#break its spine to read all its contents and not even do it that one favour to make the book more comfy youre making it so so sad | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months

Text

The Lonely Souls Club 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as stalking, loneliness, noncon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Two lost souls cross, but not all those are lost, want to be found.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: Idk, something a bit different.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Bucky

She doesn’t see him but he sees her. He’s not hiding. He’s right there. If she just looked up, he’d be caught. But she doesn’t so he remains.

The pointed led scratches over the thick paper. Beside the open sketchpad is a plate of orange chicken and lo mein. He hasn’t touched either. His appetite has wandered away like his mind.

Carefully he etches the line of her nose. She carries a lot of her character there, as she scrunches it at whatever she’s reading then wiggles it as she reaches to sooth an itch. She never quite stops moving, like a hummingbird, she’s aflutter.

Mrs. Zhao comes by her table to deliver her food. A plate of dumplings steaming amid a bed of bean sprouts and broccoli. A quiet thank you is uttered but her eyes don’t meet the elder woman’s gaze. He notices how she can hardly look anywhere but the pages beneath her fingers. Her shield against the world around her.

She closes the book and slides it to the edge of the narrow table for two. She grabs the chopsticks and slides off the paper sleeve. She pulls, struggling to pry them apart only for the left one to break in two, still stuck to the other. Disappointment shadows her features and she lays the chopsticks down mournfully.

He scribbles, trying to capture her expression. He has several crowded onto the page; her pensive stare, her scowling focus, and the shadow of a smile that dimples her cheeks. She takes the fork and pokes at a dumpling. The sharp tines release a small plume of steam.

She uses the side to cut into the tender shell of the dumpling. She blows over a small morsel before tasting it. Her delight is plain as she chews slowly, savouring the taste. As he watches, he recalls his own frigid food.

He lets the notebook close on its own. He leaves it by his elbow, setting the pencil down to roll against its spine. He pulls his plate close, twirling a knot of noodles around his fork. He takes a bite and peeks over at her.

He pretends that they sit together, that they’re eating at the same table. In some other world, they would be. This would be a sweet date he surprised her with and she would thank him with a smile. Her real smile, the one she chews on but doesn’t let free.

But this isn’t that world. This is reality and he’s just a stranger. She doesn’t know him. She hasn’t even noticed him sitting right there. He puts the fork down and sits back. His appetite curdles to hot bile.

The loneliness is what he hates the most about this new world. The people around him move too fast, they’re all lost in themselves, they’re looking with seeing, talking without listening. It’s like they don’t even speak the same language.

He asks Mrs. Zhao for a to-go box. Another pile of leftovers to go with the rest. It’s habit. He hates to see a meal go wasted. He remembers the days of mustard sandwiches, when his mother scraped every grain of flour to make a loaf. Nearly a century. A hundred years lost, a life stolen. From him.

He packs up the noodles and the saucy chicken and snaps the lid shut. He doesn’t leave yet. She’s still eating. Just as deliberately as before. Her careful bites are self-conscious as she dabs a napkin to her lips now and again. She doesn’t finish hers either.

She accepts a box and a fresh set of chopsticks to take with her. She slides the remnants of her meal into the container and closes it, fingers squeezing the edges as she checks to make certain it’s secure. She doesn’t leave either. She lingers as she resumes her reading, just a few pages before she finishes the chapter.

She counts out a tip on the table top and stacks it by her empty plate. He tilts his head. She’s a creature out of time. Sort of like him. He always sees the plastic swiping or the tap of a watch that has the machine chirping. She’s old-fashioned, he likes that.

She uses the table to leverage herself to her feet. Her hips are slightly crooked as she stands and pulls on her light baby blue jacket. It’s long and belted at the waist but she leaves it open. She slips her book into her canvas bag and hangs it over her shoulder. She cradles the container in her arm, leaning on the chair before she takes her first step.

He noted that before. One leg seems longer than the other as she limps across the quiet restaurant. She doesn’t seem bothered by her uneven gait, she simply goes on. She stops by the door and looks at the little figurine; a smiling cat waving an arm.

He puts his head down and listens to her departure. He looks down at his gloves hands, turning over his left as a glint of metal peeks out below the sleeve. Someone like him can be fixed but she’s there, with her small steps, forgotten.

He gets up so quickly, he hits his leg on the table. He hurriedly gathers up his sketchbook and clutches it against his leftovers. He waves to Mrs. Zhao as he marches out but can’t untangle his voice from his chest. He doesn’t want to lose her. He can’t lose another thing.

In the street, he catches sight of her blue coat. She’s not very quick as it is. He can easily keep up but he doesn’t want to meet her pace. She can’t see him. Not yet.

He rounds the corner nearly a block back from her. He pauses to feign interest in a window as she clutches her hip and slows. She stops not much further down as a bearded man sits against the brick with a cup jingling in his hand. She speaks so quietly, even the man on the pavement has to lean in. If it wasn’t for the laboratory torture, Bucky wouldn’t hear her either.

She’s sorry that she spent all her change but he can have the food. At first, the man’s face twists, he doesn’t seem happy with that. Then he accepts as if he can’t bear to deny her. Who could?

“Thanks, lady,” the man sounds like a buzzard.

She nods and wishes him a good day, as good as it can be, she adds. Then she’s off again.

As Bucky trails her, he’s reminded of someone else. Of someone who once needed him. His protection and care. Just another person who abandoned him. The one person who could’ve understood him. Gone, just like everything else.

He tucks his chin down, eyes narrowing on the woman. Target acquired. He shakes off that thought, that worrying echo of the past. He’s not the machine they made him. He’s still a man. Alone and broken, just like they left him.

Like her.

Her

Just along the crooked and cracked walk, behind the overgrown bush, there lays the peeling door behind the creaky metal grate. It’s a grim scene but sometimes you pretend it’s a hidden entrance and that you’re unlocking the passage to some fantastical world. You twist the key, wiggling it before it catches, and you pull as hard as you can.

The wrought iron is heavy and one of the bars juts out enough to catch your sleeve. You use your shoulder to hold the outer door open as you unlock the second. You stumble inside, your hip achy and overworked. You close both doors tight, cranking the deadbolts back into place.

The rain will come soon. It’s why you wore your jacket. You expected it to come earlier but you’re glad it didn’t. The change in pressure always wracks your bones.

You hang the baby blue coat as you put your canvas bag on the worn wicker seat of the chair beside the door. The apartment is small but it’s all yours. The single room is a kitchen, bedroom, and everything else but the bathroom. That is barely more than a closet.

There’s a thump from above. Several as the neighbours’ toddler barrels around. You should’ve waited until after nap time to leave.

You leave your boots on the woven mat and fish out the novel from your bag. You limp across to the folding couch, still a bed as you hadn’t bothered to roll away the flimsy mattress. You lower yourself onto it, pulling a pillow behind you as you recline.

Your pelvis is sore. The chair in the restaurant wasn’t very comfortable, though the food was good for the cost. You don’t eat out very often. Not really at all but it’s your birthday and you wanted to do something special.

You open the pages and quickly dive back into another life. A world where magic can weave miracles but tempts a dangerous darkness in its use. No good thing comes without a price.

You slump down as you read. The sunlight slowly fades as the clouds shift and the din deepens. You close the book as you look across the room at the floor lamp. The small distance across the room seems akin to Tolkien’s infamous trek. You don’t want to get up, you just want to sleep in the damp afternoon.

You sigh and put the book beside you. You rub your eyes and forehead and bend one leg, then the other. Your muscles are taut and protest with a dull burn. You can’t read in the dark, you’ll get another headache.

You groan and push yourself to sit on the edge of the mattress. The slender frame echoes you sharply as you stand. Your right foot comes down heavier than the left as you cross the space. You flick on the light and flinch as a storm cloud seems to pass over your very window.

You turn to face the gap between the curtains. How strange. You near the pane as rain speckles on the outside. You peer up at the slat of sky visible between the rooftops.

You twitch again as you hear something mulch. You whip your head to the side as you look towards the bush. It could be a critter hiding in the bin, no time to find their nest as the storm rises.

You back away, puffing out your fright. Living alone makes you paranoid, even if you prefer it. You live by your own rules, your own schedule, your own whims. The problem is, you’re finding it difficult to figure all those out. You don’t know what you want.

You sit again and rub your lower back. The only thing you can name, you can’t have. The pain is your eternal companion. The looks you get when you venture out are just as persistent. You felt those curious, somewhat dejecting, glances today. You don’t care if they think you walk a bit oddly, you just don’t like to be looked at.

You turn your head to gaze longingly at the kettle. It’s the perfect weather for tea and you forgot to get a cup of green at the restaurant. Yet, it’s a very far way to go, then back again to wait for the water to steam.

You relent. You stand up and go to the small counter set into the wall. You flip on the electric kettle and lean on the chipped laminate. The toddler’s footsteps rumble like thunder overhead and the shadows once more stir behind you.

You turn to face the apartment, hands curled around the counter’s edge. The steady drip of the eaves form a tempo as the rain spatters harder against the window, rattling it in the wooden frame. The doors quiver too as the tempest blows into the alley.

You used to like rainstorms, before they made you hurt so much. Before they seemed so dark. You used to like a lot of things before you were broken. Those days seem very far behind you. Sometimes, you wonder if they ever were.

#bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #fic #dark fic #the lonely souls club #falcon and the winter soldier #captain america #avengers #mcu #marvel #dark!fic #winter soldier #series

326 notes · View notes

apocalypse-shuffle · 1 year

Text

RED HOOD | BATFAMILY (assorted canon)

────────────────────

“Long Overdue” (Jason Todd & Batmom!Reader) and (background Bruce Wayne x Batmom!Reader)

| Reader was with Bruce in the past but grew distant after Jason’s death. No one tells her when he comes back from the dead until Bruce is forced to bring her in on a raid when they’re overwhelmed. -Jason and Batmom!Reader reunion.

| SFW, canon typical action/violence, cursing?, crying?

| This is like half fanon half UTRH/Batman:Hush. I’m really just fucking around with canon rn. Also the pictures used are just for aesthetics and have no contextual meaning to the story. (pic source - Batman: Three Jokers comic)

| 2k+ words

| parts: one, spurt, two, three, four, five, six/six point five, seven.

Ma. God, no one called you that anymore. The way your eyes begin to prickle is a clear indication.

With you Dick wasn’t the type. Once he’d worked himself up to it he’d called you mom; slightly different from the few ways he referred to his bio mother, but something shared between the two of you all the same.

And Tim? Well he wasn’t your child plain and simple. Tim still had his parents for one, and for two he was intrinsically Bruce’s. By the time he’d figured his way into the Batcave you’d been gone, most of your shit moved out of the manor, and desperately waving divorce papers Bruce refused to acknowledge in the air. You didn’t have anything to do with his indoctrination outside of exactly one instance of him finding you to ask if you’d reconsider the separation. Some Batman needed a Robin and Bruce Wayne needed his wife type shit.

Either way Tim didn’t call you any rendition of mom because you weren’t his. The most you got was him addressing you by your maiden name and then eventually your first and you were content with that.

Then if he didn’t call you mom, the girls sure as hell didn’t either. Outside of Barbara the others never even became regular conversation partners. Cass was a rare sighting in your life and Stephanie and you’s relationship would never progress past the casual advocacy you tried giving her because she was another dead Robin to add to what’s now technically a list.

At the end of the day, out of all the people who considered you a mother, only Jason added that ‘a’ and you wanted to grip that name tight and hold it to you. Break your ribs open and force it into your chest cavity. The need to fulfill that ache cuts deep and you take a step forward.

Jason startles though, undoing all his own forward progress, and you falter. That’s right. Jason didn’t like for people to touch him. Definitely didn’t like hugs either. Not surprise ones at least. Before his death you’d gotten close enough he didn’t mind when you swooped in, but now?

“Can I-? Can I hug you?” You press trembling lips together for another horrible swallow. “Please…?”

Jason jerks, two hastily aborted movements at once, before his obstructed voice meets your ears.

“Fine.”

You practically fall on him before pulling him into you. Unfortunately he’s just as stiff as his voice and you have to take a second to figure out how to slot against him.

Jason fits in your arms differently than he used to - broader and taller by a mile - but after a few beats he relaxes into them just the same. The subtle addition of weight makes a sob bubble up your throat.

You rap your knuckles on the side of the helmet.

“Take this shit off.”

He hesitates and a sharp pang manages to worm its way into the already shitty cocktail of emotions you’re feeling. It hits your spine like lightning, forces you up and has you an arms length away in half an inhale.

Maybe before now you’d been going through too much all at once for the trepidation to hit, but it was hitting now. You’d never seen Hood without- well without the Hood. Only Jumbie raised from the dead the way Jason did, and while you’d take your son anyway you could get him you wouldn’t accept some Thing parading around in his skin.

Reading your burst of movement for what it is, Jason backtracks, rising arms dropping to his sides. “Maybe I shouldn’t…”

“Jason Peter-” you inhale deeply, catching yourself, and hold a hand up to stop him. You both ignore the obvious way it trembles. “-only… if…if you want to. I’m not trying to force anything.”

He’s slow to nod, weight shifting from his left to his right leg and back again before he says something too low for you to hear. You’re about to ask him to repeat when he speaks up, this time aiming his voice somewhere around your shoulder while bowing his head.

“No, I- Alright. Just hold on.”

Haunches suitably raised and heart in your throat you pay close attention as the helmet comes up, Jason having released some catch in the back.

It goes over, the helmet clatters to the ground, and the man who stares back at you is…hard to place.

The low fluorescent lighting of the narrow room combined with the concrete walls casts soft enough shadows over his face that while his features are warped they’re not discernible. Which means you can’t completely rule out the uncanniness wafting off of him as just your brain (along with your entire perception of the universe) splinting in half.

It makes your face heat up. He looks familiar, but you can’t say you wouldn’t have passed him straight if you’d seen him on the street. He’s too big for one, even for how you’d all imagined he’d look grown up, standing more than a foot taller than the last day you saw him. Taller than malnourishment would’ve ever let him be.

The sob you let out makes you both flinch.

One hand snaps to your mouth, the other waving him off.

“I’m sorry I- I don’t-. This is just-”

Even with the way he’s leaning away from you he shakes his head. “I get it, it's fine.”

His voice is faint, cut up and hoarse like he hasn’t used it in a while, and it’s the prettiest thing you’ve heard in ages.

“Oh,” you laugh. The wet kind that makes your throat sticky. You can only stare at him, blurry form and all, words lost to you.

Eventually, after watching your fervent effort to wipe away tears that are in no way inclined to give you a break, arms crossed Jason takes a half step forward with a shrug.

“We can…try again?”

The next little laugh you let out you practically choke on but you nod all the same.

When Jason’s the first to move your heart starts speeding away like an overexcited middle school drumline. You roll with it though, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes so they’re dry enough for you to actually see him clearly for a few seconds.

When he’s directly in front of you your hands come up slowly, giving him plenty of opportunity to move away. Or maybe to vanish.

When he does neither, only giving you a guarded look, you allow yourself to touch.

Problem is, the domino mask he’s wearing very quickly gets in your way and on your nerves when you move to frame his face. Quickly feels like if it’s not gone, if you can’t see his eyes, you’ll throw up.

To stop yourself from taking the risk and ripping it off you have to take a deep breath. Have to force down the thick build up of saliva gathering in your mouth so it pushes back the bile climbing up your throat.

“I’d like to see my son, Jason. All of you.”

To emphasize your point you tap the tip of your nail against the mask. There’s no intention on your part to cross his boundary but Jason’s hands snap up to hold onto your wrists all the same.

You look into the white lenses of his domino, fingers buzzing along the corner of the mask closest to them. His mouth twists into a frown.

“Please?”

You beg with the same ferocity a grieving mother once used when begging for her child back.

“You’re asking for a lot.”

He lets go and he takes a couple steps back and you don’t cry.

No, instead you swing your hands behind you. Clasping them together in a poor attempt to stop the buzzing sensation that travels from the tips of your fingers to take over your entire hand.

“Mmm,” you incline your head. “Well. I did help a boy get over first date jitters with a made up song once. Let that same boy talk me through an entire dissertations’ worth of his analysis of Their Eyes Were Watching God - as choppy as it was - because TWMS wouldn’t allow him to present it in class. Let him skip going to that same school and cry to me for hours after the death of Gloria Stanson. Remember a knife hidden in the corner on the highest shelf in his closet, and I remember not revealing any of that when I gave his eulogy because he once asked me to keep the important things between the two of us. So you don’t have to show me, but I think I make a pretty good qualifier when it comes to keeping this safe.”

You point straight to where his heart is tucked safely behind layers of gray armor before shrugging.

From the way his brows furrow over the domino you know he’s at least thinking about it so you step away to pick up your disregarded mask and stuff it in your waistband.

One blink. Six.

“You remember Rena?”

In front of him again, you rock back on your heels. “Mhm. And the ‘how to tie a tie’ lessons me and Bruce walked you through even though you didn’t wear a suit to that date. Remember that too.”

Jason’s smile is crooked on his face but it’s nonetheless present as he makes a noise of agreement.

“I’d just wanted to spend time with you two, I was never planning on wearing a suit to go to the skating rink.”

“We figured.”

You’re rolling onto the balls of your feet when that small smile drops and he shakes his head.

“I’m not that same boy anymore.”

You take in the way he could raise his hand and so easily touch the ceiling without having to jump. You clear the phlegm from your throat.

“I can tell.”

Jason grunts and makes a general gesture indicating something somewhere behind you.

“And I got no interest in trying to live up to whatever fucked up embalment Bruce’s got going on with my burnt suit in that case.”

That suit. Bruce’s memorial. His warning. Your breath hitches as you think of the smell of crisped blood and methanol. If Jason didn’t want to talk about it you sure as shit weren’t going to.

“I will one hundred percent take that into account.” You keep it simple, rocking on your heels again. He wasn’t asking for anything unreasonable so there wasn’t really any debate to be had. “You wanna be treated as you are? I can do that.”

Moments pass once you’ve said your peace where Jason does nothing but stare at you. The only indication he’s at all alive being his shoulders still moving - and you are watching. Eyeing that tell tale up and down like your own life will end at its falter. The pattern is slow enough to come off as pacivity but the time between each rise and fall is too measured to be uncontrolled. Exactly three point eleven seconds one way and three point eleven seconds the other. Every time.

Then he sighs, curses, and the little veil of dissolvent for the adhesive that adheres the mask to his face is in his hand. A different vial and color than when he was Robin; you don’t know why you thought it’d be the same. Or why it makes your heart clench that it’s not.

Between one thrum of the fluorescent lights and the next Jason is peeling away the domino, and you would be lying if you claimed to know where it disappeared to after that. Too caught up on what he’d been hiding to track it.

Blue. Nothing more and nothing less. Just blessedly familiar, vibrant blue. Not the dull gray they’d become by the time you were given the chance to put a gruesome sight of a child six feet under.

The “Oh wow,” tumbles from you without permission and then there’s zero hope for the waterworks you’d been holding back. The levee fails and you’re bawling before you know it. Barely holding back snot and who knows what else since you already feel like screaming.

At that point there’s no carefully thought out sentence for you to spew, no more hesitancy, no more measured breathing, and linear thought. Just the crushing need to have him close to you again.

You’re rushing forward before you know.

Wrapping your arms around Jason the next go around is both the best and the worst thing. You accommodate his new size faster, already writing over the ways he used to fit against you with the ways he does so now, but he’s still so stiff and he’s not reciprocating the hug either.

Maybe you should let go. You crossed the boundary too fast. Were too reckless. You literally have training on this and now you’re crowding him.

Okay, you’re pulling away. It’s a herculean effort but you’re forcing your arms from around his middle. You’ve got to, you don’t want to scare him off. Not when you just got him back.

There’s a soft “Not yet,” mumbled into your shoulder and then arms finally come around yours and you don’t hesitate to snap your own back into place.

He’s hugging you back.

You cry a little harder and bring one of your arms up to drape across his shoulders, pulling him closer. When you start rocking and Jason copies your momentum you press a kiss onto his temple.

“Hi,” you stutter out. Another sob. “Hi baby.”

Since he’s finally letting his arms wrap around you you don’t hesitate to run dark fingers through the truly unruly mass of black curls on his head. His hairs’ damp - most likely from sweat - but cool. Probably being tempered by the cold air blowing into the room.

It’s when you press a kiss to his forehead that you feel something else wet and your breath stutters.

“It’s okay. I got you, everything’s okay,” you whisper.

“God Ma-” his voice cracks and then you can hear the sobs he’s trying to muffle into your suit. “No it’s not.”

“I know,” you sob. “I’m sorry- so so fucking sorry.”

You sniffle and pull away to see him better. Jason’s face is flushed, his eyes wet, and cheeks streaked with tears shed. You hold your hands up to frame his face for a second time and run your thumbs through the tear tracks. His chest heaves as his body tries to regulate his breathing.

Jason clears his throat, gaze boring into yours. “Hi,” he says.

You smile, finally beginning to map out his face. First you move to frame his cheeks, too feel the warmth in them. To see if they still feel familiar. They don’t; you force yourself to accept that fact without letting it show in your expression, letting out a measured exhale before continuing. You find his jaw is more defined now too, cheeks devoid of the baby fat of five years prior.

From then on brushing your thumbs along his brows, over the bridge of his nose, traveling over his ears and skirting around his hairline - it all fills your mind with incoherent cheers.

Your thumbs hover over Jason’s eyes and you hum when he closes them for you.

The skin underneath your shaved off pads is soft. The thin layer of protection allows you to feel how his eyeballs shift, to see the way his veins show stark under light skin, to clock the life thrumming through him.

It makes your heart feel so goddamn light. You can’t stop smiling at the sight of him. Eyes still wet but clear.

“I feel like such a horrible mother,” you hiccup, hands slide down so you can once again cup his face. “I barely recognize you.”

Jason’s breathing shakes nearly in tandem with yours and his eyes squeeze tighter shut, head turning away.

“Don’t.” He takes a second to look up. Look right through you. Lashes wet and glassy eyes open, voice grating over his next words. “Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame any of you for that, but especially not you.”

What you want to do is argue. You should’ve never let him put on that suit in the first place, one fucked up son should’ve been the end of it. You should’ve dropped the case you were working the second you’d heard he’d run away and you should’ve found him. Instead you keep your thoughts personal, pinning them to your brain as if it’s a cushion so that you’ll never forget, and pull your son closer. An action which he allows, resting his head on your shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re back,” you whisper into his hair. The way he instantly shakes his head makes the cool strands tickle your jawline.

“You can’t mean that.”

“If I didn’t mean it I wouldn’t have said it, Jay.”

Jason tenses before responding, words spewing without warning.

“Yeah except I’ve killed people, and I don’t regret it, and Bruce hates that - and you probably do too - but his way isn’t good enough. The people in this city deserve better so I’m doing what’s necessary-”

And that has you bristling. He must notice too because he stops short and edges away, face steeping. Caught somewhere between wanting to leave and wanting to fully kick start an argument.

…TBC

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed! I had to split this bitch in two cause it was 5,000+ words and I’m not in the business of under-indulging myself.

Listen, I’ve looked into it. Every mother/mother figure Jason’s ever had he’s referred to as “Mom”, but me personally, I didn’t grow up addressing my own mother that way so I wanted to play around with “Ma” (differentiate a little). What's funny though, is that I’ve read Dick referring to his mother as both “Ma” and “Mom” so that’s fun.

• TWMS = Thomas Wayne Middle School

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it. this is a sideblog tho so I won’t respond.

Tagged: @aarinisreading, @niphredil-14, @mxtokko, @calsjack, @brunnetteiwik

720 notes · View notes

neobomb · 6 months

Text

give into things i (dont) want to [lee haechan] - the sequel

bully! (yandere) stalker! Haechan x innocent! virgin! church girl!reader Part of the give into things i (dont) want to series. please read part 1 before reading this Word Count: 1.6k [Pt.1] [Pt.2] Warnings: dark and triggering content, mature themes, toxic/inappropriate behaviour, manipulation, forcing??, choking & breathplay?, hair pulling, unprotected sex, corruption kink, noncon, fingering, creampie, loss of virginity, MDNI, smut smut smut Summery: bully!Haechan is secretly in love with you and loves pulling your hair bc it feeds into his perverted fantasies. btw, donghyuk is haechan's real name. donghyuk, hyuk and haechan are all haechan. for the one person who wished to be tagged: @got-sum-badhabits © 2023 @neobomb. Unauthorized copying, translation, manipulation, or alteration of this work is strictly prohibited. All rights reserved.

“Please, Donghyuk, stop...” Haechan gently breaks the kiss, his eyes locking with yours in a tender gaze. His fingers delicately weave through your hair, brushing the strands that softly kiss your shoulders. Tears wells in your eyes as he tightens his fist in your hair, tugging harshly until you hiss through gritted teeth, your eyes looking up at him with the same innocence he is awfully familiar with.

“I stole your first kiss, didn’t I?” he says as his lips form a deranged smile. You find yourself in a state of paralysis, words eluding your grasp, unable to sculpt the sentence you so desperately seek. You muster all your willpower, attempting to dodge his lustful gaze by avertedly turning your head down.

“Too bad you can’t take it back now.” he says, yanking your head up, letting a loud intake of air grace through your lips. His hands make its way down your shoulders and up to your delicate throat, his thumb brushing the wounded areas marked by his fingerprints.

“It’s too easy.” he inspects his work on your throat, feeling how the skin gently rises as you gulp in nervousness. He is accustomed to your episodes of panic, especially when he would hold you up against your locker, but never had he seen it manifest quite like this.

“that I can just take your life away in a heartbeat if I wanted to.” His fingers intertwined tightly, securing a firm grip around your throat once again. He grins with delight as your eyes widen, your body shaking erratically from fear.

“God, you’re so pretty like this” he says, tightening his grip around your neck. “Even with your short hair you look so fucking pretty.” Despite his dislike for your decision to change your haircut to suit Jaehyun's tastes, your beauty remains undeniable. After all, it was your radiant beauty that drove him crazy, making him go to immeasurable extents to gain your attention. Even with your life in his hands at play, deep down, Haechan knows that you’re the one in control.

“Strip for me, baby” he whispers into your ears, making shivers travel down your spine. “If you want me to spare your life, you do as I say” he reminds you. You have no choice but to slowly bring your hands up to the collar of your shirt, undoing the buttons one by one. As your fingers graze the final button, a brief pause of hesitation halts your movements, but his tightening grip around your neck tells you to continue.

You let your white button-up shirt drop to the floor, leaving you in your slightly see-through lace bra that compliments your skin tone perfectly. His favorite, he thinks to himself. Haechan pauses, taking the opportunity to truly observe you up close—a contrast to the distant glimpses through your bedroom window he's been accustomed to until now. His dick becomes painfully hard at the sight.

You slowly bring your hands to your back, struggling to find the hook of your bra clasp. Without hesitation, Haechan moves swiftly, his free hand goes behind your back to undo your bra before you let it slip off of your shoulders and down to the floor. You feel awfully exposed in front of him. Instinctively, you bring your hands up in an attempt to shield your body from his gaze.

“Don’t hide from me, baby” Immediately, he brings your arms behind your back, locking them in place by your wrists. “Now, take off that skirt of yours without hiding from me.” he demands, releasing his grip around your wrists, letting you slowly push down your skirt and panties onto the floor in one swift move.

He pauses, allowing himself to fully appreciate the breathtaking view of your completely naked body. He makes sure to scan every inch of your body with his eyes, making sure to commit every detail to memory with deliberate care. The feeling of your body so close to his will remain etched in his mind.

“Perfect baby, you look so fucking perfect.” he whispers before stealing another lustful kiss from your lips, hand still around your neck until this very moment. With his free hand, softly cupping your clit, brushing one finger up and down until your pussy starts to glisten from the wetness that forms. You desperately try to muffle your moans into the kiss while pressing your thighs together from the discomfort.

“So pure, so untouched. All for me to destroy.” he whispers as his lips make their way down your body, ensuring that visible love bites mark every place his lips have visited. He releases his hands from your neck, restoring the rhythm of your breath to its natural, steady pace. To your relief, you’re no longer suffocating.

Just as his lips were almost brushing against your clit, you gather every shred of valor and prepare to voice your thoughts. “You’re a pervert” Your speech stumbles and gets trapped in your throat while your chest begins to heave with quick, irregular breaths at the realization of his actions.

“What a big mouth you got, baby girl?” he says, his eyes lift to meet yours, wide with astonishment. “I was about to go easy on you, baby. I wanted to make you cum with my lips.” Immediately, you regret ever saying those words, pressing yourself more firmly against the wall, wishing to simply vanish into nothingness.

“I won’t be gentle now” your eyes widen before he grabs you and pins you to your desk, leaving your ass up in the air for him to smack. For a moment, he stares at your naked ass, brushing his fingers over the red handprint he just made. He spits into your hole to lubricate it before leaning over you and lining his length up with your hole. Without any warning, he pushes his dick into you in one swift move. You sob, eyes tightly shut from the discomfort.

You feel tight, wet and warm around his cock. He can’t help but push until he settles balls deep inside of you, wanting nothing more than for you to feel every inch of him before he starts moving at an uncomfortable fast pace. He tips his head back to the ceiling, and moans your name.

“Fuck… Pussy so tight…” His voice was strained with arousal as your nails dig into your desk. Moans progressively loader as the speed of his thrusts increased. The contents of your desk cascade onto the floor as a result.

“Hyuk, it hurts…” you say in desperation. The sweetness in your voice gets him to rub circles on your clit, to which you force yourself to focus on rather than the constant painful stretch. His hips are still slapping into your ass loudly at a brutal pace, making you squirm below him. He is making it clear that he intends to show you no mercy. He wouldn’t be able to hold back even if he wanted to.

“Stay still.” he growls as he brings his hand from your clit to further press your upper body to the wooden surface of your desk. He feels your juices mixed with a hint of blood in a diluted reddish color, oozing out of you, coating his cock with every thrusts. Just from feeling your pussy pulse around him, he is certain of your growing ease.

“You want to be Jaehyun’s so bad, huh?” he hiss, knowing that his thrusts get sloppier. The pleasure has now turned you into a crying mess and you could do nothing but let him ram his dick into you. “What would Jaehyun think when he sees you beneath me like this?” he leans forward to tell you. Even though he is extremely close to reaching his own climax, he forces himself to keep the rhythm steady, determined to make you reach yours first.

“You’re mine. I’m gonna keep you like this forever.” he says. From the gratifying hum that just escaped your lips, he is convinced that you have surrendered to the thought. And with a few more thrusts, your eyes roll back as you grasp for something to ground you. He grabs a tight hold on your hips, nails digging into your skin to keep you from escaping your orgasm.

He watches you come undone, feeling your walls clam down on his cock. He can’t help but completely stand still, observing your trembling body. He leans down and whispers “Don’t move”.

You twist your head to catch a glimpse of him, your gaze awkwardly angled to the side. With each passing moment, his sense of relief grew, sensing your surrender. He could feel the weight of your defeat and the shame of realizing you were powerless against it. How pathetic, he thinks to himself.

“Look at you.” he growls as his hips start to move again, pounding his length in and out of you.

“I can break you so easily” He released a deep, guttural groan. Soon enough, you feel his cock twitch against your walls as he starts to fill you, making certain that his cum is securely pushed in the depths of your womb. Slowly, he pulls his softening dick out with such precision that not a droplet dares to spill out of you.

"You belong to me now" Haechan remarks, his smile carrying an unsettling edge, recognizing the helplessness in your eyes. The gleam of amusement in his expression was unmistakably genuine.

At this very moment, you have given into his deep desires. Haechan finally gets his way after all... like he always does....

338 notes · View notes

cdragons · 4 months

Text

Bound by Embroidered Chains - Aemond Targaryen x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Velaryon - Chapter One

Prologue

Summary: Dragons have a habit in hoarding the prettiest of jewels, and pearls are of no exceptions.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ Obsessive Behavior (we all knew this was coming), tiny!Aemond is delulu, tiny!Jace is delulu, Dark Themes, not betaread we burn like Harrenhal, etc. Also translations for Valyrian will be added at the bottom! Also I used an online translator for the High Valyrian, so it may not be great 🫠

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for the amazing support for this story's prologue, I did NOT expect so many positive reviews! I'm sorry this took so long, but I had a ton of applications and finals. But since I am on winter break, hopefully I will be able to upload more fics! Happy Holidays and big shoutout to @valeskafics, who continues to be the HOTD fanfic writing ICON that we all know and love! If you liked reading this work, reblog and comment if you want to be tagged in future installments of this work! Also I apologize for any grammatical errors, I wanted to post this as soon as possible.

You have known your entire life that you were going to be one of the many seamstresses that serviced the Royal Family.

By the age of three, your mother would teach you how to begin your very first stitches, which soon shifted to learning the most complicated patterns of embroidery. You still remember the tears in her eyes as you presented the silk-woven handkerchief that had lovely little purple and blue flowers embroidered on the borders for her birthday. Your face flushed to an almost too bright red when she insisted on showing all the other royal seamstresses and tailors your first handkerchief. But it made you smile in remembering how big her smile was that week, as she was so pleased by how much you’ve progressed at such a young age.

When you were only six, your mother had begun to teach you how to properly extract the dye from beautiful flowers and the scales of brightly-colored insects. So skilled and nimble were your fingers that you even gave your childhood playmate, Aemond Targaryen, a thick green wool cloak with green and silver dragon embroidery. The cloak’s wool had been dyed by your hand with copious amounts of goldenrod and indigo flowers. You then carefully stitched silk to line the inside of the cloak to prevent him from overheating, as even the harshest winters in the Crownlands were hardly anything compared to the summers in the North. It had caught you off-guard in the almost too-tight embrace he locked you in, but you eagerly reciprocated as you could tell he appreciated the gift more than words could describe.

It was not just a gift for is name-day from a childhood companion, but also a way to reassure him that he will one day have a dragon. And even if the gods do not grant him worthy in their eyes, he would always be considered a prince worthy of the Targaryen name in yours. After all, there were not many princes that would willingly spend all their free time with a lowly seamstress’ daughter – even if the supposed seamstress that was your mother was so heavily favored by the Queen.

“Pearl,” came a voice with a tone far too serious despite its youth, “what are you doing in the Godswood?”

You lifted your head from old tome you were studying, only to see a young boy of only nine name-days, that stood as straight as one of the stone pillars that stood in the Sept of Baelor. His white locks nearly blinded you with how the sunshine seemed to reflect on them.

“Well my prince, as you can clearly see, I have decided to take advantage of this fine day to do a bit of studying of my own.” You lifted the near ancient tome on your lap to show him the title, Myths and Legends of the Jade Seas.

Whatever outwardly beauty the book possessed had long diminished, the spine was bent from the hundreds of hours spent looking through its contents and the letters were near faded to a dull grey as the pages yellowed from age. But the colors of the ink remained as vibrant as when they were first painted on the frail sheets, accompanied by beautiful imagery of magical dragons and elusive mermaids. The details were so fine and intricate that it felt as if you only needed to touch the ink in order to be transported into the stories. You remembered how you begged either your mother or father to read it to you every night, as utterly transfixed by the colors back then as you remained so now.

“You are more than welcome to join me, but if – and only if – you share one of those apples hiding in your knapsack.”

Finally showing an expression appropriate for his age, the young prince reached in his pouch to show two gorgeous apples – the skin was practically gleaming in the sun as your mouth watered for its taste. Aemond handed one to you as he sat by your side underneath the plentiful shade of the heart tree. Scooting over to make room on the overgrown root you sat on, you eagerly showed him strange text.

“Look Aemond!” you exclaimed as you shoved the book to his nose. “This book says that there were dragons in Yi Ti! Isn’t that amazing?”

Aemond looked at you as if you had suddenly grown two heads and five eyes. “How can there be dragons in Yi Ti? All the dragons save the ones in the dragonpit and the rocky shores of Dragonstone had perished in The Doom that sunk Valyria. Everyone knows that pearl.”

“These dragons are different! According to my kepa, Yi Ti dragons don’t even need wings to fly!”

The young prince rolled his eyes at that. “How could they fly if they don’t have wings? Even Carraxes the Blood Wrym has wings, and he looks like an overgrown red snake.” Honestly, his pearl could be so silly. “Besides, what would your father know? He’s a bastard from the Iron Islands, that’s nowhere near the Jade Seas.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “He heard so on his travels with Lord Velaryon and Prince Laenor! Apparently, these dragons use magic and live in the ocean. And they don’t even breathe fire! They make it rain and control the oceans!”

“…Pearl, I think you’ve been spending too much time making those dyes. The fumes must have gotten to your head.”

You openly gaped at your friend’s comment, completely in shock for how blatantly he dismissed you. It made you want to pound your fists on his person until he took it back. So naturally, you did just that.

“Aemond Targaryen, you take that back right now!” you shrieked. Although your actions told otherwise, the smile on your face showed that you took no true offense to his words. If anything, it pleased you to know that you could still make the stone-faced prince giggle as a boy should at his age.

“Never!”

As the two of you giggled and played, several pairs of wandering eyes spied and grimaced at the distasteful display. Although your friendship with the next generation of the royal family was no secret, much of the court disapproved of how highly the royal family thought of you and Prince Aemond’s friendship. After all, he was the second born prince of House Targaryen, born of King Viserys and Queen Alicent. By the time the Targaryen prince could toddle, great things were expected from him. From a very early age, he immersed himself in his studies befitting of a prince of Westeros. You, on the other hand, were only the daughter of a seamstress and a bastard knight who became a lord of a holding so minor that it had no name. You only skills were that you could make pretty dye, and stitch pretty pictures with a needle and thread.

But he always treated you kindly and defended you whenever his eldest brother decided to use you as his latest target for mockery. You were a precious pearl – his precious pearl – Aegon may be his brother, but he could never love Aegon as much as he loved you. True, your father being a bastard did you no favors in the Red Keep’s court, but Aemond would never tell you that himself. Instead, he openly acknowledged his bravery and commended his loyalty to the Crown. After all, how many bastards can boast that they saved the Lord Corlys Velaryon, holder of the Driftwood Throne, from a siege of pirates during one of the lord’s many voyages to Essos?

In turn, you always made sure to provide comfort and support whenever his brother and nephews decided to pick on him. Without fail, he would seek out your company – his eyes red and puffy, while his cheeks were wet from hastily wiped tears. You would take his hands and the two of you would venture out to the library’s more secluded sections. You made sure to pack whatever you have been working on with you. While you were glad that he came to you for comfort, it would do little good for either of you if you were to be punished for not completing whatever tasks your mother assigned you.

“Who cares if you don’t have a dragon?” you once asked him as the two of you laid next to each other, surrounded by books. “There are plenty members of the Targaryen line that did not have dragons, but they still lived out important lives in serving their family however they could. King Jaehaerys was considered a great ruler for how he served the realm– not for riding Vermithor. And even if you had a dragon, is that all you wish to be known for? Your grandfather, Baelon the Brave, was wise and beloved by the small folk for how he tried to make their lives easier. But all he is known for in history books is how he burned down Dorne with Vhagar.”

“Better to be known for a dragon than to disappear, not being known for anything – not even a dragon worthy of the Targaryen name.”

Sitting up against a bookshelf, you repositioned Aemond to lie his head on your thighs. Luckily the candlelight made the area dark enough so that you wouldn’t see his ears turning red. Instead, he buried his face in the soft cotton of your blue tunic as you stroked his soft silver white locks. Although his heart was beating erratically, your sweet scent along with your body’s suppleness was enough to take away any ire left in him.

“Stop that,” you ordered, “you will not be forgotten, don’t be so dramatic.” Eyes softening at his tense shoulders, you eased on the sternness of your tone. “Nyke pendagon iksā brilliant. Eman dōrī rhēdan anyone else qilōni kostagon ȳdragon Valyrio Eglie hae sȳrī hae ao. Kostā solve problems bona aegon ēza trouble lēda during aōha lessons lēda se Giēñatī. Aemond, iksā ñuha sȳrje raqiros. Gaomagon daor ivestragon kesā sagon daor rūnas.”

You pretended not to notice how tightly he clenched your dress as you ignored the how warm the spot where his hot tears grew.

As you continued to stroke his hair, Aemond made a silent vow that when he finally claimed a dragon, you would be the first person he would ride it with. He thought about how his bastard nephews would always try to take you from him, especially Jace, how he despised that boy. No, your touches would belong to him, and only him. Your sweet words and kind demeanor were his to cherish. You were his pearl – his pearl – and no one else’s, especially not the pretend Targaryen that was Jacaerys Strong.

Yes, it pleased Aemond to know that he was your best friend. But sometimes it frustrated him in how you refused to take him seriously as a man. For example, he once announced that when he claimed his dragon, he would finally be a noble dragon knight who would protect you from the most vicious of beasts. No matter how he insisted on his sincerity, you only rolled your eyes at the proclamation. You told him that you had no need for a knight, let alone a dragon knight. You had your dearest kepa for protection, and there was no finer knight in all the Seven Kingdoms in your eyes. So silly was his pearl indeed.

“Ashi’!” a new voice called out, interrupting the comfortable silence between him and his pearl. It belonged to the king’s eldest grandson, Prince Jacaerys Strong Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne after his mother, Princess Rhaenyra. “Your mother is looking for you! She said that she needs your help with Mother’s clothes!”

“Alright!” When you stood from you spot, you made sure to brush away any dirt or debris left on your skirts. You gathered your mother’s book in both arms when you made your way to the prince. “But why did my muña not send one of her attendants instead? It would not have been difficult to find me. Everyone knows that I enjoy reading under the Hearts Tree in the Godswood during my spare time. Are you not busy with your own duties, my prince?”

Straightening his posture to appear taller, Jace did his best to sound as authoritative as his father had taught him. “I just finished my lessons for the morning, and I volunteered to escort you. Besides, I figured that it would do me some good in practicing escorting you. I’ll need to do it in the future when I am king after my mother.” His round freckled cheeks reddened to a rosy hue at that last part.

Not at all catching the terribly obvious implication, you shrugged off his words as you figured that he meant that he was using you as practice for whichever future noble lady he would court in the future. However, the suggestion was not at all lost on your friend, who was still sitting on the overgrown root, glaring at his eldest nephew with a fury that rivaled the Great Doom that sunk Valyria.

“Well, we should be on our way then. Come on Aemond, we should get going!” You held out your held for your friend to hold on to, but were quickly interrupted by the brown-haired Targaryen at the side.

“He can’t! I mean-” stammered Jace as did his best in thinking of an excuse, “-I’m afraid my uncle cannot join us. You see, um – his mother, the Queen, requested his presence in her solar.”

“I’m sure my mother won’t mind waiting for a few moments while I join you in escorting my pearl to her favorite friend, nephew.” This wasn’t a lie on Aemond’s part. While he didn’t like the idea in keeping his mother waiting for him, he despised the thought of you being alone with the Strong Knight’s eldest bastard even more. Besides, his mother adored you as if you were her own daughter. It would have gone without saying that she would be happy with her son spending time with her best friend’s daughter.

“But why would you want to risk it, uncle?” Jacaerys wasn’t going to let his selfish uncle hog all of your attention. You were his friend too! It wasn’t fair that he had find crumbs of your time and affections, while his uncle got to feast on your smiles and laughter. He had spent hours with the dragon keepers of the dragonpit to help him train Vermax, all so that he could finally show you how close he was in riding him! But you were always too busy comforting his stupid dragonless uncle!

Enough was enough. Jacaerys may have been a Velaryon like his father, but he was also a Targaryen like his mother. It was he who carried the dragon’s blood, and dragons took what they desired or felt what they deserved. And he desrved to be with you more than Aemond.

“It’s alright Aemond, we’ll talk more later! Let’s go Jace, we shouldn’t keep our mothers waiting any more than we have.” Grabbing his hand before walking out of the gardens, you weren’t able to see the younger prince throw a triumphant smirk to his uncle before once more facing you with the story of how Luke accidentally got egg in his hair.

Watching his literal bastard of a nephew walk hand-in-hand away with his pearl, Aemond Targaryen felt his fury grow more potent with each step. He hated that you called his nephew by his nickname, all while he had none. What’s worse was the fact that you allowed him to refer to you as “Ashi.” What a ridiculous name, only a lowborn such as his nephew would refer to someone as precious as you as something as study and simple like “Ashi.” You were a pearl – his pearl, in fact. A fact that he felt was important to emphasize as he watched your head being thrown back in laughter. His anger grew to an all-time high when he watched you ruffle Jacaery’s hair with abundant affection.

Not wanting to make a scene, he walked to his mother’s chambers in fuming silence. While her presence wasn’t yours, maybe he could think of a plan to get you away from his whore of a sister and her illegitimate offspring.

If worse comes to worst, he might need to recruit his sister to his cause. He knew that Helaena would especially be thrilled in receiving your presence. You were the only one besides your parents that did not treat his beloved sister like an oddity. If you were not with Aemond, you were often found stitching with the young princess. It seemed that you were the only person in the entire world that could get her to smile.

Such a sweet girl, his pearl. Someone so kind was not meant to endure the presence of lowly bastards – even if they did technically carry royal blood.

He needed to come up with something fast.

Translations:

“Nyke pendagon iksā brilliant. Eman dōrī rhēdan anyone else qilōni kostagon ȳdragon Valyrio Eglie hae sȳrī hae ao. Kostā solve problems bona aegon ēza trouble lēda during aōha lessons lēda se Giēñatī. Aemond, iksā ñuha sȳrje raqiros. Gaomagon daor ivestragon kesā sagon daor rūnas.” - “You’re brilliant. I’ve never met anyone else who can speak such fluent High Valyrian, especially at your age. You can solve problems that Aegon has trouble with during your lessons with the Maester. Aemond, you are my best friend. Don’t say that you will be forgotten.”

Tagging:

@valeskafics, @faesspace, @aphroditesmoon, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @nellychick, @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @bellamys-girl1, @immyowndefender, @xxlovingfandomsxx, @elinedjarin, @meg-egg-blog, @marvelescape, @mandiiblanche, @lokiofasgard12, @boxedpandas, @anewpersonthatexists, @toodlesxcuddles, @mckiquinn, @cvspians, @aemondslove

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd au #house of the dragon x you #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon x oc #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x oc #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #reader insert

245 notes · View notes

netherfeildren · 7 months

Text

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter VI : Sisyphus

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence; Blood and Gore; Explicit description of injury; Use of misogynistic language; Threat of SA but none occurs; Ass play; Anal sex

A/N: It's all downhill from here, baby!!!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER VI : SISYPHUS

DEATH: Why the bow, if you’re breaking no laws?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

You’re in the dark again, warm and sated, together. He’s propped up on one elbow, practically half on top of you while you lay on your belly, pressed into the soft blankets and the blistering heat of his body; your cheek, smooshed into the ball of his shoulder while you let him explore your skin at will. He’s been biting and licking and kissing all over for what seems like hours after having fucked you halfway to delirium, and you can do nothing more than hum and whimper when his teeth get too hungry, his bite too sharp, listening to the sounds he makes. Low rumbles of appreciation deep in his chest that you feel vibrate into the bones of your back, breathy huffs where he takes in your scent, mingled with the flavor of his own sweat and come. You’re damp and sweaty and a little sticky in the soft crevices between your limbs, and maybe it should be disgusting, but he tastes you everywhere anyways.The tip of his nose dragging down the line of your spine, a soft nip to your waist, a sharper one to the inside of your bicep, that vulnerable and ticklish swell. He rolls you slightly further towards him to expose your breasts to his explorations, and you feel the tickle of his armpit hair on your cheek where your face is tucked into his side. He sniffs below the damp line of your hair at the nape of your neck, mouths wetly at the satiny skin, and you drag your fingertips up his arm, barely there, pulling a shiver from him and a soft moan. “What’s your favorite place in the galaxy?” Your voice barely a break in the silence, the soft song of your breathing.

A wet suck to your nipple, “Balls deep inside of you,” entirely serious in that monotone way of his.

“Disgusting.”

“Nuh uh, delicious,” a long swipe to the other nipple, pad of his thumb brushing over the dip of your navel. A whine of his name, and he gives you a laugh, the sort of laugh that changes the trajectory of a person’s life, the sort of laugh that is so real it could almost be confused as imaginary. He moves up, lets you savor the sound of it, and there is no better taste than this: someone else’s laughter in your mouth. You twist your fingers in his curls, run your tongue behind his teeth, belly pressed to belly. “I’m being serious,” you remind him.

He buries his face in your neck, a soft hum, “Here, on the ship.” With me? You want to ask. “What about yours?”

“I like water.” You always had, had always been a swimmer when the moment allowed.

“Then we shall have to find some water for you, won’t we?” His fingers have snuck down to your bottom, and he kneads your soft flesh, the line of his once again swollen erection trapped between your bodies. Yes, you’d like that, you think, to be in water with him. You dig your fingers into the rock hard muscles of his shoulders as his mouth resumes its explorations.

“I want a loth cat,” you tell him next.

Mhmm.

“Din?” His mouth is once again latched at your breast, and his cock has begun to thrust and grind against your belly, sticky tip drooling against your skin.

“Please, be quiet,” he says with your breast still in his mouth. “I’m very busy.”

You ignore him, twist your fingers tighter in his curls, arching your chest further into his mouth. “Will you get me a loth cat?” Voice all soft and breathy and breaking as you lift your thigh around his naked hip.

Distracted: “A what?”

The man really, really does not listen. “A loth cat. Will you get me one?”

Finally, he pulls his head back. “No. What is that?”

“You’re saying no, and you don’t even know what they are!”

“You’re not bringing any animals on my ship,” and even though he can’t see it, you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s a pet. Not an animal.”

“Explain the difference to me.” He bends his head to your breast again, all teeth now.

“A pet is fluffy, and I will love it.” But he brings his cock back into the mix then, and there are no more allowances for ridiculous requests for quite some time after that.

“Now you’re going to be good and stay here like I’m asking you to this time, right? Where you’re safe.” He’d landed the Razor Crest a conservative distance away from Niima Outpost; didn’t want you too far isolated in the sand dunes while he left you to go out and fetch his bounty, but not so close you’d be easily noticed.

“Oh, you are soooo stern,” you pout up at him from where you’re curled up in your bed.

His only response: a long suffering sigh, hands on his hips. You roll your eyes at him, nuzzling into the pillow that smells just like his hair. “Yes. I promise I’ll stay on the ship this time. Where it’s safe.” He comes to one knee beside your shared bed, he’d never crawled back into that tomb of a bunk again after that last time together, this was your shared place now. He brushes a gentle thumb over the pout of your bottom lip, tipping your chin up to the dark tee of his visor, “What a good girl you can be… when you set your mind to it, little one.” You scoff, rolling your eyes at him again, but feel your cheeks heat and your lower belly go tight and fluttery. Your pussy clenches with a slight twinge, and you feel the slow thick drool of his come seep out of you. He’d taken you hard earlier, savage and rough and without restraint – like he was angry at having to leave you and taking it out on your cunt.

“Only when I try very, very hard,” you tell him. He dips his chin once, and then unfolds to his great height above you, another nod, another paused moment to take one last, long look at you, and you want to beg, so badly, for him not to go. It feels like the first time he’d left, all those weeks ago. Your first experience staying on the Crest without him while he went out to hunt his bounty, and at the same time, all the worse. You know him so much better now, you need him, you… You what? No, you can’t think of it now. It’s a non possibility, something you aren’t capable of. But a pesky, perilous corner of your mind whispers, like the Force healing? A non possibility of that sort? You want to ask him to take his helmet off and kiss you before he goes, you want to beg him to stay, you want to ask him why he’s not called you that sweet name again since that last time, the only time, in the heat and damp darkness of the fresher when he’d whispered it into your skin, cyar’ika, and you want to cry, just a little bit, if you think on it too much. On the fact that he’d not repeated it, at the possibility of it having been a mistake or a slip in the heat of the moment. But you say none of those things, and ask for no kiss, and look after him with regret and an inkling of unsettled trepidation as the broad expanse of his back lumbers down the lowered plank and then disappears with the closing of the hatch into the scorched badlands and marching dunes of Jakku.

The hull is left dark and serene with his departure, quiet, and yet it sends a small shiver up your naked spine, bare and wet beneath the warm covers like he’d left you. He keeps the space meticulously clean, but now it’s littered with small signs of your presence in his life, of your life together. Your tunic thrown over the lone stool where he forces you to sit when you take your meals with him crouched at your feet, obsessively watching to make sure you have your fill, strange and lovely man that he is. He has a complex about the food you consume, as if it’s imperative to him that you eat as much as you can, that you’re always satisfied in the ways he cannot, or will not allow himself to be. He doesn’t eat enough, never as much as you know he’d probably secretly like to, and for a man of his size and brawn, surely not enough as he needs to, and it’s slowly fostered an angry kernel of resentment within you. He should always have all the things that he needs and wants, as much food as he desires, always, and anything that would keep those things from him you’re bitterly coming to detest. It even, in a strangely convoluted way, makes you angry at yourself, that your presence here with him prevents him from freely and comfortably discarding his helmet to take his meals. If you weren’t here with him he could eat as much as he wants whenever he wants without worry of being seen, and sometimes, try as you might, you can’t let go of the thought.

He’d left the pair of his thick socks you’d appropriated for yourself draped over one of the steam pipes that are warm to the touch, so that when you’d put them on they’re nice and toasty for you. The sight of them makes your heart kick and flip and burn in your chest, and you turn over to face the other way, towards the wall so that you’ll not be forced to look upon the empty hull and the warm socks and the Din-less space and remind yourself how much you hate when he goes away. He’d said he’d be back quickly, only a few hours he estimated, and you comfort yourself with this as you tuck your hands beneath your cheek and slowly drift off into a restless sleep.

“Hello, beastie.”

You’re thrashed into wakefulness by an agonizing grip twisting in your hair trying to rip the very strands from your scalp. You screech, disoriented trying to kick out, get your bearings, but the hull is still darkened from the way Din had left you. You feel another pair of hands trying to grasp at your ankles, and you kick out savagely, bracing yourself against the cold floor, and then the sickening crunch of the bones in your hand as a heavy boot slams down on your fingers, agony, agony, what is happening? An alien dialect in a language you can’t discern, rough and grating is spit back and forth between several voices, and then the first voice comes again and an old, hunched female steps into the dim light from the shadows. You recognize her reptilian Thalassian aspect immediately, and your heart drops into your stomach. Slavers. You double your efforts, kicking and screaming and trying to claw at the hands in your hair, to rip yourself away while your crushed hand screams in agony. The old female comes closer, beastie, beastie, we’ve caught ourselves a beastie, she sing-songs in a hollow voice. Another boot to your belly, kicking the air out of your lungs, sending fire through your ribs and bile up your throat, but when you turn your head, you make eye contact with one of the old crones henchmen, another Thalassian, and with a single thought you send him slumping to the ground, brains oozing out of his ears in a melted, bloody mess.

“Murderous little beast!” the female screeches, and she’s unraveling a whip from around her forearm, and before you can even brace yourself, snapping it at you so that it’s splitting open the meat of your cheek. Searing agony spreads across your face, your vision goes in and out, and you try and shake it away, but then more of that guttural unknown language and an order from the crone, and your arms are being jerked forward so harshly it feels as though your bones will be wrenched from their sockets, and they’re clamping something around your wrists. Something cold and sucking and terrible. You slump forward, tangled in the soft blankets of yours and Din’s shared bed, still naked beneath, and you try to reach for the Force, for your strength, for Din’s mind out there in the desert, but there’s nothing. Acute silence, unbearable nothingness. All your strength zapped and stolen away in the blink of an unguarded moment, like an amputated limb.

The female is hunched over the body of the one you’d killed, leaning heavily on a thick walking stick, spitting hissing sobs, and when she turns back to look at you, you can see there are tears marring her ugly, wrinkled face. “You killed him! Creature! Dark creature!” She spits. “Pull her back, let me look at the little whore’s face.” Unforgiving claws in your hair again, and your head is ripped back and angled towards the weak light of the fresher, the blanket covering your modesty slipping to reveal your nakedness beneath. Fear and shame and fury curdle and burn within you like acid. If he comes back and finds you gone, or worse dead, he’ll be devastated, so hurt, so angry, he’ll blame himself. They can’t – they cannot put him through that. You have to think, calm yourself, get out of these binders they’ve put you in, some sort of Force suppression technology at work. The things glow a sickly purple color, nothing like the lovely warm violet of your saber. But before you can even get a firm grasp on your thoughts, collect yourself, the woman slides the walking stick in her grip, and pulling it back behind her shoulder, swings it forward with all her might to hit you in the face with the heavy, bulbous end of it, right over the split from the whip. You feel the very mass of your brain jostle within your skull, a sickening crunch, the vision in that eye going completely dark. Maker, they’re going to kill you if they’re not careful. A terrible sound rips from your throat, something worse than a mere cry, going slack jawed, whacked further into the pit of unconsciousness. One of the others says something to the old Thalassian and turning away from you, she hisses something back. She goes still for a few moments, leaning on her stick heavily once again, the sound of her wet panting breath, and when she seems to have finally collected herself she turns back to you again. In basic she says, “I know what you are. I’ve heard what they’ve been trying to do to your ilk. How they mine you for that sweet little nectar that runs through your veins, through all of us – the Force. There are rumors of you circulating the Outer Rim, did you know? We heard of you and came searching. Received word from our Huttese friends, whispers of a Mandalorian mercenary and his dark pet roaming about the dunes of Jakku, an old gunship spotted lurking where it should not be. We’ve been searching for you, beastie,” she whispers, coming closer to inspect you, voice maniacal with cruel glee. The pain in your face, your head is a numb throb sharpening to acute fire, vision fading and then glowing bright white and burning. Your head, Maker, they’ve knocked it clean off your neck. “There are many clamoring to get their hands on you. Tell me, what does it feel to be whittled down to nothing more than the worth of an invisible and illusory thing? The Force,” voice contemplative and disgusted, all the same. “To be worth nothing more but that unseen ether flowing through your veins. How does it feel to be nothing? Look at you – playing the whore to some Mandalorian brute. Pretty thing…” She pushes back at your shoulder with the butt end of her stick, “Before you went and made me angry. Hmm… perhaps, I shall sell you with that same offering, as well? Would you like that? I wonder what will fetch a higher price, your blood or your cunt.” She laughs and her thugs join around her. You can feel the wide split in your face drooling blood, throbbing in agony, the sound of their raucous and cruel laughter creating a painful symphony above the pounding of your blood in your ears. “A magical whore!” She cackles, flashing her rotting grimace. “Yes, I quite like that idea. Stealing you away from that murderer – mercenaries, the lot of them, those Mandalorians. They hide behind the conflated righteousness of their Creed and their failed history, but they are nothing but another murderous cog in the wheel that would subjugate those of us they deem lesser.” The laughter leaves her suddenly, going serious, and you feel such fear in that single pause of silence. He’s going to

be so angry when he finds you gone, and you– you cannot be enslaved again, you can’t, you won’t. You’ll kill yourself before you allow it. “Monster,” she hisses, “This is nothing worse than what a thing like you deserves after the sort of evil your ilk spread. Imperial slut,” she spits at you, and her saliva lands like a glob of acid on your bare chest, burning. “Grab her. We’re going before her Mandalorian brute returns and kills us for taking his pet.” Her underlings say something in that unknown language, gathering to grip you under the arms and around your ankles, and a frenzy ignites in your heart. Through your broken and torn face you begin to howl, writhing and kicking your legs with as much strength as you can muster despite the broken ribs. “No, no! I will not go!” You screech, getting one in the face. He jerks away and lets your bottom half hit the hard floor with a harsh thud. “Let me go! I will not– I will not go!” You won’t be taken from him, you won’t, you won’t. The one holding your upper half shoves you painfully to the ground, your poor, battered head slamming once again, and another brutal kick lands to your ribs. Maker, you’d not missed beatings like this. The crone begins to scream at them, garbled sounds you can’t make out, and you lay your head on the cold floor. You just need a second to breathe, that’s it. You can endure much, much more than this, it’s only the binders stealing your strength, you just need a moment, and then you’ll fight again or break out of these terrible things and kill them all, but your head, Maker, your head feels as if it’s been split open down the middle. Their yelling reaches a crescendo, an added shrillness to it that was not there before, and then one of the henchmen is toppling painfully over your prone form, a heavy knee to your spine as he lands diagonally over your body, but his weight is instantly ripped away from you. More screaming and oh, the sound of blaster fire, the piercing screams of the old Thalassian, you turn your head slowly, slowly to the side and there, through the bloody and matted strands of your loose hair, that bright and familiar gleam, a flash of burnt red. You bring your manacled wrists slowly up to your chest, hunching into as small a ball as you can make yourself, cradling your broken hand to yourself.

He’s here.

He’s here, it’ll all be okay now.

You let your eyes flutter shut and listen to the Thalassian’s screaming reach a crescendo, and it sounds a little like that long ago familiar sound of flesh tearing from flesh. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see him commit atrocities in your name. It’s a funny thing, you think, the nature of his violence. He is a Mandalorian, and like the Thalassian had said, yes, perhaps, mercenary, and so it would stand that he is a man who commits violence, but you’d found – Maker, you hurt – you’ve found… that a thing that commits violence is not always also, or at once, a violent thing by nature. The moment makes of us what it needs us to be, but that does not always indicate our true selves. Violence committed in an instant of necessity, the peril of threat, does not always mean that we are bad or violent in our hearts, and Din… your Mandalorian does not have a violent heart. Beneath all of that uncompromising beskar is a soft heart, a good heart. It’s why you–

The scream stops.

No, no, no, no, no– “Look at me, look at me, cyar’ika. It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m here now. They’re gone, it’s okay.” You’re a crumpled, bloody, broken heap on the ground. He’d left you. He had left you here alone for this to be done to you. There is something hot and terrifying crawling its way up the inside of Din’s chest, searing his throat, turning it to char. He turns you over with all the gentleness he can muster, his shaking hands slippery with blood, the broken, dead bodies littered around the two of you as he pushes your bloody hair from your face and takes in the way they’d savaged you.

And Din– Din feels a fury the likes of which he’s never felt before in his entire life. And in the wake of a sort of fear he’d never experienced previously either, not even at the sight of his child self watching his mother and father murdered, the image of their crumpled and broken bodies becoming smaller and smaller as he was taken away into the unknown by the Mandalorians who’d saved him, it leaves him unbalanced and of tremulous control as he pulls you into his arms. You’re cupping one of your hands strangely in the other, and when he takes your manacled wrists you let out a painful, garbled sound. Your hand is mangled, fingers darkening already and bent sickeningly in incongruous angles, and he wants, very badly, to look away from the sight of your pain. It causes a physical ache inside of him, nausea and fire and thunder, like a blaster bolt to the belly, a knife to the lung. “Look at me, cyare,” and your eye blinks open, the darker of the two, the one that whispers silently at him when he looks at it too long, the other, the bright one like a scream, is too swollen to open, but you, miracle of miracles, for you are a miracle wrapped in the shape of a girl, give him the tiniest of attempted smirks; something like the creation of myth unfolding before him. The side of your face not broken and bleeding, lifting into a crooked little half moon, and bloody smile full of sharp, menacing teeth you croak, “I knew you’d come.”

Din knows in this instant that he is going to love you for the rest of his life. It is not a question, or an uncertainty. It is simply fact. Truth like his Creed, like The Way.

“I’m here. I’ll always come for you,” he tells you in lieu of saying that which sits heavy on his tongue now, which is that he’d let you eat his very heart out of his chest if you so desired it, that he belongs to you intrinsically. “I’m so sorry. I’m here now.” The hand not mangled grips the fabric around his throat and Din feels a sob in the shape of your name build in his chest. The Mandalorian, on the verge of tears. He gently presses you closer, tries to breathe, tries to swallow his howls. They were slavers, he’d marked them from the moment he’d spotted them through the open hatch of the Crest, dropping the long dead bounty he’d found half buried in the sand to sprint towards you. He’d worried about the possibility of this for some time now, the threat of someone coming for you, recognizing what you were, thought he’d prepared for it. Rumors were difficult to avoid or quell and despite his attempts to keep anyone from getting too close to sniff you out, you attracted attention. It was inevitable. Too beautiful, too alive, too alluring. He’d been afraid of something like this happening, and he’d thought the best way to keep you safe was to keep you here, hidden away on his ship, security system set and impenetrable. He’d been a damned fool.

He takes in the sight of your bare limbs, the beginnings of nasty bruising over your naked abdomen. The idea of someone taking you from him, severing his claim, keeping you away from him… and like this, when you were supposed to be safe here in this place the two of you’d made a home of together, while you were bare and waiting for him as he’d left you, when you were still full of his semen, potentially full of his–

He swallows the thought. There are certain things you believe about yourself that Din is doubtful to agree with just yet…

“Take them off,” you whisper up at him, “I’ll–” a pained swallow, “I’ll heal. It’s okay, Din. Don’t be afraid,” you say with such earnestness, a tiny life of an eyebrow, but he is anyway. You shouldn’t be the one telling him not to be afraid right now, split open as you are, but you do anyway, and Din is deathly afraid – of this, of you, of everything, of not being fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you, to keep you. Din feels more afraid now than he has ever felt in his entire life.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay. It’s not that bad,” and at the same time, your words make him so angry. At what life had made you believe, at what the galaxy had made you believe was okay. This is not fucking okay. Seeing you hurt like this is not okay. He moves to gently, as gently as he can possibly be, disengage the binders from around your wrists, careful to not jostle your broken hand too much.

“It’s not okay.” He looks at your mangled face, the blood running into your hairline, your swollen eye, that lovely and luminous eye that makes his heart feel split into a million different pieces, all engraved with the etching of your name, “This is not okay.” And then his gaze lands on the blood splattered gem of your earring. This sight he must close his eyes to, he cannot bear it. That tiny sparkle, the significance of your relationship made material, covered in your own blood and his failure to protect you.

He opens his eyes again to take in your wet gaze, unseeingly staring up at him, dark and fathomless. It shutters closed, long lashes clumped together in the sticky mess of your blood and tears. “It will be. I’ll heal soon. This is not the worst that’s been done to me,” voice thin and reedy, as if you’re embarrassed, ashamed to say the words out loud. As if you recognize them for the travesty they pose. He has to look away, swallow another sob. Din can’t remember the last time he cried, the last time he felt like crying, but he feels it now. Eyes hot and pinched and uncomfortable.

He should have never left you. He will never leave you again.

Wrapping you in the blanket, he makes sure your modesty is covered, and with as much care as he can, takes you in the cradle of his arms and moves you back into your bed.

“Where’s your bounty?” You croak.

“That doesn’t matter now. Rest. I’m going to–”

“Of course, it matters. It’s–” a pained swallow.

“Don’t talk, cyare. It’s okay. We can–”

But you press on, cut him off. “That's the whole reason we came here. We’re not going to let this be a waste.” This being your savaging, split open, almost stolen. Din feels his heart drop down into his stomach. He nods once, swallows, tries to cough up the knot of agony lodged in his throat.

“I dropped it when I saw them. They did something – fucked with the system and deviated the signal so I wasn’t alerted when they broke in. The bounty was already dead. Beacon signal still going. I found him and came straight back – saw the open hatch and knew something was wrong–” You give a soft, pained moan, brow folding into an agonized frown. Maker, he’s not going to survive this. He feels like a fucking coward. Terrified, sick to his stomach, angrier, weaker than he’s ever been in his entire life.

“Slavers. Thalassians,” you whisper, resting your head against his chest plate, broken hand clutched against your chest. “I need you to reset my fingers before they heal wrong.” Fuck, he’s never had a panic attack before, but he worries he might be having one now. He tries to swallow the scream for you, thinks he whispers something like, alright. Shifting you in his lap, he pulls his blood soaked gloves from his hands, and when he reaches for your hand he takes in the tremor of his own fingers, feels a humiliating wash of shame curdle inside of him. He’s a Mandalorian for Maker’s sake, a warrior, and yet the sight of your pain, your hurt, leaves him unraveled, as frightened and green as a child. He has never experienced the dilemma of having someone he– someone that matters, hurt. Carefully propping your back up against his bent knee he pulls you in close so that your hip is tucked up against him, he grasps your wrist tenderly between his fingers, soothes the pad of his thumb against the soft inner slope of your wrist, the webbing of blue beneath the thin skin is comforting somehow, you’re alive. He made it in time, he’s going to fix this, take care of you. “It’s okay, Din,” you whisper again.

A sharp jerk of his chin, “I know. I’m going to make this right.”

He smooths his thumb up the base of your palm, trying to settle, comfort you, the both of you, he rubs a gentle circle into the center, feels you tremble and jerk against him, and he hums low in his throat, a deep sound to remind you that he’s here, he’s got you. “It’s alright, little one. It’s alright, it’s alright,” keeps murmuring low reassurances in your ear, unsure whether they’re more for you or for himself, as his fingers slide up slow and light and grip your ring finger first, grasping it at the base to hold it securely and pulling on the tip to straighten it out, quick and efficient movements, a muted snap. There’s one. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”. Moves to your pinky next, so tiny gripped between his own large, rough fingers. He has to grind his molars together, bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He holds the base of that vulnerable little finger, the fine bone almost nothing beneath his touch and straightens that one too, listens to the hollow pop of the joint righting itself back into place. That one pulls a swallowed screech from your throat, you turn your face sharply away, and he sees your legs shuffle and kick in his periphery, your breathing fast and shallow.

“Hurt– That one hurt,” you choke, and he watches a single tear squeeze out of your swollen eye and make a slow, devastating track down the slope of your mangled cheek, losing itself to the shredded gash.

“What did that to your cheek?” He grits at the same time that he rights your index finger into place, tenses his knee to keep you steady and upright as you jerk. Panting wet breath hiccupping, trying to swallow back your cries for a moment, he cradles your bruised hand in his, wishes he wasn’t wearing this fucking helmet so that he could kiss the back of it, lick your wounds. He feels like screaming.

“A w– a whip.” You don’t turn back to look at him, and Din feels his blood turn to frost. Something so painful moving through his chest he struggles for breath.

“They whipped you in the face?” He looks at the pieces of Thalassian surrounding the two of you and curses himself for killing them so quickly. He should’ve been smarter, more patient, drawn it out. Made them suffer.

“It’s okay–” voice short, tense. “I’ll heal.” Face still turned towards the open hatch and the hot Jakkuian night, he watches another tear fall.

“It doesn’t matter–”

“I’ll heal. I’ll–”

“That doesn't matter–they hurt you. You can be hurt. Just because you can heal, just because you don’t care about what happens to you doesn’t mean that I don’t.” He cups the back of your head, begs you to turn back towards him with his touch. “You being hurt hurts me, do you understand me?” Voice soft as he can make it go, trying to make you see what he’s saying in the only way he thinks will penetrate the fog of your painful history.

And you do turn back at that, finally, thank you, thank you, he can see the edges of the wound start to knit themselves back together. A girl and a miracle and a myth all woven into one. “Do you understand me?” He asks again, cupping your chin, gathering the wet of your freely falling tears now, pressing the pad of his thumb to the corner of your eye.

“No, no, I don’t understand,” face crumpling, you press your forehead beneath the edge of his helmet. They hurt me, they hurt me, you cry over and over, and Din knows that you don’t only mean the Thalassians. He wishes he possessed the hand of the Maker. That he could reach across to the far corners of the galaxy, the most shadowed depths, the blackest pits, and wipe away any speck of darkness that’s ever touched you, anything or anyone that had ever done you harm. He wishes he could give you his very heart as an offering, anything that would settle the sound of your anguish. But then he thinks that an impossible sort of thing, for his very heart is held right here, sobbing in his arms, living on the outside of his chest.

After he insists on you allowing him to spread bacta along your cheek and hand, despite your protestations that it’ll close on its own, that you’re fine, you remind him that his bounty is still lying dead and forgotten out in the sand sea beyond the ship. He goes out to retrieve the pitiful thing, felled by the wrath of Jakku, most likely, and you make an agonized attempt to stand and dress yourself. Your ribs and back ache, the line of your spine feels on the verge of fracture from the last blow you’d taken, and you shuffle about slowly, trying to force yourself to hurry and get yourself covered before he returns, not wanting him to see the extent of the damage done to your ribs and back. You manage to get on a pair of underwear and one of his shirts before he’s stomping back up the gangway, dead bounty slung over his shoulder. He bends to shuck the thing off, the limp body hitting the durasteel with a harsh thud that snaps your mind into focus for a millisecond so that you’re taking in the carnage surrounding you. The release of gas from the carbon freezer sounds around you as you find the old Thalassian – her head seems to have been ripped clean from her neck somehow, you cock your head slowly, taking the sight in. He’s moving about, dragging the pieces of the bodies and chucking them out the hatch, and your mind feels like a piece of elastic snapping far out and away from you, and then shooting back in a painful reverberation, vision going hyper focused, too bright to bear, and then murky, as if viewed through a broken pane of glass. You hear the whirring, metallic shifting of the closing gangway, and your head swoops, belly twisting with nausea. There are pools of blood coagulating thick and disgustingly viscous on the floor, and you reach out for the wall to steady yourself as your blood rushes in your ears, but he’s immediately there, gentle hand to the curve of your waist and the bend of your elbow to pull you to himself. “It’s okay,” he says again. And he keeps saying so, but seeing this, what he’s done for you, something feels distinctly not okay.

You think of the Corellians who’d attacked you all those weeks ago, the Corellians you'd slaughtered for him. And the memory somehow makes the sight in front of you worse, some sort of horror. You’d turned him into you. You’d forced him into repeating your own horrible actions. In a moment of startling, sickening clarity, you’re confronted with the reality that he is only encased in beskar, he is not made of it. And one day they will go through him to get to you. Because there will surely be more, there will surely be another day, another time, another planet; more slavers or dark siders or someone of equally low measure will come for you again, and he can’t protect you forever, nor you him.

This time, please, let it end differently.

It’s all you ever do, you think, beg and plead for a different sort of fate. The duel of the fates, over and over again, but it is only ever you, alone, at odds with destiny itself. Fighting against what must be, what already is, what always has been. Your own sick ouroboros; eternally destroying and recreating yourself and the things around you.

He leads you back to bed, grabs his socks from where they’d lain draped over the warm steam pipe, and you return his own past words to him while he kneels before you, pulls them over your cold feet, looking over his shoulder the world seems inverted, mirrorlike, the black puddles of blood filled with dark mercury. They would have taken you from him. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.” Your voice sounds hollow and cold, unlike yourself.

He pauses his care of you, helmet tipped down, and you wish you could see his eyes right now, you feel, strangely, like you need them, like it would make everything better, more clear and stable. Taking one small foot in hand, he wraps his fingers around the entire thing. “You’re right,” he tells you, and your stomach flips with bile and fear again. “I shouldn’t have had to do it because I never should have let it happen. This is on me. I shouldn’t have left you alone for this to happen.”

You reach for his wrist, wrapping your fingers around the thick of it to feel his pulse beat against your fingertips. Something furious in the fluttering thrum of it; something of a monolith about him, steadfast, unmovable, the strongest thing in the entire galaxy. There’s a tinge of crimson rage swallowing him, and you can tell he’s doing everything in his considerable strength to keep it under reign for your sake; the proof is in the strew of bodies he’d littered the floor of the ship with. “They’ll always come for me, Din. As long as I’m alive, as long as the dark exists, as long as The Force exists they’ll come for me. They’ll never stop.”

The helmet snaps up, the yawning tee of dark transparisteel whispers its rage at you. “Then I’ll make them,” he grits. “I’ll find a way. I’ll protect you. We’re going to fix this. I’m going to fix this.” And you feel so–so strange. So sad. Devastated. The wave of fate swallows you whole, and that dark red thread crumbles to dust. You feel so unbearably sad for the both of you that your tears are renewed. Sad and old and at the end of your line.

And again: A person without a soul cannot cry. And so this must only be proof of the fact that you still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must.

It’s his now. Undoubtedly. Whatever of your soul has bloomed back into life belongs to him now. You bring your trembling fingers up to the face of his shining beskar helmet, warring wishes wrapped into a strange tangle for what you know will not be the last time: that it wasn’t there, that you could have all of him, and, at the same time, that you too had something of such strength and conviction to protect you as his Creed protects him. What a comfort it must be. “I know you will.” Lie.

He goes to initiate takeoff and get the ship into hyperspace after that, and you can hear the uncharacteristic frenzy of his movement echoing in his rushed steps as he flits about the cockpit. Settling into your nest of blankets, you face the wall so you’re not made to look at the mess that’s been left, and when he returns, you listen to the sound of him divesting himself of his armor, the rustle of falling clothes, you can feel his panic now up closer, pressing against the confines of your skin like some living thing, trying to sneak its way into whatever break in you it might find. He was frightened, he is frightened. For you. If you weren’t struck stone cold you’d perhaps laugh at the idea of it, but strange memories flash in your mind, highlighted by painful bursts of bright light behind your closed lids, memories of darkness and pain and being so alone another person, a real person, existing in the entire galaxy seemed too far fetched a thing to be true. The sort of loneliness that forces you to forget that other living things exist. You curl in on yourself, still tucking your now halfway mended hand close to your chest, cupping your other palm over your eyes to hide yourself away. Shocked into a subdued, humming terror. A peripheral thing, the reality that you should be afraid or shaken, and you are, kind of, but interrupted by that memory of similar or much worse things that make this small mishap seem inconsequential in the shadow of all the rest, all the past.

You listen to him move towards the fresher to throw the two of you into darkness, and you panic, “Don’t turn the light off, please,” you murmur, still hidden behind your palm. If you cannot see the world, perhaps the world cannot see you either. “I’m sorry to ask – I won’t look, I promise.”

He pauses, silent for a moment. “Don’t apologize. Don’t. It’s okay. Anything you want.” What you really wish he’d say is that he doesn’t care if you look or not, a selfish and rotten and horrible feeling rolling in after the thought.

He crawls in behind you, sliding up against you bare and burning hot; an entire sun held inside the heart of a single man. He keeps his hands to himself at first, and you enjoy the brush of his chest up against your back on every one of his inhalations, the symphony of his breathing, but eventually he braves the salted earth and passes a gentle hand down the line of your spine.

“What do you need?” His voice is the deepest thing in the entire galaxy, you think. Space has nothing on it.

You press your hand tighter over your eyes. “Nothing.”

“You are strong and capable,” he says after a moment, and you worry you might vomit. “But you don’t always have to be. I don’t want you to have to fight when you’re with me. I only want you to be comfortable and cared for and well. Let me help you.”

“Okay,” barely a sound breathed through the part of your lips. And it takes several hours, but eventually that thing they’d come for, the very thing they’d attacked and tried to take you for, heals you. The Force. What is it to hate the very thing that makes you up, the very marrow of you, the sustenance of your life? Agony, madness, bitter, bitter resentment. Loneliness. To be alone within yourself. Terrible pain. Every bad thing that’s ever come to you throughout your entire life has been done in its name. And you’re angry at the fact, you think. For years and years things were done to you to honor that invisible giant, and it built an anger within you that is incoherent, unidentifiable, inconsolable.

You ache like you’re recently made.

But he holds you so gently while you knit yourself back together, seam by seam, so that the possibility of pain is removed entirely from the equation. He holds you like he loves you, and you want to ask him if he does, if he thinks he could ever love a thing like you, even if you do not deserve it. Even if he does not deserve it.

You fold it away instead.

Tell me, what does it feel to be whittled down to nothing more than the worth of an invisible and illusory thing? To be worth nothing?

Like spitting salt through an open wound, the agonized phantasma of an amputated limb.

You’re nothing.

And Din? He’s everything.

From behind your hiding spot you tell the quiet: “Sometimes it feels like I haven’t been happy my whole life. But I know I feel it with you. I want you to know that.”

“Do you?” His hand slides up the line of your vertebrae to cup the back of your neck, and you tremble beneath his heat, as if he were anointing you with the power of a sun.

“Yes.” You wish you had the courage to say more, to say everything. A real confession, the cutting sort: I was made to be nothing more than a weapon, but now I am a human, now I am alive. Now I am only myself. And I hurt, and I wish I were a girl again: only half savage, unmarred and free. But despite all of this, I am still only yours.

“I know already.”

Cyar’ika. Cyar’ika.

And so what does it matter if you hurt when he calls to you so sweetly? And yet, a quiet and unused part of you whispers back that it should not be so, that the thought is not quite right. Focus, focus, call them growing pains if you must. Focus only on him. And you realize that there is something about him that makes you fragile in the face of his strength, for some reason and most importantly, in a way that you like, in a way that is appealing to you like nothing else you’ve ever experienced before. Something that tells you that you need him to be strong in ways you’ve never had or needed to be strong before, a strength that is soft, something that is unyielding for the vulnerability you allow yourself with him. You can’t understand it.

“And I will let you take care of me.”

“I’m going to. This means something,” he says very quietly, the words bouncing off the back of your neck, and you know it is true. ��This means something.”

It does. Everything. The two of you mean something together.

You finally turn to face him again, eyes closed, seams more securely knitted together and press your forehead to the notch of his throat, cracking your eyes open to look down at the expanse of his abdomen. You run a flat palm down his belly, feel the strength of him. If there is nothing else, perhaps, there can be Din.

“Close your eyes,” he threads his fingers through the back of your hair, “Let me kiss you,” and you feel your heart break and melt into desperation all at once. You press your eyes shut tightly and tip your face up towards him, parted mouth and bated breath, ready to receive the taste of him. He licks into you, pulling a moan from your belly and onto his waiting tongue, and you wish there was something more you could give him, something deeper, more significant that could translate all you feel for him. “I need you to forgive me,” he licks the words into your skin. “I need you to tell me you forgive me for letting this happen.”

“Don’t say that. There’s nothing to forgive. There’s nothing–”

“I should’ve been more careful. Smarter, more prepared. We shouldn’t have wasted time in that fucking desert for so long.” But you’d distracted him, kept him from going out, seeing to his responsibilities.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you say again, tipping your head back to bear your throat for him.

He licks a line up the slope, tasting your pulse, the proof you’re still alive. Plants a kiss at the hinge of your jaw and then presses his forehead there. “I’ve failed you,” he whispers.

“Din, listen to me, listen to me. You could never do that. Never. Do you understand me?” If he only knew all you’ve not told him, all the ways in which you’ve failed him. You’re sure he’d see you in a very different light.

“It’s not going to happen again,” he promises, and you’ve not the heart to tell him again that they’ll never stop. That the life of a hunted creature is the only sort of existence you could ever live. You pull his mouth back to yours, kiss him with a renewed fervency. If you cannot give him anything more you’ll put everything you have into this.

“Just kiss me, please,” you beg, twining your arms around his neck and opening to him. He drags his mouth along the inner slope of your bicep, ending at the dip of your elbow and laving his tongue at the sensitive dip. Gripping the bend of your knee he hitches it against his hip and rolls the two of you over. Settling between the cradle of your thighs, he levers himself up off you, careful not to demand you bear his full weight, and finally, you feel ready for the dark again. With a single thought you submerge the two of you into the almost dark again, a weak stream of light coming from the fresher, rattle of the Crest moving through hyperspace sounding around you. He prepares you to take him softly, slowly, with intention. The gentle pad of his thumb to the slick seam of your cunt, parting your folds to get to the wellspring of your desire for him. A single finger and then another hooked against that place inside of you that seems now branded with his ownership over you. Nothing like this has ever existed, and you press the thought into his mind as he tastes your tongue, brings you to orgasm for him with slow and exploring fingers, the slick slide of his thumb over your swollen clit, and the whisper of your name to the shell of your ear. When he feeds his cock into you, slowly, so that you’re made to feel every curve and ridge and then meeting the end of you, so deep you can’t tell where he ends and you begin, it brings tears to your eyes and all sorts of confessions to your tongue that your more rational mind knows should be kept in the shadows. But very like the sun, he shines a light on all the dark and derelict parts of you better left unseen.

When you come for a second time, thick cock splitting you in half, there’s a screaming desperation for more urging you on. “Remind me–” you beg him.

“Of what? What do you need?”

“That I’m yours. That I belong to you. That I’m alive.”

“Do you need reminding of that?” He squeezes your bottom, presses you tighter to himself, his wet mouth sliding against the slope of your shoulder. “Don’t you know always? No matter what?”

“Yes.” Soft, soft, soft, but you don’t need it like this – you need it more– “Remind me anyways.”

You’re as close as can be, but he tells you anyway: “Come here, come here. I’m going to take care of you.” He pulls out, a wet and sucking sound, and turns you in his arms so you’re back to belly, and pulls you open again, thigh thrown over his hip. He runs his hands over the hills and contours of you, cups and squeezes your breasts, rough fingertips softly at your nipples, and you feel your cunt clench and gape, hungry for filling. He cups you over that soaked, ravenous place, slides his hand back and forth over the wet, swollen mess, and then further back, his fingers pressing and prodding gently at your ass. “I’ll have you here now, little one. Yes?” All you can do is nod back against his shoulder where your head is propped, a tightening so intense it’s almost painful strangling your throat, your heart, your cunt. Nothing more than a knot of abandoned want. A thing that doesn’t know how to take without devouring, and you do, you want to devour him. You think he might even let you. He presses a slow finger into the knuckle, and you go tight, bearing down around the invasion, spitting his name out in the shape of a wail into the quiet hull.

“It’s alright,” he gently thrusts that probing finger, hooking and wriggling it. Making space within to fuck you open on his cock. “You’re so tiny here, little thing. But you’re going to take me so well. I know you are.” He pulls his finger out entirely, and then there are two pressing back in as slow as possible, petting first, stretching second. “How’s that? How does that feel, my sweet girl?”

“I don’t– I don’t know,” moaning and shifting, trying to plead for more with little hitched arcs of your hips. “More, please.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes–”

“How badly do you want it? Tell me–” He twists his wrist, stretching, claiming, all while the hill of his palm rubs against your cunt, so wet you can hear the slick sound of its desperation echo in the quiet.

“So badly,” you moan and sob, “More than anything.” He pulls his fingers from you and grips the root of his cock, fat head at your ass and starts to press in slowly, slowly, stretching you open around the incredible girth of him. Your breath comes in puffs and gasps, an unbearable heat flushing through your body, pulsing in your face and swirling in your belly, tightening the tips of your breasts into painful knots. You moan out his name, please for more, for harder, for faster until he’s buried to the root and you’re strangled into a hiccuping silence. Overwhelmed and overwrought by the feel of him buried in your ass so deeply. There’s no space for anything else inside of you, stretched to the brim and so full you can barely breathe. He’s everywhere. Gripping your hip you feel his breath against your cheek, the sweating, curling hair around your ear ruffled as he pants and groans, gritting his teeth and rumbling deep in his chest as he starts to thrust slowly into you.

“How’s that?” Voice strangled. His other hand comes around to thrum gently at your clit, the swollen mass of bundles pulsing with each punch of his hips. Your cunt leaks down to where the two of you are joined, and he picks up his pace, fucking up into you harder, faster, that strumming thumb flicking more quickly. He flattens his fingers against you, rubs at the length of your leaking sex, and you’re beyond words. Impaled and cock drunk. All you can give in return is an approximation of his moaned name, and he gives a quick, sharp slap to the top of your mound. “I want you to tell me how it feels,” voice ragged, almost broken. You tighten almost impossibly at his roughness, clenching down around him so he’s gasping, shocked ah, ah, ah’s, ending on a ragged groan. He brings his forehead to your shoulder, and you listen to his overwhelmed sounds. The first time you think you’ve heard him so close to the precipice of losing control. “Most perfect fucking ass in the entire galaxy,” he grits. All mine, mine, fucking mine.

“Feels–” His fingers resume their exploration of your cunt, “Feels so– so good,” your voice is nothing but agony made pleasure.

“Yeah? Feels good?” The sound of his hips slamming against your ass, wet and lewd, the press of his heavy balls to the round of your bottom. “What about this?” He begins to slowly press two fingers into your gaping, grasping cunt, and oh, it’s too much, your orgasm hits like an exploding star, singing all coherent thought along the way. You feel your pussy gush, go tight as a knot, and he snarls at the curve of your ear, bites down on the line of your shoulder, not halting the thrusting of his fingers inside of you. “Fuck, yes–fucking come for me. Come for me while I fuck your ass–”

“No–no, I can’t anymore, please, I can’t,” you cry.

“You can–you can. I know you can. My fierce little cyar’ika, soft only for me. Aren’t you?”

And how can you deny a man such as this anything. One that holds you so, one that fucks you like he loves you. You’ll lie to yourself, like so many other lies you tell, and pretend that this is the touch of love, that it’s something you deserve. His fingers, his cock are ruthless within you and they force another soaked orgasm out of you, shaky and weak, before he’s following suit, fucking the searing heat of his spend deep inside of you. He rolls you over onto your belly, levers himself up over you and slows his thrusts until you feel the last spurt of his cock kick inside of you, the low reverberations of his pleasure sounding from his chest. When he pulls out he spreads you apart, thumbs at your swollen skin. “It gapes so pretty for me,” he murmurs as he plays with the milky white drool, smears it into your slick, stretched skin. “This is how you should always be, covered in my come, beautiful thing.” All you can do is bury your burning hot face in the blankets.

When the two of you have finally settled later, cleaned yourselves up, and he’s made sure you’ve had enough water and a snack, when your panic has gone dormant, you remember your earlier request. A sniffle, and then voice broken and wet, just for added insurance: “You’ll get me my loth cat now, won’t you?”

A long suffering sigh, but he squeezes you tighter to his chest, presses a kiss to the crown of your head you feel sizzle all the way down to the tips of your toes. “I’ll get you anything you want, anything.” You smile into his skin, a miracle all of its own, that after everything he still provides you the ability to smile.

But later, right before he falls off the precipice of consciousness into the ebony deep and serene lake of sleep, you whisper into the thrum of his life force right at his neck: “We will take care of each other, won’t we?” Again – the both of you, together.

“Always,” he says, and it rings with such promise, in a way you know only someone such as he could swear, and you’ve always been a liar, but you do not want this to be a lie.

This time, please, let it end differently.

Chapter VII

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#TCC fic #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x original character #the mandalorian x reader #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal

253 notes · View notes

aeferfckr · 1 year

Text

𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 ୨୧

them bitches you fuckin' with i know they gon' need some practice. so bring 'em along wit' ya i'll teach 'em how to smash ya. when i made a little mess on it he told me to clean my act up ♡

content warnings. nsfw read at your own risk. switch!chara. switch!reader. bondage. teasing. edging. delayed orgasm. petnames (my love, master, my dear, daddy, slut). spanking. overstimulation. (1028 wrds.)

tied him down to my queen bed, tease him just enough to hate me. tied it tight enough, he cant break free. keep him waiting 'til he try~

"m-my love" he stutters as he tests the strength of his restrains "are you sure about this"

"oh, are you having second thoughts?" you ask as you rub his waist, trying to calm his nerves "we could always scrap the idea if you're not comfortable with it"

"n-nothing like that. its just..."

he shifts under your body as you sit on his abdomen, his arms and legs being restrained by silk scarves (you say it's to reduce the rope burn aspect of regular bondage). he has the most perfect view of you, your body being adorned by delecate fabric that wraps around your chest and curves deliciously. he can feel himself getting harder the more he stares.

of course, this doesn't go unnoticed by you. you muse:

"oh, excited are we?~ do you like seeing your lover all dolled up for you?" you run your hand along the very curves he was admiring then back to his body, connecting them even closer than before. running your hands up his torso, you start to lightly rub his nipples, feeling the soft bud raise into a hard one.

he squirms under you due to the stimulation, his mouth letting out breathy moans as you giggle. you feel your stomach filled with arousal, oh you cannot wait to have his cock buried deep within you. but you have to wait, you're the one in charge today and you will savour this moment.

you continued to play with his nipples until he stared to flail his body around, soft whines and a string of drool falls from his lips. you had to stable yourself with his chest as he threatens to throw you off.

"hmmnfh, master, please" he says between whimpers. "i want it"

"want what? you have to use your words or else i don't know what you want" you tease, pinching his hips gently which results in your lover borderline moaning:

"aaaugh master!!~ please touch mmhe"

you chuckle, "of course, my dear"

you reach back to his cock as it floods with his pre cum, the fluid running down his shaft coating it in a nice, thin, layer. you rub the tip with your finger as he lets go the sweetest moans, his hips buck into your fingers chasing the little stimulation he's receiving.

"aww my baby," you coo as you use your free hand to hold his cheek "i'm gonna make you feel real good, m'kay?"

you turn around on his abdomen, purposely showing off the cheeky bottoms of your lingerie as you arch your back and grind against him.

if he wasn't being restricted right now, he would love to squeeze the plush of your ass, spread your cheeks, and finger your sobbing hole. oh, he could just imagine your moans as you ride his fingers, steadily falling apart on just his fingers. however, his thoughts got interrupted when he felt a sharp suck on the tip of his dick.

he practically screams as you roughly jerk him off while sucking harshly at his tip. he thrashes against his restraints as his mind fogged with esctasy. the vibrations you made made shivers go up his spine as he itched closer and closer to his release.

"hmnngh.. i'm gonna!-"

you stop.

this can go one of two ways, we can flip the coin, i'll be your slave. call you "daddy", give me a nickname. i ain't afraid of a little pain~

your little stunt from the week before had your lover beyond pent-up. yes, he got to cum in the end but payback was due and he knew exactly how to do it. he isn't gonna edge you, no, that would be to predictable. he's gonna overstimulate you until you're begging him to stop

"aaugh! daddy, please!"

"please, what baby? you gotta use your words unless i won't understand you"

yoou may be too out of it to realise his comment but it doesn't matter, he's too busy with his fingers in your hole, scissoring and preparing you for his cock while sucking your twitching front.

"f-fuck meeeee" you scream as you grab the sheet of the bed below you, looking for something to ground you.

he lets go of you with a pop as he removes his fingers from you. you sigh as you think he's finally satisfied. you didn't have the time to close your eyes before you got flipped over, ass in the air and lined up perfectly with his cock. he lines himself with your hole, watching it drip with your arousal.

"who's pretty little hole is this?" he asks before slapping your ass.

"y-yours.." you manage to moan out

"yours who?" laying another harsh slap on your butt

"auggh!!~ yours, daddy!!~ your pretty little hole!!" you whimper as he rubs the blooming skin of your behind before going balls deep immediately. a mixture of pleasure, pain, and overstimulation courses through your blood stream as he starts at his merciless pace.

you couldn't even think straight, the only thing your cockdrunk brain could comprehend was the wet slapping sounds created from him thrusting into you, how his heavy balls slapped your most sensitive parts, and how utterly close you were to your nth orgasm of the night.

and by his pattern, you could tell that he was close to

"my good little slut, you make daddy feel shoo good" he says between clenched teeth as he continually smacks your bright red ass.

you couldn't decipher pain from pleasure as your orgasm crashes down hard, your juices squirting all over the bed as your lover finish in you. cum mixing with cum as the both of you crash onto the bed. your body immediately passing out from the pleasure as he catches his breath.

he looks over beside him to see your chest steadily rising and falling, signaling that you were asleep. he puts his hand over his head as he laughs to himself

"the only way to teach a slut, is to treat them like a slut"

846 notes · View notes

butterbabyflapjack · 1 year

Text

Brat chapter.2

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

sexual content, sexual tension, dominant ghost, power dynamics, messy feelings, voice kink, mask kink, glove kink, dom/sub, indirect daddy kink, biting, rough sex, begging, brat breaking, voyeurism, just a dash of possessive choking, forced eye contact, oral fixation, tactical gear kink

Taglist: @ahoycaptainautumn @your-highnessmarvel @wolfgalsniper @confuseddipshit @prettynalilgay @merzkihstuff @alfie2401 @emberwolfgames @willowbrookesblog @meujias @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @magicgal @verios @flrwpwr @jewelsisurmom @imjusthereforghostsmutt @circuskatt

Chapterlist: chapter.1

You’ve been acting like a brat, and Ghost has had enough of it.

“You can consider this punishment. Can consider it me spoiling your bratty behavior. But you wanted my attention, and you’ve gotten it. So tell me now if you don’t want me to bend you over this desk and fuck you until it breaks, otherwise I’m taking what I want from you, and you’ll accept everything I give like the greedy fucking whore you’re pretending so hard not to be.”

He pauses, as if for your reply, though your tongue won’t move, your heart won’t beat; all of you tangled and drunken and warm; your stomach clenching almost painfully tight as you hear his hoarsened hum.

“I need an answer, love.”

“I…” you swallow, hard. Unable to deny that your panties are steadily soaking through for him, though still you somehow manage to stammer, “I’m not a whore you asshole…!”

You hear the smirk behind his mask. “You will be for me.”

Chapter 2

Authors Note: Guys, I don’t even know what to say, this is indulgent as fuck. Like, this is maybe the horniest shit I’ve ever written.

Thankyou to languidcryptid and tawus for betaing this! I really appreciate it! <3

Also, I used one quote from Ghost in here, because when he says it in-game my horny brain goes off – and if you know which line it is I’ll give you a flashy golden star~! *

ALSO also, be aware there’s elements of dub-con in this – not a lot imo, but just a heads up!

It takes a moment for you to actually obey him. Slowly closing the door behind you; barely removing your eyes from where he stands. Hearing its deafening click, and that sound alone speeds your heart. Feeling something in the air shift the very second you’re alone with him. And for all your unyielding obstinance, you’re still forced to swallow a sudden knot forming in your throat.

Seconds pass. Seconds that seem to last lifetimes, where the two of you merely watch each other. You, shifting nervously by the door, albeit with a stubbornly jutted chin. And he, behind his desk. Tall. Broad. Cut of wood. Watching you. Dark eyes running openly across your face, your throat, down your body. Before once again his gaze catches yours.

You wish he’d say something, anything. You can’t shake the way his eyes seem to sink hungry teeth in you, though you think you must be losing your mind, because he’s never looked at you quite like that, like he is right now – no matter how much you’ve longed for it. So you must be crazy right now, seeing things, making half-baked assumptions.

“You know why I brought you in here?” he asks at last. Voice thick.

It strikes an electrifying cord through you, his tone, the gruffness of it – vibrating down your spine and into the very tips of your fingers and toes.

You do know. Or, at least, you’re fairly fucking certain you do.

But of course you still lie about it.

“No.”

You hear a short, bearish breath; one that might accompany a clever smile.

“Ah. So you’re playing dumb, then,” he surmises, and his amusement at this fact has you bristling, resentful to be so easily read.

“No,” you reiterate, more forcefully, “I’m not playing anything.”

“You’ve been playing lots of things,” he counters. “That you’re fine, for one. That you haven’t been thinking about me a helluva lot more than you usually might, for another.”

Heat creeps up your face despite you fighting to stop it – and even though panic seizes your heart to hear him actually say that, and to say it so knowingly, you force your jaw to set rigidly. Because there’s no way he actually knows that you’ve been thinking about him… he’s just trying to get inside your head. This must be some intimidation technique he picked up during his time with the cartel or something.

Even as you tell yourself this, it sorta sounds like bullshit – but it’s easier to grasp than any other alternative.

“Of course I’m thinking about you,” you mutter, arms folding across your chest, “you’re standing right in front of me.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Drop the bullshit.”

There’s a steady calm about him, one that buries the storm beneath it, and it’s enough to still your tongue.

“I’ve let you get away with playing and pretending for far too long, apparently,” he says. “And with how your little act’s been falling apart recently, I think it’s time I finally stepped in.”

You don’t exactly know what he’s getting at, but it still manages to constrict your ribs. “Did you call me in here just to lecture me about shit you know nothing about?”

“I know enough,” he says. “I almost think you like making me act like your fuckin’ dad, dragging you in here for your lying ass to be spanked.”

The image of him bending you over his lap, spanking and kneading your ass, has you struggling just to blink for a few seconds before you somehow manage to shake yourself, arms folding tighter across your chest. And still a few flustered seconds more to muster up enough sarcasm to reform your defenses, willing yourself with every fiber of your being to both look and sound bored..

“So… are you going to spank me, then?” you ask dryly. “Is that it? Or can I go back to reading and the blissful ignorance it brings to your aggravating existence?”

His eyes glisten like shards of volcanic glass from behind his skull mask; penetrative, yet so difficult to read. “I wasn’t actually planning on spanking you, sweetheart – but that mouth of yours has its way of tempting me toward many things.”

The gravel in his voice has your stomach doing some sort of sticky-sweet summersault that has you swiftly changing the subject.

“Forgive my lack of foreplay,” you snap back at him, “but can you get to the fucking point?”

“I’m on point, love,” he returns, “regardless of how you keep trying to derail me.”

Slowly, he strides out from behind his desk. Dark eyes like arrows in you, piercing so deep you couldn’t hope to pluck them out even if you wanted to. And it takes everything in you not to jolt at the heavy sound of his approach. Not to run from his nearness as he carves through the distance between you. Forcing yourself to stand strong, instead, even whilst nervously eying him. Your arms faltering, unthinkingly, back down to your sides; fingernails scratching at the hemline of your jeans. Feeling very much like prey to a circling wolf, more and more hunted with each step he takes toward you.

His boots stop right before yours. Standing so close his shadow swallows yours. So close you’re forced to crane your neck even higher than you normally would just to meet his smoldering gaze.

“You’ve been acting like a spoiled brat.”

He’s as brusque as ever. A growl threaded through his low inflection, making his words feel dangerous.

You try to swallow against the dryness of your throat. To appear completely unaffected by how his mere proximity threatens to make your heart take a running leap out the nearest window.

“If this is going into some kind of infraction report, sir,” you reply tautly, staring directly up at him, refusing to look away, “I’m not so sure spoiled brat is really the appropriate term you’ll wanna file with.”

“Don’t act like you give a damn about what’s appropriate,” he coarses, cutting your cheeky antics short. “I’ll only tell you this one more time – I’m no longer interested in playing. You’re in here right now because you’ve been lashing out like a bloody fucking brat all week, looking to get a reaction from people.”

In his pause, you bite your lower lip harshly, only able to glower as you note the way his gaze trails heatedly over you. His voice a steady octave lower as he adds, “A reaction from me.”

If you felt like he was splintering his way inside your head before, it’s nothing compared to how you feel now. Panic freezing the soles of your shoes to the ground; eyes widening for just a fraction of a moment beneath how his own eyes slowly crease.

Eventually, after what feels like far too long, you force a scoff that lacks any of its desired weight. “You think I have an attitude problem just to get to you… ?” you wonder idly; wanting to tear your gaze from his, but finding yourself unable to. “My, that’s a cocky assumption, even for an ego as big as yours. I guess I decked Soap just to get to you, too?”

You hear his little smirk. “No. That was just an added bonus. And I know you’re playing dumb, but you seem to be forgetting that I’m not stupid either, love.”

You’re so caught in the intensity of his gaze that you nearly jump when his large hand is suddenly on your hip, strong fingers curling into one of your belt-loops; tugging you close before you can even think to object, jerking you into him, so close your navel bumps into his groin, such is the height of him. And even with his gloves, your shirt, his jeans – the contact is electric.

“You’ve been acting like fucking brat,” his growl reiterates, “because some part of you wants to be treated like one.”

You can’t move. Can’t respond. Heart throttling you, strangled in your throat. Your body stricken to stone as the tower of him looms over you, dark eyes dancing across your own. And when he leans down, masked face dipping low beside your own, you think you might actually suffer cardiac arrest as his voice pours thick and hot near your ear.

“You’re overworked,” he murmurs, and even with his mask his words warm your skin, prickling you with fevered goosebumps. “High-strung for a million different reasons, I’m sure.” You feel his fingers, coiling, tangling further in your belt loop. Feel his thumb slip under your shirt, trailing the naked ridge of your hip. “And it seems it’s made you needy.”

It almost sounds like an insult, though he purrs it like it’s not. He sounds almost wolfish. Hungry.

“I’m… I’m not needy–”

“You are,” he breathes. “For attention. For release. That’s why you’ve been lashing out like a rotten little princess, right…? You want the sort of attention I can give you. You need it.”

His fingers, curled around your belt-loop, slide instead along the front of your jeans, fingertips dipping down beneath your waistband, knuckles coarse along your skin.

And like this he jerks your body snug against his, so close you can feel how hard he’s getting; a hard, thick ridge trapped within his jeans – and though you’d sooner die than admit it, heat floods your insides to feel him so aroused.

So aroused just by this. By breathing in your ear. By feeling you against him, beneath him.

You feel his nose brush against your hair. Hear his thrum as he smells you, the ridges of his mask felt against your skin.

“I’ve seen you picturing this inside your head,” he says. His other hand smoothing up your side, thumb tracing the lowest curve of your breast. The fire of his touch threatening to ignite you, making all of you tense, and yet you can’t pull away, can’t even convince yourself to try. Needy, just like he says you are. “Me, taking care of you. Taking what I want from you. Teaching you how to behave.” His thumb rides up along the swell of your breast, squeezing it until you bite back a whimper, teasing your nipple into tightening for him even through all those layers of clothes that separate you. “Lie all you want to yourself,” he murmurs; the hard ridge of his erection twitching at those little sounds you fail to bite back on. “But you can’t lie to me.”

His voice is molten now. So dark, so ruggedly filthy that it clouds your every thought, slipping along your skin, pulling all of you toward him.

“I need an answer, love. And I need it now.”

“I…” you swallow, hard. Unable to deny that your panties are already soaked through for him, though still, through the grace of some stubborn god, you somehow manage to stammer, “I’m… I’m not a whore you asshole…!”

You hear the smirk behind his mask. “You will be for me.” He thumbs the front button of your jeans. “And that’s not an answer. So let’s try this again – and this time, I’d advise you listen. If you tell me to stop, if you tell me right now – I’ll stop. I’ll send you on your merry fuckin’ way.” His possessive hand, squeezing your breast, slides instead up your chest, up along your neck, coming to grasp your jaw, to tilt your face to his, his eyes like anchors over yours. “Say anything else – anything at all – and you’re not leaving here ‘til I’m fucking finished with you.”

Your lips barely part. The word stuck to your tongue. Stop. You should tell him to… right? If you don’t… Dammit, you can barely think anymore! Everything’s consumed by him, every inch of you aching, fingers itching to grab hold of him, anywhere, everywhere, as instead your fingernails dig angry crescents against your palms. But even then, even tongue-tied, even trembling, you can’t look away from him. A prisoner to those dark eyes and whatever their intentions.

You should say it. That one word, like a key that would set you free.

“Fuck you,” you hoarsely whisper instead. Words firm. Eyes wavering.

His eyes flicker over yours. Calculating. Assessing. Before all at once he’s releasing the front of your jeans, tattooed forearm slipping around your waist, lifting you effortlessly up and off the floor.

“Ah-Ghost–!”

He ignores you, though his eyes hold a little glint that could be amusement. Carrying you in one arm as he turns toward his desk, while impatiently brushing aside everything that sits atop it with the other.

Tactical gear, electronics, folders – a cacophony of valuable military equipment goes toppling to the floor, clattering noisily, the glass of some scope even sounding to break, but he doesn’t care, his eyes never leaving you. Chaos at his feet as he sits you on the edge of the desk, his giant hands encircling your knees, smoothing up your thighs as he spreads your legs for him, as he slots himself between them. Eyes like heated coals within his skeletal mask, so hot they feel to brand you.

“Ghost…” you barely tremble. Not sounding like you’re trying to stop him. Not even knowing what you’re saying, beyond his name, beyond that hush of desperation in it.

A few, firm fingers draw up your inner thigh, and you gasp as they trace the seam between your legs.

“Choices have consequences,” he purrs.

“Ghost–!”

You hear his heated smirk as he unbuttons your jeans. As he unzips them. As he teases the elastic waistband of your underwear. “I didn’t realize I’d have you crying my name so quickly,” he murmurs roughly. “Not that I’m objecting.” When his rough middle finger finds your clit, even with your panties you still moan aloud as he strokes it, as you hear his breath hitch. “Though now it seems you’re speechless… Odd, when you had so much to say before…”

You want to say something, anything, besides his name again, especially since every time you say it you sound more and more helpless – but you can’t exactly help yourself when he slips his giant hand out from the front of your opened pants, ripping his glove off, tossing it aside as his warm, calloused fingers slip down between your legs again. Down beneath your panty’s waistband, coaxing along your folds, middle finger slipping through how embarrassingly slick you are already.

It feels like you’ve been shocked, like you’ve been drowning until his touch made you gasp – every muscle in you seizing as you unthinkingly grab at his hulking biceps like your life depends on it, fingers twisting so tightly in his shirt it nearly hurts, winding just as tight as that coil in your stomach is, especially when you hear his voice again, so suddenly strained, his forearm between your legs flexing. His free hand taking hold of your waist in a grip that threatens to bruise, keeping your hips from moving as he strokes along your over-sensitive clit, fingers sinking, slipping up and down, teasing your aching entrance without actually dipping inside you.

“Fuuuucking hell…”

Even with his mask, you can see the way his jaw grits. Can hear the tension in his words, pulling every muscle lining his neck taut. “This wet for me already…? Fuck…”

You can’t exactly deny it, though embarrassment bids you try, even as you feel your thighs tremble, as arousal ties your eyebrows into an agonized knot.

“Ghost…!”

Fuck, it sounds like you’re begging. And he hums low, like a wolfish beast, like he knows this, like he loves it.

“Just the slightest little touch…” he breathes, circling the aching nub of your clit, and you whimper as your grip on his biceps tightens, “and already, you’re breaking. You really are so needy, aren’t you…”

“Y-you… just…” gods, you can scarcely string words together, “please, stop teasing me…!” you somehow manage to choke. Eyes stinging with the decided effort not to fall apart, this quickly, which you absolutely refuse to do with every fiber of your fucking being – he’s giving you enough shit as it is, and you can only imagine what he’d say, how he’d tease you, if you climaxed at barely a touch. But, fuck – fuck, you feel like you’re burning up already. Like every inch of you is fuel to him, tinder to his touch. Like even the smallest spark would set all of you ablaze.

“But I like teasing you…”

You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds. “You’re a- ahh… a fucking prick…!”

He shuts you up by drawing firm, slick pressure along your clit with his thumb. Fingers sliding lower, teasing your entrance, enjoying the way your body tenses each time he does.

“Had it with your fucking lip,” he says, his voice to rough it verges on a growl. Taking you by the throat, his thumb tilting your jaw up, his eyes catching yours. “I think we’re past the point of you pretending you don’t want this. So ask me nicely – behave – and I’ll make you cum so hard you can’t see straight.”

Your cheeks singe with flustered heat, not wanting to fold, to do as he says, to give him any sort of satisfaction in it. But as his talented thumb pulls a pinched moan from you, you can only resist for so long before you hear yourself giving in, hear yourself sounding perhaps more broken than you’ve ever sounded in your life.

“Please…”

You know he likes it; you sounding like that, you obeying. He doesn’t tell you this, but his eyes darken, his hold on your jaw growing tense. “Please what…?”

You hate him. Gods, you absolutely hate him. But your body, your traitorous mind – they no longer belong to you. They belong to him, and you both know it. You’re putty in his hands, too far gone to fight it.

You bite your lips closed as harshly and for as long as you’re able to, which pathetically isn’t very long, before you’re whining so quietly you almost can’t even hear yourself, pleading in a wavered string of breath, “Please make me cum…”

Desire smolders his gaze into something harsh, and he thrums his approval, the sound like thunder in his chest. “Good girl,” he breathes. Thumb tracing your jawline, your chin, your cheek, as he admires your pleasure-twisted expression. As he slips one thick finger inside your begging entrance; groaning as he feels your walls tighten around him in response.

“Ohh – fuck!”

“Just relax…” His finger slips fully inside you, dragging back out again. Stroking, thrusting, as he slips in a second finger. A groan caught deep in his throat as you cry out for him, as your spine arches for more even as some part of you still resists, clinging to him so fiercely you feel your fingers might snap.

“Gh-Ghost!”

“Stop fighting it. Stop fighting everything.” His voice is ragged as he pumps you full, thumb circling your swollen clit. “Let me in… let me take control… give me all of it, everything…” His pace quickens, his strokes more firm, pleasure squeezing your lower spine, sparking stars across your vision. Your legs falling slack for him as his hips nudge your thighs even further apart. His eyes like firebrands as he watches you crumbling. “I’ll make you feel good… I’ll take care of you…”

Not thinking, hardly even able to, driven only by need, your trembling fingers fumble toward the dark fabric of his mask; that portion which cowls his jaw and throat. And at once his body tenses, his instinct to react, the speed in which he does so uncanny – his hand on your throat snatching up both your wrists in a viperous grip, so swiftly you yelp in surprise.

His hand shackles yours. Eyes shining down at you like arrowheads. “Not happening, love,” he lowly says.

Apparently, he’s deciphered something you haven’t – whatever it was you were after in reaching for his mask. And it takes a few distorted seconds of you hazily blinking up at him before you realize what you were trying to do. That you were trying to drag it off of him.

Hesitation scalds your face upon realizing. Your hands falling completely limp in his grasp, surrendering.

Of course he wouldn’t let you take his mask, why did you even try it?

Yet… even as you inwardly scold yourself, telling yourself you’re mad, you’re not thinking straight… now that you realize you wanted to kiss him, you can think of nothing else.

“Please…” you whisper – not really meaning to be so quiet, but the words will barely come out. “I’ll do whatever you want…”

Even then, it appears he hears you clearly, because you see and feel the broad line of his shoulders tighten at the offer. Though, still, he doesn’t respond.

“Anything, just… I want to kiss you…” You bite your lower lip; stomach clenching as you notice the way his eyes track your mouth's movement. “I want to taste you…”

His lashes grow heavy, gaze half-lidded as he studies you. Dark, thick honey stirring in his gaze, though in every other facet of his being he appears completely unaffected. His hold on your wrists rigid, unyielding.

“Wretched little minx,” he concludes at last. Lust edging with caution, as if you can’t be trusted, as if a kiss alone might be his end.

You purse your lips at him. “Please?”

If you thought you could weaponize your pleading to get what you wanted, you’re soon to find he’ll play just as dirty – weaponizing his touch to silence you, and quite efficiently, too. Stroking his fingers slow and deep inside you again, robbing you of everything but his annihilating friction, your all encompassing need; replacing all your words with whimpers.

“Greedy,” he hoarsely breathes, pumping into you faster, curling his fingers with every stroke so that he drags against that spot which makes your toes curl, has you begging him for more.

He seems distracted by all those desperate sounds you’re making, by the feel of your slick heat swallowing him up. Distracted enough not to decently shackle your wrists, even though you know he could, he easily could. But his hold still slips, and the second it does you reach to peel up his mask again, and this time he doesn’t stop you. You just barely raise it high enough to show his muscled throat, his strong jaw, that smart mouth, and the second you do his lips slam into yours, so fiercely you don’t even have a chance to look at him, to see those lips you long to taste, but you feel them, oh how you fucking feel them.; their plushness, their heat, their urgency in parting yours so his tongue can slip inside you, warm and yearning and demanding.

He tastes like honeyed whiskey; like black forest air warmed by savage wildfire. He tastes like someone you could become lost in. Could grow intoxicated on. And already, in a kiss, you’re drowning.

It’s too much, and you want more. His forceful, thrusting fingers. His slowly stroking thumb. His lips as they claim you, make you his.

Euphoric waves crash so fiercely against you that every sticky coil in your belly snaps, leaving you nowhere to go but crashing down, falling apart on his thrusting fingers as your lips fall slack; mouth agape against his as you whine and moan helplessly, pussy clinging to his fingers in desperate waves as you grab his nape, as you pull him closer, hips bucking against his palm as if to take him deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, maintaining a steady, brutal pace; his tattooed forearm a well oiled machine that never slows, deliberate in its friction. Dragging out the length of your orgasm until your lungs feel fractured, until you can scarcely even breathe, with his own breath growing heavy just at the sound of you. Both your panting mouths tracing across one another’s, lips and tongues just barely touching in the interlude of a kiss. And the very second you’re able to rake down a breath without sobbing, he cards his free hand up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, dragging you into yet another unforgiving kiss.

His tongue ravishes you, claiming every inch of your mouth as his. And when he pulls away again, it’s only enough to grab your jaw, to speak gruffly against your lips. “We’re not done here yet. So be a good girl and bend over the desk for me. Face down.”

You whimper as his thick, wet fingers slide out of you, but you’re left with little time to object, to say anything even if you wanted to.

He takes your hips, lifting you off the desk, your tipped toes fighting for balance. His lips trailing to the corner of your mouth, back along your jaw, then down your nape as he slowly turns you into facing away from him. His large hands smoothing around your waist, before taking both your hands in his from behind, guiding them to the edge of the desk. His waist nudging into the curves of your ass, coaxing you into bending over it.

One giant palm smooths down your spine as he presses you down against the desk's surface. Thrums deep in his chest, enjoying the view of you like this. And though you can’t see him, not with your panting face pressed sideways against the wood, your stomach’s still caught in sticky little knots, all of you weak for him, all of you so vulnerable.

“I’ve imagined what you might look like bent over my desk like this,” he purrs, his resonance jagged. “Daydreams don’t do it justice.”

He takes the waistband of your jeans and underwear from behind; rough, impatient; tugging them down over the curve of your ass, jerking them gruffly down your thighs, the fabric scraping against your skin with his harshness as he leaves them tangled around your knees. A shiver running down the full length of your spine as cool air kisses your soaked and swollen lips, so utterly exposed – a shudder so obvious that it makes him chuckle, his amusement thick.

Your breath grows sharp as you hear the shuffled sounds of his belt unbuckling. Of his dark cargos tugged inch by inch from the firm ridges of his hips.

“You really have been a fucking brat,” he says. “And I have no intention of going easy on you.”

You can’t fight the temptation to try and glance back at him; attempting to pick yourself up just enough to turn around and look, though he takes a firm hold of the back of your neck before you’re able to, shoving your face back down against the wood as you choke back surprise.

“Still disobeying me,” he lowly observes, fingers tightening around you until you flinch; yet even then his dominion over you has your back arching, your hips squirming, has you fighting not to whine like a needy bitch in heat. “I said face down.”

You feel heat radiating off his thighs as they brush against the naked backs of yours, his hand keeping your face down. And you actually moan when you feel the swollen head of his cock nudge your lower lips, drawing a hot, slick line along their crease.

He groans as your velvet folds envelop him, the head of his cock just barely pushing through. Your body so warm, so wet, so inviting; your needy mewls tempting him to push in more, to fuck in deeper. “I love the way you sound like this… you sound so fucking good…”

You expect him to draw this out, to torment, to tease you, but it seems he’s robbed of restraint to.

He grabs your neck and waist roughly as his hips flex forward, both of you moaning as he sinks inside you, your walls spasming, straining around his size – and it’s a damn good you’re so wet you’re actually dripping because otherwise he might not’ve fit. His cock’s built like the rest of him – thick, hard, massive – and the way it stretches you is almost too much to take, pain and molten pleasure sinking their teeth in you.

Your moans grow ragged against the desk as, with a final ruthless thrust, he bottoms out; your eyebrows constricted in a knot, spine arching with the strain to adjust to him.

His hand round your neck relaxes, his other smoothing up the curve of your spine.

“You’re taking me so well,” he growls. Sliding out just a bit, only to shove his way back inside, making you bite back a haggard whine.

“You might wanna keep it down, love,” he says, thrusting hard and deep inside of you again, his groin wetly slapping your ass as you yelp in pain and pleasure. “Otherwise, everyone else locked in here with us might hear you… and after hearing you like this, they’ll likely want a taste. But you’re mine. I have no intention of sharing.”

He slides out again, slamming back in ruthlessly, like he wants you to sing for him, and you do, you weakly mewl like you’re wordlessly begging for it.

“Then again… there’s no way they’re not listening to this, already. Not with you sounding like that. Not with flimsy walls like these…”

His hips take on a slow, agonizing rhythm that leaves you clinging to the edge of the desk, gasping for breath as coils pull tight in your belly, so fierce they threaten to snap. Trying to contain every sound you make, even the sound of your erratic panting, though it requires so much effort you feel it might drive you mad.

“Should we give them a show, sweetheart…?”

Under any other circumstances, you might think he was kidding. But with the way his thrusts gradually mount in speed, hammering deeper as his fingers dig into your neck and the plushy give of your hip, bouncing your ass against his groin at a rising pace – you’re oh-so-swiftly reduced to nothing but a needy fucking mess, and you know he’s not fucking around with you.

“N-No! D-Don't!”

Your pleas fall on deaf ears. And even with him fucking you harder than you’ve ever been fucked in your life, flustered heat still manages to burn up your neck and cheeks at the thought of what everyone would say to you if they heard this, heard you so pathetically unhinged like this; if they knew how Ghost had you splayed over his desk right now, making you drunk on his dick.

But even with your begging, his pace doesn’t slow; the relentless creaking of his desk and the wet slap of skin filling up the room. And when you try to smother your own cries with a desperate palm flattened to your lips, he releases your neck to instead snatch both your wrists, wrenching them down behind you, pinning them to the small of your back as the desk rattles with his forceful thrusts.

“I think it might be a nice consolation for how you’ve been treating them all week,” he teases between heavy breaths.

“N-no, ple- ahh– Gh- don’t!” you gasp, words broken with his every thrust. “Ple-ease… don’t, don’t –!”

“You want me to stop?”

You don’t respond, you can’t; and you whine as you feel his heavy weight lean over you, your shoulders wrenched back tighter. His broad chest flush against your back back, pinning your shackled arms between you, as his other hand snakes around your stomach, guiding your hips up higher beneath him.

“You don’t want me to stop.”

His weight nearly crushing you, he ruts into you at a slower, deeper angle claws an elongated moan from your throat. His haggard breath drawing close behind your ear.

“You want more. You need it.”

Even strained as your every muscle is, any semblance of composure cracking, his words still pull a shiver from you, your ragged gasps fogging the wood of the desk.

“Tell me.”

You want to deny it. But with how delirious you are, how mind-numbingly desperate and near the point of breaking, there’s no way in hell you can.

“Y-yes,” you choke out brokenly. “I need it.”

You feel a rockslide in his chest as he groans; a noise teetering on the edges of self-control. Feel him nipping at your earlobe, lapping at the sting. His breath hitching at the end of every thrust, the momentum of his hips slipping, “You need me to break you in every way imaginable, to make you fall apart again, don’t you?”

Your climax is so close it’s almost painful; your eyebrows twisting. “Y-yes!”

He groans in your ear as his pace quickens; more forceful, hammering that aching place that makes you squeeze him. “Fuck – You make it sound so good.”

He doesn’t even have to tell you to keep going, you keep begging him anyway, you can’t help yourself.

“Please – fuck – Ghost–!” you nearly sob, “Don’t stop, please d-don’t stop, I’m so close–!”

When his tongue traces your ear, you can’t help yourself – crying out desperately, gasping out his name – knees buckling beneath you as your slick walls spasm around him, squeezing tight in wave after wave as pleasure consumes you, makes your lungs seize, makes your mind break.

His momentum shatters; cock surging hard as iron as he sucks your earlobe between his lips, before his forehead falls heavy against the back of your neck, his length throbbing deep inside you. Groaning like an uncaged beast as he pours himself inside you with every haggard thrust, filling you so completely that by the time his assault slows, both your cum already drips down the backs of your trembling thighs.

You can scarcely breathe as your vision slowly returns. He can scarcely breathe, as he balances his weight on one forearm so as not to crush you beneath the mountain of him. And when he finally slides his cock out of you, cum trails like sticky, melted pearls from your abused hole to his swollen tip. His mouth warm, his lips soft along your nape, trailing your skin with lazy kisses, before his mask is pulled back down in place again.

“You’re a pretty mess,” he softly breathes. Releasing your aching wrists as he lifts himself off of you. Taking your hips firmly, helping you to stand, to face him, though your knees buckle the second he releases you.

His eyes widen as he takes your hips again swiftly, steadies you on your feet, before he lets out a chuckled huff. “Easy there, sweetheart." His eyes crease with what you suspect must be a small smile. "I should help you into a bath.”

Despite how nice any form of bathing sounds, and despite that you definitely can’t take a shower with your bones transformed to jelly like this, you still tense your jaw at him. The reality of your situation, of what the two of you have just done, slowly sinking its claws into you, along with all those feelings you’ve apparently been running from.

You’re not sure you can run from them anymore, and the thought terrifies you.

This was probably just a quick fuck to him. But to you it's something different. Something much more tangled. Something that squeezes your heart into a glass-like, throbbing knot.

Fuck, what did you just get yourself into…? Why did you let this happen?

“I can get there myself,” you insist; not rudely, just… stiff. Uncertain.

Maybe he really has fucked the brattiness out of you.

As you shimmy up your pants and he buttons up his, you take a tentative step as if to brush past him, to escape this web of feelings you’ve tangled yourself in – only for your knees to wobble and give out again, with him catching your waist easily, pulling you into him.

“Alright,” he says, staring down at you. “But maybe you should wait ‘till your legs are working.”

Despite everything, you feel yourself blush at his nearness. At his teasing. At that way he’s hushly watching you.

“I can’t,” you murmur. More vulnerable than you’d like to. Your eyes passing beneath his own. “If we stay in here too long… people might suspect something.”

You can actually see his eyes crease with a slow and steady grin. “Love… I hate to break it to you… but unless you sobbing my name for the past ten minutes was because we were exorcising some sort of demon, there’s no way in fucking hell they don’t know exactly what we’ve been up to.”

chapter 3

Author Note: I might add another chapter to this next, where you’re forced into dealing with all the messy feelings you have following the famous ‘fucked on Ghost’s desk until you can’t walk straight’ incident ~ OR ~ I might write a Ghost/Soap/Reader threesome. If you have a preference lemme know! 😘~💕 thanks for reading

#cod ghost #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #fanfic #fanfiction #cod modern warfare #mw2 #cod mw #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #brat

849 notes · View notes

taste-your-silhouette · 9 months

Text

I wanna paint your face like you're my Mona Lisa

Pairings: Damiano David x fem!reader Contents: Smut Summary: Damiano takes you to see his new yacht Words: ~1205 A/N: Forgive me if you come across any errors while reading. I hope you enjoy it 💙

Damiano tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and says, "Today, I'm taking you on a nighttime picnic."

"Nighttime picnic? Sounds cool!" you laugh.

Damiano grins, matching your excitement, and nods. "Exactly, amore mio. We'll be under the stars, and a picnic will be perfect."

"Hmmm, sounds intriguing. So, where are we heading?" you ask.

With a gentle kiss on your lips, Damiano replies, "Let's head to the marina. I've got something new and I'm excited to share."

And he takes the lead, pulling you by the hand toward the marina. It's not a long walk, so you stroll hand in hand, chatting about random stuff and playfully teasing each other along the way.

As you arrive at the marina, you both wander through its numerous alleys until Damiano stops and gazes at you with gleaming eyes.

"Okay, you've got a yacht, I can tell. Which one?" you inquire.

"Y/N"

"Hm?"

Damiano chuckles and points to a massive, stunning yacht.

"That's the name. 'Y/N in the sea with diamonds'," he announces proudly.

You burst into laughter at the yacht's name and the fact that your name is on it, but most of all, you're filled with love for Damiano for arranging this surprise. You take a step closer to him, closing any remaining distance, and plant a passionate kiss on his lips. He places both hands on your waist, intensifying the connection between you, and sending shivers down your spine. Your heart races as he pulls you closer, but as he breaks the kiss, he reveals.

"Let's hop in soon, I've been keeping this Yacht secret from you for weeks."

"Weeks ago?! I can't believe it!" you lightly push him, laughing playfully.

Damiano holds your hand, taking the opportunity to guide you into the yacht. It's magnificent; your heart races as you step inside the Yacht—it's like stepping into a movie set. The interior is sophisticated, adorned with muted tones and soft lighting, creating a welcoming atmosphere. The huge picture windows allow the sunset light to dance across the elegant hardwood floors.

"So, did you like it?" Damiano asks, his eyes filled with anticipation.

"Gattino... it's amazing!"

"Come here," he takes your hand and leads you to the deck.

The deck is utterly cozy, featuring a soft rug and cushions scattered on the floor. A basket filled with delicious treats sits nearby: fancy sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a selection of tempting sweets.

"You're a box of surprises, you know? Look at this place!" you exclaim, marveling at the setup.

You glance at Damiano, who's looking at you expectantly and happily—his beauty enhanced by the golden glow of the sunset. A gentle breeze envelops you, and everything intensifies as Damiano draws even closer, so close that your breaths intermingle. He whispers:

"I love you, Y/N. Nothing I can create in this world comes close to what you deserve."

"I already have everything I want, I have you loving me, and I love you," you express with a contented smile.

You resist the urge to jump on him and skip the whole snack part.

"I want to madly kiss you until I lose my breath."

Damiano holds your gaze and smirks. "You, my love, have no idea of the things I want to do to you right here, but come on, let's eat first." He takes your hand, and together, you walk to the soft pads on the floor of the yacht and sit down.

You find yourself comfortably nestled between his legs, leaning back against Damiano's chest. You both enjoy the delectable treats, savoring each bite while talking and laughing, basking in the joy of being together.

The sun has already set and the moon is massive, with its twin dancing in the sea, Damiano gets close to your ear and whispers:

"You look damn gorgeous in the moonlight, Y/N"

His heart races as he feels Damiano kissing your neck and caressing your face lightly, bringing his mouth to meet yours. You turn to face Damiano completely and straddle him, wrapping your legs around his waist, his arm wrapping around your waist and squeezing as the kiss intensifies.

You moan in between the kiss as you press yourself down and rock forward slowly, causing the perfect friction between the two of your sensitive parts. Your clit swells with pleasure as you feel how hard Damiano is.

He moves his hands from your waist to your hips and gives it a gentle squeeze, guiding the movements and setting a rhythm. The kiss between you is interrupted by a moan, and Damiano takes the opportunity to explore your neck even more with kisses, bites, and hickeys. You feel him getting even more aroused with the increased pace of the movements.

In a flash, he's got your ass and lying down on the comfy floor, his body on top of yours. His hands roam all over your body, causing a trail of excitement and goosebumps on your skin, which he has easy access to thanks to your dress.

"So wet for me..." he says, softly rubbing the right spot.

With his other hand of his, he holds one of your boobs and squeezes it.

"So delicious," he slides your panties down your legs with only one hand, "and mine." And he enters you.

His hips go all the way down and stop, he buries his face on your neck, and you can perfectly hear all his groans, even the quietest ones, just as he hears yours. He holds your thighs tightly.

Your hearts are pounding, as are your moans as Damiano's hips slide in and out of you faster, his balls hitting you with each thrust, his hands gripping you so firmly it makes you tingle.

You scream his name as you start to feel your legs shake.

"Come for me, Y/N," he says between moans in your ear.

You moan louder and stronger after hearing his voice asking you to come like that, and it's impossible to hold back the huge feeling that is about to explode.

And it comes, as soon as you feel it penetrates you as much as it can, gushing all the pleasure it feels for you inside you, spurt after spurt.

He collapses on top of you, his hands slightly loosening their grip on your thighs. You look at him, his eyes still filled with desire and lust.

You hook your legs around him and spin around on top of him, sitting right on his lap.

"You're even more irresistible with the moonlight illuminating you," he says, lifting both hands and massaging your boobs.

You smile, wiggling slightly with his cock inside you.

"Let's not end this anytime soon then, because I can say the same for you."

And so you spend the night, on Y/N in the Sea with Diamonds, christening every corner of it with pleasure.

"You're even more irresistible with the moonlight illuminating you," he says, lifting both hands and massaging your boobs.

You smile, wiggling slightly your hips with his cock inside you.

"Let's not end this anytime soon then, because I can say the same for you."

And so you spend the night, on Y/N in the Sea with Diamonds, christening every corner of it with pleasure.

#må #måneskin #damiano david #damiano måneskin #damiano david x reader #damiano david smut #damiano david x you #damiano david fic #måneskin imagine

182 notes · View notes

eosincuffs · 5 months

Text

Now that I have a writing blog as well as a lurking blog I can finally showcase my appreciation to my favourite authors who inspired me to start writing.

This is a gift for @ceilidho because I am ready to commit arson for you <3.

Ikea!Soap/Creepy Coworker!Soap IS @ceilidho ‘s IDEA! FULL CREDIT TO HER IT IS SO FANTASTIC I WILL EAT MY SCREEN. There is so much juicy content on her blog iswtg I will combust. Adults go check it out you will not regret it!

- This is alternate AU where the Christmas party doesn’t happen, instead its New Years being celebrated. (We don’t celebrate Christmas here but New Years is a really big thing)

Not proof read.

1.1k words

TW Non-Consensual Contact | TW 18+ | TW Near Panic Attack

So anyways hehe on the theme of gift giving.

Shivers slowly trot down your spine, you feel a leaden punty of panic manifest itself in your diaphragm as you sweat cold like condensed metal. There’s eyes on you, there are always eyes on you. An unforgettable gelid pair of blue ponds surrounding a pinprick pupil that track you everywhere you go.

One would think you’d be used to Johnny’s attention by now, both kind and unkind. But recently he’s been acting especially unsettling. These past few days he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t help you throw out the trash, he just stares… and grins, his breathing heavy.

It started a few weeks ago, when you decided to work overtime to later take a little break and greet the New Years away from work, in the comfort of you own apartment. No one except management should have known of your plans, but of course nothing is confidential for their sweet golden boy. Soap sniffed out your shift change so fast you’d wondered if he had a past with drug abuse, as it was his arms that suffocated you on your second evening shift.

Stacking boxes your soul flinched out of your body when two limbs wrapped around your torso like snares on a hare’s neck. Even through the multiple layers of cloth you could feel the heat of his forearms on your abdomen, molten rock flowing through his veins keeping his muscles taught. His chest pinned yours against the steel frame of the fifteen meter shelving unit but the grip of his arms remained, forcing you into an awkward arching position as he curved himself over your back.

“Hey bonnie!”

The Scotts cheery voice all but lashed through the echoey establishment, like the crack of a whip. It’s dark, cold and wet outside, snow turning into slag tainting everything from cars to shoes, much like Johnny’s doing to you; ironic considering his callsign. But there’s practically no customers in conditions like these, meaning your coworkers wouldn’t need to come to the back to look for something, meaning your trapped in here, alone, with a man at least twice your size.

You don’t say anything back, still reeling from having your quiet, meditative moment interrupted by what feels like a hydraulic press. But there’s a soft yet hard object pressing to your front? You look down to see what it is but your own chest is smack dab against the shelving unit blocking your view. Your hips are arched away from it allowing him to adjust something? Is he measuring your torso? What’s happening ?

There’s too many things going on, heavy breathing in your ear, the heat against your back and the frigid metal against your front. One of his hands is moving something along your abdomen, another feels up your womb area and then your crotch? You yelp at that and are about to scream but he shoves you against the steel harder, and knocks the breath out of your chest, but his hand doesn’t go any further.

“Shh, shh, sorry pretty, just makin’ some introductions dinnae worry yer wee head about it”.

A clack resonates through the space, and less than half a meter away you can see a black marker cap rolling away on the floor. What the actual fuck is happening. He feels you up some more, then his hand moves back and forth horizontally as if to mark something and just like that he lets you go.

The situation lasted 3 minutes tops and yet now you know what sharks feel like when they’re pulled out the water, microchipped and thrown back in. You turn around and Soap’s got his back to you he’s kneeling down to pick up the marker cap, there’s something in his hand but its wrapped in white cloth. He closes the marker and rotates a little just to face you.

“Hope you’ve liked meeting your namesake, lass. I know she was honoured for sure!” He leaves then, laughing lightly to himself, flushed and giddy. Your namesake? Did he mean the-

It’s finally time for your much needed break from work, and certain blue eyed men with separation anxiety. At the end of your shift you carefully quick walk to your car before a hand on your shoulder stops you. Speak of the devil.

“Wey bonnie, why are ye in such a hurry to leave huh?”

You’re surprised he actually talked to you after weeks of silence, but you’re also exhausted.

“Soap, what do you need I-,”

He stops you mid sentence by thrusting a sizeable wrapped box into your hands, a charming, large blue bow sitting at the top, as if preening.

“I know yer takin’ days off, but I bought a lil somethin’ for ya. Hope you enjoy it, I really do.”

Well thats actually sweet of him. Granted you don’t know what’s actually in the box. But its still nice that he cared enough to give it to you!

He sends you off with a tight hug and a smirk; gleaming snarl in the night.

Back at your apartment you’re so hungry that you forget about his sincerity for a while. Before the reflection of the bow in your mirror catches your eye, you don’t have a lot of blue in your apartment and this one’s the same shade as his eyes.

A little excited you unwrap the box and lift up the lid only to freeze appalled when your greeted by a dick. It’s a dick, a cock in a box, Soap has gifted you a dildo. Yeah he’s mentioned you being irritated in the past, how a “good shag’ll put ye right in yer place,” but what the fuck.

Come to think of it, it’s strangely realistic: with veins and even moles. The heads a light pink and the base…looks like his skin colour.

Weeks ago, Soap was about a hair’s length away from having an aneurism when he looked at the fleshlight in his hands. A black line marking its plastic flesh, from his feeling up he reckoned that’s about where your womb should be. Quite clearly you wouldn’t be able to take all of him but he reckoned that’s nothing a little practice couldn’t fix. And hey, since he had a version of you to greet New Year’s with, why doesn’t he gift you a version of him that you can cherish too <3.

#cod x reader #dark cod x reader #dark soap x reader #full credit to ceilidho for Ikea!Soap/Creepy Coworker Soap #mature themes #john soap mactavish x reader #noncon contact #non-consensual touching #TW #cuffsdrabbles #gift for ceilidho #creepy behaviour #TW near panic attack #18+

142 notes · View notes

abilouwrites · 6 months

Text

HOW YOU GET THE GIRL

Mat Barzal x fem!oc

Series Masterlist

ONE

I only like the bookstore during the night, when it’s slow and nobody’s around. The lights are flickering and the town suddenly goes quiet in contrast with the bustle of the busy mornings and heavy traffic of the day.

I only work here on the weekends for the closing shifts or the opening ones. Something to make a little more money to fall back on besides my adult corporate job. My parents are proud, more my father than my mother that I’ve begun my climb up the corporate ladder.

I don’t hate my job, far from it. Simply the long hours and bossy bosses that make me pull at my fingers and tug at my hair. Especially with my youth and admitted naivety, those at my job can be wary about me either in the break room or being hesitant to invite me out for drinks.

I’ve been told by my therapist that I rushed my childhood, skipping grades and taking collage classes while also taking highschool classes at the same time. I want to fight her on it, claim that I did have a childhood and had dreams but I know that I’m defending something I never had.

Two parents who were always fighting; hated eachother but swore to stay together because of their vows, “Hey Bella” I smile at the older lady standing at the counter as I tuck behind into the back room and set my purse onto the table and wrapping my apron around my body, “slow day?” I ask as I switch from heels to converse.

“Yeah, it’s the middle of the school season so all the kidlets are probably studying” she sighs out rubbing her tired eyes, “ok, I’m off. Be safe. Please” she reminds me as she pats my shoulder, “I’ll need you to come in a bit earlier tomorrow for the opening shift, we’re getting a new shipment of books for the month”

“Uhh, yeah yeah I can do that, so 5:30 instead of six?” I clarify, as I clock myself in on the timetable next to the register.

“Yes, thank you Emma. You’re a doll” She smiles and blows me a kiss exiting the building as the cold wind brushes against her; gently pulling at the greying blonde hair that’s always been tucked into a a little bun.

I turn on some music to keep my mind from straying as I walk around the store. Gently brushing my fingers against the creased spines and occasional leather covered book. Those nice collectors editions are always Romeo and Juliet, or Hamlet.

Personally I’ve thought Romeo and Juliet a bit childish and immature, but I’ve always been told I’m looking at it from a modern perspective. I believe that Romeo and Juliet is the way to not fall in love.

But then again, that’s coming from the girl who watched her parents try and fix an already broken marriage by having an abundance of kids and forcing themselves to stay together even though, everyone’s known they’d be better apart. Even their own kids.

I tidy up the reading corner, setting the old book. Princess and the pea back onto the shelf and searching for the one tomorrow.

My my fingers pull and push against the covers of the kids books, looking for something different. I don’t pay attention when the bell jingles and jangles while I hear a heavy step quickly become softer. I hear them physically relax as they walk the isles.

I eventually decide on a book with a unicorn and a blonde girl. Something I fondly remember of my own childhood.

I stretch up a little and let my hair down from its clip, it falls unevenly against my shoulders but I don’t mind or even care that much. This bookstore is my happy place; where I am safe and content within my own body. Here I will never care what I look like.

I view the man searching in the fiction section, something specific I can tell by his body language. If he needs help I’ll allow him to ask; yet I’m wary of going up to a man and guiding him to the book.

When he finally notices me watching him he turns around and asks, “do you know where I can find ‘The road’ it’s uh. Geez by I think by Cormac McCarthy?” He stumbles out; slowly dragging a hand across his face and brushing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes.

His face is soft but sharp; his eyes evoke a warm bubbly feeling inside me. Eyes that make me feel comfortable being alone with him, “yes, I believe we only have a few left” I tell him, walking off to a different section of the store, “I know, our shop is set up weird” I explain.

“And why’s that?” He inquires, his pace isnt rushed or faster than mine. But relaxed and nonchalant. As if he has all the time in the world.

“The original owners, she has a special section called ‘Meine Leibe’ which I think translates to ‘My loves’ or ‘my life’ once she passed her daughter kept it the same so this little section would always be here for her. I find it endearing” I know I ramble on a bit but I’ve suddenly grown afraid of having a silence against the two of us

“It is, it’s just a little place with all her favorite books?” He keeps asking, as I turn into the cozy little corner. I thumb through the alphabetical order.

“Yeah, her favorite chair, pillows. Shannon was such a kind lady” I reminisce, “here is The Road, is there anything else I can help you with? Or will that be all for today?”

“Uhh, ha unless you have ‘The deal’ by Elle Kennedy then I’ll take that too” I think he’s being sarcastic but I can’t really tell.

“I think we do, are you a hockey fan?” I ask walking to the romance section.

“I guess you could say that, do you watch?” He asks, “do you need a hand?”

“I watch a bit, just the New Jersey Devils with my dad. Yeah it’s just above there” I point, even on my tip toes the store has ceiling high bookshelves. And because it’s night the ladders been locked up. I move to the side as he grabs the book.

“Are you from Jersey?”

“Yeah, I lived there before I came to New York for a work deal”

“I’m going to assume it’s not this job.. right?” As he makes his way to the register and I slink behind the counter

“Yeah, my uh big girl job as my mom likes to address it as” I hear the roll in my eyes as I scan the bar codes and ring him up, “will that be with cash or card?”

“Card” He pulls his wallet out of the front pocket of his jacket, “thank you”, he checks for my name eyes staring just above but also at my chest.

I poke my eyebrows up at him praying to god this man isn’t looking at my tits directly; not even with the slightest bit of discretion.

“I’m uh looking for your name to thank you— I swear I’m not looking at your uh. You know boobs” he almost whispers out the last bit before continuing, “not that they aren’t nice or anything but uh” the tips of his ears turn pink and his cheeks suddenly become flushed, “I will just pay now” he groans out softly; handing me his card and rubbing his eyes with his hands.

I ring him up and he puts his pin in, “thank you again, you never told me your name” he questions for that piece of information

“Emma”

“Thank you Emma, have a good evening” he purses his lips and grabs his books. Hands shaking as he smiles and starts to leave.

“You too, wait” I lean over the bar slightly, “you never told me your name?”

“Mat”

“Alright then, have a good evening Mat. Come back soon”

The door jingles as he leaves and I watch him through the window, I see him sigh and smack his books against his head. Though I don’t exactly hear what he says; noises muffled through the glass and the music.

“Huh. What a strange guy”

#hockey #nhl #mat barzal my beloved #mat barzal #mat barzal x reader #mathew barzal #mat barzal smut #mat barzal x oc #new york #new york islanders #New York hockey #New York islanders hockey #islander hockey #mb13 #mathew barzal imagine #mat barzal fic #louiseabilenewrites

143 notes · View notes

meamiya · 1 year

Text

LESSON 2: TITTY FUCKING with FUSHIGURO MEGUMI

synopsis♱ ‣ I mean the title speaks for itself. We’ve got Megumi and we’ve got tits. Put them together (lol) and what do we get? An orgasm (spoiler alert).

cw♱ ‣ nsfw, characters are aged up (21+), afab!reader, slight alcohol use, slight handjob, tittyjob, one dick lick, mutual pining, friends to lovers. (Let me know if I missed anything)

word count♱ ‣ 3.3k words

author’s note♱ ‣ Megumi is a tits guy, and I will die on this hill. Also, this was way longer than I had planned to make it. Additionally, take a shot every time you see the word tits if you’re of legal drinking age (Juice is fine too I guess). Anyway, Enjoy!

♱ explicit content! minors do not interact ♱

Even in your slightly inebriated state you could feel his eyes on you. Warm embers flit along the exposed skin of your arms and neck in tandem with his gaze before they lock on your chest. Goosebumps follow in their wake, and you feel a satisfied shiver run down your spine once you identify where his stare has firmly rooted.

Megumi Fushiguro, the Megumi Fushiguro, the one who acts as if he has a permanent stick stuck up his ass and who you thought had less romantic or sexual interest in you than a damn rock, is staring at your tits.

You owe Nobara a fat kiss on the cheek and 10 bucks because never in all your years of trying have you managed to grab his attention so relentlessly.

The cropped camisole (read scrap of fabric) you’re wearing is courtesy of Maki, who greatly underestimated how well you’d fill it out. Between the dainty straps and low neckline, there was truly little left to the imagination. You’d usually never be caught dead wearing such an item, let alone even have such a thing in you closet, but in the comfort of Maki and Nobara’s apartment and with the help of your good friend, tequila, you were relaxed enough to let them work their magic and catch their long-awaited prey.

Laughter brings you out of your thoughts as you take in the scene before you: Yuuji lies passed out, ever the lightweight, across the living room floor while Toge, Yuta and Panda attempt to lug his heavy body somewhere more comfortable. The initial shock of your tits greeting everyone before you could had worn off; mostly. The incessant probes from your left told a different story, though. Nobara and Maki, who had been whispering amongst themselves now direct their gaze toward you, in a way that ensures trouble will follow, before they turn to get everyone’s attention.

“I have an idea everyone!” This is not a statement you trust coming from Nobara but you listen, nonetheless. “Let’s play Truth or Dare!”.

A chorus of eh’s and oh no’s ensue, and you wish to be sucked into the earth as you follow her train of thought.

Before anyone can formally protest, she exclaims, “I’ll go first!”

Oh God.

“Panda! Truth or Dare?”

Thank God.

“Dare!”

“I dare you to down my drink and yours!”

Panda immediately complies and the game continues peacefully quite unexpectedly. Yuta admits that his favourite teacher is Gojo, Toge swallows a tablespoon of wasabi, Maki is dared to switch outfits with Yuta and before you know it, its Megumi’s turn.

The devious glint returns to Maki’s eyes as she appraises an apprehensive Megumi. “Megs, Truth or Dare?”

To everyone’s surprise, he picks dare, though you fear neither choice would have worked out in his favour.

“I dare you to take a body shot off of the hottest person in this room.”

Megumi splutters while taking a sit of the beer he had been nursing the entire night and your stomach drops. Thoughts of him picking either of the two women to your right, or anyone in this room as a matter of fact, swirl in your head as everyone stares at Megumi expectedly. Under the harsh gaze his cheeks immediately bloom a cherry red, and his eyes scan the room before landing on you. You freeze.

“I-” he stutters, lost for words as a light sheen of perspiration covers his face, immediately breaking eye contact.

“You...?” Maki mocks.

“I… I need to go to the bathroom.” He’s on his feet in the flash of an eye and leaves the room briskly, completely ignoring the boo’s that follow him. You don’t miss the way he tugs his hoodie over the front of his jeans and neither does Maki.

“It’s now or never, Hun.” She whispers encouragingly and gives you a light shove to pull you away from the negative thoughts that render you immobile.

You get to your feet, dawdling to the hallway that Megumi had just disappeared down while wiping your sweaty palms down the length of your jeans.

Your decade long crush was either about to reach fruition or come crashing down with your heart as the only casualty, and all the pep talks you had received from Nobara are now mute mutterings in the background of your fear clouded mind.

You look back hoping that someone will take pity on your poor soul only to find five pairs of thumbs up pointing back at you.

If that wasn’t a kick in the ass, then you didn’t know what was. With newfound courage, you turn back and continue your journey towards the bathroom, towards your inevitable fate.

A steady, deep breathe steels your nerves as you knock firmly on the door, hoping he can hear you over the sound of running water.

No response.

Another knock. “Megumi?” you call.

The water turns off and your breath catches in your throat. A pause.

“I’ll be out soon. I just need a second.” He replies, so quiet you barely catch it.

It truly was now or never. “I have something I really need to tell you. Can I come in? Please?’

The silence behind the door is deafening but the pounding of your heart surely resonated throughout the hallway. Your patience wears thin with every passing second and before the defeated sigh passes through your lips you hear it, ever so softly.

“The door’s open.”

You don’t waste a second, breaking down the final barrier standing in your way and making your way inside, closing the door behind you.

The air in the bathroom feels different: more palpable, thick with unspoken thoughts and fears. Your back knocks against the door as you appraise him.

His tall form is hunched over the sink to your left, held up by strong arms, and his raven hair shields his face, drenched in water as the plop of each droplet hitting the sink echoes in the still space.

He speaks first, voice void of emotion. “What did you want to say?”

Although you dreaded having to make eye contact; the flush of your cheeks and nervous intertwining of your fingers being a dead giveaway for what was undoubtedly a precursor for you pouring your heart out, confessing to his back was not in the cards for tonight.

“Turn around Megumi.” You ask, ultimately command, gently.

“No, you’re going to make fun of me.” His head lowers even further.

His statement renders you completely confused as this situation lacks any semblance of humour.

“Why would I make fun of you, Megumi?”

Looking back, you failed to take note of one thing. Compared to Megumi, Yuuji was an elite drinker and the fact that he was now passed out on the living room couch spoke volumes. Megumi was a fucking lightweight. And if there was one way to know if Megumi had been drinking, it would be the fact that his lips loosened tremendously and drunk, tipsy in this scenario, minds speak sober thoughts. The one beer that he had been sipping on was the final nail in the coffin of his restraint and the words flowed freely before he could stop himself.

“Because I couldn’t go one minute without staring at you tonight even though I’ve been able to control myself for years. And you’re so short so every time I looked your way, I could see down that sorry excuse of a top and that, combined with the fact that I could smell your perfume with every breath I took, made my dick throb like a fucking teenager.” He’s basically whining at this point, ashamed of his own thoughts and desires. “Years. Years down the drain.” He mutters to himself.

“You thought I’d laugh at you for that?” your giggling betrays you. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, unsure if you’d walked into an alternate reality or if your long-time crush had just confessed to you being his long-time crush.

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m such a loser.” He complains, gripping at his hair

Your feet move a step closer on their own accord.

“Megumi.” you whisper but he ignores you, lost in self-anguish.

Another step forward; he’s within arms reach now.

“Megumi.” You call again, louder this time, but to no avail.

You take the plunge, closing the distance between yourselves, and grip his damp face firmly between your comparably smaller hands, forcing his attention to you. The blush that travels from his cheeks to his ears and down his neck surely mirrors your own.

Your voice is quiet and nervous as you whisper, “Does that mean you like me?”

His eyes remain downcast as he replies. “Isn’t it obvious. Now that you know just reject me once and for all.”

Your heartbeat picks up if that was even possible. If only he could see the hearts in your eyes whenever you looked at him.

The pout of his lips and puppy dog eyes make you want to tease him just a little more. “Why would I reject you, Megumi?”

He scoffs, as if the answer was obvious. “Because I know that you like Yuuji.”

Your shoulders shake as you try to keep your laughing fit at bay, but the subsequent shaking of your hands against his face finally draw his attention to you, his scowl deepening further at your amusement during his time of turmoil.

“Yuuji? Why would you think I like Yuuji?” you ask incredulously.

He rolls his eyes in disbelief. “Because you’re always at his place when I visit and every time he whispers something in your ear you turn bright red.”

You can’t help but find the way he had noticed these details and completely misinterpreted their meanings endearing, deciding to finally put him and yourself out of your misery.

“Did you ever think that he specifically invites me over on the days you visit so that he can fulfil his desire to play matchmaker and that each whisper is just to tease me about how obvious my crush on you is? Well, obvious for everyone else.” You tease.

He’s momentarily stunned, eyes wide and mouth dropped slightly as you wait for him to process what you had just declared.

“You like me?” he asks in disbelief.

Since your words had not completely punctured his thick skull, you attempt a more hands on approach. Grabbing the sides of his face more firmly, you tilt his face down and rise to the tips of your toes to accommodate for the height difference before your lips meet his. The kiss is soft and innocent but allows you to communicate years’ worth of longing and once the initial shock has worn off, he relaxes and moulds his lips against yours.

You pull away all too soon, far too soon for his liking. “I like you too, Megumi.” You finally confess, the words once a stone in your heart now something you wish to shout from the mountain tops. “I love you.”

The words have barely left your lips before he’s encasing them in his own once again, dragging you closer with one hand on your waist and the other entangled in your hair to deepen the kiss.

“I love you, too.” He whispers against your lips before he deepens the kiss, making up for the years he wasn’t able to. The years of delusion he had lived in thinking that you weren’t meant to be his and he yours. He had so much time to make up for and he was going to start right now.

His face twists to deepen the kiss even further, tongue peeking out hesitantly to lick at your bottom lip and your hand moving to pull him in at the nape is more than enough permission for him to explore the wet heat of your mouth hoping for you to reciprocate and you do. The residual dampness coating his skin transfers to your own but neither of you care. The kiss is full of passion and yearning, soft sighs and moans, and the gripping of clothing to bring the other that much closer. So close that you’re reminded of what you, and Maki, had caught a glimpse of in the living room.

Hard and hot against your thigh lies something you had seen before in countless dreams. Dreams that left you breathless once you awoke, sweat coating your entire body and mixing with the slick that dripped from between your thighs, coupled with a needy throbbing that only relented after a moment of self-deprecation and two fingers shoved into your cunt. Megumi’s cock was pressed firmly against you, and you just had to see it in person, knowing it would be a thousand times better than the half-baked image in your head.

You pull back once again, and Megumi’s whine worsens the wetness between your legs. “You did so well in telling me how you feel, and I know it must have been hard for you to admit all that. Well, I know that wasn’t the only hard thing for you tonight so how about I make it up to you.”

You drag his large frame towards to toilet before you plop him down onto the seat, kneeling between his legs. From your new point of view, his bulge is mouth-wateringly large, and your insides tingle in anticipation.

Glancing up you take note of his flushed face and the soft pants falling from his swollen lips. Your hands make their way to his thighs, rubbing soothingly in order to calm your and his nerves.

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

His nod is enthusiastic to say the least and doesn’t fail to make you grin up at him.

Your hand trails higher now, finger tracing over the zipper of his jeans, and his bulge. His lidded eyes follow your movements.

“Is this okay?” you ask, lower and more seductive.

“Yes.” A barely audible confirmation; the gulp that follows louder.

Your patience is wearing thin, and you know Megumi’s is too by the way his leg taps sporadically, so without wasting time, you unzip his pants, grab the material of both his jeans and boxers and pull both down his legs with his assistance.

Mouth-watering was a more than apt description as you were practically salivating at the sight before you. Pink and pretty. And big.

Mournfully, you tear your eyes away from his appendage to look up at him, only to find his eyes had returned to their fixation of the evening. Your camisole had fallen that much further down your chest and your pebbled nipples were begging for attention, covered only by one layer of fabric.

“Do you want to touch them?”

His eyes jerk up to meet yours, shining with equal parts nervousness and hunger, and he nods shyly. With extreme caution his hands make their way to your tits, pausing an inch away from direct contact, almost as if to prepare himself, until his featherlight touch makes contact with the material of your camisole.

Unsatisfied with his hesitance and the intense need to have his hands on you, you cup your tits over his hands squeezing them firmly in his grasp.

The moan he lets out is guttural as his palms feel the tell-tale peaks of your nipples, and the sound shoots straight to your core. “Fuck.” His hands have a mind of their own now as he moulds them into his palms with pure abandon and a small smile makes their way to his lips at the moan you release.

The unmissable twitch of his cock brings your attention back to the task at hand. You bring your hand up to grasp his solid length in your tiny hands, stroking upwards to collect the precum that had been leaking from his tip and it mixes with your sweat-lined palms allowing you to stroke him with ease.

Soft pants and groans escape Megumi, and you want them to increase tenfold, want him to invade all of your senses.

“Is it okay if I try something, Megumi?” you ask and, in his state, all he can do is nod meekly.

Prying Megumi’s hands off of you physically pains both you and him, but you place them at his side, nevertheless. Your camisole sticks to your flushed skin as you peel the straps off of each shoulder and slide the material down your torso, shivering under Megumi’s heated gaze. He admires your tits as you had admired his cock; with an intense need to suck it into the wet heat of his mouth.

Megumi’s imagination continues to run wild, failing to take note of you leaning closer to his crotch, cupping your chest. Its only once the pillowy softness has enclosed his dick in its warm and suffocating embrace that he is brought down to Earth, and he swears his legs turn to jelly at the slight before him.

You’re looking up at him through dark eyelashes, watching his reactions closely before sticking your tongue out and letting your spit drip over the tip of his dick to aid the movement of your tits gliding up and down his cock.

Megumi’s head falls back against the wall behind the cistern, eyes rolling to the back of his head and a groan so loud you pray no one outside of the bathroom can hear it leaves his open mouth.

You squeeze your tits that much closer together, maximising the contact between your skin and his, and with every downward motion, his core tightens and his thighs twitch. You found it incredibly endearing as he tried and failed to keep the movements of his hips at bay, but before long his hips began thrusting at their own pace, a much faster one. The squelching coming from the mixture of his precum and your spit had increased in volume and frequency, and you are unable keep up with his thrusts any longer, instead remaining stationary and allowing him to chase his fast-approaching orgasm.

His hands have found their way to his hair again, grasping the drenched locks in tight fists. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m gonna come.”

Your eyes lock on his drowsy ones. “Don’t apologize, ‘Gumi. Come whenever you want.”

If the upwards tilt of your seductive eyes combined with the nickname you had just called him was not enough already, the tip of your tongue that you ran sloppily over his tip on one particular upward thrust sent him over the edge and straight into a mind-numbing orgasm.

His hips lift off of the toilet seat as you feel the warm liquid of his cum coat your chin and chest, and with a few short thrusts to ride out his orgasm, he slumps back down onto the seat, fucked out and limp from the best orgasm of his life.

You’re quick to grab a piece of toilet paper, wiping yourself down and tossing it into the trash while Megumi’s breathing levels out and he’s become lucid enough to button up his jeans. When you’re within arm’s reach again, he pulls you down onto his lap, tucks his chin into the crook of your neck and encircles his arms around your waist.

“I love you.” He whispers into your skin, embedding it into your flesh.

Your arms wrap around his neck and pull him infinitely closer. “I love you too, ‘Gumi.”

You welcome the comforting silence for a second but noise from outside of the bathroom brings you back to reality.

“Let’s hope you still love me after we get flamed by every one of our friends once we leave this room.”

His laughter is light-hearted despite the fact that you were dead serious.

30 minutes was a normal amount of time to be in the bathroom, right? Right?

Meanwhile in the living room:

Yuta looks down the hallway for the umpteenth time in the past 30 minutes before his curiosity gets the best of him. “You don’t think they’re-”

“They are.”

“100%”

“Shake.”

“What he said.”

#megumi smut #fushiguro megumi smut #megumi fushiguro smut #megumi fushiguro #megumi imagine #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut

519 notes · View notes

waywardstation · 3 months

Text

Out There Somewhere

Phione Akari AU

Akari is frustrated that she can't seem to communicate with Ingo, no matter how hard she tries.

I wrote this just to try and figure out Akari's frustration around communication barriers, and Ingo just not having important context in order to help figure it out (and being a little frustrated as well), but being able to sympathize enough to still be comforting through what little is actually understood.

OR read here on AO3!

AND check out the Phione Akari AU masterpost!

Enjoy!

————

Ingo set the bucket down on the ground, the water sloshing inside as he moved to set it under the nearby tree. But instead of sitting down against the trunk, he simply squinted against the sliver of sun peeking over the coastlands’ horizon and sighed, walking around it.

At the sound of shoes crunching against dirt, his portable, watery companion housed within said bucket peeked out over the rim to see where he was going.

Ah. Just as suspected, he was stretching again. Leaning against the tree with one arm, he was doing his best to relieve the sore spine that was clearly bothering him. A muffled yet audible crack freed a groan from the warden’s mouth as he pressed the heel of his palm into his lower side and twisted.

“ Phi,” She flopped halfway over the side to continue watching him; it wouldn’t be bothering him so badly if he took more breaks from all the hiking he’d done today. Or the day before. Or the day before that.

Ingo’s gaze settled on her as he continued to stretch, but otherwise he said nothing; comparatively, he had not been very responsive to her today.

To his credit, she had not been very responsive with him lately either though, now frequently reserving any sounds she made and no longer using them conversationally. Ingo never correctly understood them anyways.

Uncoiling the tight pain in his back as best as he believed he could, Ingo leaned down to pick the bucket back up and head into a patch of tall grass, holding it close to him.

“Phi,” She squeaked quietly as the water sloshed with the jostling. Looking up, she met eyes with Ingo, who was already looking down at her.

She may have appeared more dejected than she assumed; his gaze wasn’t quite one of annoyance, but it just seemed… unappreciated. Blank? Perhaps jaded. “No need to worry, Passenger. I am still checking trees for any stalking murkrow before I set you down.”

Akari continued to slosh around quietly in time with Ingo’s steps as he resigned back to silence. A look up through the bucket’s top to the darkened purple sky above, and she was able to make out the weak speckles of stars, still somewhat hiding until the sun’s glow retracted its reach entirely. It would be a clear night – at least the coastlands were merciful enough not to pelt them with bad weather two nights in a row.

The sounds of shoes on grass gave way to smoothed dirt, and the top of a tent could be seen out of the bucket’s top. They must have reached one of the base camps.

At least Ingo would allow himself cover and a bed tonight, but she attributed that to his aching back now demanding it too loudly to ignore any longer.

Once again, Akari not-so-gently sloshed with the bucket’s contents as Ingo wearily set it down on top of the camp’s storage chest. She jumped up to grasp onto the edge and peek over the bucket’s side as he passed by.

The camp’s fire pit was unlit, and it seemed it would stay that way. Ingo went about in the darkness, pouring water into one of the camp’s bowls and washing his face with it. His hands lingered over his eyes with each splash, as if trying to massage the exhaustion out. Then he ventured out into the ring of darkness, dumping the water out onto the grass. Setting the bowl back, he gave the cold fire pit a passing glance before returning to the bucket.

No proper dinner to be cooked, no flames to heat up the water in her bucket the way she liked at night, no heat to warm himself up, and no light to even see where he was going.

Again.

“Here,” Akari glanced up as Ingo pulled a cheri berry out of his coat pocket and held it out to her. The thing was almost as big as her head.

“Phi,” Akari shook her head sternly and sank under the water. She’d learned a few days ago he’d keep offering and urging otherwise, and he needed that fruit more than her. She wasn’t hungry anyways. At least she didn’t think so. This strange body was so confusing. Maybe she was filter feeding and didn’t even realize it…

From under the sloshing skylight of water, Akari saw Ingo’s shoulders slump with an exasperated sigh before popping the berry in his mouth and turning away.

The callous, self-directed frustration gave way to a hint of regret for a moment. She didn’t like seeing him like that. And she definitely didn’t like that she was contributing to it. But she was so nauseatingly, disgustingly sick of trying to communicate at this point when it never got anywhere.

The bucket sloshed around once again as Ingo picked it up and pulled back the canvas flap to carry it into the deeper darkness of the tent with him.

Setting the bucket in the corner and letting himself fall back into the tent with a not-so-quiet grunt, Ingo began to shrug off his coat, removing it with relative care. Folding it and setting it aside next to the tent’s provided pillow, Ingo topped it off by placing his hat down on it.

Aching legs pulled in as shaking hands ran through matted hair and tired eyes regarded the bucket in the corner briefly. Moving carefully on his poor back so as not to irritate it further, Ingo curled onto his side, puffing up before letting out one big, final sigh into the dark.

“Goodnight, Passenger.”

Fabric sheets ruffled briefly in the darkness as he made himself more comfortable, but then he was still, and the subtle night ambience replaced it.

From the side of the lonely bucket, which Ingo had set down as far away from him as she felt he could, Akari regarded him with something not unlike pity before slipping back under the water. She sank to the bottom of the bucket, watching the bubbles that clung to her gradually let go and wander towards the surface.

Ingo was going to go to sleep upset tonight. And she was going to as well.

Why had things come to this?

She didn’t even know what had happened. The only things her memory had retained was uncovering what she assumed to be Manaphy within the dark, damp depths of a half-flooded cavern, then she had found herself adrift near the coastlands’ shore, like this.

What had happened to her body? Her Pokémon? Her everything? If Manaphy had changed her, would she ever be able to revert her back to her human self? What if she couldn’t even find Manaphy again?

From the start, it had always been strange and uncomfortable and scary being like this. But whenever she stopped to really think about it and mull things over, she hated it.

She hated being so small and fragile. She couldn’t walk, only crawl with flat, fingerless flippers that couldn’t grasp anything without significant focus. Her voice had left her and functional commutation of any kind was largely stripped with both people and Pokémon. No one recognized her. She didn’t understand anything about this body that seemed to be as structurally sound as a water balloon. And she couldn’t even protect herself, unable to figure out how to utilize any Pokémon moves.

So many horrible, easy ways this could end terribly. What if she could never find Manaphy? Or what if Manaphy couldn’t change her back? What if she was stuck like this, forever isolated from her friends and family and pathetically clinging to someone who thought she was dead, and only kept her around out of pity and misunderstanding?

The gripping loneliness of the bucket shoved aside into the back corner clamped down much deeper without warning. She was so far away from Ingo. Why had the bucket been crammed so far away? Suddenly, Akari felt like she couldn’t get any air. She needed out of this bucket.

No, she couldn’t take this isolation. She couldn’t move this bucket, but Ingo could. Just a little closer to him. That’s all she wanted.

She hated the idea of trying any more right now, but she’d try just one more time to communicate with him.

–––––

…Sleep was not coming easily to Ingo, but he was still trying his best. He’d need to get up early tomorrow, after all.

Lying on his side, a sound blipped in the background of hazy exhaustion that was already beginning to shut down his senses. Weary eyes opened halfway before his mind processed that the sound was a splash from back in the corner of the tent.

A delay to process, and Ingo jolted out of the hazy murk into sitting upright — how long had he been drifting? Thirty seconds? Ten minutes? Half an hour? Something wild had surely stuck its head in through the tent flap for a drink from the bucket and had snatched Passenger — but a familiar squeak and a cold sensation near his foot alerted him that they were still here.

A glance down in the dark, and Ingo could make out that the small Pokémon was grasping onto the end of his pant leg, sprawled across his ankle as if bracing for more sudden movements.

“Oh- oh Passenger,” Ingo smoothed down and reached for her, letting her flop onto his outstretched hand. “I apologize, I thought that something had… never mind, is something wrong?”

No squeaks. Just cold, wet flippers wrapped around his thumb for support as she slouched in his hand.

“Did you want that cheri berry after all? I’m sorry, I don’t… have it anymore.” An awkward guess as to what she wanted after a stretch of silence. Just another misunderstanding. Akari shook her head no, and pointed to the bucket.

Please bring it a little closer.

“Your bucket has sufficient water? I checked.”

Another incorrect guess, another head shake.

“Did you, perhaps… want to stay in here again tonight?” Ingo plucked his cap up and held it up for her. “You can if you’d like.”

Not quite. Akari shook her head no and pointed at him with a flipper. “Phi,”

“Me?” Ingo pointed at his chest.

“Phi!” A head shake yes, another annoyingly repetitive motion of pointing a flipper at him, then back at the bucket.

“You want me… to..?” Ingo’s sentence died off. He didn’t understand, and was starting to sound like he was losing his grip on the agency of the situation.

“Phi phi!” Another desperate, pointed jab at the bucket, then back at him. A moving motion with her useless, unhelpful, and entirely unindicative flippers.

Please just bring it closer to you. That’s all I want.

A simple request that would have normally taken not longer than eight words and three seconds between them. Can you please move the bucket over here? Actually no, a request that wouldn’t have even needed to exist, because Akari would have simply picked up the bucket herself if she could have.

Regardless, it was all unintelligible, tangled static now. A basic request, now an impossible cipher.

“Oh, I forgot, didn’t I? I apologize.”

Akari looked up at Ingo, hopeful as he got up on a knee, carefully still cupping her in his hands and moving back towards the bucket. Did he finally get it?

“I know I forgot to heat the water the way you like at night. I just… I do not have the steam to start and manage a fire, simply to warm up some water tonight. Please understand.”

Ingo yawned as he placed her back into the bucket. He looked so exhausted. His hands came out dripping, leaving a tiny, insignificant, heartbroken Akari alone to drift in the container once again.

Another attempt to communicate had fizzled out tremendously. She wanted to cry.

A part of her had not wanted to try her hardest to communicate with Ingo. Because if she tried her hardest and it still wasn’t enough, all that would do is prove the terrifying hypothetical that there was no hope of ever replicating any connection or relationship the way it used to be again.

Well, it appeared that had been proven.

“I apologize, but please, endure it until morning.” Ingo covered his mouth as he yawned again. Returning back to the tent’s bed, he then slumped back down and began making himself comfortable on his side again. “I promise when I wake up tomorrow I will do so, but for now, I need sleep. Please.”

Closing his eyes, it only took a few moments before he once again heard a splash, and subsequent wet movements drawing near to his side, which culminated in a damp flipper bapping his hand.

“Passenger.” Ingo rolled onto his back. He was actively moving away from her now. “Not tonight. Please.”

“Phi!” Akari wailed. She didn’t even care about the bucket anymore. She’d rather just stay next to him on his pillow. She didn’t care if she woke up all dried out. It was better than being alone with her thoughts in that confined container, pushed aside in the dark corner.

“It’s on tomorrow’s schedule.”

And with that, Ingo turned onto his other side, his back to her. He was done with this.

He’d never understand.

Blurry eyes stared back at the new, tall barrier that was Ingo’s back. Akari sat slumped amongst the sheets in grief before dragging herself onto the pillow and over to Ingo. She leaned against him, inconspicuously blinking back a couple sad, frustrated, tired tears.

Nothing worked when she tried to get through to him. She understood him and everyone else as clearly as before, but could no longer speak human dialect with these limited, foreign vocal cords (if that’s what she even had anymore). And understanding or communicating with other Pokémon was useless when the knowledge of the language obviously didn’t come with the body.

Over these last six days, all her efforts had done was convince Ingo that she was a clingy wild Pokémon that couldn’t stand to be separated from him, but was also perpetually upset at him. And she could see with time it had made him start to close himself off to her.

Was she frustrated? With the situation, absolutely. Upset? Of course. But at Ingo? No.

It was just hard to do anything when one was stripped of their voice, their legs, their hands, most of their structural systems, and over ninety percent of their body mass. And as upset as she was that it seemed Ingo would never understand, she couldn’t expect him to independently entertain the thought that she was this little phione. People just did not turn into Pokémon. That did not happen.

…Well, except for in this one case maybe. But it didn’t happen enough for people to just realistically wonder if someone turned into a Pokémon when they went missing. That was so silly.

It just did not happen.

So of course Ingo would never realize, unless she somehow found a method to express it to him in a way he could understand.

But for now, it seemed that all that had done was make him annoyed with her.

A frustrated tear finally slipped out, and Akari’s flipper collected it as she wiped it away. With a whimper, another tear followed. She sniffed.

The darkness let her cry for only a few moments before her support shifted under her. Akari did her best to stop the tears and looked up to see Ingo glancing back over his shoulder at her.

Just one grey eye, loose and clouded with exhaustion, but now observing her with the novel extent of commiseration.

“Oh,” Ingo breathed. He sounded hesitant now. “Oh- dear.”

He shifted again, now turning on his side to face towards Akari, but she simply curled forward into her flippers — it only made her feel scrutinized right now.

“…Passenger, it was not about warming the water, was it?”

Maybe it was the careful tone that had replaced all his previous, built-up annoyance, or his concerned look. Or maybe it was just the fact that he was trying to listen to her and understand again. Whatever it was, that sentence opened everything up. Akari sobbed and flopped forward into his front, soaking all over the fabric of his tunic.

“I’m- I apologize,” One of Ingo’s hands cupped around near her, but he did not touch her, perhaps careful to still give her space. “It was… not my explicit intent to make you upset.” He didn’t even sound like he believed himself when he said it. “I believe I’ve overlooked something, haven’t I?”

He had, in a massive way, yes. But if Akari couldn’t get him to understand when she simply wanted a bucket moved, how could she possibly explain her frustrations to him? So she shook her head no despite her feelings, but the continued tears and the clinging contradicted her.

Things went on like that for a while. Ingo did not know what was wrong, and Akari didn’t even attempt to tell him as she was tired of trying. So she was grateful he didn’t push and just let her cry. But eventually her shelter, Ingo’s tear-stained tunic, pulled away as the warden shifted back over onto his back. He brought her with him, letting her rest in his hands as an offer of continued consolation and comfort.

“...I remember what the professor said in his office the other day about, you know… you.” Ingo spoke quietly up at the tent’s ceiling. “About how his many coastal observations suggested you are a very, ah, group oriented species. How you consist of large families that drift with each other from one destination to the next. Always together.”

Akari remembered Laventon saying that as well. Much more verbose and detailed of course, but that summed it up well. She made a quiet sound of acknowledgement and shuffled in his fingers to curl up near his shoulder, and Ingo moved his now-empty hands to clasp them loosely over his belly instead.

“I understand from what the professor surmised about what happened to you, that you miss your group very much.” Ingo continued. “And separation is all the more difficult when one feels lost.”

That came from a very personal place. He did not bring light to it (and why would he with what he assumed to be a Pokémon who still did not know him well?), but Akari knew he was pulling from the clingy, frantic behavior she found herself apt to express whenever separation from him seemed imminent. Had he felt like that when he first fell to Hisui?

“And you’ve felt very lost today haven’t you, Passenger?”

Tears welled up again as Akari nodded. Again, not in the way Ingo had meant, but it still hit the target right in the center. “Phi.”

“I understand the feeling.” Ingo lingered on the sentence for a moment. “Which is why I want to apologize if I have seemed quite distant or distracted today, or yesterday, and contributed to that. I did not intend to neglect you, and lead you to feel even more alone or lost than you already do. I truly did not mean for that. I am just-”

Hands still clasped, Ingo began tapping his thumbs together.

“I am sure you are well aware that I am looking for a lost friend of mine as well. I am worried about her too.”

Akari stayed quiet, waiting to see if he’d say anything more. Ingo had rarely ever brought her up with, well, herself , throughout this entire situation, and why would he? Why would he share his stressors with what he probably currently believed to be the equivalent of a frustrated blue pop pod?

But he was talking about her now. Maybe he was using her relative silence as a catalyst for a self-sorting introspection, because the conversation was certainly going one way with no indication that responses were expected.

But Akari did not mind.

“She is formidable against many, many challenges, but the more time goes by with her absence, the more I fear that something has happened that cannot be taken back.” Ingo’s words slowed down now, carefully thought over and treading with trepidation. “I wonder if she is alright or not. And I also wonder if she is still here. Either in the ah, expected sense of the word, or if… perhaps she received a ticket back home, and I was not there to join her, or bid her goodbye when her line departed.”

Now that was new information to Akari. She had no idea that all of this time, Ingo had been considering the horrific possibility that she had perhaps left Hisui to go back to her own time. He had never once verbalized anything like that over this entire time.

She would never. Never. She’d never even let him say goodbye in a scenario like that, because she would never ever leave without him if she got a chance like that. She’d grab his arm and pull him along with her and fight anything that would have tried to stop her from doing it. And if she would ever be taken suddenly without a choice, she’d fight her way back to grab Ingo and make sure he’d be included. Somehow, she’d find a way.

The thought that he was worrying over something like that, and had been doing so for so long broke her heart.

“But, I also believe that unfortunately I’ve allowed these concerns to outgrow me and derail my priorities. I’ve been trying very hard to find her again, just as I’m sure your group is trying to find you. Though while searching for her, I’m afraid I’ve left you in the dark, and I apologize for that. I am conducting you, after all; I should not be leaving passengers unattended when they require assistance.”

Ingo stopped tapping his thumbs together. Akari rose and fell with Ingo’s chest as he took a deep, distressed breath and let the anxiety out through his nose.

“Tomorrow will not be like today. In the morning, I plan to traverse the cliff sides near the water. I’ll be searching for my own, but I’d like you to know I will be just as diligent with keeping an eye out for any members of your group who may be looking for you along the surf.”

“Phi,” Akari muttered, hoping he took that as a ‘thank you’, or a ‘I’m sorry too’, or even just a simple acknowledgement of the vulnerable moment. She appreciated the sentiment, despite his offer basically being useless to her.

“You know, I believe she would take a liking to you if you were to meet her. I’d like you to, if possible. I also think you’d probably get along with her much better than you do with me.” Ingo continued after another long stretch of silence. He seemed to be trying to relax himself now; fabric shifted in the dark hopefully for the last time. “In some ways, you remind me of her very much.”

Two days ago, or maybe even yesterday, she would have spit a stream of water at him, or smacked him with her useless flipper for saying something that would be so retrospectively obvious.

But he was so exhausted. And so was she. And it, along with any other form of indication she had tried, never got the intended message across. It would have only ruined the nice moment they had managed to dredge up in all of this stress.

So instead, Akari simply flopped over and settled herself into Ingo’s shoulder, clasping onto it securely. It would be a rather loud place when he would inevitably start snoring, but the hood of his tunic was warm, and the proximity was comforting at the moment – much better than all the isolating nights she had spent in that dark bucket.

It must have surprised Ingo, as fabric rustled once again as he turned to look at her as best he could.

“You are stationing yourself there? I am afraid that you will be dried out by sunrise if you stay there.” He warned. “What about your bucket?”

“Phi,” Akari shook her head no, wiggling further into his hood to emphasize she was staying there. She didn’t care. The coastlands were cool enough at night to keep it from becoming too unbearable anyways.

“Alright.” Ingo closed his eyes, and let his muscles finally slack as he settled into the bed. “Goodnight, Passenger. Thank you for listening.”

#phione Akari AU #submas #ingo #warden ingo #akari #pokemon akari #phione #pokemon legends arceus #pokemon legends #pla #pokemon #pokemon fanfic #pokemon fanfiction #waywardstationfanfic #EVERYONE IS SO TIRED #akari did wake up in the morning feeling like a raisin #but its ok Ingo immediately threw her back into the water #shes fine

55 notes · View notes

daizymax · 1 year

Text

these wicked delights | psh (m)

summary: in the dead of night, a sinful creature visits you, penetrating and encompassing your mind, body and soul…

pairing: seonghwa x fem reader

genre: incubus!au, smut

word count: 3.4k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: incubus!seonghwa; supernatural elements; vulgar language; degrading dialogue; not your modern day dirty talk because seonghwa is thousands of years old; the reader is legally an adult but seonghwa calls her a child because, again, he’s thousands of years older; very slight religious elements; graphic sexual content; situations of dub/non-con; dom/sub themes without discussion of boundaries / safety / safewording; dom!seonghwa; rough handling; sensory deprivation; vaginal fingering; oral (f receiving); squirting; unprotected penetrative sex (no condom use, no established birth control method in effect); mirror sex; brief mentions of blood; creampie; an unreal amount of cum; no proper aftercare

author’s note: reuploaded from my old blog and rewritten featuring seonghwa now. no changes to the content itself though. please take extra care to heed the warnings on this one, this is not like my other fics.

( click here to read on AO3 instead )

---

This is how it begins: with a curious tingling sensation at the beginning of your spine, right at the base of your neck. It gradually builds into a dull burn that travels southward, growing warmer and warmer as it goes, until eventually your whole body is awash with white-hot pinpricks.

Yet you are not even sure that you are fully conscious. Sleep’s shroud still clings to you as tangibly as the comfortable cotton sheets draped over your body. Your closed eyelids may render you blind to the surroundings of your bedroom, but they do nothing to block sound.

“Good evening, pet…” drawls a guttural voice, manifesting out of nowhere. It sounds decidedly otherworldly from the way it resonates in the air.

A throaty groan of acknowledgment is all you can manage in your fright.

I’m dreaming, you think, hoping it is true.

“Does this feel like a dream?”

Something inhumanly strong clutches your covered ankle. The sudden gesture startles you, but your body does not - cannot - flinch. Not even your lips break apart to let out the squeal trapped in your throat.

Wh-what is this?! you panic silently. What have you done to me?! Who are you?!

The visitor, whoever he is, seems to hear your unspoken thought.

“A more apt question would be what am I,” he answers cryptically before soon elaborating, “My name is Seonghwa. I am an ancient being well-learned in the ways of copulating with females of your species. As for your paralysis… it is only temporary. There is no need for you to be mobile tonight. I am the master, and you are the pet. You are not in charge here, not even of your own limbs and tongue.”

The claw around your ankle tugs swiftly at the sheets blanketing you, leaving you naked and bare. One long, sharp fingernail drags its way slowly from your foot to your calve to your inner thigh. Your leg may not be able to move, but neither is it numb to the sensations drawn on your nerves.

W-what are you d-doing? Even in your mind, your voice sounds woefully weak.

The jagged end of the bony finger pauses on the outskirts of your exposed entrance.

“Engaging in foreplay,” he - it? - answers matter-of-factly. “You are a lonely, miserable, pathetic little thing, starving for physical attention. That is why I have come.”

His words ring a sour note because of the harsh truth they carry. You have been wallowing in lonely misery for quite some time. Nearly a year has passed without so much as one lousy date or meaningless hookup.

“Hmm, do not despair, child,” your uninvited guest coos almost soothingly. Was his voice this melodic before? “It is that very nature of yours that attracted me to you. Your fragile little mind called to me so sweetly, I had to oblige. You should consider yourself quite fortunate I am here. You will never find another who can stimulate the delicate flesh between your legs better than I.”

Your cunt tingles in recognition from the foul words, and the creature senses your body’s involuntary reaction.

“Yes, I can feel your carnal desires. Shall I begin satisfying them?”

You gulp in apprehension. Would he really stop if you said (thought) the word ‘no?’ But before you can ruminate further, this creature named Seonghwa resumes his earlier movements and tickles the folds of your center.

“I can sense your hesitation, pet,” he says. “But beneath that, your body and your subconscious are screaming for me to continue. I can feel the vibrations of your lust pulsing from you. Would it relax you to know that I desire this, too? Your body is quite exquisite… for a human. I would be delighted to plumb its treasures, starting with the sweetness about to drip from your genitalia.”

With that said, his gnarled finger glides easily into your surprisingly wet cunt. Your gasp of shock and pleasure goes in through your nose as a deep breath. The action encourages the creature to curl the digit purposefully, as if to beckon another reaction out of you.

This is wrong… you fret with what must be the last vestiges of your sanity. I didn’t ask for this…

“No, but your kind is rarely granted the things for which they ask. And many things that are or seem wrong often feel too good to deny,” Seonghwa counters. “Millions of your species give in to their wicked and morally corrupt ways every hour, child. You frail little thing... why should you be any different?”

I’m not a child, your mind argues, latching onto the word with offense.

A deep chuckle reverberates against the walls. “You may be considered a mature adult amongst your species, but I have more than a thousandfold years on you. Now stop this pitiful, stubborn attempt at righteousness and submit to me.”

The boom of his voice is terrifying, but as he adds a second finger to your heated core, you find yourself powerless to resist. You absently wonder if he is casting some sort of spell over you to force your obedience, but the burning arousal in your loins does not feel like a trick. Could you really be so desperately depraved as to want this to happen?

In any case, the demon hums his approval at your compliance.

“There’s a good pet.” He withdraws his hand and uses it to lightly pat your pussy appreciatively, only to immediately plunge his fingers back into place inside you.

His long fingernails graze your g-spot, but rather than being painful or uncomfortable, the sensation is oddly gratifying. Every brush against your deepest recesses serves to torment you in the best way. If you could gyrate your hips, you would, but the best you can do is allow a soft moan to thrum inside your chest.

“Enjoying yourself already?” Seonghwa muses. “How weak you are indeed. And so soft…”

His other hand skims along the side of your body, following the curves from your hip to your breast. He grasps the fleshy mound and squeezes with surprising tenderness.

“Perhaps I should loosen my hold on you,” he wonders. He gives your nipple a pinch and clarifies, “Not here, just over your lips. I am an admittedly vain creature. I would very much enjoy hearing your uncensored cries - in full volume - when I bring you to the height of euphoria, over and over, until your voice is utterly shattered. What do you think, pet?”

As he speaks, he wiggles his fingers and digs the heel of his palm into your clit determinedly, while the hand on your chest moves to your other breast to caress it with the same attention as the first. The stimulation is positively electrifying.

I… you plead vaguely, unable to string coherent words together.

“You what, child?” he urges. “Speak freely now. Tell me what you so desire.”

Your freed tongue pokes out to wet your lips, then you say unabashedly, “I want to come so badly.”

“Do you?” he teases.

Seonghwa’s pointed thumb begins strumming against your clit with the faintest touch, and this time your gasp is much sharper when able to be inhaled through your mouth. Again, you lament the inability to rock yourself against him. The light stimulation is not enough.

“More…” you rasp. “I need more.”

“Is that any way to speak to your master?” he states coldly. His thumb lifts away from your bud, and his fingers draw back to the start of your opening and stall there. “Try that again. Ask me nicely this time, pet.” He spits the last word to reiterate your role in this unnatural union.

“Please… m-master,” you stutter over the uncomfortable word. “Will you p-please make me come, master?”

“That’s better,” he approves, then begins shoving his hand into you repeatedly.

A third finger joins the first two, and the thick stretch has you groaning incessantly. His thumb descends back onto your engorged clit to rub skilled circles into it. Every little twitch of his hand pulls the knot inside your belly tighter and tighter.

“This silky cavern of yours is taking my fingers so well, pet,” Seonghwa purrs, and you mentally preen under his praise in spite of yourself. For reasons you can’t explain, you’re honored to please him.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for your orgasm to wash over and pour out of you. The inability to hunch your back or even curl your toes makes it feel all the more powerful, and the high-pitched whine that squeaks out of you is unlike any sound you have ever produced.

Seonghwa continues undulating his wrist until the spasms of your pussy subside and the overstimulation on your clit nears the point of becoming painful.

“Such a messy little thing,” he tsks. The squelching sound when he removes his hand from your center alerts you to just how much wetness you released. “Open your eyes now and look at the mess you have made.”

You blink your heavy eyelids open and let your pupils adjust to the darkness. From the moonlight streaming through the curtains, you can definitely discern a distinct sheen running along the back of his hand, but what really captures your interest is the hand - claw - itself. It is even larger than you imagined. The skin is alabaster and smooth, but the pointed nails are black as moonless midnight.

You raise your eyes upward to look upon your visitor for the first time and are immediately captivated by his piercing crimson gaze. His eyes are quite literally glowing, illuminating the pale face sculpted from the same ivory marble as his hands. Thick, silver hair frames his temples, brushing just above high cheekbones.

Oh… he is so beautiful…

The thought is automatic and also instantly heard, as Seonghwa’s wide grin indicates. His teeth are blinding white in the dark and noticeably sharp.

“Of course I am beautiful, child. If I am to take the form of a wretched human, only the best will do. Although some appendages have remained unmodified, as you will find out,” he informs you. “But first, let me see if you taste as delectable as you look.”

With that, he parts his lips and snakes his sharp tongue out to catch his dripping fingers. He sucks them thoroughly before releasing each of them with soft pops.

The verdict is rendered as: “Delicious,” while he continues to grin down at you devilishly. Then he decides, “I think I would like a taste straight from the source now, if you don’t mind.”

Without actually giving you a choice, he drags your body down the mattress without touching you and kneels at the foot of your bed to bring his face inches from your sensitive pussy. Before you have time to marvel (or cower) from the magical action, he is on to the next thing, which is yanking your immobilized knees apart. His claws dig into the supple flesh of your thighs possessively.

When he dips what can only be his tongue into the folds of your cunt, the muscle feels strangely scaly and clammy. It soon becomes clear he is quite skilled with it, however, and its reach far extends that of all your previous lovers.

He licks along your slit tantalizingly without heed for your still-throbbing clit. Then he delves his tongue in and out of your tight hole at a steady, rhythmic pace.

“Such sweet syrup you have stored inside you, child,” Seonghwa murmurs huskily. “What a shame to have it bottled up for so long. It is a good thing I am here to release it for you.”

You would say plenty of it has already been released, considering the stickiness seeping down into the crack of your ass, but you doubt your imposing ‘lover’ would appreciate such a quip. And truth be told, you are flattered that he seems to be enjoying giving you all the pleasure… so far.

He suddenly digs his tongue into your clit, directly under the hood. A jolt frizzles along the nerves of your frozen body and escapes past your lips in the form of a whimper.

While his mouth is attending to your nether regions, his hands creep back up along your abdomen until he finds your breasts again. He fondles both of them rather gently, occasionally rolling and tweaking your nipples to send a pulse of electricity below. Your moans become louder the longer he carries on lapping and stroking and pulling you to the brink of madness.

Your second orgasm crests every bit as high as the first, and although your limbs still cannot move, you can feel the aftershocks in your very bones.

“So easy to unravel,” Seonghwa comments as he resurfaces from the drenched juncture of your thighs. You watch as that red, serpentine tongue outlines his coated lips to capture every lingering drop of your essence.

Your eyelids droop in exhaustion, but the unholy creature has not yet finished taking its fill.

“You are not the only one in need of release, child,” he tells you. “It has been ages since I have visited upon one as enticing as you, and I do not intend to waste this opportunity.”

Again, he uses his otherworldly power to manipulate your body to his will, this time flipping you over onto your stomach. Your startled yelp is muffled against the sheets when he manually yanks your bottom half into the air, fully presenting your ass to him. His hands roam over your backside slowly.

“I am going to penetrate you now, pet,” Seonghwa says in a low tone; it sounds like a warning. “The fit will surely be excruciating for you. I suggest you take a deep breath and exhale it as I make my entrance.”

The unmistakable head of his cock presses against the petaled lips of your pussy. The circumference of it is wider than any you have known, and your mind balks when your muscles cannot flinch. It has not pushed inside of you yet, but you know without a doubt it will rip you apart.

Before you can voice your concerns, your lover is speaking to you again.

“Shh, stop your fussing,” he growls. “Your anatomy is made to birth infants larger than my genitals; you will be fine. I will guide you through this. Breathe, child.”

You obediently suck in a gulp of air.

“Good girl. Now let it out. Slowly, now,” he instructs next.

You allow the air to slowly leak from your lungs, and Seonghwa begins the plunge of his turgid cock into your core. As wet as you are, it is a struggle to fit even the tip of him inside. It spears through your walls agonizingly, tearing the sensitive skin just as you predicted, and you cannot even twist your fingers into the bedspread to help cope with the pain.

“You are doing well, my pet. Very well,” Seonghwa assures you, conscious of your pained state. “But we have a way to go yet. Keep breathing.”

Each breath comes in shakier and rushes out whinier as inch after inch locks into place inside you. Your walls stretch to their limits around his rock hard shaft, and still he continues to push until eventually he meets the resistance of your cervix.

“There we go,” he announces quietly, not sounding nearly as affected by the tight fit as you are.

He reaches up and fits one of his hands between the side of your face and where it rests against the bed to cup your cheek lightly for a moment, then glides his fingers slowly around to the back of your neck, across your shoulder blades, down your spine, finally coming to a halt at your hip. His delicate touch leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His other hand finds purchase on the other side of your waist, and his hold becomes bruising.

“Now, stay just like that and let me do all the work,” he commands, as though you have a choice.

Seonghwa withdraws his monstrous cock until only the mushroomed head remains, then thrusts back into you sharply, causing you to utilize the only parts of your body with mobility by parting your lips to groan loudly and squeezing your eyes shut tight. He gradually builds a steady pace, driving himself to knock against your g-spot relentlessly. The punishing blows make your eyes roll back in your skull.

“Is that what you think, child?” Seonghwa questions suddenly without interrupting his movements.

“W-what?” you ask shakily, unaware that you had even been thinking of anything specific for him to pick up on.

“That you are being punished?” he specifies. “You are not being punished, my pet. If it feels that way, you are mistaken. I am not ruining you. I am ushering you into paradise. Don’t. You. See?”

He punctuates his last few words with especially hard snaps, and you choke on a moan. Your pussy is clenching repeatedly around him now, signaling an impending third climax, even without stimulation to your clit.

Seonghwa jerks the top half of your body upright with a claw hooked around your throat, and the unseen force he wields is used to plant your palms firmly into the mattress to help keep yourself propped up. The mirror of your vanity dresser magically floats through the air to lean against the headboard of your bed. The reflection shows only yourself situated on your hands and knees, breasts jostling lewdly from the consistent pounding you are taking from behind. Your lover is nowhere to be seen in the glass.

“Look at yourself, child,” Seonghwa demands. “There is no use denying that you enjoy being ravaged like this.”

You are unable to tear your gaze away from the crazed eyes staring straight back at you. They are your own, but they are also a stranger’s. You moan wantonly in a broken voice.

“You can be louder than that,” the demon spurs. “Let all the heathens in Hell and all the seraphs in Heaven hear me taking over your body, mind, and soul.”

He speeds his thrusts even more to help earn the noises he so craves, and you do not disappoint. Even if the damned and the higher beings cannot hear you, your neighbors surely can through the walls of your apartment.

“Yes, my pet, yes. That’s it. Give in once more to the primal needs inside of you. Do it for your master.”

And you do. You shut your eyes and feel your pussy quake as it releases one last sinful gush.

Seonghwa pierces the flesh of your hips with his nails sharply enough to draw trickles of blood as he tumbles over the edge with you. His massive cock balloons even more at the moment of his impressive climax. The grunt he lets out sounds like a clap of thunder as he discharges a gratuitous amount of cum, drowning your insides overfull. Even with his cock still lodged within you, it does little to plug the boiling liquid; it drips out around his wide length, down your pussy, and onto the sheets below in thick, copious rivulets.

When it is over, he removes himself from your gaping opening with a cringe-worthy slurp and releases all hold over you. Your used body crumbles in a heap.

“I believe I have sufficiently satiated you now, sweet pet,” Seonghwa says rather calmly. Even after pounding you like a jackhammer and unloading what felt like liters of cum inside you, he is not the slightest bit breathless. “It is a shame I cannot visit you again for a while. The toll it would take on your fragile soul is not to be taken lightly, after all.”

You give no indication that you have heard him, but he does not seem to mind. With strong arms, he manually lifts your limp body and tucks you into your sheets with care. You are too tired and too out of it to realize they are totally dry.

Or that your sore hips are not actually bleeding.

Or that the mirror has returned to its rightful place over your dresser.

“Sleep now, child… Or perhaps you truly have been sleeping and dreaming this entire time…”

An amused cackle echoes against your eardrums, and you slip into unconsciousness with one last vision of his wicked grin to haunt you.

---

if you enjoyed, please consider re-blogging and/or leaving me some feedback. take care! ♡

#seonghwa smut #park seonghwa smut #ateez smut #atz smut #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa x reader #ateez x reader #atz x reader #these wicked delights #daizymax

342 notes · View notes