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sweet-as-an-angel · 3 months

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♡ Bimbo Barracks Bunny ♡

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Rough Sex, Objectification, Dumbification, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Possessive! 141, Mean! 141, Manhandling, Slut-Shaming, Fem! Reader. ꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

Expect a lot of objectification.

Manhandling, too.

And wolf whistling.

It’s absolutely constant when you’re with the 141 – especially considering you’re their 24/7 fuck toy.

More days than not, you’ll be subject to a rough and thorough pounding from one or more of your boyfriends, hear them tell you to “Take it, you stupid whore,” as they slam into you from behind, holding you down over the edge of a counter.

Slut-shaming is to be expected, too.

You can’t wear a single outfit in peace — especially if it’s a skirt or dress.

Someone’s sticking their hand up there on their way past and making a grab for whatever their hands can find purchase on.

Dumbification Central.

“Too fuckin’ stupid for your own good – need a big, strong man to tell you what to do, don’t you."

They’ll buy you things to make up for their roughness with you if (when) they see you limping after an encounter with them. Ghost’s the main offender in this case; for what he can’t convey through words, he does through gifts. And what scandalous gifts they can be.

He especially likes dressing you up like his doll, buying you things he knows will fit you, things that will make it so much harder for him to resist the urge to ravage you whenever you bend over or come and sit on his lap.

They call you ‘Princess’ ‘Bunny’ 'Kitty' ‘Pretty girl’, or (Price’s favourite) ‘Daddy’s girl.’

They definitely smack your backside all the time, btw. The second they see the chance, they’ll pounce on it – on you – reeling back and slapping your ass.

The yelp you make when you feel the sharp sting is just too cute to pass up, as is the wounded, wide-eyed look you give them.

They also love showing their ownership over you: marking you up for the next man to see when he tears your dress off or pushes your skirt up, only to see that someone else has ruined you first (usually with their cum still oozing out of you, too).

Price is the most extreme — he has a crippling breeding kink and it shows.

More often than not, he’ll bend you over his desk and pull your hips as close to his as humanly possible, trying to get as deep inside you as he can.

“My girl, only good for takin’ my cock and havin’ my kids – gonna make me into a real daddy, hm?”

Entertain his kink for even a second and he’ll make sure you’re not going anywhere even after he’s done with you; he has to keep you plugged up and make sure his seed takes, after all.

Ghost loves to steal you away and throw you over his shoulder when he’s needy.

He’s like a caveman in the way he throws you onto the nearest surface without ceremony and tears your clothes off, spreading your legs and pressing his clothed bulge against your cunt.

He growls, too. Makes you squeal when he grips your panties by the bridge and tears them off, leaving you exposed and ready for him to use as much he likes.

He treats you as his personal cum bucket, emptying his load into you as many times as he pleases, using you.

“Good-for-nothing slut, just beggin’ to be chased down and fucked in that tight little outfit. Did’ya think I wouldn’t notice? Practically had your arse hangin’ outta your skirt, just waitin’ to have your guts rearranged by me.”

Soap’s a menace - a cruel one - and takes his time with you, edges you, makes sure that foreplay drags on for a good hour or two before actually stuffing his girth inside you (given he has the time).

He likes to make you nice and desperate – likes to have you begging for him and eating out of his hand before he’ll entertain the idea of letting you take him.

“Think ya deserve it, lass? Think ya deserve to have me fuck whatever thoughts you’ve got rollin’ round in that empty head a’ yer’s out?”

He’ll grin down at you as you pant and plead, shutting you up by making you suck his fingers.

“Well, if ye have any thoughts in there.”

Gaz is the gentlest of the 141, but any man is subject to a power shift. Especially against someone they perceive as less intelligent than them.

And you’re no exception.

Gaz is the most likely to experience post-nut clarity, realising (and feeling immediate shame for) the way he spoke to you, the way he called you his “Fucking slut with no other purpose except to get me off,” was potentially hurtful to you.

Literally will not forgive himself – he’ll apologise, buy you things, hang his head in shame until you manage to (eventually) convince him that it’s alright, that you don’t mind, and that you actually enjoy when he turns a bit feral.

As do they all.

They’ll pimp you out to König sometimes, too. But only if they can sit in and watch supervise.

There’s something just so disgustingly satisfying about watching you get your insides visibly rearranged by the 6’10 Austrian – especially when they can see the heavy bump of his cock in your stomach, making you cry out with every slam of his tip against your cervix.

“Scheiße– where’d you find this pretty little thing, Ghost? Didn’t think you were allowed prostitutes on base,”

He’s just as – if not more – mean than the 141. Especially if you cum before he does.

Doesn’t matter if you tell him you’re overstimulated, he’s still going to get his release, whether you like it or not.

“Shut it, Brat – you’ll take my cock for as long as I want you to. Keep whining and I’ll choke you with it.”

You’ll receive no help from the 141. Not when they’re on the precipice of an orgasm, at least.

Ghost will even goad König, telling him to show you who’s boss, to shove it in deeper – wanna see her cry.

You always end up covered in cum afterwards, panting while your cunt leaks with König’s semen, the clink of the man responsible’s belt in your periphery as he sorts himself out.

You’re always very well taken care of afterwards, though. Bath, bed, and plenty of rest, with as much food as you could want. And a cuddle session, of course.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

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notherpuppet · 2 months

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I wrote the full parody to Ready For This in the Role Reversal AU because I wanted to lol.

Transcription below.

Ready For This (Role Reversal AU parody)

Alastor: Have you ever wanted something That was so clear in your mind that you could taste it?  Susan: You mean like ice cream you get for a friend?  Alastor: Ha! No. It's a feeling like a rumbling in your gut That you could finally be faced with A million greedy faces, I guess what I mean to say is  For the first time in my life I might have to be ready for this Ready to be the one who's leading from the front  Couldn’t do it on my own And history has shown Legends cannot win wars alone  The burden is a bit too heavy So I need to be ready for this  Have you ever felt like you're willing to kill To save the people on your own team?  Susan: I don’t know, seems a bit extreme…  Alastor: Not to me! 'Cause right now, we need a leader And it seems to be that Charlie is forcing me to be that because she’s pissy  So who's with me?  Wouldn't it just be swell to see more of Hell? Join up now if you like travel Come on girls, prepare for battle! Lotta sights to see en route to the hotel Not to mention all of the glory!  Yes indeed, your enemies will cower

And heads will be severed!  Charlie: You’ll make a bunch of brand new friends!  Alastor: Whatever.  Exorcists: New friends!? I'm in Oh whoa I’m so lonely  It's time now to act They're on the attack When they move to strike Just know we’ve got your back!  We'll follow your lead We're eager to see everyone we meet On the hellish retreat!  From this moment on, you can count us in To be organized and disciplined  Our thirst for justice keeps us strong, fierce, and brave So I say, "Ho hey! Let’s join in his crusade!"  Alastor: Now thats the spirit! Can we amp it up? Vaggie: Oh, don’t mind their hesitation, that’s just their new inclination

 Alastor: But I can awaken their bloodlust! Vaggie: Careful, kid. Don’t push your luck!

Alastor: Fair enough…  Alastor and Vaggie: We're super duper grateful To have you gals aboard  Exorcists: We can’t wait to hug an overlord! (Alastor: Yeah, sure...)  Alastor: For the first time in my life Maybe I can be ready for this I can be the marshal leading the parade  I can come into my own And I think I've always known My destiny could never be postponed  When they come for the hotel

I’ll give em hell cuz I’m ready for this!  Vaggie: They're dancing along? They're singing his song!? Charlie: Surprised? Why, I knew he could do it all along!  Charlie and Vaggie: He’s bound to be redeemed, the dream has a chance! Though he seemed hopeless at first glance…  Charlie: He’s filled with potential that I could guide! Vaggie: Fine, I’m in.  Charlie and Vaggie: Stick with him, he will surely see the light!  All: For the first time in our lives We know that we are ready for this  Vaggie: We’ll show them we can forgive and forget!  All: It's time to lend a hand  Alastor: It is time to take a stand! (Exorcists: Woohoo!) Against overlords and their deadly threat!  All: We can provide your support The time has come to stop a war Defend your home, we're ready for... THIS!  Alastor: I really hope that they’re ready for this...

#hazbin hotel #shitpost #omg thank u for being nice to me in the replies n tags u guys r cute🥹#role reversal au

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johnpriceslamb · 3 months

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𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐈 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐏?

❛ you ask the Van Der Linde boys if you could sit on their lap. ❜

BEFORE YOU PROCEED! ┊female ! reader . afab ! reader . reader is physically shorter than chars mentioned below . suggestive themes implied . wrds . not edited . not proof-read . Javier ver touchy . google translated Spanish . John is very drunk . 1.4k wrd-count

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐍

You want to what?

You tinker your lashes multiple times innocently at his flabbergasted expression, unconsciously tilting your head at his dramatic approach. From your tone alone meant nothing but the most purest intentions, he knew well you mean no harm. But hearing those words made his cheeks burn a tad bit brighter.

“May I please— “No, no, I heard ya the first time- I just..” He abruptly cuts you. He narrows his eyes at you, sizing you up head-to-toe just to see if you were in a playful manner. You weren’t.

He grumbles softly, contemplating. He scratches behind his neck for a bit before a deep sigh escapes his mouth and he leans back on the wooden chair he sat upon.

“C’mere.”

He beckons you to come closer with two fingers lazily waving in the air. Immediately do you obey his simple commands like a lost pup, hands clasped prettily in-front of your chest as you easily plop yourself on his lap. Your back almost hits his chest, akin to a literal brick wall from all of the labour work he’s done. Unconsciously does his large hands come to your hips, positioning them slightly just so you’d be a tad bit more comfortable.

It’s easy to tilt your head upwards to see his face, the prickles of hair sticking out on his chin is the most prominent thing from your view. He feels your stare almost immediately and looks down at your beady eyes. He has to stop himself from grinning at your unawareness.

The cowpoke could only narrow his eyes at the soft giggle you produced from your mouth, a hand resting on your hip, “What?”

You look away with a tiny smile, “Nuthin’.”

He lets out another deep sigh, before pinching your cheek.

𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍

The bottle of beer in his hand almost slips to the ground after hearing your simple question.

He raises a hand to scratch at the stubble on his jaw, mindful to be aware of the deep claw-marks embedded on his skin. The bottle was placed on the table with a clumsy clatter, back supported by the edge of the table.

“..Watchu say?” He squints his dark eyes at you. He must’ve drunk too much, perhaps he heard you wrong. His tone was always raspy yet so demeaning playful even. You took it as if he didn’t want you to, and you shrink meekly.

You stutter shyly, “I’ll just go ask someone else—

He felt his guts squeeze and churn at the sight of you sitting on someone else’s lap. All sense of proper etiquette is thrown away from jealousy and alcoholic behaviour, his hand is very quick to grabbing yours as he roughly pulls you back. A tiny squeal escapes your lap as you clumsily fall on his chest and onto his hard thighs.

Your hands are clinging onto his opened top to balance yourself, the smirk on his face visible as he sees how shy you suddenly became.

The strong scent of alcohol makes your nose scrunch up. He rests his chin on the crook of your neck, stubble lightly tickling your sensitive skin. After a few minutes of making yourself comfy on his lap and finally staying still, his hand comes to grab his bottle to take another chug.

“John,” You almost whine at the way he unconsciously starts to bounce his knee up and down. A habit he’s not prone to ever since he started drinking. It was almost like he forgot you were sitting on his lap after a few minutes. Immediately does he stop his movement, a low slurr of babbles and a soft hiccup escapes his lips, “Whoops— sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart.”

Suddenly, he cheekily stares down at you.

“Y’know,” He hics.

“Yer behind feels kinda good on my-

“John.”

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇

He’s a bit clueless at first, bless his heart.

He’s busy carving a small piece of wood with his knife, hunched over as his long hair falls, covering the sides of his face almost elegantly. He wasn’t bothered to tie his hair back, nor raise a finger to place it behind his ear. He stops re-shaping the small piece of wood as he hears a soft patter of footsteps from in-front.

“Hm?” He hums, his guard lowers significantly once realising it was you. The knife is lowered too, and the items were placed afar so it does not distract you nor come in your way.

“May I please sit on your lap?” You ask with those big beady eyes of yours, hands behind your back as your tone is light and sweet.

Of course, silence is ensured for a few seconds. His brooding figure straightens up from his spot. He quirks a dark, angular brow at your much smaller figure.

“Why?” He asks with a straight face.

Your cheeks burn, and your expression was alike of a kicked pup. He catches on quickly, and he immediately feels bad for seeming so nonchalant and blunt.

“U-Um.. I just, I wanted to.. N-nevermind. Sorry.” You shyly stammer, akin to a doe whom tries to stand up for the first time.

He easily suppresses the smile which almost etched onto his face at your stuttering. Cute.

“I didn’t say no, y’know.” He gestures you to come over with a simple pat on his thigh. You beam, eagerly toddling to him like a tiny tot wanting to get her stuffies. You sit yourself on his thighs, shoes quite literally lifting off of the ground because of how big he was. Even if he sat down, he still always towered over you.

He allows you to wiggle a bit on his lap, but a hand comes down to rest on your knee to squeeze it a bit as a gentle warning to not go any higher. You do obey, of course. Your back is to his chest, your hands positioned on your lap as you almost melt at how warm he was.

“Comfortable?” At each word he uttered to you, it was more toned down in pitch, a low hum always started. You nod lazily, a smile of satisfaction of how comfy he felt underneath. You don’t mind the way he snakes his arms around your waist. “Good.”

𝐉𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐔𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀

You regret asking.

Simply put, he’s handsy.

The smirk on his face is very visible. The log he rests upon feels even more smaller as he slowly starts to manspread right in front of you. The guitar in his hand is placed gently just to the side before he beckons you to come forth. You reluctantly sit on his lap, almost squirming at how close he was.

A hand on your hip, another squish to your thigh, a soft roll from his hip teasingly upwards, a touch here, a touch there..

“Javier!” You whine, swatting his hand off your curves. He could only teasingly grin, before shrugging. “..Tu pediste esto.” His voice serenades.

You try to swat his hands off again, but merely give up, knowing he won’t stop any time soon. You lay your cheek on his chest, lithe arms wrapped around his waist as your back arches a tad bit from not supporting your structure. His hands are on the small of your back, rubbing small circles on the softness of your clothed skin.

The embers from the mini camp-fire is light and descends off in the dark night, crackles of the wood calms your nerves down just a bit. He does tone his touch down just a tad bit for your sake, despite wanting to desperately grab at.. literally anything. He’s had ladies before, but by far was he the neediest when it came to you.

You can’t help but take a small peak from above, wispy lashes coming to tinker a bit when he tilts his gaze to fixate on you. A small smile on his face, as he greedily eats up all of the touch you gave to him.

“..hi.” You quietly mumble, a bit muffled because of the fact that half of your face is mushed against the fabrics of his clothes. A fox-like grin etches on his tan face as he presses a tiny kiss on your forehead, entertaining you by replying with a simple “hola.”

“You’re really clingy- and touchy. I hope you know that.” You grumble when his hand comes to cup your curves again.

He smiles lazily. “I know.”

#fem! reader #rdr2 x you #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #afab! reader #arthur morgan x fem! reader #charles smith x reader #charles smith #javier escuella x reader #john marston x reader #javier escuella #john marston #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 john #red dead redemption fanfic #red dead redemption 2

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whateveriwant · 4 months

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might I request how tf 141 tries to turn you on maybe? Sorry kind of a weird request you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to ;-;

Not a weird request at all, anon! Hope you enjoy! 18+ only, GN!Reader

Price

Three words: full body massage

That man loves to get his hands on you, and it doesn’t even have to be sexual in nature, honestly. Any opportunity to touch you, to caress you, to help ease the tension from your body, he’ll gladly take it (and if afterwards you’ll let him ease himself into you, well, that’s just an added bonus 😉)

He might use special rollers or electric massagers sometimes, but mostly he just sticks to those big, strong hands of his

He'll start by slicking up his palms with some oil, warming it up before he applies it to your skin

Beginning with your shoulders, he’ll slowly work his way down your body, paying special attention to the areas you need most targeted

Aside from those tender spots, he’ll also be sure to focus on a few of your more erogenous zones, namely your thighs and your ass (he's an ass man for sure)

By the time he's finished, you're all supple and pliant before him, but there’s something else too – a sort of warm, fluttery feeling in your gut

Luckily, he knows just the remedy for that sensation. And oh! Would you look at that? You're already in his favorite position: prone

Ghost

We all know he tends to be a man of few words, and this applies to every environment he finds himself in

…At least, every environment outside the bedroom, that is

Because when he's in the mood, you best hold on tight to your pants if you don't want them flying off from how he talks to you (but, I guess, your pants coming off is his end goal anyway)

You'll just be going about your day, minding your business, when you'll get a call from him while he’s “busy” at work

He'll start off casual at first, inquiring about your day, your plans for the night, etc., but it won't take long for the conversation to steer to the real reason for his call: to describe the way he's going to fuck you when he gets home

He'll go into excruciating, toe curling detail about all the things he's going to do to you; just how good he’s going to fuck you until you forget your own name

I hope you're not in public when you take his call, otherwise you better have the poker face of a lifetime if you don't want to make a scene in front of several dozens of witnesses

Gaz

He's a big romantic at heart, so rather than just going straight for the bedroom, he'll slowly work his way up to it over the course of the evening

First, he'll treat you to a nice dinner – either by cooking it himself or by taking you to that fancy restaurant you love but think is much too expensive for every day dining

Beneath dimmed, romantic lighting, together you'll share a delicious meal, a glass or two of wine, and of course a tasty dessert to cap it all off

The conversation will be light and pleasant (nothing unbecoming whatsoever), but while he might not outright voice the plans he has for you later in the night, that look he keeps giving you from across the table speaks volumes

When you’ve finished your meal and gradually made your way back home/to the bedroom, even then he still isn't done buttering you up just yet

He'll put on some slow music, maybe light a couple candles to really set the mood, even draw you both a bath if you're feeling up to it

Once he does finally take you to bed, it'll be a seamless transition from an evening overflowing with desire and passion

Soap

‘Subtlety’ is not really a word in his vocabulary, so most of the time when he's horny, he's just turning to you and asking if you want to fuck

However, sometimes when you need a little more build up than that, he has a few tried and true methods he knows will work you up

He'll change so that he’s walking around your flat wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. Wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants, mind you

Whilst wearing said sweatpants, he'll proceed to stretch and flex around you, showing off all those muscles he knows you love, as well as highlighting a few other assets he knows drives you crazy (i.e. bulge printtttt 😍)

He'll then get really touchy with you, starting innocent at first – brushing an eyelash from your cheek, straightening the neck of your shirt – before he gets more and more brazen with his petting

And when he's real close like that, leaning right into your ear, he’ll mutter soft praises to you: telling you how beautiful you look, how good you smell, how soft your skin is where he’s touching just there

By the time he finally goes to ask if you want to have sex, he doesn't even get the words out before you're jumping him like a wild animal. All according to plan…

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kneelingshadowsalome · 7 months

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 2/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 here. Word count: 5.1 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Part two! I don't usually rec music for my fics but if this fic was a song, it would be Dead can Dance’s In Power we Entrust the Love Advocated.

You wake up with a giant plastered on your back.

His bed is far more comfortable than your own, soft and cushy, and there must be flowers somewhere in the hay because there is a surprisingly pleasant odour lingering in the air as you come to. The mattress overall doesn’t reek of too much sweat: some poor slave must change the fillings often enough for König’s stench not to settle on the bed. Actually, you’ve slept quite nicely, despite being embraced by an ogre the whole night.

König has slept like a stone, too, but stirs when you start to shift. You turn on your back and find his drowsy stare on you: it’s generous and warm as he pulls you closer to him. You could roll your eyes when you notice he’s hard down there again – he’s probably hard all the time, whether in bed with a woman or raging on the battlefield, sticking his swords into some poor man’s gut.

“Gut geschlafen?” He asks, and you reckon he’s trying to ask if you’ve slept well – in his domain, in his embrace, after he just slaughtered half of your village.

You give him another pout, which is starting to become your signature expression now. He replies to your grumpiness with a smile, his own trademark move, the one that threatens to strip you from all your arms. He squeezes you fondly against his chest, and then his hand starts to wander: he plays with your tits again, then slinks further down to brush your navel. When he crosses the border and heads straight toward your womanhood, you seize his arm.

He whines softly at your refusal, but to your surprise, he actually stops. You let him go as he moves back up and stay immobile under his touch, amidst the flowery scent and the faint stench of dirt and man sweat, sighing as he cups your breast again. He doesn’t seem to get enough of them, and they’re beginning to feel sore: he gave them so much attention last night already and is now at them again.

You pull his hand away, but this time, he doesn’t respect your wishes but resists you. Trying to hinder a man who’s as strong as a bull is futile, but you have an attempt at it anyway. It turns into a play fight: you wrench his hand down, he drags it back up. Up and down and up and down, as if your breast is a hill he needs to conquer at all costs. But he’s the only one who finds any amusement in your silly game: eyes narrowing again with a smile, a few soft chuckles under that hood telling you he enjoys it when you fight him a little.

It all ends when you finally slap him.

It’s neither a good nor a hard slap, and his mask muffles whatever sound was supposed to give you at least some measure of satisfaction.

But he stops... And laughs.

“Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige.”

His language is harsh and throaty, abrupt, and you tell him that, safe with the knowledge that he can’t understand a word you say either.

“You talk ugly,” you complain and watch him up and down, searching for a clue that would tell you that he somehow understands your insult. König simply thunders with another mirthful laugh at your morning crank.

“Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg.”

He looks down at you like he’s the Sun God now, thoroughly life-giving and kind. Then he dares to bend forward and press a kiss on your forehead.

“Go away,” you try to push him back with your hands - the hood prevents you from feeling his skin and breath and lips, but the… intimacy is still too much.

“Brute,” you want to spit the word out but end up sounding like a child attempting to quarrel instead. And he’s laughing at you again, both with his eyes and his mouth, covered by that darned hood. You don’t know why on earth you would think that such a charming laugh must come from an equally charming mouth.

He finally retreats and rises from the bed, stretching out his arms. The broad muscles on his back are exposed to the frigid air and his cock is jutting out, long and veined, completely unaffected by the cold. This beast is ripe and ready for another day, and you swallow when you see him in his full glory again, tall and wide and strong, looking like he’s about to eat an entire boar and fuck ten women in the process.

“Schön,” he comments as he turns to look down at you, lying naked and sweet there in his bed. He looks at you like you are the most lovely, adorable, difficult little thing. He even gives his horse cock a few good strokes while taking your sleepy little pouts in.

“Ugly,” you slur back, and he winks at you.

Gods… You’re too hot and riled to even speak.

You choose to vehemently stay in bed as König starts his day: eats some fruit from the table - still naked - pours himself some wine and washes his mouth with it, tears a handful of bread from a loaf and starts to eat with his mouth open, munching loudly under that hood, walking around without bothering to cover himself and that ungodly erection that is bouncing in the air without a care in the world.

You, on the other hand, escape back under the warm covers of the furs, but your eyes never leave König. He draws the draping flap of his tent aside - still naked - giving his soldiers a good view of his morning wood, a lovely chance to get a look at their champion. Perhaps it’s his way of saying good morning, you think bitterly. Then he leaves, probably to take a piss, and you’re more and more convinced that this man is the worst beast that has ever walked this earth.

You’re still under the furs when he returns and finally gives you the grace of clothing himself. It’s stupid that you mourn losing the sight of those shoulders and feel a bit disappointed when his cock disappears under the red tunic. His manhood doesn’t look any less intimidating even when growing soft; it’s still long and veiny and thick, and you find yourself… curious. Just curious.

He doesn’t put his armour on this time, chooses to wear only his tunic and sandals and a pair of hard-boiled leather cuffs to protect the vital veins on the wrists. He does take one Gladius with him, though - a sign of distrust in his own men or a Roman custom, you can’t tell.

He’s already at the mouth of the tent when he turns and points at you, now with a good amount of sternness in his voice.

“Du. Bleibst.”

…

He’s away the whole day. Probably drawing plans at some field war council, eating and drinking and bouncing some poor girl on his knee.

Even the thought makes your nose wrinkle and your stomach churn. Of course there are other trophies, and of course men want to show them off, pass them around, give their commanders a chance to give each woman a good squeeze. König has probably stuck that cock into a few women by now. Moaning, screaming women.

Or then he just settles for annoying their poor senses out of them…

You can’t deny that you’re relieved he hasn’t thrown you to the wolves yet, not even after you denied him. Wondering why on earth he would even want to listen to your wishes gives you an awful headache, and the image of him laughing at - or with - some other shy captive girl is making you uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that you throw the skins away after noon, and decide you’re not going to just succumb to your fate, least of all give in to sadness and apathy.

You eat this and that from his table like you’re not a slave girl but an honoured guest, a queen. You eat his figs and his bread and some smoked meat; you even drink some of his wine, as sour as it is. You’re a bit tipsy when you go through all his belongings, which are not as abundant or exciting as you thought they would be.

You thought you’d find tiny chests filled with gold coins and rings. You thought you’d come by dried body parts taken as trophies, perhaps the crown of some long-forgotten Hibernian king. But there are only a few trinkets under his bed, a huge bow and some arrows, his armour and the second Gladius, perfectly stored above the ground so that rust and mould wouldn’t bite them. There are jugs of wine and some firewood and oil for the braziers, there’s water and benches and the table and lots and lots of candles in different shapes and sizes… But that’s it. There’s no hoard, no treasure, nothing to prove to you that this brute is just another Roman soldier trying to gather a fortune by raping and pillaging so that he can go and retire early from all the bloodshed.

And it makes you shiver. Does he do this just for the sake of it, only because he enjoys killing so much? What is his reason to fight?

The only item that sends an odd sting in your heart is a small wooden statue. You feel like a thief when you rummage through a small satchel you find next to his breastplate, the only place you didn’t feel like peeking into because it looked so… personal.

Proving to yourself that you don’t care about his privacy or feelings, you end up pushing your fingers inside it anyway, meeting this peculiar carved piece of wood. There is nothing else there in the satchel, just the statue, and you feel yourself swallow a lump in your throat as you see it depicts a lush, buxom woman. Her breasts are nearly the size of her belly, larger than her head, and you realize that it is clearly the statue of the Great Mother this brute carries with him.

You put it back quickly, feeling a tingling in your fingers and a rapid flutter in your heart, as if you had just poked into something quite sacred. And it is sacred, the Mother. You wonder why, for the love of all the gods, this man would keep such a divine and fertile amulet near him. The statue is supposed to be a vessel for wishes and fortune; it is an idol of worship. König seems like the last man on earth to take up worshipping women.

You just want to get out of this place but can’t. There’s no one to go back to: your chief is dead, the people have fled, the rest of the warriors are scattered across the land. You have no idea where your brother might even be.

You have no wish to escape this tent; you have no desire whatsoever to step a foot outside and show yourself to his hungry men.

König comes back after nightfall and is not surprised at all to find you haven’t escaped. He’s not surprised that you have eaten some of his food either; he doesn’t even scold you. But then the eternal groping starts again as he gets undressed and lays himself down next to you.

You don’t even know why you allow him to touch you. Perhaps it’s because you know it’s better to just let him caress you if he wants; it’s better to suffer the weight of his hands on you if it means he won’t rape you with that cock. If you don’t complain, perhaps he will settle for squeezing and petting and stroking you.

But your body is a traitor: it’s hungry for him, for some ungodly reason, and always craves for more. You say to yourself that you only allow this to happen because it’s a condition, a compromise, a meeting in the middle. You never acknowledge the way your nether lips puff up like a fat flower every time he fondles your breasts. You pay no attention to how wet you get when he caresses your face, your waist, even your thighs, every part of you except the place between your legs, the place you kind of want him to touch... If only he would be gentle and didn’t get too excited, you’d let him touch you there, too, as sick and accursed as it is.

And it’s all good until he starts to hum.

It may be some song from his homeland, the land of ugly brutes, but it’s not a crude giant song… In fact, it’s a rather beautiful, melancholy tune. Your body is relaxed and your pussy is wet; your nipples are tight and pleased as he pets you slowly, lovingly - but that song is too much. You don’t want him to see you cry, not even a single tear, and now there’s an entire flood about to occur.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper, trying not to choke on your sorrow. He doesn’t stop - of course he doesn’t. He gets bolder by the day, and he can see that you’re enjoying yourself. In a way.

"Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden?" He asks, soft and tender, so incredibly gentle that the tears are about to burst forth at any given moment now.

“Ich glaube das tust du,” he rumbles when you don’t answer him. His hand is heavy and broad on your hip as he finally stops caressing you. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it causes the glimmer in your eyes to fall. Tears roll down your cheeks and into your hair, as you lie there next to a titan, about to shatter into a million pieces.

“Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…?”

You want to shout at him to shut up already, to stop talking so gently, asking you questions you don’t understand, to stop trying to find a way to communicate with you through song and hum and touch. The hand on your hip moves, slowly, with devastating cunning towards your core. He’s about to touch you there, to try and feel if you’re wet... If you’d like it that he pounded you a little. You wonder if he would do that gently too, and almost laugh through your tears. It will be your undoing if he finds out that you’re soaked all the way to your thighs, aching to feel him inside you, even a finger, just something…

“No… Nein,” you rule out sternly, opening a new way of communication. You don’t know if the word is correct, but he catches it immediately and stops.

“Nein?”

He sounds both happy and sad; happy that you try to use his language, sad that you use it to give him such a disappointing command.

“No touching,” you repeat and open your eyes, finding his hazy figure hovering above you. You barely discern the gulf of sadness in his eyes, but it is there: undisguised, trying to reach out and join with yours. Gods… How strangely appropriate it is that you are both so very alive, wanting to be devoured by each other’s hunger and lust, only to find yourselves on the brink of tears and hollow loss.

“No... No touching…”

“Verstanden.”

He takes his hand away from you and turns, not even joining you under the fur tonight.

…

The next morning, you wake up attached to him.

Somehow you’ve managed to wriggle under his furs and, on top of that, crawled to hug his side like this. You blame the spring cold for it, of course. Your heart bangs against your ribs as you notice how tightly you’re squeezing him, breasts pressed flush against his hard middle, belly fluttering against his hip. You’ve even draped your leg across his so that your poor, lonely cunt is resting right there over his thigh.

You swear in your mind with all the words and terms you know and can think of.

How the hell are you supposed to detach from a giant without waking him up? His arm is around you, holding you loosely in a warm, pleasing shackle. He feels so, so good - blazing, big and safe, so incredibly nice. You never knew sleeping next to a man could feel so nice. You’re half asleep still, mainly because his body and scent make you feel like you’ve had too much wine again.

You allow yourself a few more moments before you rip yourself off him. Or at least, try to: the arm snares you the instant you attempt to move. It prevents you from leaving him, and you end up hovering awkwardly there, almost on top of him, tits pointing straight at his face, panicked, doe-eyed stare guided to his unwavering blue eyes, open, and regarding you with warm love.

And the damned man smirks again.

“No touching?” He inquires with silly, completely feigned shyness.

“Shut up,” you breathe and try to get off of him, but his other hand comes to brush your cheek next, and you freeze.

“Schön… Pretty,” he tries, and you nearly whimper at the sound of your native tongue in his mouth.

Pretty… Is that what the word means, the odd ugly word he has repeated ever since he stole you?

His eyes are warm and his hand is gentle as he caresses your cheek, and the snare around your waist tightens. Softly… Invitingly.

“Stop it,” you whisper, on the brink of tears again, because this time, your shields and armour and weapons are gone. You just woke up to a feeling of odd contentment, fulfilment, even joy.

And it’s not right.

He has no right to be this gentle with you.

You sniffle and sigh, and cast your eyes down to the chest that belongs to a giant. But you can’t deny that there must be a heart under there. A human heart under your palm. Your hand is right there over the strong beat because you’ve tried to push yourself away, and he won’t let you go. Another tear falls somewhere in the hair of his chest, and he rumbles with such compassion that you want to slap him again, hit his chest with your tiny little fists and bawl.

What you do instead is break down and let the ocean take you. You cry and sob and wail, right there in front of him, until he turns you on your stomach and comes to rest halfway on top of you. Through your tears, you understand that he’s trying to soothe you with his weight. It’s pure insanity how well it works. It releases a whole well of grief, and you start to shake with the cries; your whole body shudders with the sorrow as you retch it all out while König continues to caress you like a pet. He strokes your hair, pets your back, he even pats your ass as if you’re just a baby.

You cry long and hard, so long that he eventually lets out a long, deep sigh. When you’ve calmed down a bit and remain still, sniffling occasionally while squeezing the furs in your fist, trying to remember what it is to be an animal with feelings other than just sorrow, he leaves you.

He simply rises, and gets dressed, and leaves.

That is very much what you don’t need right now, much to your surprise. He was good at consoling you, as odd as it sounds.

Cold starts to creep in when there is no warm body next to you, and your skin misses the calloused gentleness of his palms. You wouldn’t mind if he wanted to hum that song to you now. But the darned bastard had to leave just when you were about to turn and cup his hooded face in return...

König comes back after a short while, but he’s not alone. You gather the furs against your chest, horrified and angry when you notice he returns to the tent with a short old man, vigorous and busy, but so tiny in stature that you doubt he was ever a warrior. You wonder if this is another foreigner or if you have the dubious pleasure of meeting your first genuine Roman.

They both stare at you, quite nonchalantly, while you sit there on the bed and try to cover your nakedness with animal skins while having red eyes and a pair of uninviting, quivering, puffed-up lips.

The short fellow looks you up and down, then turns to talk to König in what appears to be this giant’s mother tongue. It’s a curt suggestion, muttered under his breath, and you realize König must’ve fetched a translator for you.

Oh, good Mother... Great Mother.

You watch these two men before you in a state of stunned shock, as König looks at you, then back at the old man, and nods. The Roman looks slightly vexed as if he just got up too. Then he starts to speak.

“Excuse our manners... We are men at war. If you wish to get dressed, we will wait outside.”

You blink at your own language being spoken to you, perfectly discernable but accompanied by a thick accent. You nod, and the men leave, returning only after you’ve dressed and cleared your throat in the tent.

“He asks if he killed your husband,” the translator starts immediately while König goes to sit on his favourite Roman bench. You’re wide awake now, and the nauseating feeling of being suddenly in the middle of an interrogation rises to your throat with a clot.

“He… What? No,” your eyes dart to König, who is looking at you with his undying ardour. For a man with so much sadness in his soul, he’s surprisingly carefree when he wants to.

“Do you have a husband?”

You gulp at the questions levelled at you. König keeps watching you intently, and you choose to look at the old translator instead, shaking your head slowly. The men exchange a few words, and the Roman turns to scold you with his stare.

“Master reminds you that it is wrong to lie,” he says, putting a lot more weight on his words this time. Roman or not, he calls this giant master, which means that he is just another slave in this camp. You swallow again and try to think, think, think; all the while König’s stare strips you of all your pretences, garments and words.

He thinks you’re trying to hide some imaginary husband, you understand and consider whether you should say that you have a husband: if there is any benefit you could gain from such a lie. König would only probably try to hunt him down… But what if he found out you were telling him tales? Would he feed you to his horny war dogs then?

“I’m not lying,” you say through slightly gritted teeth.

There is another exchange of words before the translator turns to you again.

“Are you untouched?”

“What…?”

“Master asks if you are a virgin.”

The translator is utterly unfazed, and mainly looks like he has better things to do than get to the bottom of whether there has been a cock inside you yet.

“That’s none of his business,” you hiss. The old man turns and starts to translate your words with a dull look.

“Wait—don’t tell him that,” you take a panicked step forward.

Oh good Father in the Sky… Strike these men down so that I may be freed from them.

They pay you no attention; a few sentences pass from mouth to mouth, and the old man nods.

“Master says you are clearly a maiden,” he declares. You peek a glance at König, who is looking at you with hunger, and not the kind of hunger people look at their breakfasts with. Your breathing is getting out of hand, and when he opens his legs wider, clearly making more room for a rising cock, you decide to throw caution in the wind.

“You know what? Your master can go fuck himself with a stick for all I care…!”

The old man turns. He doesn’t even care to sigh; he merely opens his mouth to give your words to König.

“Don’t you dare translate that!”

Finally, the old man sighs. He looks at the ceiling as if begging his gods to take him away from this tent. König’s stare flashes between you two, and he is evidently curious. Clearly, this is the most exciting conversation he’s ever had.

“Was sagt sie?”

“Tell him that I want to be freed,” you hurry to say before the translator can tell your insults to König. After a brief conversation, König leans forward in his chair to see the effect his words have on you.

“He says he can’t do that,” the Roman informs. “His soldiers will find you and take you.”

You close your mouth and try to even your breaths. No one says, You don’t want that. Everybody in this tent knows you don’t want that.

“He asks if he killed your brother or your father.”

You sniffle, quite involuntarily.

“No. He didn’t.”

“Then why are you angry and sad?”

There is a hint of genuine interest in the man’s voice. Both of these men are confused as to why you would bawl your eyes out after the massacre of your people.

"Because… Because he…"

“He says it is a man’s duty to die in battle. You should be proud of your fallen ones, not cry and feel sorry for them.”

“Tell him that he can go fuck himself,” you shout, not giving a single shit anymore about whether he translates the words or not.

To no one’s surprise, he does.

“He says he’d rather fuck you,” he returns to you with König’s message.

You can’t bear to look your captor’s way, and still, that’s exactly what you do. You look at the giant as he stares at you, keen and hard and patient. But you know his patience has its limits. It’s almost like a promise, the way he leans forward in that chair and looks at you from under the hood, shameless and challenging.

“Never,” you guide your words to König now. It’s a brave little whisper, but you know that it’s a lie. Even the Great Mother knows you’re lying. You almost hear the cackle of the old woman rising from the earthen ground, from the chthonic depths, to mock you and your vows.

You hear the old man’s words from somewhere far away, from underwater, as König’s stare wrestles you down and takes away your little knife. He subdues you even when he’s sitting, and shares a string of words: a harsh promise. You hold your breath as his cock gives a pulse under that tunic, and your eyes fall, fall, fall onto it, because there’s no escape…

“He says he can make you feel good,” the voice says, and you can’t even hear who speaks. Your mouth is full of water, but you swallow it down, then shoot your way up to the surface, up, up, up into the sunlight, until you can breathe again.

You rip your eyes from König and look at the Roman translator with loathing and contempt.

“You can leave now. This conversation is over.”

Then you turn, trying not to pay any attention to the hushed conversation that proceeds behind your back. The man leaves the tent: you can hear it, and you can also hear how König rises from the chair and walks right behind you.

“No… afraid,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders, but you don’t even flinch. You knew he was going to touch you again. Perhaps you were even looking forward to it.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you start to argue, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“You like trees?”

He speaks your words, not good, but he speaks them. You wonder if he has known parts of your tongue all along and has simply concealed it. Has he understood what you’ve said to him…? All the slurs and stupid things? Mother, grant mercy…

“Why would I like—What kind of question is that?”

“Climbed a tree,” he explains cheerfully behind you. You turn and look up, yet again rendered weak. Giants are supposed to be stupid. They’re not supposed to know the language of faeries…

“Nosy,” he brushes your cheek with a smile in his eyes.

“Nosy?”

You huff - as if you wanted to be there and witness him.

As if you had a choice after the seer pushed you on this insane, cruel path.

“Wanted to see me so bad?” König tilts his head playfully.

Gods… You can only look at him with brows curling with helpless frustration, lip trembling from how he seems to know your every little secret. He nods when you don’t say yes or no. He’s perfectly happy to read all the answers from your eyes.

“Ich wusste, dass es so war,” he changes into his own language, and you don’t need to understand the words he says.

You know he knows. He knows you, he knows you to your core, and it doesn’t really matter in which circumstances you two met. He knows far more than you, something about souls and how they’re supposed to meet, how little squirrels and giants belong together, as crazy as it is. That there is no chance in life: no, it was meant that you two meet. To him, it was no coincidence that you practically dropped into his lap from that tree.

“Did you like what you see?”

He holds your shoulders gently as you quiver and shake inside.

“No,” you peep.

“I like what I see,” he declares; a benevolent god.

…

A/N:. Thank you so much for your love and interest in this fic! As you may have noticed the fic now has 4 parts, which is because the 3rd chapter got too chunky and I had to split it 😇 Next part might take a while because I'm moving soon, but let me tell you... These guys will be put into *situations*. Oh, and a reminder that I don't have a taglist for this so please check any future updates from my pinned masterlist post 🩷

Translations:

Gut geschlafen? - Sleep well?

Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige. - Yes, I know. I killed your people. I deserve a slap.

Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg. - It is lovely to talk to you. But now I have to go.

Du. Bleibst. - You. Stay.

Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden? - Do you like being petted?

Ich glaube das tust du. - I think you do.

Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…? - Have you ever been touched…?

Verstanden. - Understood.

Was sagt sie? - What does she say?

Ich wusste dass es so war - I knew it was so.

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig x fem reader #könig x female reader #könig cod #cod x reader #könig fluff #könig smut #historical au #Roman soldier!König

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lilac-5ky · 7 months

Text

Holed Up (Husband!Toji x Fem!Reader)

mini kinktober tribute: stuck in a wall/hole

plot: you should've known that asking Toji to help you out of a hole would lead him inside another—or that time you got stuck in the dog house and he bailed on you for KFC.

tags: MDNI, stuck in a wall/hole, pet play (kinda), breeding, doggy style, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), spanking, pet names (bitch, baby), established relationship, crack plot, unsolicited kfc orders, i promise toji loves reader, he's just joking guys.

wc: 2.2k

Masterlist | Kinktober Masterlist | AO3

“Whatcha doing?”

Sarcasm rolls from your husband’s tongue as he stares down at you. Back arched, knees bent, and head encased by wooden planks. Not the most flattering position to be found in, especially with how the light autumn breeze blows at your dress and parts its layers, opening a window to the pink panties of your choice.

His question feels excessive. He knows exactly what you are doing. It was only this morning that you asked him to dig poor ol’ Mister Stinky’s remains from the dog house and he claimed he’d rather buy his son a replacement. No arguing there, but should Megumi see what became of his favored stuffed animal—fuzzy entrails gutted out of the frog’s shredded belly in a path initiating from his bedroom—he’ll be having nightmares for weeks to come.

Besides, you doubt synthetic is the kind of fiber your vet prescribed for your puppy's diet.

“What you should’ve done instead.” You finally spit out, contempt over what Toji’s long fingers could’ve accomplished without him needing to stick half his body into a hole like your, admittedly, dumbass self did.

“For thirty minutes straight? Damn, seems I overestimated ya.”

Even though your view of him is limited to a pair of overworn black slippers, you can vividly picture his scarred lips pulling over his teeth in another of his complacent smirks that scream I told you so.

“Don’t have anything better to do than time me?”

“Nah,” Toji drawls. “Grew tired of waiting on ya, so I thought I’d come see how it’s going.”

“It’s going great!” You lie through your teeth. Anyone with a functioning pair of eyes could see how non-great this is going. “Anything else you need?”

“Well it is noon.” He points out.

“And?”

“And my darling wife’s out ‘ere, rolling in the mud when she should be having lunch with me.”

A snort flares in your nostrils. He is unbelievable.

“What a cute way of letting me know you’re hungry, Toji. You know, if you’d actually helped, I would’ve had the time to set the table and give Mister Stinky a proper burial, but I can’t do both at the same time, can I?”

“Mhm, so how ‘bout we help each other?” He suggests, undeterred. “I get your ass out, and you cook us somethin’ tasty real quick.”

“Wh-who said I was stuck? I can get out whenever I want.”

“Really, huh? What keeps ya from getting out this instant, then?”

“I don’t want to.” You answer wryly. “I like it here. It’s quiet, and I could use some time for myself.”

“In the dog house.” His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. He’s not buying an ounce of what you’re selling. “C’mon, don’t be stubborn. You’ll end up reeking of dung if ya stay here a minute longer. Lemme give ya a hand.”

You know that accepting his help comes at the exorbitant price of utter humiliation, but he’s got a point. Last night’s downpour emanates strongly from the saturated wood, a dizzying smell that turns overwhelming when combined with the strong odor of what you sincerely hope is not piss. Your knees are on the verge of collapsing, and there’s more dirt in your nails than if you dug a grave barehanded. Right now, a day in the bathtub seems like a panacea for your every issue.

Almost.

Kissing your teeth, you resign with a long-drawn sigh that’s barely audible over the rumble in your stomach. You shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.

A moment passes before you hear the crunch of leaves as they rustle beneath his feet; see a second pair of knees take place between your own. Then it’s two hands gripping at your hips, and eventually, a face—your husband’s handsome face that beams with a smug smile and eyes of mischief.

“Lookin’ good, sweetheart.” He greets, though you doubt he sees your face with all the hair that’s curtaining over your eyes while you hang upside down.

“What are you doing, Toji?” You recycle his question in an aggravated tone that fizzles out the second you feel his thumb press against your panties and tug the fabric to the side.

“Nothin’. Just curbing my hunger.” His finger teasingly glides across your nether lips and lands at your clit, while a palm large enough to envelope both your ass and cunt kneads at the tender flesh he’s offered. “Fridge’s empty, so.”

“This isn’t funny!”

“‘m not laughing, but c’mon. You hafta admit it’s pretty damn funny.” Warm air wafts from Toji’s mouth as he inches closer to your thighs. “Y’always whine when I fuck you from behind, but now? Look at you. Bent on all four like a real bitch.”

“T-Toji!”

Your breath hitches in your throat as he slides two fingers in your hole, languidly scissoring them in and out until there’s enough slick to lather your clit with. He circles around the nub while his fingers prod deeper inside, the icy touch of his wedding band clashing with the heat that sparks through your body when he bottoms out. A smothered moan gains echo as it bounces off the walls and into his ears.

“Such a well-trained pup,” Toji praises, retrieving his palm to lick his fingers. “Might win yourself a collar at this rate.”

You bite back your tongue before it can react to his backhanded comment, reminding yourself that you’re still outside, right where your neighbors can peek over the white picket fence for a quick hello and catch you slutting yourself out on your husband’s fingers.

“Can’t we continue this inside? Mrs. Honda is right next door, and M-Megumi—” You stutter when his palm returns to your body, its twin joining in spreading your cheeks further apart.

“Kid’s at school for another hour,” Toji mumbles, his hot tongue parting your folds with a long stroke that has your knees buckling. “So fuckin’ good,” he groans, his nose buried between your two holes while he lazily laps at your juices. “That sweet cunt is the reason why I married ya.”

You keen to his touch, hips bucking into his mouth, and walls clenching for more. “Only reason?”

“Nah. Consider that tight little ass as the second.”

His fingers burrow into the supple skin to squeeze at it, only lifting to deliver playful smacks that cause your ass to jiggle against his face. He growls into your pussy, mouthing all sorts of filth that gets drowned by your moans. It feels so good when he eats you out—it always does—but the probability of being caught in such a compromising position adds to the excitement.

The hand that’s trapped with you inside your pet’s house scratches at the wood, while the other rakes at the soil for grounding. Your orgasm creeps up on you, turning your vision blurry and tinting the darkness of space with colored specks. You are so close; all he needs to do is keep swirling at your clit, swallowing the entire bundle of nerves in his mouth, and sucking hard until—

“Ah, right.” He stops, words slurring from the threads of saliva that link his mouth with your cunt. “You said ya wanted time with yourself.”

Anger washes over you in place of the orgasm you were robbed of, the pleasurable fireworks traded for the obnoxious red alarm that goes off in your brain. “Toji, I swear to God, if you don’t fuck me right fucking now, the only lunch you’ll be seeing is KFC buckets for the rest of your life!”

A low chuckle falls flat from his lips. “Three. I love that snappy mouth ‘f yours.”

In an attempt to meet his eyes, you duck between your legs. Your hair mops the floor as you watch him pull down his pants and boxers, the last thing you see before blood shoots up in your head being the hard cock that dangles out of reach. The heat in your stomach stirs at the sight, anticipation building rapidly when you feel him run the reddened tip between your puffy folds.

“Sure you don’t want it here?” Toji taps his cock against your ass hole and your entire body jolts in response, a loud Toji amusing rather than deterring him. “A’right, a’right! Gotcha the first time.”

His profound dream of burying himself nine inches deep into your ass crumbles as he aligns his cock with the entrance of your pussy. You brace yourself, patiently awaiting that initial sting that never goes away; no matter how many times he fucks you or how diligently he preps you, the thickness of his girth always threatens to split you in half.

But now he’s stalling, a complacent smile sitting on his lips while he contemplates your silence. “Bet you’re red as a beet in there, aren’t ya?”

He plunges himself inside before you are given the chance to either prove or disprove him, a silent scream punched from your throat as his cock rams straight into your g-spot. He huffs a deep breath, barely keeping a groan bottled, when he feels your walls tighten around him. It’s suffocating. Wet, and tight—a little similar to what being stuck in that small space feels like for you, but infinitely more pleasurable for him.

"Mm, such a sloppy little cunt. Got yourself stuck in there for this, didn't ya?"

His fingers latch onto your hips, bruising you as his nails dig meanly into your skin. He drags his cock halfway out of your cunt only to snap his hips back in, picking up a pace that ramps up over time. His quick thrusts fuck you further into that hole, your tits bouncing and slapping against the hard wooden planks while your dress rides higher to expose your back.

Toji bends your body into an arch, a heavy palm situated on your stomach until you’re able to hold the position on your own.

“Like it when your husband fucks ya like a bitch?” He grunts, catching the hand that’s squirming on the grass beside him and twisting it behind your back. “Pounded in broad daylight f'everyone to see how dumb you get over my dick, huh?"

Your whimpers don’t go unnoticed by him. He laughs at the high pitch your voice has assumed, babbling his name an incomprehensible amount of times that exceeds the frequency with which his swollen cock head kisses your pulsing core. You can't think enough to reply, and you can't bring yourself to ask him to stop.

He smacks your ass loud enough for you to whine, alerting every last neighbor in the block to what is happening in their quaint suburban neighborhood. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Toji—fuck, love how big it feels.” Your thoughts stem from your pussy without being filtered by your brain. All your body knows is how badly it needs to be pushed over the edge, disregarding the scornful looks you’ll definitely be receiving at the next neighborhood watch assembly.

“That’s not what I asked.” Toji smacks your ass again, softer this time—or so it feels because of your numbing skin. “I asked, Who owns this pussy, mm?”

“That’s not what you asked at all!” Your talking back earns you a third spank. You realize you’ve got no agency of your own.

“Won’t ask again. Who. Owns. This. Pussy?” He punctuates each word with a thrust sharper than the one before, his cock twitching when he hears you screaming your answer at the top of your lungs.

“You do, T-Toji. My pussy is yours—ngh!”

“And who’s bitch are you, baby?”

“Your bitch!” You answer willingly, your mind clouded, and your logic dulled. “Fuck, Toji, you know I’m all yours.”

“Damn right, y’are.” He hums in response, hunching over your body to rub tight circles around your clit, jerking the nub up and down, round and round.

You’re almost there, and when he asks you whether you wanna be bred like one, the tension in your gut finally snaps, eyes involuntary crossing as white waves of pleasure overtake you.

He fucks you through your high at an animalistic pace, the thought of filling your belly with a baby that’s half his and half yours flooding his brain before your answer registers, his cum spilling deep within your pussy with a few sloppy pumps that squelch to the sound of your mixed fluids.

His moans mingle with yours, the rough sound of his voice raising goosebumps from where he kisses your back to the resounding ringing in your ears. He wraps his arms around you almost tenderly, peppering your back with kisses that almost convince you he’ll finally pull you out of that miserable hell hole but that’s not his intention. It never was.

A final smack meets with your ass right before he rolls his pants back up and walks toward the house, undisturbed by the screams that follow close on his trail.

“You said you’d get me out of here!” Your fist hits the ground, finges clenching around a tuft of grass blades that you violently root out.

“And you said you can get out whenever ya want. That you needed time for yourself, ‘member?”

“I didn’t mean that!” You object, your tone too squeaky to be taken seriously. “Toji, you’d better help me or else—”

“Or else what? KFC until I die?” He snorts. “Relax, I’ll come back before Megumi gets ‘ere.” You hear his phone buzzing as he—presumably—punches something in his search bar. Hot wings don’t sound too bad; he whispers for himself to hear, speaking up only when he asks you if you want him to order you a twister wrap or something before he closes his order.

a/n: the episode excited me too much, apologies. i was gonna post this later asdfghjkl but toji is back and we cum.

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moondirti · 1 month

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pregnant diner waitress reader just has a dirtbag babydaddy, calling her and screaming the whole over the car and her being late.

honestly i hadn’t planned to have her baby daddy in the picture at all but the angst potential here… too tempting to pass up

PART 1 • PART 2

tags: simon x reader x johnny. darkfic. dirtbags. verbal abuse (not by ghost or soap). pregnant fem!reader who still hasn’t realised she’s being actively abducted.

It takes a bit to convince you to let them drive you home.

Your resistance is met with a paradoxical reaction by both men. On the one hand, there’s a warm comfort at the knowledge that you aren’t so easy to take advantage of. Even in your distraught state, you push back against every solution they propose. It is quite a detour, I’d hate to inconvenience you or I’m sure I can get a friend to come out instead. You’re wary, though your exhaustion sways you to assume the best of them, which means that you aren’t quite at the point of flat out refusal.

Otherwise, they – Simon, in particular – simmer in frustration. Red wine in a saucepan, reduced to a stronger version of itself over flame. Bitter. Strong. More insistent: cannae rest easy tonicht knowing we left an expecting hen tae fend fur herself. They poke at the knot until they find a loosening, tugging, tugging, then abandoning it once a more promising end appears.

Eventually, their combined efforts (though most of the credit can be attributed to the sincere, puppy dog look Johnny sports at all times. Hard to resist, even for Simon) dismantle your willpower. You duck your head in a modest thank you and shuffle behind them, seating yourself firmly behind the drivers seat even though you’re offered shotgun, hugging your bag over your belly.

“Do you need me to type in the address on google maps or something?” You say after they pull out of the parking lot.

“Y’were on about Adderford.” Simon meets your wide eyes in the rearview.

“Yeah.”

“Reckon I know the road.”

Simon does know the way, and so does Johnny. Adderford, off of exit A36. Near a polluted lake that was the victim of an attempt to turn the town into an industrial hub. Nothing to show for that, of course – all it has to offer now is a poor quality of life for all those who weren’t fortunate enough to get out.

Yeah. They know the way, and their confidence must set a precedent for the trip. Your anxious fidgeting stops after 10 minutes of driving, and you’re smiling at the nonsensical story coming from the passengers seat a mere 5 minutes later. In the meanwhile, your rationalisation is visible. Simon watches your gaze flicker back and forth between them, then around the car that must feel luxurious next to yours. If they wanted to do something bad to you, then they would’ve already done so. Besides, what kind of delinquents drive a wrangler?

30 minutes in, you’re fast asleep.

They really couldn’t have asked for a better turn of events.

They come up on exit A36 and stick to the middle lane, passing the little sign that points to Adderford being a couple miles out. Past the point of no return, beelining towards the secluded house they’ve made your new home, and you can be none the wiser. Johnny can’t believe their luck, babbling in a hushed voice about how nice it’ll when you to wake up in their bed.

The fantasy loses its grip when your phone rings, blaring from deep within your bag. Panic ripples across your face, jolting you from your sleep as you scramble for the device. The series of events unfolds in far too familiar a way for one of them. Simon – a buried torment wringing around his guts as he listens in.

“H-Hello? Shit. What–” You’re breathless, stuttering. Back to that scared little thing they found by her car, crying. “Please- please calm down.”

And though you try to keep your voice low, they leech on to every word you say. Someone on the other line yells, indistinct insults punching through the mic and landing. You wilt, tucking your lip underneath two teeth, waiting the anger out.

(Tommy donned the same expression those nights when things got bad. Simon remembers hugging him against his chest so he wouldn’t have to face the misery his brother’s countenance wrought.)

“You shouldn’t- I’m sorry, but I thought I c-changed the locks. You’re not allowed to be in… not in my apartment.” More yelling. Soap twists a fist, concoting a hundred different ways he can track whoever it is down. Make them pay for their abuse with their own tongue down their throat. “It’s none of your business- you left…”

“Easy.” Simon whispers to his partner.

“Si.”

“I know, boy.” Perhaps all too well. It gets harder to keep a firm steer over the wheel.

“Don’t accuse me of– my fucking car broke down! You shouldn’t even– fuck! Hello? Hello?” A low scream tears from your throat, prelude to the aggressive shoving of your phone down into back your bag. Trembling fingers press down over your eyes, rubbing until your tears soak into your skin. Ridding of the evidence to your dismay. You suck in large gulps of air, holding them in your chest until it aches, then gasp out equally hefty exhales.

No one speaks for a while. Then–

“I don’t think I should go home right now.”

Too broken for them to feel anything but overwhelming pity. Johnny clicks his tongue, looking over his shoulder so you can latch on to the sincerity that seems to calms you so.

“O’course. Whatever ye need, lass.”

Your frown softens “There’s a motel–”

“Next one’s farther ou’ than our place is. Can’t take you there and back m’fraid.” Simon interjects. Like a record scratch, or sandpaper on an already raw moment. It must make him an awful man to use your earlier propriety against you, but conviction has superseded his desire to act decently.

Sure enough, you visibly blanch, shaking your head and stumbling over your words.

“No! No, of course not. Of course- that was so silly of me to ask. You can, I mean… you can drop me off anywhere, really. I’ll sort t-things out for myself.”

“Not what I meant, pet.”

You don’t catch on. He doesn’t repeat.

Johnny bridges the gap.

“We’ve got a spare bedroom.”

next part

#why do i keep writing these while sleep deprived #i’ll edit tomorrow cba rn ngl #༄dee answers #johnny ‘soap’ mactavish #simon ‘ghost’ riley #simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader x johnny ‘soap’ mactavish #ghostsoap #ghoap #x reader #x female reader #simon riley #John mactavish #ghost #soap #cod #call of duty

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keypaa · 2 months

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Astrology Observations No.5 🧛🏻‍♀️💋🖤👻

(+ a bit creepy stuff)

I use the whole sign system

Uranus opposition Ascendant & strangers talking to you all of a sudden in unexpected ways and places

Mars in 8th house get attacked by spirits often (sleep paralysis, seeing shadows, feeling presences) in many places you go to

!Sensitive topic¡

Astroid Medusa (149) in strong aspects (usually squares) with the north node/southnode + pluto indicate r*pe. I saw it in two of my friends chart. The north node can be seen as destiny. Even if you don't have this aspect and still went through this i love you you are never alone ❣︎

Scorpio ascendants attract a whole bunch of creeps trust your gut and keep it safe people always pay attention to what you are doing you just need to look closer

Lilith in the 10th house and females being annoyed of their presence in the work place. Usually also attract a whole bunch of jealousy in school, uni or at work. Michele Avil that was murdered by her best friend because of jealousy had this placement

Moon in Scorpio hate not having control they know how to (atleast try) to get someone to do something. Positive note good investigators who would make great psychologists, detectives and so on

So well if you have a bunch of 1st house, 8th house or 12th house placements in planets like venus, mars, moon or lilith you are more prone to attract stalkers atleast once in your life KEEP IT SAFE and I mean it¡! And by stalkers I also mean people who do a whole bunch of research on you and your life or keep following you obsessively on social media.

Don't leak unnecessary information about you and try to not go to quite places alone where no one could find you if something would happen.

Lilith in leo are feared by females loved by men

Venus in 10th house don't tell anyone about your love life trust me even tho people always find things to say and spread rumors about. You will publicly be known for what is happening in your love life.

Moon in aries need to be feared, if introverted it takes long to see their anger but most aries moons show ther anger explosively nevertheless they cool down rather quickly, loyal to their loved ones tho

Don't fuxk with leo venus friends they take care of them like a lion mother, dedicated

Venus in capricorn always have enemys

Masculines with libra placements always fall for people who don't love them the same way/or for absolutely toxic & crazzzy people

Lilith in the 22nd degree are necrophilists. Just look at Richard Ramirez chart, he loved s*x with the dead.

According to Ian Altosaar the 22nd degree is about murder and I combined this information with liliths nature, hidden desire. 👻Ps: Most necrophilists are men not always but almost all the time https://ijop.net/index.php/mlu/article/download/734/688/1339 or on Wikipedia (not so reliable source but says that about 92% are men)

Virgo placements get underratedly sexualised a whole lot. The biggest p*rn star right now has virgo placements. Also virgo liliths can be se*ualised

Pisces moons had a time of their life where they cried a lot or still are very emotional (nothing bad). Other than that they can be dangerously manipulative if they want to and feel every slight difference in someones behavior

Aquarius ascendants and loving colorful clothing

Juno (3) in aries and rooting for ambitious people that behave masculine in a loving manner (romantically)

Juno (3) in aquarius want a partner that sticks out from the masses

Mercury in sagittarius have a special voice

Pholus (astroid) shows you what transformed you the most in your life:

1st hous/Aries: You yourself/sports caused a transformation in your life

2st house/Taurus: Your financial situation changed you

3rd house/Gemini: The area where you live in (hood) affected you, or off topic your car/drivers license

4rd house/Cancer: Your home life, emotions or femininity

5th house/Leo: Creative skills of yours or recognition transformed you

6th house/Virgo: Routine or your health/hygiene plays/played a crucial role in your life

7th house/Libra: Your love life/ or glow up affected your life view

8th house/Scorpio: Deaths, paranormal stuff, operations, accidents and your sexuality transformed your way of dealing with life

9th house/ Saggitarius: Other cultures, traveling and your ancestors trigger something in you

10th house/Capricorn: Your work, work environment and accomplishments changed you

11th house/Aquarius: Humanitarian topics, technology and friends started your transformation journey

12th house/Pisces: Religion, spirituality & plastic surgerys may have affected your journey of developing your sense of self

Luvvv muah

3:18 PM

555

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pathetichimbos · 7 months

Note

I wanna eat Thomas up like he my LAST MEAL 😫😫

Shawtyyy like I’m beating up his guts like I die TOMORROW!! 💖💖

Honestly if I saw him with my (dumbass) group of friends I would turn to them and be like “hol’ on i’ma try to wife up this super model ova here, go on without me cuz this town is my new home as long as he here.” While LOUDLY pointing to Thomas and trying to be suave AF but lookin dumb in the process. Lowkey though I feel like realistically he would think I’m making fun of him and kill me first 😭😭.

What’s your take on it?? How would our (hot-sexy-mouthwatering) Thomas Hewitt take a very bold flirtatious reader?? Thanks and bye!! ✌️💖💖

I am having thoughts and feelings about this thank you very much

So, we all know Thomas is a very shy and reserved man. He isn't bold or confident by any means. He does as he's told, and sticks to himself, pretty much never leaving his comfort zone.

But, Luda Mae's getting older, and despite her head-strong and strong-willed demeanor, Thomas worries about her.

So, he starts spending more time at the old country store, if for no reason other than to serve as a deterrent for the off-handed biker or degenerate looking for an excuse to try and rob a poor old station clerk.

It works, and Luda Mae enjoys spending more time with her son.

There's not much to do out at the shop, and so more often than not Thomas finds himself resting out in the old rocker to escape the hot smoky air wafting from the patron's and his mother's cigarettes.

It's a cool October afternoon, a nice breeze keeping the hot sun at bay as he gently pushes himself back and forth with his foot, eyes closed as he rests.

He hears you before he sees you, the loud, excited yells of a group of young women fading in from the distance as a jeep kicks up dirt, pulling up to one of the old, rusty pumps.

He squints his eyes open, watching as the four of you sing along to the radio, no one concerned with how off-key y'all may be.

He sighs, closing his eyes again, not moving from his seat in the old rocker as your group continues having the time of your lives.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," A clear voice suddenly emerges from the chaos, the music lowering to a quiet hum, "Who is that?"

He opens his eyes again, seeing that you have set your eyes on him from your place in the backseat, sunglasses lowered to take in a better look.

He frowns behind his mask, face scrunching in expectancy, waiting to hear the barrage of rude comments and hideous bullying.

The rest of your friends glance over his way as he shuffles in his seat, shoulders tensing as he looks away, uncomfortable with the attention.

"Goddamn." You start again, letting out a low whistle, "If this is what this town has to offer y'all can just leave me here."

A large eruption of playful teasing, groans, and eye rolls come from your friend group as you wiggle your eyebrows at him with a large, flirtatious grin.

He looks back, caught off guard by the terrible pick up line, frozen in place as you blow him a kiss.

"Are you for sale, pumpkin, 'cause I could just eat you up!"

"Oh, my god, leave the poor man alone." One of your friends tease you, grabbing your shoulders and pulling you further into the car.

He can't help but stare, left in shock by the sudden and unexpected flirting.

You couldn't be serious, right...?

There's no way you could actually be flirting with him right now... Right?

His thought process is broken as you ungracefully climb out of the truck, pulling yourself over the door and almost busting your face in the process.

Brown eyes stay glued to you as you walk over to him, hips swaying in what he was sure to be a much more suave and appealing way than the dorky saunter you were pulling now.

...This was definitely a joke.

"Hey." You barely stifle through your amused giggling to speak, "Do you have a name or can I just call you mine?"

"Y/N!" Your friends groan loudly from the car, watching you attempt to work your magic.

He looks you up and down, trying to figure out if this was some strange attempt to mock him or if you were actually coming onto him, the latter making his face flush pink at the idea.

"Thomas!" His mother steps out of the shop, poking her head out to look at the two of you, "Come help me put this stuff up."

He isn't sure if she really needs help or if it's a feeble attempt to get him out of the situation, and to be completely honest, he's not really sure he wants to leave.

But his mother says she needs help, so he stands from his chair, rising to his full height, something that would cause most people to take at least a small step back, but your smile only seems to grow as you stand in place, clearly checking him out as you look him up and down.

He starts to ignore you, heading back inside, only to hear the wooden floorboards creak behind him as he reaches the counter.

He looks back, a confused look on his face as he sees you following behind like a lost duckling.

"Don't mind me," You wink, "My mama just always told me to follow my dreams."

He huffs in amusement at that, shaking his head.

Maybe your pickup lines weren't all that bad.

...

As time goes on, and the more he gets to know you, the more he's going to find your flirtatious advances amusing and endearing, but if you don't make it very clear from the beginning that there's actual feelings behind your remarks, he's going to assume that they're just jokes and you're not actually into him.

He's a big romantic, he'll catch feelings rather easily the more you flirt and tease him, and if he isn't 100% sure that they're more than just jokes, he'll eventually grow to resent them because he feels like he's being teased, even if you have no idea he has feelings for you at all, so communication (while a big deal in every relationship) will be especially important if you're a flirtatious person.

#is this cat calling?#maybe #but thats okay #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x you #thomas hewitt x y/n #thomas hewitt x s/o #slashers #slasher fandom #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher x y/n #slasher x s/o

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lewisyellowhelmet · 5 months

Text

freefall (pt 2)

lewis hamilton x mercedes engineer!reader

read part 1 here !!

summary: You and Lewis have let this go on too far, and for too long. (You are an engineer for Mercedes on Lewis’ side of the garage).

content: 18+!!!! general m/f sex acts. coworker relationship. let me know if u want anything else flagged!

You wake cold. The hotel air conditioning has kicked on during the night, a familiar whir in the ceiling, and in your sleep you’ve pulled the covers up around your chin in an attempt to keep your body warmth in. It takes a few circulations of the room for you to find the off switch for the air-con.

After, you stand against the big window until your alarm goes off, warm breath making a condensation cloud against the glass. You’re in Baku. No. Budapest. Budapest. You’ve been in this hotel before, you’ve seen this view. You have to close your eyes when the surge of memories come. The sound of Lewis singing to himself in the shower. His warm arm over your belly while you slept. Leaning over graphs together to try and figure out how to be faster, how to be better. Your iPhone is ringing, vibrating, morning alarm. The room is still cold.

You get to the engineers room before Lewis does. It’s rained overnight, the track wet, the air brisk. Endless emails await you. The cars not right. Nothing is right. A headache is pulsing at your temples. Your coffee is cold before you remember to drink it. Others work around you. Recently, you’ve begun having this urge, strong and gripping, to stand up and be wild, to yell and scream. We were in love. We were in love and no one knew. I sacrificed that to give us another go at a championship and now you can’t even get the fucking car to work?

You have to close your eyes and practice box breathing until it passes. When you lift your head again, Lewis is moving around your desk to go into Toto’s office. He doesn’t look at you.

—

It has been a year. A hard year. You’d left the hotel room, left him, feeling on the verge of insanity. Lewis had let you go without much of a fight. It felt like his confession, his acceptance, had drained all his energy. Somewhere silent and hidden behind your heart, you wish he’d fought harder. Having to pretend nothing had happened in front of your co-workers was gut wrenching. Sleeping alone was worse. The break between seasons had helped, a forced separation, different cities, but now, in the thick of a new calendar, a new year, you were constantly turning corners and bumping into him. You couldn’t go back to the friendship you’d had before. And you couldn’t go forward into a new, adjusted working relationship. There was only a sense of coldness, of formality. No way forward, no way back. Only this compounding sense of dread, anticipating the next interaction.

Toto’s assistant sticks her head out of the office while you’re gazing unseeing at the screens in front of you, calling for you. Your bones feel stiff and unwilling as you unfold yourself, follow her into the small room. Lewis is sitting in front of the desk, one knee pulled up, gives you a polite smile upon your entrance. Toto is leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled, deep thinking. There are no chairs for you. You hover behind Lewis, and refuse to think about reaching out, touching the back of his neck, smoothing your fingers into his hair.

Generic meeting. A summary of free practice, and then qualifying from the day before. Plans for the day. Any new ideas? Any solutions? Your headache is getting stronger. No solutions.

Lewis holds the door open for you when the meeting is over, and you can smell him as you move past. Familiar cologne. He used to laugh when you buried his face in his neck, sniffed over-dramatically, pretending to be a curious dog. He’d wriggled from the sensation, your tickling mouth, pressing nose. Pretended he didn’t like it, but always made sure to wear your favourite smell everyday anyway.

You need paracetamol. Too late you realise he’s following you to hospitality, where the first aid kit is stored. He is a step behind, lagging, despite easily being able to match your pace. You feel the gap keenly, an open wound.

—

The over-ear headphones drown out the noise of the garage. This, at least, you can do. Go through the motions of race day, a familiar rhythm. Positioned on your stool in front of your screens, the microphone against your mouth, the final, tenuous connection between you and Lewis. A direct line between you and him. You go through the regular checks together, safety, engine, ensuring the connection is clear. The cars roar. The adrenaline pounds.

“Ready?” You ask.

“Ready.”

You chew on the inside of your mouth so you don’t say, be safe, be careful. The lights flash down. The engines rev. The job begins.

—

The air conditioning is on again in the hotel room. They’ve been in to change the sheets, the towels, vacuumed. You feel stupid with fatigue, with loneliness, with missing him. The after-race meetings had dragged. Lewis was tired. The atmosphere was tense. You want to sleep for ten years, but there is a plane to catch first thing tomorrow morning. There are spirits in the mini-fridge, ice clear and beckoning. You drink two in the shower, and another in front of BBC World News on the television. Are you dreaming? Is this real life? The gin gives everything a foggy haze. Your steps are unsteady. You sit in bed and scroll through yours and Lewis’ text threads. Room numbers. Memes. Inside jokes texted under the table during long meetings. You manage to convince yourself its a mistake when you tap through to his contact number, watch it dial, ring through. Listen to the connecting sound, hear him say, “hello?” before you realise what’s happened, what you’ve done, what rule you’ve broken. You hang up. Hot panic. The newsreader is talking about weather. Lewis is calling back, already, and you watch it ring out. You feel frozen by horror. The room is so cold, and the fridge is worse as you reach in, tiny bottles clinking together. Vodka this time. Forget, forget, forget.

There’s someone knocking on the door. You manage to get yourself into a hotel issued robe, pull it tight, before you get into the small hallway, fumble with the handle, get the door open. You swear, and Lewis has to reach out to stop you closing the door again.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“Yes,” you insist.

“You called me.”

“Did I? It must have been a mistake.”

Your voice sounds fake, even to you, the laugh reedy and broken.

“Are you drunk?” Lewis asks.

“No,” you lie.

He drops his arm from where it was holding open the door. He’s wearing pyjama pants and a worn grey hoodie. One you used to wear to go make the coffee in the morning. You can tell from the softness of his expression he’s been recently asleep. You should shut the door now. Block him out again. Go to bed. Instead, you feel yourself start to cry, building in your chest, the tightness in your throat, burning in your eyes.

“Babe,” he says, so sad, so concerned, and the sob you emit is embarrassing and loud. You have to let go of the door to cover your face, feeling your back curve over. Lewis is gentle about coming inside, guiding you to the bed, tucking you in. He brings you a glass of water, makes you have three big sips. You’re still crying, childlike, red faced and snotty. He passes you tissues, strokes your hair.

“I’m sorry,” you start to say, even as he shushes you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “Everything’s okay.”

You feel as if the world is ending. Crying like this in front of him. Drunk and messy. And the room is so fucking cold.

“Can you,” you stumble, wriggling over in the bed, throwing open the covers, “I’m really cold.”

He says your name the way he used to say it, warm and intimate, a nickname. Like a lover. Like a partner.

“Are you sure?” He asks, even as you’re reaching out for him, dragging him in.

“Please,” you say, “I’m cold.”

He tastes salty when you kiss him, your own tears on his mouth. He makes a wounded sound, but then he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you to his chest, his leg over yours. You feel held, sheltered. He lets you kiss him again, deeper, better.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, when you need to breathe, and he’s smiling, warm eyes, smoothing you hair off your face.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, “Whatever you need.”

Your hands are fists in his hoodie, “I need you.”

“How do you need me?”

“Like this,” you whisper, lips brushing his, taking his hand to slip into your robe, over your breast. He sighs out a breath as his fingers touch your nipple, swipe over it again so you make a small, wanting noise.

It feels dreamlike, a long awaited thing. A rush, almost, to get out of your robe, Lewis out of his own clothes so you can sling a leg over his waist, face hidden in the crook of his neck as he pushes into you, his big hand tangled in your hair, holding you to him. Rasping breaths, the sudden heat of two bodies working together, the length of him inside you, pushing deep. It feels instinctual, animalistic, breathing him in, trying to remember everything, compartmentalise every second, every touch, every groan. Lewis rolls you onto your back, but stays close, his mouth finding yours, sharing breath as he grinds into you. You come quickly, nothing controlled, grasping at him and panting, shaking through it. Lewis holds himself there, lets you shudder and cry out, pulsing around him. His eyes are dark and liquid, but he keeps watching you, like he’s trying to remember as well, be present for everything. You don’t want this to ever end. When you can breathe again, he returns to his rythym, steady knocks of his hips into yours, the rush of his breath, of his body. His face drops into your neck when he finishes, hands gripping you like he will never let go again. You feel new, hot tears leak down your face as you hold him.

—

You wake warm, this time. You’re curled around yourself, a child, with Lewis aligned to your back, his face against your spine, his arm over you, protecting you. You’re facing the window, curtains left open, blinking at an apartment building, holding hundreds of different lives, different bedrooms, different people. Lewis is still asleep, you can tell from the steadiness of his breath, the sleep-weight of his body over yours. You place your hand over his, interlinking knuckles. The more you wake up, the more you feel embarrassed, shame curdling in your belly. He’s done this out of pity. How gross, to call him, drunk, drag him into bed with you, to beg. You feel overheated, suddenly, untangle yourself from him, slip out of the covers and into the bathroom, pulling the sliding door to encase yourself in the marble and glass. Your eyes are swollen from crying. You mouth is bruised pink from him. There are fingertip bruises on your waist from where he’s held you. You have to sit on the lip of the built in tub so you don’t throw up, or start crying again. You haven’t washed your hair in a few days, and it hangs limp around your fingers, head in your hands, again. Hiding. Wanting to disappear. Your hangover makes you tremble. You’ve failed. You failed years ago, when you looped your arms around his neck and kissed him for the first time. You failed again when you turned your back on him. And now, to be so weak, to force him to do this again, to look after you.

The bathroom door slides open. Lewis is in your robe, tight around his shoulders. You try to smile at him, but even without seeing you know it’s more of a grimace.

“I don’t know what to say,” you tell him, raking your hands through your hair, “I’m just so, so sorry.”

“You said that a lot last night.”

Lewis doesn’t move any further into the room. Stays in the doorway. Watches. Witnesses.

“I can’t believe I. I’m so embarrassed.”

He shakes his head, “Don’t be.”

“Lewis,” you’re speechless. What is there to say? How to apologise? To take back?

“Look,” he spreads his hands, surrender, “We don’t have to talk about it. It never happened.”

“Never happened,” you echo. Vomit threatens. Never happened.

“If that’s what you want,” Lewis says.

You’re nodding, looking down at your bare feet on the tiles, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

The silence makes you want to scream. Just to break it. You can hear your heartbeat in your head. A constant pound. You stay there, on the edge of the bathtub, while he gets dressed. He doesn’t look in on his way out. The door shuts with a finality.

—

You fly to Oxford. He flies to Monaco. You don’t speak.

—

It happens in the middle of the night. The off season. When you check your phone for the first time the next morning, waiting for the kettle to boil, you have so many missed calls your phone has stopped counting them. The photos are blurry, but it’s obvious if you know what you’re looking for. Through a small window in the door of your office. In the first one, you’re just laughing together, the second you are reaching for his hand, the final one you are in his lap, your mouth hidden by his, Lewis’ big hands in your hair. You’re still staring at them when he calls. He does’t say anything when you pick you. You just breathe, together, for a long moment.

“So it happened,” you finally say.

“It happened,” he agrees.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone else yet. I just woke up,” you say.

“Don’t,” he says, “I’m going to fly in this afternoon. We’ll have a meeting with the publicists. Toto wants HR there, as well.”

“Fuck.”

You hesitate, and then, “Was Toto mad?”

“He wasn’t happy. He reckons Susie knew and didn’t tell him.”

“Where did the photos come from?”

“Ex-employee, they think. Was waiting for the right time.”

“And now is the right time?” You can hear the edge of hysteria in your voice.

“I’m really sorry,” Lewis says.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.”

You need to boil the kettle again, tea forgotten. You realise you're gripping the kitchen bench so hard your knuckles have gone white. You let go. You look out over the garden, crisp with morning frost. Christmas soon. You’ll have to explain to your family.

“Did Toto say anything about my job?” You ask, feeling sick at the thought.

“No. I said if he fired you, I would quit.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not.”

There’s quiet again. You flick the kettle on.

“I think it’s good if we come in together. We can plan what we want to say. I can pick you up from your house,” he says.

“Alright.”

“Don’t answer any numbers you don’t know, okay? Media might call.”

“Really? I was just gonna pick up strange numbers all day,” you say, a bite in your tone. Lewis laughs though, an amused huff.

“You’re right, sorry. I’m control-freaking.”

You hum an agreement.

"I’ll see you soon, then,” he says.

You suddenly have a fierce urge not to let him end the call, to let his voice anchor you.

“Alright,” you say, and hang up first.

—

The meeting is awful, of course. People are panicking. Toto scolds. You go silent. Lewis rages. In the end, the core group sits silent around a meeting table. The most promising solution is to paint it as star-crossed lovers, meant to be, soulmates. Refusing to be kept apart by jobs and contracts. This would be perfect, perhaps, if you were still together.

“Could you pretend? Until it died down,” Toto had said.

“No,” you’d snapped, speaking over Lewis’, “It depends what she wants.”

Now, the silence is stale, nothing left to say, but no agreement reached. Your eyes prick with fatigue.

—

Lewis drives you home. When he pulls into the driveway, you’re too tired to get out of the car. There is a light on inside. Your mum must be here, checking in on you. Has heard somehow, which must mean it's on the internet.

“How are you feeling?” Lewis asks, when you make no move to open the door.

“Tired,” you say, “You?”

“Sad.”

It’s unconscious, reaching to to touch his leg, an urge to comfort. He sighs. The muscle of him is warm through his jeans.

“If this had happened a year ago,” he starts, and stops, shaking his head, “Doesn’t matter.”

“If it happened a year ago, what?” You say. He shrugs.

“Everything might have turned out okay.”

You turn your face from him, look out the window into the dark street. It makes your heart throb painfully to see him. You can’t speak through a thick, swollen throat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it,” you finally manage to whisper. Your hand is still on his thigh.

“Didn’t say what?"

You close your eyes, lean to rest your forehead on the car window with a thunk.

“Didn’t say that I loved you back.”

“Did you?”

You laugh, exhausted from carrying it for so long, “Lewis. Of course. Of course I do. So much.”

“You do?”

Your eyes fly open, realising your mistake. You snatch your hand from his leg, turn to face him, “I did. I did then.”

“You don’t love me anymore,” he clarifies. He’s frowning, forehead creased. The night is pressing in on the car, dark and claustrophobic. You can’t speak.

“Because nothing has changed for me. I feel the same as I did then,” Lewis says, and you can see how he’s working to speak, jaw twitching, forcing the words out. Something private, and hidden, being pushed into the open. You’re pressing your hands together in your lap, painfully tight.

“Alright,” you say, hate yourself for it. He looks away. His eyes are gleaming.

“Alright.”

You get out of the car. Stiff and awkward. You get your key in the front door, hear him turn the engine back on. Fear is clawing at your chest. You turn around anyway, back down the steps, jump in front of the car so he has to slam on the breaks, a screech breaking the night air. He’s opening the drivers door at the same time you’re trying to open it, get to him. He’s half out of the car and you’re half in when you kiss him, cold air, warm mouths. He’s grasping your head, holding you steady.

"I’m sorry,” you’re panting, “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Lewis says, “What’s done is done.”

You keep kissing him, his face, his nose, his jaw.

“I love you,” you press into his skin, you kiss into his mouth, “I love you.”

Lewis is pulling you into his lap, back into the car, pulling the door shut again, crammed in. Your hands under his shirt, feeling his skin, feeling him breathe.

“Do you?” He asks, holding your face in front of him. You feel your face hurt with how wide you are grinning, a release of something held inside for so long. Your hands mirror his on his face, precious in your fingers.

“I do. I do. I love you.”

Lewis half laughs, half sobs. His eyes are shining. The car horn beeps from a stray elbow. You keep kissing him anyway.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton smut #f1 smut #f1 imagine #*

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suzukiblu · 4 months

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WIP excerpt: Danny goes to Gotham and meets a dead Robin.

There are options for ways to approach an unfamiliar ghost–especially a baby ghost, and from the look of him Robin can’t be more than three or four years dead, if that–but since Robin is a superhero, Danny takes the obvious one. He sticks Tucker’s ghost-proof GPS into his chest or a pocket dimension or some cross between the two and then he glides down through Gotham’s smog and starlight and lets the invisibility and intangibility drop to give the kid a light little greeting swat. Very light–it only knocks Robin halfway across the roof he’s racing across. Which might be a little patronizing, but sue him, the kid is tiny.

Lady Gotham croons, mournful and adoring, and her Robin tumbles through a roll and pops up alertly out of the bat-winged shadows that surround him, doing a perfect flip to land right on top of one of the gargoyles at the edge of the roof. His eyes are wide and white-lensed behind the domino mask, and the moment he sees Danny he laughs.

stranger stranger, careful careful, gonna tell my daaaaad, Robin’s core sing-songs, bright and shiny and secure in that threat, and Danny’s mouth quirks in wry amusement. Yeah, definitely a baby ghost. But it’s nice to see Batman’s kid feels safe with him even dead; is still confident in his protection no matter what. Apparently Batman is a little more down with ghosts and spirits than Danny’s own parents started out, but really, of course he is. He is Lady Gotham’s boytoy, after all.

show me what you’ve got, Danny hums back through his own core–the traditional ghost-introduction for any haunt, even with a baby ghost. Honestly, it’s more impressive a ghost this young has a haunt, but given how thoroughly Lady Gotham’s favor surrounds him, it’s not exactly a surprise either.

Danny’s surprised Robin ever managed to die at all, though, considering how much Lady Gotham loves him.

Robin springs forward across the roof and Danny side-steps his attack and tries to trip him, but Robin flips right over his leg sweep and throws a fistful of–what are they, batarangs, Danny guesses? batarangs, sure–right at his face. Danny goes intangible because he just does not have the reflexes to dodge that from this close, but the second he phases back in gets a double kick to the gut.

Robin is definitely a trained fighter, yeah. A trained fighter with experience.

Nice, Danny thinks, and grins as he zaps a tangle of tiny ecto-blasts at the kid in playful mimicry of those batarangs of his. Robin cartwheels out of the way and then darts in low and leaps up into Danny’s face.

Very nice.

Danny inspects Robin’s core thoughtfully as the kid tries to roundhouse-kick his head off his shoulders with another bright, cackling laugh, which is frankly adorable, and it’s actually really impressive? Like–Robin is a surprisingly strong ghost for his age, glowing with faith and shining like a beacon in the dark, and since Danny’s never heard anyone call him a ghost before, he’s gotta at least be strong enough to manifest in a way where he can pass for human when civilians and other heroes are around.

Which, understandable, really. Danny would also not let anyone know his kid was a ghost if he were Batman, after the Anti-Ecto Acts debacle and how long that’s been taking to clean up. Tall Dark and Paranoid would never let the government know his baby was dead, with that kind of nonsense going on.

He smashes the kid into the roof–gently, because he doesn’t want Batman getting the wrong idea if he’s in the area, but also not too gently because he doesn’t want to offend Robin by giving him the impression that he’s not taking him seriously. Robin yelps, then kicks him in the chest with both feet and actually knocks him back while simultaneously using him as a springboard to flip backwards and get some distance.

Talk about parkour, damn. Danny really is impressed.

not bad, he lets his core rumble approvingly, because Jazz has had some things to say about encouraging the baby ghosts–Jazz has a lot to say about encouraging the baby ghosts, in fact–and Robin’s thrums with laughter and delight and too slow too slow, keep up! Then the kid darts forward again, ducks under his arm, and twists around to elbow him in the back of the head. Danny lets out a snort of laughter and throws him off the roof. Robin laughs, and all those bat-winged shadows embrace him as he vanishes in a twist of the dark.

Not even the shadows. The dark.

Danny is definitely impressed, yeah.

#wip: danny goes to gotham and meets a dead robin #dpxdc #long post

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leonw4nter · 3 months

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Hockeyplayer!RE2R!Leon drabbles

Hockeyplayer!Leon who started out in high school and got the position of starting goalie. Around senior year, right before college, he made sure to do a lot better so recruits could take an interest in him and offer him a sports scholarship. Besides practicing his skills on the ice, he made sure that he did twice as well in terms of academics; he avoided going to parties and studied as much as he could, nose-deep in a text book or his notes.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who is so shy, usually stays quiet and keeps to himself in the locker rooms before a game. He occasionally butts in with a corny ass joke but he only tells Chris, the team captain who is also someone he’s grown close with. Chris encourages him to have a life outside of academics but Leon politely refuses, repeating that he has a scholarship to vie for.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who graduated at the top of his class and got accepted into his dream university, taking up aerospace engineering. Between classes and hockey, he’s having a slightly hard time juggling all his activities but he’s holding up well for someone taking a course that would make anyone want to rip their hair out. Because of his scholarship quotas he doesn’t have time for parties or to visit Chris, which he feels guilty for but Chris is understanding about it.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who was one of the Dean’s listers one time, which felt rewarding after several nights of zero sleep and a concerning reliance on Snickers and energy drinks to stay awake. He decides to take a breather for a bit and comes along with Chris to a party, where he meets hockey recruits (for some reason) )and they take interest in his abilities. He leaves that party signed under them, his future stable under a nice hockey career and a promising team. Chris teased that he’d be the nerd of the group, being the only engineering student in a room full of guys who took up sports courses but he feels relieved when Chris tells him that he’s signed up with them too (though he’s still going to be the only nerd).

Hockeyplayer!Leon who now doesn’t feel that anxious about his future outside of college but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t slack off though, still studying hard and smart. A lot of girls take interest in them and he does find them attractive but his gut tells him that they’re not the one, so he doesn’t mind. He feels a little sad with his lack of romantic experience but Chris tells him that it’ll come in its own time.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who is absolutely adored by the entire team– they come to him for help regarding math and he goes to them to proof-read his papers.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who just finished up practice with his team, sweaty and pink-faced, blond hair sticking to his forehead with strands sticking together. He takes his gear off, now only in his jersey and skates while he sits at the bleachers and hydrates. The other guys are talking but he’s keeping to himself, taking this opportunity to catch his breath and do a quick recall of everything but he hears a yelp, a feminine yelp. He looks around and sees one of the ice skaters in the rink skate over to the side, she probably tripped.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who doesn’t hesitate to get up and apologize, asking if she’s okay. She turns around and he’s met with the most beautiful woman ever, stopping him in his tracks; she had soft curves with some muscle, her hair tied into a ponytail. All of a sudden, he goes shy and forgets basic communication.

“Sorry for uh– the ice,” he apologizes. You turn around and the first thing your gaze falls on is a pair of irises that are a hue of a midwinter sky. “I’m apologizing on behalf of my team. Do you, um… need any help…?,” he shyly asks. He swears that his hummingbird heart is beating so strong and loud, the pretty skater in front of him might hear it.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who accepted it when he left the rink, acknowledging that he’ll never see you again– but that doesn’t mean he was kind of sad. He was disappointed that his low confidence and shyness got the better of him and prevented him from asking for your number, or name at least. All self-loathing goes out the window when he sees you again and you actually approach him. His cheeks and the tips of his ears turn rosy when you ask for his number, giving it to you though he has the urge to kick himself for stuttering so many times.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who soon sees you for more than your physical attractiveness; you aren't just beautiful, you make the space around you beautiful too, you affect others and bring their beauty out of them. And you do it with ease. Having a bit of muscle goes a long long way in sexual attraction. Yet she was beautiful from her heart and soul.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who gets teased about his crush, the entire team giving him knowing looks whenever you sit next to him and talk about whatever. He’s still shy but he notices himself stuttering less, much more comfortable than he previously was. His attraction is evident to everyone but you and he doesn’t want to confess because he thinks you won’t feel the same way.

“C’mon, Leon. Confess already! I’m so tired of seeing this tension fizzle out into nothing! She’s clearly into you!”

“She’s just nice, Carlos. She’s nice to everyone and that doesn’t mean she likes me, y’know.”

“She’s the nicest when it comes to you!”

“What if she feels bad for me…”

“Why would she feel bad for you? You’re awesome, man!”

“I’m quiet, a nerd, and I don’t talk much. She probably thought I’m a loner or something…”

“Not with this negative self-talk, Leon! I need you to man up and do something about this crush. I’ll help you– Chris too.”

Hockeyplayer!Leon who invited you to meals as his way of flirting, with the help of Carlos and Chris. He swears his eyes nearly popped out of his pretty head every time you agree to go on these little meal runs with him. With plenty of pep talk and encouragement from the guys, he gets you a small bouquet of flowers for the first time. His clumsy ass didn’t notice those itchy ass caterpillars crawling into his hand so for the whole time, he had to hide the redness and irritation on the back of his hand but he’s thankful you’re not the one who got an allergic reaction.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who tried to make a move and kiss you but chickened out midway for many, many times. He lies awake in his bed at night, staring into the ceiling as he recalls all the times he messed up before groaning and screaming into his pillow. You’re in his head more often than he’d like but he doesn’t mind.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who you asked out to be your plus one to your coach’s birthday celebration. He ran up to Chris and Carlos, jumping and giggling, which confused them. He ran back to his room and took his phone, showing them the text that you sent.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Y/N

“My coach is having a birthday party this Saturday and I got invited. We can bring plus ones soo… can you be my plus one? Dw it’s fine if you got practice on Saturday and can’t come along :)))”

“Sure. I actually don’t have practice this Saturday so I’m totally free :)) What’s the dress code?”

“Smart semi-formal or business casual. Alsoo what time r you gon pick me up?? Or do you want me to be the one to pick u up-”

“I’ll pick you up an hour before the party starts, I’ll just come over to your place. Is that good?”

“YEEAHHHHH :)))) TYSMMMM”

“No problem ;) See you there”

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“Smooth bro, real smooth,” Carlos compliments. Chris is busy jumping around for Leon, pulling him in for a bone-crushing hug.

“Let us take you out on some shopping, little bro. I’m going to make sure you look dapper, fine, handsome, sexy, drippy.” Chris beams.

“Please don’t say ‘drippy’ ever again to describe how I’m going to look,” Leon sighed.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who arrives at your place 15 minutes before he’s supposed to with another bouquet of dainty flowers. Chris and Carlos asked the entire team for help to style him and they all came together visiting the shops for clothes. After several fittings and visits to many different stores, they all decided to dress him in a cream turtleneck that hugged his figure well and well-fitting navy blue trousers along with black dress shoes. They also decided to try out new hairstyles for him but none looked great so they all decided to settle on Leon’s default hairstyle. Leon felt handsome in his outfit but his insecurity was slowly seeping in but thanks to his teammates and friends, he managed to keep that feeling at bay.

Hockeyplayer!Leon whose jaw drops and world freezes when he sees you open up your door. Space and time halts in reverence for the heavenly beauty standing in front of him; whatever words were waiting at the bottom of his throat are now a jumble of letters, his mouth slightly agape with no words coming out.

“You look stunning,” he softly whispers. He doesn’t even notice the way his hands are clenched tightly around the bottom of the bouquet, his knuckles going pale.

“Very stunning.”

He ends up blushing even more when you compliment him, shimmery eyes glazing over his body and suddenly everything feels a lot more warm. His lip quivers when he puts on a smile for you when you decide to take a picture with him and you can’t stop gushing about how his clothes fit him, making a mental note to wear something like these more often before sending his thanks to the team group chat.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who has more fun than he thought he would, enjoying your company and good food. He feels some eyes on him, sizing him up and probably whispering about the plus one that a figure skater brought along but for once he doesn’t feel self-conscious because he doesn’t have attention to spare for them when you got all of it from him. When he sent you back home that day, he was so sure that he was going to kiss you but his nerves got the better of him again. Instead, he told you how much he had fun at the party and how you were good company to him before bidding you good night.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who looks good with your first kiss after you made the move and pulled him in for one on an outdoor ice skating rink as the first snowfall gently fluttered down, tiny snowflakes landing on your coats and hair. He is practically glowing with it and you swear you see your future in the twin pools of his sapphire lakes.

Hockeyplayer!Leon who was your boyfriend of three years, is now your fiancé. He got down on one knee and asked a question that would ultimately define both of your futures during the first snowfall inside your shared home. He couldn’t stop staring at the ring on your hand, proud that he managed to get it this far. Who would’ve known that someone as timid and nervous as him, who literally struggled to find the golden opportunity to kiss you would be able to do something as defining as this. He swears to stay by your side forever and in every universe and timeline; he’ll be a star in whatever constellation you’re in, the sun to your moon, he’ll be the boundless ocean that reflects the vast beauty of the sky.

NOTE - Hi guys sorry for the inactivity lately, I've been making Valentine's Special fics for diff versions of Leon and there's about 8 of them so I don't exactly have time to post. I decided to write drabbles of RE2R!Leon based on my first fic in here so yeah :) My mom and brother also found a 4-5 week old kitten that kinda looks like a rat and we're not sure of the kitten's gender so ig I'll just update on this too (if you're interested) 😭😭. I haven't come up with names yet but I'm planning to name the kitten after video game characters. My grades for the second quarter release tomorrow and I'm so scared rn bro like I literally did NAWT do that well during the first quarter so let's hope I somehow did better in the second 😭😭😭 Anyways, thanks for reading my fics coz I rlly appreciate ittt!!!!!!!! <3333333333

#leon kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy x y/n #fluff #leon kennedy x reader #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy fluff #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy fluff #biohazard #re2 #resident evil 2 remake #re2 remake #resident evil 2 #re2r #drabbles #x reader

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