#THEY WERE PROMISED FOREVER THEY SHOULD HAVE HAD FOREVER | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pinkthrone445 · 4 hours

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-Let it burn to the ground- Part 5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Pairing:Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Gender:fluf, Mel being soft, soft, love, hurt

Warnings:Mention about past trauma, fires, injuries, insults

Summary:Melissa lets the fire of love consume her when she meets the new chief of the fire station, but happiness can't last forever, specially if you are insecure.

Well, that was awkward. That's how it felt to have to go downstairs to go to the movies with your family. Your little boy was excitedly waiting for you, jumping up and down, while your sisters and mother gave you that "we know what you were doing" look, especially when they looked at how red your neck was from the recent mark the redhead had made on you.

While no one said anything, your family definitely found out that you were dating the elementary school teacher and that you were definitely having sex together.

That was the first time Mel knew your house, and from that day forward, it was common for you to spend time together there or at her house. Even Chris had grown accustomed to having her around.

You especially loved to listen to the things they talked about when they thought you weren't listening, you didn't know if it was because how easy it was for Mel to be with kids, but your son loved being with her and that was rare to happen.

After school you had invited Mel home to spend some time together, so your son was very excited, he loved that she was there

-"Mel, Mel, Mel!" - Your child was jumping up and down as he pulled the redhead's hand to take her to his room and show her everything he had there

-"Chris be gentle! Mel is tired after work and you are being rough" - You commented, leaving the bags and coats in their places while you listened as the redhead laughed

-"Yes mama!" - The little guy answered and started gathering things in the room to show her - "This is my favorite book, and this is my favorite teddy bear, and this is my favorite pillow, and this is my favorite night lamp, and this my favorite car, and my favorite pair of socks because they are very lucky and help my win at games, this is my favorite block of cheese, and my favorite doll, and my favorite ball..."-You could hear them chatting as you walked up the stairs

-"And do you have a favorite jacket? I have one and is blue" - Mel continued the conversation and you stared from the door at the interaction. Your child picked up a hulk jacket and put it on smiling

-"This is mine!" - Your son jumped up and down making Mel laugh-"We should wear our favorite jackets for school tomorrow!" - He commented excitedly and Mel smiled tenderly

-"I would love that" - The redhead comment and you smiled

-"Baby you have to do your homework, come on" - You commented from the door and he sighed sadly

-"But I want to be with Mel..."-He whispered with sad eyes

-"What if while you do your homework, I make you something nice to eat and then we watch your favorite show together?"- Mel offered, and your son nodded, smiling, running into the living room for his backpack.

You stared at the redhead smiling and gave her a short kiss on her lips

-"Thank you" - You whispered and went down to the kitchen with her.

While Mel cooked, you helped your son with his homework. An amazing aroma started coming out of the kitchen after a few moments, and by the time you two finished homework, the food was ready.

Your child put away his school stuff and sat down on the carpet excited to see the plate of pasta that Mel was placing in front of him

-"Thank you Mel!" - He commented excitedly and his little eyes sparkled when he saw you put his favorite cartoon on the TV, Bluey. You usually wouldn't let him watch TV at lunchtime, but you both promised cartoons if he did his homework.

When you tasted your dish, you couldn't help let out a soft moan because of how delicious it was, with a smile you rested your hand on the redhead's knee squeezing gently

-"You and your amazing hands" - You muttered with your mouth full and she blushed softly at your comment looking you intensely in the eyes

-"Mel!" - Your son screamed, bringing the redhead's mind back to reality

-"Yes kiddo?"- The older one asked, looking away from you to him as your hand remained on her knee

-"I want a sister, like Bluey has a sister, but mom told me she can't have kids if she is alone" - Your son commented, looking attentively at the eldest - "Now that you are home more often with us, would you have a baby with my mom so I have someone to play?" - You knew your son's question was one of pure innocence, but you couldn't help but choke with the food as you listened to him

-"Chris..."-You said between some coughs because you were choking a little, Mel took your hand smiling and decided to answer giving you time to calm down

-"Chris...Those things take some time and some work... But in the meantime I'll be your friend to play with, I'll come every time you need and want and I'll even play with at school if you want, would you like that?" - The redhead responded, handling the situation surprisingly well

-"Yes... But promise you would think about it too?" - Your son whispered and you nodded a little less nervously, caressing the redhead's hand-"Thank you" - Your child, happy with the answer, went back to watching his cartoons.

After finishing the meal and putting on his pajamas, the two of you took your son to bed

-"Mom, can we read a story?"-Your child asked, and you nodded-"I would like the the little alien one please... And I want Mel to read my story if she can" - He whispered a little embarrassedly and you looked at Mel and she nodded looking for the book on the shelf. The redhead read him the story doing every voice and interpretation of the characters. Even when your child had fallen asleep hugging his teddy bear, she continued reading until she finished it. Then you kissed the little boy's forehead and she snuggled him with the blankets.

Silently, the two of you walked out of the room holding hands and pulled the door of the room slightly closed.

-"I'll go home before it gets more late" - The redhead whispered and came over to kiss you, but you gently shook your head

-"You don't want to stay overnight?..."-You asked and she looked at you confused, she had never stayed at your house when Chris was there

-"But Chris..."-She whispered and you smiled hugging her waist

-"He is not dumb... He knows we are more than friends even if you don't sleep here..."-You whispered and she smiled looking at your lips, trying not to let you notice the feeling of butterflies in her stomach

-"And if we are not friends, what are we?" - she whispered close to your lips and you smiled

-"Nothing yet..."-You muttered, and the redhead's smile disappeared-"But I wanted to ask you if you wanted to be my girlfriend while we cuddle in bed" - You whispered and gave her a little kiss making her laugh

-"Yes... I would love that, I would love the cuddles and I would love to be your girlfriend" - She murmured and you laughed lifting her up and hugging her, she immediately wrapped her legs around your hip, and then kissed you gently while you went to the room.

You got used to her presence and so did your son, Mel filled a very big void that you hadn't noticed was there. Honestly, she gave you everything you didn't know was missing and needed.

You thought she would be the new love of your life because of how perfect everything was and how perfect she was with your son, you had even been thinking about proposing to live together, but it all fell apart on one fateful day...

After 5 months dating the redhead, a very difficult date arrived for you, it was the 3rd anniversary of your husband's death and to make everything more complicated, the state decided to hold a party on his honor to raise funds for the fire station.

It was already difficult to remember him all the time and have to live with his absence, but this party was like being at the cemetery to bury him all over again, everyone would tell you how sorry they were for your loss, how they missed him, how excellent he was as a person and as a firefighter and blah blah blah, you didn't wanted to go through that again.

Even though you didn't want to go, the state insisted, and they forced you to give a speech on his honor, thank heavens Mel agreed to go with you to help you get through the night and to help you take care of Chris. You didn't know if you would have endured it all alone.

A sigh left your lips when you saw your reflection in the mirror, you were wearing a blue ball gown and you looked amazing, as the dress reached the floor and you had heels it made you look taller and refined. But as much as you looked amazing, you felt very sad and tired, you had been crying a lot the night before

A pair of arms hugged your waist and you could see in the reflection the redhead smiling at you and resting her chin on your shoulder, you smiled faintly at her

-"You look amazing..."-she whispered softly

-"Look who is talking, that dress is perfect, like you"-You answered and she hugged you tighter, even though you were smiling, she could see the sadness in your eyes

-"Mama! Let's goo, I'm ready and I'm hungry!" - Your son screamed with excitement entering your room, he didn't really understand what the party was for, the only thing that excited him was knowing that there would be food.

Once Melissa, your son, and you arrived at the party, the noise of the music and the amount of people immediately overwhelmed you, contributing to your nerves and sadness. You wouldn't let go of your son's hand and Mel wouldn't let go of yours. The number of reporters and photographers surprised you and made you more nervous.

Once everyone mingle and ate, it was your turn to speak, which you didn't want to do it but you had to.

Chris sat at the table with Mel as he ate fruit that the redhead had dipped in chocolate for him.

With trembling steps you went up to the stage and took the microphone that the presenter handed you. One of the reasons you didn't want to give the speech is because you knew that nothing you would say would be enough to honor his memory. Your heart was beating so fast and hard, so much so that you could almost hear it in your own ears. A thousand eyes were on you, anxiously awaiting your words in honor of your husband. When you brought the microphone to your mouth, everything you had planned to say was erased from your memory, so you decided to improvise and speak honestly

-"Good evening everyone... Thank you for being here tonight and for your generous donations to the fire department, also thank you for dressing so nicely to honor this special occasion... Many know that only an occasion like this can make me dress this fancy "-You joked and heard some laughs-" While this night is prepared for us to enjoy, it is also a night of honoring the memory of my husband, and not only him, but all of our fallen comrades... Many of us here know how hard this work really is, how hard the losses of our co-workers or our partners are and how hard is to lose people that we couldn't save... We know it's a sacrificial work, but we also know that it's a rewarding work when we manage to save a family or reunite someone that the person though they had lost... Unfortunately, sometimes we only can exchange the life of a colleague of ours to save a person's... In this speech, I was supposed to talk about what my husband was like... Everyone here or most got to know how funny and brave, how strong and how empathetic he was to others. But it was one thing to know him as a co-worker and another as a husband and father. I had the opportunity, the privilege to get to know him in every aspect of his life and to spend the most important moments of live by his side...- Mel watched the way you spoke, how your eyes sparkled and a tender smile threatened to peek in while you talk-"I remember the first time I saw him in the academy, the skinniest of all the people there, but that never slow him down, he became the best of us... I remember our first hard call together, he was never afraid to help others, he was the first one to offer to help... I remember when we got married, he looked for all the people we saved together to be there to throw rice at us... I remember when he found out he was going to be a father, I never saw someone crying so much out of happiness... I remember seeing him being the strongest even when he felt week... He took care of us, not just me, the whole station like it was his real family... I remember the many times he save our life's talking tough decisions and I specially remembered the time he saved my life even if that cost his... I remember him every day and I feel the void he left behind every second, a void so big that I still doubt if some day I'll complete again... So please, let's raise our cups in honor of him and all the firefighters that save our lives every day, and in honor of all the families that support us in our jobs, even with the fear of loosing the ones they love... Thank you for honor their memories and thank you all again for coming..."-You ended your speech with a lump in your throat and wanting to cry, as you came down from the stage a round of applause was heard throughout the room, even though you felt it far behind for how overwhelming everything was.

Mel listened intently throughout your speech and even clapped her hands when you came off the stage, but she couldn't help the stomachache that caused her to hear you talk about him like that.

As you came off the stage your son ran into your arms and you picked him up hugging him to calm down, the redhead kissed your cheek softly

-"I'll go for some drinks" - she whispered and you nodded. As she walked, she felt worse and worse remembering every word you'd said, the love in your eyes...

-"Ohhh... Look who is here..."-Captain Rob, Melissa's Former Lover, spoke standing next to her, the smell of alcohol could be felt in him, the redhead rolled her eyes looking at him. She was about to answer him in a rude way when at the corner of her eye she saw how a girl hugged you tight and attached you to her body, her hand was dangerously close to your lower back. Melissa knew that what was happening to her before was just jealousy because of how you talked about your husband, but it wasn't justified to feel jealous of a dead person, but when she saw how that woman hugged you, it was the perfect opportunity to fight over jealousy...

Melissa hugged Rob with great affection, especially when she saw how you stopped talking to the woman and approached her. Rob, drunk as he was, took the opportunity to contour the redhead's body with his hands and she let him.

Your face became completely serious when you watched the scene, you politely asked one of your coworkers if she could take care of your son for a few seconds, and walked up to the redhead raising an eyebrow

-"Am I interrupting?" - You commented in a serious voice looking at the two of them, the redhead turned around leaving her back close to him but looking at you

-"Yes, as always" - He said but you kept your eyes on her

-"Not at all... We were just saying hi..."-Mel replied and you crossed your arms, disgusted to see his hands on her waist

-"Hi? That looks like a lot more..."-You responded gritting your teeth

-"It was the same way that you said hi to that girl a few minutes ago..."-Melissa replied annoyed. In truth, the jealousy that your husband caused her was present from day one and by not saying anything about it, it had grown and damaged her inside, and now she was using any stupid reason to make a hug fuss and fight with you

-"She just hug me... His hands were almost in your ass...and you were letting him..." - You responded trying not to raise your voice

-"Her hands were almost in your ass too! And you seemed to be enjoying it..."-The redhead moved away from him a little to face you

-"What the hell are you talking about?! What the hell is going on?" - You asked with a frown

-"You! That's what is going on, you and your stupid obsession with your husband, he is dead! It's time to face it!" - Melissa's words came out of her mouth before she could slow them down or process them, she immediately covered her mouth with her hands. And there it was after many months together, that cold stare again, that was always for everyone one, but never to her... But now, was for her, and she could only blame herself.

-"Oh wow... You could have said that any day, but you had to choose the day of his death anniversary to say it, knowing how hard this day it is for me... And for your information, the girl that hugged me was my ex sister in law, one of the only people here that really understands me right now"-Mel wanted to go back in time when she heard you say that-"Please get out of here... And I know you got here with me, but leave, tell him to take you home or take an Uber, I don't fucking care..."-You responded in the most serious way possible, you seemed like a machine without feelings even though inside you were falling apart

-"But..."-She tried to talk but you interrupted her

-"You know what? You better stay here, dance and go fuck each other in some dark corner, I don't fucking care... I'm the one going home, I hope to never see you again Melissa" - You muttered spitting venom and turned to go get your son and leave the redhead and the party behind.

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reallyhatethiswebsite · 2 days

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realised i never posted this here lol, my contribution to the "tav sneaks into house of hope and gets caught" trope

AO3

contains voyeurism, haarlep (lol), minor sexual degradation, a very special cum shot 😉 and other filth i probably forgot

This incubus was more deadly than any Absolute, any mad tadpole cult or god of death or unhinged murderous doppelganger. His hands on her were Hades and Valhalla entwined, tweaking and plucking nerves she didn’t know she had with the skill and passion of a musician dedicated to his craft. He’d let her touch him first, satiating her curiosity with amusement as she, fascinated, felt every ridge and divot, every swollen vein and bulging muscle of his – no, Raphael’s infernal body. But he was not Raphael. He wasn’t even a devil. He was a demon, a creature of the abyss birthed from chaos, sin, and sex, and he controlled her far better than Raphael and his contracts could ever dream.

“Haarlep,” she wept; he kissed her tears, licked them from her cheeks while he held her thighs aloft and slid his molten hot cock in and out of her slowly, languid, unhurried and uncaring about the climax she’d been teetering on the edge of for what felt like forever. She was so wet there was no resistance, their coupling noisy and obscene and so messy. Her throat shredded raw from her moans and screams. She clawed desperately at his broad, muscled back, dragged her calloused fingers over bumps and strange cartilage of devil anatomy, pawed at the joints where his wings began. All he did was purr, laugh, suckle a mark into her neck.

“Yes, pet,” he cooed, gold eyes glinting with delight, “that’s my name. It does sound so very alluring from your pretty lips…”

He let one hand trail up her belly and sternum, resting it in the sweat-slicked valley between her breasts. Feeling for the thunder of her heartbeat. All at once and yet as though she’d felt that way forever, Tav was overcome with the sensation of pure, true love – and this was where an incubus was at his most dangerous. Emotion, compulsion; here he could ask her to do anything, surrender her life and let him pry her ribcage open to feast on her heart and lungs while they were still at work, and she would gleefully help him carve her flesh to get it out of the way.

“Haarlep, please…”

“Say you’re mine,” he growled, the sharp points of his claws suddenly digging into the skin above her heart but not breaking it – not yet. His inky black pupils consumed his irises until they were naught but skinny rings of fire. He hiked up her legs, her knees at her shoulders, forcing her damp thighs further apart before he viciously sheathed his cock to the hilt, its blunt head nudging the spot inside her that turned her legs to jelly as he bent her forward. He was so deep inside her his cock was kissing the opening of her cervix. She should have been in agony. Instead: ecstasy. His full weight pushed her into the soft mattress. The places where their bodies joined burned like the sting of water running just a bit too hot. Haarlep oozed demonic hunger, wings spread wide, tail curling like a serpent waiting to strike. “Say it, little thief. Scream it. You’re mine.”

“I…I’m…” Tav gasped, squealed, when he pinched her nipple – punishment, perhaps, for her hesitation. Above her head, above the grinning gold devil face nailed to the headboard, loomed a massive portrait of Raphael, one of many in his House of Hope. The painting glared down at her, as if challenging her conviction, and Haarlep’s iron grip on her desire wavered. Sensing it, he followed her gaze, humming low in his throat with fake disappointment but very real cruelty. They both knew the only reason Tav got on her back and spread her legs in the first place was because of the form he wore.

“Poor thing, lusting after a devil. And what a devil you chose indeed!” He cupped a hand around her throat. He didn’t squeeze, but the threat – the promise – lingered, smoke after the flames. Otherwise he remained still, his weight making it difficult for Tav to writhe and use his cock the way she wanted. He shushed her gently when she whined, though she was far from comforted. “You deserve much better than a brat like Raphael as your Master, sweet mouse. If you stayed with me…if you were mine…we could be entwined in ecstasy like this forever.”

Haarlep dragged the pad of one sticky thumb across her kiss-bitten lips, sighing when she took it into her mouth and suckled. He tasted like her own sweat, the slick of her cunt, and something she instinctively knew as dark magic. She was wrecked, a mess; in comparison, Haarlep seemed completely unaffected despite the lurid, ravenous expression on his face. Barely a stray hair out of place between his magnificent horns. His breathing measured and even. It shouldn’t have been so arousing for Tav – that when she stepped into this boudoir, this secret little pocket of overwhelming sin, she’d strayed so far out of her depth there was no glimpse of land in sight – but she was doomed the moment she saw Not-Raphael lounging near-naked on his huge bed, leering at her like he starved and she was a three course meal. He was the Siren luring her into the depths. She was drowning in red velvet sheets, and the rest of Faerun would burn to ashes in the aftermath. Tav couldn’t quite drum up enough willpower to care.

Right before she gave herself away, her fate narrowed to a breath of whisper on her tongue, Haarlep tilted his head back, pointed ears listening intently. Tense silence hung between them. Tav didn’t know what he heard, couldn’t hear much beyond the roar of blood and her own shallow breathing. A truly malicious smile spread across the incubus’ borrowed features. Tav shuddered, aware that something was about to happen without truly understanding why. Haarlep freed his thumb from her mouth, scraping its claw along her tongue hard enough to hurt and smearing drool on her chin; then, to her dismay, he freed his cock, too. She cried out, the snag of its soft barbs and ridges teasing pleasure from her cunt even as she mourned the loss. Felt empty and alone without it.

“Hush,” he murmured. “Up, now. On your hands and knees for me.”

He laughed at how she scrambled to obey. Her legs were weak, of little use. Her arms shook beneath the task of holding her weight. Still, Tav presented herself to him, this time facing the boudoir’s entrance. Haarlep pressed behind her, a looming spectre of succulent suffering. He snatched her hip with one hand, wedged his large thigh between hers to push them further apart, and rubbed the fat head of his shaft up and down through her slippery hot folds. She groaned every time he bumped her swollen clit. He seemed content to drag and tease no matter how she urged him to fuck her. She had no authority here. All she could do was whine and beg.

“Poor little thief,” he crooned. His chest, his own pebbled nipples, brushed against her back. He let go of her hip to instead knead and squeeze her breasts. He was so much bigger than her in every way. She felt utterly consumed by him. “Don’t worry. You’ll get what you want very soon, I promise.” Tav gasped, her arms collapsing as Haarlep thrust his cock into her without warning. Face down, fingers clenched in the sheets, she arched her back, shameless in her chase for pleasure. Release.

Haarlep grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back up. “Ah, ah,” he tutted, “I want him to see your face when he walks through that door.”

Tav didn’t get the chance to ask who. Her question was already answered. The air grew thick, electric. The souls of the damned forever trapped in those halls quivered and wailed with fear and exaltation. The Master of the House had come home. Raphael was a sight when he stormed into the boudoir; still in his human guise, but with none of its usual composure. Eyes wild, face twisted into a frightening snarl. He’d unbuttoned his fancy coat, loosened his frilly collar. A lock of his soft brown hair strayed out of place, stuck to his forehead damp with sweat. His cheeks were flushed. He was gorgeous, and terrifying.

“Haarlep!” He roared.

Fear skittered like insects on Tav’s skin. She’d never been afraid of Raphael before. Foolish, perhaps, but he hadn’t given her much reason – and yet a devil was still a devil, no matter how charming or attractive they were. Haarlep didn’t seem to share the same sentiment.

“Welcome home,” he hummed seductively, “how was your day?”

Raphael wasn’t listening. He stared at them, at Tav, his face slackening with shock. The expression was alien on him. It made him look younger. Almost boyish. It didn’t last. His thin lips pulled into a sneer and he regarded her with utter contempt.

“Well, well,” he drawled, “who should I find breaking into my house and indulging in my pet without permission…why, none other than the little mouse, of course. She’s ever so good at scurrying into places where she does not belong. How dare you.”

“Raphael…I…” If she could have spoken, Tav didn’t know what she would’ve said. She had no defence, not really; no reason seemed good enough for such a prideful devil not to tear the skin from her bones and the soul from her bloodied husk in retaliation. She couldn’t try to escape, caught so tightly in Haarlep’s vice. She couldn’t even act contrite, because Haarlep languidly rolled his hips and tore a sinful gasp from her throat with his torturous stimulation. Raphael’s fury had not dampened Tav’s arousal any.

“I assume you wanted the hammer,” Raphael continued snidely, “but being the dogged creature that you are, you thought you would sniff around and see what else you could steal from me, didn’t you? And look at you now. Caught in a trap because you couldn’t keep your legs closed. Pitiful.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Haarlep purred, all dark delight and careless mischief, “I offered her other forms, but she only wanted yours.”

“Is that so…” Though he tried for indifference, despite the way he looked at her like she was less than dirt on the sole of his boot, Raphael’s body gave him away. An obvious bulge between his legs tented his trousers, and his pupils were completely blown. He was still angry, but that little piece of information had intrigued him, stroked his ego like phantom fingers on his cock, mollified him enough to reconsider skinning her on the spot.

“Don’t let him fool you, Mousie,” Haarlep stage-whispered into Tav’s ear, continuing to make things worse and loving it, “he can feel everything I’m doing to you, every squeeze of your tight wet cunt, every kiss from your naughty mouth…he’s just as desperate as you are.”

“Enough, Haarlep,” Raphael barked. The incubus ignored it. He dragged his tongue along the shell of Tav’s ear, blowing hot breath into it. Her entire being shook, skin erupting in goosebumps. Haarlep’s chuckle was so deep, so dark, it was almost a growl.

“You would do anything for me right now, wouldn’t you? Sweet little mouse. Obedient little mouse. More’s the pity that Raphael didn’t try to win your allegiance this way, hm? He would have had much more success…”

“Haarlep.” Magic crackled through the air like summer lightning, ozone. A warning; Raphael’s simmering temper would not be tested any further. With a put-upon sigh, Haarlep finally released Tav’s hair. She yelped as she fell forward, catching herself before she face-planted, yelp dissolving into a groan as she got some friction on the cock firmly inside her. Her breasts bounced and swayed, something Raphael’s clever eyes feasted on. She was the thing, the pretty little mortal, these two monsters were snarling at each other over, like dogs fighting for a scrap of juicy meat. She felt debased, humiliated, and thrilled in a primal way.

“Well then, Master,” Haarlep drew the word out with biting sarcasm, resting his hands on Tav’s hips, “what are you going to do now?”

Raphael didn’t answer with words. He clicked his fingers and a plush chair appeared. In silence he unbuttoned the rest of his coat and tossed it aside. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the tawny skin of his forearms lightly dusted with dark hair. His loose collar opened enough to glimpse broad pecs and the column of his neck. Tav’s heart leapt into her throat. Raphael positioned the chair at the foot of the bed, almost close enough to touch, and sat down. He maintained direct eye contact, infernos raging in his black hole pupils – she couldn’t look away – and spread his legs. Tav sucked in a sharp breath. Deliberately slow, Raphael unbuckled his belt with long, deft fingers, and Tav watched in breathless anticipation as he loosened his trousers enough to free his cock and balls. He sighed as he did so. A pearlescent glob of precum was already dribbling out between his glans. In his human suit, Raphael’s cock was a little larger than average, flushed dark pink and stiff with blood, a thick vein running along its length, crowned by a neat thatch of pubic hair. His balls beneath it were smooth and fat. A handsome and well-crafted package. He preened under Tav’s ogling. She knew intimately what his cambion form offered, and so he had decided to let her see this, too.

“As you were,” he ordered his incubus, voice rough, but he didn’t take his eyes off Tav. “Since you’ve caused me such inconvenience, it’s only fair you give me a show.”

“How fun,” Haarlep hummed, the mercurial beast. He stroked the tip of a claw down Tav’s spine, pinching her ass cheek when he reached it. “You see, pet? I told you you’d get what you want.”

The rhythm he started then was brutal. Had Tav mewling, fisting the sheets again, groaning every time the demon’s hips touched her backside. His own balls smacked against her thighs, hot and heavy with infernal seed she hoped he was more than prepared to stuff her with. Overwhelmed, overstimulated, she buried her face in the bed to muffle her sobbing squeals.

“Oh no, little mouse,” Raphael growled. With one hand he reached out and pulled her hair, hard, making her look at him. Both of them seemed to like doing that. “You do not get to hide. Not from me. You are in my house, and I see everything here. Keep your lovely eyes firmly on me, lest I find myself tempted to pluck them out and make jewellery with them.”

Tav obeyed. In consequence, she was witness to Raphael unravelling to the sight of her being savagely mated by his lookalike. Satisfied by her obedience, Raphael settled back into his chair, got comfortable, and tugged on his cock. Lazy at first; slow, firm squeezes from root to tip, enough to push his foreskin up over his weeping glans and back down again. His groan was decadent, rich like wine and melted chocolate, the sternness of his expression dissolving into burgeoning rapture. He was stunning. An erotic vision splashed onto the canvas of life – and he fucking knew it. Smirked at her as she stared, open-mouthed, panting like a bitch in heat. Somehow, Haarlep’s thick cock inside her wasn’t enough. She needed the one Raphael was rubbing, too. Needed it in her mouth, her ass, anywhere. She knew he wouldn’t give it to her, because she didn’t deserve it.

Haarlep leaned down, moulded himself to her, back-to-front. Curled his hands over her fists where they were clenched, white-knuckled. His blood-red skin was sweltering. The room reeked of sex, fire, and cherries. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” The demon husked. At last, his sexual stoicism was cracking. The tinge of affection in his voice couldn’t be ignored. “My little princeling.”

“Yes,” Tav slurred, barely able to speak. This new angle was making black spots pulse softly in the corners of her eyes. Her orgasm was approaching, tired of being teased away; it was a violent thing squirming in her womb, desperate to unfurl. She didn’t know if she would survive its impact. “Nngh… G-Gods… please …”

“There are no Gods in Hell, my mouse. Flesh and fire are our Nirvana. La petite mort.” Raphael murmured raspily, drinking in her delicious despair as he thumbed his cock head, smearing his precum about. His free hand clenched and unclenched the arm of his chair before he shifted to stroke his balls. “And who do you sing to? Who would answer your prayer and free you from a depravity of your own making? No Divinity is truly so magnanimous, I assure you.”

His breathing had quickened. Fast, greedy inhales and exhales. His head lolled back. His eyes glazed like warm honey by lust, desire. He licked his lips once, twice. He rubbed his cock furiously now, fondled his balls, rocked his hips in time with Haarlep’s. His noble features twisted beautifully with his feral pursuit of pleasure. While she was ruined, he was elegantly debauched. Completely in his element. He wore his passion well. It suited him. Like everything else. What a terrible creature he was.

Haarlep, without warning or fanfare, slid his fingers through the soaked curls of her pubes to rub her swollen clit, and Tav’s orgasm hit her like an avalanche. She screamed when she came, unprepared and out of her mind, her body convulsing uncontrollably. Haarlep groaned as she gushed around his cock, the fluttering walls of her cunt milking it over and over, trying to pull him deeper. His hips stuttered, flush with her backside. His claws dug into her pliant skin. His teeth bared. Raphael watched all of this, seared it into his memory.

Tav was near-boneless in the wake of a climax like that, limbs wracked with tremors, chest heaving. Tingles spread from the tips of her toes to her crown. Haarlep held her up. Her head fell against his chest, his demonic heart pounding. She could do nothing at all when Raphael stood, aiming his ruddy cock at her face. She had disrespected him by encroaching on his privacy; now he would return the favour. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth pulling into a handsome snarl. He grunted when he finished, spurts of hot cum splattering across her chin, cheeks, and nose. Every splash of his Hellish seed on her skin painted his ownership, his brand. He purred when he was done, an apex predator satiated. Then he simply stood there for a moment and basked, relaxed, wringing the last drops of spend from his prick as it began to soften, before he admired his work.

“That’s a good look for you, little mouse,” he said softly, not a shred of gentleness in his tone. “I almost want to keep you this way. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Displayed in here like a sloppy whore for me to finish on whenever I desired.”

“The best little whore,” Haarlep breathed in agreement. The lurch in Tav’s belly would have bothered her, if she had the energy.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not in the business of rewarding trespassers.” Raphael tucked his cock away but left his belt undone. He smoothed his hair back, then reached forward with two fingers to swipe a drop of his cum from her chin before it dripped down onto her chest. He put those fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean, grinning nastily at her when she moaned. “No, I have very different plans for you.”

“Depraved, naughty mouse,” cooed Haarlep, reigniting his rhythm again, to her dismay. The demon who had started it all wouldn't be denied his own end. “I told you so.”

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #haarlep x tav #raphael bg3 #fanfic #cringe

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eg515 · 2 years

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I've been waiting for Caroline and Klaus' first scene together since I started rewatching, and I was fully prepared for it to be a disappointment. I remembered Klaus being The Villain for quite a while, I thought their first meeting would be a partof someone's games.

but their very first scene together is Klaus healing Caroline from the werewolf bite??!!? and more than that, he's super soft the whole time? and I can't stop thinking about how the only other time we've seen Klaus be nice and kind and soft like this before was the flashback to human!Klaus. idk, do with that what you may, I'll take it as another sign that they were meant to be and we were robbed.

also their very first conversation, and Klaus tells Caroline about all the beauty the world has to offer - something that comes back later in the voicemail he leaves her, the voicemail she keeps for years.

#this is fine i'm fine #i'm not crying at all #klaroline #they should have had it all #THEY WERE PROMISED FOREVER THEY SHOULD HAVE HAD FOREVER #anyway #i'm normal about this #tvd #tvd rewatch #ep 3x11 #the vampire diaries

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dying-suffering-french-stalkers · 5 months

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god help me i'm going insane about dickson xenoblade again

#this is what i get for thinking about lord of the rings too hard this week (specifically denethor / gríma / saruman and the like)#thinking about the way anthony may delivered “when will you learn you HAVE no future?”#he thinks shulk is fully DEAD at that point. he thinks HE killed him. which he very much meant to. but now that the kid is no longer there #now that the terrible future he's been preparing for and actively working to bring about has in fact come about #i don't know that dickson really cared anymore. he played his part he did the deed expected and he did it unquestioningly. So What Now?#well. now nothing. now the world that he spent so long biding his time in; so long getting enmeshed in (even for nefarious purposes)#is about to end; is about to be gone forever.#sure zanza will probably just create another world and maybe he (dickson) will have Even More Power in the new one #(though that's not a given! he doesn't know for SURE his lord and god will keep his promise!)#but like. what the hell does he care at this point #dickson SAYS he wants power but i suspect that long long ago what the giant dickson really wanted was SURVIVAL.#we never get to know just how he became a disciple or what the giant civilization looked like in its heyday or how it ended #but in MY headcanon dickson saw that some kind of destruction coming and he wanted Out #and maybe he hated his peers and figured any power and prestige that came from this bargain was just a bonus #i think he thought of himself as a saruman type: powerful; remote; far above the petty troubles of mortals (even the long-lived high entia)#but i have always headcanoned that by his later days (i.e. when he started engaging w/colony 9; machina village; etc. in earnest)#he committed too hard to the bit and started “going native” as it were; started to give a shit in ways that he would never dare admit #maybe not as much of a shit as; you know; a regular guy would. but more than an immortal disciple and horseman of the apocalypse should.#and all the time knowing that all the world he'd seen would soon be gone #maybe everyone else can get fucked. but shulk had to die too. and that's what their god MADE them to do.#he can't allow himself to care or to hope for another option bc in his mind it's already over; decided; that's it #what else can you do in the face of ultimate power but bow to it and take whatever scraps may fall to an obedient servant?#“you have no future” nor does he except that shulk came back. except that the peoples of bionis/mechonis just wouldn't accept Fate.#and in some final rebellious corner of his mind he starts putting eggs in shulk's basket. “if they can't even defeat telethia they won't #stand a chance against me (or zanza)” so let's see if they CAN. oh they did? how about a dragon? oh fuck they defeated the dragon too?#well fuck. maybe there WAS another option all along. but will/can they stand against me; the final disciple? oh they can??#guess i'll die then bc i'm not looking THAT in the face. i am NOT unpacking my cowardice/failure/lack of vision after all these years.#good luck with that tho <3 you're welcome for the training btw. where i'm going i don't have to see your trauma assuming you live that long.#dickson #xenoblade

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arthur-r · 7 months

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emily wilson out here translating the iliad and i am once again wishing i knew how to read and translate ancient greek

#listen where there’s a will there’s a way but i just finished my degree audit and looks like i will only be able to manage a classics minor #with latin emphasis (unless i abandon latin for greek which i’m not going to do even though it pains me)#but i really want to make my own iliad someday….#at this rate i’ll only ever end up making a queer prose adaptation and be criticized for projecting modern notions of sexuality onto a #completely different set of values and social understandings of homosexuality….#(which. if anything there should be more gay people in the song of achilles. don’t be mean to me i promise i understand ancients)#anyway i might just have to make a book of poetry or a novel adaptation or whatever whatever but what if i want to learn the script #and painstakingly translate every single word through years and years of dedication. while also being a librarian as my main thing #shdhdhdf i’m never gonna be classics scholar enough to professionally translate. and if i were it would be latin. but i can dream….#anyway i’m no longer failing my french class (have a 70% that should only be going up) but i’m still failing historical linguistics #my latin grade is great i’m acing it but my library science class is a D (which should be fixed in two days though — just needs more data)#so i am giving myself permission to sleep early tonight and go into class well rested for once. i’m not feeling well but that’s a constant #anyways if anyone reads the wilson iliad let me know!! i’m a fake fan of her work and haven’t read her odyssey (something about the iliad….#there’s a brutality and a raw humanity to it that puts the odyssey at a lower priority to me) but im so freaking excited to read her iliad #i have to prioritize schoolwork but soon. i’ll have to ask my latin teacher about it tomorrow though she’s an iliad enjoyer #anyway good news i think i’ll be able to get a history major with certificates in digital studies and classical studies (the two genders….)#and graduate comfortably in four years with honors in the major. this is ignoring how i’m failing my classes. i promise i won’t be forever #anyways the point is: wilson’s iliad — i will read it as soon as possible and i’m very excited #also i checked out a book from the library called the lexicographers dilemma: the evolution of proper english from shakespeare to south park #but i haven’t had the chance to read it and soon it will be due…. college is evil i’m too busy learning things to learn other things!!!!#anyway if i do honors in the major then i’m excited to eventually earn credit from a capstone thesis which i would do on lexicography #throughout history with an emphasis on classification systems and basically peter mark roget #ok anyway. wandering all over the place but the point is. wilson’s iliad. very exciting. can’t wait to find the time #and eventually i will write an iliad adaptation of my own i will. just not a full translation shdhdf that’s an unrealistic goal #especially when again. my capstone project is going to be about taxonomy of ideas. ancient epics are secondary….#anyway i hope everybody is doing well!! i am going to bed soon-ish but other than that i am around so lmk if you need anything #me. my post. mine.#college talk #delete later

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lesbiancarat · 2 years

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i really love this years anniversary content, when we get to see SVT having heartfelt talks is my favorite :')

#i am really curious though #what spurred the change from 'we'll always be together' to #'we want to be together forever but realistically it might not happen so we should cherish the time we have'#like obviously it had to do w the contract renewal bc they said as much #but i wonder what those obstacles to renewing/staying together are that they mentioned #honestly nothing they said is anything i didnt already know/suspect #like as much as 'forever' is nice it IS a very difficult if not impossible thing to promise #and its also to be expected that renewing a contract isnt as easy as 'we all want to continue'#but its very interesting to hear them all say that explicitly #it sounds like there were or are some outside pressures affecting their contract renewal #and theres no way to know if those pressures came from hybe/plds themselves or smth outside the company #but it all just makes me very curious #at least we know we get svt for another 5 years since they already re-signed #so if anyones worried i wouldnt get too sad yet ^^#but it is something im keeping in the back of my mind for the future #melia.txt

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underwhelmingalchemist · 1 month

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So apparently the version of the "Isn't It Bromantic" interview that gets passed around isn't the full thing

So after seeing a tumblr post I can't find, about two and half hours of intensive internet digging, and one purchase from a sketchy second-hand site later (full story under the cut, I promise it's interesting, but also long), I got the physical magazine and scanned it

So here you go: the full "Isn't It Bromantic?" TV guide interview with Robert Sean Leonard and Hugh Laurie

Feel free to repost wherever you want- I want people to be able to find the full thing

SO, as for how I found it:

I saw this tumblr post forever ago that I can't find anymore because tumblr is just Like That with a cropped screenshot of an interview with Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard. In the interview, they're asked about the "bromance" between their two characters. Leonard makes an annoyed comment about how "everyone [is] obsessed with homosexuality", followed by the interview apologizing and Laurie immediately jumping in with, "No, no, let's talk about it. Wilson and House have an unusual relationship so you have to explore…" and the screenshot cuts off there. Cue funny comment from the OP about the interaction, roll credits.

Except, as these things tend to do, it ended up becoming a bit of a brain worm, and I wanted to find it again. But I couldn't find the tumblr post. I looked absolutely everywhere, and in the process of looking everywhere, I found what I thought was the original interview- a blog post with the full quote from the actor. I didn't think too much about it, I figured it was just a short quote given to a popular blog in 2008. There's a magazine cover above it, but I don't think too much about it, because I'm focusing on the quotes in the article instead of the rest of it.

So I send screenshots to a couple friends to make jokes, and it probably should have died there.

However, late at night I end up thinking about that interview again, because of course I did. I start to think about how it's weirdly formatted for, what I assumed at first reading, was just an entertainment news blog reaching out for comment and getting a response. So I pull up the screenshots of the article (because weirdly enough, the old-ass blog only loads on mobile) and look at it again.

This is when I realize that this isn't an original piece from a blog interviewing these two after reaching out for comment. This is a blog post quoting and commenting on a full interview from a magazine, which I had originally thought had just been the inspiration for the piece.

So naturally, I go looking for the magazine.

Luckily, the name of the magazine is displayed on the cover, and so is the title of its main piece. This should be easy to find, right?

Wrong.

This is an interview in a physical magazine. From 2008. October 13th, 2008, to be exact.

I know this exact date because searching the article title and magazine name leads me to an archive on the TV Guide website.

Of covers.

And nothing but covers.

I spend like forty-five minutes searching everywhere I can think of on the web. Internet Archive, the TV Guide website, any search result that comes up when I search any combination of the words "House" "Interview" "Bromantic" "Bromance" "TV Guide" "Archive" etc. Over and over, all that's coming up are that original blog post and the cover from the official gallery.

The only things I could find online were:

The cover and date of the issue on the TV Guide website

The original blog post that was screenshotted in the original tumblr post

Another blog post that had a much shorter version of the quote, references something Leonard says from later in the article, and makes a comment on the nature of his reaction to the term "bromance"

An entry on Leonard's IMDB page's "interview" list mentioning it in title only

And:

5. A single listing for the issue on what seemed to be a second-hand site that looked like it hadn't had its UI updated since the mid 2000's, with a listing with no date or additional information besides what issue it is.

This is the only listing anywhere. I checked every other second-hand site I could think of, and then some that only came up through google searches. There's not a single listing for that issue on any of them. There were plenty of listings of TV guide magazines, including one that seemed promising because it included issues from that year, but it was missing all of October.

It seemed like the only listing for this issue on the entire internet was this one copy on this one obscure website. For all I know, this was listed in 2008 and abandoned, and just never got marked inactive. It could also be a complete scam.

A few quick google searches show that that website seemed to be legit, albeit a bit loose on quality control (which makes sense, this website seemed like the kind of thing you'd have to use the Way Back Machine to access). It also had an option to pay via PayPal, which meant I could file a chargeback if need be.

It was $11.50 when you include shipping.

So at about half past midnight, I bought the listing.

Naturally, about an hour later, I manage to actually find a scan of the interview. I had to follow a link in the comments of a post on FanPop, taking me to an old wordpress blog, and I'm sitting in front of the damn interview at last.

But something doesn't make sense. Why would their cover story only be two pages of text that aren't even full pages, and why would it cut off so strangely? There was no concluding sentence or paragraph, even though it started with a fairly long lead-in. It also led right up to the edge of the page, which felt like there should be more to it. There were more images in the interview than text, and the fact that there are so many of them and they clearly did a whole photoshoot indicated that they had them on hand for a while. The silly string one, for instance, I imagine probably had to require a couple takes, which means cleaning off Wilson's hair and face, adjusting makeup, etc. for it. Meanwhile, the conversation itself seems like it could have taken ten minutes total. I could have been totally wrong and that was where the article ended, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there might be more.

So I hold tight. A couple days pass with no update, and then the PayPal purchase gets updated with a tracking number. Promising, but it could still be a scam. Whether or not I get the actual magazine becomes a source of anxiety for the next week.

Until today, when I get told it was delivered. And when I opened the envelope it was sent in: there it was.

When I tell you I was happy stimming in my bedroom just holding the damn issue in my own hands... And then opening it and finding out that I was right, there was a missing page... I was elated. I still am, just typing this.

So I spent half an hour getting my scanner to work, and I give you the above issues.

Like I said above, feel free to repost however and wherever you want. I want all this to mean something.

In the meantime, I have two more House-themed TV Guide magazines coming to try and get articles from.

#i am so psyched to have found this you have no idea #house #house md #hatecrimes md #malpractice md #gregory house #james wilson #hugh laurie #robert sean leonard #tv guide #magazine #interview #house interview #isn't it bromantic #hilson

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months

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How the NYPD defeated bodycams

Anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. When American patience for racial profiling in traffic stops reached a breaking point, cops rolled out dashcams. Dashcam footage went AWOL, or just recorded lots of racist, pretextual stops. Racial profiling continued.

Tasers and pepper spray were supposed to curb the undue use of force by giving cops an alternative to shooting dangerous-seeming people. Instead, we got cops who tasered and sprayed unarmed people and then shot them to pieces.

Next came bodycams: by indelibly recording cops' interactions with the public, body-worn cameras were pitched as a way to bring accountability to American law-enforcement. Finally, police leadership would be able to sort officers' claims from eyewitness accounts and figure out who was lying. Bad cops could be disciplined. Repeat offenders could be fired.

Police boosters insist that police violence and corruption are the result of "a few bad apples." As the saying goes, "a few bad apples spoil the bushel." If you think there are just a few bad cops on the force, then you should want to get rid of them before they wreck the whole institution. Bodycams could empirically identify the bad apples, right?

Well, hypothetically. But what if police leadership don't want to get rid of the bad apples? What if the reason that dashcams, tasers, and pepper spray failed is that police leadership are fine with them? If that were the case, then bodycams would turn into just another expensive prop for an off-Broadway accountability theater.

What if?

In "How Police Have Undermined the Promise of Body Cameras," Propublica's Eric Umansky and Umar Farooq deliver a characteristically thorough, deep, and fascinating account of the failure of NYPD bodycams to create the accountability that New York's political and police leadership promised:

https://www.propublica.org/article/how-police-undermined-promise-body-cameras

Topline: NYPD's bodycam rollout was sabotaged by police leadership and top NYC politicians. Rather than turning over bodycam footage to oversight boards following violent incidents, the NYPD suppresses it. When overseers are allowed to see the footage, they get fragmentary access. When those fragments reveal misconduct, they are forbidden to speak of it. When the revealed misconduct is separate from the main incident, it can't be used to discipline officers. When footage is made available to the public, it is selectively edited to omit evidence of misconduct.

NYPD policy contains loopholes that allow them to withhold footage. Where those loopholes don't apply, the NYPD routinely suppresses footage anyway, violating its own policies. When the NYPD violates its policies, it faces no consequences. When overseers complain, they are fired.

Bodycams could be a source of accountability for cops, but for that to be true, control over bodycams would have to vest with institutions that want to improve policing. If control over bodycams is given to institutions that want to shield cops from accountability, that's exactly what will happen. There is nothing about bodycams that makes them more resistant to capture than dashcams, tasers or pepper spray.

This is a problem across multiple police departments. Minneapolis, for example, has policies from before and after the George Floyd uprisings that require bodycam disclosure, and those policies are routinely flouted. Derek Chauvin, George Floyd's murderer, was a repeat offender and had been caught on bodycam kneeling on other Black peoples' necks. Chauvin once clubbed a 14 year old child into unconsciousness and then knelt on his neck for 15 minutes as his mother begged for her child's life. Chauvin faced no discipline for this and the footage was suppressed.

In Montgomery, Alabama, it took five years of hard wrangling to get access to bodycam footage after an officer sicced his attack dog on an unarmed Black man without warning. The dog severed the man's femoral artery and he died. Montgomery PD suppressed the footage, citing the risk of officers facing "embarrassment."

In Memphis, the notoriously racist police department was able to suppress bodycam disclosures until the murder of Tyre Nichols. The behavior of the officers who beat Nichols to death are a testament to their belief in their own impunity. Some officers illegally switched off their cameras; others participated in the beating in full view of the cameras, fearing no consequences.

In South Carolina, the police murder of Walter Scott was captured on a bystander's phone camera. That footage made it clear that Scott's uniformed killers lied, prompting then-governor Nikki Haley to sign a law giving the public access to bodycam footage. But the law contained a glaring loophole: it made bodycam footage "not a public record subject to disclosure." Nothing changed.

Bodycam footage does often reveal that killer cops lie about their actions. When a Cincinnati cop killed a Black man during a 2015 traffic-stop, his bodycam footage revealed that the officer lied about his victim "lunging at him" before he shot. Last summer, a Philadelphia cop was caught lying about the circumstances that led to him murdering a member of the public. Again, the officer claimed the man had "lunged at him." The cop's camera showed the man sitting peacefully in his own car.

Police departments across the country struggle with violent, lying officers, but few can rival the NYPD for corruption, violence, scale and impunity. The NYPD has its own "goon squad," the Strategic Response Group, whose leaked manual reveals how the secret unit spends about $100m/year training and deploying ultraviolent, illegal tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/07/cruelty-by-design/#blam-blam-blam

The NYPD's disciplinary records – published despite a panicked scramble to suppress them – reveal the NYPD's infestation with criminal cops who repeatedly break the law in meting out violence against the public:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/27/ip/#nypd-who

These cops are the proverbial bad apples, and they do indeed spoil the barrel. A 2019 empirical analysis of police disciplinary records show that corruption is contagious: when crooked cops are paired with partners who have clean disciplinary records, those partners become crooked, too, and the effect lasts even after the partnership ends:

https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/full/10.1177/2378023119879798

Despite the risk of harboring criminals in police ranks, the NYPD goes to extreme lengths to keep its worst officers on the street. New York City's police "union"'s deal with the city requires NYC to divert millions to a (once) secret slushfund used to pay high-priced lawyers to defend cops whose conduct is so egregious that the city's own attorneys refuse to defend them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/26/overfitness-factor/#heads-you-lose-tails-they-win

This is a good place for your periodic reminder that police unions are not unions:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/28/afterland/#selective-solidarity

Indeed, despite rhetoric to the contrary, policing is a relatively safe occupation, with death rates well below the risks to roofers, loggers, or pizza delivery drivers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/27/extraordinary-popular-delusions/#onshore-havana-syndrome

The biggest risk to police officers – the single factor that significantly increased death rates among cops – is police unions themselves. Police unions successfully pressured cities across American to reject covid risk mitigation, from masking to vaccinations, leading to a wave of police deaths. "Suicide by cop" is very rare, but US officers committed "mass suicide by cop union":

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/10/12/us/police-covid-vaccines.html

But the story that policing is much more dangerous than it really is a useful one. It has a business-model. Military contractors who turn local Barney Fifes into Judge Dredd cosplayers with assault rifles, tanks and other "excess" military gear make billions from the tale:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/10/flintstone-delano-roosevelt/#1033-1022

It's not just beltway bandits who love this story. For cops to be shielded from consequences for murdering the public, they need to tell themselves and the rest of us that they are a "thin blue line," and not mere armed bureaucrats. The myth that cops are in constant danger from the public justifies hair-trigger killings.

Consider the use of "civilian" to describe the public. Police are civilians. The only kind of police officer who isn't a civilian is a military policeman. Places where "civilians" interact with non-civilian law enforcement are, by definition, under military occupation. Calling the public "civilians" is a cheap rhetorical trick that converts a police officer to a patrolling soldier in hostile territory. Calling us "civilians" justifies killing us, because if we're civilians, then they are soldiers and we are at war.

The NYPD clearly conceives of itself as an occupying force and considers its "civilian" oversight to be the enemy. When New York's Civilian Complaint Review Board gained independence in 1993, thousands of off-duty cops joined Rudy Giuliani in a mass protest at City Hall and an occupation of the Brooklyn Bridge. This mass freakout is a measure of police intolerance for oversight – after all, the CCRB isn't even allowed to discipline officers, only make (routinely ignored) recommendations.

Kerry Sweet was the NYPD lawyer who oversaw the department's bodycam rollout. He once joked that the NYPD missed a chance to "bomb the room" where the NYPD's CCRB was meeting (when Propublica asked him to confirm this, he said he couldn't remember those remarks, but "on reflection, it should have been an airstrike").

Obvious defects in the NYPD's bodycam policy go beyond the ability to suppress disclosure of the footage. The department has no official tracking system for its bodycam files. They aren't geotagged, only marked by officer badge-number and name. So if a member of the public comes forward to complain that an unknown officer committed a crime at a specific place and time, there's no way to retrieve that footage. Even where footage can be found, the NYPD often hides the ball: in 20% of cases where the Department told the CCRB footage didn't exist, they were lying.

Figuring out how to make bodycam footage work better is complex, but there are some obvious first steps. Other cities have no problem geotagging their footage. In Chicago, the CCRB can directly access the servers where bodycam footage is stored (when the NYPD CCRB members proposed this, they were fired).

Meanwhile, the NYPD keeps protecting its killers. The Propublica story opens with the police killing of Miguel Richards. Richards' parents hadn't heard from him in a while, so they asked his Bronx landlord to check on him (the Richards live in Jamaica). The landlord called the cops. The cops killed Richards.

The cops claimed he had a gun and they were acting in self-defense. They released a highly edited reel of bodycam footage to support that claim. When the full video was eventually extracted, it revealed that Richards had a tiny plastic toy guy and a small folding knife. The officers involved believed he was suffering an acute mental health incident and stated that policy demanded that they close his bedroom door and wait for specialists. Instead, they barked orders at him and then fired 16 rounds at him. Seven hit him. One ruptured his aorta. As he lay dying on his bedroom floor, one officer roughly tossed him around and cuffed him. He died.

New York's Police Benevolent Association – the largest police "union" in NYC – awarded the officers involved its "Finest of the Finest" prize for their conduct in the killing.

This isn't an isolated incident. A month after the NYPD decided not to punish the cops who killed Richards, NYPD officers murdered Kawaski Trawick in his Bronx apartment:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/04/kawaski-trawick/#Kawaski-Trawick

The officers lied about it, suppressed release of the bodycam footage that would reveal their lies, and then escaped any justice when the footage and the lies were revealed.

None of this means that bodycams are useless. It just means that bodycams will only help bring accountability to police forces when they are directed by parties who have the will and power to make the police accountable.

When police leaders and city governments support police corruption, adding bodycams won't change that fact.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/13/i-want-a-roof-over-my-head/#and-bread-on-the-table

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Tony Webster, modified https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Minneapolis_Police_Officer_Body_Camera_%2848968390892%29.jpg

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#pluralistic #impunity #ccrb #nypd #abolish the police #acab #police #corruption #bodycams #body-worn cameras #propublica

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erwinsvow · 1 month

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drunk rafe nd shy!reader talking when he starts telling her all about his dark twisted plans of marrying her and getting her pregnant, that she’s going to be his forever. <3

"you need to sleep, rafey," you hum, trying to keep your boyfriend upright while you get him inside tannyhill.

topper had been sweet enough to drop the two of you off before heading home, knowing that you would have trouble driving rafe's truck. you had to remember to thank him tomorrow, maybe bake him some brownies, since you remembered those were his favorite last time you made them.

"wha' i need is you-" he slurs back, and you giggle. rafe never gets drunk like this, and he's usually always composed. the extra shots at the end did him in—the boys were celebrating something that didn't make much sense to you.

"what you need is an advil and some water. and greasy food tomorrow morning, don't worry, i'll make some for you."

"i know y'will." you try to sneak in, remaining as quiet as you can while you guide rafe up the stairs. you're sure everyone's asleep and though rafe's family seemed to really like you, you don't want to make a bad impression. rafe's being loud, and you pray no one wakes up while you get him into his bedroom.

finally finishing the journey up the staircase, rafe gets on his bed, struggling to untie his laces. you can't help your smile, the laugh spilling out. you never get to see him like this.

you hurry over, dropping down and taking the laces into your hands, untying them quickly. rafe kicks off his shoes and sits up on the bed, opening his arms to you. you know you should go and find the bottle of advil, but you can't resist, crawling into his lap and steadying yourself by holding onto his arms. he looks right into your eyes, something that always makes your face burn.

"you're a real good girl, y'know that?" rafe says, words a little less slurred. you smile and nod gently, at a loss for words. rafe's hand comes up to touch your jawline, holding you there a little tightly, but not painful at all. "really. mean it. you're so perfect."

"rafe-" you protest quietly, entire body flushing with a wave of heat. you're used to all kinds of praise for him, it's really commonplace for the two of you, but this feels different—feels more intimate, maybe because you know he's in the state of mind that makes you say everything you're thinking.

"no, i mean it. you're perfect for me. you always listen, always do what i say. how'd you get like that, hm?"

"i don't know," you mumble. he's drunk, so you think he won't remember. "you bring it out in me."

"good. you're so good." you smile, resting your head against his shoulder, eyes shutting while you inhale his scent. "m'gonna marry you as soon as i fuckin' can." your eyes shoot open, a laugh bubbling to the surface.

"rafe-"

"no, really. maybe i should knock you up now, make sure no one gives us any problems."

you pick your head up, looking back at your boyfriend. he seems to be in his own world, lost in his thoughts.

"that sounds good. knock you up and then marry you, and then it'll jus' be me you and the kids forever. that's right. perfect. gotta get on that." you listen with wide eyes and parted lips. even in his drunken state, he wonders if he scared you this time.

"promise?"

#is this the best prompt ive ever received?? yes #i love you #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #shy reader

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writing-fanics · 3 months

Text

Nothing lasts forever

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

[warning: cheating: angst: panic attack: implied death]

‘More than anything music box’

As you stood there, your heart felt as though it had stopped beating at that very moment. Your breathing started to slow down as your smile faltered and transformed into a frown. A look of profound sadness and sorrow took over your face as you gazed at the scene before you.

Your eyes were fixed on Lucifer, one of the most beautiful angels in all of Heaven, the one you had opened your heart up to and shared your deepest feelings with.

But now, you were witnessing him cheating on you with Lilith, the first woman and Adam's wife. The pain you felt was almost unbearable, as you watched the love of your life betray your trust and shatter your heart into a million pieces.

You could feel your throat closing as your breathing quickened. You felt sick to your stomach as if someone had punched you in the gut. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to scream. To cry, to disappear from existence. You couldn’t believe he’d do such a thing to you, were you not enough?

Were you not as beautiful as she is? Were you too clingy? To annoying? Why did he betray you and your trust?

He promised to always be by your side when you needed him, to always catch you when you fall. To be your shoulder to cry on. To never break your trust.

But here he was breaking that very promise and trust, leaving you feeling empty and hollow. The two of you were made for each other, and with the scene unfolding before you. Made you think otherwise.

“I love you, Lilith,” whispered Lucifer, as he stared at Lilith in awe kissing her on the lips.

Your whole world shattered as your back hit the tree, and you slid down onto the ground. Placing your hand over your mouth, muffling your wails. You couldn’t breathe and felt the world closing in on you. You were nothing to him. You sniffled quietly placing your head into your hands, and wept as you swiftly flew away.

You fell into a heap on the floor of your house, sobbing as you curled up into a ball. You saw everything and what you saw would forever be engraved into your memory, you’ll never get it out of your head. Seeing them like that, him like that with another woman. Made your stomach turn, how could he do such a thing to you?

“W- Was I not enough?” You whimpered, as you lay in the fetal position. Your face is red and puffy cheeks stained with tears, your heart aching and unbearable pain. You knew he felt what you were going through at this moment, and couldn’t care less to comfort you. Your love was bound and could feel each other's emotions when they became severe, and you knew for a fact he could feel it.

But didn’t care enough to comfort you. He was having too much fun with Lilith, doing things that he should only be doing to you his lover.

You thought he would never do such a thing to you. Never betray you and break your heart, and here he was ripping it right out of your throat. If he had noticed you would he have stopped? Would he have kept going? Taunting you, teasing you, on an act he’d never done to you. Such an act he’ll never do to you now.

You thought your relationship was good perfect even. Yes, you had the occasional fight but would always end up back in each other’s arms, holding each other lovingly. Feeling safe and secure in each other's warm embrace.

“I'm so sorry, my dear duckling," he whispered, pulling you close and showering your shoulder with gentle kisses. "Please know that I understand how you feel.”

"I forgive you, Luci," you said, enveloping him in a warm embrace and smiling through your tears as he held you. He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead and whispered comforting words in your ear, promising to make things right.

You banged your fist against the cold ground; gripping at the fabric of your clothes, as you cried. The tears didn’t seem to stop and wouldn’t anytime soon. You couldn’t breathe, the room around you started to spin. You felt dizzy and nauseous, feeling bile rising in your throat causing you to gag. You swallowed and gripped the side of your head.

You tossed it to the ground, screaming and crying in anger and frustration. “HOW COULD HE DO THIS TO ME!” You shouted, trashing everything that reminded you of him. You couldn’t stop crying, the things this man did to you. How he made you smile and laugh, how he made you fall head over heels.

You wanted to disappear and fade back into dust, your original form. To not be forced to live with this pain for all eternity, knowing that even after this you’d still love him. He’d come back and apologize slowly making up for it but…..

You stood there with the other angels, his siblings trying their best to comfort you. As you watched him be banished from Heaven, cast down with his new lover. Leaving you there alone in Heaven, with no shoulder to cry on.

You found yourself standing amidst a group of angels, feeling a sense of unease and trying hard to keep yourself composed. As you looked ahead, you noticed him standing before Lilith, his wings stretched out protectively, shielding her from any harm. The sight of him being so close to Lilith made your heart ache with a mixture of emotions.

You couldn't help but wonder if you were so unpleasant to look at that he couldn't even spare a glance in your direction. The whole situation left you feeling conflicted, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy towards Lilith, who seemed to have his undivided attention.

As you stood there looking at him, you noticed that his gaze had shifted to meet yours. It was then that you saw a hint of remorse in his eyes, and you couldn't help but feel a wave of sadness wash over you. In that moment, a single tear trickled down his cheek, and you averted your eyes, unable to bear the intensity of the situation.

As you looked away from him, he noticed the tears that had welled up in your own eyes, and the hollow, defeated expression etched on your face. It was a moment of deep emotional turmoil for both of you, and the silence that hung between you was almost suffocating.

“Nothing lasts forever,” Azrael said, as he placed his hand on your shoulder squeezing it gently in reasurrance.

You shook your head and stepped outside of the courtroom, stopping at the stairs. You reached around your neck taking off the necklace, Lucifer had given you years ago.

You stared at it for a moment, opening it. A soft melody played, tears trickled down her cheeks as whisps of yellow magic swirled, around the locket music box. A duck swam in a pond while a swan, swam up next to it nuzzling their heads into each other.

As she witnessed the heartwarming scene unfolding before her, she couldn't help but let out a choked sob. A tearful smile graced her face as she watched the duck and the swan gradually transform into Lucifer and You, respectively. The two characters held each other closely, their embrace exuding a sense of comfort and security.

Lucifer, still holding onto You, took to the skies, flying around with exuberance. His laughter filled the air, and his smile was contagious. You, too, shared in his joy, reveling in the moment with him.

As they soared through the clouds, a vivid memory of their first kiss flashed before your eyes. You remembered how you had wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, and he had held you close to him. The moment had been magical, and it was a memory that you cherished deeply.

You smiled, closing the locket as a gust of wind blew the magic away, and you along with it, returning back to your original form to dust.

A/n: idk what I just created there’s no part ii for this unless y’all beg me for it but idk still]

Taglist

@froggybich

#lucifer morningstar x reader #Lucfier x reader #x reader #fanfic #angst #romance #headcanons #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin lucifer #lucifer magne #hazbin hotel lucifer x reader

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yeyinde · 3 months

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when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog. Of course he's going to take a bite. He thinks you ought to have known this by now.

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His.

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts.

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him.

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain.

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it.

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious.

This is, and always has been, about yearning.

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go.

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity.

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it?

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either.

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool.

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way.

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm.

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners.

The rest, though? Spare parts.

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible.

It's why he isn't married.

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface.

But the real reason is because he knows better.

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all.

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes.

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face.

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child.

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy.

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge.

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction.

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet.

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head.

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber.

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you?

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating.

He let it. Encouraged it.

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you.

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment.

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead.

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth.

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you?

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?”

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.”��

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?”

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement.

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps.

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape.

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants.

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills.

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled.

The little seed that started germinating blooms.

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black.

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being.

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance.

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy.

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two.

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.”

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.”

You smell it, and shiver.

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite.

And so, of course he does.

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up.

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy.

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips.

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title.

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander.

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills.

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing.

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him.

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection.

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct.

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs.

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants.

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind.

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you.

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash.

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white.

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped.

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed.

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath).

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in.

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat.

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood.

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective.

Seven pills in a row.

He files it away, lost in thought.

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath.

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper.

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down.

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.”

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish.

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether.

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off.

That, too, he files away.

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion.

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him.

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it.

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too.

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn.

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression.

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs.

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you.

That's all for him.

(Nasty old bastard.)

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him.

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it.

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't.

And that simply won't do.

So, he plots. Plans.

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it.

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No.

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way.

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up.

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb.

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through.

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.”

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty.

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb.

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence.

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust.

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent.

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue.

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick.

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after.

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease.

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape.

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace.

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.”

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed.

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot.

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed.

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin.

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.”

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep.

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill.

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.”

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.”

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat.

“Could stop taking it.”

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud.

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins.

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang.

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike.

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world.

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead.

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is.

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in.

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts.

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum.

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments.

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans.

He decides on a different route to the same end.

Damnation at your own hand.

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face.

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this.

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up.

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip.

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.”

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste.

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper.

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea.

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim.

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle.

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him.

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image.

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart.

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle.

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear.

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside.

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it.

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you.

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below.

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it.

The push-pull of this little game stretches on.

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual.

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—).

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing.

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all.

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break.

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar.

John notes it down. Tucks it away.

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it.

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now.

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic.

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?”

It's a tease. A test.

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him.

This will be your cacoëthes.

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this.

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining.

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour.

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat.

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess.

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb.

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper.

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart.

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick.

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for.

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing.

He can't wait to ruin it.

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs.

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new.

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it.

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt.

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls.

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it.

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent.

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva.

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation.

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh.

He tastes salt and sin on your skin.

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.”

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds.

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart.

Like this, though—you melt.

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock.

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it.

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more.

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last.

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down.

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape.

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you.

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat.

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout.

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone.

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead.

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach.

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape.

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.”

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk.

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does.

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more.

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat.

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound.

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs.

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.”

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing.

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today?

He just needs to wait things out.

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week.

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time.

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home.

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home.

His bones ache for it.

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan.

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual.

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.”

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop.

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff.

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this.

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown.

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet.

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank.

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call.

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him.

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in.

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you.

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie.

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank.

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used.

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars.

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next.

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt.

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew.

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks.

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular.

—a pregnancy test.

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning.

A pregnancy test.

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing.

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?”

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt.

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured.

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything.

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.”

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.”

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin.

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.”

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.”

Lucky him, indeed.

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog.

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.”

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't?

Oh, fuck—

You better not be.

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel.

This is happening, then.

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack.

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts.

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue.

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart.

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place.

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear.

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need.

Until it becomes too much.

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.”

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more.

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned.

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.”

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise.

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat.

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take.

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins.

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play.

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.”

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.”

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart.

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated.

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away.

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill.

#this was supposed to be posted earlier but i was too busy watching dead meat #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #this was a) not thought out and b) def not edited #Unhinged John Price is my roman empire #call of duty fics #cod fics #captain john price smut

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leaderwonim · 3 months

Text

✴︎ THE MONSTER’s GONE, HE’S ON THE RUN, AND YOUR BOYFRIEND’s HERE.

pairing. lee heeseung x fem!reader

genre. established relationship, zombie apocalypse au, ANGST, fluff then and there, high sch!au (they’re seniors), mentions of dying and being bitten

synopsis. when it comes down to it, will lee heeseung protect you like he had promised in the beginning of your relationship?

author’s note. This one is a long one and I lwk felt my heart being ripped apart as I finished the ending 🙁 the scene where he sings to her is based off of the scene from “Beautiful Boy” where Nick’s father sings to him. I kind of envisioned Y/n and Heeseung as Cheongsan and On-jo so do whatever you want with this information!

Lee Heeseung was the perfect boyfriend. He was athletic, tall, and most importantly of all, loving. He wasn’t afraid to show you how much he cared about your relationship.

Being the captain of the hockey team came with a lot of perks. For one, no one was able to yell at him for always giving oogly eyes at you during practice, and no one dared say a word when Heeseung would stop in the middle of his laps to talk to you.

“It’s pretty cold, isn’t it?” Ha Kyungmi, the girlfriend of your cousin and Heeseung’s friend, Sunghoon, perched herself right next to you in the stands.

“Heeseung gave me his jersey.”

Kyungmi smirks, letting her hands feel the material of the jersey you have on. “You lucky bitch!” She says, making you giggle. “Heeseung’s never lent someone his jersey before, that’s how you know he’s serious.”

“That’s good to know,” your eyes look back into the ice, seeing your boyfriend and Sunghoon competing to see who was the fastest.

“You hear that breakout that’s been happening in Busan?” Kyungmi digs in her sweater pockets, pulling out her phone. “It’s reaching Seoul. My mom told me about it yesterday.”

You read over the article that Kyungmi shows you on her phone, something about a deadly outbreak that’s been contaminating the people of Korea. It had started in Busan, and it was making its way to Seoul now.

“Hey!” The voice of your boyfriend makes you snap out of your daze. Heeseung makes his way towards you along with Sunghoon, pulling off their skates as they tossed it against the wall.

“You look pretty,” Heeseung leans in to give your cheek a sloppy kiss, one that has Sunghoon pretending to gag at. “What are you gagging at Hoon? As if that’s not you and your girlfriend all the time.”

Sunghoon raises his hand in mock surrender, interlocking his hand with Kyungmi. “It’s weird seeing you kiss my cousin dude!” He says. “We’re gonna go to the cafeteria if you guys want to meet us there later.”

You glance at your phone, realizing there was only 15 minutes of lunch left.

“Sure, we’ll meet you there man.” Heeseung gives Sunghoon a pat on the back before intertwining his hand with yours, pulling you closer to him despite already being in close proximity.”

“Were you cold?” He asks, concerned bambi eyes making you bite your lip.

“No I wasn’t Seungie.” You lean your head on his shoulder, his thumb rubbing your fingers as the two of you stayed in silence for a bit. “We should probably meet with Sunghoon and Kyungmi before lunch ends.”

“Yeah.” The two of you stand up, making your way out of the ice rink. Thankfully for your growling stomach, your school’s cafeteria was only a few meters away.

“There they are!” Kyungmi waves the two of you over, “I told you buying 2 extra sandwiches was a good idea!”

“Okay okay, sorry baby.” Sunghoon says. “Took you guys forever.”

“It was 5 minutes Hoon,” Heeseung rolls his eyes, thanking Kyungmi as she passed you two your sandwiches. “I really don’t want to go to Ms. Jung’s class. She’ll be the death of me.”

Suddenly, there’s a scream, one that is so horrid that it makes your boyfriend drop the glass cup of orange juice he was holding.

“What’s happening?!” Heeseung says, standing up immediately. He wraps his arm around your waist, eyes widening when he sees students panicking all around.

“Quick, Mr. Jeon’s class is nearby!” Sunghoon pulls the three of you towards a classroom. Inside was about 10 other students, whom of which looked like they were on high alert.

“Yah,” one of the guys said, suddenly standing up. You recognize him as Yoo Hanbin, one of your classmates from biology during your tenth year. “Are you guys bitten? Show us your neck and arms.”

“Bitten?” Heeseung scoffs, pulling you closer to him.

“They don’t know what’s happening Hanbin.” One of his friends says calmly. “They’re probably just scared like us. Close the door, hurry.”

Hanbin snarls, but he obliges. He ushers the four of you in, closing the door in a rush. He then places the teacher’s large wooden desk against it with the help of the other students.

“What’s going on?” Kyungmi asks, flinching when a sudden bang comes from the door.

“Quick! Move more desks!” Despite not knowing what the hell was happening, you helped Hanbin and the others place all the desks against Mr. Jeon’s room.

“There’s an apocalypse,” Hanbin’s friend answers after you all catch your breath. “Haruto.” He introduces himself after.

“Apocalypse?” Heeseung’s grip on your hand is suddenly tighter. “What? You mean like a zombie apocalypse Haruto?”

“I didn’t believe it either,” Hanbin slides his body down against the wall tiredly, lifting up his sleeves to show you his arm. “At first.”

It was bloody and looked like it hurt badly.

“I was in the piano room when it happened. Seolhee’s cries were all I could hear before I heard them. Their growls.” Hanbin shakes his head, looking down at the ground. “I tried saving her—but I couldn’t. One of them tried to bite me before I slashed them across the face with the piano chair. I ran so fast that I fell on the way to Mr. Jeon’s room, that’s where the cut came from.”

You can’t help but send the poor boy a look of pity, feeling overwhelmed by the sudden information.

“Is this about the outbreak?” Kyungmi suddenly speaks up. “The one we read about, remember Y/N? Is it the one from Busan causing all of this?”

Haruto solemnly nods, and that’s enough for you to let out a small cry.

Heeseung wraps his arms around you, letting you bury your head into his chest. “Sh, it’s alright.”

But it wasn’t.

You and Heeseung huddle up together against one of the corners of the room alongside Kyungmi and Sunghoon, trying to generate as much heat as possible.

With the whole city in ruins by now, you knew electricity would be gone soon, you just hoped it would be gone in the morning instead of night.

“We’re almost out of water.” Haruto says, getting up suddenly. One of the girls, who you recognize as Ryujin gets up with him.

If you weren’t stuck in a zombie apocalypse, you would’ve gushed over how much they complimented one another. Ryujin was the star tennis player who looked like she hated everybody, but the way she looks at Haruto showed that she more than tolerated him.

“You seriously aren’t thinking..?” Ryujin pulls Haruto back by his arm. “You can’t go by yourself to get water!”

“I’ll go with him.”

For all the years you’ve known Sunghoon, he’s never been as brave as he was now. You could tell Kyungmi was scared out of her mind, grabbing onto his hand as her lips quivered.

“It’s too dangerous! We’ll live without water for now!”

“Don’t be ridiculous baby,” Sunghoon gives her a comforting glance. “Me and Haruto will go, we’ll come back soon.”

“If he’s going, I’m going too.” The emotions Ha Kyungmi felt earlier now transferred to you. You shake your head, not letting Lee Heeseung’s hand fall from yours. “Y/N, please. Sunghoon’s my best friend, I have to.”

But I’m your girlfriend, you wanted to say.

As much as it hurt you, you knew you had to let Heeseung go. The risks were high, but you knew the rest of your classmates were thirsty to death and needed water as soon as possible. You couldn’t be selfish and beg your boyfriend to stay in front of all of them.

“Be safe.” You say, standing up to cup Heeseung’s face. “Please. Protect yourself first.”

He nods, wiping away the tears that escaped your eyes.

“Promise me, Heeseung.” You whisper.

“I promise.”

You let go of Heeseung reluctantly, watching as him, Sunghoon, and Haruto all slowly push aside the desks, opening the door as slowly as possible.

The growls were less prominent than they were a few hours earlier. You didn’t even want to look through the window to see how many zombies were downstairs at your school’s entrance.

As soon as they’re gone, a boy comes and sits himself right next to Kyungmi and you, giving a small smile.

“You okay Kyung?”

You find it weird how close he’s being with Kyungmi, and even weirder that he waited till Sunghoon had left.

“I’m fine Eunwoo,” Kyungmi replies, slouching against the wall. “Are you okay?”

You turn your head back around, not wanting to eavesdrop on your friend. You prayed and prayed that Heeseung would be kept safe when he was going to get water. You knew where the boys were going—Mrs Ahn’s room. She was the only teacher who kept giant packs of water bottles in her class for students who were thirsty. You hoped Mrs. Ahn was still alive.

“They’re going to Mrs. Ahn, aren’t they?” Ryujin asks, sitting herself next to you.

“They are.” You turn to make eye contact with her, surprised to see a purple bruise near her eye. “What happened to you?”

“Zombies.” She grins, although she knows it’s no time for jokes. “I only made a fuss earlier because Haruto was the one who saved me. Despite being quiet, he really knows how to fight off zombies.”

“Hey,” you get closer to her, almost whispering now. “What do you know about Eunwoo over there?”

Ryujin raises her eyebrows, placing her sight on Eunwoo who was talking to Kyungmi up close. “Has had a crush on Ha Kyungmi for over a year now. I see them sometimes.”

Your eyebrows furrow, not expecting such a response. Before you could say anything back, Heeseung and Haruto quickly rush into the room, slamming the desks back onto the door.

“Seungie?” You and Ryujin rush over to help them. They had 2 packs of waters in their hands, letting it drop on the ground along with their knees as they tried to catch their breath.

“I—I—” Heeseung seems choked up, his eyes teary and red. “I tried to help him—I really did.”

Your jaw practically drops knowing full well what Heeseung was implying. Park Sunghoon was nowhere to be found, not behind him, not behind Haruto.

“They came so quickly, we panicked and we just ran and I—” Haruto is unable to finish his sentence when you let out a scream, your body scumming to the floor.

“My cousin’s dead?” You sob out, clutching onto Heeseung’s bloody blazer when he comes down to hug you.

“I can’t believe it,” Kyungmi’s mouth goes dry and she turns over to hug Eunwoo, who rubs her back comfortingly.

You’re too distraught to even question why she was in another guy’s arms right after your cousin, her own boyfriend, just died.

“I’m sorry,” Heeseung repeats over and over again, letting you cry into his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” you sniffle. “Tell me he died a quick death. Tell me it wasn’t painful for him Hee.”

“He fell out the window,” Heeseung says, a few tears escape his eyes. “They backed us up into a wall and Sunghoon fell out an open window. We heard a loud slam and when we looked, he was already dead.”

You sob even louder, making Heeseung’s hold on you tighten.

When you finally catch your breath and pull away, you notice how Heeseung has scratches all over his face.

“Oh Seung,” you say, tracing your fingers over them. “It must really hurt.”

“It feels fine when I’m with you.”

The both of you lean against the cushion that’s propped against the bookshelf in Mr. Jeon’s room, your head laying against Heeseung’s shoulder as you both hold each other’s hands tightly. You felt like Heeseung would disappear if your grip loosened.

“Your lip,” Heeseung suddenly says, letting his index finger touch your lips, which were chapped and bleeding.

“It’s fine,” you brush him off, but he shakes his head, reaching into his pocket for something.

“Here, I have your chapstick.” He pulls out your strawberry flavored chapstick, the one that you always bought before the apocalypse had happened.

“Where’d you get this?” You breathe out.

“I always keep a spare one in my pockets because I know you,” Heeseung smiles down at his lap. “I knew it would come in handy.”

Your eyes softened at his words, one hand coming to hold his chin as you lean in to give him a long kiss.

“Thank you Seungie,” you say as you pulled away. “For everything.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You suddenly jolt up from your sleep, face covered in cold sweat.

“Hey, hey, everything’s okay.” Heeseung whispers to you.

You take in your surroundings, making out Hanbin and Haruto’s figures guarding the doors and the rest of the students in the class asleep.

You had your head on Heeseung’s lap, your body sprawled along the cold tiled floor of Mr. Jeon’s class.

“How long have I been out?” You ask groggily, trying to squint at the dark clock on the wall.

“Just two hours.” Heeseung sighs. “The growling stopped for a bit. It’s eleven now. You should sleep more.”

You shake your head, disagreeing. “No Seung, you should sleep. I could watch over for a bit with Hanbin and Haruto.”

Heeseung bites his lip, almost as if he was really debating whether or not he should be sleeping right now.

“Seung, please. You need your energy.”

Heeseung agrees hesitantly, letting you switch places so now his head was on your lap.

“Goodnight Hee.” You say, placing a tender kiss on his forehead.

He smiles back at you, closing his eyes as he let sleep consume him.

Your eyes search around the room, focusing on Kyungmi and Eunwoo sleeping on one another.

Before you were too distraught to care about them two, but now that everything was calm, you really took in the situation.

Ryujin’s words rang in your ear like a mantra. Eunwoo liked Kyungmi for over a year now.

Does that mean.. ?

No, it couldn’t. You knew Ha Kyungmi. She was a sweet girl to you for the most part, she wouldn’t do that to your cousin.

Would she?

“They’re here.” You hear Hanbin whispering. His voice was filled with dread and fear, and your worst suspicions were true.

The zombies had reached your classroom.

“EVERYBODY! UP!” Haruto yells, clumsily turning on the small light that was still working in the room. “WE HAVE TO MOVE! QUICK!”

Heeseung wakes up with a grunt, his arms automatically reaching for your waist as if it was a natural reflex.

“They’re here?” He asks, squinting a bit at the bright light.

“Yes, let’s wake the others.”

You two start tapping your classmates awake.

“There’s a window we can climb out of.” Hanbin points at the window that was half covered by the cushion you and Heeseung had laid on earlier. “It’s not a big drop so we’ll survive it. It’s our only escape.”

Your classmates all start talking at once, some unsure of Hanbin’s plan.

“We don’t have much time!” Ryujin exclaims. “Quick! Climb out!”

A few of your classmates help each other get out of the window carefully, cheering silently when it works successfully.

“I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to hold them off.” Haruto says, the desks being pushed out by the bangs of the zombies on the door.

“Kyungmi! Let’s go!” Eunwoo grabs the girl’s hand, pulling her towards the window.

“Eunwoo—but—Y/N?!” She turns to face you, who was currently helping the boys hold the door against the zombies. “Y/N!”

“Just go Kyungmi!” You yell, watching as Eunwoo helps her get out first.

“We’re going to have to let go and make a swift run for it,” Hanbin says to the three of you. “A broken arm or leg will be better than dying at the hands of these creatures.”

Haruto closes his eyes, nodding slowly at his friend’s words. “On a count of three.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

The four of you let go, the zombies automatically piling into the room as soon as you do.

Haruto and Hanbin are quick, climbing out and jumping onto the ground in a swift second.

“Cmon Heeseung! Y/N!”

Heeseung climbs out first, foot barely making it out the window before one of the zombies have got you.

“Y/N!” He screams, hands gripping onto the window as he tries to reach for you.

“Heeseung! It’s not worth it!” Kyungmi shouts, “they’ve already got her, she’s gonna die anyway, it’s not worth it.”

Heeseung’s vision goes red at this. “I don’t fucking care Kyungmi! Unlike you, I actually love my girlfriend to death and would do anything for her!”

His words have her cowering in embarrassment, Eunwoo wrapping a protective arm around her.

“Yah you fucker!” Eunwoo yells. “You want to be with your girlfriend so badly? Then die!”

He and Kyungmi run off to find shelter, the only two who were left were Hanbin and Haruto.

They were silently begging Heeseung to drop it with their eyes, telling them that it wasn’t worth it.

“Cmon Heeseung man,” Haruto says croakily. “You’ll die.”

“Then I’ll die with her.” Heeseung whispers. He watches as one of the zombies bite you, making you scream out in pain.

The zombies all make their way to another classroom when they realize you’re the only one, and since you’ve already been bitten, you were no longer desirable to them.

Despite knowing he would most likely die if he did it, Heeseung climbs back into the room, pulling you into his arms as he did many times before.

“Hey, hey.” He chokes up as he pulls you closer. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s—okay.” You reassure him, eyes slowly turning red as your twitching hands come up to touch his jaw. “Will you sing to me Heeseung?”

You had always joked before that Heeseung would become a famous singer in the future, his beautiful voice entrancing you whenever he’d sing or hum a song.

“Of course.” He gulps, eyes becoming blurry from the tears as each second pasts.

“The monster’s gone, he’s on the run, and your boyfriend’s here.” Heeseung’s lips tremble, unable to hold in his emotions any longer. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful girl.”

He holds you in his arms despite your twitching body, knowing any second you would turn into one of them. He watches as the light from your eyes disappear, and your skin turns green and veiny.

Lee Heeseung doesn’t cry a lot. He believed that crying wasn’t going to fix anything.

But as he watched the Y/N he loved disappear from his arms despite being physically there, he sobs and sobs. Despite knowing it won’t do anything, he pulls your body onto his, hands on the back of your head as he begs the world to silently bring you back.

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coolyiooo · 9 months

Text

BSD Men Begging/ Desperate To F*ck You

Pairings: Dazai, Ranpo, Fyodor, Atsushi, and Chuuya

❗Warnings❗: biting, SMUT, MDNI, moaning, ,degrading, praise, public, quickie, groaning, whimpering, choking, over stimulation, begging, crying, masturbating, breeding kink, blowjob, etc

🖤DAZAI🖤

It was lunch time at the ADA. You and Dazai had the whole office to yourselves and right when everyone left, Dazai almost instantly threw himself on you.

The whole day all he could think about was you and nothing else. He's never felt this desperate and he doesn't know why, but all he knows is that he has to be inside you.

Without even greeting you with a hi, hello, how are you. He picked you up, laid you on your desk, kissing your neck and grinding his hips against you.

Startled, you asked " 'Samu what are you doing? We're still at work! Can't you wait till we get home?"

He bit your neck, making you yelp " I can't wait. I need you right here and now, Bella. All I've been thinking about is making you mine. Please I'll be quick, I promise" he begged while unbuttoning your shirt

You weren't sure if you should do it in the office where anybody could walk in at anytime, but you've never heard him beg like this nor be so desperate, it was making you flustered.

"F-fine, but you better be quick" He immediately unbutton his pants and slid your pants off, getting straight to the point.

He slid his fingers inside you fast, getting you ready to be stretched out by him. You moaned in surprise, and held him tightly from his fast fingers.

In a few minutes when he knew you were ready, he plunged his cock inside you, Both of you moaning.

He was shuddering from the warm feeling. He's been waiting for what seems like forever. Right away he thrusted into you at a fast pace, rocking the desk against the other desk loudly.

He was whimpering and moaning more than usual. He held onto your hips more tightly than ever, like you were gonna leave any second. He could feel himself already reaching his release, he really was so desperate for you.

"Mph- Mmn~ so good ah~! So fucking good~! Your so tight ah~ 'm gonna cum already~!"His eyes were shut tight and his eyebrows furrowed.

He would look like he was in pain if he wasn't moaning and whimpering so much. A bit of Drool was coming from the side of his mouth

When he opened his eyes, they looked like he's in heaven, like he's seeing stars. He looks down to where your both connected.

He can see his cock being drenched in your fluids and how your cunt consumes his shaft so hungrily. You could feel him throbbing inside you aggressively.

His head falls all the way back with his eyes closed "Yes~ I'm gonna cum! fuck, I've been waiting for this~ please, can I cum inside? Mmn~! I have to please, Bella~"

How could you say no when he's begging to you in whimpers? "Yes mmn~! cum inside me~" you moaned, clenching your hands on his shoulders.

He goes in and out of you at a desperate, sloppy pace. He really feels how your warm, wet pussy strokes his cock so perfectly.

He finds himself at his limit and shoots his hot cum deep inside your quivering cunt. Moaning so loudly as if he was screaming, forgetting that you were at a public place. Seeing him so desperate and pathetic made you cum with him.

Both of you twitching aggressively and being in pure bliss.You started calming down from your high's and catching y'all's breath. Your body still slightly twitching, when suddenly, Dazai rams his cock in and out of you at a fast pase.

Making you moan and dig your nails into his shoulder " 'S-Samu! Aah~!" You moaned

He whimpers out loud " 'm need more~ I can't stop moving- MNN~! I need to cum more~ your so irresistible ah~! Take responsibility Bella~"

💚RANPO💚

You had just came back from work to your shared apartment with Ranpo, putting your stuff on the table and taking off your shoes.

You wanted to go greet your boyfriend, so you walked to the bedroom, but then you started to hear lewd noises. You heard moaning and whimpering coming from the bedroom and all you could think about was 'is he... cheating on me?'.

With the thought in your head you barged in the room, about to cuss and scream at him, but all you saw was Ranpo and his hand on his cock. Ranpo looked at you with wide eyes, in shock and also embarrassment, his cheeks blushing red.

You both stared at each other in silence, then you heard Ranpo whimper as he began to stroke himself in front of you. He laid his head on the pillow as he let out loud, exaggerated moans as he stroke himself roughly.

"Ah~! Well don't just stand there and stare at me, sugar~ mmn~ I needed you all day and couldn't wait- Mmn~! Please help me~"

The sight and noises he brought to you was making you so wet, now he's got you needy too. You took off your clothes and got on top of him, taking his hand off his cock, and kissing him with full of lust, earning a satisfied sigh from Ranpo.

While you and Ranpo were kissing each other aggressively, he forced your hips to grind on his twitching cock, making him whimper. You could feel his cock rub against your clit, getting you wet and ready for him.

"Please~ I have to be inside you Mmn~ I can't take it anymore, sugar~"

Your body moved on its own and sank your hips onto his cock, both of you moaning from the intense pleasure. You began to jump on his cock at a fast pase, his hands gripping on to your thighs as he whimpered loudly.

"So good~! Just like that, sugar~ don't stop- AH~! MNN~ I want to cum so bad ah~ please don't stop~"

You could feel his cock throbbing aggressively inside you, only making you feel better and tightening around him.

"Yeah, sugar mmn~ oh yes~ yes, yes, yes! faster, sugar~"

He starts to thrust his hips upwards, to get more friction and to meet his climax, but for you he only reached deeper inside of you. Both of you moaned louder from the euphoric feeling and soon found yourselves at you limits.

Ranpo whimpered loudly as he shoots his cum In you, his eyes tight shut and back arching, his legs and hands trembling from his orgasm. You came with him, seeing stars and your cunt twitching on him.

As you were catching your breath he lazily thrusted his hips upwards again. You gasped in surprise when you could feel him getting hard again.

"More~ please more, sugar~ your so addicting~ please make me cum more~ don't stop~!"

💜FYODOR💜

You were talking to Nikolai, when suddenly, Fyodor opens the door abruptly. The loud noise startled you and Nikolai, but when you saw Fyodor coming towards you at a fast pase, it got you nervous.

Before you can say anything, he grabbed you by the hand and dragged you to where ever he was going, making you almost trip. "F-Fedya, is everything ok?"

You look back at Nikolai who was smirking and raising his shoulders like he's saying 'i don't know'

Fyodor takes you to your bedroom and immediately starts to aggressively make out with you, slamming your back against the wall.

You were definitely taken aback, but you weren't complaining and gave into the kiss. Fyodor held your body passionately yet tightly, groaning into the kiss. You pulled away from the kiss, worried since this isn't usually how he'd act

"Fedya, is something wrong?"

He was breathing a bit heavily. He held your chin with two of his fingers, forcing you to look into his eyes "Is it so wrong of me to want my love?"

He brought his lips to your neck "To touch.. to kiss.. to feel... To make love to? " He said kissing against your skin

He pulled himself away from your neck and tilted his head, looking at your eyes "get on your knees, moya lyubov" he said in a demanding yet quiet voice

You gulped and followed his orders, his dominance already making you wet. He pulled down his pants to reveal his desperate cock. He held the side of your head, looking down on you "suck, my dear"

You kissed and licked his cock, making him whimper quietly. You've never heard him whimper before, and it turned you on.

You welcomed his cock into your warm,sticky mouth. Going at a steady pase, but Fyodor held the back on your head and forced your head to deep throat him, startling and choking you. You instinctively put your hands on his thighs to hold yourself.

He tried to hide his moans and whimpers, but failed and let them out, making you so wet and aroused. You moaned on his cock, still choking on him, as tears ran down your cheeks. Seeing you become a mess in a short amount of time turned him on so much.

"MNN~! F-fuck~ your such a slut for my cock, my love~ your doing so well Aghh~! It hasn't even been five minutes- mph~!"

He fucks your mouth like it was your cunt and quickly found his climax, cumming deep down your throat. He shut his eyes closed, trying so hard to silence his whimper, but it felt so fucking good that he let it out. My god was his whimper so incomparable to every song you've ever heard. You almost came on the spot.

You swallowed every bit of his sticky cum "that's it. Swallow it, Myshka~" When he was done, he pulled his cock out of you. Giving you a chance to finally breath, coughing from the lack of oxygen.

He lifted your body up and raised one of your legs around his waist. Before you could process what was happening, he thrusted his cock in and out of you quickly. Both of you moaning from the sweet sensation.

You came immediately on his dick, already being so aroused when sucking him off.

"My, my, desperate, moya lyubov-? Mnn~! I want to fill you up so much as if I'm going to impregnate you~ hah~! I know you love your insides being claimed by me, Myshka~ don't act like you don't like it"

💙ATSUSHI💙

The second you got home to your shared apartment with Atsushi. He kissed your lips full of lust and passion. You were surprised, but of course you gave in.

You Wrapped your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, earning a moan from Atsushi. He pulls away from your lips and kisses your collarbone instead

"I need you so bad y/n~ P-please help me cum. I dont think I can hold on much longer~" he said in between kisses. The tone in his voice showed some embarrassment.

You responded to his request with a desperate kiss on the lips. Both of you moving towards the main room. Your body soon found itself laying on the couch and in between your legs was Atsushi.

His hands were gripping on your waist. He pulls away from your lips and pulls your pants down in a swift movement. As he sits up. He brings your hips to his face, putting your legs around his neck and right away starts eating you out.

You moaned out loud while, as fast as he can, makes you wet. You gripped on the couch cushions from the amazing feeling, his moans sending vibrations to your cunt and his tongue tasting every bit of your delicious pussy.

When Atsushi thought you're ready, he lowers your hips on his lap and straight away thrusts his throbbing cock inside you, moaning in satisfaction. You came right from the contact, since you were aroused from him eating you out, and Whimpered loudly.

He let you adjust to his size for a few seconds and roughly fucked your cunt. He went in and out of you at an inhuman speed, making the couch move and both of you moaning.

"F-fuck~! Mmn~! So g-g-good~! Can't t-think! Mmn~ Ah~! More~ faster~! Please y/n I'm so close hah~" he whimpered as his hands on your hips helped him go even faster.

You arch your back, almost going into overstimulation, while he presses one of his hands on your stomach. He could feel his dick sliding in and out of you and it turned him on so much. Knowing how he made you feel so good that you couldn't even form sentences also made him go over the edge.

"G-god your so fucking perfect~ Mmn~ g-gonna.. gonna cum~!" He moans before he squirts his cum into your womb with a deep thrust, making you cum with him.

Both of you whimper and grab a hold onto each other. He left his dick deep inside you while he was cumming. In a few seconds, he began to ram into your sensitive cunt again. His cock still shooting cum and only getting harder.

You moan In surprise "A-Atsushi~! W-wait- MMN~ TOO MUCH"

He whimpers loudly "Cant stop~ feels too good! Ah~ please~ I need you so bad mph- let me cum inside you more please MNN~ I want to rub inside you more~ f-fuck! you feel like heaven~"

🧡CHUUYA🧡

You were quietly reading your book on the couch, when unexpectedly, Chuuya threw your book away from you.

You were confused and about to yell at him for throwing your book, but before you could say anything, he slammed his lips onto yours and kissed you.

His hands on your cheek and waist, this sudden affection making you fold into the kiss. You pulled him by the collar to bring his body more towards yours.

"I want you so much, doll~ please let me fuck you into oblivion~" he said before moving his lips to your neck.

You chuckled as you held the back of his head "You don't even have to ask, Chuuya."

He instantly laid your back on the couch and got in-between your legs, ripping your clothes off. His hand slowly moved down to your cunt just to find out you were already wet

"Heh seems like I'm not the only one desperate" you look away a bit embarrassed as he chuckles

"I think your already ready for me, doll~" he aligns his cock to your entrance and slowly slides his cock inside of you.

You and him moan from the connection and pleasure. He couldn't wait to make your body adjust to his size and immediately fucks your cunt at a fast speed.

You moan loudly as your pussy tightens around his cock, making him whimper.

"I wont stop until your covered in my cum Hah~!.. Till I fill you up with every drop mmn~ Until you've taste it.. Until every inch of you is claimed by me~" he moans

After hearing those words. You wrapped you legs around him, making him go inside you deeper, and tighten more around his cock.

He chuckled while groaning "F-fuck~ You like hearing that you little slut? Agh~ Your just my cum dumpster aren't you? F-fucking s-shit! Your trying to drain all of my cum aren't ya? AH~! Heh not like I'm complaining.. not one bit!"

You turned him on so much that you could see a bulge poking out on your stomach, created by his hard dick. You loved how desperate he was to be inside you, how he wanted to claim you so badly.

With one final, deep thrust, he cums inside your gummy walls, allowing you to cum on his cock. His head fell back with his mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed, and a loud whimper to escape.

Before he could finish cumming, he pulled out and stroke his cock with his hand to cum on your stomach. Seeing your whole body quiver from your orgasm made him able to cum more.

Both of you were now catching your breaths. After what felt like a minute and finally being able to breath normally.

Chuuya touched the cum he left on your stomach and brought it to your mouth, sticking his fingers inside it. You could taste his bitter cum on your tongue as you sucked on his fingers.

He smirks "Such a good little slut~ Cleaning the mess you made me do." He chuckles in amusement

"God, your so sexy. You make me want to go another round"

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