… How far did we..?”

“I didn’t stand there and count the bases, Dingus! He’ll be back in five. Ask him. But, you know, there was talk of picking out rings, getting matching tats and—”

“You’re kidding?”

“A bit. Seriously, by the third week, you two seemed chill. Happy. I really hope you remember it all soon.”

He takes a beat. Warmth pools in his chest, because everything Robin says sure as heck feels true. He gives her hand a little pulse, and their fingers intertwine.

“Robin,” he says. “At the risk of sounding downbeat, it’s all a bit too perfect. I’m kinda worried I’m dead.”

“Oh! You’re really, really not. I’m all sticky and gross 'cos I was here all night, but… would a hug help?”

He nods, levers himself up a little, suppressing a wince at the effort. He wraps the arm unencumbered by the IV around her, and she awkwardly cuddles him. He rests his cheek on her bony shoulder, and breathes deeply, while she rubs juddering circles in his back.

She’s sweaty and clumsy and real.

“You’re not dead, I promise,” she whispers. “If you were, I’d be so mad with you, after all that effort to fix things. Besides, you still got hurt, and we were all out of time travel opportunities. Long story. Anyhow, it's been hell, till the doctors said you’d be okay, and even then… We’ve been so scared.”

Her trembling shakes through him. He tries not to sniffle, but he can't seem to help it. Everyone survived. Eddie’s alive. Eddie and he are…

His heart gives a crazy squeeze that says everything he needs to know.

“As soon as you’re out of here,” whispers Robin, “this summer is gonna be the best ever.”

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

#steddie #steve harrington #stobin friendship #platonic stobin #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steve harrington whump #a stranger summer #eddie munson lives

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katzuk1s · 1 year

Text

_______________________________________________

18+ mdni

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thinking about giving inexperienced virgin! Bakugou head for the first time on his birthday

TW: oral (male receiving), swearing ofc, praise kink, fem!reader

3.0k words

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You and Katsuki had been in a relationship for a time now, about 2 months since his 'confession' (he shoved some flowers in your face and warned you to be his valentine or else) and yet you two had scarcely done anything together. Don't get me wrong, you spend every waking and sleeping minute with him; movie evenings, sleepovers, dates at anything challenge-based so he can show you how strong he is; but...you haven't done anything with him. Sexual, that is. Sure, you two have kissed, on the occasion his lips would move down to your neck, licking and marking a few small areas on your neck just to show you’re his in front of the class—but he's never gone further than that. You both haven’t, if we are being honest. You’ve both been too nervous, I guess? Or it's just never really been a priority on katsukis list—or that's what you thought.

You are both oblivious to what the other is thinking. Katsuki doesn’t notice how much you stare at him when he gets out of the shower, his towel hanging around his waist as your eyes drift down; and even if he does, he convinces himself that he’s getting ahead of himself—just seeing things. You don’t notice the constant glances katsuki sneaks at you when you are wearing his shirt, which is 10x bigger than you, hanging loosely down to your thighs which you wear as pajamas along with some shorts or just panties. He has to excuse himself to the bathroom to have his 3rd shower of the day after he looks down to see the bulge in his pants—which 9/10 times leads to him covering his mouth with one hand as the other strokes himself as the water drips down his bare body, trying his hardest to keep the noise down so you don't suspect anything.

As katsukis birthday comes along, you do everything you can possibly do to make it the best birthday hes ever had. It’s his first birthday with you as his girlfriend, so you feel its your responsibility to treat him—not that you mind. You get him the perfect gifts—a black tshirt with his favorite band on it, some of his favorite cologne that hes nearly out of, a limited edition all might figure which you had to hide from izuku up into the day, you know that fucker would try to steal it if you left it out, and finally a basket of his favorite foods, and of course 3 bottles of sirachi sauce.

You prepare a complete bacon and egg breakfast for him and serve it to him in his room when you go out into the dorm kitchen to prepare it. He'd rather stay in his dorm than deal with the rest of the class this early in the morning.

For lunch, you get Aizawa to excuse you two so you can go to your favourite restaurant, where you treat Katsuki to whatever he wants on the menu despite his protests, saying he can pay for it—you don't let him, of course.

And finally, the surprise party. Katsuki hates parties, it’s pretty obvious from how many times he’s stomped out at the sight of one balloon; but the whole class wanted to celebrate, so you just went along with it—how much harm could it do? You could always have a quiet night after.

“You think he knows?” Denki whispered in the dark. You were all hidden down in your specified spots as you waited for katsukis return into the dorm lounge where everyone had set up streamers, balloons along with his favourite foods and a special cake made by sato.

“Nah, I’ve been distracting him all day, he will have no idea” you reply.

“Perfect” denki whispers back, a shit eating grin on his face as he holds a party popper in his hand, which you can only guess he will pop right in katsukis face. Rest in peace denki.

You are cut off as the door opens.

“The fuck? Why’re all the goddamn lights off huh?” You hear a raspy voice mumble from down the stairs. You have to stop yourself from chuckling as you cover your mouth to not make a sound.

“Got a power outage or something? Maybe nezu forgot to pay the fuckin’ power bills again” the same voice mumbles as you hear footsteps heading up the stairs, slowly until you hear a loud crashing and cursing.

“GOD DAMMIT, DUNCE FACE DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO DO WITH THIS? YOU WANNA WATCH ME STRUGGLE YOU BASTARD?!” Katsuki yells as he starts to trample up the stairs faster, until he gets to the top to see some faint balloons in the darkness.

“The fu-“

“SURPRISE!!” The whole class yells as momo turns the lights on, revealing everyone and the decorations. Katsukis eyes widen and he grumbles, turning around straight away.

“Hell no, i ain’t doing this shit-“

“Wait!! Could you please stay for a few minutes, it took us a long time to set this up? Please? I promise we can have a nice night together afterwards" you glance up at katsuki with your most dolly eyes—katsuki grumbles again and looks down, shuffling his feet across to the party, unable to resist your sweet tone and precious gaze.

“Fine. But i ain’t staying f’ long, got it?"

“Kacchan! "How are you doing, my bestest bro in the entire world?" Denki says as he drapes an arm around Katsuki, which is quickly swatted away.

"The fuck does it mean to you?" He mumbles as he pushes away and makes his way to the food.

As the night goes on, katsuki begins to moan and groan more to you, saying he can't bear being around these fuckers any longer and that he simply wants to sleep. You sympathise with him, but you also want to enjoy the time you have with the entire class, which happens on a very rare occasion without a big fight breaking out or a villain attacking. After the cake has been served and eaten, you all find yourselves sitting or lounging on the couch, the floor, or even the tables, joking with one another. You sit on the couch next to katsuki, your head on his lap, looking up into his eyes and casually responding to whatever conversation is going on.

“We should totally play truth or dare!” Mina suggests, her tone deathly sweet.

“Hell yeah! Let’s get this party started!” Sero and the other classmates agreed, katsukis eyes rolling at the suggestions.

“Don’t have time for your shitty games”

“Come on ‘suki! It will be fun! It’s late start tomorrow, we have time” you say, reaching up to gently caress his cheek before standing up and heading over to where everyone is sitting in a circle on the floor, patting the spot next to you for katsuki to sit.

“You’re gonna be the death of me…” he mumbles under his breath before reluctantly sitting down next to you.

“You know, i'm still convinced you’ve put him under some sort of spell, I’ve never seen him so agreeable” izuku jokes, smiling widely as per usual.

“I'VE ALWAYS BEEN AGREEABLE YOU DAMN DEK- IZUKU” katsuki barks at izuku before huffing and leaning back.

“Yeah yeah, let’s get on with it, things are about to get in-ter-est-ing!” denki accentuates, smirking at katsuki. Has he planned something or..?

The game goes back and forth between truths and dares among everyone, until it finally lands on katsuki.

“Now, for the birthday boy! Truth or dare?” Denki asks, sneaking looks at the other classmates suggestively.

“Tch, dare obviously. I ain’t no pussy.” katsuki replies, sighing in boredom.

“I dare you…to show us your text messages between you and y/n!” Mina yells excitedly, leaning into katsuki.

“The fuck?! Why should I do that?!” He yells in surprise, backing away from Mina.

“Got something to hide? I thought you weren’t a pussy huh?” Denki says before snatching katsukis phone.

“GIVE THAT- I'M NOT NO PUSSY, GO AHEAD SHIT FACE”

The class crowds around denki as he scrolls through the messages, but to their dismay, all they saw was just messages asking about each other's day, good night messages, the occasional random photo, but.. that's it.

“Are you guys even together? Where’s the spicy stuff?” Sero whines, snatching the phone as he scrolls back further.

Before they can do any more, katsuki snatches his phone back and shoves it in his pocket.

“You ain’t gonna find any of that dumb shit, no point looking, idiots” he barks out before huffing and looking over at you, leaning in a little closer to calm himself down.

“So you’re telling me…there’s nothing. You guys are no fun!” Denki huffs before looking over at you.

“Mina, you wanna ask y/n now? I’ve had enough asking”

“Yeah! I have a few ideas…y/n, truth or dare?”

“Umm…truth!” You say enthusiastically, leaning over and resting your head on katsukis shoulder as you look over at Mina.

“Have you guys done it?” She says in a low tone, making sure any teachers crossing by wouldnt be able to hear her.

Both you and katsuki tense up before heat rises to both of your cheeks. A long line of silence comes before mineta pops out of nowhere and leans in close to you.

“Yeah! Have you guys done it yet? What was she like bakugou? Was she-“ mineta was cut off by katsuki picking him up and throwing him over to the other couch far away from them before he could say anymore.

“Well? Have you?” Sero pipes up and you look over at Katsuki before slowly shaking your head.

“O-of course we haven’t-! We have only been together for two months i-“

“YOU STILL HAVEN’T AFTER TWO MONTHS?” Denkis eyes look like they have popped out of his head as he switches his gaze between the two of you.

Katsuki stays quiet as he looks away, his face dusting a light shade of pink.

“ I have an even better question!!” hagakure pipes in.

“Do any of you want to? Like have you thought about it?”

“Ooo, good question! So, have you?” Mina asks, buzzing with excitement.

“W-well..i..i-i” you stutter, face flushing with heat as you look over at katsuki to see his face even more red, which makes you even more flustered.

“I-its only fuckin’ natural, what, do you expect us to not think of this k-kinda shit or something? Idiots..” katsuki mumbles under his breath, his voice quivering slightly. Your eyes widen in surprise at his confession. He’s thought about you like that? You would never have expected..unless you were just so oblivious you never noticed…

“So you have!! Ha! I knew it! You do have a heart down there kacchan!” Denki jokes, the rest of the class chuckling along with him, causing Bakugou to huff before standing up, grumbling as he walks away back to his dorm.

“Well.. I guess he’s a bit tired, i’m gonna head off to sleep too. Thanks for helping me set up the party guys! I'll see you in class tomorrow.” You say with a smile, your face still pink as you slink off to katsukis dorm, following him in.

You get dressed into one of his shirts along with your panties before heading into his bed, taking in his scent on his pillows. He comes out a little after you, dressed in a black tank top and some black sleeping pants before laying down in bed next to you.

“Well that was fuckin’ tiring. It’s already 12:38 in the morning..way past my bedtime.” He mumbles the last sentence under his breath, his voice trailing off.

You snuggle into him, your face nuzzled in the crook of his neck and your arm slinked across his waist, his toned abs prominent under the material.

You both lay there for a while in silence, enjoying each other's presence. But that one conversation between denki and katsuki is still on repeat in your mind. Does katsuki really think about you like that? Does he want more? Does he..like thinking about me like that?…

Your thoughts eventually become unbearable and before you can think it through, a question slips out.

“Is what you said to denki true?..do..you think about me like that?” You mumble under your breath, half hoping that katsuki was already asleep and not hearing you talk—but unknown to you, katsuki was going through the exact same conversation; the way your face turned a bright red as soon as denki brought it up, your cute little stuttering as you tried to find the right answer.

“…yeah…don’t…you?” He says quietly, avoiding your gaze.

You hesitate before answering.

“ yeah..I’ve..I’ve been thinking about it for a while..”

“You have?” Katsuki answers, his voice laced with surprise. Yeah, he can’t help feeling those emotions towards you, but the fact that you felt those too? Fuck, it was too much for him.

You simply nod, staying silent.

“What…what do you think about?” He asks, playing with your hair with his fingers trying anything to distract himself from the conversation.

Your face heats up and you nuzzle your face even more into his neck.

“W-well..i..i think about you..doing certain things with me..” you whisper timidly, looking down.

Katsukis breath hitches. Such a simple, innocent sentence can even knock him down just like that. He feels his pants tightening slightly and he huffs.

“I..think about..what i wanna do to you..” he says, his voice quivering slightly.

“Y-you ever..touch..yourself while you think about that?”

Katsuki can feel his bulge painfully tugging against the material of his pants at this point, his breath uneasy.

“Y-yeah..” he stutters. “You?”

You nod again in reply, your whole body quivering slightly from anticipation.

You reach over, taking your hand away from his waist when it brushes over his bulge and he gasps quietly.

“Are you..hard..’suki?”

You reach down again and brush your fingertips over his clothes bulge again and he bucks his hips up, desperate for your touch.

“D-don't..fuckin’ tease me..” he manages to stutter out, trying to calm himself.

You look into his eyes lovingly before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Do..you want me to..um..suck you off?” You suggest, your voice trailing off as you look away, unable to meet katsukis piercing gaze.

Katsukis mind swirls as he hears you suggest that, and he nods quickly.

“If you are ready for that..then fuck yeah..”

You take no time to lean down and kiss him gently, but before long the kiss starts to heat up, katsukis tongue swirling around yours as you fiddle to lift off his singlet. Once it’s off you take a moment to take in the sight in front of you. Katsuki, there in front of you laying down, puffing as his bare chest rises and falls. You duck down and bring your tongue down to his neck, placing gentle kisses and marks here and there, before trailing your lips down to his nipples, swirling your tongue around them. As you do this, katsuki quickly brings his hand to your head, his hand gripping your hair firmly as he pants.

“Mmphh…fuck..”

He groans, tilting his head back on his pillow.

“Can i..?” You ask sweetly, tugging at the waistband of his pants. He quickly nods, bringing his head back up so he can see your every move, taking a point to remember this moment.

You tug down his pants, revealing the fact that he has no boxers or underwear underneath, his shaft springing free. Your breath hitches at the sight. How is that gonna fit in you one day? Sure you have tried your fingers but that? That’s like your whole hand!

Katsuki notices your wide eyes and hesitation and he smirks confidently.

“Something on your mind?” He says suggestively, looking down at you with half lidded eyes.

“You are so fucking hot..”

“I know, idio- h-hah!” Katsuki gets cut off by the feeling of your warm tongue on his tip, swirling around and licking off any extra pre-cum. He throws his head back, with one hand gripping your hair tightly and the other covering his mouth as he groans.

“can..can you take your hand away? I wanna hear you..” you ask timidly before starting to take his tip into your mouth.

“F-fuckin’ fine..if anyone hears us im blaming it on you- hnngh!” He groans as you start to take more of him into your mouth, struggling to fit it all in. As you stop halfway down on his shaft, katsuki starts to softly thrust his hips up into your mouth shallowly, making sure not to hurt you in any way, but at the same time get the pleasure he needs. You moan into his cock , sending vibrations down his length, causing him to audibly moan.

“S-so..warm..tight..so much better than my hand..” he pants, tilting his head down again so he can look at you, your pretty lips wrapped around his cock.

“You alright? Tap..my leg if you need a break..youre doing so..m-mmph! So good f’ me..” he praises, thrusting deeper and deeper down your throat each time. It’s uncomfortable, but not so bad you can’t bear it. Man, you are so turned on you can barely even notice any discomfort anymore.

Katsukis grip on your hair gets tighter and he starts to thrust quicker and more sloppily.

“‘M c-close..fuck im so close..you wanna..f-fuck! You wanna pull off?” He asks between pants, looking into your eyes reassuringly.

You keep going, this time bobbing your head up and down to indicate that he can cum inside. His breathing becomes faster and his moans become louder as he does one final thrust, shoving himself down your throat as warm liquid pours out.

You pull away and cough slightly before swallowing, taking every last drop of what he gave you. As you look up at him, you take a mental picture of what you see. There he is again, His head thrown back, hand covering his mouth as sweat soaks his toned bare torso and arms. This was something you could get used to.

He looks down at you after catching his breath, you pulling up his pants again and helping him get on his singlet before nuzzling up into him once again, feeling his chest rising and falling against your cheek.

“best fuckin’ birthday ever”

#bakugou fluff #bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #bakugou x y/n #bnha smut #katsuki bakugou #katsuki smut #mha smut #my hero academia smut #oneshot #bakugo smut

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smokefalls · 2 years

Quote

Desire is criminal. You being here is criminal.

Jake Skeets, “Love Poem” from Eyes Bottle Dark with a Mouthful of Flowers

#Jake Skeets #Eyes Bottle Dark with a Mouthful of Flowers #quote #queerlit #poetry #2022 reads #Sealey Challenge

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i-know-how-my-story-ends · 1 year

Text

- from Drunktown, Jake Skeets

[ID: Text reading, "If I stare long enough, I see my uncle in a mirror. The bottle caps we use for eyes." /End ID]

#jay talks #jake skeets #poetry #eyes bottle dark with a mouthful of flowers

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bloodymiso · 9 days

Text

★ pakisabi nalang sa kanya — multifandom x gn!reader

how did they show their love for you pre-confession + how did they confess?

a/n: always wanted to do one of these posts teehee:3 | fandoms: genshin impact, stardew valley, l&co + haikyuu!! | warnings: none!

— through letters “sometimes, love creates a poet.”

words weren’t enough to explain their love for you, but putting some action into it might help. day and night, they put their admiration for you into sweet, beautiful words they wished would help them explain what you had done to their hearts. though they knew those words could never explain even a third(1/3) of what their heart ached to say. once, twice, even thrice a week you’d arrive to school/work with a little note under your desk, locker, or even in your lunchbox. letters filled with toe-wiggling poems, songs, and beautiful paragraphs which overflowed with love in every single line started piling up in your room. they wondered what you even did to their letters, were they rotting away in the trashcan? were they turned to dust by the fire you lit in your backyard? or were they kept safely in a small box under your bed, a heart encircled on its cover? little by little, they added clues to their identity, whether it be a flower which was related to them, or a little trinket from your past encounters. one day, they handed you a letter by hand, after of course getting you on a whole treasure hunt to find out where to go. that little adventure led you to a garden. with you sweaty, stressed out, and confused, they confessed right there.

gi. KAZUHA, diluc, fischl, XINGQIU, kokomi, alhaitham(HEAR ME OUT), charlotte sdv. ELLIOT l&co. kipps(again, HEAR ME OUT) + your faves!! ♡

— quietly “in silence, we often find the deepest connection.”

it took them a while to understand what was happening, the way their hearts beat faster at your mere presence, the way the curve on your lips seemed to infect their own, the way they always couldn’t wait for the next day purely because of you. after hours of staring at the ceiling, they came to a conclusion—it was love. that was all. you weren’t some sorcerer who snatched their heart, nor were you a weirdo who spiked their drink, you were you, and apparently, they liked that. ever since their “awakening” they started doing little things for you. whether it was returning one of your pens they saw on the floor, or refilling your water bottle whenever you were too focused on works/studies. all these little things came unnoticed by you, but they knew they were making a difference

day by day, the spark between you grew. smiles were exchanged as you made eye contact, now, they weren’t afraid to do things for you in the dark, now they could step out of the shadows, and help you as they were. their confession was abrupt, and unexpected at that. as they stood in front of your desk, they held out a singular rose.

gi. NEUVILLETTE, cyno, diluc, XIAO, sucrose, freminet, wanderer sdv. sebastian, leah, penny hq. KAGEYAMA TOBIO, kozume kenma + your faves!! ♡

— proudly “you can’t blame gravity for falling in love.”

oh this little shit. they couldn’t get enough of you, nor could practically everyone else around them, they had no choice! always blabbing about how angelic you were, how your happiness seemed to be so..contagious. “okay so today—“ they started, before their poor friend quickly placed a hand on their somehow always open mouth. “don’t even start.” you’d think people would like to keep their crushes secret, especially to the one they admire but nope! even you knew! get ready for flirting galore. i don’t think they would even need a confession, the whole nation practically knew at this point. there were times you thought their love for you was fake, that they were just joking. i mean, they never actually confessed.

well, until now, of course. they got news to spread around town that they got a lover and that they’ve been spotted at the local cafe which may or may not have caught your attention. now, they stood there, bouquet in hand(coffee in the other) and friends all around.

“so uh, would you like to be that lover?”

gi. TARTAGLIA, KAEYA, baizhu, beidou sdv. sam(?) l&co. LOCKWOOD hq. iwaizumi haijime, OIKAWA TOORU, tanaka ryūnosuke + your faves!! ♡

— through teasing “pride often gets in the way of love.”

oh god did you hate their ass. woke up at 5am just to be early to work/school?oops! they beat you there, now they won’t stop talking about it! they love teasing you, they just can’t stop. sometimes they wonder if the real reason theyre teasing you is to cover up what’s really under their skin, to cover up the hook you pierced through their heart. it ate them up from the inside, but no way were they gonna admit that! if someone’s gonna confess, it better be you first..

they would have confessed rather stupidly. having gone to a bar in the evening with their friends, they called your number(which they got after getting down on their knees and begging) and confessed right there, their voice slurred, it was obvious how many glasses they chugged down. the next day, they remembered absolutely nothing, it took you a few days before finally confronting them about it.

“wait what?! i confessed to you? d-do you like me back?”

gi. TARTAGLIA(again), KAEYA(again), itto, sdv. shane(ig) hq. kuroo tetsurō, TSUKISHIMA KEI, bokuto kōtarō + your faves!! ♡

extra. through songs/music ( kazuha, itto, elliot sdv, tsukishima kei & lucy carlyle) . through food ( XIANGLING, ningguang, emily sdv + me/hj)

(><) wanna support? reblog with tags pookie!!

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call-sign-shark · 8 months

Text

Day 3: Engraved in the Flesh || Finn Shelby x Reader

Requested by a lovely anon 🖤

TW: Kinktober prompt- marked, canonical violence, violent sexual practice, spanking, marking kink, non-protected sex, allusion to anal

Words: 630.

Notes: This work is a part of the Peaky Kinktober Event you can find here. Comment on the event post if you want to be tagged in the future works for Kinktober. The length of each prompt is random, but it’s never less than 600 words.

The family never suspected something to be wrong with the youngest of the tribe. After all, he had been lucky enough not to know the ugly truth of war nor the physical and emotional torment of hunger or poverty. If anything, Finn had grown up under Polly’s loving wing. Even if he was accustomed with gangs violence, he never truly took part of it before his brothers deemed him old enough. Arthur, Tommy and John worked hard so that he would never had to take a bullet like they did. They wanted him to be a general, not a disposable and vulnerable soldier. When he started to hang out with the pastor’s daughter, his Aunt was delighted. All of Birmingham knew how kind and quiet Y/N was. Holy Saint among the sinners, the young woman often wandered in the gritty streets of Small Heath with a basket filled with food she usually distributed to the poorest souls. Y/N left a bright sunshine in her wake, all the darkness of the place caught in her long coal black hair. Rumors said that when she smiled, even the most wicked men couldn’t lay a finger on her, all blissed out by her beauty and her divine aura of peacefulness. The bruises on her delicate skin? She was just incredibly clumsy. That was what her father always told her! And when she wasn’t bumping or tripping, the heavy basket she carried marked the flesh of her forearms.

But when the night came and the devils danced under the pale moonlight, she disappeared through her window and ran away from home, swallowed by the dull forest nearby. Y/N hid in an old vargo that belonged to the Shelby family, guided by the weak string lights hanging at the door, and she impatiently waited for Finn Shelby to appear in the doorway with a bottle of whisky in one hand, and a red rose in the other. Then their sordid and obscene ritual started, always following the same order: He slipped the flower in her hair, its crimson and velvety petals enhancing her beauty and suiting the color of the lipstick she had stolen from her mother. Then, they made the temperature rise, hands roaming on flesh clothes flying across the vardo. Only when the bottle of whisky was empty and their arousal reaching its limits, he assaulted her tight cunt with violent and rapid thrusts. A glistening and fragile pussy that only knew his cock. No one else’s. The way her warmth and wetness wrapped him sent his soul to heaven, making his lashes flutter. He was supposed to be a nice boy. She was supposed to be a holy and virginal girl.

So why? Why were they fucking like animals each night in the woods, filling the air with moans, flesh snapping sound and sweat? Why did he bend her over and spank her with his suit’s belt — and why did she enjoy it, her love juice trailing down her thighs more and more at each new beating? Finn grunted in her mouth when he came, painting her walls white and keeping her full til the morning. That was how Y/N liked him: engraved in her flesh, and dripping from her sore holes.

“Tsss, be more careful Y/N. You’re black and blue.” Her father scolded her, eyes rolling with annoyance at his daughter’s carelessness that revealed itself through her purplish bruises on her legs, thighs and neck. Little he knew that all her skin had been painted blue, immaculate flesh turned into a masterpiece by the brush of a mad artist. Y/N was both the canva and the muse, letting Finn Shelby turned her into what their love had always been: nothing gentle but the embodiment of Sin.

If you have appreciated what you've just read please take the time to reblog and/or comment. Your reactions are the real fuel and motivation of writers.

Taglist: @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @mollybegger-blog @hwangrimi @munson24 @tommyshelbywhore @devotedlyshadowytheorist @stevie75 @brummiereader @triplethreat77 @sebastianstangirl01 @izzy10369 @peakyltd @dreamy-caramel @kimvolturicullen

#Peaky blinders imagine #Finn Shelby #Finn Shelby x reader #Peaky blinders #Peaky blinders x reader #Finn Shelby smut #Peaky blinders smut #Peaky Kinktober

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diejager · 1 year

Text

Little Red's Wolf

Pairing : Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x fem!reader

Cw: NSFW, exophilia, knotting, breeding, size kink, stomach bulge, biting, marking, blood, oral sex, werewolf, tell me if I missed any.

Wc: 3.5k

Little Red Riding Hood, was a kind and beautiful, young maiden from the village. Little Red Riding Hood was known by all, cared and loved by the small town as if you were their little girl. A pretty, little bachelorette in their small village. The people loved you, the smiling ray of sunlight that beamed across the street with loving words and gentle gestures.

Little Red Riding Hood was also the only one who dared venture outside the town, through the thicket around town, to turn left of the paved road and into the unknown. You were the only one who didn't fear straying from the path, having grown up near it, walking between the trees and exploring the darkest creeks within the woods. You knew it like the back of your hand.

Today would be a scheduled visit to your grandmother, to bring baked goods and wine to your lovely grandmother who lived alone in the forest.

"Come, my dear," your mother called you over, and a soft smile pulled her lips upwards. "Here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine, take them to your grandmother. She is ill and weak, and they will do her good. Set out before it gets hot, and when you are going, walk nicely and quietly and do not run off the path, or you may fall and break the bottle, and then your grandmother will get nothing; and when you go into her room, don't forget to say, 'Good morning', and don't peep into every corner before you do it."

Donned in your usual red hood, the bright colored cloth ending at your knees with a white chemise and a black skirt, you took the basket in hand with great care, checking over the content you would bring to your grandmother. Once done, you left your house, turning to wave at your mother before you closed the door behind you: "I will take great care."

You walked through the long road through the village, smiling and waving at your neighbors and the neighbors of your neighbors, everyone knew everyone in a small town like yours. Friends of your friends became your friends too, knowing everyone had its perks and made everything easier, more familiar.

"Here! Bring this to your grandmother, Little Red Riding Hood," the Baker, a kind old man who lived upstairs of his bakery, called you over. In his hand was a freshly baked breath, warm and smelling heavenly. Into the basket, it went, wrapped neatly in an ivory cloth, woven with care by the baker's wife.

Farther down the street, the herbalist that lived in her hut, covered with scented grasses and pretty flowers called to you, "I heard of your grandmother's sickness, Little Red Riding Hood," she gave you her most caring and worried look she had, honestly dripping from her eyes and tongue. "Please, mix this with hot water before giving it to her, one quarter of this with a cup should do." The small bottle was carefully placed next to the wine bottle your mother had given you, safely secured with twine and string.

People waved and smiled at you as you walked closer to the forest's mouth, wishing you 'good luck' and bidding you a farewell, until the evening, when you'd emerge from the darkness.

The path was cloaked in the shadows of trees, the leaves brushing against one another in the blowing air, soft and calming. It pushed the gentle smell of nature into your nose and dances beautifully before you.

The road was paved in stone, soft, silver brick that stuck out, the dirt hugged its rounded edges and held it together. The trees hugged the path closely, hiding the turns in the road with greenery, beautiful and lively green. You skipped by habit, eyes wandering around the branches to see bird nests and shy squirrels jumping from tree to tree as you followed the path.

While the paved way led farther out, towards the edge of the forest, the dirt path at the fork led deeper, the way to your grandmother's quaint house. You turned and strayed from the popular road, heeled shoes stepping on the hard dirt. You hummed a tune, absentmindedly following the wavy line deeper into the wildness.

Shadows danced outside your line of sight, appearing at the corner of your eyes until you turned to see whatever or whoever it was. You were scared, although naive and oblivious, you grew up in these woods and knew that it wouldn't hurt those who knew it well.

When you called out, the shadow stood tall and rigid, a dark mass hidden under the shades of the trees. It rumbled out a noise, one closely sounding to a wolf's growl. You stopped to stare at it, watching it amble forward, into the lighted path. A wolf, as intended, covered in warm, brown fur with piercing, blue eyes that stared at you inquisitively.

"G'day, Little Red," he spoke with a slur in his voice, a deep rumble in it. His voice sent pleasurable shivers down your spine, you shuddered physically. He saw that, you knew he did, wolves were perceptive.

"Thank you kindly, Great Wolf," you bowed your head, smiling sweetly at him. You ignored the way his eyes glazed over, going down the length of your cloak and your naked knees to your shoes, then back up to your face. He drank you in like you were a treat to his eyes.

"Where yer goin' so early, Little Red?"

"To my grandmother's, Great Wolf."

Perhaps you shouldn't have told him that, for his eyes shone with a menacing glint, dark and ravenous within the ocean of blue. However, it would have been impolite to ignore such an inquiry, especially to a polite and handsome wolf.

He bobbed his head, his mane fluidly moving along his movement, soft and silky, yet disarrayed. He pointed his muzzle at your basket, nose wiggling as he sniffed the air.

"What 'ave ye in your apron?"

"Cake and wine and bread, yesterday was baking-day; and herbs for my poor, sick grandmother. All to make her stronger, Great Wolf."

"Where dae ye nana live, Little Red?"

Again, you pushed away the chill that ran down your back, his heated gaze weighed heavily on your small figure.

"A good quarter into the wood, her house stands under three large oak-trees and nut-trees just below it. Surely, you've seen it."

He thought to himself, thinking back to the house he saw many times while passing through. An old lady that lived alone so deeply in his home had always been an interest, especially the sweet scent of freshly-baked pie. He knew the old woman, Nana, he called her after being caught by the old woman years ago.

So he nodded, head cocked your way with a knowing glint in his eyes. He hadn't seen you at Nana's, though your scent - fresh and earthly smell of wildflowers that grew in the forest - was familiar. You must've only visited her when he was away, lounging under the shade, running through the trees, or stalking and hunting his prey - like you were, at the moment.

A sugary, little treat that he walked into after a run with Gaz. He considered himself lucky, extremely so for having found you before you reached your nana's house.

"Ye best be on your way, then," he mocked a curtsey, his tail waving lazily behind him. "Guid luck, Little Red."

His bright irises followed you, watching the back of your red cloak ride up the inside of your knees, shoulders bobbing along the rugged ground. He was addicted, obsessed with your scent and your appearance. You were soft and naive, too trusting of him, a wolf. An adorable little treasure he would love to eat whole.

He stayed until your red figure became a dot in the flora, swallowed up by the woods he lived and hunted in. He would wait, lurk behind you from afar and pounce the moment he saw you stagger and hesitate.

You did as your mother told you, you greeted your sickly grandmother with a "Good morning" before peering at every corner of her house, searching for any change since the last time you passed by. Setting the basket down, you picked the piece of cake and a cup for the wine, and put aside the bread and concoction for later use. Placed in a tray, you brought it to your grandmother, supported by pillows against the headboard.

As you watched your grandmother eat, you recalled the brief discussion you had with the Great Wolf, dangerously handsome and mischievous. You fed her the herbalist's recommended dosage, a quarter of a cup. She hisses and complained but still drank, swallowing the green mix with small gulps. Once she finished and rested comfortably under the drapes, you spoke, "Grandmother, I met a Great Wolf today, on my way to bring your cake and wine. Do you know of him?"

She muttered, a shallow and weak "yes" at your inquiry: "Kind wolf, that one," she blinked slowly, glazed over with tiredness. "Hungry too! A ravenous creature, but gentle, Little Red Riding Hood. Do not fear the wolf, he is caring."

Without much left to do for her (you placed the cake leftover and the bread on her stove, wine, and cup on her nightstand, and the rest of the concoction on her kitchen table), you bid your farewell and crossed the room to her door, sending her a kiss before you closed and locked her door behind you. The sun had crawled higher, nearly noon as it blared its heated gaze over your crimson figure, bright and energetic as the color of your cloak.

Rustling followed your steps, taunting and teasing every time you stopped to look around you, only seeing green leaves and brown barks with a few specks of vibrant color. the farther you went, the more eager they became, closer to you and stopping later than you did.

You heard panting and low rumbling from the being, it gave away your stalker's identity. Instead of walking the path, you stayed between the trees, diving into the shades created by tall branches and wide leaves. Within them, anything could happen without passersby seeing it knowing - unless there was noise to hear. You were baring yourself to the creature, oblivious of its intentions.

As if hearing your thoughts, the beast appeared before you, a broad and hardened frame looming over you like the mountains near your town did. His cerulean orbs shone under the shadows as he stared at you with such intensity that it made you shiver, a pleasurable chill.

"Oh! Great Wolf!" you called, sounding surprised with your gaping mouth and wide eyes. "What big ears you have."

"All the betta tae hear yer with, Little Red," he spoke, pointed ears flickering and twitching under your gaze.

"What big eyes you have, Great Wolf."

"All the betta tae see yer with, Little Red," he rasped, eyes taking in your voluptuous figure, dark with arousal.

"What large hands you have, Great Wolf."

"All the betta tae hold yer with, Little Red," he growled, arms flexing, threatening to close around you and cage you against his chest.

Your body thrummed, warmth flooding your body and heating your groin. His strong body stalked so slowly toward you, teasing you both. You ate him up, trailing from his snout and down his naked pectorals, from his sculpted abdomen to the bulge in his pants, and down his beautiful thighs.

"What a terrible big mouth you have, Great Wolf," you gulped, legs shaky.

"All the bettea tae eat yer with!"

He pounced, paws falling to your shoulder to pin you down. You fell with a yelp, followed by a gasp as he clawed at your chemise, ripping it in two. His warm nose nudged your breasts, tongue reaching out to lave between them. It was hot and wet. You moaned and gripped his head, reveling his tongue running over your mounds and swirling around your nipple. He closed his mouth around your left, perky nub, sucking harshly with the other being occupied by his big palm, kneading it sensually.

You cried his moniker, squirming under his skillful tongue. Your legs wrapped themselves around his small waist, grinding against his hardness.

"Soap, Little Red," he groaned, licking down your chest and your navel as he pulled down your pants. "Mae name's Soap, Little Red."

His fingers slid between your thighs, claw drawing a line down your inner thigh to your ankle. He panted against your heat, jaw flashing his sharp teeth, just inches from sinking into your supple flesh to watch blood roll down your slit and ass. Fuck, the thought made him hornier.

He latched onto your clit, rolling the tip of his tongue over it. Your legs were pulled over his shoulders, both hands gripping your hips from bucking into his jaw. They dwarfed your body, almost able to meet at the front. Your body wracked with waves of arousal from his motion and the pure implication of being speared by a being Soap's size, twice - dare say, thrice - your size.

He growled when you gripped his mane, pulling his hair and squirming too much, the vibration tingled, traveling from your core to the tip of your curling toes. He growled a second time, smirking at your thrown-back head and drooling mouth before replacing his tongue with his callused thumb. He wandered lower, dipping between your labia to probe at your entrance.

He loved the sound of your moans and mewls, crying out every time his muscle dragged the warm walls inside of you, thrusting and curling, exploring your drooling cunt with a deep hunger. Your walls spasmed and your limbs twitched, your orgasms teetered on the edge.

"Let go, Little Red," he groaned, the apes of your thigh slotting perfectly between his maw, teeth shy of digging into your muscle. "Come for mae."

You came with a silent scream, euphoria washing over you as Soap lapped your slick, hungrily drinking the essence of your pleasure. He rode it out, thumb gently rubbing your clit until you calmed down, shaking and gasping for air, but all you could smell was sex and the pungent odor of Soap's musk, a masculine and predatory thing.

With one last long lick from your ass to your clit, he pulled away, back hunched as he ground his crotch on your wet cunt, kneeling with his legs splayed open.

"Ye ready for mae, bonnie?"

You shakily nodded, the extremities of your limbs still tingling with pleasure. He smirked a cute and smug grin that fit his stature and personality so well. He dropped his slacks, pumping his cock, spreading his pre around his thick girth. You stared at it with amazement, mouth agape with hunger. What you'd give to have a taste of him, throat gagging around his girthy rod.

The red, angry tip tapped your clit a few times, you jumped and moaned, eyes pleading for him to hurry, to claim you and eat you as he promised. Hearing your pleading mewls, he tested the resistance, tip slowly easing in. He watched you take him inch by inch, lips opening and stretching to take him whole and raw. Spread to your fullest, you threw your head back, eyes rolling as you felt him push in. He perfectly filled you, bottoming out as his bulbous tip hit your cervix and bulged slightly under your navel.

"Fuck- tight lil' thang too, aye?" Soap groaned, his tongue lolling out as he panted, drinking up all the soft warmth that clenched around him. "This snatch's perfect for mae, eh?"

"Yours," you mewled, locking your ankles by his maned nape, pulling him closer to you, your red, swollen nipples pressed against his hard chest. "For you, Soap."

"Aye, fer mae."

He pulled out until only the tip lingered in, heading the loud squelch, and slammed in, head meeting your cervix and bulging. He started a fast and rough pace, pounding like a beast in rut, grunting and growling every time his balls slapped your ass. Your cum stained his brown fur, painting the growing knot with a white, creamy ring and his balls lewdly wet.

The innocent and naive appearance you had before was ruined by your current one, debauched and drunk with the pleasure that his pounding cock gave you. You tightened around him, wet walls clinging to his shaft as he pushed in. He rolled his hips, watching the protrusion swirl along his hips and the way you leaned at him for more, harder, faster.

"Ruin me, Soap!"

A primal urge overtook him, and he snapped his hips, plunging deeper, faster, harder into you. His thoughts numbed and his glands pumped dopamine into his brain, filling his thoughts with needs. He wanted to breed you and pump you full of cum as his knot kept you plugged. He wanted to watch you grow big and round with his pups, your breasts grow sensitive and heavy with milk.

His dreams urged him farther, draping himself closer to you, teeth lingering over your shoulder. He teetered on the edge of wanting to bite down and watch your crimson ichor ooze from beneath his teeth, roll down your shoulder, and stain your pretty vibrant cloak with a darker shade of red.

He could feel his fast-approaching orgasm, the beat in his chest, and the heat that pooled into his crotch. While his tongue dragged over the patch he was gazing at, jaw flexing to bite down, his knot grew, swelling around the stretched skin of your entrance.

"It's fine," he heard you say between your keens and the wet slapping. "You can bite."

A shiver wracked his back, muscle clenching and knot flaring. He gave a few thrusts before his knot locked, slowly pushing the swollen base of his cock fully into you. He bit down as he came, tasting your sweet (a delicate sweetness that he'd never tasted before, rivaling your slick) blood on his muscle.

You cried, screaming and mewling, your walls closing around him in a vice, milking his cock of potent cum. Ropes fired from the tapered tip, his slit oozing and filling you with burning warmth. He pulled back, mouth unlatching from your bleeding shoulder with a dazed look.

He licked your wound when you whined, cleaning it and kissing your pain with red-stained lips. He held you close, watching you move your hands to your bulging stomach happily. He followed your hands, how you rubbed your growing stomach, being filled and plugged by him.

"Sorry, Little Red, " he kissed you, painting your lips a pretty shade of crimson. "We're stuck together fer a while."

"It's fine, Soap, " your voice was slurred, expression content.

He really got lucky, stumbling on such a sweetheart like you. If he ended up knocking you up, he wouldn't mind staying with you, you've already made a place in his heart and mind. Your smell, your taste, your voice, and your soft hands were imprinted in his mind.

He didn't mind watching run after his - your - pups, caring and motherly, doting on his children. He couldn't wait to care for you. He's marked you, you were his and his scent covered you. He was yours too, he smelled sweet and flowery, he had your taste on his tongue and you drew lines on his back and arms, marking him.

A few minutes before

Like yesterday and the day before, the hunter made his usual way through the woods. He watched over the few creatures that lived in these woods. He scratched his beard, rifle slung over his shoulder as he recalled what Gaz told him.

He whipped his head towards a scream, body stopping on the path he took. He gripped his rifle and dashed through the trees, weaving between the trunks and bushes until the screams became clearer. The high-pitched sound turned to moans and cries, deeper, wolfish grunts joined the cries. He frowned, confusion laced his blue eyes until he got closer to the source.

"-Soap!"

He froze, jumping at the name he heard. He knew Soap, the wolf that lived in these woods along with Gaz and Ghost. He peered through the thick cloud of leaves and gaped. He caught a red cloth and a small - smaller than him and Soap - figure beneath the hulking mass of a wolf, crying and mewling at the ravenous predator. He recognized the vibrant cloth, it was Little Red Riding Hood's recognizable cloak and her voice.

He knew the girl for coming over so often, invited by Nikolai, his husband of decades now. He gulped and backed away, turning away with tensed muscles and a shocked - traumatized, even - expression. He wished he could forget the sight, wipe the memory from his mind.

He wasn't sure if he'd be able to look at Little Red Riding Hood's face without feeling the awkwardness crawl his way up his nape, clinging onto him like a sinful reminder.

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