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toxicanonymity · 8 months

Text

needs

3.3k, joel miller x virgin f!reader

joel master list

Summary: Joel wants to find a bed before you go all the way, but neither of you can wait that long.

A/N: Follows ✨ Fires (1.6, prequel), Aches (900), and Thoughts (1.6), but can read alone.

WARNINGS: I8+, big girthy age gap (20/50s), still only one sleeping bag, pining, c*ck hunger, fingering, grinding, masturbation, oral m receiving, cum eating, unsafe P in V, reluctantly pulling out, loss of virginity, pet names, praise, POV alternates, NO Y/N.

“God have mercy,” he mutters to himself.

He's gonna give it to ya good one day, but not yet. Not in a sleeping bag on the forest floor. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet, he tells himself . . . Your first time shouldn’t be like this. Shouldn’t be here. But god damn . . .

-------

It’s all over your face. He’s never seen anything like it, the way you crave his cock. You shamelessly stare at his pants. His whole body, really. You were bad enough before you touched it, and it’s only gotten worse. You can’t focus, you can’t listen. It’s dangerous. He should put a stop to this, take it away cold turkey. Sleep back-to-back. But you both have needs, and he's not gonna do that.

Joel feels like he might as well be a virgin himself, it's been so long for him. Frankly, he’s dying to put it in you just as much as you long to have it. He’s been trying to wait until Jackson so he can do it somewhere safe, somewhere a little nicer, more comfortable.

He wants to wait and make sure it's nice and special for you, but good lord, you’re makin' it hard. You make the sweetest little sounds when he touches you, and even when he doesn’t, like in your sleep. You ask him things like, “doesn’t sex feel better than hands?” He tells you half-truths, like “not always.” Of course it would with you. Of course it would.

You’re in the forest. With dusk approaching, you're just about to set up camp while there's still light. Joel is taking a leak at the edge of a small clearing, calculating mileage in his head, counting down the days ‘til you should get there. His back could use a real bed, too. He's shaking his dick dry and a twig snaps behind him. His head whips around and he reaches for his gun.

It’s you. God damnit, he could’ve killed you.

“Can I see it?” you ask.

“What the hell are ya doin’ over here?”

“I just wanna see it.” You look down toward his jeans. “Can I?”

It’s fair that you’re curious, he knows that. You mentioned it the night before with your hand wrapped around it, I wanna see it, really see it, I bet it’s good looking. You’ve only felt it at night and caught glimpses in the moonlight. At the time, he mindlessly reassured you, you’ll see it, baby, you'll see my cock, and he should’ve known you’d spring this on him.

“Not now,” he mutters, trying to calm his heart rate. “Can ya gimme a second, honey?”

“Okay.” He can hear the sadness, practically see the disappointment on your face. God damnit. He tucks himself away and zips up. You're only about eight feet away. “Now?”

“No. Ain’t nothin’ to see right now.” You probably don’t realize what a big difference it can make.

“What do you mean”

“Just trust me, it’s not how you wanna see it.”

“Why?"

“Cause it ain’t as. . .”

“Ain’t as what?”

“Nothin’, baby. Just not the right time.”

“Better if we’re close together, right?” You step closer.

He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a deep breath. “This ain’t the time or the place, honey.”

When he looks at you again, your face has fallen, and you mumble, “K.”

He puts a big, comforting hand on your shoulder and walks you back to where y'all are setting up camp. “When we find a bed, I’ll show ya. . .”

"And when we find a bed," you repeat. Don't say it, don't say it, he prays to God you don't say it. "We can do it, right?" He doesn't answer. "You can put your cock inside me, right?"

Fuck, you're gonna drive this old man crazy. At least one of you needs your wits about you if you'll ever make it to Jackson. "We'll see," he sighs.

After a moment of silence, your voice trembles as you ask, "We'll see? Why not yes?"

"Cause we ain't gonna make it there at this rate," he complains, then sighs with instant regret. "I'm sorry, honey. But you gotta try to knock it off with this stuff."

You swallow and your eyes glimmer. "Sorry," you whisper.

He turns away to adjust himself, then sits down on the ground, leaning back against a log and extends an arm for you. "S'okay, c'mere."

You sit on the ground next to him. He squeezes your shoulder and changes the topic to twenty questions.

——

He’s nicer at night. He’s nice in the day, too, mostly. Once in a while, you can tell you’re annoying him, and you feel bad. If only he knew how many times you thought about it and didn't say something, he’d appreciate your efforts. It’s practically all you think about. It’s even worse now that you feel it in your hand every night, but the last thing you want is for that to stop.

You had been thinking about it all day when you finally asked what you thought was an easy request – if you could just see it, just a glimpse while he already had it out anyway.

Even if you don’t get to see it, at least it’s easy enough to recall what it feels like. Smooth, warm, and stiff. Soft veins, tiny wrinkles. A leaking slit.

—--

“Can I taste it?” you ask one night with your little fist wrapped around his shaft.

He groans quietly. “Yeah, you wanna taste it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, your hand sticky with the lube of your own slick, a bead of precum under your thumb. You smear the precum and let go of his hard cock, making it slap against his stomach. You take your thumb into your mouth and hum, “Mmm,” at the salty taste.

“Whatcha think,” he whispers breathily.

“Can I have your cock in my mouth?”

“Oh, baby, ‘course ya can.” The zipper of the sleeping bag jingles, then you hear the satisfying zzz as it unzips. He folds it down and you get up on your knees. You bend at the hip and don't waste a second. You wrap your thumb and forefinger around the base, trying and failing to make your digits touch.

Then, your lips wrap around the head. He inhales sharply through his teeth.

“Did I hurt you?” you ask.

“God no, honey. Go ‘head, taste it all ya want.”

You curiously tongue the slit and suck for more.

“Oh god damn,” he breathes.

You lick around it under the crown and you’re salivating.

He wraps his hand around yours and moves it up and down, then leaves you be. “Use your spit, honey.” You let it dribble out of your mouth and onto his tip and catch it in your fist. You kitten lick the shaft, tasting your own tang, and letting your saliva fall out of your mouth as it accumulates, occasionally sliding the open ring of your finger and thumb up and down but mostly forgetting because you’re so focused on it in your mouth.

“Ya like that, sweetie? ya like how we taste?” You take a couple inches into your mouth then suck a little more of it in. It twitches against your tongue. The biggest vein throbs.

“Alright, baby,” he pants and takes it from you. He urgently pulls up his own shirt, slides his hand a few times, then comes with a groan, his voice and pulsing manhood making you ache with need, even though he already made you come. You stay there on your knees. In the dim moonlight, you watch his tummy rise and fall with the shiny trail leading to, and pooling in, his navel.

“Can I taste that, too?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he nods.

You dip your tongue in the trail below his navel. It’s thicker, headier, saltier than the precum. It’s not every day you get to taste something new. It’s not often at all. It's delicious.

“Like it,” you whisper.

“Yeah? take all ya want.”

You lick and seal your lips as you suck it up. You pause to pluck a hair from your teeth, then continue to his navel. You dip your tongue in and his stomach flexes abruptly. You take your mouth off and pause. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout.”

You tongue his navel, then suck, and he inhales a chest full of air as you do it, his stomach rising into your lips. You lick up every drop.

“Good girl,” he sighs and cups your cheek. “Such a good girl," he sighs.

—

All day you think about it in your mouth, in your hand, resting hard against your back, between your thighs. You imagine it all over your body. Doesn’t matter if he’s pressing it up against your hip or resting it in the crook of your elbow, God, you just want to feel it somewhere. You try not to think about it inside you too much because that makes you want it so bad, you could cry. Like really cry.

It’s not a want. It's a need. You see it happening everywhere you look. You see a tree, and you imagine him sitting on the forest floor against it, holding his cock at attention, ready for you to sit on it. You see another tree and he’s pinning you up against it with your legs wrapped around him, jeans pulled down under his ass as he rails you. You see a patch of moss and cluster of ferns that would be a nice pillow with him on top of you.

You think about it, and you dream about it, too. You can’t help that. He starts wearing jeans to sleep, and you can’t feel the shape of him quite as well against you, but it doesn’t matter. The fact that it’s there and it’s hard is enough to drive you mad. Even after he gets you off, it's bound to come back at some point in the night. Worst case scenario, you lose sleep over it. Best case, it works its way into your dreams.

----

One night, you're moaning in your sleep again, and Joel can hardly take it. His cock is painfully stiff and the strain against his jeans makes him ache. His hips press into you on their own; he can't stop them. All he can do is take off his jeans in hopes that being free of the rigid confines will lend some relief. He was wearing them as an extra layer between the two of you for this exact scenario, but he can no longer bear it.

On one hand, he’s taking precautions, like keeping his jeans on. But on the other hand, in the heat of the moment, when he’s touching you, he’s taking measures to prepare you, and to see how ready you are. Lately, he scissors his fingers, inserts three to see how you take it. “Good girl, that’s real good, honey.” He curls them inside you, “Ohhh, baby, you’re takin’ this real good.”

God, he wants a bed for this. You deserve a fuckin' mattress at the very least. He’s gotta wait. And yet now he finds himself taking off his jeans. He carefully removes them without waking you up. He lies there with his fist around his cock for a minute, still in his boxers, doing nothing but softly squeezing, as if that’ll make it go away. Then he resigns himself to the magnetism of your body. He curves his form around yours again and silently sighs as the hardness in his boxers rests against you and he wraps you in a hug. He manages not to thrust against your ass, but in no time, you're pushing yourself back against him. "Joel," you mumble in your sleep.

"God have mercy," he mutters to himself.

He's gonna give it to ya good one day, but not yet. Not in a sleeping bag on the forest floor. Not yet. . . not yet. . . not yet, he tells himself, taking deep calming breaths. Your first time shouldn’t be like this. Shouldn’t be here. But god damn he wants to take that tight little hole.

"Joel,” you whine and push back on him again. He can't stand it. He really can't. He has to wake you up.

He whispers, "Whatcha dreamin 'bout, sweetie?" then feels your breathing change.

When you blink awake, your hips are slowly moving, pushing your ass back into Joel's hard cock until you stop yourself.

"Sorry," you mumble. "Did I wake you up?" The sweet sound of your voice isn’t helping.

"Don't be sorry, baby," he murmurs into your hair.

"I dunno how to stop it," you whisper. "I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry 'bout, baby doll." He hugs you tight. “Don’t be embarrassed.” His cock swells harder against you. He whispers in your ear, "They want each other real bad, that's all."

"I know."

"Have a good dream?"

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“‘bout what?”

“I dunno if you wanna hear it,” you tell him. Fair enough, he's told you to knock it off, after all.

“Sure I do, honey. Was it you and me?”

“Yeah,” you wedge your hand between your legs.

"You want a hand?"

“Yeah.”

“What’d ya dream?” he asks as he reaches into your panties. "God damn," he whispers. You're soaked, swollen, and your clit is throbbing against his hand. "Poor thing." He thrusts his hardness against your ass. "No wonder you're tryin' to get at this, huh?"

You're quiet.

"No wonder ya can't stop thinkin' ‘bout it." He thrusts against you again and moans softly. "What'd ya dream, baby?"

“It was. . .” you can hardly form words thinking about it. It was so vivid, so real. “We were right here, like this.”

“Yeah?” He uses your ample moisture to lightly rub your clit.

He begins to make peace with himself that this might happen before he wants. He hooks his fingers into your panties. “Let’s take these off for a lil bit, hmm? Let her breathe.”

“Okay.” You bend your knees as he pulls your soaked panties down.

—-

"We were right here like this, in the dream?" He repeats.

“You took it out of your pants,” you whisper. He moans softly, takes his hand away, and jostles behind you. Then you feel his naked cock against your skin. Your breath hitches and you whimper at the contact. He returns his hand between your legs and lazily circles your clit, pressing his naked dick against you.

"Took it out like this?" He asks soft and deep.

"Yeah,"

He thrusts against you and whispers in your ear, "Then what?"

"You put it between my legs."

He inhales sharply then wedges his cock between your thighs, shuddering as he slides it forward along your dripping seam and the head meets his fingers on your clit.

You tilt your hips and he whispers, "Oh, baby. Like this?"

"No, you put it inside," you whisper.

Joel's breath hitches and he twitches against your heat. You moan. He slides slowly through your folds to your clit and back. He tries to slow down and think it over, but there are no thoughts, just his stiff, aching cock and your tight little pussy begging for it.

——

“Will you do that,” you ask, looking over your shoulder but not enough to meet his eyes.

Joel takes a deep breath. “You think I should? Don’t wanna wait for a bed?” He thrusts in small pulses. “Just a few days, baby.”

“They wanna be together real bad,” you whisper. “how they’re meant to be," you remind him.

Joel groans at your words. “I know, baby doll.” He takes a deep breath. “How’d it feel in your dream?”

“Full, really full,” you tell him, then sigh. “Felt so big.’

“Ohh, fuck,” Joel breathes into your hair and slides his cock against you, wet and stiff.

“It was like I was hugging you with my, um,” you say, then swallow and tilt your hips. "Hugging it."

“God damn,” he sighs. He pulls his cock back, and as he slides it forward again, it catches at your entrance. You spread your thighs ever so slightly. “You sure ‘bout this,” he confirms, and uses the hand between your legs to nestle his tip just inside. You gasp.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yes, please. Joel, please,” you whine. You push back on him with a small grunt, stretching yourself open on his tip.

“Oh god, baby,” he sighs, then he holds you still and slowly pushes himself inside with a quiet groan muffled by your hair. “Fuck, you’re–ohh, you’re tight.” You gasp as his girth parts your walls and your body makes room for him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod urgently, and he twitches inside you.

You shiver with pleasure as he pushes further and sighs, “Oh, baby.”

“Joel,” you whine, “its so big”

“Too big?”

“No,” you reassure him. “I want it.”

He pushes the rest of himself in until his pelvis is flush. He breathes heavily and mutters, “fuck.”

You moan and push back on him. “s’perfect,” you whine.

“you like havin’ me in here?”

“I love it,” you say.

“As much as the dream?”

“More than the dream.”

“What happened next?” he asks

“Then you it moved like you do in my hand.”

“Yeah,” he begins to rock his hips, his thick cock dragging inside you. “Like this?”

“nnngghh–yeah,” you nod then gasp as you're filled by his length again. “ohhh,” you moan. "And then you came inside—”

He groans, then pants as he’s moving inside you, “Ohh fuck, sweetie I can’t—ohh, I can’t do that, uggghh–god damn.”

“Felt so good, like a massage”

“Ohh, baby, please don’t–”

“And warm”

“Fuck,” he breathes and covers your mouth with his free hand, bicep flexing under your neck as he does it. No way he’s gonna last with you talking like that.

He begins to slowly move again and you whimper. You’re right, it is like you’re hugging him. You’re so tight and wet for him, taking his cock so good.

"Good girl," he whispers, burying his length in you every second or so, only pulling back halfway each time.

"Such a good girl, wantin' my cock so bad." He moans. "Waitin' all this time—uggh." You push your hips back to meet his thrusts. "That's my girl, takin' me so good," his next thrust is harder and you moan. "Yeah, just like that," he breathes. His hand teases your clit as he fucks you. You whimper and he repeats, "just like that," his voice shakier, his breath heavier on your ear, “yeah.”

You moan into his hand, and his fingers circle your clit. “C’mon, baby,” he pants. “Gonna come on my cock?” You nod and hum your agreement. “Better do it now, then, you can do it.”

You let go and your clit pulses madly, your walls clench down on him. It feels so good, your eyes well up in tears.

“Ohh, baby,” he sighs, and suddenly pulls out. He replaces his cock with two fingers that your cunt begins to hug. “Such a good girl, squeezin’ my fingers.”

His aching arousal presses against your ass, and he humps against you as he fingers you. “Ohh, yea--ohhhh.” His cock begins to pulse, spreading a silky warmth across your skin. He moans and sighs as you finish coming on his fingers and his balls empty.

—-

He uses a shirt of his to clean you up. As his breathing calms down, he hears you sniffling. “Hey, hey, you okay, sweetie?”

You’re fine, more than fine, but you can’t talk.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself when you don’t answer. He peeks over your side, gently stroking your arm. “Hey, c’mere, talk to me, sweetie.” You turn around and face him. “You okay, honey?”

You nod and smile at him with watery eyes.

His brows knit as he finishes catching his breath. He kisses you on the forehead and wraps you in a hug. You sniffle again and he speaks into your hair. “I know that was a big deal for you, baby.” He pulls his head back and tilts your chin up. “It was big for me too, okay?” You nod. He reads your eyes, then presses his lips into yours. He reads your face again, then repeats the kiss and you kiss him back. He kisses you on the forehead and holds you, stroking your head. You fall asleep holding each other face-to-face.

-----

Thank you so much for reading and engaging! Your comments and reblogs go a long way in motivation so if you liked it plz consider saying something 🫶. There's a virgin section on my joel master list right above the one shots. Left in Lincoln is a pretty similar Joel, in terms of how he is with you sexually. For more Joel POV, the most recent raider, Night Air, has a lot.

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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

body electric | everyone x f!reader

It's the burn of hindsight, that fuzzy little thing called moribund that leaks into your marrow as you all take turns showering (they let you go first, unspoken, of course), and converge around the large meeting room where everything—including Simon Riley—was exposed.

Several drinks in, Gaz turns to you and says: never have I ever… had a gangbang before, and things quickly devolved from there.

(Well. You can scratch that off your bucket list.)

Simon, Price, Gaz, Soap, Alejandro, Rudy x f!Reader

⇾warnings: unfettered filth; gendered reader, gendered terminology, female!reader; oral—m&f receiving; unsafe sex; p-in-v sex, fingering; anal, rimming, anal fingering; this is a 6 man gangbang ummmmmmmm what more can i add?

⇾notes: um. yeah. it is what it is and it is nasty.

thank you so much @moondirti for encouraging me to write this, and @sprout-fics and @guyfieriii for the juicy ideas (and full credit for the makeout sess with Rudy goes to @guyfieriii) 🖤

(@ tumblrstaff, please don't delete my blog for this)

also, thank u so much cod fandom. if this revokes my fandom license, just know that it's an absolute honour and privilege to go out into the way i came in—with nothing but filth.

you only have yourselves to blame. and this person in particular 😭

It starts like this:

Price, a little bruised around the edges, and worn from the helicopter, grumbles about needing a drink. Gaz, a little quieter than usual, a little subdued, nods firmly beside him.

It's a spate—Shepherd, Graves—and the cumulation of it all leaves you feeling a little lour, a little out of it. Betrayal, death. You all reek of gunpowder and ichor.

That may be why there is a palpable sense of relief when Alejandro and Rudy fish out some bottles stashed away in the kitchen. He holds two by the nozzle, hefts them in the air, and says:

Who wants some?

No one, not even Ghost, says no.

Several drinks in, Gaz turns to you and says: never have I ever…, and things quickly devolved from there.

That was then, before you knew how Price, Soap, Gaz Alejandro, and Rodolfo, liked to kiss.

Price—rough, just like everything else about him; shades of smouldering tobacco leaves in the form of an unrelenting powerplay. He batters you into docility, leaves you feeling vapid and stupid by the time his hands rubs circles on the small of your back, the other holding your chin and leading you—always a leader, always—in whichever direction he wants. He's a thinly-veiled lesson in discipline. When you stray from his command, his fingers—thick, and bruising—are immediately there to reprimand you. He tastes like leather and smells like suede. His beard grazes your face until you feel a little sunburnt, a little dazed. He smells of low-grade motor oil and charred pinyon, and the musk of it makes you feel more intoxicated than the aged tequila on your tongue.

His tongue curls over your teeth and the noises he lets out are rasping guttural growls. The kicking engine of a classic car that was left to idle for too long. An American muscle car, maybe. The whiplash bellow of a Hemi purring against your lips. A mustang, a Chevelle. Something drenched in masculinity and oozing authority.

It's controlled. Blistering. He shifts your body around until you're tucked into the warm press of his chest. His hold is ironclad. No escape.

It's Soap, then, something falling from his lips. My turn, maybe. But nothing is solid in the effervescent grey matter saturating your thoughts. You feel drunk with pink peppercorn and sweetgrass when it envelopes you from behind.

His hands pull you away from Price, murmurs of soft words, things meant for a lover spill from his full pink lips. So pretty, hen; gonna make you feel so good. His eagerness shows he slots his pelvis to yours, and the hard, firm bulge of him nearly has you seeing stars.

Soap lingers for a moment, fingers tracing the wet curve of your raw lips, chafed and irritated by the bristles of Price's beard.

It wouldn't be wrong to call the way he touches the drying amalgam of yours and Price's—captain Price, superior, boss; untouchable—saliva obscene. It's filthy the way he grazes his finger under the curve of your lip, eyes honeycomb and wanting.

"Wanna gimme a kiss, hen?"

When he asks you like that, soft and hushed, the ghost of his breath across your stinging lips, you can't say no.

His mouth is molten on yours. He kisses you like he's starving for it. It's wet, and messy. Spittle drips down your chin when he shoves his tongue in your cavern, chasing your taste. Teeth clash, and your lips are pulled softly into his mouth until they swell, bruised and numbed. He only pulls away when you gasp, begging for air, grinning wickedly in the amber glow.

You barely have a second to catch your breath before Gaz is there, hands firm on your ass, dragging you into him.

Gaz peppers you in small, full kisses. Open mouth, teeth sinking into the plush bed of your bottom lip, suckling it into his mouth. Then he pulls away, leaves you dazed, and leaning forward, chasing the thrill of him. He huffs, hands sliding around the curve of your waist. Want it bad, eh?

A tidal wave. A storm surge. They batter against you until you're drunk off the taste of them. An illicit elixir of sin. A tantalising tease of what's to come.

Alejandro kisses you with unmatched finesse. Velvet soft sensuality that tastes of spiced clove and armoise. It starts slow. Just the press of his lips on yours. They lift into a grin, teeth sealed when you whimper and try to chase the santalum on his tongue. He laughs: a low, throaty chuckle, and wedges the tip between his teeth. A small taste, but not nearly enough to satiate you. You feel a little bit like you're floating in the clouds when his tongue finally fills the gap between your teeth; roiling over every inch of space he can find.

You feel like a beached log—ruined by the gritty sand on the bottom of the seafloor, and spat back out into dry land. Covered in the taste of them all, you find yourself slipping off a steep precipice into a chasm you can't climb out of.

It's Rodolfo, then, who grounds you.

His hand is warm on your chin—a beacon of light in a dark tunnel. His lips are a balm to your irritated, bruised flesh. It's sweet. The taste of sweet Brachetto d'Acqui and hedgerow blossoms. He smells of golden copal and kisses you like he's pressing his lips to the hands of his Father; a baptism in soft skin and reverent touches that make you feel like you've been found. Its featherlight whispers of his lips across your skin: the corners of your mouth, the soft skin between your chin and lower lip.

Hands on your waist, hot and heavy. Soap sinks his face in the space between your shoulder blades with a slow drawl of your name, teeth grazing your flesh. His stubble abrades your flesh until you're trembling in their embrace. Static shocks of pleasure bloom in the pits of your stomach.

Rodolfo's head drops, murmured words spilling in hymnals as he nuzzles your neck. Soft, gentle. He puts you together again just to dissolve you into ashes from psalms.

Gaz leaks grape cigarillos, and nag champa incense when he presses flush to your side.

It's when he asks Alejandro if there's any oil, any lube, does it start to sink into your sun-warmed flesh that this is happening. It's real.

You could blame Gaz— never have I ever had a threesome or a gangbang —but the idea mushroomed inside of your head, sporous and damning, until it was all you could think about. you, of course, weren't immune to the sudden hush that fell over the group drinking near the table when you stammered out your answer:

No, I've never had a threesome or a gangbang before.

It all happened so suddenly. The atmosphere was a rich, dense cloud of feverish energy buzzing around you; a miasma of hedonism in smoke and white musk.

Price, then, behind you. Alejandro's barking laughter (no way, cariño, you're too beautiful to never have been fucked like that before). The way Soap's eyes gleamed in the light. Rudy's quiet shake of his head. Ghost's eyes liquifying: heavy, midnight oil on your skin. The sound of glass cracking when Gaz said:

Well, would you?

Would I…? Silence. Poignant. Stifling.

Would you ever have a gangbang?

It spiralled from there. Gaz's words burrowing into your skin. His hands—are hot and heavy on your body. Soap dropping to his knees as he lifted your leg up on his shoulder, breathing deeply against your clothed cunt.

Want to, hen? Wanna take all a'us?

Alejandro's sharp breath. Might break her, hermano. Don't know about you, but I'm a big man.

Yeah, Price's mouth on yours, breath ghosting over your trembling lips. The scratch of his beard rubbing your skin until it was pink and flushed. Ain't the only one, mate.

Lips searing into yours. Sensual rolls of his tongue from Alejandro, hands roaming across your back. A soft, sweet series of kisses that left you breathless from Rudy. Messy, almost hypoxia-inducing ones from Soap that made your head spin, and drool dripped down your chin, your neck, covering your chest. An intense, blistering assault by Gaz, his hand firm on the nape of your neck.

It felt a little bit like a dream. Feverish and desperate. Tinged in the surrealism of being passed around like a prized trophy kissed after a well-won match.

It feels like a cacoethes and carries the taste of Alejandro's tequila. Bad decisions made under terrible influence.

And now—

Now:

There are hands on your body—many of them, in fact: Price holding the back of your knees up to your chest as he swipes his tongue over your aching cunt, lapping at your clit; Soap's on your nipples, pinching and tugging until you're mewling at the sharp pleasure-pain that ripples down your spine. Rodolfo stroking your face, murmuring in dulcet Spanish about how good you are, how pretty you look with your captain between your thighs. Alejandro's fingers ghosting over your torso, and trailing down to your throbbing clit when Price forces the thick of his tongue inside your quivering hole.

It edges into overstimulation; you're equally aware of every single brush across your trembling flesh, and completely gone at the same time. Dissolved into liquid mush.

And they haven't even really started yet.

Gaz is gone somewhere in search of the petroleum jelly in the office upstairs. Ghost leans against the wall—not willing, you think, to partake but still here, still watching you spread out on the table where he dropped his mask for the first time as everyone touches you.

"Fuck, cariño," Alejandro rasps, his finger pressing against your clit in tandem with Price's tongue fucking into the clutch of you. It's too much—his voice is heavy with sin and the heft of it makes you quake. "Bonita. You're so pretty like this, eh? All flushed pretty carmesí and aching for it."

Rodolfo, Rudy he murmurs low in your ear when you whimper his name, chuckles. "She's stunning, eh, hermano."

"Fuckin' right," Soap breathes, his fingers drifting across your smeared lips. "You want this, aye, bonnie? Want us to fuck you silly?"

All you can do is moan brokenly around his hand, fingers rubbing across your tongue.

"Where's Gaz?" Price grumbles into your cunt, beard grazing your inner thighs. "Wanna fuck this tight pussy already, love. Need to feel you around my cock—"

He punctuates his words with the tips of his blunt fingers, pushing two of them into your dripping hole. The sting makes you keen, makes your knees shake. You want to say too much, too sudden, but you can't speak around the three fingers shoved into your throat.

The look on your face makes Alejandro groan. "I want your mouth, cariño. Can I?"

"Christ, hermano," Soap huffs, amused. Tone draped in sex. It makes your thighs quiver. "Ready to start, then?"

"I am," Price grouses, nose flushed against your clit. "I've been thinkin' about this cunt for a long time, love."

They move in tandem. Seamless weaving with one singular goal of stuffing you full of all of them.

Soap pulls his hand away, rubbing your slick over his flushed cock.

You moan against Alejandro's cock when he presses it to the seal of your quivering mouth. His hand is firm on your head, but his eyes are gentle. He waits for you, holding still until you give him your affirmation to continue. The sight of his flushed, tanned cock makes you whimper. He smells of sin: oud and myrrh; heady and thick. Your head swims with the way it clots in your lungs.

Your mouth aparts, tongue rolling out over the weeping head of his cock. It's salty. Brinny. You moan a little when it slides deeper into your mouth.

"Jesus—," Soap pants, rough and slurred. The noise jars into you.

Hands fall over you again, and you lose track of who is touching you when Price groans into your cunt, and Alejandro pushes your jaw open wider, sliding more of his cock into your mouth.

The air buzzes with something bordering on frenetic. Pent up energy from the success of the mission, the alcohol spuming in your veins. The high of the win burns through everyone.

This—a gangbang —would never have happened if it wasn't somehow the perfect storm, the coalescence of all the right emotions.

It's intense. Surreal.

And then Alejandro pitches his hips forward with a smoked groan, murmurs:

"Fuck, gonna cum, cariño. Are you gonna swallow it for me?"

A hushed silence falls around you. It's one thing to attend, but another to partake, and you wonder if they are realising that this is the point of no return.

It's met with a soft moan.

You want it. Want his cum. Want to taste more of that salty haar tang in your throat, feel it settle in the pit of your belly. Hot and syrupy thick.

He pitches his hips forward, hand sliding up the length of his cock not buried in your throat, stroking himself as you suckle on his head. It's sloppy, and wet, and fuck —

Alejandro is the first to cum. The first to spill his milky release on your tongue. It's salty, briny. Not at all dissimilar to the margaritas he handed you hours ago.

His moan is choked and hoarse, a low bellow in the depths of his belly that rumbles through you in a series of deep uh, uh, uhs.

You barely have time to swallow when Rudy is there. Hands on your cheek, eyes lidded and pleading. Can I, cariño?

Alejandro's cum spills from your tongue when he pulls away, dribbling down your chin, neck. It puddles on your chest where Soap's thumb catches the droplets, smearing them around your hard nipples.

You nod, swallowing down the mouthful of cum, brows furrowed in pleasure with each roll of Price's tongue laving at your cunt; the gentle way Soap kneads your flesh.

Rudy shuffles closer, and the flavour of cardamom spumes around you. His body burns hot, heavy cock twitching in his grip. Your mouth drops, tongue lulling out, and he grunts at the sight, eyes cresting.

"You're beautiful, mi Reina."

Rudy's cock brushes across your tongue, eyes shuddering when you wrap your lips around him, head tipping back in pleasure. "Fuck…"

Your tongue laves over his slit, tasting the salty spill of him. His breath is ragged, heavy. There is no warning—just a strangled choke of your name—and then he's cumming on your tongue, ropes spurting over your cheeks and chin.

You gasp, wet and broken, and absolutely filthy.

"That's it—," Price mumbles against you, blowing a huff of air across your slit. It makes your toes curl—the perfect mix of not enough and too much, and—

Rudy strokes your hair, eyes glazed. The angle is awkward, but his mouth slots over yours, tongue rubbing over the mess they made of you. He kisses you like he's worshipping you. Like you're the best thing he'd ever tasted, and he can't get enough.

There is a blunt pressure against your core. A delicious coil inside of you unspooling.

Price has three fingers buried to the knuckle inside of you, tongue rolling over your clit, when you cum around him, knees shaking as you moan at the tight clutch of your walls stretched taut.

"Fuck," Soap breathes, taking Rudy's place when he pulls away from you, lips red and glossy. He pushes his blunt head against your cheek. Cum spurts out, splattering across your face in thick milky ropes. "That's what you sound like when you cum? Jesus—"

You barely have time to catch your breath when Price lifts his head, beard soaked in your slick. Heat pools in your belly again at the sight. He looks like ruin. Wet and dark, and hungry. You whimper when he rubs the scuff of his damp beard over your spread pussy. Coarse hair grazes your clit, and the spark of pleasure has you seeing double. Makes liquid bliss bloom in your chest.

"Couldn't wait, eh, cap?" Gaz returns with a wink, waving the bottle of jelly in his hands when he moves into your periphery.

"Can it, and get over here."

"Impatient."

Price helps you sit up, mouth stinging, and sticky with cum and saliva. His eyes catch in the dimming light high in the rafts. Drunken desire spools in the shades of sapphire blue. His thumb brushes across the corner of your mouth.

"Might have to see you like this more often, love."

"Shooting your shot already, cap?" Gaz drawls, humour lacing in his tone.

"Not my fault you waited too long."

"You're lucky," Alejandro rumbles. Firm hands fall to your shoulders, rubbing the knots in your back until your head falls, forehead pressed to Price's chest with a moan. "Should stay here, cariño. I'll make you happy. Get you nice and fat on Mexican food, and swollen with mis hijos e hijas."

"Sí," Rudy's lips brush the shell of your ear, whispering saccharine words in Spanish. "We'll live on the farm. Drinking wine every day. I'll take you to the coast."

You shudder, belly spuming with heat. Overwhelmed, dizzy. It's a dangerous elixir. A deadly combination. It makes you want, yearn.

"No way," Soap huffs. "She's comin' home with us. Back to the UK where she can sit on my cock whenever she wants—"

"You're all wrong," Gaz scoffs. "Price called dibs the moment—"

"That's enough." His command is rough, dry.

Gaz glances at you, and the humour shifts. Darkens. "Fuck, look what they did to you already."

You feel it, thick and viscous, on your burning skin. The flush deepens. You can only imagine what you look like. Your lashes are clumped together, and heavy. Cheeks irritated from the beard burn and the saline smear of cum over your flesh. Swollen, cock-bruised lips. Messy in voluptuary pearlescent.

"You look good," Soap says, taut, and slightly breathless.

They stare at you like you're a banquet—a feast. Your heart thuds in your chest, cum-filled belly rolling. Its—

Powerful. Sensual.

Price's eyes flutter when he leans over you, hands feverish when they fall on your skin. "Gotta move you, now, love. That alright?"

You swallow and taste the ocean. The sea. "Y—yeah."

He shudders. A frisson flurries across his face. "Good."

His hands are solid on your body as they manoeuvre you until your belly is flushed to the table, panting against the damp fabric beneath you. He presses his cock against your ass, letting you feel the iron-hard, velvety soft heat of him. You push your hips back, cunt throbbing. You want it. Want his cock. Want him to fill you up until you're stuffed and fat, and—

Happy, Alejandro said. Happy.

"Soon, love," his voice is a thunderclap in a bottle. You tremble when the balmy heat of him moves away from you, leaving you spread and exposed.

"Fuck," Gaz murmurs. His hand trails down your spine, fingers slipping between the crease of your ass.

He spoke to you about it already. Five of us. Wanna—he licked his lips, eyes hooded and caramel rich—wanna let me fuck your ass?

In for a penny.

Gaz shushes you when you whimper, mouth ghosting over the soft flesh of your ass. He wastes no time. His fingers dig into your cheeks, spreading them open. You mewl. Your body is electrified: too much, too soon, too raw—too exposed; but Gaz groans deep in his throat.

"Fuck, look at you."

He doesn't give you a moment; doesn't waver even when Soap tells him to move away so they can see. There is no preamble. His tongue laves over your asshole, a filthy grunt spilling from his lips as he tastes your flesh.

"Steamin' Jesus, Gaz," Soap groans. Slick noises can be heard behind you. "Fuckin' Christ—"

It's strange. The sensation is heightened by the awareness that everyone—everyone—is watching Gaz devour your ass like it's the best meal he's had in weeks. You quiver, dropping your head into the table. Price stands by your side, cock jerking each time you moan.

His hand on your head is a comfort. A heavy weight. Your hips rock back into Gaz's tongue, keening when it slips into your hole. It doesn't hurt, but there's an insistent pressure as he stretches you open.

A cold, slick finger joins soon after, and the ache makes you choke.

"S'alright, love," Price murmurs, and your lachrymose eyes blink open, gritty and sticky, and dart to him. His hand tightens around the base of his cock. Your cunt throbs at the sight. "Focus on me, yeah?"

"C—captain—"

The rawness in your voice makes him groan. Makes them groan. You can hear Alejandro swear. Soap grunt. More slick noises reverberate around you, and you flush. Cheeks burning. They're getting themselves off to this. To Gaz fingering your tight asshole open for their cocks. Another hole for them to slip inside.

Fuck, fuck fuck—

"That's it," Price coos, low and smoky, and filled with rough tobacco.

His hand threads through your hair as Soap's roam your body, slipping beneath your chest and the table, punching your nipples, stroking your belly. Rudy, or maybe Alejandro—you can't see, can't tell—tap on your clit as two fingers are pushed back into your throbbing cunt.

You want them. Want it.

"P—please—"

Price groans, his cock spitting out prespend that dribbles down the length of him. "I want you to suck my cock, love. Will you do that for me?"

You nod, core quivering as a rush of heat flutters down to the base of your spine. You still taste Alejandro, Rudy, on your tongue.

You wonder if Price tastes just as good.

Price helps you move, and angles his cock toward you, grunting when your wet, sloppy mouth seals over the head.

He tastes even better. Salty and bitter. Tobacco ash and smoke. You want to drown in it.

Gaz stretches your ass as you swallow your captain's cock, and your head still spins with that notion, not quite able to believe you're on your knees for them, spread open, and being readied for all of them that take.

It cudgels into your stomach: a gnarling frisson that makes throb, makes you push back onto Gaz's fingers, his tongue, and moan around Price's cock.

"That enough, Gaz?" He sounds wrecked when he speaks. Ashes and gasoline; it's saturated in want. The air crackles with impatience.

His tongue slides across your fluttering hole in a long, wet stripe, as if savouring the taste of you before he pulls back.

"Yeah—," it's wet when it slurs out of him. His fingers press against your loose hole, moaning a little when you greedily take the tips inside. "Fuck, she's more than ready, cap."

Price wastes no time. He pulls you off of him, and the others—all communicating in a series of strange commands you can't decipher through the rush in your head—all make room for him.

He turns you around, and lifts you onto the table, legs spread around the thick of him. His cock throbs against your pussy when you wiggle back, trying to get comfortable on the bed of masks—Ghost's masks—and it hits you, now, that you're going to get fucked. That your pussy and your ass have been stretched, prepped, and are ready for them. All of them.

He stares down at you, nostrils flaring, and the dark look in his molten sapphire gaze makes you wonder if he feels it, too. If it's hitting him with just as much of a punch as it is you.

His cock nudges against your hole. He pauses, eyes flickering up from the seal of your cunt around his flushed, engorged head, to confirm, one last time, if you want this. If you're sure.

It's debauched and absolutely filthy, but—your hand reaches out when Soap steps up, cock bobbing with each step, and you grasp his shaft. Alejandro's fingers ghost over your bruised, swollen mouth, and you let him lead your head to his throbbing cock, lips sealing over the leaking head.

Rudy's hands are reverent when he takes your other hand, bringing it to his length.

It's all the confirmation he needs, but still. Price waits. Your heart thunders in your chest. Your captain—always so—

The thought is nipped when you nod around Alejandro, and he pushes inside of your pussy. Stretching your cunt with his girth. You moan, legs falling open wider as he splits you apart.

It's good. It's too much. It's—

He feeds it into you, lips curled up in a snarl as you split around him. He grunts—rasping growls that spool inside of your core until you're white-hot, and whimpering.

"Come on, love," is rucked from his throat. A battering ram against your chest swinging hard, and ferocious until you see stars. "You can take me."

It makes you tremble. Makes the world around you grind together; tectonic plates shifting, crashing. Earthquake tremors along the base of your spine, rattling your bones. It cracks them open, and leaks Nirvana through your bloodstream.

Price's cock wrenches you open. Each inch jarring the soporific slurry of sex and smoke congealing heavy in your veins until you're mewling around Alejandro's cock.

His groans of pleasure as resin thick; smouldering sandalwood. Cracking sap. He works himself inside of you, gruff praises falling from his still-damp lips. You feel good. This pretty cunt was made to get ruined, wasn't it? Take me, love. That's it. They slide over your skin, oud oil and syrup thick, until your flesh prickles with goosebumps.

Alejandro's cock hits the gummy walls of your throat, his grunt curls over you. Clove and amber. You burn. There is a give, and then—

His hips slide against yours, cunt stuffed to the brim with his cock. Tears leak down your cheeks at the feeling of him sitting so heavy inside of you, at the blunt press of Alejandro's cock choking you in shallow thrusts.

"Bloody hell—," he groans, head tipping back as he stares at the seal of your pussy taut around the base. "Look'it you. So full of cock. You look like you were made for this, pretty thing."

"Our little slut, eh?" Alejandro huffs, pushing his hips closer to your face as you lap at him. "If her pussy feels as good as her mouth, hermano, I won't last too long."

"Fuck, can't wait to fuck you next," Soap grunts, his hand wrapping around yours as he guides you along, showing you what he likes. "Cannae fuckin—"

Rudy's hand falls to your swaying chest, rubbing your aching nipples as Price begins to fuck you, filling you up over and over again with his fat cock.

It's good. It's so fucking good. You whine around Alejandro, and feel molten pleasure bloom in your belly as they use you, revere you; eyes fixed on your body as you take them all in.

"I'm gonna cum soon," Price grunts, his hips pistoning into you hard enough to jar the table. The metal legs grind against the cement floor. The room filled with the scent of sex and the lewd noises that spill from the wet squelch of your cunt greedily swallowing down your captain's cock. The suckling sound of Alejandro fucking your throat. "Look at you, look at this pretty fucking cunt taking me—"

Soap's fingers fall to your clit as Price hits the plug of your womb with the blunt head of his cock, sending pleasure ricocheting down your spine until you're arching off the table. Muscles coil, tightening together as he knocks into the soft walls of your pussy, sending you reeling.

"Ah, fuck—," Alejandro grunts. "I'm gonna cum, cariño. You'll swallow it for me, eh? Swallow it all—fuck—"

He cums down your throat for the second time, hands stroking your face as he feeds it to you with muttered words in slurred Spanish too fast for you to pick up.

You can't focus. Can't think—

The taste of cum on your tongue, the blissed noses that spill around you, and the way Price fucks you deep, battering against your fluttering walls have you seeing stars.

You moan, nearly choking on the thick cum that drenches you. Soap leans down, spits on your clit, and rubs the mess in with his fingers. It's feral. It's disgusting—

Your cunt spasms as you're shoved over the precipice, squeezing and throbbing like a heartbeat around the thick plug of Price's cock as he spears it against your womb; a battering ram into your flesh.

"Jesus, captain," Soap sounds awed, voice pitched low and slurred. "Just givin' it to her, aye?"

"Fuckin' hell—"

He cums inside of you with a grunt of your name draped in liquid sin. Cock twitching deep inside of you, pressed taut to your womb. He holds it there and makes you take it. Drowns your cunt in his thick cum.

It's wet between your thighs. Your throat clicks when you swallow, nose burning from the flood of briny cum Alejandro poured down your throat.

Price pulls out slowly, taps the head of his sticky cock against your clit, and you flush at the feeling of him leaking out of you.

There is no respite. Gaz's hands are on your body, head numb and fuzzy, as they speak about the intricacies of fucking you, of filling you up.

"Think she's ready for two?"

"Are you?" Soap's fingers fall to your aching cunt, spreading the thick cum around your clit. "Can you take us both?"

"No. Not yet." It's Ghost who speaks, and your belly rolls at the low husk of his voice.

"Yeah, give her one more."

Soap's fingers slip into your cunt, and curl against your sensitive walls. "Fuck, captain. You filled her up good."

Rudy's thumb presses against the seam of your mouth, eyes pleading when he stares down at you. His thick cock grasped in his hand.

You're little more than a ragdoll. An offering between the gods. Soap parts your thighs, head tapping against your throbbing cunt.

Price leans against a beam close by, eyes burning into you in search of any glimmer of distress. Having him close by calms you. Makes you relax. You settle, mouth popping open for Rudy as Soap pushes himself into your pussy.

"Fuck, your pussy feels incredible—"

He lets out a string of curses in rapid-fire Scots, burying the full length of himself into your cunt.

He fucks you like he's aching for it. A madman. His hips bludgeon into you until you're seeing stars, until you're choking around Rudy's cock. It's too much. Too much—

You want more.

Rudy's hands are gentle on your face, brushing your hair away as he cants his hips. His cock slides over your tongue, and you try to hollow your cheeks, to make it good for him, but the blistering pleasure makes your mouth fall open.

"It's okay, bonita." He murmurs, resting his head on your tongue as he fists the length of himself. "Just like this, okay? Just like this. Let me—," he fucks into his palm, eyes rolling back as he rubs his weeping slit over your tongue.

Gaz's hand grabs your swaying breasts in his hand. "I'm gonna fuck your ass next, yeah? Gonna split your little hole open on my cock. You don't want, don't you? Wanna be fucked in all holes, like a little whore."

Fuck. Fuck—

Rudy pushes his cock into your mouth, groaning as molten cum sputters out, drenching your tongue and cheeks.

"Oh, fuck—," Soap pants, hips slamming into you. His eyes are fixed on your messy face. "You look so fuckin' pretty with cum all over you, so fuckin' good for us, aye?"

His eyes snap shut, brow furrowed in pleasure as he buries the full length of himself inside of your spasming pussy, filling you with another load of cum.

It's good. It's so good. The sensation of hands on your body isn't foreign anymore. Alejandro moves when Rudy finishes, stroking your hair, and leaning down to kiss your forehead. You go to him eagerly, mouth parting as he slips his softened cock into your mouth.

Words are murmured around you, grunts and groans of pleasure so robust and full that you clench, aching at the sound of their bliss.

Fingers on your nipples, your clit, makes you see white. Makes your back arch as liquid pleasure blooms inside your core again.

Soap pulls out, and you barely have time to mourn the loss of him when Gaz slots between your legs, fingers falling to your ass, and slipping inside with a groan.

"Nice and loose, now," he purrs, spreading his fingers inside your tight channel. "Gonna fuck this pretty asshole. Gonna fucking ruin you. Alejandro's gonna fuck your pussy after, eh? Maybe me and Price can fill you up at the same time, huh?"

"Gaz," his name is drenched in smoke, a shuddering rumble that stabs tight into your core when Price speaks. Your cunt throbs at the thought. "If you don't hurry up—"

"Alright, alright, cap."

Rudy's behind you at the head of the table, hands roaming over your skin, smearing cum all over your flesh. He murmurs low, sweet words in Spanish you can't hear over the roaring in your ears when Gaz spreads your legs, cock nudging against your virgin hole. It's comforting, though. His presence is solid. Your hands grip his forearms, whining at the sting, the blunt pressure pushing into you.

Soap groans. You can hear his voice to your left along with slick sounds of him touching his spent cock.

"That's so fuckin' hot. Steamin' fucking Jesus—"

You're relaxed enough that Gaz slips inside without much of a burn. It feels strange: a heavy pressure, a slight sting. You're prepared enough that it's more foreign, and uncomfortable than it is painful. But it's—

Full.

You moan when his hips buck shallowly, pushing more of him into your asshole. It's weird. It's strange. It's—

"How does it feel, love?"

Price's fingers fall on your throbbing clit. Alejandro's—you think, maybe; you can't see through the blurred tears in your eyes—push into your sopping cunt, groaning wetly at the lewd squelch of the cum inside of you.

"It's—"

Belly full. A pressure unlike anything you'd felt before. Snug, and tight, and—

"Good," you whimper, arching your back. Your nipples are tugged. Pussy stuffed with three of Alejandro's fingers. Ass full of Gaz when he finally, finally, bottoms out with a moan. "It's so good—"

He fucks you slow, steady. Savouring the tight clench of you around him.

Price works your clit, murmuring about how good you are. How pretty you look, full of cum and getting your ass stuffed with cock.

"You were made for this, weren't you? Little cockslut."

It punches the air from your lungs when he hisses it into your ear.

Gaz pushes the length of himself inside your ass, moaning about how tight you are. How he can't wait to fill you up. His hands fall, sliding over your ass cheeks until he brushes over the rim of your stretched hole, hips stuttering.

"God," he chokes. "Fuck, you look good."

"Yeah, she does," Soap breathes, hands palming at your body, rough and hot and tacky with his release. They glide up the length of your body, pressing into your swollen mouth. "Open up for me."

His fingers taste of pennies when he pushes them against your tongue, stroking over your flesh. He thrusts them in tandem to the rolls of Gaz's cock splitting you deeply. It's a filthy crescendo of moans, grunts, the sloppy wet sound of your gummy mouth being fucked by three of Soap's fingers, and the lewd, fleshy snap of Gaz's pelvis and thighs slapping against yours.

Rudy strokes your hair, pushing the tangled mess of it out of your eyes, and murmurs about how good you're being. The soft praise prickles over you like the warm glow from an altar candle. The heat makes your eyes burn, stinging with tears, and you take what they give you, and try not to get lost in the rapture of their flesh staining your skin.

Price's finger pushes against your sensitive clit. Rudy's soft voice permeates around like burning incense. The heavy weight, the foreign slide, of Gaz stretching your channel makes you keen low in your throat, muffled by the messy drag of Soap's knuckles on the roof of your mouth.

You cum again, shuddering from the billowing pleasure blanketing you from all sides, and fall into the embrace of Rudy's arms. Price's hands are a plinth on your hips, keeping you up, keeping you grounded, and Gaz works himself to completion, scorched words of bliss spilling from gritted teeth.

Soap leans down, tongue catching the mess spilling from your gaping mouth. Alejandro rubs your fluttering walls. It's intense. Overwhelming. You're surrounded by a dense smog of pleasure and musk: clove cigarettes, bayberry, oakmoss, and the thick tang of a wet, loam and humus forest.

The drawling moan Gaz lets out makes your core ache. He buries himself deep, hips glued to the plush seam of your ass, and he spills deep inside of you.

"Joder, cariño, you look good with your ass stuffed, eh?"

You can't speak around Soap's fingers. The only noise that spills is a sloppy, wet moan.

Gaz presses kisses into your spine, slowly, slowly, pulling out of your ass.

"Yeah, she does." He slurs, rubbing his chin over the small of your back. "Who's next?"

Everything blurs into a fever dream of hands and tongues, and the delicious stretch of your cunt, your ass, as they stuff you full of them. Filthy words are whispered into your temple as they grow bolder with your body.

Price gets you off just by slapping his palm over your clit until you clench around Rudy's cock. Soap licks up your tears, fingers pressed as far down your throat as he can get them, and murmurs how sexy you look full of cum. How he can't get enough of your tight cunt and pretty little hole.

You were made for them, Alejandro whispers, and pulls your hips down until you're seated on his cock. The blunt head of Rudy's cock soon presses to your wet asshole, bottoming out with a deep groan. His hands are reverent as they run across your flesh, choked whimpers falling out about how fucking stunning you look when you're stuffed to the brim.

You sob between them as they share a messy kiss over your shoulder, grunting into each other's mouths as they ruin you.

Gaz and Price drag you away soon after they finish, petting your messy hair away from your sticky, sweaty forehead, and splitting you apart between them. You scream into Price's chest as he holds the fat of your ass cheeks open for Gaz to rut into like a man starved for it. Possessed. He coos in your ear when Soap shoves his cock into your gaping mouth, choking you on the thick of him. So fucking good, love. Meant for this. After we'll run you a bath and you sit on my cock while I clean you up, hmm?

You feel a little stripped down to the marrow, pulverised under their wanting hands; when Price presses into your womb, and cums again. The molten spume inside soothes the throbbing ache of your core. A debauched balm to a raw wound.

It would be a lie to say you hate the way it feels to be so full of them. To have their taste in your tongue, sticking to the back of your throat, pooling in your belly, your pussy, your guts. You're full and sore and you feel like one massive contusion—broken and battered and barely clinging to sentience—when his cock slips free with a wet squelch.

It's a little surreal, but—

Comfortable. It shouldn't be. It should be weird, and awkward, and—

Fuck. You had sex with five men in the span of several hours. Your teammates, your captain, no less. And yet.

Yet:

You feel full in a way you'd never been before. Satiated and stupidly fucking happy.

Price snorts when you lay back on the floor, a blissed-out smile tugging on the corners of your mouth.

"Liked it, did you?"

You don't have the capacity for speech. Words escape you. They can't seep through the salty mess in your throat.

Instead, you moan—low and needy—and feel your belly quiver when Price's eyes flash. Smoke and embers. And when Alejandro groans aloud. When Rudy's hand trembles on your skin. When Soap's hand falls to his spent, softened cock, unable to stop the thrum of desire when you sound like you had the best meal in years. When Gaz shivers, and says please tell me we can play this game more often.

It's good. It's—

Footsteps. A hush. A shadow falls over you.

Then: "decide to join in, after all, Lt?"

Ghost's hands are hot on your sensitive flesh.

He says nothing as he crouches down on the floor where Gaz and Price dragged you, but his eyes are liquid when he stares at the mess of you. Drenched, you're sure, in cum; it leaks down your chin, out of your sensitive, raw pussy, and your aching hole. Doused in their pleasure, and burning from the sting of their ardour.

"Fuck, Lt," Soap murmurs, dazed. He'd spent himself on your face only moments ago, and when your glassy eyes fall to him, you find him staring fixed at the apex of your thighs where Ghost slots himself between. "You're gonna ruin her—"

You don't know what he means until you look back. The air in your lungs catches, eyes widening. He's huge. Fat and throbbing, prespend leaks down the absurd length of himself. It twitches when he catches you staring at him, sticky, numbed mouth dropping open.

"S—sir—"

His hand slides, fists the base of himself. He taps the head of his cock against your quivering, sloppy cunt. "Can you take me, pet?"

Shit. Shit—

You don't think you can, not at all, but—

Slick noises around you. Grunts of pleasure. Murmured words. They want to see you split apart on his cock. Stuffed full. Your belly lurches. Heat simmers inside of you once again.

Your trembling eyes find his, and you lay back against the floor, knees parting. Inviting. Your tongue rolls over your bottom lip.

"Fill me up, sir—"

He snarls.

Ghost doesn't wait. Doesn't touch you with softness, or reverence. His hands are branding, white-hot, when they fall to your thighs, pushing your knees to your chest. His eyes are glued to the messy seam of your cunt, spilling viscous cum down your ass until it pools below you in a puddle.

You're wrecked. Ruined. You'd had all of them inside of you—your mouth, your pussy, your ass—except him, and your belly flips, head a muddled slurry of want, want, want as the fat head of his cock slips over the milky mess, catching on your ruined, red hole.

"Thought you got lost, Ghost," Alejandro says, words carrying secrets you can't make sense of.

"Never."

He pushes the mushroomed head into your cunt, rumbling at the give of your body as you part for him, sucking him in deep. Ghost fills you up until your belly bulges with the length of him.

Soap moans at the sight. At the way you take the massive cock burrowing deep inside of you.

They all seem to be enjoying the way he ruins you. Over the heft of his shoulder, the thick bracket of his arms, you see them all staring at the way he wrecks you. Batters your body with wet, sloppy noises spilling out.

He fucks you slow: long, deep plunges into your core, gaze sliding in increments to your face, slack and tacky with lashes clumped together with an amalgamation of spittle and cum, and the stretch of your cunt swallowing him to the root. It's intense. Dizzying.

You feel pushed past your breaking point: overarching beyond the mettle until you're a raw nerve exposed to the corrosive chemicals in the air. Split apart and reassembled into something new and vulnerable. You're chafed and aching, and it edges on painful, and blistering like a third-degree burn being rubbed against rough wool. But despite the sting, the graze still feels good when it itches over your inflamed skin. A balm that burns before it soothes.

Ghost—Simon, now, you suppose since he's currently eight inches deep inside of your sore cunt—seems to somehow know. Maybe it's the hoarse crackle in your throat when he hits you deeply, or the exhausted droop of your eyes when he presses his weight against you, filling you up until he sits heavy in your chest, but he takes pity on your poor, battered body bursting with the molasses thick heft of euphoria that congeals inside of your marrow. His thrusts are punctured by the soft way he gazes at you. A physical weight to his stare slams into your chest with each roll of his hips, nudging you back to that steep precipice you'd dropped from so many times you'd lost count.

The dance is familiar.

But the gentle, almost possessive, way he touches you isn't.

"Fuck, Lt. Can see you bulging through her belly."

Soaps words are met with a rasping snarl, a brutal piston of his cock into your gummy, wrung-out walls. A hand falls to your belly, feeling the swell, and the pressure has phosphenes burning your eyelids when they snap shut at the heavy mist of pleasure that falls on you.

You don't think you can cum again. Your head is a slurry of intense pleasure: gummy and stupid on the way they fucked the sense out of you. Synopses misfire. You feel like you're barely cognisant anymore.

It's not good enough, though.

His fingers find your clit, pressing against the tender nub until you're bucking against him, trying to get away from the agonising euphoria pounding through your core.

"I want to feel you cum on my cock, pet."

You can't—

You really can't. But he doesn't relent. He shoves himself into your quivering cunt until you see stars flash across your eyes, and the scent of nirvana permeates in the air.

If you won't go willingly to the vertiginous edge, he'll drag you there instead.

A sharp thrust has your mind whiting out; the overstuffed feeling of being stretched to the brim sits heavy in your core. Your nails press into his shoulders, desperate to hang on to something tangible, real. They dig deeper until the moons flood with blood. It makes him groan—deep, low; rucked coals over open flames—and the noise has you reaching for Orion with your bare hands, mouth dropped low to catch the cosmic dust that permeates in the air between you.

"Fuck—" a sharp whimper has him huffing into your neck, a satisfied noise he can't bite off, can't stifle.

He likes it. Likes spreading you open, and watching you squirm. Likes the flash of pain that flickers across your face when he first kisses your drenched core with the fat head of his cock. Eyes wide, fixed on the scrunch of your brow, the wrinkles in your nose, the deep, punctured gasps that spill from your gaping mouth—he misses nothing, stare branding you.

It's the thick of him when it splits you apart, breaks you in half, that really captures his full attention. Stuffed to the brim, and clawing at him for respite from the way he fits inside of you; he takes it all in. Eyes never wavering. Liquid want flooding the bottom ring of his lower eyelids, a molten pool half hidden behind his lash line. He gazes down at you, fans of ash cresting over.

And then when he bottoms out, when his cock is fully seated inside of your body that struggles to make room to fit him, he lifts his gaze. A perfect polynya. He stares at you, then, watching—almost placidly, impassively—as you grit your teeth from the burn of taking him to the root. A slow roll of his hips to test your mettle; a harsh grind of his cock nestled taut against the plug of your womb. It has you singing.

A test of the water. A battering of the futile clutch you have over your sangfroid. He won't start until it breaks. Until it shatters.

His hands are hot when they grasp the soft skin behind your knees, pointing them down toward your swaying chest as he fucks you open in deep, almost languid cants of his hips until you're grabbing at the ground, and mewling his name. Broken, now, by his cock.

Simon is a storm.

A gale. He ravages you until you're dizzy with the brutal way he takes you—and takes, takes, takes —and begging for mercy.

None comes.

You can't barter with a typhoon. Can't make deals with a hurricane.

It hits. Breaching your shores with enough force to ruin.

"Simon," it is whispered low, constricted. The air in your lungs is liquifying; condensation builds until you're choking.

Another huff. He thrusts harder, head notching into something that has you lurching forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder. You spasm around him until he growls in your ear.

His thighs widen, pitching his hips low as fucks into you, a touch savage. Your leg slips from his hold, the back pressed against the muscles of his beneath you. The coarse hair of his legs tickles your flesh. Goosebumps erupt. You shiver.

The breath you gasp in is wispy, and thin. It isn't enough to quench the ache in your chest, but nor is it enough to truly let you slip into the throes of hypoxia. He brings you to the brink, lets you gaze over the edge of that unknown abyss, but refuses to let you any further. His grip is unyielding. It burrows into you.

Like this, with black moulting over your vision and phosphenes glimmering in the cosmic yonder that stretches out in front of you, you can feel everything. There is a startling clarity that rocks through you. You can feel each ridge and vein of his cock as he slams it into you, prying your walls open as he steals all the air from your lungs.

"Shit—"

He cums with a grunt that sounds like it was dragged through barbed wire. Liquid pleasure blooms when you feel him twitch inside of you, and all you can do is cling to his massive shoulders as he rides you through the throes of bliss battering into your core.

Eyes drink you in: wide in the pale moonlight that spills from the window, cut at the bridge of his nose by the mask, jowls snapping at you. He's bathed entirely in black; drenched in tenebrose. A Stygian being looming over you, taking its wares from the tight clutch of your body, and forcing the air from your lungs until it's filled with the scent of him, and nothing more.

"You look good like this," he murmurs, eyes fever red and cosmic black. "Fuckin' hell, pet. You were made to be fucked, weren't you?"

Your eyes roll back into your head at the gruff sin leaking from behind his mask.

"Yes," you whimper, voice shredded and wrecked. He's not the only one who groans at the sound of you, ruined and aching. "Fuck, I love your cocks—"

It feels like the end. Like you'd been spat out on the wrong side of a tornado, and thrust into a battle you weren't, entirely, prepared for.

But you won. There is victory in the ache that thunders through your joints. A hard-fought war that left you a victor in the middle of a burning no man's land.

You can hear them around you. Price stroking your hair, and whispering about how good you were. Gaz and Soap huffing with exhausted laughter that sounds a touch delirious, as if they still couldn't quite wrap their heads around the act they were buried balls deep inside of you mere moments ago.

Alejandro and Rudy mutter to each other in blistered Spanish. You hear the clink of bottles as they toast each other over a victory, and a fucking gangbang.

They take turns touching you. Caring for you. Rudy makes you drink water, eyes melted chocolate—glossy and sleek with the remnants of pleasure. Aqui. He says, pressing the cool bottle to your sweat-slicked forehead. Aquas. Drink up, mi corazón.

Alejandro supports your shoulders when you struggle to sit up and take a sip. Gaz has a towel pressed to your cheeks, cleaning up the flaking mess of dried cum and sweat. Soap's hands clench yours tight when the bottle shakes in your grasp. Price is there to hold it steady.

Ghost hasn't taken his eyes off of you once since this started. You meet his stare, gloaming light shading everything in gold. He tips his chin. A promise in the obsidian cut of his eyes.

Thought you got lost, Ghost—

Gaz huffs. Gems shatter. Crushed into shards that sit in the palm of your hand, waiting to be reassembled.

(Someday, you think.)

"Best game of never have I ever, ever."

"So….," Soap slurs, cheeks pink and eyes swimming with incipient desire. "Round two?"

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cupcakeinat0r · 29 days

Text

A Nerdy Middle-aged loser Miguel with a dad bod who teaches your genetics class

pt. 4

After seeing you flirt with that other student, Miguel went back home to his penthouse with a mixture of emotions.

First, he felt angry, and on multiple occasions. For starters, he was upset to see you smile for someone else. He wanted to make you smile like that.

Then he got even more mad that he's mad about that. It was so childish. There shouldn’t be anything between you guys anyway. Buying you things and hugging you and giving you pet names and head messages was already pushing it to the very edge.

Then he was confused. Miguel was starting to think maybe you liked him in that way, too. Was it all just platonic to you? Was it the way he looked? Did he do something wrong?

His heart drops at the thought that maybe he made you feel uncomfortable, or worse, unsafe. Feelings of concern cloud his mind making him toss and turn in bed.

This thought alone was more than enough proof to him that he needs to start treating you like what you are: his student.

That next morning, y’all had class. You scurried in at your usual 2-5 min late mark, Miguel’s eyes reluctantly following you. You sat down and smiled at him, but you weren’t met with your usual sweet, adorable professor's smile. Instead, you just get a surly glare before he starts the lesson.

The whole lecture, Miguel is using every fiber of his being to not look over at you, because he knows that if he does, he’ll fall for you all over again.

When you ask him for help, he doesn’t get as close as he used to, keeping his manly musk away from you.

When you raise your hand to answer a question, you’re not his first pick.

When you leave little treats for him on his desk, he doesn't even touch them or acknowledge them.

And when you leave class and say “Bye, Professor O’Hara! Thank you for class today!”, there’s no more “ Thank you, Mama.” No “Sweetheart”. Not even “hun”. Just “bye”.

It would be like this for about a week, treating you the way he treats the rest of his students. Miguel’s heart was breaking, but this was for the best. For the both of you. You could get anyone you wanted, and he shouldn’t put his job on the line. Besides, you seemed to be very happy with this new guy. Miguel truly believed that he didn’t deserve you anyway.

You were so confused. It was like two different people. Like night and day. You wanted answers. Luckily, y’alls tutoring session was coming up.

You knocked on his office door to be met with an indifferent man. He opens the door with no greeting, completely dismissing you as he lets you in. No gift in sight, though you were expecting that given his drastic change in behavior.

You set your bag down and sit at your seat, Miguel giving you a paper filled with practice formulas for the final. Without even looking at you, he sits at his desk and does something he never did: tend to his own work.

“Just let me know if you have any questions. Otherwise, finish those formulas and you’re good for the day.” He doesn’t even look at you when saying this, his words slightly muffled as he spoke into his hand.

Everything felt so off, it was making you want to cry.

“Professor O’Hara… are you okay?” There’s genuine concern in your voice, but his gaze doesn’t leave his paper.

“I’m fine. The formulas, please.” This is the driest you’ve ever seen him.

“You-you sure?” All you get is a tired sigh from him before he, without lifting his gaze still, uses his pointer finger to tap on the paper before you.

Not wanting to anger him, you start the practice. It’s dead silent in the office. The air feels stale. Did the lights in here always feel this clinical?

“There. I’m Finished. May you check them, please?” You ask softly, still hopeful that he’ll somehow be normal again, only to be disappointed again.

He finally peels his eyes from his own work and onto yours, his eyes quickly skimming through your paper.

“Good. You can go now.” He mutters in a monotone voice, and back to his papers he goes.

“Professor O’Hara… are you sure you’re okay, you seem… off.” You ask one last time.

“Like I said, I’m fine. It’s none of your concern, anyway. See you tomorrow for class, and don’t be late.” The venom in his voice makes you wince. You could cry right here right now.

“Did… I do something wrong?” You feel a ball form in your throat. It's when he hears your voice crack when he finally lifts his head and looks at you for the first time in a while.

Sitting in front of him just across the desk is his one weakness. He sees worry, sadness, and confusion on your face, immediately wanting to get up from his seat to take you in his arms and tell you that you can do no wrong and that you’re perfect. All he wants to do is comfort you in this moment, but he can’t do it in the way he wants to. He promised himself he'd distance himself. Partially to save his job but more so that he would prevent heartbreak.

The welling in your eyes only makes it 10x harder.

“Mama-“ the pet name slips and he instantly catches himself. He takes it back by substituting it for something more professional: your first name.

“… of course you didn’t do anything wrong. Everything is fine.” Miguel struggles to maintain his stoic front, but nonetheless still manages to keep it up, making sure you don’t know his true desire.

“Things are not fine.” You snap back. This makes Miguel look up at you from the papers in his hands.

“You don’t say hi to me when I come to class, you don’t look at me during lectures, in fact, you never look at me even when I’m talking to you, and now you’ve started calling me by my actual name… something’s wrong, so please, tell me.” You plead, inching closer to his desk.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m your professor. Besides,” he looks down at his paper again since looking at your pout was becoming unbearable, “I’m sure you’d prefer attention from someone else.” He adds, but this time, there’s actual emotion behind those words. Up until now, he has been incredibly bland, but that last statement was lined with something… like jealousy.

You started thinking. You began to connect the dots.

The only thing that had changed in the past few days was the new transfer in the class.

You had gotten along with him very well, even sitting next to each other every class and leaving together.

It clicked.

“Professor O’Hara… I’d say you’re jealous.” Your pout grew into a cheeky smile, seeing right through Miguel now.

His eyes widen, shooting you an appalled look.

“Well, I’d say you’re sadly mistaken. That’s a ridiculous accusation.” You knew you won when he got defensive. He tries to play it off by retreating to his paper again, but it’s pretty evident you stroke a nerve. His fist clenched around the poor ink pen in his hand.

“Oh my God… you’re totally jealous.” You’re completely smiling now, holding back a giggle since you didn’t want to ridicule Miguel to his face. But you had to admit, it was cute.

“And who could I possibly be jealous of, hm? Enlighten me.” He looks up at you through his glasses, the fine line along his brow creasing as he raises it.

“Well, the transfer, of course! How did I not realize!” You allow a chuckle to slip as you confront Miguel.

Miguel responds with silence, cowering back to ungraded papers.

“Awwwww, Professor O’Hara… he’s gay.”

You laugh as you say this. Miguel stops writing to look at you again, his gaze finally softening with small glints of hope.

“… he is?” He asks softly, his hard facade thrown away at last. There he is. There’s that big, soft, kind loser you knew.

“Yes! He’s as straight as a circle!” You chuckle some more. Miguel furrows his brows as he tries to make sense of the situation.

“But you two are always so… touchy. I just assumed that… ” You roll your eyes at Miguel’s oblivion. He’s so cute.

“Oh my goodness, that’s normal! He’s like one of the girls! We're just best friends.” Miguel’s shoulders seem to relax as he sits in relief. His lips begin to curl. He’s not sure if he’s smiling because now he knows you aren’t interested in that guy or because he’s making you smile and laugh.

“Well then, that’s- that’s good to know, mama… because, you know,” he clears his throat, “I wouldn’t want anyone to bother you, is all.” He lies. He looks back down at his paper to hide his growing smile. He shouldn’t be this happy about a student’s lack of a romantic interest.

You break into a fit of giggles at it all, shaking your head as you make your way around his desk, “oh, Professor O’Hara, you’re honestly too cute…” Miguel sees you coming in the corner of his eye, assuming you’re going in for a hug, but instead, you bend down to press a tender kiss on his sculpted cheekbone, pulling back with a soft mmmmmmmmmwah!, The small smack! Of your glossy lips making him look up at you with hooded eyes.

Miguel can feel his face warm up, a tingly sensation taking root at his cheek and spreading to the rest of his body. Miguel is in the clouds, looking up at you as if you were an angel that descended from the heavens (to him, you are). It took every bit of restraint to not pounce and absolutely smother you in sloppy kisses. Not yet.

You reveled in your successful advance, smiling down at him as you twirled one of his small curls at the back of his head. He looked absolutely adorable like this. The lipstick stain on his cheek makes you chuckle. It was a little funny; you had this man, twice your size who wore a scowl the majority of the time, absolutely hypnotized. You lean against his leather chair, your elbow resting on its shoulder. You speak sweetly, cocking your head to the side.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow then, yeah?” He slowly nods, still in a daze with the lipstick stain on his cheek. You go to fix his glasses, pushing them back up to their respective spot on the bridge of his nose.

“Mkay, good. Have a nice evening then, Professor, and get some well-deserved sleep, kay? Thank you for helping me. You’re the best, as always.” You trail back to your bag and start to leave, practically skipping.

He can feel his dick twitch under the tight fabric of his pants with each praise and sway of your hips. It’s like you've put him in a trance. He's completely forgotten why he was mad or sad in the first place.

Of course, you wanted to kiss him on the lips, but you don’t wanna go too fast, either. You didn’t want to seem easy, but it was so damn difficult not to with those plump lips of his. Then your eyes went to other places, like his meaty thighs and the way his stomach spilled out of his khakis, his hard cock print just below his pudge leaving very little to imagination.

“Oh, and please,” Miguel shakes out of the fog, “It’s ‘Miguel’, mamita.” He smiles at you.

You smile back at him and wave goodbye, “See you later, Miguel.” His name in your mouth sounds like a siren song. You strut out of his office with the new knowledge of your professor’s infatuation with you. This whole time, you assumed he was just a really nice teacher. You didn’t think your feelings would actually be requited.

So that’s why he bought you all those clothes and gave you head messages!

And he definitely is fucking his hand in his office after that kiss! Isn't he just dreamy ?!?!?!?

< 3

The next morning, after class, you helped Professor Miguel clean up by wiping the boards for him. He was at the desk, piles upon piles of ungraded and unread papers awaiting his review.

You watched him, hunched over his desk, brows knitted, and looking stressed out of his mind.

"Miguel," he immediately perks up at your sweet voice.

"You aren't gonna do all that by yourself, are you?" You get closer to his desk.

Miguel chuckles and sighs as he looks at the comically tall pile he has to work on, "Have been for 5 years, mama. Now, you're not gonna volunteer yourself, are you?" He playfully mocks you, but he isn't really joking.

"Of course I am! There's no need to do all this by yourself. You work yourself too hard, Miguel." you start sectioning off a thick bundle of papers, but Miguel waves his hand in refusal before placing it on yours, "No, mama, thank you, but I can manage on my own-" you lightly slap off his hand.

"I am not asking. I will help you. I want to." You divide the pile into two, then pull up a chair next to him.

"Mamita, porfa, va ja. It's getting late and this takes hours. no quiero que tu camine a ete hora." He persuades softly as he lays his beefy arm across the back of your chair, making circles on your shoulder with his thumb.

"Well then, we better get started." You say with a pen already in hand and your first research paper in front of you.

Miguel responds with a deep chuckle in his throat, starting on his own pile seeing that he doesn't have a choice. He softly smiles, stealing a glance at you from time to time. He's just happy to be with his favorite person. His girl.

A/N: Yippie! A kiss! It's on the cheek, but still, it’s a step forward!! Finally! I hope you all enjoyed it!!! n tysm for all the love on this series < 3 I didn't think I'd stretch this out as much as I am pero liiiiiike he's all I think abt ur honor!!!

Want more DadBod!Miguel? Here’s my master list, bae !!

Tags < 3

@safixiovi @mukeovernetflix @mochikisses @miguels-cock-piercings @miranexx @bunnibitez @deepdiveintothedeephive @faretheeoscar @sillygardeneggperson @librababe99 @sariespi @little-lovelace @monstersimp @oharasfilipinawife @obi-mom-kenobi @pomakori @rxckstarss @mochimoqa @princesatracionera @queerponcho @froggygal @yaysposts @koko-1025 @kikaaauu @lauraolar14 @anotherprettyprincess @kaidxra @farrowroyale @pigeonmama @exactlyyoungchaos @fayeofthenightingale @s4dow @hartsucks @amberbalcom14 @ce3stvu @helen-j-magnus @tatooieve @wait2nourh @angzlo @stargirrls @hyjionie @stargirrls @walmaerts @bammzyboomy

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vasiktomis · 3 months

Text

Loophole (Zayne x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Zayne has an Evol flare-up while you’re visiting Snowcrest. You’re a good friend, so you help him out.

It doesn't mean anything if you don't move, right?

Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~6800. Tags/Warnings: Female Pronouns and Anatomy for Reader, Reader is MC, Caretaking, Friends to Lovers, Inappropriate Doctor/Patient Relationship, Childhood Friends, Bickering, Cock Warming, First Time, Vaginal Sex, Photography, Unsafe Sex, Porn with Feelings, Switching. Post-chapter 4 spoilers. Read it on Ao3 Here!

“Let’s get you inside.”

The cold weather poses something of a threat to Zayne, you've realised.

He'd never admit such a thing, of course, but if he hadn't wanted you to make such an observation, he shouldn't have made it his responsibility to impose such an unexpectedly strong presence in your life.

A year ago, you barely knew him. To say he kept you at arms' length was an understatement, but with everything that's occurred in recent months — with such a void left in your life from the loss of Caleb and Grandma — and the ugly mysteries eclipsing once-happy memories — your doctor, of all people, is the one dedicating almost every minute of his time outside of work to trying to fill that void. It's not like he talks your ear off — he's Zayne, after all — but he makes a noticeable effort to make himself accessible to you whenever he can.

He's been a good friend to you at the sacrifice of his own comfort.

In the seven months that have passed since the explosion, you've had more exposure to Zayne than you've had any of your other friends. He rarely strays from his quiet stoicism, but it's far easier to read him. These days, you can't believe you once thought him intimidating. The softer aspects of his personality aren't offered willingly, but accidentally. A slip of the tongue here, a too-long stare at a community cat there, a smile he doesn't think you notice. He masks his requests for you to visit him in his overtime hours as nagging reminders for you to water the plants. He never asks you to bring him dinner, but there's always an extra seat pulled up at his desk when you arrive with it unannounced.

You’re sure he likes it well enough; getting to know you after all these years. You’re just not sold on how fond he is of you knowing him.

It shows stark on his typically taciturn features. Streetlamp light bounces off fluffy snow at all angles in the little village laneway, illuminating the man with an almost healthy glow as he walks stiffly beside you, right hand clutched against his side and his left doing all it can to keep from crushing the bones in yours.

“I’m fine.” He insists while you lead him up to the cabin, grimacing at a sudden chill of wind passing over the porch. There's a certain tone he uses when he's putting on the bedside manner. As a patient, you'd be soothed. As a friend, your patience wanes. He's not fine.

”I’ll get a fire going.” You mutter, ushering him inside. He tries amidst obvious pain to be gentlemanly, waiting for you to enter first, but a scowl on your part has him conceding defeat and ambling through the door. “Get in the shower. Can you turn it on by yourself?”

There’s no more warm light from the street in here. Dr. Noah likely would have fallen asleep hours ago, shortly after you’d left for dinner. Still, even in the dark, you can sense the irritation in him.

“You act like I’m frozen solid.” He retorts on his way to the bathroom, knowing better than to stick around despite the attempt to uphold his pride.

”Get your butt in the shower before I throw you in there myself.”

The warmer months gave you no initial reason to suspect anything, but as the weather worsened and temperatures dropped, Zayne began to feel more on-edge. You’d bore witness to his attacks in the past, but he was no more willing to share his condition with you beyond the odd occasion of being unable to switch it off after a battle. You knew what it looked like when his Evol was acting up. It almost caused a fight, the first time you asked about it. Then, when it became clear you weren’t simply going to leave him to his own devices whenever he was displaying the signs, Zayne steadily, reluctantly, began to let you assist. He couldn’t stand it — he still can’t, you’re sure — not playing caretaker for once, but the two of you found a rhythm; keeping an eye on his temperature, steering clear of fluctuations, little remedies that help him bounce back quicker when his Evol gets the better of him. It became second nature to you, like carrying an Epipen for a loved one at risk of anaphylaxis.

You won’t lie, though. It pisses you off. He’s a constant nag when it comes to your health regarding your heart condition, but there was no allowable mention of his condition when he brought you to Dr. Noah. Not that your opinion counts for anything, apparently, but what idiot cashes out his annual leave for an extended stay in a tundra when he's so prone to such reactions?

It had shocked you even more when your friend declared he’d be staying back for the foreseeable future, conducting research for the old man on a solo expedition on Mt. Eternal. Your friend — the one who'd taken it upon himself to be a stand-in for your lost family — alone, in the worst possible place he could be in his condition.

It was unthinkable.

Four weeks was your breaking point after you’d returned home without him.

Sure, he responded to your texts within seconds. Reception wasn’t good enough for calls, but he made sure to give you no logical reason to worry about him. It didn’t help. Once your dreams started to take the shape of him disappearing into the mountains, you cut your losses and decided to visit for the weekend.

Just as well, considering he’d been massaging his wrist in your periphery for the entirety of your first day. Still, he'd insisted on showing you around Snowcrest, spending as much time away from Dr. Noah's cabin as possible. You knew his tells. He was bordering on a flare-up and hiding it from you. Had he mentioned it and agreed to stay in tonight, you might not of had to drag him home with frost seeping out of his clothes and a foul mood. Instead, he chose to be proud about it.

Idiot.

God knows what could have happened to him if he hadn't come down from the mountain to spend the weekend with you.

He’d never let you get away with such stupidity, and it’s hard not to hold it against him. You came here out of worry in the first place, and the visit isn’t doing a thing to set your mind at ease.

You tend to rekindling the dimming embers in the fireplace, content to mind your business once you hear the shower turn on. At least he’s doing what he’s told.

The living room heats up steadily. New flames settle into a longer-lived glow. You get yourself changed into more suitable bed wear; a commandeered hoodie from your doctor’s medical school era, large enough to reach halfway to your knees. The frayed cuffs have since lost their elasticity and there are a few choice stains, and most condemning, the drawstrings have been chewed to tassels — but god, if it isn’t comfy. Time stretches on, and while the worry gnaws at the back of your mind, you leave Zayne to his privacy. So long as you don’t hear a thump, you’re content to imagine he’s probably just in there being mad at himself over not being the sensible one for once.

Zayne keeps himself locked away for the better part of an hour, in the end. Even Pie pads out into the living room to investigate what you’re doing up alone in the middle of the night before a scritch sends the fox on its way back to bed.

You’ve slid most of the way off the couch by the time the man emerges from his room in fresh pajamas. With your back to the rug, you watch him approach stiffly, slowing to a halt upside-down. He’s still rubbing at that wrist, you note.

“You’re still up.” He mutters, brow knitted in discomfort.

There’s frost on his neck. His lips are blue. It wasn’t even this bad when you were outside. A pit forms in your stomach.

Then, his wake hits you. Cold air, chilling you to the bone, and you sit up in a flash.

“Zayne—“

He silences you with a little hand motion, stepping around you to seat himself as close as he can to the fireplace.

“You’re half-frozen.” You continue when he offers you nothing else. Crawling onto the couch beside him, you reach up to tug at the collar of his sweater, trying to inspect the severity of the attack. “God, you should have said something.”

“I thought you were asleep.” He replies quietly. “I’ve seen — how much it takes to wake you-“

Zayne flinches from your touch when your fingertip skims his neck. The most aggressive warning to stay back that he can risk without waking his mentor. You ignore him, of course. You always do. Sitting close, you press yourself to his side on the couch, guiding his right arm between your thighs. Your fingers lace between his from both sides, covering as much surface area as possible as you use your body to fend off the cold.

A moment is all it takes to see some of the tension in his face disappear. He breathes through the pain, eyes closed, and you shift your gaze to the fireplace to give him his privacy with it.

”You’re in so much trouble when this passes.”

A short, sharp chuckle slips through Zayne’s teeth. He nods once. “I know.”

You sit together like this for a long while, letting him sap the heat from your body to combat the flare-up. If not for the fire, you’d be shivering. It takes time, but eventually Zayne’s breathing evens out. His face relaxes, bit by bit. His half-frozen arm feels just a little cold to the touch.

Neither of you part. Not just yet. There’s too much left unsaid, and Zayne takes far too much solace in quiet to make the first move.

You let your temple drop to his shoulder. “Snow village dates are nice, but most girls would say yes to ‘Go Fish’ and hot cocoa if it means their date makes it through the night.”

After a second, Zayne rests his head against yours.

He inhales.

He pauses.

Then…

“I wanted you to have a nice time. I didn’t think it through.”

…God, he’s such a sweet man. It’s not wonder he’s got you wrapped around his finger.

There’s such a sense of finality to the way he says it. You suppose it’s not necessarily a wrong way to think of it, but it’s not his fault. Sure, it’s your last night together for what may amount to months, and he was stupid enough to think he could get away with poking the bear, but you’d rather have him come home alive and well. Not a victim to his own Evol.

It doesn’t sit right with you to let it end like this. The moment he’s recovered, he’s going to insist you both go to sleep. You’ll take the guest bed, and he’ll take the pull-out trundle, and he’ll remain there, soundless with his back to you. In the morning, you’ll say your goodbyes, and that will be that. The next time you see him will probably be for a check-up, and he’ll spend the entirety of the ECG acting like you’re mere acquaintances again.

No, you’re not losing momentum.

You’re not sure if it’s warmth in general, or if it’s a reaction specific to you — through trust, or the Aether core — there’s just no telling. Zayne keeps his cards too close to his chest for you to ever be sure, but you do know for certain that you hold the quickest remedy. If it’s just warmth, he never lets anyone but you get close enough to supply it. If it’s trust, likewise. The Aether core? You’re the only one.

“What are you—“

Zayne stiffens when you climb into his lap. He winces in discontentment; at such an intimidate proximity, at the physical danger he still poses, at the feeling of your thighs astride his. He doesn’t look pleased in the slightest, but still, his knees shift together, offering you a more comfortable perch on which to explain yourself.

You can feel the cold still radiating from him, fighting his body to keep from regulating its own temperature. It’s unpleasant, the way the chill claws at you, reaching across the expanse of your front. The joints in your hands already ache just from holding his arm to your chest. It’s imaginable, what it must be like to host such an Evol. What it must be like to have your own flesh freeze from the inside-out on a whim.

“Not done keeping you warm.” You answer simply, making a conscious effort to keep your teeth from chattering for his sake. He’s exercising enormous restraint not flinging you off of him already. You shouldn’t push your luck by sending him into any more of a panic.

“It’s not safe for you to be this close.” Zayne protests.

“Then I’m making you safe.”

This time, a growl escapes him. Pain cuts his patience with your impudence short. “You’re going to get yourself hurt—“

Zayne’s words die in his throat when you drape yourself over him, chest to chest, arms languidly curling over his shoulders. He goes completely silent.

“Aren’t you always telling me you can control it, anyway?” You muse, relaxing into him, moulding yourself to his body. The white frost that blooms beneath his skin begins to fade from his throat, unable to contend with the warmth of your breath. “If you didn’t want me doing this you shouldn’t have shown me how well it works.”

“That was after the aid of a hot shower.” Zayne argues. His logic might apply for that aborted attempt at an early-morning hike, but it falls flat tonight. “I was trying to warm up after the shower.”

Yeah, look how well that turned out. He’s as bad at lying as you are.

“So you’re saying I ought to have—“

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“If it’s not helping, Zayne, tell me.”

“…It’s helping.” He mutters.

You declare your victory with a hum, tucking your face into the collar of his sweater.

Even his scent is cold, somehow.

Beneath you, Zayne shifts, conceding defeat. You feel his lips ghost the side of your head. Considering — then retreating from a kiss — opting instead to rest his chin on you. His affected arm remains wedged between you, while his free hand comes to rest on your waist.

Minutes pass. Zayne’s breathing steadies to a resting rhythm. Eventually, the ice retreats into his flesh, disappearing with only a lingering chill. It shifts, marking the man’s return to normal, but he doesn’t announce anything. Instead, he tugs his arm out, only to wrap around you, surrendering to the moment.

“Do you have plans, while I’m away?” He asks.

“Tara’s been looking at the blank spots on my calendar, so I’ve probably got things on without knowing, yet.”

“Blank spots.”

”Yeah. Some of us have those.”

”Sounds like you don’t know what to do with yourself without me.”

“Please. I won’t have to worry about you bullying me. Maybe, y’know, I’ll do just fine without you.”

A chuckle escapes him. Tentatively, he toys with the fabric of your hoodie. “You’re not going to wash this at all, are you.”

Heat climbs up your neck at the suggestion. Of all the night clothes you had to bring, why did it have to be something you’d stolen from him?

You’re no coward. You rise to challenge. “Can’t miss you when it feels like I’ve got you with me.”

“I know you’ll miss me,” Zayne retorts, and wow, he’s really angling for a comeback after having you subject him to being taken care of, “But that’s no excuse for poor hygiene.”

“Poor hygiene—!”

You lean back to glower at the man, only to find him smirking up at you.

“I’ve half a mind to expect to find you asleep on the platform when the train pulls in, simply because you were too excited to wait at home for me to drop by.”

Your ears are positively scalding. You feel yourself shrinking, suddenly not so confident taking up as much space in the room. How does he have you so well figured out? Are you really that much of an open book? Compared to him, sure, but you’d hoped you carried a little more mystery about you than sitting on a station platform for a quasi-boyfriend-without-benefits like a dog.

Even if that is the case — does he really have to rub it in your face?

He can’t get away with this.

Speaking plainly, Zayne’s warmed up plenty. There’s no real reason for either of you to remain this close, and yet — despite lauding himself as the rational half of this friendship, his arms almost keep you from moving any further away.

His expression doesn’t falter with your silence, remaining ever-undisturbed. It unnerves you. His smiles never last more than a second, and you can count on one hand the amount of times he’s looked you in the eye with a pleasant face on. He’s on a power trip. If you don’t cut him down right this second he’ll go nuclear. He’ll leave you hanging with a ‘goodnight’ and a kiss on the forehead and you’ll both never speak of tonight again.

This is it. This is the last straw. Tonight, you leave him hanging.

“You want me to miss you so fucking bad, huh?” You accuse him, tapping a finger to your chin as you pretend to wonder. His eyebrow ticks. “Is that what you’re into? Man, you medical staff are all so power hungry.”

Zayne looks thoughtful for a moment. A thumb idly traces back and forth along your skin, barely tucked beneath your hoodie. It’s such a cautious touch. You wish he wasn’t just all talk. “Perhaps you’re easier to deal with when one considers you might actually like getting bossed around.”

There’s no hiding the erection that sits wedged between you. There’s no ignoring the heat that pools in your core every time it strains against your cunt, blocked only by his sweatpants and your underwear.

There’s no way he can’t feel your heart beat throbbing against him.

And yet — he pretends not to be taking part in any of it.

You think about it for a moment.

Then, you roll your hips forward, slowly, gently. Your nerves spark as your clit finds the pressure it needs against the underside of his cock.

It takes everything in your power to keep from doing it again.

A tiny shiver makes its way out of Zayne. Frustration, perhaps. You angle a knowing little smile at him, and his throat bobs. He knows he’s been caught.

Checkmate.

“Doctor Zayne, are you getting off on this?” You ask, and his face flushes scarlet. His eyes widen, caught off-guard by you finally crossing the threshold.

”I…don’t know what you’re talking about.” He answers lamely, pointedly avoiding looking down.

“You are!”

“Not so loud. It’s n-… it’s nothing.” He insists in a hushed voice, shooting a look over your shoulder before he’s satisfied that the coast is clear of anyone who might be privy to what the two of you are doing. “Just a biological reaction to stimuli.”

“Which stimuli?” You ask, feigning curiosity. “The cuddling, or this?”

To stress your point, you do it again, biting back the swell of enjoyment at the way his lips part of their own accord. A little hum spills forth, and his own hips chase the motion, just for a second, before he halts.

“Please.” Zayne murmurs, moving to hold you still. Inching you back onto his thighs, condemning himself to reveal two little damp patches. One where the grey fleece of his sweatpants pulls most taut. The other a little lower, where you’ve been rubbing your cunt along his clothed shaft.

“You need to learn when you’ve teased enough.”

What — fall back? Now? When all your nerves are alight?

Your tongue wets your lips as you take in the sight of him. Well on his way to wrecked, but not quite there. His expression remains otherwise impassive, but his pupils are far too blown to help him maintain the facade.

“You’re one to talk. Can’t hack it when it’s not you in charge?” You challenge him. “You’re not usually one to shy away from uncharted territory.”

You can’t help but reach out, itching to touch him. Fingertips smooth along his length, feather-light from the bottom up. His cock twitches when you reach the tip, begging for more.

“Ah—“ Long fingers snatch at your wrist, holding you fast. “Try no man’s land.”

“It’s nothing.” You assure him. “You said it yourself.”

Nothing. No different to how he so often strays into treating you, with all his dates and touches. Nothing, midday naps and linking your pinky-fingers as you walk together. Nothing, like the spare clothes you both reserve a drawer for.

“Just warming you up. That’s all.”

Zayne’s chest expands. His gaze fixes on your fingertips curling insistently at his waistband despite his grip keeping you at bay. “That’s all.”

Disbelief? Determination? Disappointment? You’re not familiar enough with how each of these sound in his throat to properly identify it, but Zayne’s grip on your wrist releases nonetheless. He opts to help you make more comfortable work of his track pants, pushing them down just a little to allow you easier access. There’s no presence of approval at how greedy you are about it, pawing and snatching at your prize while he tries to remain nonchalant.

You do try to give him the dignity of privacy by not looking down when he settles and you finally wrap both hands around his cock. He’s already indignant as it is, and the rumble that vibrates deep in his chest as your fingers close around him isn’t helping.

Oh — maybe just a little tease.

“Hey.” You chide, grinning. His eyes crack open, just enough to narrow at you. “Don’t make it weird. I’m a professional.”

It earns you a scoff. Zayne’s fingers, settled on your thighs, give a retaliatory squeeze, thumbs pressing just hard enough into your adductors to skirt on discomfort. He watches you tense at the feeling, and sensing an opportunity to shift the attention back off himself, decides to squeeze harder.

You finally flinch with an “Ow!”, and the man smiles to himself. Mission accomplished. He lets go.

”You’re the professional? How many surgeries have you performed?”

”How many have you performed?”

”…A lot, genius.”

“Didn’t you tell me that some of your worst patients are doctors themselves?”

“Your point being?”

There’s no point — at least not in arguing with him. He’s only trying to distract you. You shift over him, and his attitude dissolves. He leans back, maintaining as much distance as he can — or perhaps to watch, as you tug your underwear to the side — line yourself up — and sink down onto his cock.

Zayne’s chest expands, but he makes no noise. His eyes close. His lips part. A minor crease forms between his eyebrows. It might as well be a sob. You’d use such a reaction against him if you weren’t more concerned with suppressing your own, lest he catch you out. Your cunt burns from the sudden, full intrusion, and his diverted attention gives you the moment you need to grow accustomed to it.

Once you’ve gotten over the initial shock of the feeling, you brush any intrusive thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter if he’s one of your oldest and closest friends. It doesn’t matter if he’s your doctor. You were already squarely planted in conflict-of-interest territory the moment he took you on as a patient.

You try to ignore your own desire. Your body catches up with your actions quickly, igniting touch-starved nerves that you’ve long-fantasised him satisfying. Heat builds inside you at a nervous system realising you’re finally giving it what it wants, and it only screams for more. Of course you’ve wanted Zayne. You adore him, but he’s not the kind of man who could balance a friendship with benefits; if anything, he finds a way to be the inverse of such a thing. He gives you everything in the way of a relationship except sex, and with him steering so clear of crossing that boundary with you, you have to tread carefully.

As much as you want to, this is delicate.

“My point is: zip it and let me take care of you.” You manage.

Besides, its not like you’re actually having sex with him. He’s continually pushing the boundaries of platonic with all his touches and hugs anyway. It’s not like he has a leg to stand on if he wants to protest what sitting on his cock might mean for your relationship. Hell, this isn’t even the first time he’s been hard when you’ve had his hips pinned down with your own.

If anything, you’re doing the guy a favour by taking the responsibility off him to go this far.

Zayne doesn’t bounce back as quickly as you do. His eyes remain scrunched shut, his core engaged beneath your palms as you brace your weight to settle into a more comfortable position in his lap. He looks worried. Apprehensive.

“Doctor Zayne?” Concern begins to creep in, just a little. “Okay, you can say something now.”

“Please,” He grits between his teeth, and relief floods your body as some semblance of calm returns to his expression, “Don’t call me that — like this.”

“Like what? I’m just warming you up, remember?” You offer a smile when he opens one eye, mood shifting to quizzical.

“You’re so immature. And for the record, this constitutes malpractice. You’re a terrible doctor.”

”Trust the process.”

”Fine. What’s the course of treatment?”

“Nothing.”

You can’t help but chuckle at such quiet outrage. It’s getting easier to read him. Relaxing against his front, you ignore a little gasp on his part to loop your arms around his neck again. Dishonest pretences be damned, this really is doing the trick. “All you need to do is stay still.”

Zayne weighs up his options for only a moment before giving in. His arms slip around your waist. His chin hooks over your shoulder, just barely nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s breathing in your scent, and the following exhale into your skin has you stifling a shiver.

Then, there’s a flex within you.

“Hey!” You choke, “I said stay still back there!”

“Quiet down. It was only a reflex.” Zayne defends, a little too cavalier to fly under the radar. “Besides, I’m not the one squirming.”

“I’m just getting comfortable. Your hips are pointy.”

Zayne’s hips slot up into yours, and the feel of him nudging just a little deeper has your eyes stinging. You fail to stifle a little squeak, and you’re shushed for it immediately.

“Just getting comfortable.” Zayne’s words lick at your ear, and the sound of him sends shivers through you, pooling between your legs, pleading with you to satisfy the ever-nagging want to start riding him. “You’re like a vice.”

He has to know how much of an effect he has on you. There’s no way he doesn’t.

You don’t respond to his attitude — however, the condemning, responding, constricting of your insides around his cock surely doesn’t go unnoticed, and with a hollow breath, he lifts you, just a little, enough to draw back and push back in. He’s slow about it; infuriatingly so, almost like if he inches in and out at enough of creeping pace you’ll either not bother to be strict with him, or you’ll simply abandon your own rules in favour of crossing the boundary he’s silently begging you to cross for him.

No. He’s not getting the upper hand here. Not when he gets to pretend all his little actions are forgettable. Platonic. Accidental. Misunderstood. There’s only so many times a guy can subtly grind on someone during a spooning session and claim ignorance when called out about it.

You lock your feet beneath his knees, and sink down onto him, hard. Pleasure blooms. Your cunt aches for more. A sharp breath escapes Zayne, threatening to blossom into an appreciative groan that would only serve to tempt you without your hand clapping over his mouth and a ‘shh!’.

“You can keep still, or this stops.” You announce in a whisper, and he watches you defiantly from behind your hand.

Zayne’s gaze eventually breaks away from yours. Conceding. For now, at least. You lower your hand from his mouth, and relax, reaching across the cushion to pluck your phone from the couch and check your messages.

Already, he’s bothered by your lack of undivided attention.

“You’re on your phone.” He huffs.

“I’m not rewarding your behaviour.” You reply simply.

“You’re not implying that behaving differently would warrant a reward, are you?”

That’s for him to figure out.

You shift your weight maybe just a little more than you need to, indulging in the feeling of his cock shift with you, within you, pressing insistently against that one spot that almost has your constitution coming apart at the seams. Zayne trembles momentarily beneath you, swallowing hard. He’s keeping his cool well enough, but as you settle into the new angle, no longer moving, his frustration makes itself known with another twitch inside you.

If he keeps doing that, you’re not sure you can hold out.

“You really think this is helping?” He asks, voice tight.

“You don’t believe me?” You pout, tapping your home screen and opening your camera app. “Fine, let the expert see for himself.”

Switching to selfie cam, you watch as the man glances at his image on the screen for half a second, before tearing his gaze away. Not a shocker, you reason. He’s probably never seen himself with a hair out of place. Flushed cheeks and dilated pupils? You might as well have shown him a traffic collision.

“Aw, come on. Look how much colour’s come back to your face.”

Zayne musters the courage to look up, but not at the phone. His eyes narrow at you. Accusatory. “I’m not interested in giving you blackmail material.”

“What? Get real. There’s nothing incriminating going on. Especially not when you angle it like this.” You switch on a filter and lean down into the man. “See?”

Curiosity gets the better of him, and his head tilts to get a better look at whatever scheme you’re cooking up. On the screen, both your flushed faces smooth out, blushing perfectly. Cat ears and whiskers. Cheek to cheek. Just another one of your countless selfies with completely platonic friends.

You take the shot. The shutter clicks.

“Cute.” Zayne mutters drily.

“You think so?”

“Only how much fun you seem to be having of it.”

Your brow knits. “Oh yeah? All right, stick in the mud, you take over.”

He gives too much away at that response. His long fingers immediately slip over your hips. He’s readying to flip you onto your back before he notices you’re holding the phone out to him. Then, knowing he’s shown his hand, he has no choice but to recover his pride.

Much to your chagrin, Zayne plucks the phone from your hand, aborting whatever miraculous step he’d been about to take. A corner of his mouth ticks, minutely. He angles your phone away from you, tapping and swiping. His own phone buzzes. Then, he casts the device at the other end of the couch, out of your reach. “I think it’s getting a bit late for screens.” He murmurs. Fingers smooth up and over the swell of your hips. His long arms uncoil from your waist, releasing you as he leans back. Leaving you with a lonesome chill. “And you ought to be going to bed.”

Is that…rejection? Has he just been humouring you up until this point?

You tilt your head. “I’m sorry. Is this not okay?”

“This is fine.”

He looks at the fireplace. Stoic as ever.

“Then what?” You frown.

He doesn’t respond.

Your throat runs dry. Dread creeps up through your heart.

“Hey. Talk to me.” You urge, smoothing your fingers along his jaw, and he leans into your palm.

Seconds pass. Zayne finally regards you again. There’s an acknowledging incline of his head — almost a polite bow. A pre-emptive apology for what he’s about to say.

“What happens after this?” He asks. “Do we part ways at the train station in the morning and the next time we see each other, it’ll be as doctor and patient?”

Oh.

“Is that what we are to you?” You ask, not entirely sure if you want to know.

He dodges the question the best way he knows how: with rationality. “I feel that if that scenario is what you want, we should say goodnight. My understanding of our relationship won’t change, I promise you, but if this goes further, at least one of us is going to feel differently. It would be better if there were no misunderstandings between us.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something dreadful and lovely all the same, anxiety and anticipation at the prospect of a tipping point, at least before saying goodbye. Trust Zayne, of course, to turn to smoke and mirrors when it comes to a confession of feelings, but you’ve known him long enough to see how far out of his comfort zone all of this is.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” You ask, aborting an attempt on his part to avert his gaze with a finger beneath his chin.

His expression remains inexplicable. Then, there’s that little tilt of his head. The quirk of an eyebrow. “Your assumption is correct.”

The apprehension that’s been building in the back of your mind disperses the moment he says it. Your resolve all but disappears. “My understanding,” You begin, reaching up to cup your hand over the other side of his face, “is that I’ve wanted you ever since I walked into that restaurant last year.”

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds yours in a heartbeat. Previously unsure hands pull you against him, locking you in his embrace. He’s so awfully gentle about it all despite your combined strength. Such a gentleman. It comes as no surprise that he shudders at the intrusion of your tongue past his lips — what does surprise you is how quickly he catches up to your pace. Inviting you in. Slipping an arm lower to brace your weight, and you feel yourself being pulled up off of his cock, just until only the head remains at your entrance.

The loss of him has you incensed. He keeps you from sinking back down, and your protesting whines are suffocated with another kiss. All he’s left you with to express yourself is your hands, and you seize the opportunity, combing your fingers through his hair and tugging, just slightly at the roots.

He breaks away with a little noise. Not pained, but shocked. Another one of his spots, you reason, and he’s just as displeased that you’ve found it.

“You don’t know when to quit.” Zayne pants. His fringe dusts your forehead. “What — what were we saying about bad behaviour going unrewarded?”

You’re too mindless right now to play any games. There’s no more thrill of the build that you can handle. Not after this long.

You break, instantly.

“Please —“ You whimper, almost trembling in his grip, trying in vain to take him back in again. “Zayne, I need it — please—“

Zayne relents right away. He gives you what you want, lowering you, burying himself in you to the hilt. Then he lifts you again, building into a steady rhythm.

”You’re so — you’re so frustrating.” He manages between kisses. “Should’ve told me this is all it takes for you to do as you’re told.”

More. You need more. Heavenly as it is, it’s not enough, just having him in you. You push back, and Zayne takes the hint. He’s said his piece. He lets you take the lead again without a fight, admiring the view as you roll onto the balls of your feet, gripping the back of the couch to keep yourself stable. The new angle feels deeper, each stroke rolling drifting sharply over your nerves as he brushes that spot inside you. It takes a moment for Zayne to kick into gear, brain short-circuiting as he watches you squat on his cock, taking what you need from him. Then, he leaves you to support your own weight. Fingers wrench at the front of your hoodie, yanking it up to your sternum, and his tongue sweeps a nipple. In the time it takes for you to react, his other hand has snaked between you, between your legs. His thumb rolls over your clit just as he latches onto your nipple and sucks. The keen barely escapes your lips before Zayne’s hand claps over your mouth, continuing his assault.

It goes from too little to too much. It creeps up on you so fast, so suddenly, and there’s nothing you can do but ride through it. A muffled hum is all the warning you can give him. Your pace staggers as the burn in your thighs catches up to you, but Zayne only goes faster, rubbing merciless little circles into your nerves. His hips roll up into you, compensating as best he can for your loss of control. Finally, the band snaps, and you sob against his hand, spasming around him, tears pricking at your eyes with the intensity of it all. You go positively boneless, and Zayne breaks away just enough to let you collapse into his chest as he carries you through it, breaths quickening as the lingering spasms of your orgasm invoke his own.

“Fuck, I’m—“ He barely stammers, releasing you only to coil his arms around your torso again, readying to pull out.

“Not going anywhere.” You promise, clinging to him. Your fingers comb through his hair, tugging again, and a whimper dies in Zayne’s throat. He buries his face into the crook of your neck. His hips roll up into you once, twice, thrice more, and then he goes still. Buried in you to the hilt as he tips into oblivion.

He’s so subtle about it that you barely even realise he’s coming. Maybe it’s the effort not to wake Dr. Noah. Maybe it’s like this every time. Having him hold you with such desperate reverence while he does his best not to judder in stark contrast to to the feeling of him pulsing within you, you reason you’d like to find out. He hides his face from you throughout, only pulling his forehead from your clavicle when the aftershocks have come and gone.

Zayne looks lovelier than ever like this — coming out of a blissful haze, gazing up at you with cautious adoration. His focus flickers between your eyes and your lips. His chest expands and collapses like he’s like a 5-miler, but his breaths are smooth.

Even now, he’s trying to maintain a cool composure.

“Forgive me.” He mutters, not quite meeting your eye.

Your head tilts. Chasing him. “Huh? Why?”

“I exercised poor judgement. That was rotten of me. I should have known better, given I’ve never prescribed birth control to you.”

“You really think I’d come to you for birth control?” You snort.

Zayne’s brow creases. An incredulous look totally undermined by how positively wrecked he looks right now. “I am your physician. Or has your other doctor friend decided to become real after all?”

Your fingers comb through his hair again. Despite a pleasant sigh on his part at the sensation, his expression remains steeled.

“Hey.” You finally manage to capture his gaze, only for any tells to evaporate. “Could you tell me something?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Are you more jealous that I might have had sex with someone who wasn’t you, or that I might have gone to another doctor?”

Zayne considers his answer for a long moment. His head tilts in that particular way it does when he has to make a decision, eyeing you expectantly. Punishment for daring to push him out of his comfort zone.

He presses a hand to your forehead.

A thoughtful hum escapes him.

“Curious. Your temperature’s dropping. On second thought, you should stay another day so I can observe you.”

“You’re avoiding the question!”

“Here. I’ll keep you warm. You can install those camera filters on my phone to pass the time.”

#zayne love and deepspace #li shen #zayne x reader #love and deepspace fanfiction #vas fics

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legally-allowed-to-slime · 5 months

Text

The last few people had logged off the server, leaving it in its burnt, damaged state.

She knew where Gem would be.

Cleo scaled up the ladder and clambered up to the rickety roof of Joel’s tower — where you could look out on the entire server.

Sure enough, Gem was perched on the railing, sitting on the edge with nothing to support her but the wind, staring in the direction of the Secret Keeper.

Cleo looked around at the short cobble walls. Grian had told her that he’d hid away here. Not a bad strategy, overall. You could shut yourself here and forget everywhere else existed.

“Hey, Cleo.”

“Am I that loud?” Cleo joked weakly.

“Who else?”

Cleo watched as the last remains of the green flesh flaked off Gem’s skin, leaving her regular human tones. “No more zombies now, then? Good job, anyway. Killing people left and right.”

“Not you, though.”

“Not me. Only way I’m going out is my way. I’d rather die on my own stupidity than someone else’s callousness.” Cleo allowed a hint of pride to enter her voice. “You were great zombies, though.”

“We weren’t zombies.” Gem turned and hopped down from the railing.

Cleo noticed that unlike the other zombies, or even Scott or Grian, Gem didn’t have a single scratch or injury, save one neat bandage that no doubt was due to Scar’s reckless arrows.

Which meant the blood splattering her face wasn’t her own. “What do you mean?”

“That’s not how zombies work. No offence, Cleo, but most zombies aren’t sentient.”

Cleo blinked. “No worries, I know they aren’t. I kill plenty of them at night.”

“So you should know how they work. They’re mindless. They lurch along, they kill without thinking, they probably bump into trees.”

Gem tilted her head. “They don’t set TNT traps, or betray their teammates, or ask for permission to kill their wife’s perceived murderer.”

Cleo’s mouth was dry. “So you’re saying…”

“I’m saying the apocalypse wasn’t zombies, Cleo. It was human.”

Horribly, incredibly human.

Cleo remembered when they were up on the tower, staring at the others down below, condemning them as monsters.

Somehow, it was better to think of them as a mindless horde and not people she’d been laughing and arguing with a session ago.

Gem was watching her. “You know I’m right. Look at Pearl. Was running from us, convinced we were infected or something but once she realised she had permission to kill, she went in. Even unleashed a warden, or two. That’s how quickly we switch.”

Ironically, Cleo realised, the roles had been swapped this session. The humans were chasing the zombie, but it hadn’t been any different.

“That’s not true,” Cleo said, “It’s not all bad. Did you know, Grian snuck down from this tower to check on his magma pet, and I was there too. And so was Etho. He didn’t kill us.”

Irritation flashed across Gem’s face. “He didn’t kill you? If he had, or, like, told us your location or something, we could’ve all just gone after Scott, and, and, the task would’ve succeeded…”

She trailed off, and looked at Cleo. “Is that the point you’re trying to make here?”

Cleo shrugged.

“Alright, I get it,” Gem grumbled, “No need to rub your holier-than-thou alliance and great morals in my face.”

“Well, no one asked you to put your task over your bandmates.”

Gem didn’t say anything to that.

“It’s not as if I’m exactly a paragon of morality either.” Cleo continued.

“I guess not.” Gem gave a short laugh. “Neither am I. You know, all the murder and stuff? I don’t feel bad! In fact, I feel great. I feel proud of myself for it.”

“…I feel you should be a little less bloodthirsty.”

Gem smiled at Cleo, an innocent, cheerful smile that would have been such if not for the circumstances. “Oh, no.”

Cleo was suddenly feeling very unsafe on the highest platform on the server. She wished Etho was here, or even Grian.

She knew Gem couldn’t take any lives, not now, not when the session was already over. But still…

Cleo raised her sword to stop the axe swing that came, but it was a feint, and her sword hit nothing.

Gem dramatically swung her axe back into her inventory.

“You really thought I would attack you?” Gem said.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” Cleo retorted curtly.

“That’s true,” Gem conceded. “But the curse is just so- it’s so freeing, Cleo? Can’t you see? You could do anything.”

“Uh- no thanks. Session’s over, anyway,” Cleo pointed out.

“That’s true. But I’m still kinda cursed, you know.”

In response, Cleo warily raised her sword. But all that Gem did was deliver a mock salute before logging off with a chirpy “See you next week!”

Cleo stood silently. There had been one zombie on the platform just now. Her.

And thinking about it, she wasn’t sure if there hadn’t been two.

#concept: gem is simply evil #god forbid women do anything #oh no this story turned into that are humans good/evil thing again #that’s great i don’t care #geminitay #zombiecleo #gem centric but i did put in some cleo stuff because etho sparing his allies was so woahwhaha #secret life fanfic #secret life #secret life smp #life series #trafficblr

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freedomfireflies · 1 year

Text

Mine*

Summary: Your mafia boss boyfriend, Harry, has been a little neglectful of his most prized possession.

But he's found the perfect way to make it right.

Word Count: 3.6k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content, so please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞*

“So, what did he say?”

“What do you think he said? Gave me some bullshit excuse about not knowing the rule and tried to save his own ass.”

Harry tsks as he throws an arm over the back of the sofa. “Fucking pathetic. They’re all the same.”

“All of ’em,” Asher agrees with a nod. “But I had a couple of the guys tail him, and he led us straight back to the warehouse.”

“Good. Think it’s time we pay him a little visit,” Harry decides before his eyes trail over to where you still stand in the kitchen.

You usually try to keep your distance when Harry’s in one of his meetings. And perhaps this isn’t exactly an official meeting per se, seeing as it’s taking place in your living room. But nevertheless, you’re hesitant to interfere.

Besides, you’re more than content to just watch when he’s in his element like this. Like to watch the way his expression will grow dark, and his voice will take on a certain edge. The way he’ll speak about death as if recalling the weather. The way he’ll drop threats as if they were weightless.

He can be quite intimidating when he wants to be. Most of the men that work for him won’t even make eye-contact with him. And you’re almost certain a few of them have even pissed themselves on occasion.

Asher is about the only one who doesn’t flinch when Harry enters a room. Perhaps that’s the result of their lifelong friendship, or perhaps it’s because he knows he’s Harry’s right-hand man.

Either way, Asher is the only man on the team that Harry truly trusts. Which is probably why he was invited to your home this evening.

Of course, Harry claimed he merely wanted to relax and catch-up. But you knew better.

The only way to get Harry Styles to actually unwind and relax is by fucking him.

You fidget by the fridge as you’re forced under his cool stare, a tad apprehensive about why you’ve garnered his attention. You hope you haven’t disturbed their conversation, although you do wish he’d wrap it up.

He’s hardly been home the past couple of weeks. You understand why, of course. A threat was made to the company that Harry needed to eliminate. And you’d never stand in the way of his work.

But…you miss him. Miss getting to be near him. And maybe you wouldn’t as much if he actually allowed you to visit him at his office. But he declared it was too unsafe. He doesn’t like when other men look at you. Doesn’t appreciate when the people that he pays get the nerve to gawk at what’s his.

Although, truthfully, you think it’s rather cute how overprotective he gets.

Harry smirks as he motions you forward, seemingly amused. “Come here, sugar. You’re too far.”

Relieved to know he’s not upset, you let out a deep breath and obey his command, feet padding across the hardwood floor to bring you closer to where they reside.

You smile a shy greeting at Asher, who offers an entertained grin of his own before Harry is looping his outstretched arm around your waist and placing you on his lap.

“There,” he declares as his chin slips over your shoulder. “S’much better, isn’t it?”

You nod, face warming and hands gathering in front of you.

You’re not sure why you’ve gone so quiet. So still. Something feels…off. Incomplete, in a sense.

Sure, the warmth of his body is doing wonders for this…lost feeling in your head, but it still doesn’t feel like it's…enough.

However, Harry can read you like a book. Knows what each nervous habit and tic means. Knows when you’re feeling anxious, nervous, shy.

Submissive.

And he knows exactly how to fix it.

“Was just telling Asher here about sending our good friend Sean a little message,” Harry murmurs, subtly pulling you back into his chest. “M’getting so fucking tired of playing all these games. Tired of being kept…from what’s most important.”

His fingers begin to tap against your thigh, maybe in an attempt to call your attention to him, but either way…it makes your thighs squeeze a bit closer together.

You feel him smile into your neck. “Are you tired, too, mama?” he hums, in that low tone of voice he knows makes you weak. “Tired of waiting for me? Tired of needing me to make it better?”

Despite yourself, your lashes flutter as you sink even further into his hold. Needing to be encompassed by him. Cocooned by his smell, and his touch, and his intentions.

You’re vaguely aware of the way he’s begun toying with your dress, gently guiding the fabric further up your legs. Giving you enough time to realize. To stop him if that’s what you want.

And maybe you should want to stop him. Should be more concerned about poor Asher, forced to watch from his chair a few feet away. But right now…right now it feels necessary. Like if you stop him…you’ll die.

“So unfair. Being kept from you,” Harry whispers, pressing his lips to the skin just below your ear. “So fucking unfair…knowing that you’re waiting here for me. Like a good girl. Laid out in our bed…needing me to take care of you.”

The cool air feels sinful against your bare thighs, but you welcome it. Welcome the chill that travels down your spine as your cunt grows a bit needier.

Despite yourself, you begin to squirm over his lap, rather desperate for some friction. For him.

And he chuckles darkly at your attempt, the one arm on your hip tightening ever-so-slightly to prevent a second effort. “And I haven’t been, have I? Haven’t been taking care of you the way you need. The way you deserve. Huh, sugar?”

You’re quick to shake your head, longing to appease him. Make him happy. Give him whatever he wants. An answer, your body, your time.

He has it. It’s his.

His hands find their way to your underwear. He’s gentle. Tame. Innocently grazing his finger over the front of your soaked panties as he hums with contentment.

“Oh, my poor little girl,” he coos, nuzzling his nose into your cheek. “Bet it hurts, doesn’t it? Bet you feel so fucking empty…don’t you, mama?”

Another quick nod, your eyes growing heavy as you rest back against his shoulder, breaths quick and light.

He adds a bit more pressure. Enough to make you choke on a whimper as you steel yourself against his chest. You grasp onto his wrist, maybe in an attempt to warn him, or maybe in an attempt to just…touch him. Be a part of it. But either way, you don’t let go.

“What?” he asks gently, dancing a few innocent kisses down the curve of your neck. “What, sugar? What do you need?”

And you want to tell him. You do. But…you can’t speak. You couldn’t really speak before, either, but now…now it’s impossible.

Instead, you sigh. You sigh and you squeeze his arm and you hope that he understands.

Which he does.

He always understands you.

“Come on, honey. Tell me,” he pushes, the determined strokes growing a bit more powerful. “Need me to make it better?”

You swallow thickly, a soft whine melting from between your lips as you slowly grind into his hand.

But that small voice inside your head reminding you that you aren’t capable of making a coherent decision pipes up.

Harry doesn’t share. He never has, he never will. You don’t imagine he’d appreciate Asher bearing witness to such a sight, and you have to wonder if Harry even remembers the poor man is even still in the room.

Your head rolls, eyes finding Asher’s figure, still seated in his chair. You’re hoping to call attention to him, so Harry is forced to recall his presence.

And it works, Harry looking over as well while Asher murmurs, “Hi, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks heat up as you nestle further back into Harry’s chest.

However, instead of growing annoyed, Harry simply smiles. “Oh, sweet girl. Are you worried about him?”

You nod once, looking back up at your rather cocky boyfriend.

In return, he tsks soothingly, hand coming up to brush down your cheek. “You don’t have to worry about Asher, mama. He doesn’t mind. Does he?”

“Not at all,” Asher replies calmly, almost as if unaffected by the scandalous act before him. “What the boss man wants…the boss man gets.”

And for some reason, knowing the handsome second in command is watching you makes your mind grow that much fuzzier. As if fully surrendering to that floating feeling trying to trap you.

Once Harry sees that you’ve fully succumbed to your subspace, he hums again, and presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay, sugar. M’gonna take care of you. I’ve got you, all right?”

You don’t have the strength to nod, instead making a rather needy noise as you tug on his arm and turn to bury your face in his neck.

Another chuckle emits from his chest, reverberating across your back as he readjusts in his seat to get started.

First, he takes hold of the pathetic excuse for underwear you slipped on and begins dragging them down your thighs. Then, after eagerly flicking them free from your ankles, he tosses them toward his partner. “Hold these for me, yeah?”

Asher catches them midair, nodding his understanding as you suck in a sharp breath.

And you can’t help but squirm, now growing hot under the realization of your nakedness to the room.

But you appreciate the way both men attempt to make you feel safe. Asher doesn’t stare, instead relaxing in his seat as if this were an everyday occurrence for him. Patiently waiting for Harry’s next instruction. Obediently waiting for him to do what he needs to do.

And Harry does what he always does. He takes care of you. Whispers things in your ear like, “Shh. That’s it, there’s my sweet girl. I’ve got you, honey. Just gonna have a little taste, yeah?”

It’s an out-of-body experience. It’s like you’re here…but you’re not. You know he’s touching you but that’s all you know. It’s all you want.

He takes your legs in each hand before pulling you further open, resting your thighs on the outsides of his.

You’re good and truly spread now, allowing even more of the cool air to travel its way to your aching cunt.

And you shiver when you feel it, lashes falling shut as you take a deep breath in. Harry’s familiar cologne calming your nerves almost instantly.

“There you go,” he praises gently, smoothing his palms along your skin. “That’s it. Just relax for me, okay? Relax…”

So you do. You release each inhibition and just…let him. Let him do whatever, take whatever, have whatever he wants.

When his fingers return to your pussy, it’s like magic. Exactly what had been missing, and you jolt at the faint but welcome contact.

He teases you for a moment, dragging his touch up and down, through and over. Never in. Never hard.

Never enough.

And you whimper every time he leaves your swollen clit, wishing more than anything that he would merely give you what he knows you need.

Maybe he’s trying to show off for Asher. Or maybe he just likes having an audience and wants to prolong the experience.

Either way, it almost kills you.

“Please,” you breathe, once again attempting to thrust up into his hand before pouting when he pulls away.

“Please?” he repeats, grip constricting around you. “Please what, hm? What do you need, sweet girl?”

Another displeased huff as you scratch your nails down his tattooed skin, pressing deep into the ink as if hoping to see it bleed.

The fucker has the nerve to laugh. “S’not an answer, is it, mama?”

You’re growing impatient, half a mind to shove his hand away and do it yourself. Which you don’t think he’d mind.

No, he doesn’t like when you touch yourself. But that’s only if you don’t ask permission. As long as you ask him first and allow him to either see it or hear it…he doesn’t mind.

“Touch me,” you whisper, so faintly, you’re almost sure he didn’t hear.

And you’re proven correct when he dips down and murmurs, “Again.”

“Touch me,” you repeat, a little bit louder, but still airy. “Please, Har…please touch me.”

Another tsk. A deliberating noise as if debating whether or not to agree. “I don’t know. S’kind of in the middle of something. Maybe I should finish my meeting first, hm? Think you can sit here and wait for me?”

And you groan. Because no. No, you can’t possibly wait. Not anymore than you already have, and he’s so cruel. So fucking cruel to do this to you.

“You can,” he decides, ignoring your outraged plea. “You can be good for me. Know you can, sugar. Come on.”

With that, he leans back against the couch, and turns to Asher, diving once again into their previous discussion.

And you assume that part of Harry’s little game will involve him taking his hand away from you. To actually make you wait until he’s decided it’s your turn.

But you’re more than surprised when he continues his light, feathery touches across your cunt. Playing with your folds and your clit almost mindlessly.

“Should I send the guys down tomorrow?” Asher asks, fighting a smirk as Harry mulls this over.

“Not yet,” he decides. “No. No, I think we need to make him sweat it out a bit. He knows we’re coming. Let the fucker spin.”

“I’ll have Blake watch him,” Asher replies. “Make sure he doesn’t skip town.”

“Good.”

“You wanna bring him in for questioning?”

Another pause as Harry trails his finger down, teasing your hole before pulling back. “Not yet. Think we need to remind him what happens…when he lies.”

And just as this decision is made, Harry finally concedes to your needs and pushes himself in. All the way to the knuckle as you gasp and writhe over his lap.

It’s not at all subtle, and you’re almost humiliated by how unpoised you’ve become. But you can’t help it. Can’t help any of it. Not the sounds you’re making, not the noises coming from the gentle thrusts of his finger in and out of your pussy.

It’s echoing across the room like music from the record player.

But neither of the men pay it any mind, instead carrying on in conversation as if you’re not even here. As if you’re not dripping down Harry’s hand, soaking his nice trousers.

“You think he’ll lead us to Matthews?” Asher asks next, resting one arm over the back of his chair.

“Maybe. If we do it right,” Harry says, stroking your inner walls with devious intent. Looking for that one spot that unravels you faster than anything else. “But there are ways of making him. If we need to.”

Asher nods. “I’ll call Blake tomorrow. Arrange the trail.”

But you miss Harry’s reply beneath the sound of your own desperate whine, your chest now heaving under the stress of pleasure building within your stomach.

His thumb flicks across your clit before pressing into it, hard and with fervor. He maneuvers it in frantic circles as your pants grow louder.

You don’t know what to do. How to breathe. No idea how to remain relaxed when he’s doing this to you. When he’s so determined to make you cum in front of his guest.

“—wouldn’t matter then. He knows. They all fucking know,” Harry is saying to Asher before his lips are pressing back into your cheek. “And I’m not going out there if I don’t have to.”

“That’s fine. You know we’ve got it,” Asher responds. “Would you still like Alec on patrol?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits before a second finger begins easing into you. “I don’t like the way he looks at her.”

Asher’s head tilts. “Was he looking at her?”

“He was fucking thinking about it,” Harry scoffs, the hand on your hip tightening. “And if I can’t be here with her, I need to know she’s safe.”

“I can send a few more guys over. Make sure there’s someone at each post.”

“No. I don’t want anyone else watching her but me,” Harry grunts. “Fucking bring her with me before I let someone else in.”

You sigh at this. You know he worries about your safety and care more than anything else. It’s why he’s gone so often. He wants to keep you hidden away in the apartment. Out of sight from his men, and his job, and his…well, enemies.

You understand it, you suppose.

Not that it makes it any easier.

The coil in your belly tightens as he brings his other set of fingers into play. Now, both hands are devoted to you. One making sure to fill you and stretch you just the way you need, while the other plays with your clit like you’re nothing but a toy.

“We can find a safe house in Seattle,” Asher offers. “A place to keep her if you need to bring her along.”

“Maybe,” Harry murmurs, his chest flush with your back as if trying to push himself through you. Consume you. “But if they know she’s there—”

“They won’t,” Asher interrupts, almost resolutely. “They’re not gonna fucking touch her. I promise.”

“No,” Harry agrees, growling the word in your ear as you clench around his fingers and gasp. “No. They’re not. Not gonna use her…to get to me. Not gonna fucking take…the only good thing I have. Not gonna take…what’s mine.”

The energy has turned dark. Angry. Now he’s not trying to tease. Now he’s trying to own you. Remind you who you are. Who you belong to.

The explosion of your orgasm is racing toward you, hurtling so fast, it makes your lungs ache.

He needs you to cum more than you need it. Needs to know that your body only bends for him. That your pleasure is his.

That you are his.

Even if you tell him every day. Even if he knows you’d never look at anybody else the way you look at him.

He needs to feel it. Needs to understand that he’s not gonna lose you the way he loses everything else.

And one of the ways he understands this…is by making you cum so many times that you don’t know anything else but him.

“Almost there, aren’t you?” you hear him whisper, his teeth finding your earlobe as he tugs.

“Yes,” you sigh, so pitifully wrecked that you can hardly speak. “Yes. Wanna cum for you. Please…”

“I know,” he hums. “I know, sweet girl. And you will. Gonna cum all over my fucking hand, yeah? Gonna let me taste how much you missed me?”

You give him nothing more than a zealous nod as you begin to squirm harder over his thighs, seeing that blissful end.

And when it happens, you just about start crying. It’s so…powerful. And you don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you’ve been feeling so needy today. Maybe it’s because of Asher being here. Maybe it’s because you can feel how angry Harry is.

But it doesn’t matter. It’s everything. So deliciously perfect that you almost don’t want him to stop.

He’s gentle as he rides you through. As he mutters his praises and leans you both back into the couch cushions. As he keeps you trapped between his arms and keeps his lips on your skin.

“There you go,” he coos, his praises like a symphony in your ear. Warming your body, your heart, your soul. “There she is. Fucking squeezing me, honey. Feels so good, you know that? Fucking missed it. Missed the way you feel.”

You know he did. He tells you all the time how good your body is to him.

And you believe him.

When he delicately takes his hands away from you, you deflate. Whining some at the loss of contact and fullness, nearly praying for him to touch you again.

But he’s got something else in mind.

He brings the hand that was inside you up to your mouth, soaked fingers trailing across your bottom lip in a silent instruction to open wide.

So, you do. You take his large digits into your mouth, and you suck. You take everything on your tongue as you swirl it around him. As you swallow and let your eyes fall shut in blissful ecstasy.

And as you do, he brings his other hand up to his mouth. Doing exactly the same thing as you both sit there and taste.

And the sound of him cursing with content at the way you coat his tastebuds is fucking magical. Everything he does is magic to you.

You’ve never felt so happy.

No, you’re still not quite in your right mind, but you don’t even care. Don’t care how far away you feel because you know he’s here to bring you back when you’re ready.

“Good fucking girl,” he practically purrs, palm once again stroking down your cheek. “Did so good for me, mama. So fucking good. My perfect angel. Feel better now, honey? S’that what you needed?”

You smile. “It was certainly a start.”

Harry smiles a bit bigger now, laughing beneath his breath as he drops his hand back down to your aching pussy, cupping it firmly. “A start, huh?”

You nod, a catch in your throat as the intrigue starts to build once again.

Harry hums.

“Then I guess we better finish it.”

I know this isn't everybody's thing, but if you guys would be okay with me maybe doing a part two...I kind of love this Harry? 😭

Next Part:

~ Ours* (Pt. 2)

~ Full Mine Masterlist

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

#harry #harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles fan #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles concept #harry styles blurb #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles mafia #harry styles smut #smut #mafia!harry #cw exhibitionism #blurb #concept

3K notes · View notes

softpascalito · 5 months

Text

Here cums Santa Claus - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Jackson needs a Santa Claus - and Joel is the perfect fit. Getting to have you on his lap is just a bonus.

aka

The one where Joel is dressed up as Santa Claus and you get to ride him.

Relationships: Joel Miller x F!Reader WC: 1800 Tags/Warnings: Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Christmas Smut, Penis In Vagina Sex, Unsafe Sex, Established Relationship, Costumes, Lap Sex, Riding, Rough Sex, Creampie, Female Reader, No use of y/n, Alcohol (one glass of whiskey), Soft Joel (The Last of Us), Joel Miller as Santa Claus, Age Difference (not specified) Read on AO3 full advent calendar (updated daily)

notes: pun intended. this is smut. beware.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

“Is that all of them?”

You try to keep yourself from giggling as you take in the grumpy face of the man beside you. It's half hidden by the fluffy, white fake-beard that's already starting to come off at the edges. His salt-and-pepper hair is hidden by a white and red Christmas hat, matching the rest of his Santa Claus Outfit. It's a little improvised, put together from what you could find in the small clothing selection that Jackson uses to make sure there's enough to go around.

You're still not quite sure how you managed to talk him into this: Dressing up and letting each and every kid in Jackson climb onto the chair and tell him their wishes. The first time he stepped out of his room after changing, you could barely hold it together, the way he looked like the most miserable Santa Claus you've ever seen, pouting even under his fake beard.

But when the first child comes in and practically storms into his arms, you see the way he changes, a version of him you've rarely been witness to before. He's amazing with the kids, even maneuvering around the more difficult wishes with a smile and a joke that makes them laugh.

Now that you're alone, a small groan leaves Joel's mouth as he gets up, glaring at you and one hand reaches out to pull you a little closer, the green skirt that comes with your own Christmas Elf outfit giving him a way to steer your body towards him. When you're flush against him, his gloved hand gently squeezes your thigh, inching upwards.

“You're supposed to be Santa Claus, not some pervy old man touching his elves,” you mutter as you take in his gaze that has somehow shifted to one a lot more mischievous than it was a minute ago.

“Santa is a hard-working man. I'm sure he is allowed some fun once the kids are gone,” Joel smirks, a low grumble vibrating in his throat as he gives your thigh another squeeze before letting go.

You can practically feel Joel staring at your legs as you hurry back to your house, the red tights under your skirt doing almost nothing to protect you from the cold.

Joel grunts as he kicks off his snowy boots and makes a beeline for the whiskey, sinking into his favorite armchair by the fireplace as he pours himself a glass.

“You want a drink?” He calls through the house and smiles to himself when yell back, “Dying to have one.”

Joel's smile widens a little more when you reappear in the doorway a moment later, carrying a small plate with cookies and placing them on the small table in front of him, muttering “Maybe this stupid outfit has its upsides.”

He hands you your whiskey and you let your glass linger in the air for a few seconds, gently toasting with Joel before you take a few sips.

You're more than aware that the gaze Joel had earlier is back and he shamelessly lets his eyes roam over your body, taking in the way the outfit frames your curves just perfectly. He will never be caught saying it out loud but seeing what you'd wear as his helper if he were to agree to be Santa- it affected his decision more than a little bit.

“They were all really happy, you know? The kids,” you say gently, reaching for a cookie and eating it in one bite.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Joel mumbles, softening a bit. It brought back memories of Christmas before the Outbreak for him as well. His gaze is still on you when he nudges your knee a little, “You didn't get your turn.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks, immediately catching up on what he is asking for, “I may be a littler younger than you but I'm not a child anymore.” Joel chuckles softly, taking another sip from his whiskey as he watches you, waiting.

His legs are slightly spread, his broad thighs catching your gaze and with a small sigh you give in, lowering yourself onto his left leg, “Fine.”

“Now, what would you like for Christmas?” Joel asks, his deep voice lower than it was before. You're still naive enough to think that that's all he's trying to do, possibly coax out some wish that he can fulfill for you. It's absolutely not what he’s trying to do.

“Let’s see- a new dress would be nice. Or some coffee,” you answer truthfully and Joel nods. His gaze is focused on his whiskey, the way he balances it on one and you on the other leg, “Anything else?”

You shake your head no as he puts his glass away and reaches for you instead, hand sneaking up your thigh like it had done earlier. A small breath of surprise leaves your throat as you feel his fingers inching over your skin, painfully slowly traveling into the direction of your core.

“And you've been a good girl this year, hm?” He mutters. You open your mouth to reply- when the tips of his fingers finally reach your crotch and despite the tights you're wearing being non-see-through, he knows your body well enough to find your favorite spot instantly. His finger flies over it, teasing you with a gentle, calculated touch and whatever answer you would've given turns into a whiny moan instead.

Joel smirks a little as he sees your body reacting and he uses his free hand to grope your breast, the thin fabric of your costume leaving practically nothing to the imagination.

Your own hands begin wandering as well, cupping his face before you realize he's still wearing that stupid fake beard. A little rougher than you intend, you rip it off. Joel doesn't mind. It only stings for a moment- until your lips are on his, pressing your tongue against his lips eagerly.

“Fuck, Joel-” you whisper when you come up for air, already out of breath. He just grunts slightly, the smirk returning to his face.

“Think you can be a good girl for me now?” He mumbles, focused on twisting your nipples through your shirt and you whimper, nodding at his question.

Maybe you’d make it to the bedroom for once, if you both weren’t so fucking impatient.

Joel is hard in his pants, the erection creating a more than visible bulge on the velvety, red fabric and you massage him gently, fingers ghosting over his cock as you clench down on nothing at the thought of having him fill you up.

The hand on your breast leaves to join the other one between your thighs and in one swift motion, Joel rips your tights apart, growling like an animal as he is met with the sight of your already dripping cunt.

“You're so wet already, darlin’,” he praises, sliding one finger through your folds, “Fucking killed me to see you in that skirt and not be able to do anything about it.”

Your hands almost automatically fly to his belt, your body already shaking with the need to feel him inside of you, to have him as close as he possibly can. Joel pushes his pants down with one hand, just far enough for him to pull his cock out.

He's already fully hard, an indication that he wasn't lying about the way he felt about your skirt. It only makes you more eager.

“Can I ride you?” You ask breathlessly, running your finger down his veiny cock and gently cupping his balls below.

“Fuck, you have to ask?” Joel mutters, chuckling a little at that. He helps you change your position so that you’re hovering above him, his hands placed firmly on your hips for support.

You both groan in unison as you lower yourself onto him, his dick sliding into you with little resistance. It's perfect. You can feel the way his skin brushes against yours inside of you, pushing itself further inside until you're fully seated.

“Taking me so well, darlin’,” Joel whispers, running his hands up and down your sides as he waits for you to adjust to the intrusion. It's a lot, he knows that much, but you've reassured him time and time again that it's the good kind of a lot.

His lips find your throat, nibbling softly on the skin he can reach, occasionally sucking on it and eliciting a few sharp gasps from you. You both simultaneously begin to move, finding a shared rhythm. You bouncing up and down while he moves below you, pistoning himself further into your depths.

“ ‘tis all I need for Christmas,” he breathes, pulling you down onto him with a little more force. “Just need this sweet pussy around my cock, squeezing me so goddamn tight-”

He knows you're already close by the way your muscles are becoming more tense with each thrust, the pleasure that's building in your stomach physically mirrored in them. There's a small sting on the back of his head as you carelessly push his Christmas hat off to bury your fingers in his hair and pull on it, matching his pace.

“Fuck, feels like it’s already Christmas-” You agree, your voice shaking with the way he’s fucking into you. Joel licks a stripe up your neck, “Gonna be a good girl now and come for me?”

Your answer turns into a drawn-out moan as you feel Joel hitting your cervix and a few moments later, you're clenching down on him like your life depends on it, muscles seemingly drawing his cock in further and further.

It feels delicious, the way your body so clearly wants him, wants the one thing that he can give you and Joel fucks you through your orgasm as he too feels himself tipping over the edge. Your walls are painted with ropes of white cum as he finishes inside of you, his arms wrapping themselves around your body to pull you in closer.

His head is buried in your chest as you both slowly come down from your high, your fingers and nose in his hair. He feels the way your breath goes fast on his skin, sighing softly, so content with the way you are so impossibly entangled.

“I love you.”

It's quiet, so quiet that you almost don't hear him. The pleasure that was in your stomach a few moments ago appears again, this time in your chest. You pull Joel a little closer, feeling him soften inside of you as you place a gentle kiss on his head.

“I love you too.”

notes: if you liked this, please consider leaving a little comment or reblogging, it makes me grin just like joel <3

#softpascalito #advent calendar #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel / reader #joel x reader #joel miller / reader #joel miller / you #smut #christmas tree #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedropascaladventcalender

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toxicanonymity · 8 months

Text

wakeup

1k, raider!Joel x f!reader

Raider master list ⭐ Joel master

sweet pea playlist (smut songs, reader curated)

SUMMARY: PWP, really, all in bed. He comes, you go to the bathroom, come back and fall asleep, then wake up stuffed full of it again for next round. A/N: can read alone, or for max smut the whole sequence is ✨night air, then the asleep inside blurb then come back to this. (ask) WARNINGS: No plot, somnophilia, unsafe p in v, creampies, dark fluff / possessive ruminations

Joel's arms are wrapped around you, his little spoon. Your bodies have been glued together for hours, both asleep and awake. He's grunting and sighing into your hair now, and his sounds make it easy to picture the snarl on his face. The softer Joel from hours ago is gone, but even as he gives it to you hard--and god, he gives it to you good--the buzz lingers on your neck from the tender brush of his lips.

You've been plugged up by his cock all night, and he’s about to double the load inside you. His breath falters and he adjusts his grip, palming a breast. His arms squeeze around you, his hips slam into you, an he pulses massively with a long sigh, releasing a fresh, warm load. You sigh as you're filled beyond full. Each pulse of his cock is a burst of warmth in your core and your chest. His arms loosen only slightly. He plants his lips on your neck and sucks the tender skin into his mouth before releasing it, then relaxing his head again on your pillow.

"Good girl," he pants, catching his breath.

You lie like that until you nearly fall back asleep again. You don’t want to get up, but you finally have to go to the bathroom. As you shift to move toward the edge of the bed, his cock slides out. He hums a small, dissatisfied, half-asleep, "mm?" In the bathroom, you mourn the cum that trickles out of you. When you get back in bed, he’s snoring softly. You curve yourself into him as a small spoon and he reflexively pulls you in against him. His softening cock is sticky against your back.

You reach behind you for it, wanting it back inside. You whisper "Joel."

He slurs, “jus'a minute,” but falls fast asleep and doesn't budge. You fall asleep, too.

—---

At some point, he sleepily nestles his cock between your thighs, and it gets hard again. He slides it in small pulses against your slippery seam. You sigh in your sleep and get really wet, adding to the mess of cum between your legs. He does it until it seems like you're about to wake up. Then, before you do, he presses on your mound, middle finger on your clit, to tilt your hips toward him. He aligns his tip and pushes it just inside you.

He has his right arm under your neck. He holds a breast with that hand as his left holds your mound for leverage. He begins to push into you, and when he’s far enough in to be sure the angle is just right, he plunges into your tight, moist hole, parting your insides with a sigh. Your back arches reflexively with a sweet little sigh. Oh, sweet pea. Your sweet little sounds get him every time. He pulls back a few inches then buries his length in you again, bottoming out with a moan, then your name in a whisper.

He’s back where he belongs.

—

You wake up just before dawn wrapped in his embrace, stuffed full of his cock, with his breath hot and humid in your hair, his body curved around yours. You sigh and cover his hand on your breast with yours, a sweet little good morning gesture. He thrusts again, feeding your drooling cunt more of his dick. “Ya like this, sweet pea? Gettin’ it all night?”

You sigh, “yeah,” as his cock stuffs you full again. His hand on your mound tenses and his fingers move against your clit. You twitch and moan.

He responds, "Mmm," repeating the motion.

He sheathes himself in you at a steady rhythm, breathing heavily and occasionally whispering. “Want it all the time, don't ya?” You really wouldn’t mind doing it all day. If only he would stay home with you. “Feel so good, baby.” It feels so good you can't form words. “Take it so good.”

It’s daybreak outside. If only you could freeze everything so the night never ends.

His chest is dewy against your back. He’s curved around you for as much of your skin against his as he can get. His breathing gets heavier. Your insides are so swollen with tension, you could come any minute. He fucks you faster, keeping his hand planted on your mound for leverage, wriggling it a little lower, dipping his fingers between your legs, nudging your clit, breathing heavily. You push back on him, whimpering.

“Good girl,” he breathes into your hair. His fingers begin to move in rhythm.

“Joel,” you whine. It feels like you’re on the edge forever. Your nipples harden and he covers one with his palm and a low moan. Your hair is getting sticky and tickles with the perspiration. A sharp thrust sends you up on the pillow and he pulls you closer, tighter.

He fucks you and works his fingers and it swells inside you, closer and closer, until the tension bursts and overwhelms you with pleasure. You whimper as your body jerks and your cum-coated walls choke his cock.

"Good girl," he whispers, and you keep pulsing. "Yeah, that's good, baby,” he's slowly fucking you through it til his voice becomes uneven. "That's good, sweet pea," he murmurs shakily.

“Joel,” you whimper again, still squeezing his cock with your climax. You sigh and whimper, your body pressing into his with each wave of pleasure.

“Fuck,” Joel's massive hand engulfs your hip, he grabs on and holds you still. He slams into you, bottoms out, and erupts with a deep "mmmm." The warmth of his release fills you as he draws in a long breath, then sighs. "Ohhh,” he pumps inside you, “Mmm,” filling you more, “oh baby," topping off his prior loads, some of it leaking out with his slow thrusts. “Sweet pea,” His voice fades out into your hair as he finishes.

He nuzzles his nose in your hair and you fall sleep for the last time this morning.

Joel doesn't. He doesn't fall back asleep, but he lies there with you anyway, his arm wrapped over you. He just lies there, eyes closed, feeling your body, feeling you breathe, feeling soothed. Eventually, his thoughts wander to his brutality with the man the night before, and he's more sure than ever that anyone who even thinks about touching you has it coming. His heart rate spikes, and his arms tighten--you're his.

------

friendly reminder that he was snipped pre outbreak, no babies on the horizon.

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Thank you so much for reading and interacting. It means so much to me when you show raider joel your love!!! I notice and love y'all 🖤🖤🖤 raider joel's 6 month birthday is this month (the original), BOLO for a special moment or two. . . to the long haulers, tysm for being so invested and loyal. to the newcomers, welcome!! buckle up, lots more to come.

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller drabble #toxicanonymity ☠️#raider!joel #raider!joel miller #tw somnophilia #cw somnophilia #tw somno #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #PWP

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the-travelling-witch · 6 months

Text

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

summary: every artist knows, inspiration can be found anywhere; so why not in the sheets as well?

pairing: piercer & tattoo artist! scara (from my genshin modern au) x fem! reader

warnings: nsfw/ minors dni, somewhat mean! scara, name calling (slut), slight degradation mixed with praise, pet names (doll, pretty), mirror sex, oral (f! receiveing), unsafe sex (rings probably shouldn’t go there, take ‘em off before you get nasty), unprotected sex (just remember you could get pregnant and if the thoughts of children doesn’t scare you… then the thought of an std should), porn without plot (what’s plot), talk about piercings and tattoos, pierced/ tattooed! scara

this is a repost because i'm moving my nsfw works onto this blog!!

genshin impact masterlist || modern au masterlist

You recalled stumbling into your boyfriend’s dark apartment, your feet catching the edges of various furniture as the two of you tugged on each other’s clothes, mouths not parting from each other on your way to the bedroom. It took all your strength to stay upright on wobbly knees, Scara’s tongue caressing your own and greedily swallowing all the noises that escaped you.

His iron grip on your waist and your arms slung around his neck kept you up as his tongue, pierced with a metal ball, grazed yours with every other motion, the difference in texture keeping you on your toes and making every kiss feel new and exciting.

The next moments were hazy but, soon thereafter, ringed hands travelled your body and slowly pulled your top off, exposing more and more skin to the indigo eyes studying every sliver of it. Lifting yourself from the mattress, you helped him get the article of clothing out of the way before sinking back into the soft pillows, stripped completely bare from the hips upwards, and Scara wasted no time getting to work.

Ever the artist, he dedicated the first few minutes to adding more reddish hues to the canvas that was your skin, already eager to run his fingers over the purplish bruises they’d leave around your shoulders and collarbones in the morning. You couldn’t help the shiver which overtook you as you felt him shift his weight lower on your body, his tongue travelling down your sternum, making goosebumps rise in the wake of the smooth metal on your heated skin.

Mischievous eyes drunk in how dishevelled you already looked, planning how to have you writhing in his sheets in no time. Before you could question the spark in his eyes, painted nails had already closed around one of your pebbled nipples, twisting the poor bud and pulling a surprised gasp from you which transitioned into a breathy moan as his lips wrapped around its twin. Watching for your reaction, he lightly pressed your nipple towards the roof of his mouth, rolling the sensitive skin between his lips and flicking his piercing against it.

“Ah-! Scara!” The sensation had you arching your back into his touch, your hands flying up to root your fingers in his midnight blue hair, as heat shot down to your core. You could feel his smirk against your body before he pulled off with a pop.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” He grinned, eyes darkened in the dimly lit room. Sitting up to straddle where your hips met your thighs, he pushed his flat palm down onto the valley of your breasts before slowly -teasingly- dragging it downwards, causing you to shiver at the temperature difference between his fingers and the rings littering them. “I wonder, is this all it takes to rile you up? I might as well check, right?”

After stopping his movements right at the waistband of your bottoms, he made a show of dipping his fingers under the material first before working them off completely with your help. When the garment landed in the pile forming on the floor next to the bed, he repositioned himself between your spread legs, calloused hands tantalisingly gliding up the plush of your thighs. A beat of silence passed in which you both drank in the sight of each other; you, undressed and with glazed over eyes spread out on his bed, and Scara, framed by the light highlighting the piercings on his cheek as he towered over your form.

“Let’s see then, shall we?” He whispered, not being able to resist the temptation of snapping the elastic of your underwear and making you jump at the slight sting. Trailing his fingers down at an excruciating, leisurely pace, his nails merely grazed the delicate skin around your core, just to hear you whine his name in frustration. Switching up his tune, he dragged the digit over the soaked material of your last remaining piece of clothing. An amused chuckle slipped past his lips, not hiding his glee even a little. “As I thought, you really are getting off on just this. When were you going to tell me I’m dating a little slut huh?”

“I’m not-” The sudden pressure on your clit combined with the mean nickname had you cutting yourself off with a high-pitched whine. Opening your eyes again, you found yourself staring up at your boyfriend’s expression curled into a smirk. “That’s not fair!”

“Oh but we both know you like it when I’m being unfair.” Leaning down next to your ear, you could feel his breath fanning its shell, his voice low as if he was sharing a secret. “You get off on being my little plaything, letting me do whatever I want with you. And the best part? You enjoy it. You enjoy it so much I can feel your thighs twitch just from talking to you like this, no doubt ruining those flimsy panties of yours even more when I haven’t even put my hands on you in earnest.”

The worst -or best– part was he was right and you were both well aware. Nothing wound you up faster than hearing the honey-dipped venom drip from his lips as he toyed with you and your release, cruelly denying it or giving you so much of it your senses were flooded with only him and the pleasure he brought upon you.

After continuing to dart his touch from one place to the other without ever staying in one place long enough to scratch that itch building in your core, he finally decided to show you some mercy and strip you completely bare. With all of you on display for him, Scara took the liberty of studying how your arousal shone in the bedroom light as your glistening cunt clenched around nothing from the anticipation.

“Stop staring and get on with it already!” Even to your own ears the plea sounded a little too desperate considering how little had happened thus far. And your boyfriend was quick to remind you, too.

“Listen to you, so eager to let me fuck you,” he laughed. “Fine, fine, guess I’ll give you what you want.”

That was all the warning you got before he thrust a finger inside to the last knuckle, embarrassingly little resistance stopping him. On the contrary, it was more as if your walls kept sucking him back in, clinging to skin and metal, when he pulled the digit back out.

The difference in texture and temperature made for a combination that kept you on your toes, never quite able to anticipate how the next stroke would feel or which his jewellery would catch next. Adding a second finger, Scara distracted you from how he shifted his weight further down the bed and used one hand to push your legs further apart, slotting his shoulders between your thighs.

You squirmed in his hold as he lifted your legs over his shoulders, his mouth level with your core as he let his breath fan your slick-covered folds, which were still being abused by his cruel fingers. Tightening his hold on your thigh, he brought you closer to his kiss-swollen lips, only to stop when he was hovering right over your twitching clit.

“Eyes on me, doll,” he breathed, mouth almost brushing against you with the ghost of a touch. When you looked down, piercing indigo eyes were already focused on you, half of your boyfriend’s face already obscured by your own body. Something about the intimacy of the position and the intensity of his attention on you made you heat up as you fought to hold the eye contact.

Satisfied, Scara lowered his mouth all the way down to close the small gap and now you were burning up. Feeling his lips close around your clit tore an obscene moan from you, especially when he flicked his tongue with the silver ball against it, much like he did earlier, with the sole intent of getting you to arch into his touch. Simultaneously, he curled his fingers upwards and curled them as if he beckoned you closer to him despite already enjoying the most intimate proximity, brushing the spot he knew you liked but purposely missing it, laughing at your whine.

When you were twisting and panting enough for his liking, clearly starting to unravel at the seams, he switched it up by increasing the pressure on the little bud and angling his fingers to hit that spot dead on. Tangling your fingers in his hair and the fabric of the sheets, you tried grounding yourself as your mind flew into overdrive and stars danced across your vision. It wasn’t the first time he’d eaten you out and that knowledge fuelled the fire in your belly, convinced he did it just as much for his pleasure as for yours. Something he proved with the groan escaping him as you clenched around the digits stroking your velvety walls. You couldn't help the involuntary jerk of your hips as you felt a sheen of sweat building all over.

“Hold still,” he mumbled, barely pulling far enough away to properly mouth the words. “I’m trying to work here.”

With that, he dove straight back in, tongue dragging over your clit, sucking it into his mouth as his fingers kept working you open. The sounds coming from between your legs were downright obscene, a lewd mixture of your obvious arousal and Scara’s enthusiastic movements, like it was the filthiest make-out session you’d ever seen (and heard). A certain degree of embarrassment climbed up your spine just to be drowned out by the pleasure of the prolonged stimulation you were experiencing.

Subconsciously, you pulled on his roots, to which your boyfriend answered with a guttural groan sending vibrations right through you. With another high-pitched moan, your feet flexed against his back as your toes curled and your thighs clamped shut around his head, the metal of his nostril and dermal piercing cool against your heated skin. Desperate to snap the coil in your stomach, you swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth and called out for your boyfriend, less to signal your building orgasm and more because it was the only thing you could think of.

“I’m so close— Scara, please!”

“Begging already? Go ahead, doll, and make a mess on my hand. I know you want to cum all over my fingers,” he purred against your burning up skin. His voice drifted off into a soft whisper, wafting through the fog of your orgasm to bring your attention back to the man between your legs. At this point you were barely coherent, only babbling moans intermixed with your boyfriend’s name.

“Keep saying my name, pretty,” he moaned against your folds. “Let me hear who’s making you cum like this.“

You complied with his request easy enough, not that you really needed the incentive. And then you let go, letting wave after wave of pleasure rush over you, giving in to the sensation spreading through your body. Meanwhile, Scara, who had slowly pulled his fingers out of you, was busy lapping up your release, guiding you back down from your high not letting a single drop go to waste. Only when he was sure there was nothing left did he carefully slip your legs from his shoulders, sitting up between them as your gaze remained stuck on him

And you were glad it did, because you didn’t want to miss the way Scara’s tongue flicked between his fingers to clean your essence off of them, his jewellery shinier than ever from your arousal clinging to it. The sight had you holding your breath rather than catching it. Cleaning his lips from the slick clinging to them, he leant down, so he could lean down and press a kiss to your temple. “That’s it, ‘did so well for me, pretty. How are you feeling? Doing good?”

“Mhm,” you replied, still a little drunk on the pleasure he just delivered to you. “Felt amazing.”

“Good,” he mused against your skin, unoccupied hands massaging your sore thighs, one of them smearing your release mixed with his spit onto the muscle. Pulling back to look into your eyes and check your reaction, he asked “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yeah, I want to,” you affirmed. Showing him a small smile and trailing your hand down his chest to the front of his pants, strained by a prominent bulge, you added, “Can’t make this all about me, can I? I want you to feel good too.”

“My, aren’t I lucky to have such a considerate partner?” While the statement came out sarcastic, you knew he actually meant it. If you had told him you were too exhausted to continue, you knew he would have respected that. But frankly, you needed him to fuck you stupid. “Or perhaps it’s less about me and you’re an insatiable little minx who wants to be stuffed even after already cumming? Well, not that I mind either way.”

“A little bit of both maybe,” you chuckled, brushing some of his bangs out of his face. With some of your clarity returning to you, bantering came easy again. “I’d probably feel a lot more motivated if you lost some of your clothes as well.”

“So honest too,” your boyfriend laughed along, pressing another kiss to your forehead before granting your wish. Revealing his lean build and toned stomach by discarding his baggy shirt was always a sight to behold, especially with all the ink covering the skin and flexing alongside his muscles. But as much as you appreciated the view of your boyfriend shirtless, your heart leapt into your throat every time he undressed fully. You knew some of his friends made fun of Scara for his height but damn if they knew where all those inches went…

“Careful, you’re starting to drool,” he teased. Helping you up, he manoeuvred you to sit in his lap at the edge of the bed, your back pressed firmly against his chest. In this position you could clearly feel his hard dick against your backside, smearing precum along your skin and furthering his promise. “You know, if you wanted to get fucked dumb, you could’ve just said so. I’m more than happy to help you out.”

“Noted,” you said. But before you could add a quip of your own, you were cut off by your own strangled yelp when you felt him bite down at the base of your neck. Not hard enough to cause any serious irritation but enough to get your attention back on him.

“You know I love that smart mouth you have on you but right now all I want to hear you moan is my name and how good I’m filling you.” And with just this shift in his tone, you were already nodding along, clearly establishing who was holding the reins here. Lifting you by your hips, Scara aligned your pulsing core with the mushroom tip of his cock, groaning at the slick heat. “So pliant and obedient for me… Now be good and watch as you take me.”

For a second you were confused before your eyes met your own in the floor-length mirror across from you. The surprised arch of your brows only lasted for a second though before you felt Scara push the head past the muscles of your entrance, the initial sting eased by your previous release but still a delicious stretch. You shut your eyes and turned your head at witnessing the round ‘o’ shape your mouth parted into and, immediately, your boyfriend held you still, not allowing you to sink further down on his length.

“Didn’t I make myself clear?” He asked, one hand leaving your hips and grasping your jaw instead, angling your face to look forward again. “I told you to watch yourself. Don’t make me say it again. You wouldn’t want me to.”

Your weak ‘Y-Yes’ sounded pathetic even in your own ears but you craved nothing more than to stretch yourself further on his dick and you’d do whatever to get there. So you complied and cracked your eyes open again to take in the compromising position you were in, knees spread and hovering over your boyfriend's lap.

“There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He cooed right next to your ear, the low timbre of his voice grazing your ear as he rewarded you by inching you down his dick at an excruciatingly slow pace. As you stared into the mirror you had a first row ticket to seeing the coherent thoughts slip from your mind as Scara mouthed down your neck, pierced tongue flicking over particularly nasty marks he left.

Despite all the previous preparations made, it was still a tight fit as you struggled to take all of him. So when you neared his base and your walls clamped down hard on him, one hand slid up to play with nipples some more as the other traced circles into your hip and provided something for you to hold on. Your second palm found the back of his head again as you arched your back and a string of moans intersected with curses spilt past your lips.

“You’re doing so well, almost there, pretty. See?” Pressing down on his length through your skin had you positively mewling from the stimulation as well as the image you saw in the mirror. Relief washed over you when you finally sank all the way down and could rest your strained thighs against his. As he pressed a fleeting kiss to your cheek, the two smooth piercings on his own traced the turn of his head. “I knew you could do it, you always do. You were basically made to take me. Nobody else could stuff you this well anyway.”

“Fuck! Only you, Scara,” you whined as you accommodated his length and waited for the pain to give way to pleasure. “Please fuck me, I need you so badly.”

“Since you asked so nicely…” On the first drag out, he made sure you could feel each and every vein against your sensitive walls before slamming back in with a single thrust. His deep strokes never failed to knock the air from your lungs and soon enough you were gasping at your own reflection, pleasure intensified by watching how his dick glistened from your arousal more every time he pulled back out before pushing in with a wet squelching sound.

When your gaze drifted towards an indigo one, you were hardly surprised to find your boyfriend already watching you. Whether it was the furrow of your brows, your parted lips, the sweat rolling down your neck or the bounce of your chest, to him it was all incredibly alluring, especially because he was the one who got you into this blissed out state in the first place.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” he mused into the crook of your neck, voice betraying just a bit of the strain he must be feeling. “But I have some improvement ideas.”

“Ye-ah?”

Catching your bouncing breasts in his palms, his fingers trapped the skin of your areolas and rolled it around, applying just the right amount of pleasure. “Don't get me wrong, these are cute as they are but I bet they’d look even hotter with piercings in them. What do you think, doll? Would you let me pierce those gorgeous nipples of yours?”

There was no need to actually nod your head, the way you squeezed his cock at the imagination was a dead give away of how much you enjoyed the fantasy of letting your boyfriend do just that. Just envisioning the exciting sting when he’d pull on the delicate jewellery while in a position similar to this had your hips buck down of their own accord.

“Yeah? You like that?” You could hear the self-satisfied smirk in his voice without having to tear your eyes away from the fingers playing with your chest, thighs trembling as the second high of the night creeped up on you, further amplified by the idea of shiny jewellery decorating your body. “Getting close again? I can feel you clamping down on me, no need to deny it.”

By now, there was no thought running through your head aside from your boyfriend and how deep he was hitting every sensitive spot inside of you. You were giving it your all to follow his command of watching yourself but at one point it became too much and your head rolled back into his shoulder, baring your neck and throat to him completely.

But you weren’t the only one nearing your orgasm. Although better at hiding it, there was no concealing the laboured groans next to your ear or the heated throbbing of Scara’s cock inside you, his hips snapping up into yours more erratically. Snaking one hand down your front once more, deft fingers drawing figure eights on your aching clit.

“Bet you’d even let me pierce you down here, yeah? Making this little thing even more reactive, just so I can rile you up more? You’re such a slut, I bet you’d even beg me to do it,” he panted breathlessly, pinching the area in question to underline his point.

“Scara, please—!”

“Fuck, yeah just like that.” His laugh came out stuttered. “Let me mark what’s mine, yeah? Make sure nobody gets any funny ideas—“

Both of your voices trailed off into whines and groans as you gripped him like a vice, having him doubling his effort to pull back out as you sucked him back in. Then, your thighs locked up and you let out the sweetest yet most sinful moan of the night, trembling through your high as you milked your boyfriend for all his worth. With stuttering hips, he slammed in one more time as deep as he could and bit down on your shoulder as thick, hot spurts of cum filled you up.

Catching your breath, you slumped back bonelessly against his chest as he rode out his orgasm before you pushed the hand that was still meanly tracing your clit away with a weak whine. You felt his chuckle as much as you heard it while he pressed a kiss to the mark he left with his teeth. Despite his cock still plugging you up, you could feel some of his load dribbling from your spent hole.

Slowly, you loosened the death grip you had on his hair, flexing your fingers to regain some of the feeling in them. Finding your voice again, you inquired “So, about those piercings… Did you mean it?“

“Oh, definitely.” Eyeing the darkening skin of your shoulders and collarbones mischievously, he met your gaze through the mirror, bucking his hips up just enough to feel you clench around him again. “Perhaps you could give me some more inspiration for a new tattoo as well~”

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated ♡

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#┊holly’s potions ೃ༄#┊holly’s modern au ✩彡 #genshin impact #x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #scaramouche x reader #scara x reader #scaramouche smut #scara smut #genshin modern au #genshin impact scaramouche #minors dni

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moonstruckme · 6 months

Note

hiii! so i’ve just recently started reading ur work and i love it sm ur amazing! so i just wanted to request smth and it’s a little random but i was wondering if you could do something with remus/james where reader gets uncomfortable around drunk ppl bc that’s how i am because of some things in the past so maybe she gets uncomfortable and he gets kinda protective? sorry that was a lot but if u don’t write this rhats perfectly fine i just wanted to say i love your work!🩷

Thanks lovely <33

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 825 words

Really, you ought to know better than to walk around this part of town on a weekend night. You’d just wanted a pint of ice cream so badly, and this is the nearest store with the kind you like. You hadn’t thought it through, how these would be the peak hours for the bars that line the majority of the street, how the sidewalks would fill with too-loud patrons laughing and stumbling about.

It’s not that you really even feel unsafe. The area is too crowded for most of the men to try anything, and James is with you to deter anything like that anyway. It’s just…a lot. The slurred shouts, and the unpredictable movements, and the stink of vomit.

James drifts closer to you, taking your hand to help guide you through the crowd. He knows how you feel about drunk people. Even him and his friends, who you love and know would never intentionally make you uncomfortable, feel odd to be around after they’ve been drinking.

James glances over at you. “You good?”

“Yeah.” You do your best to appear less tense, smiling at him. “Thanks.”

He gives your hand a light squeeze, moving the both of you this way and that to avoid groups that have stagnated or slowed on the sidewalk. You can’t help but stare as a girl a few paces ahead of you falls onto her bum on the curb, laughing deliriously as her friends try to help her back up. There’s a group of boys in front of you with their arms linked over each other’s shoulders, open drink containers in several of their hands as they mosey down the sidewalk, singing out of tune and at seemingly different parts of the same song. If you were one of them, it would probably all seem funny and lighthearted to you, too. There’s nothing nefarious about this; they’re just people enjoying a Friday night. And still, you can’t help but feel awkward and on edge around them.

You feel the shock of cold before you know what’s happened, freezing liquid streaming down your shirt. You gasp and flinch into James on instinct, and the drunken man follows you inadvertently, his now empty beer bottle tipped over your shoulder and his weight pressing into you as he tries to hold himself up on nonfunctioning legs.

James’ hand skims over your upper back as he moves around to your other side, taking the guy by the shoulders and lifting him off of you. The man starts to babble angrily, but James only gives him one of his easy smiles. You’d have to really know him to be able to tell he doesn’t mean it.

“Easy, mate,” he says, delivering the man back to his group of friends behind you. His tone changes slightly when he addresses them, still friendly but with a slightly harder edge. “Keep track of your friend, yeah?”

The group of boys says various things in the affirmative, but James has already turned away. He shepherds you over to the wall of the closest building, out of the flow of foot traffic, and puts himself between you and the people passing by.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he says, taking off the flannel he’s wearing over his t-shirt. “He really spilled all over you. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, though you really are very cold now. You take James’ flannel without complaint, shrugging it on. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.”

“So fucking irresponsible,” he huffs, shaking his head as he adjusts the thick fabric to cover the wet streak down the side of your shirt. “I mean, who lets their mate get that sloppy and then walk around by themselves? I could never do that.”

You smile at him. “I know you couldn’t, Jamie. You’re a good friend.”

He grins back at you, taking you under his arm as you begin walking towards the store again. It looks casual, a boyfriend with his arm slung loosely over his girl’s shoulders, but you can feel the tension in his bicep as he keeps you close, maneuvering you carefully through the crowd.

“I think those guys were just too drunk to keep track of him,” you go on. “Not everyone can have as good a friend as you.”

James scoffs, but you don’t let him dodge the compliment.

“I’m serious.” You bump his hip lightly. “I bet none of those guys would have given me their jacket when it was this chilly out. You’re one in a million.”

“Great,” James says. “So now my accolades are that I don’t let my friends fall all over people when they’re drunk and I give pretty girls my jacket when they’re soaking wet in the cold.” You’re looking ahead of you, but you can hear the eye roll in his voice even as he presses a quick kiss to the side of your head. “Your bar’s frighteningly low, angel. We’re gonna have to work on that.”

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stay-midnight · 1 year

Text

Crimes in the Sheets

Synopsis: After dating for around 5 months, Seungmin thinks his sexual fantasies about you are going a bit too rampant for him to control, but somehow your phone seems more important than him.

Kim Seungmin x Male Reader

• Requested by Anon √

• Word #: 2.9K

• Warnings/Kinks: Dom/Top Kim Seungmin, Sub/Bot Male Reader, Porn Without Plot, Degradation, Praises, Corruption(?) not really, Fisting, Fingering, Breeding, Sexual Fantasies, Petnames, Mutual Masturbation, Teasing, Edging, Overstimulation, Hazy Sex, First Time w/ Seungmin (Not in a virgin-type way), Drooling, Choking, Marking, Hickeys, Unsafe Sex (Wear something to protect the erect), Aftercare, Love Showering, Kissing, Make-out, Tongue in Mouth, Seungmin is jealous of a phone. • A/N: My first fic after 10 months! (Uh- Just I hope the writing is okay cuz I have probably gotten a bit too rusty) Also corruption is not that present(?) I'm sorry anonnie who requested it! It just that I couldn't wrap my head around on how to write it... ;-; But I hope this is enough to satiate all the Seungmin stans that were waiting for a fic! (God knows you all deserve more fics...!)

Tippy-taps were the only sounds really audible in the mute atmosphere, Seungmin eyed you while pretending to scroll on his phone while you were too busy to notice as you were fiddling with your own device.

Seungmin sighs once, his voice echoing around the room before his eyes dragged over to you to see your reaction. Seungmin wanted to pout when he saw that you didn't even turn your head.

You were still focused on your phone, getting absorbed into whatever social media you were scrolling through. Seungmin was getting a bit annoyed, you two were suppose to hang out and be lovey-dovey like all couples would but here you are showing him how hyper-fixated you can be.

Seungmin sighs a second time, this time he wasn't only side-eyeing you he was full-on giving you his blank-stare. His eyes twitched slightly when he saw you smile at your handheld screen instead.

Your boyfriend's nerves irked slightly and decided to scoot closer to you.

He peeked at what you were looking at and saw that you were scrolling through Instagram and laughing slightly on some funny pictures.

Ah. So that's what is more important than me, he thought.

He wanted to divert your attention, so he eyed you for an idea.

Then it clicked, his face slowly morphed into a cute little grin.

Seungmin placed his hand on your thigh with a glint in his eyes but you just hummed when he did that, placing your head on his shoulder as you scroll through your feed.

His hands were getting antsy, so was something down there as he remembered the dreams he had about you all the time that inevitably causes him to wake up in morning sweat as well as soaked underwear.

He licked his lips as he turned his head to look down at you, still occupied. He raised his shoulder a bit as a signal to remove your head from his joint, to which you complied easily.

With excitement coursing through his veins, Seungmin started to lean into your neck, his lips touching your skin to which you responded with a small giggle at the ticklish sensation.

“Woah, there — lover boy.” You mused, your favorite nickname for him rolling off your tongue smoothly.

“What's gotten into you?”

No response as Seungmin rested his face on your neck while his hand on your thigh slowly trailed into your middle.

Seungmin kissed your soft skin with warmth despite the feeling of lust building inside him. You didn't expect this sudden shower of love from him, but you graciously accepted it as you laid your phone down on the sheets.

His lips trailed from your neck to your jaw as he kissed it lightly, you closed your eyes and savored the feeling of his supple lips.

“The things I want to do to you, jagi...” He whispers hotly against your ear, then in a sudden flash — your positions changed from sitting side by side to him pinning you down the bed with his hands beside your head.

This shocked you of course, Seungmin does not look like someone who would be this domineering. With widened eyes you respond to his early statement with a light breath. “Seung..?”

“This phone seems more important to me huh?” He gawped, tossing the aforementioned device into the nightstand.

Then it hit you — after hearing his words. Deep inside, you wanted to laugh at the fact that this puppy is jealous of your phone. Seungmin noticed as he watched your expression closely, you were on the verge of laughter. He didn't like it one bit as he glared at you eye-to-eye, all thoughts of laughing faded like the wind.

The position was not family-friendly at all as Seungmin leaned down to connect both of your lips, you were familiar with kissing him as you do it all the time anyway but something about this certain kiss was different it had... more flare in a way. Without a word exchanged, Seungmin's tongue dived first into your mouth causing a muffled sound out of you.

By no means were you a virgin but in the 5 months with Seungmin, you had never had actual sex...

Seungmin's hands creeped up your shirt, while your own gripped the side of his body, you tried hard to reciprocate in the mouthful kiss but you weren't experienced at it while Seungmin seemed relaxed and confident as he shoved the muscle down your wet cavern.

He pulled away as a long trail of saliva was made, you were breathless and dizzy already but Seungmin wasn't done it seems.

His hands inside your shirt pinched a nub, causing it to be hard and erect, your muscle tensed slightly at the sensation.

“God.. Y/N, you look so pretty like this.” he curses as his mouth dives into your neck once again, to adorn it with purple blooms and to reap more sounds out of your innocent mouth.

“Seung, fuck... yeah, that feels so so g-good.”

His hand stopped massaging your left nub and switched to your right, stimulating it to the point that you felt yourself getting harder by the minute. You tilted your head back as Seungmin kissed down your neck, down to your collarbone.

Now, impatience was waning the atmosphere — Seungmin started rutting his hips into your thighs, the glide of his hard-on was hard to miss. Seungmin couldn't help but pull back to remove his shirt — his full lean torso was a sight for a split second before he started to remove your own shirt — raising your arms and tilting your head back.

At first, you were reluctant to show skin but Seungmin immediately removed that, “Fucking beautiful for me, jagi” he mumbles in a soft tone.

“I–I hate you.” you stutter out, trying to hide that underlying smile with your palm — your heart was drumming so fast, it was louder than sound of the AC in the corner

Seungmin tore his eyes away from your chest before landing on your covered face — he guided your blocking hand away, noticing every single detail and appreciating every inch of you.

His touch burned red wherever his fingertips landed, like hot wax melting over you — that tingling sensation rose as well as the butterfly flying in your stomach as cliché it may sound like.

You decided to get a little bit brave as your hands gripped Seungmin's shorts before dragging it over to the tent in his short as a subtle moan flew through Seungmin's lips.

“You don't know how long I've wanted to do this, Y/N — I wanna ruin you like this.” His voice mesmerizes you as you couldn't help but squeeze his erection a few times.

“Yeah?” you ask in awe as you relax underneath him.

He nods.

Seungmin started to grind into your hand while he bit your nipples, ravaging it like a last meal while your own hard-on was getting uncomfortable against your last pieces of clothing.

Your boyfriend wanted to go little-by-little and enjoy the moment before the high, a little maniacal grin clouds over his expression at the different possible thoughts flowing through his brain which was unbeknownst to you.

He stills for a moment, leaving you to catch your breath as he grabs something under the cushion of his bed.

You didn't even manage to get a glimpse of it before he pounces back to you, item in hand.

“Jagi, if you ever feel it's too much.. Just say the word, "Chocolate" alright?” He proffered, staring you down before kissing your lips.

“Okay.. Okay,” you breathed out, relaxing your nerves. Seungmin drags your pants down, your underwear following soon after — your legs closed instinctively but Seungmin pried it open, his attention on your expression for any discomfort.

You faltered for a bit but allowed him to do so.

Seungmin popped open the cap of the item he was holding as he towered over your body, then you felt something soft against your lips once again as you returned his kiss with want as well.

He positions your body so that your ass was more accessible to him, his fingers that were moist with something teased your puckered hole.

“Please, Seungmin — just quick..!” You assert when Seungmin pulled away from your swollen lips.

“You aren't in control here–not after ignoring me, my little slut.” Your eyes widened at the nickname, but at the same time — your dick twitched and Seungmin couldn't help but smile as he noticed that.

“So you like that huh?” He mocks.

“N-No..” you countered, only for him to shove two fingers immediately in your hole, the burning feeling making you bite back a moan.

He leans down towards your ear, his voice deepening, “I hear that now, but later — you'll be nothing but like a cumsock.” A

A shudder passed your whole body at the way he worded it, the head of your cock burned with each passing second without stimulation. “Seung, fuck...”, you cursed before he hit something with his digits that made your toes curl up in pleasure.

“Sir. Call me sir, slut.” he insists as a breath leaves your lips.

“Wh-Wha— N— Fuck!” you swore as he pressed his long fingers hard on a sensitive spot

A moan left you as he kept abusing a certain spot inside of you. Seungmin pulls his finger out, ripping a whine from you.

“Sir, fuck– Sir please..!” You begged, struggling helplessly as Seungmin watched your cock bounce while you thrust upwards to no avail.

“That's right, baby boy–God, you look so hot like this”

Seungmin's sweet praises rang in your ear like strings being strummed on a guitar, like light chords and tunes going in one ear then out the other. Seungmin's free hand wandered back into your chest, thumb massaging an erected bud as he took off his shorts with one hand. You couldn't tear your gaze away from his cock, pretty pink lush on the tip with veins popping on the side — size didn't matter for you but god that looked bigger than you thought.

Your boyfriend's face showed a condescending grin as he noticed your staring, his ego inflating over the edge.

A gasp shot out of your mouth as soon as Seungmin's hand wrapped both around your cocks, the friction of his cock against yours as well as Seungmin's hand was pure bliss, and you couldn't help but thrust your hips up and chase the pleasure.

Seungmin watched as your own pre-cum was enough to coat both of your cocks evenly—he let out a groan, finding your neediness hot.

You set up a faster pace — you were basically fucking his hand at this point — desperation clings to your raspy breaths as you chase that inevitable high but of course Seungmin had other ideas than to end his fantasies in such a short-lived way.

He pulls his hand away much to your disappointment.

“Wh-Why... Seu–Sir, god— H-Hand...” You babbled endlessly, your hand lingering over both your cocks wanting to release but Seungmin tsks at your disobedience. He grabs your free hands and pins it up your head—he wouldn't let you do as you please that easily.

A whine escaped your throat, still helplessly thrusting upwards and struggling against his grip — gaining pleasure from the friction of Seungmin's cock against yours, his dick resting just above your own.

“Disobedient slut, aren't you?” He says monotonously with a scowl on his face.

He hikes your legs up as you look up at him teary-eyed.

Your ass was fully exposed to him as he positioned his cock against your pulsating entrance — your breath caught in your throat as you felt the head of his dick prod your rim but not pushing in at all.

You awaited the oncoming onslaught but Seungmin was not about to let you feel that gratification that easily.

With a grin, he leans down to mouth at your neck as he keeps his cock at bay — like withholding food from a hungry man.

Your hips sink down against his hard cock with want but doesn't do anything except make Seungmin's cock glide against the crack of your ass — he grins, knowing you were at the verge of breaking which was what he wanted in the first place. To break you as a punishment.

Seungmin's hand couldn't help but wander to your neglected cock — as to add insult to injury; he jerks it off, once or twice as a tease and that was it for you.

A sob left your mouth as you relaxed into the bed, mind too hazy to notice.

A chuckle emerged from your boyfriend as he shoved his entire cock into you in one go, moaning lowly at the feeling of your walls against his sensitive dick.

“Fuck, so tight—just for me.”

“Mm, sirrr...” You said empty-headed in response, his cock reaching and hitting places that made you quiver in total euphoric pleasure, he was leaking inside you — already coating your walls while languidly rutted inside you, his speed increasing by the minute.

“Good fucking slut.” he gruffly babbles, palm squeezing your thighs intensely— for sure to leave red hand marks in the aftermath.

Seungmin was sure to hit your prostate, multiple times — milking it for what it's worth and creating that onset feeling within your abdomen.

Moans, gurgles and the creaking of the wooden bed were the only sounds bouncing off his apartment's walls, for sure — Seungmin's neighbors are gonna be angry at him, the next day.

“Close, jagi?” he asks roughly, as he pulls your hips back onto his cock — making you feel every inch of him.

You nod twice, drool escaping from your swollen lips as every glide of Seungmin's cock against your walls continues the building orgasm.

On instinct, Seungmin moves his hand up your body and wraps it around your neck — your breath catching on your throat at the restriction. Seungmin slams his cock inside you with vigor, his balls hitting the cleft of your ass cheek at the power of his thrusts. Your eyes rolls back at your airways being blocked as you

With one last hit towards your prostate — you spurt your release untouched with a scratchy moan.

You gasp against Seungmin's chokehold as white comes out of tip like an endless stream, electric shock coursing through your body at the intensity.

Seungmin's hand leaves a print on your neck as he pulls away, air finally filling your lungs desperately.

Seungmin is in awe of your fucked-out expression and couldn't help but reach for your cock that was dribbling with cum — he jerks it off in rhythm with his erratic thrust, fucking you through your orgasm as all you could do was whine as you reached out to touch Seungmin's chest, finger catching on his nipples.

Seungmin welcomes the extra stimulation on his lean body, his thrust going faster and harder until and with the release of Seungmin's held breath, his hips stilling as he soils your insides with white, thick release.

He breathes heavily as he slumps on top of you — your chest touching and sticky with your fluid. “Mmm, Seung— heavy, get off me.” You mumble, clenching around him with a groan.

Seungmin laughs bubbly, “Still not done, baby boy.” He whispers, pulling out of your slick hole with a pop, his cum gently streaming out of your rim before he positions his finger back in, one digit then comes two.

“Mmm...”

“Like that?” Seungmin says, motioning his wrist perfectly to that sensitive spot.

“A-Ah.. Yeah...” You confirm with a modest nod, enjoying the pleasure from Seungmin's long fingers.

Two fingers shortly turn to three as Seungmin shoves his digits inside your cum-slicked hole — loving the way you clench and stiffen at the feeling.

A few minutes passed as Seungmin played with your hole to yours and to his surprise — he added another finger, then the last until your hole managed to fit his whole fist in.

“Fuck, you're so loose from me, jagi.” He comments as he thrust his entire fist inside you as you let out trembling breaths at the burning stretch. Seungmin manages to get it in up until his wrist before he stills his hand inside of you, your chest heaved before he finally pulls his whole hand out — your hole unclenching as Seungmin's cum drips out.

Seungmin immediately straightens his body and peppers your face with soft kisses, you exhale shakily — gripping into Seungmin's bicep as you let him shower you with love. “You were so good, so good for me—jagi, so pretty.”

Though your entire body ache from a passionate and rough time, you smiled up at your lover, “Yeah, yeah—lover boy.” You mumble through closed lashes, feeling a bit cloudy still as Seungmin touches your parts of your body that he marked up fondly.

“Good?” he asks attentively.

“Yeah, was' fun.”

“Need anything, love?”

“Nope, just sleep...” you grumble, exhausted from the 'activity'.

“Better rest up, cuz we still have lots to continue later~ Oh- and I'm confiscating your phone.” He says with a tooth-eating grin, you rolled your eyes at that — grabbing the nearest pillow and hitting him straight in the cheek as he reaches for your phone.

“Hey— Ow!”

You laughed loudly, as you stood up and ran with a limp towards the kitchen area.

“Oh no you didn't— Get the fuck ba—”Seungmin cuts himself off by tripping on the blanket.

Your annoying laugh echoed at Seungmin's misfortune but when Seungmin gets his hands on you... Hmm, there's no telling.

1K notes · View notes

ravencincaide · 1 month

Text

List of Chores

Summary: You wanted to say no. You wanted so badly to say ‘not tonight’ but as you looked at Chuuya’s bright hopeful eyes, looked at the wine that was not yours, the dress that was not yours or the house that was not yours, you had no choice but to say ‘yes’.

Pairing: Couple! Fem reader x Chuuya

Raven’s Special prompt: “Can I ask for Raven's special, a NSFW fic with Chuuya? Reader wants to stop the sex because it doesn't feel pleasurable anymore, but doesn't know how to voice it? And maybe it gets Chuuya confused about how she's acting? Feel free to twist this however you feel like it.”

Warnings: Mature, triggering content; minors DNI!

This fic contains: Pressure sex/dubious consent, Cursing, dirty talk, rough sex and insults towards reader, some hand stuff, penetrative sex, hint at unsafe sex, and probably something else I missed. It's dark and icky.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

“ You’re so beautiful tonight, sweetheart” Chuuya breathed a tipsy purr as he pulled you into his lap, one arm snaked around your waist while the second took his refilled glass out of your grasp and set it on the couch side table.

“ Are you saying I’m not beautiful usually?” you teased lightly, hopeful that he’d entertain your joke instead of turning this pleasant homey night into something sexual. Your hopes shattered the second he pressed his lips to the base of your neck.

The knot of anxiety formed in your stomach as he hummed against your skin in thought. It wound tighter as Chuuya trailed opened mouth kisses all the way up to the shell of your ear. Hot tongue teased your earlobe followed by sensual nips of sharp teeth; “ You know what I mean dollface” the arm around your waist tightened ever so slightly before it relaxed and shifted back. Fingertips played from the edge of your ribcage then up, trailing the outline of your bra.

“ C-Chuuya..” you started, shuddering as he dipped his hand inside the v-line of your dress, cool leather ghosted over your nipples.

“ Mmm? tell me if you want to stop, baby” Chuuya pulled back and grasped your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, then turned your face to face him. His eyes a dark lust filled blue, cheeks tinted a rosy red although you were unsure whether it was from desire or wine. A flirty smirk adored his face; he knew you could feel his half-hard bulge press up against the curve of your ass, completely feelable through the thin material of your dress. “ Tell me now sweets.” he breathed then licked his lips as his eyes landed on the wine glass tightly grasped between your fingertips.

You gave him an apologetic smile, parted your lips to utter the reply that felt the most right to you. You wanted to say no. You wanted so badly to say ‘not tonight’. Yet as your eyes landed on Chuuya’s bright hopeful ones you felt your resolve weaken, a splash of guilt grasped at your heart. You licked your lips and tried to speak again; yet all you could do was watch as Chuuya ignored your smile- misread it. His expression filled with desire and approval.

Lust only for you.

The nauseating guilt grew deeper as you noticed his eyes flicked downwards to the wine again before he reached for it, took a sip. then passed the glass right back.

Right. A subconscious reminder.

Yes, the wine that was not yours. The dress that was not yours. Even the house you lived in was not yours. You weren’t on the lease, weren’t even a tenant. Yes, most of the commodities you enjoyed were his. So, if he wanted to he could strip you bare and throw you out that instant. And you’d be entirely helpless.

You didn’t think he would; but you feared. And in all that, you had no choice but to say ‘yes’.

“ Oh I’ll make you feel so good, doll” His lips were on yours, tongue lapped at your lipstick before pushing past. The taste of cigarettes and wine filled your senses. You focused away from it and on his hands which momentarily left your body, only long enough to take the glass from your grasp and set it on the couch side table.

Please drop it and we can call it a night

His hands found yours and guided them to the belt of his pants. A silent demand to unbuckle it. You forced your mind to focus, ignored his lips which left yours. Instead they nipped on your neck. Chuuya focused on the spots that drew reactions from you; soft gasps or groans of pleasure.

Please don’t, no further

His dick sprung to life, hard and ready. Leaking hot pre-cum. Almost too quickly you gripped his lengths in your hands, giving it a few pumps. Chuuya moaned, a breathy sound. “ Mmmm just like that, sweets, keep doing that”

You trailed your thumb from the tip of his lengths, down his shaft then back up again. If you played your cards right then maybe–

“Spread your legs for me doll, that’s it, what a good toy you are” Chuuya moaned, his fingers dipping past your panties. The leather circled your hole, before several digits pushed in. His thumb on your clit, rubbing it to the rhythm of his thrusts.

Is there enough food left for breakfast tomorrow?

“ God you’re doing so well, you’re my little whore aren’t you?” Chuuya cursed again, buckled his dick in your grasp. More pre-cum spilled on you; on your hand and some onto the bunch up dress still on you. He was so close, you could feel it. Moments before- he pulled your hand off him and shifted you closer, spreading your legs even wider.

You bit your lips as he pushed in.

The eggs have probably expired, best to get new ones in the morning.

“ ahh my slutty doll you feel so fucking good, you wanted this yeah? My precious slut” the hand that groped your ass gave the soft flesh a sudden slap. You yelped then groaned as his fingers found your clit again. His voice an upscene purr in your ear as he thrusted harder into your hole.

Your teeth tore at your lips as tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. Each thrust filled you with pleasure, each touch drew moans past your lips, yet each word past his lips filled you with guilt and shame. Your mind was not with you, not present in the moment. Instead you silently recited the never-ending list of chores you had to tend to.

But at least you could cross off sex for a day or two…

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dragonnarrative-writes · 3 months

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Part 7 - Date Activities

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Non-descriptive mentions of torture, numbers and math, brief nudity, allusions to cannon-typical violence (Ghost's backstory), red herrings, bones

“Where ‘m I?” You slur around a dry tongue. Struggling to balance your weight on your hips, try to wrap your arms around yourself. Too late, you realize that there’s not enough slack on the chain to complete the motion. “Where‘re we?”

You want to scream. You want to cry and hide your face. You’re horrified to realize that you want Simon, your version of Simon, to materialize on the edge of the bed and comfort you. Unfortunately, all you can do is blink and sway.

“If you’re dizzy, you should lay back down.” Simon’s voice from that jaw-less skull is so disconcerting. In your nightmares, the skull mask sounds inhuman. Distorted, echoing. The burning bush overlap of every person who’s ever made you unsafe. Now, it’s just Simon’s measured speech.

But the rest of him is just as big and dangerous as you remember. He’s dressed like he expects to have to fight someone. His black jacket is covered by some kind of utility vest with a bunch of pockets. A handgun sits in a thigh holster, and on his other hip is the Big Knife. He’s not wearing his usual boots, these are heavier looking. If you weren’t so overwhelmed, you’d be terrified.

The masked killer on the other side of the room tilts his head and regards you for a long moment. The weird silence is such a Simon thing to do that you let yourself take your eyes off of him enough to take a quick look around the room. His chair is by the only door, a solid looking wood. To the left side of the room, there’s a bare folding table. On it, from what you can see, sit bottles of water, a bag of grapes, and some brown packaging. There’s another folding chair. At the foot of the mattress, there’s a huge, black hard case. The kind you’ve seen in action movies.

“Right now,” Simon finally answers. “You’re in the safe zone."

You blame the drugs in your system. It’s the only reason you can think of to look him in his eyes and blurt, “That’s not a fuckin’ answer, you cryptic asshole.”

You’re glad you’ve learned to read his eyes, because they’re amused when he stands. Even across the room, he towers over you. You clutch at the blanket to, what? Protect yourself? But Simon just crosses to the table and picks up a bottle of water and a sleeve of saltine crackers. He chucks both of them at your legs before returning to his seat.

“Sip the water, eat slowly,” he instructs. “And I’ll tell you the rules of the game.”

You can’t think of a reason not to, so you struggle for a moment with the bottle cap before bringing the bottle to your lips. Your mouth feels gross and fuzzy, but the water is cool. The crackers, when you finally tear the packaging, are exactly what you needed. You wish you had some ginger ale.

“You told Kyle that I’d taken you hunting,” Simon starts. “But I hadn’t really. First time was a happy coincidence. Second time, you planned the date activity and I kind of hijacked it, yeah?”

If your neck wasn’t so thick, I’d strangle you, you think. You take another sip of water.

“So I thought to myself, what parts of hunting might my sweet, clever girl be interested in? How can I make sure she’s having just as much fun as me? And I remembered your little cubes.”

You narrow your eyes at that. The Rubik’s cubes were one of the first signs that he’d been breaking into your apartment. By now, he knows that you know how to solve them. Two weeks after he’d moved in next door, though, he hadn’t figured that out. It had made your skin crawl to come home from work and see the colors in the wrong places. Now, sometimes, he’ll present the cubes for you to solve while you talk. When you hand him the completed puzzle, he scrambles it up and hands it back.

“You didn’t kidnap me to make me solve a giant Rubik’s cube,” you say.

“No,” he answers. If you could see his face, you think he’d be smirking. “But the first part of the game is a puzzle. You have to get out of the room.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, you want to scream. Instead, you slowly eat your way through the crackers and sip your water and think. The metal cuffs on your wrists are far enough apart that you can easily reach the locking mechanisms. They’re just tight enough that you can’t wiggle out, but they’re not uncomfortable. You can’t see where the chain to the ground is latched, so if there’s a clasp on that end, maybe this will be more simple than you think. You doubt it.

Daylight is streaming in through the window behind you. The shadows of the bars are very obvious, so the only way out of the room is going to be through the door. Simon’s sitting on the hinge side, but the only way you’ll get out before he blocks the way is probably if he’s on this side of the room. Facing the table, maybe. Preferably not standing.

Maybe you can strangle him with the chain.

You freeze as soon as the thought enters your mind, cracker halfway to your mouth. Wrapping the chain around the neck of that death mask only makes sense. But the idea of killing Simon makes you feel like vomiting.

When you look back at him, his eyes are as heated as they ever get. “Don’t worry, precious. I made you a promise last night. No killing, no wounds. No “Saw” puzzles. Just a little escape room. Told me you like those.”

Had you? That sounds like something you would have said, back in the beginning, to see what he would do. You take another sip to clear your mouth and settle your stomach. You’re already feeling better. “What are the rules?”

“You’ve got ninety minutes to get out of the cuffs and get into the chest. Once you’ve done both, the timer stops, and I explain the next part of the game.”

“Can I ask you questions once I get started?”

“Of course,” Simon says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

You bite your lip. “When does the timer start?”

“You tell me when you start,” he says. “We’re not in any rush.”

“What’s in the chest?”

“That,” he answers, eyes crinkling with an obvious grin this time, “you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

That is not an answer you want to hear, but there’s nothing to be done about it. You rack your brain for any more questions. There are, of course, about a million. But the one that sticks out is, “Why were you so nice to me, last night? You could have just drugged me. You did, anyway.”

Simon doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looks at you. He holds eye contact, so you don’t look away. After a full thirty seconds, he hums. “You said you missed me. That you wanted to be with me. You asked me to stay. I liked it.”

The way he says it, warm voiced and slow and soft, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. There’s a spark of something in his eyes that you don’t want to examine. You’re too afraid to look away. But then he blinks and lets his eyes drift up and away from you. The breath you didn’t know you were holding whooshes out of you.

“Guess I’d better get started,” you say.

When you stand to the side of the bed, you find that you’re wearing one of his shirts, a pair of underwear, and a pair of socks. The room isn’t unbearably cold, but it’s not comfortable. The chain to your cuffs is much longer than you expected. You think it’s long enough for you to walk all the way around the room, unimpeded. If so, it’s long enough to get out the door, with a little extra slack. It’s locked to a loop bolted into the floor with a key lock.

You walk around to the table to get a good look at everything. There’s the water. The brown packages are four MREs, which you recognize from camping trips back when you were a teenager. There’s actually a few different fruits - grapes, apples, bananas, a bowl of chopped watermelon of all things. All of that is gathered on one side of the table. The side close to the empty chair has a manila folder. A glance inside shows printouts, three pages of text and forms, with some of the information redacted.

You let the folder fall closed and walk over to the chest. There’s two combination locks, each with four dials, one with numbers and the other with letters.

That’s two wrist cuffs, the lock for the chain, and two locks on the chest. If the cuffs share a key, this might be doable. If not… “Two or three keys, and two combinations?” you ask.

“Two keys, two combinations,” Simon confirms.

You do a quick calculation in your head. “A little more than 20 minutes per puzzle. That’s pretty tight, but doable. What happens if I don’t get it done in time?”

You turn to look at Simon and catch him looking at your legs. When he meets your eyes, his are smirking again. “You lose time in the second part of the game. And you’re going to want that time.”

With a sigh and a shake of your head, you walk to the wall across from the table. There are some cracks in the paint, a couple of scattered, discolored spots. But it doesn’t seem deliberate. So you leave it and head back to the table. The folder is tempting, but obvious, so you start with the fruit.

Bag of grapes, three apples, five bananas. You open the package of watermelon and poke around in it. No keys. Not in the bag of grapes, either. The apples and bananas are whole. But one of the bananas has a series of numbers followed by Xs written on it in black ink. 11 21 32 XX. You pry it from the others, carefully, and take it over to the folder.

The metal chair is cold when you use your hand to pull it out. You turn back to the bed and grab the thin blanket to cover it, then have an idea. You shake the pillow from the pillowcase and strip the sheets from the bed. No key, but the pillow has another set of digits and Xs written on it. 7 13 26 XX. You lift the mattress to look under it, but there’s nothing else, so you let it fall.

“Can I have a pen?” you ask, absently. You’re surprised when Simon plucks one from his vest and holds it out for you. You snort as you walk over to take it. “Can I have the key to the cuffs, while you’re at it?”

Simon’s eyes do something complicated as you take the pen. Then he tilts his head, reaches up, and pulls a thin chain from under his shirt. On it dangle two keys, one a tiny cylinder of a thing, the other a proper key. He lets them both drop against his collarbones.

You dart your eyes between the keys and his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“’D prefer if you opened the folder,” he says with a shrug. “But I do have the keys. Cost you… 15 minutes for one.”

“Did you just make that number up?” You laugh. Then it hits you and you glare. “You’re distracting me and stalling.”

“You asked,” he points out, chuckling as you whirl on your heel to go back to the folder.

That is neither disputable or worth responding to, so you don’t. You drop into your seat and open the folder. The first thing you do is jot down the numbers and where you found them on the inside. None of the numbers are repeated, so you leave them for now. Then you pick up the first sheet of paper.

It’s the service record for one Simon J. Riley.

A lot of the information is redacted. Most of the page is blacked out lines. But you see that he enlisted in 2001, had some kind of redacted gap from 2003 to 2004, then resumed his service. Then it jumps out at you. 2007, KIA. You can’t help but look up at him, and find him watching you already. You scour the page for any other information, but there’s nothing. So you flip the page.

This one is some kind of tactical… memorandum? Too much is redacted for you to be able to get much information about who the report is for, so you just start reading.

Mission to Mexico. Drug cartel, name redacted. Compromised leadership. Someone got double crossed. You start feeling sick at the description of torture, but most of the details are obscured, so you push through. Then a line makes you pause, and you have to re-read it. You flip back and forth between Simon’s service record and the report.

“Simon,” you say slowly. Your stomach is really twisted in knots, now. You’re afraid to look at him, but you make yourself meet his eyes. “Were you buried alive?”

He says, “Yes.” Your heart breaks.

The next few lines are blacked out. You really don’t want to ask, but, “How did you get out?”

“Blood, sweat, and tears,” he says, vaguely. “Probably not something you want to think about, sweet thing. Don’t want to waste time.”

“I need to pause the game,” you tell him. “because I just read that you were buried alive.”

“An explanation will cost you an hour,” Simon offers. His eyes are crinkled like he’s smiling.

“Simon.” Your voice is sharp to your own ears. “What the fuck?”

“Tick tock.”

You know from past experience that getting any more information from him will be like getting blood from a stone. So you make yourself read on. There’s a confusing bit about… brainwashing? Without the full context the report is a mess. Multiple civilian casualties, then… mission objective complete? Lots of blocked out text, surrounding a single word. ROBA.

You jot that on the lower half of the folder, then skim through the documents again for any numbers. Besides the years in the service record, there’s nothing that jumps out. So you jot down 2001, 2003, 2004, and 2007.

You decide this is a good enough place to start with the puzzles. The numbers on the pillow seem simple enough. You’re not good at math, but you’re good at patterns. You eliminate a few possible addition patterns, recognize it probably isn’t pure multiplication. Considering who Simon is, you gamble that there’s probably no fractions or decimals involved, so it’s probably going to be some combination of multiplication and subtraction. And as soon as you think of that, you see it. Times two, minus one. So the last number is 49.

The the second puzzle, from the banana, tickles your brain because you know you’ve seen it before. The numbers aren’t doubling. And it’s not simple addition. Adding in sequence seems to work. Adding 10 to 11 makes 21, then adding 11 works to get to 32. Plus 12 would make the next digits 44. That seems almost too easy, but these kinds of puzzles usually are. And it is a possible answer, so you write it down.

The only other potential numbers are the dates. If you pick the last four digits, that’s 1347. Another code. Unless it’s 2222. Or 0000. Or 2020...

Now you have a few potential 4 digit codes, and a possible 4 letter code.

“Time check?”

Simon looks at his watch. “Sixty-two minutes left.”

You hum an acknowledgment, and flip the pages in the folder, and the folder itself. There’s nothing else, so you leave the papers on the table and take your notes over to the crate.

Simon makes an interested noise through his nose. “That was fast.”

“Haven’t found the keys, yet,” you answer, “Gotta get a move on.”

You start with the letters, because it seems straightforward. And then you’re a bit stumped, because the lock doesn’t have a B available in the third slot. Or an A in the first. So you’ll have to find a cypher or something before you can tackle this one. Disappointing, but you still have time. You move over to the other lock and hope you have what you need. 4944 doesn’t work. Neither does 4449, 9444, or 4494. 2222, 0000, and 1347 are all a bust. You make your way through 1374, 1437, 1473, 1734, and 1743 before you give up.

“Fuck,” you grumble.

Crouched as you are, you have a new vantage point to consider. You scuttle your way under the table without putting your knees on the ground, and look at the underside. Sure enough, there’s a doodle of two bananas with a pillow in between. The dates were most likely a red herring. Or they’re the cypher to the letters.

“I got the numbers wrong,” you grumble.

“You’re a smart girl,” Simon says. “You can figure it out. Fifty-seven minutes.”

You scoot from under the table and make to stand up, but something on your leg catches your eye. Dropping onto the now bare mattress, you lift the edge of your shirt, Simon’s shirt, and see writing on your inner thigh, upside down so you can see it easily. Four digits, 01 10, and another fucking banana.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groan.

Simon snickers from his chair.

You grab your folder and pen and jot the new string of numbers down. 01 10 11 21 32 XX. Obviously, adding in sequence no longer works. It’s gotta have something to do with the number of 1s in the sequence, so you try to let go of math related assumptions. The first two numbers swap their digits. Then two ones. Then a two and a one. Then a three and a two. Zero plus one is one. One plus zero is one. One plus one is two. Two plus one is three. Three plus two is… five as the first digit? Sliding the tens to the ones place is one, zero, one, two… three. 53.

Banana pillow banana, then, is 5493.

Before you go to check, you stand up to lift your shirt up to look at your belly, then higher to look at the skin of your breasts. You ignore the low wolf-whistle Simon makes to do a quick inspection. Nothing jumps out, so you let the shirt drop a bit and pull your underwear away from your hips. You feel a bit silly staring at your own crotch, but it’s Simon so you figure nothing’s really off limits. And you’re rewarded with the discovery of a piece of tape with a doodle of a heart on it. The tape is garment quality, which explains why you didn’t feel it.

The heart doesn’t really give you much, but you pull it out and slap it on the folder anyways.

“Forty-nine minutes,” Simon says when you look up at him.

Back at the chest, you click the dials to the number sequence you identified and grin to yourself when the lock gives an easy snick as it opens. The other lock is still a mystery, but you’ve got one down, and still plenty of time to request the cuff key if needed.

You turn to look up at Simon from where you’re crouched. “How much does a hint cost?”

He pretends to think for a moment. “For that lock? Flash me your tits again.”

“Nasty,” you roll your eyes as you stand up. You lift the shirt up to your neck and are startled when he sits forward to rest his hands on your hips. The skull mask gets even closer, and then he’s kissing over your heart, eyes locked on yours. He leaves his lips against you through his balaclava, thumbs rubbing over the place where your hips meet your belly.

You stare down at that bone face from less than two inches away. You used to hope it was plastic. Now you know for a fact that it is not.

And then he lets you go and sits back, crossing his arms over his large chest. He looks at his watch.

“Forty-six minutes.”

You gape at him. “Where’s my clue?”

“That was your clue.”

“That’s the least helpful clue ever,” you complain.

“You found all the other ones,” Simon points out. “But I’ll tell you the solution if you let me fuck you.”

You scoff. “I don’t need you to tell me. I can figure it out.”

“I know,” Simon’s grin is easier to make out this close. “My clever girl.”

You grumble, but you can’t help but grin as you try to think of what the four letter sequence could be. On a whim, you try TITS. The letters are present, but that’s apparently not the combo. Heart has too many letters, but maybe has something to do with feelings. The lock doesn’t have the right letters for LOVE, forward or backward. Same with HATE. You try SRSK for Simon Riley the Serial Killer, but that’s not it. You’re on a date, so you try combining his initials with yours where it fits, but that’s not it either. In a fit of pique, you try TITS again.

Then you take a deep breath and think about Simon and you. Your relationship. DATE, KILL, and CARE are a bust. AMOR, EROS, HOLD, BOND. None of them work.

You’re getting antsy because you still need at least the key for your handcuffs and you're running out of time, but you make yourself take a deep, slow breath. SLOW and DEEP don’t work. And then you pause and look up at Simon’s face. At the skull.

BONE.

Nope. But it was worth a shot.

But thinking about skulls and bones makes you think of skeletons. Dead bodies. Cemeteries. Simon’s service record, breaking your heart.

BURY.

The lock clicks open.

You’re giddy as you swing the lid of the chest open. And, almost immediately, you scramble backwards, shoulders colliding painfully with Simon’s knees. Without thinking, you clamber up until you’re perched in his lap, staring in horror at the human skull grinning up at you from atop black cloth.

A piece of tape is on the right temple. In Simon’s scrawl, it simply says BRANDON.

#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction #cod #fanfiction #simon ghost riley #dark fic #simon riley x you #slasher handler #simon riley x you smut #manic pixie dream ghost

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genshindsau · 10 months

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Pleasure for Two, Punishment for One - Part Two

Summary: Genshin!au, Empress!au. Its finally Scaramouche's turn to be dealt with after having to watch you and Aether. Except the fact that you are not done with his punishment and instead drag it out until he is completely pliant and submissive for you.

CW: Dom!reader, sub!character, reverse harem, bondage, tentacle use, OOC, mentions of voyeurism, throatfucking, gagging, unsafe sex, cum eating, urethral insertion, edging, use of "no" but there is a safeword system so reader ignored him when he says no, one line mention of rimming, anal, aftercare.

Part One

On top of the wrinkled bed sheets laid a naked and exhausted Aether. He was covered in sweat, cum, and drool but he couldn't bring himself to care. All he could feel was a satisfying ache run throughout his body. He was still trembling and just coherent enough that he could barely make out the feeling of your hand on his back as you rubbed it. One of your fingers grazed his backside and he couldn't suppress the flinch. His hole was bright red and sore to the touch, indicating just how well used he was. Despite wanting to curl up to you, he couldn't even make himself move.

He vaguely made out the breathless chuckle that left your lips.

"Are you okay to stay there for a while?" It took a second to process you were talking to him. Fighting the sleepiness that was starting to settle over him, he wrestled with keeping his eyes open.

"I still have someone else to take care of," He managed to spot you, who was also nude, but then he was able to remember one more person that was in the room.

Huh, I forgot he was here, Aether distantly thought. In the same position as earlier sat Scaramouche. Instead of the intimating concubine Aether was used to, sat someone who looked completely debauched. His body was shaking, constant watery sobs and pleads left his lips, tears fell freely from his eyes and the most noticeable were the tentacles that continued to explore and play with his body.

You brushed hair behind Aether's ears while waiting for his answer. It seemed to take a few seconds to register that you were asking him something. However, in the end he was able to nod. Knowing he was most likely about to fall asleep you decided that you would clean him later. Once you're done with Scaramouche it would be best to just let them soak in the baths for a while.

Speaking of Scaramouche, you moved to get off the bed and then stood in front of him. In the back of his mind he was able to understand that you were in front of him, but he struggled with lifting his head.

"I - please - I can't, i cant, i cant, i cant," he repeated as his head fell forward, his forehead against your thighs. He had no strength left in his body and every nerve felt like it was on fire. With no idea how long he was forced to deal with this pleasurable bordering on painful torment while watching you and Aether, it felt like it would never end. He stopped counting after Aether came the fifth time and you the second.

"Is it hard? Does it hurt?" Your words may have been sympathetic, but your tone was anything but. There was mockery underneath your words and your hand roughly pulled his head back and off your thigh. He felt a rush of tears well up in his eyes at the rough treatment.

"I'm sor-" he voices fell off into a sob when the tentacle that was in his ass gave a sharp thrust causing his body to jerk as best as it could while still wrapped in ropes.

"Hmm? I couldn't hear you." You squatted in front of him, your hand still in his hair. He was granted another thrust, followed by another and he was hoping that maybe this time you would let him cum. However, the tentacle also resumed its place back into his urethra. Just a few thrusts would have made him cum, he knew that, and you definitely knew that based on the way you manipulate the tentacle with your magic. You were dead set on not letting him cum.

"I'm - ahh - sorry. pleaseplease." Scaramouche was beginning to let out garbled nonsense. His prostate was being hit with each thrust, but he couldn't cum. He couldn't cum. He couldn't cum. That thought brought fresh tears to his eyes.

He could feel the burning in his stomach as he was forced to linger on the edge. His cock felt like it was about to combust, all slick and red. The tentacle slithered down his urethra, refusing to let him properly cum and scaramouche just broke, gasping sobs leaving his lips as drool slipped out of his mouth and onto the floor.

His hair was let go by you and he slumped down a little bit due to the loss of tension.

"Scaramouche," he could vaguely recognize your voice through his muddled mind. "Look at me."

You were speaking, he could hear you, but he couldn't comprehend what you were saying. It wasn't until a hand gripped his chin and angled his face towards you that he was able to focus on something. The rest of the world blurred out as he focused on your face and your face alone. When you saw the glossy look in his eyes, indicating how lost in his mind he was become, you softened your tone.

"I suppose it would be too much to expect you to listen. At least not when you're as mindless as you are right now." You offered false sympathy as you lightly shook his head with your fingers that were gripping his chin.

"Y'know many people complain about the words you spew out. About how you're too rude, too condescending, too arrogant." One of your fingers traced the glossiness of his lips as you spoke before dipping into his mouth and running over his tongue, coating your fingers with his saliva. "Afterall, this is what got you in this position in the first place."

"I guess I'm going to have to make it to where you won't be able to speak for a while."

The next thing Scaramouche was able to distantly recognize was the feeling of something soft on his tongue. His tongue moved at the pressure and felt around the new intrusion in his mouth. He was rewarded with a small moan that left your lips. For the first time you placed a gentle and delicate hand on his head which caused Scaramouche to lean forward, pressing against it and seeking out for that comfort.

"ah - ack," Scaramouche was interrupted with a garbled cough as he pressed forward trying to chase the comfort of your hand on his head, unintentionally pushing your cock deeper into the tight cavern of his throat. Even with the coughing and the obvious fluttering of his throat, you refused to pull out, opting to hold him still and force him to get used to the feeling of your length down his throat.

You gave him a few seconds to try and calm down until the majority of the coughing subsided. Scaramouche squirmed, his hands aching to come and rest against you but all that did was ignite a slight burning in the skin around his wrist due to him straining against the rope.

You pulled back a fraction but still kept the head of your cock in his mouth. Scaramouche eagerly sucked in as much air as possible, his chest heaving with his deep breaths.

Deeming he had enough time to situate himself you tightened the grip in his hair, "Be good for me and maybe I'll let you come afterwards."

That was all the warning he got before you pushed his head forward and thrusted your hips as well. With the first thrust, you only fed him half of your cock before pulling back a little and thrusting once more, this time forcing it all the way down his throat. He squirmed and tried to pull back instinctively due to the pressure in his throat, but you held firm. You kept him against your pelvis, his nose grazing your lower stomach before loosening your grip in his hair, letting him pull back just enough to where he could breath.

You slowly thrusted into his mouth one more time until his lips were at your base before pulling out. You did this a few times before you finally started to speed up. Scaramouche was unable to focus on using his tongue or suctioning his lips, but you didn't seem to mind, happily fucking up into his mouth. Instead of worrying about that he just adverted his eyes up to your face and tried to focus on that - wanting to see that you were feeling pleasure from your harsh treatment. However, this was deemed nearly impossible due to the tears that were welling up and trickling down his cheeks.

Glug, glug, glug, gurgling sounds filled the room along with soft moans that left your lips. Looking down you had to still your hips to stop from coming. Scaramouches eyes were unfocused and glossy and his lower face was covered in cum, drool, snot, and saliva. You could tell by the way he stopped struggling against your hold that he had finally fallen into that submissive headspace.

The loss of fullness in his throat led to scaramouche blinking away his tears and trying to look at you, afraid that he had done something wrong. Hurriedly, he had stuck his tongue out and tried to lick around the part of your cock that remained in his mouth. To appease you he even tried to swallow more of your cock, until it once again touched the back of throat. Despite the small convulses in his body he did not try to move away.

"Fuck... you're killing me here." You had let go of the tight grip you had in his hair and instead rested your hand on top of his head. You took a few deep breaths in order to push down your arousal.

Once you calmed yourself down, you pulled your hips back a small bit before shallowing thrusting back in. You were gentler this time around, not making it to where he violently choked against you. Instead, you set a steady rhythm. With each thrust you would still yourself at the back of this throat for a few seconds to feel the convulsions of his throat. You would finally pull back once he started to turn a little red in the face. You kept this going until you felt the familiar twinge of arousal in your lower stomach.

"Shit," Your hips picked up their pace. "Be good for me and swallow."

Scaramouche flinched at the first taste that spurted onto his tongue before he eagerly swallowed it down. He struggled to swallow it all and instead some flowed out of the side of his mouth. You kept him held against your stomach before pulling back and taking yourself out of his mouth.

Scaramouche's throat was burning from the rough treatment, and he had hunched forward coughing.

It took a moment before he realized he was being moved. One moment he was situated on his knees and the next thing he knew he was face down on the ground. His muscles burned at the new position; his weight was now resting directly on his knees, and he tried to move them but was unable to do more than scooch them. He rested his cheek against the floor and shivered at the coolness which was in direct contrast to the heat that was run rampage in his body.

"haah.. plea-ase," His voice cracked when he felt your fingers replace the tentacle that was previously shoved up his ass. There wasn't as much of a stretch but the fact that you were now touching him instead of a tentacle caused his body to shake.

When you entered three fingers into him, he reflexively grinded back against them, desperately wanting to feel them hit that one spot inside him that always set his body aflame. You didn't reprimand him for that and instead let him do some of the work, opting to just curl your fingers.

"nghhahh, there, right there." he cried out, but his voice was so hoarse and choppy that you could barely make out what he was saying. Even as he kept thrusting back and getting his prostate hit, you weren't allowing him to cum. That damned tentacle that was in his urethra and the rope that was tied around his balls was constricting him. "pleasepleaseplease - out. Need it out," he wailed, and his body was trembling so violently that you were worried he would pull a muscle.

You pulled your fingers out of him and wrapped them around his thighs and gently massaged them. He whined at the loss of touch, but his body unconsciously relaxed under your fingers that were pushing into the muscle on his thighs. You kept doing that until he became pliant once more and was not at a risk of harming himself.

"Relax," you cooed, moving to grip both of his cheeks with your hands and spread them. A small chuckle passed your lips when you saw his hole gaping and fluttering.

"cant." He gasped out. "hurts... need t' cum. please plea - ahh!" A throaty scream escaped his lips when he felt your tongue lick around his rim. You moved to kiss his cheek and traveled kisses and licks up his spine until you reached his neck. Your fingers traced the intricate ropes before tugging them and forcing his upper body off the ground. You continued to pull until he was once more on sat up on his knees but now, he had his back pressed against your chest.

Your cock situated itself right in between his ass cheeks and you rutted against him. "Want to cum?" It was a teasing question.

Scaramouche weakly nodded. "please. 'm sorry, I wont - I won't" his throat was burning through his pleads and in some distant part of his mind he knew he should not be talking anymore but he couldn't bring himself to worry about it. "won't talk back, wont be rude. prom-promise."

You both knew this was lie and that in a few days' time he will be the same condescending and rude concubine he always is but right now at this moment, he completely believed what he is saying.

"Promise," you decided to play along.

"Promise," he whined out.

"Alright. You're done with your punishment. I suppose you should get your reward."

He felt the slickness of the tentacles leave his entire body. All that is left from them was a trail of wetness that left goosebumps rising in their wake. The second you pulled it out of his urethra a scream left his lips. His hips tried to buck away from the feeling but he couldn't. All those previous denied orgasms that were pushed back due to the tentacle stopping them came rushing over him tenfold. His cock spurted out load after load and it felt like a never-ending pleasure to him that was becoming painful. His body shook uncontrollably against your hold. He wasn't sure how it felt like he was still cumming, his hole gaping and spasming.

It took a while for his body to calm down and even then, he was still having shaking. One of your hands had wrapped around his waist and rested on his stomach and was rubbing small circles onto it. In his twitching, the hands behind his back had grazed your cock a few times and despite your own arousal pressing against him you were well aware that he could be too sensitive to deal with anything else.

Scaramouche had felt the twitching of your own cock against his back and fingers. Despite the oversensitivity in his body, he still craved for the closeness of you inside him. He could handle one more, he wanted to feel you inside of him this time instead of the sliminess of the tentacle.

"s'okay," he managed to whisper out. At the same time one of his hands clumsily grasped your cock. His thumb ran over the tip (or at least tried to) before struggling to position it at his entrance.

You raised an eyebrow, "You sure?"

He eagerly nodded, "please."

You positioned yourself at his entrance and was able to easily sink into him. The breath was knocked out of Scaramouche and a loud keen left his lips and his back arched. Once you were completely sheathed inside him you let out a shuddering breath as he twitched sporadically around you. You knew this would be a short round, Scaramouche would probably be able to cum one more time before his body would no longer be able to handle anything else.

You pulled out only a small amount before shallowly thrusting into him, trying not to hit his prostate just yet. With each thrust, small uh - uh - uh's passed through his lips. Even with these shallows thrust he felt his stomach tighten. His orgasm was building and embarrassingly quickly too. His crying only got louder because he knew he couldn't hang on anymore.

"c-cumming," he managed to wheeze out. His whole body became tense and he squeezed down on your own cock. You let out a groan of your own, a small orgasm wracking through your body. It wasn't overly strong but it did not bother you. Scaramouche's on the other hand was strong, too strong. His mouth fell open in a silent scream and his body had convulsed before he fell completely slack, mind falling in and out of consciousness.

He felt the tension of the rope released from his body. He was distantly aware that he was falling forward but he couldn't make his body move. He didn't hit the ground and instead fell right into your arms. He first recognized your scent and unconsciously nuzzled into your chest wanting to be surrounded by the smell. He felt a new pressure around his body but this time instead of the coarseness of rope he felt the softness of skin as you wrapped your arms around him.

You sat down on the ground and situated yourself before moving him into a more comfortable position on your lap. One hand came up to run through his tangled-up hair whilst the other took to wiping away all the dried up cum and drool. You couldn't do a perfect job with just your hand, but you managed to clear up some so that it was not sticking onto his face.

Scaramouche was letting out small puffs of air that had undertones of wheezes in them, showcasing how well used his throat was.

You should get one of the servants to make him a tea, you thought while your hand left his jaw and mindlessly went to rub his throat.

Scaramouche opened his lips but strained to say something, anything but he couldn't due to the throbbing in his throat from his crying and your treatment of it. He unconsciously squirmed away from the hand at his throat.

You were befuddled before realizing that he thought you were going to start another round since you usually place your hand on his throat during sexual encounters. Quickly moving your hand to his shoulder, your cooed at him and brought him closer to you.

"shh, it's alright you're all done." He lost the last bit of tension in his body and slumped against you. "You did so good for me." If he had the energy, he would have preened at your words but all he could managed was a shaky smile.

Neither of you moved from your position on the floor for a while. It wasn't until you felt his breath even out and his body become pliant that you decided to stand up. You kept him in your arms as you carried him to the joining bathroom. He let out small sounds at the jostling but did not open his eyes. You carefully settled him on one of the cushions set aside the tub and used magic to start the tub.

Once it was filled up and at an appropriate temperature you carefully maneuver him into the tub making sure not to aggravate any of the rope burns. You did not join him and instead, once he was settled, let go of him and went to stand up. At the loss of your touch Scaramouche couldn't help the panic that welled up inside him. His eyes snapped open and one of his hands weakly clutched onto your arm.

"Do - " He winced as the pain in his throat finally settled in. He wanted to tell you not to leave him, but he couldn't. You could see the despair in his eyes and reached out to pet his head before moving to caress his cheek.

"I have to get Aether too, lovely." Even with your reassurance he didn't want you to let go of him. He shook his head and clutch onto you tighter. He wasn't jealous at this moment but instead all he could focus on was the fact that in order for you to get Aether, you would have to leave him and that caused an unimaginable amount of panic to form inside him. He did not want to be alone when he was feeling as vulnerable as he was right now.

You let out a sigh and squatted down behind the tub and ran your hand through his hair.

"You trust me, right?" you kept your tone light as you played with strands of his hair. He had his knees curled up and was resting his head against them.

He nodded without hesitation, and you couldn't help the pride that resonated in your chest.

"Then I want you to close your eyes and stay in this position for 30 seconds alright." As you were speaking, you had let your magic cast over him and mimic an embrace. You also mimicked the feeling of your hand playing with his hair. Once you felt confident in your spell, you had slowly and quietly gone to grab Aether who was still laying on the bed. His eyes blearily blinked open when you lifted him in your arms.

"Finally done with him?" He whispered but there was no malice in his tone. He was well aware that Scaramouche had gone through a tough punishment and that he would be dealing with some discomfort for a while.

You hummed in acknowledgment as you reentered the bathroom. Scaramouche was in the same position as you left him, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

The tub was more than large enough to fit the three of you, so you had place Aether in and made sure the both of them were comfortable before joining them. You made sure to sit in between them because even in their headspaces (or rather Scaramouche's, Aether seemed more well recovered) they could spiral.

Within a few minutes of joining them, you could feel weight against one of your shoulders (Aether fell asleep first) and then on the other side of your body, Scaramouche nudged under your arm so that he could lay against your chest.

#genshin au #dom reader #sub character #sub genshin #sub genshin impact #consort au #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #empress au #c:aether #c:scaramouche #sub!aether #sub scaramouche #sub aether #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact

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yeyinde · 10 months

Text

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." "Why?" You asked, blinking at her. "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore.

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach.

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap.

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement.

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it.

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him.

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home.

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear.

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz.

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores.

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches.

Gaz was unique, different.

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community.

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood.

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright.

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it.

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant.

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him.

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear.

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head.

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon.

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten.

You think about him often.

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name.

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play.

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull.

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere."

You leave, and you don't look back.

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed.

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat.

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead.

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to.

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you.

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses.

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed.

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing.

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her.

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror.

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away.

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay.

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea.

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet.

It's a dangerous place to get caught in.

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock.

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen.

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst.

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil.

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head.

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock.

All is quiet—except the sea.

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea.

Another step. Another.

For a moment, you're free.

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality.

It's peaceful.

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back.

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing.

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine.

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue.

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love."

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself.

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw.

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic.

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue.

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat.

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?"

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face.

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet."

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time.

You blink. Blink again.

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before.

They didn't say anyone new moved to town.

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?"

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him.

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar.

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard.

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway."

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty.

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins.

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay.

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do.

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm.

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north.

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company.

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think.

You wonder if he was expecting you.

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question.

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts.

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water."

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big.

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick.

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body.

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders.

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory.

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly.

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice.

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh.

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath.

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you.

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush.

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud.

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you.

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire.

You should.

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer.

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own.

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest.

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words.

"So I did."

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil.

"Got some time tonight?"

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read.

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love."

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?"

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead.

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of."

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes.

And so, you kiss him.

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips.

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you.

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest.

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw.

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm.

You never want to let go.

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left.

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth.

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking."

Price shudders.

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips.

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you?

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls.

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver.

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no.

It can't happen. It can't.

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together.

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out.

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor.

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag.

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more.

"Waiting for a ride?"

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears.

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead.

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat.

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision.

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe.

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark.

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you.

Like he knows.

And maybe, he does.

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell.

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard.

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom.

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror.

You can't remember if it's you.

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic.

Stupid.

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths.

The door rattles. Clicks.

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke.

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror.

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him.

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared.

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders.

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price."

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so.

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out.

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter.

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear.

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees.

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner.

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does.

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much.

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern.

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend.

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know.

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers.

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter.

The woods are dangerous.

You don't want to go.

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together.

"You want to, don't you?"

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway."

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering.

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea.

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion.

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato.

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision.

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry.

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase.

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head.

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it.

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge.

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge.

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed.

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave.

One slip, you think. Just one.

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince.

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him.

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest.

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go.

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces.

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to.

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet.

Two more. Two more.

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go.

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside.

You don't know why you're here.

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body.

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead.

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived.

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic.

You are—

"Foolish."

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug.

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb.

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear.

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped.

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves.

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure.

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?"

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw.

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love."

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all.

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears.

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know.

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep.

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers.

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine.

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?"

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams.

"Did you ever give me a choice?"

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head.

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine.

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin.

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you.

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair.

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance.

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood.

When he speaks, the world falls silent.

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go.

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins.

You don't know what you're doing.

The whispers in your head go silent.

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go.

You think of him, and you know.

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there.

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems.

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go.

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee.

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly?

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul.

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever.

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm.

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home.

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting.

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow.

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver.

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow.

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin.

"Welcome home."

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her.

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name.

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse.

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me?

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

#captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price #john price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #fae price #cod x mythology #bhhhhhhhh #ive been in halifax for the last week and it's been kinda rainy and weird and this was born

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