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#oh how the ghost of you clings
longeyelashedtragedy · 11 months
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anytime they show quique setien’s face on the screen during this sevillarreal game i’m reminded of the trauma of being a barça fan in the 19-20 season
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deadsetobsessions · 7 days
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I just really like the trope of Danny getting summoned, alright?
——
After he shoved Pariah Dark in his coffin shaped locker what what Danny hoped to be for all of eternity, the half unfortunately inherited all of Pariah’s responsibilities.
“What was it again? With great powers comes great responsibilities?” Danny let his head hit the table with an audible thunk. He’s in his “office,” the ghost zone’s approximation of where he might be able to do work seriously. The house- the extension of his haunt- had added the room right next to his bedroom. Danny had to lift all of the paperwork from Pariah’s castle (that’s now also a part of what’s considered Danny’s but he doesn’t think about that) and move it to his main haunt.
He prayed to the universe at large to let him off. Danny hated doing homework- science not withstanding because at least he understood that- let alone an asshole’s centuries worth of work. Danny bemoaned the fact that he was elected the King. He didn’t even defeat Pariah all by himself, so why couldn’t the others do it?!
Like a wave of merciful fate, the beginning tugs of a summoning pulled at his core.
“Thank Ancients!”
Danny scrambled to grab a sticky note, unfortunately glowing green as things tended to in the Ghost Zone, and scribbled down that he’s been summoned and to not look for him until his vacation work was done.
With that note done, Danny decided to bring his A game to the summoning. Allowing his secondary form to wash over him, Danny quickly checked the mirror to make sure he was presentable. A bright glowing ice crown- not the crown of fire, because it was essentially useless without the ring and Danny wasn’t keen on being a king, let alone a near infinitely powerful one- settled across his brow showed his status. A cape, this form’s best feature, made of an expanse of galaxies, nebulae, and frost cling at the end was swept over his shoulders and pinned together with a cloak pin made of clusters of black holes.
A couple of additions to his normal hazmat suit and his trusty thermos at his side, Danny all but dove into the summoning magic with an excited whoop of glee.
As Danny got closer to the magic-made portal, he could hear the whispers of the living presences beyond it.
His summoners! Hopefully it’s not a cult again, even if he thought they were pretty funny trying to summon the king of the dead to kill more people. Not funny “haha,” funny weird.
How should he do this…? Scary? Funny? Oh! Or maybe he should ditch the crown!
Danny grinned, waving his hand to dispel the crown of ice. It was nice, but he was in a dungeon critter mood today.
“Oh, this is going to be gooood.”
Danny cracked his knuckles and put on the most dead-inside-and-outside expression he could manage, modeling it off of the Nasty Burger workers during closing shift. The halfa stepped through the portal.
——
“The ritual is completed! You will all face the might of Pariah Dark, the eternal king of the dead!” The villain of the week cackled as his cult cheered. Wonder Woman, scuffed and injured from the magical bolts these magic users had shot at her earlier, grimaced and raised her sword.
“We will defeat Pariah Dark,” she proclaimed. Her allies rallied at her proclamation and readied themselves for another fight. “This world will not bow to the likes of you!”
“We are all but mere ants before the king of the dead! Pariah Dark will bring forth the reckoning this shitty world deserves!”
“Actually, Pariah Dark’s kind of busy, so you’re gonna have to leave a message.”
Green Arrow’s arrow jerked towards the new voice. Batman paused, hand holding batarangs at the ready. He, out of all of them, knew better than to underestimate a young voice.
A gloved hand shoved through the green portal, using the edges like a door frame to heave itself through. A humanoid shape, with sharp ears all but crawled out of the Lazarus green portal. Batman wondered if this was what Jason saw when he came back to life.
"Lord Pariah Dark is busy?!"
The figure- a boyish not-human- heaved a sigh. "Do you people seriously think that the High King of the Infinite Realms isn't swamped with work?"
"And who are you supposed to be? His secretary?" Hal asked, Ring glowing and at the ready. Wonder Woman tensed and mentally struck Hal away from the list of people to consider for diplomatic missions.
"Me? I'm a glorified paper pusher." The being turned back to the cultists, his cape containing the universe swished behind him. "Did you have a message for Pariah Dark?"
"He was meant to rain down death and destruction!"
"Okay, first of all, I feel like you guys are missing a really important point." The being pointed at the cult leader. “It’s not called the King of the Dead for no reason, you know. Death comes for everyone eventually. Also, I have to do a seriously giant amount of paperwork every time one of you fruitloops gets the bright idea to cause an influx of deaths.”
Danny stomped across the circle, grabbed the collar of the cultist leader’s cloak and yanked him down. He shook him. “Do you people have any idea how annoying it is?! Huh?! Do you know how long the A-354 Form is?! Stop trying to get Pariah to kill people! I’m sick of the paperwork, dammit!”
"How- how did you get out of the circle?!"
The cultists and the heroes squared up, ready to fight the possible common enemy: Danny.
Danny is having the best time of his half life. Screw kingly dignity, Danny’s gotta de-stress somehow! He had a whole bag of complaints!
"You wrote the circle wrong, idiots! Ancients, are you people even literate? What even are those scribbles?" Danny kept shaking the cultist. Wow, what an amazing stress ball!
“Uh- hey, he looks kind of sick…” The Flash said, trying to be a good hero and mediate before escalating. Danny snarled and Flash held up his hands, gulping in fear as Danny’s eyes narrowed at him. “Did I… do something?”
“You,” Danny hissed. “You mother- fruitloop! Stop screwing with the timeline, you giant red-! Do you know how annoying it is to readjust the death count every time one of you little merry red jesters takes a jaunt through time and space?! Do you even know how many complaints I had to field?! Oh, boy you’re all going to regret summoning me today, because I’ve had a long time to think about what I’d do to everyone who made me work overtime!”
Danny bared his teeth, eyes sparkling with mirth as he froze the cultists.
"We're not letting you take over the world," Hawk-Woman said, raising her mace that pulsed with electricity.
Danny snorted to hide his wince. "I'm not interested. Just let me punch him once. Just once." Danny pointed at the Flash.
"Honestly, I can't even blame you," Black Canary muttered, fists raised.
"Wha-! Canary! That's so rude! You traitor!"
"Shouldn't have put skittles in my shoes then. Those hurt, Flash."
"Enough." Everyone shut up at the sound of Batman's command. "What do you mean they wrote the circle wrong."
Danny, who was watching the byplay with interest, shrugged. "They wanted to summon the Ghost King, right? We've had a... change of leaders recently."
"Who is the leader now?"
Danny waggled a finger at Batman. "Nuh-uh. I'm gonna collect my over-time compensation, which is punching the Flash, and then we can negotiate for information."
"Flash."
"I don't want to get punched, Bats!"
"The alternative is that I let the current Ghost King have a go at you."
"Flash."
"Oh my god, just get punched, Barry!" Danny heard Green Lantern Hal Jordan whisper.
"Ugh, fine. No one video this."
Immediately, three phones go up to record the Flash getting decked by a teenage looking ghost. Danny floated closer and wound his fist back, letting loose some of the ghost strength he normally keeps restrained. "This is for my overtime and for Clockwork, you jerk."
The halfa slammed his fist straight into the Flash's face, knocking him clear into the air. Superman catches him but Danny no longer paid attention to the Flash, petty vengeance enacted.
"Honestly, I don't have a problem with you as a person. You're kind of cool. Break the timeline again in the next three months, though, and you're on my shit-list."
"What do you want in exchange for information?"
Danny hummed. "Depending on the level of information, and I reserve the right to not answer any questions. For the name of the current Ghost King..."
He did want that new gaming console. And Jazz could use some help with her rent.
"I want $5,000 and a plate of really good spaghetti."
"I have cash."
Danny nodded at the Dark Knight. "You just carry $5,000 in cash on you? Who does that?"
"I like to be prepared."
"And he's rich," Superman chimed in.
The Flash reappeared with a plate of spaghetti from an Italian place he teleported to. "Here you go. Fresh, and pleasedon'tscrewwithmyafterlife."
Danny shoveled the spaghetti into his mouth, jaw unhinging like a particularly disturbing snake right before he dumped the whole thing- plate and all- down his throat. "Thanks! The food didn't even try to kill me this time! You're good."
"Does your food try to kill you all of the time?!" The Flash- Barry, apparently- asked.
Danny nodded as he took the cash from Batman's gloved hands. "Totally. It sucks."
"Identity." Batman demanded.
"Oh, yeah. The current ghost king is me."
"...What."
"You have been swindled. Bamboozled. Outwitted and outsmarted," Danny snickered, shoving the bundle of cash in his chest. "But seriously, I'm the king. We got rid of Pariah a while ago."
The crown of ice materialized.
"You said you were a glorified paper pusher!" Hawk-Woman chortled.
"I am! I'm pushing so many papers across my desk, it's unending, I swear!"
Batman growled. "You tricked us."
Danny smirked, "You got tricked." Red Robin, in the corner, snorted quietly. "Anyways, if you've got more interesting things around here, I'll considering busying myself with that instead of sentencing you to an afterlife of paperwork."
The adults straightened, grimacing. "Beast Boy is green," Hal offered up.
"Hey!" Beast Boy shouted, offended at the easy way Hal offered him up. He turned to Danny. "But have you ever seen a green chinchilla? Super cute. Watch!"
"Woah!" Danny clapped. Yes, he'll hang out with them before dragging himself back.
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saksukei · 7 months
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simon ‘ghost’ riley has a crush on you
masterlist | subtle things he does for you | simon my love
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simon’s feelings hit him like a truck, as if he's a deer caught in the headlights. he only comes to realize it in the heat of the battle, chests heaving up and down as the two of you hide behind a wall for cover. you tell him to reload first and it's something so insignificant, so minute and yet it pieces things together for him. so he does what his first best. swallow the lump in his neck, ignore the swelling of his heart and focus on what’s next.
except
he sucks at it and boy is it evident.
it is so subtle though, subtle enough for it to slip under everyone’s radars including yours. except, captain price is no fool. he's known simon long enough to see the little change in his demeanor when you enter the room. how simon immediately sits up right, in his best posture, giving you a firm nod of acknowledgment.
how simon always looks your way, always. even when you’re not looking, he’ll still check what you're doing, where you are. it’s not intended to be creepy, it's just a form of reassurance that you’re alive, that you’re okay, that he has another chance to confess. (also the type to lean against the door frame and observe you)
what’s shocking is that even during his infamous cigarette breaks, he chooses to hang out with you. he adores the fact that it’s comfortable silence between the two of you. and more importantly, it contains the two best things he needs, silence and you. “what a view” he thinks to himself.
moreso, the lieutenant’s eye for detail is insane. simon is incredibly nuanced, he can notice when your mood is off, when you’re hurt, irritated or whatsoever. he tries to deal with the issue silently, like handing you a bottle of water, leaving a seat for you beside him, ensuring that he does most of the paper work and so on.
simon reacts at the speed of lightning if he notices you’re hurt or in range of fire. he remembers the one time he ran, grabbing you by the waist to make sure you don’t get shot. your small frame clinging against his, your body weight almost nothing to him and he felt lightheaded. he desperately wanted to keep you in his arms but he settles for asking, “you holdin’ up fine?” as he lets you out of his grip.
he enjoys bantering with you so much. such snide and snarky remarks all the time. from “what? can’t handle a little teasing from your superiors?” to “you know it's bad manners cussing behind your lieutenant’s back,” to “thought you were tough?” to “all that back talk, why don't you come and prove it?” he absolutely loves the reactions you give him.
moreso, when he begins getting more and more comfortable, he invites you eat lunch with him as opposed to with the rest of the soldiers. adores the fact that you both can converse without having eyes on the two of you. “plans for lunch?”
oh and of course, the most difficult moment of his life, when you reached forward on your tippy toes to fix his balaclava, simon thought he’d have a heart attack. took all of his strength to not lean forward and press a kiss to your forehead. “looking alright now?” he jokes, you can almost hear his smirk.
he hates the vulnerability, he does. but what he doesn't hate is the fact that it's you. it's you he’s being vulnerable with. and he repeats it to himself every night that you’re the best choice anyway.
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ceilidho · 3 months
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prompt: Ghost only takes you half-seriously when you say you want to see other people. He has just the man in mind. tags: dubcon; threesome; anal (2.5k)
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He doesn’t so much as twitch when you stumble over your words in an effort to get it out.
“I don’t think this is working,” you say, hands clenched into trembling fists at your sides. “I think we should start seeing other people.”
The only bit of it that Ghost really pays attention to is the fact that you decided to make this little announcement while he’s in the middle of taking apart and cleaning his gun at the kitchen table. His little spitfire girl. Not a lick of fear in you, just a fistful of attitude and snark. The attitude’s ensconced now in your trepidation, a bit smothered under it, nervousness a clear trill in your voice, making it warble, but it shows itself in the downward slant of your brows. Delightful girl.
“That right?” he grunts, jamming the lubricated cotton mop into the bore of the gun. You flinch at the sudden movement, nervous eyes trained on his hands. Ghost makes a note to apologize with his mouth later on.
“Yes,” you croak, then cough to clear your throat. “I’ve, um…I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I think it’ll be better for—for both of us. It’s just…it’s not working out.”
The cigarette dangling from between his lips stinks up the room. Poor girl, he thinks pityingly when you scrunch up your nose and eye it resentfully. Always trying to get him to quit. It’s just shit luck for you that he’s never been good at quitting things, at letting anything go. Everything he’s ever lived through clings to his skin like smoke. 
He ashes it out in the little turquoise ceramic pot on the table, a trinket he’d once picked up in Tala'a Kebira years ago while in Morocco on some other business. You look marginally less irked with the cig put out, but that just means that more of his attention can focus squarely on you, which leaves you a bit wide-eyed under his stare.
“For a while, hm?” Ghost asks. It comes out teasingly, if only to him. The lilt in his voice is a tricky one to catch.
You nod; the note must have slipped through your hands like smoke. “There’s a girl I found online that’s studying abroad right now. Offered to sublet me her room while I look for a place. I thought maybe, um…maybe tomorrow I’d go.”
“Don’t worry about all of that,” he says, already dismissing the conversation from his mind. “Won’t be back for another week anyway—no reason for you to run off if I’m not even around.”
“Oh.” You shift from side to side, thinking it over. “I guess. How long will you be gone?”
“A week. Two weeks tops.” Plenty of time for him to sort out this mess. Figure out what exactly caused you to get all jumpy and eager to try out other people. 
He smiles internally. Little bird probably just can’t stand how often he’s away, poor thing. It’d be enough to make any girl upset—the constant leaves of absence, gone months without being able to send word, showing up bruised and bloody on the doorstep only to have you fall to pieces trying to put him back together. 
There are options though. He’s not opposed to adding someone new either—in fact, he has just the man in mind. 
Ghost has been holding Johnny back because he always thought you preferred to just be with one man (and Christ, the whining he’d had to deal with from Johnny, always begging to see you or begging Ghost for even just your panties, anything at all because he was so desperate and Ghost wouldn’t let him have you), but now?
Now there’s no reason to hold Johnny by the collar when he comes over for dinner. Now there’s no reason to kick Johnny from under the table when he leans just a bit too close to you when you’re sitting down to eat, eyes locked on the glimpse of your chest peeking out of your shirt and damn near drooling on it. Now there’s no reason to listen to Johnny jack himself off to the point of tears while trying to get some shut eye on a mission, the only crumpled up photo that Ghost had ever allowed him to take cupped close to his face.
He really pitied the poor mutt before, no pretty girl at home, his only crush being his superior’s girl. But Ghost is magnanimous—he’s a generous man. If you want to see other people, he has the perfect puppy for you to play with.
When you smile, still a bit unsure, he has to smother a grin. “Okay. I’ll stay ‘till then and look.”
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The look Johnny gives him when he brings it up is equal parts disbelief and fevered need. “Say that again, Lt?”
“You’re coming over after we wrap this shit up. Bird’s been asking about a third.”
He chokes, scrambling to his feet. The temporary base is damp, always on the frigid side of things so Johnny’s still in uniform for the most part, the fabric rustling in his haste to get up off his bed. It’s not a place either of them are eager to spend more time in than absolutely necessary. The lack of space means that the two of them are made to bunk together as always, sharing a room with two cots and a small en suite, the tub still wet from Ghost’s shower.
“Christ, yer serious? No joke, sir?”
Johnny pushes his head back into Ghost’s hand when Ghost reels him by the hair, dropping a firm close-mouthed kiss onto the centre of his forehead through the fabric of the mask. “She was clear about it. Why? Gettin’ cold feet on me now?”
“No, sir,” Johnny protests, shaking his head as much as he can in Ghost’s grip, eyes shimmering a bit. “I can bring over a bottle o’ wine if ye like. Somethin’ fancy to set the mood.”
Their closeness is not unusual; Johnny’s always been a tactile man, favouring touch over words. One of their small similarities; their shared modes of existing in the world. There’s a line in the sand where you’re concerned that Ghost has been clear on, but he’s used to always having a hand somewhere on Soap, keeping him close. Now, he gets to keep him even closer. 
His bird really has the best ideas. 
Ghost snorts, knocks their heads together. “Just bring yourself, pup.”
He ignores the way Johnny’s breath hitches, the way he hurries into the bathroom and slams the door behind him the second Ghost lets go. The frantic eager sounds from behind the door when the water runs, only muffling the loudest of his groans. He probably had his dick choked in his fist the second the door shut, a thick nut swirling down the drain within the first five minutes. 
They ship out the next morning, exhausted from the week’s work. No amount of sleep out in the field is ever good enough, especially not in cots barely built to accommodate men of their size. Especially not Ghost. Johnny dozes off on his shoulder in the plane, sinking into a deep sleep to compensate for the hours spent tossing and turning the night before. Ghost uses the flight to get a headstart on his paperwork, enough so that he’s not held up on base when they land back home. 
He doesn’t give you a heads up that he’s home earlier than planned; no need to give you enough time to pack a bag and schlep it over to that place you’d found. It’s better for everyone if you’re caught a bit off guard, just a little frazzled. Ghost’s not entirely unsympathetic—he knows you’ll overthink things if he gives you any time to yourself. 
It’s endearing the way you gape up at him, eyes flitting between him and Johnny, when he finally makes it home. For the few times that Johnny’s been over, it’s not an everyday thing; his visits are always planned and strictly timed, Ghost monitoring him to make sure he doesn’t overstep his bounds. Seeing him with Ghost in your foyer must be strange, must put you on edge. 
“Simon, you didn’t tell me you were—” you start and then pause, swallowing. You look over his shoulder at Johnny, smile stiff, uncomfortable. “Hi Johnny.” 
You’re always a good girl, not wanting to argue in front of company. 
“Heel,” Ghost says, steel in his voice when Johnny almost lurches from his side. The other man glances over at him with wild eyes, almost on the brink of disobeying, but he holds in the end and stays put. Ghost’s eyes soften when he looks back at you. “Have a nice week, pet?”
“Yes—sorry, I’m glad you’re home safe,” you say, flustered, taking his back from him to drop in the usual place in the hall. “I, um—” again, you eye Johnny nervously, unsure of how much you can say in front of him, “—I found a place…for…you know.” 
“‘Course,” Ghost agrees, shucking his boots at the door and giving Johnny a shake by his coat until he does the same. “Missed you too, pet. C’mere.” 
He muffles your protests with his mouth when he stalks forward and pulls you in for a wet kiss, rolling the mask up and off at the same time. You’re a bit stiff in his arms until he slips you some tongue and the resistance leaks out of you, helpless the second he gets his hands on you. Your eyes are still a bit misty when he pulls away, fingers clutched in the collar of his shirt like a reflex. Second nature to cling to him. His chest puffs up at the gesture.
“Thought about what you said the other week, bird, and you’re right.”
You blink, coherence coming back to you, shaking your head to divest yourself of the momentary confusion. “I am?”
“‘Course. Smartest girl in the world, isn’t she, Johnny?” Ghost asks over his shoulder, slipping a hand into your hair at the same time to hold you in place. It makes you frown, his actions not mirroring his words. 
“Aye, sir,” Johnny hums, nodding eagerly. Boots off, he stumbles forward, crowding around you from the other side, not realizing that they’ve backed you into a wall until it presses against you, trapping you in place. “Bonnie ‘n sharp as a whip. Always thought so, sir.” 
“That’s right,” he agrees, tightening his fingers in your hair until you squeal, brows furrowing in that way they do when you’re right on the precipice of pain and relief. “Only a smart, brave girl would ask for what she needs. You’re just lonely when I’m away, isn’t that right, pet?”
“I’m—I’m what?” you splutter, hands planted on Ghost’s chest, trying to push him away to no avail. He hardly notices it. 
“Go on, Johnny,” Ghost murmurs. “Since she asked so nicely. Give her a kiss.”
That’s all his mutt needs to hear. 
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You huff and puff with the strain it takes to take Ghost’s cock after a week and a half away. 
You’re always tighter when he comes back, an effort to work you up to taking him again; he lets Johnny get you prepped this time, slobbering all over your pussy in his eagerness, plugging you with three fingers before you’re even close to ready. He gets off on the way you howl, rutting his cock into the sheets of your bed while he keeps you pinned by a thick arm over your stomach. 
Ghost has to scruff him after that. He takes over, running a soothing tongue over where it hurts until you cry big, fat tears and come a couple times. He makes sure you’re taken care of before it gets tough. You’re mindless by the time he moves off you to retrieve the lube from the bedside drawer, only coming back to yourself when he turns you over onto your belly and spreads the cheeks of your ass. It unwinds something in his chest to hear you yelp when he pushes a finger into your ass, like coming home. 
This is why he does what he does: to get this when the job is done. 
It’s not often he gets to do this, usually too big for you to take comfortably in your ass. Johnny’s not that much smaller, in fairness, so he works you up to two and then three fingers before lying down on the bed and pulling you over him. Your legs tremble when you straddle him, fingers digging into his chest when he lowers you onto his cock for the first time in a week. 
“There we go,” he says, grunting when you pull his chest hair a little. “That’s a good girl. We just about done crying now?” 
Ghost smiles when you shake your head stubbornly, eyes still filled with tears. “This isn’t what I meant, Simon.”
“You can cuss me out when Johnny’s done, alright? That make you happy?” 
He almost chuckles when Johnny clambers back onto the bed in his haste to get his hands back on you, his pants still hanging off an ankle until he gives it a shake once his palms fit over your waist. 
“Slowly, pup,” Ghost cautions, reaching around to spread a cheek. He coos when you flinch, whispering for you to relax. 
Johnny’s eyes roll back into his head when he pushes in, hips stuttering forward until Ghost snarls and he stops, letting out a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself down. Even for Ghost, it’s intense; you tighten around him when Johnny pushes in, only letting up when he cups your cheek and draws you down for a kiss, loosening you up with his tongue. 
“Sir, I can—fuck, fuck, fuck,” Johnny whines, back curving when he drops his head. “She’s so fuckin’ tight, I can—swear I can feel you, sir.”
He’s not wrong. Ghost swears he can feel it himself, Johnny’s cock in his pretty bird’s ass while his is stuffed deep in your cunt. You pant through the stretch, words half-croaked out, unintelligible. It’s better that way. He loves listening to you sing, but you’ve been in a right mood these past couple of weeks. Just needed a good lay to sort you out. 
“Simon,” Johnny begs, thrusting forward until he bottoms out in you, making your pulse skyrocket. “I cannae breathe.”
“Yes, you can,” Ghost says dismissively, wiping at the drool slipping out of the corner of your mouth. “Give ‘er a sec and then you can move.”
“So, so, so hot. ‘M gonna come—”
He reaches behind you to wrap a hand around Johnny’s throat, giving it a squeeze. Johnny’s eyes bulge. “You don’t get to come until she does, pup. That’s all the time, got it?” 
He doesn’t pay any mind to how Johnny nods and mumbles his little yes, sirs after that—he’s a grown man, maybe not as grown as Ghost, but man enough to compose himself until you stop trembling and sweating so hard. 
It’d been a mite difficult to wrangle you into bed. He understands. He’d let you talk yourself red in the face about this not being what you meant by ‘seeing other people’, but Ghost hears the said and the unsaid. You wouldn’t be still in his house a whole week later if you really wanted to leave. 
“Alright, pet,” he grins, running his thumb over your bottom lip until it drops open and you let him run it over your teeth. “Hang on now.”
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sprout-fics · 28 days
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Oh Muse, Tell me of the Things Done by Golden Aphrodite
(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F! Reader)
Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 5.6k Warnings: None Tags: Greek Mythology AU, Greek God inspired, Human sacrifice reader, God of death and wrath Ghost, Size difference, Size kink, Praise Kink, (Marriage kink if you squint?), PiV sex, Aftercare, Eros and Psyche inspired, Cliffhanger A/N: Part two dependent on reception
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They call your fate a tragedy.
It’s a necessary one, the temple priest says, as you weep at the steps leading up to the grand mausoleum- inlaid with gold and obsidian. You wrap your arms around yourself as they tell you of your duty, inform you of your sacrifice. The statue of the god of wrath and death looms tall and menacing behind him, his bone white mask a single flash of pale amidst the dark, swirling robes that cover his limbs. You shiver as you look upon it, flesh cold as you imagine your final moments pleading at his feet.
A sacrifice, they say.
One to appease the god as death ravages your city, an holy offering innocent, beautiful and pure to quell his anger and rage. Eyes rest upon your trembling shoulders in a mixture of hope and pity, and you know even if you cry out none shall aid you. Your destiny is to die at the hands of a god so that they may live, and if it means your life is called for, they shall offer it for you.
You do not scream or struggle as they take you into the temple, you do not speak as they wash you and smooth aromatic oils into your shivering skin. You do not even look at them when they clothe you in a dark chiton and allow a veil to flutter over your despairing, tear-rimmed eyes.
When they close the altar doors behind you, you dare not throw yourself against them in one last bid for freedom.
The altar is dark, black marble columns stretching high above you and vanishing into a ceiling that the candlelight doesn’t reach. Lanterns litter the steps leading up to the sacrificial altar, with opulent offerings of jewels, weapons, and polished bones stacked high. Shadows dance between them, casting long and sinister against the temple walls. Your bare feet skim the cold stone floor as you ascend, tracing your hand against the frigid, dark mirror surface of the altar.  You were not told what to do, only to wait.
So you wait, and you wait longer, sitting upon the edge of the altar, trembling and holding in your cries until they break apart inside your throat. The chamber is silent as the grave, with not a breeze or whisper of warm air to comfort your frigid flesh. Eventually only the sound of your hiccuping sobs fills the emptiness, as you weep for your fate, for the tragedy that has befallen you, for how they shall remember your name in poems, until at last you fall asleep splayed upon the dark altar and awaiting your demise.
As you dream fitfully of the ever after, the candles waver and snuff out with a cold gust of wind. Dark eyes regard your pliant form prone atop the piles of offerings.
and quietly, arms reach forward and cradle you to him as you are taken away.
---
When you awake, it is in somewhere new.
You come to far more gently than you anticipated, soft dreams still clinging velvet to your slumber. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’re no longer curled tightly atop the hard surface of the altar, but rest instead upon silk sheets and soft, plush bedding.  The veil still drapes across your face, and as you delicately lift it, your surroundings are revealed to you.
It’s a large chamber, far larger than the temple, but sparsely furnished. You lay upon a bed fit for a man larger than any you’ve ever laid eyes upon, adorned with dark sheets and embroidered with gold thread. Torches flicker with a strange black light against the walls- silver dancing along the outer edge of flames.  The blazing hearth does the same amidst a mantle of dark stone, stretching upwards into a ceiling you’ll never reach. A mirror and a basin stands in the corner, and beside them curtains blow in from the balcony, where dawn glows yellow against the horizon.
You’re alone.
You’re careful as you creep from bed towards the balcony, the wind ruffling your gown as you stand at the precipice. Below, a stark mountain valley yawns dark and fathomless without end.
The door groans as it opens.
You flinch away from the sound, spinning and feeling terror pool low and vile in your stomach at the sight that awaits you.
It’s him.
Taller than any man, a being of pure power, the god Ghost stands at the doorway clad in billowing dark fabric, his dark eyes boring into your shivering form from behind the stark white of his skull mask. The sheer size of him is enough to send goosebumps racing down your spine, his immortal stature ensuring you scarcely come up to his chest. The strength of his limbs is curled in tight muscle discernible even with his cloak, and when you meet his eyes you think of the space between stars- a void into which no light escapes.
He takes only three strides to cross the chamber.
You cower backwards until your spine hits the railing of the balcony, and as you glance over your shoulder the valley wind roars from the depths. You wonder if it is a more fitting end to hurl yourself from here than face whatever slow death the God of Wrath has ordained for you.
He stops just at the threshold, regarding you as you look up at him with tearful, terrified eyes. At this nearness you can sense the pure energy that rolls off of him in waves, a strangeness that speaks of something far from human, an unfathomable power that your mortal soul will never fully understand.
“Don’t.” Is the first word he ever says to you, looking past you to the valley. He reaches out his hand, not an inch of his flesh visible beneath his gauntlet of white bone. “Come.”
You stay where you are, heartbeat fluttering as you eye his outstretched palm.
“If I was going to kill you, I would have done it when you were asleep.” He intones, voice deep like distant, rolling thunder. There’s a strangeness to it you cannot place, the tone of it ringing between your ears in a distant echo, otherworldly.
“Don’t hurt me, please.” Are the first words you return to him, desperate as a thing wheezes from your lungs.
Ghost stares at you unblinkingly, and despite the black ichor that paints his gaze, his eyes look almost kind.
“Come away from the balcony.” He tells you, his voice softer.
You cast another glance down at the dark valley, swallowing hard, before at last reaching your hand forward and settling it in his cold palm. He draws you inside, out of the wind, and you find yourself hovering near the hearth with its strange, dancing flames.
“Your name.” He tells you, watching as you hesitantly warm yourself, carefully looking at him out of the corner of your eye.
When you tell him, he repeats it. Slow, purposeful, as if tasting a foreign fruit for the first time. It shivers through you, as if he somehow has wound magic through the sound alone.
“You will stay here.” He tells you under no uncertain terms. “In my palace. No harm shall come to you here.”
You blink at that, face falling open with confusion as you turn to him fully.
“Why...?”
Ghost regards you coolly, but when you focus on his eyes you can swear they crinkle with a wry smile.
“I have no reason to hurt my bride.” He explains simply.
“Your...” You echo, blinking. “I...”
“You were given to me.” He tells you, advancing upon you until he’s mere inches away, one arm braced on the hearth so he bends over your smaller, mortal form. “As a sacrifice. I saved you. Your life is mine by rights.”
Fear pulses bright through you, limbs awash with dread as the blood drains from your face. You had expected death, but the daunting reality of this, of being given to a god as a bride...
Ghost must see the terror in your eyes, for he removes himself from you, striding towards the heavy, ancient door.
“I will not touch you unless you ask.” He states, voice lower. “You are free to roam this palace as you like. There is food in the banquet hall.”
He pauses, observing you as you hesitate near the hearth.
“I will return at dusk.”
and with that, your new husband vanishes.
----
True to his word, no one stops you from roaming the palace.
It’s a massive structure, with towering black columns and high ceilings. Obsidian, marble, and gold accentuates every corner, and you find treasures and trophies displayed at every turn. You are entirely alone as you wander, bare feet skimming against the cold tile as you take in your new home. Each room reveals a new wonder. A bath with glimmering water that billows steam from golden fountains, a garden with dark roses that creep along stone walls, a library with scrolls in tongues you don’t understand, and a banquet hall filled with food that doesn’t seem to rot.
You eat until your stomach is full, and with every bite the food tastes more delicious than the bite before. You scrub yourself in the bath, and when you exit you find fresh garments awaiting you, embroidered with glimmering thread. The finery is beyond anything you dared imagine, and quietly you feel your reservations departing you as the thought of possibly escaping ebbs slowly from your mind.
Dusk finds you back at his chambers, watching the shadows grow long against the walls as slumber slowly descends upon you.
You’re on the brink of sleep when the bed dips, and a bare hand curls gently against your cheek. In your half-dreams, you nuzzle into the touch with a languid sigh, feeling the air fan across his palm. Ghost is silent as he lays beside you, observing your restful face with half-lidded eyes. His mask lays on the table beside him, disposed along with his cloak and armor.
You see nothing when you’re roused by the sensation of him tucking you against him, the world engulfed in darkness. Hypnos whispers across your senses as your eyelids flutter, trying to discern the shape of him as he presses in close behind you. Ghost tucks his legs under yours, his massive frame curling around you and his nose burrowing into the junction of your throat and jaw, where he draws in a heavy breath.
“Sleep, mortal.” He whispers there, one massive arm wrapping across your front.
True to his order, and engulfed in the warm sensation of his body pressed against yours, you find the gossamer veil of sleep draw over you once more.
He’s gone again come morning.
You awake alone, and find yourself missing the presence of him.
The banquet hall is refreshed with food of all kinds- delicacies from far lands you’ve never traveled to. You spend an exorbitant amount of time in the baths, dozing gently as steam billows around you. In the library you find a collection of war poems that you devour with eager eyes until the sun begins to slope towards the horizon, and oddly you do not find yourself entirely bored despite being alone in the massive pantheon to which he has left you.
Yet as darkness descends, you find yourself awake in his bed, waiting for him.
When he at last appears, as the moment where all light has drawn away from the horizon, the dark candles snuff out in a cold billow of wind. Plunged into darkness, the only sensation available to you is a hand caressing your cheek.
“Little bride.” He rumbles as the bed dips before you. “Were you so eager to see me you chose to forego sleep?”
Hesitantly, you raise a hand to press his own against your face, feeling the immense size of it dwarf your own.
“Yes.” You tell him in a scarce whisper, as if you’re revealing a tender secret. Your heartbeat thrums loud in your ears, fluttering inside the cage of your ribs as he draws closer. You try to remember the words you had meant to say- a thank you for saving you? Awe at the splendid riches allowed to you? A quiet plea to leave, one which you don’t truly mean?
You reach forward in the darkness, finding the shape of him broad and strong against your palm. There’s smooth skin of scars that litter his immortal flesh, across the wide breadth of his chest, down to his waist, traced across his arm and shoulders and the massive span of his back. He’s bare to you, and you can’t suppress a shiver at the mere thought that you are laying with a God.
“You’re frightened.” He notes at the shake in your hands, attempting to draw away from you.
“No.” You tell him, a hand gripping tighter to his to prevent his retreat. Words clog your throat, lips parted with breath as you feel his coal-dark eyes bore into you in the inkinesss of his chambers.
“Touch me.” You whisper instead.
When he bends to you, he swallows the sigh that pours past your lips.
Ghost defiles you in the way warriors do- pure strength tempered by careful restraint. You splay under him bare, his hands smoothing over your flesh like admiring a masterful weapon. He memorizes the curves and softness of you, humming notes low and deep into your skin as he drinks in your scent like ambrosia. He spends his time admiring the outline of you in the darkness, fingers dipping between your legs and spreading you over large, calloused fingers until you mewl and grip at the fine silk sheets.
“Sweet little thing.” He rumbles, pleased, as you offer him high, keening moans, head tossed back against the pillows. Wetness dribbles down your thighs, coats his hand just as he licks greedy and hot into your open mouth that chants his name. His towering frame bends over you, hauls you to his waiting hands with hardly any effort. Your hands scrape against his shortly shorn hair as he lays claiming bites across your throat and collarbone and Ghost moans against your skin like the pain and pleasure are twin beings.
“Ghost.” You chant in a hymn as his worshipers do when his clever tongue drinks down your arousal at your entrance, and the answering growl that he responds with sends pleasure fissuring down your spine like the earth split open. His hands hold you still as you buck and writhe with your climax, broken sounds filling the empty chamber so loud you think your shout can be heard at the far reaches of the palace.
He shushes you when at last he sheathes himself inside you, the girth of him splitting you wide enough you whimper into his chest. Yet he holds you to him, noses into your hair and whispers low, soothing words as your legs quiver.
“Good.” He purrs as you go pliant against him with a keening sigh, arms looped around his neck and nails digging into the flesh of his spine. “Perfect little bride. They were right to offer you to me.”
You think the nectar of the gods must taste like the glide of his tongue when he kisses you.
Ghost plays the symphony of your flesh like poets play the harp. His massive frame hunches over yours, the sheets tangled around you and his fingers entwined with your own. Each roll of his hips has you choking on a plea, has him huffing hot breaths and growling filthy praises in your ear.
“Made for me. Just me.” He groans, voice grinding deep in his chest as he ruts into you. Slow, measured, infuriatingly not enough. The drag of him inside you threatens to pull you under into madness as you mewl and squirm, desperately chasing the touch of him. “Made to take me, made to be in my bed, in my palace.”
It’s possessive, almost wild with the force of his claiming you. You go to him willingly, tears watering your eyes as you choke on a sob of pleasure. Yet it’s not enough, as he draws your pleasure higher, higher, burning you alive like the inferno of the heavenly sun but refusing to push you over the precipice. You plead his name, dig your fingers into the dip of his spine, ask for divine mercy that he keeps just beyond your mortal reach.
“Say my name.” He tells you, the sound of your coupling echoing out into the chamber- wet and debauched along with your desperate gasps.
“Ghost.” You sob, clinging helplessly to him, laying kisses upon his bare face in the darkness as an offering to the altar of him. “Ghost.”
In return, Ghost bestows upon you your own name, snarling it wild and feral against your lips as you at last fall apart beneath him. You choke on a cry of his name as something great and tender snaps abruptly inside you, races outwards along your limbs with such sudden ferocity you wonder for a moment if you’re been burned alive. Yet the pleasure itself drowns you like the deep and bottomless ocean- a surrender where you try to claw your way to the surface and instead allow the depths to take you.
Ghost growls as he buries himself fully inside the wet clutch of your heat, emptying inside your heaving form with a long, low groan. You feel the spend on him leak from your joining, collapsing against him as you try to remember how to breathe. Ghost adjusts so you lay sprawled atop his broad chest, rising slow and purposefully beneath you as you tuck your head under his chin.  A war-worn hand strokes lazy paths against your skin, and you hear him hum with a deep satisfaction at your consummation. You feel claimed in the best of ways, not as one of his beloved war trophies but as his.
When you finally grow restful against his chest, you prop your chin up and try to find the shape of him in the darkness. He’s absent of his mask, you know, and curiously you try to discern his features in absolute blindness. You wonder if he’s as handsome as you dare to dream.
“Why can I not see you?” You ask in a whisper, and Ghost’s hand stills where it traces along the ridge of your spine. He’s tense, and it startles you when he speaks with his voice pitched low, authoritative in a way he’s never spoken to you before.
“As long as you remain here, you will never see my face.” He tells you, his chest vibrating under your palms. “I will care for you, protect you, and you will be mine, but you never see me. Understood?”
You don’t, really, understand. Confusion wrinkles your brow at the enigmatic declaration, but Ghost eases under you as you nod anyways, and the comfort of his gentle touch resumes, and assuages you of your worries until you fall asleep.
In the morning he lingers in your marital chambers, the pale light of dawn glinting off the armor he has donned before you awoke. He sits at the edge of the bed, a bone white gauntlet stroking with surprising gentleness across your brow. You catch it with your palm, kiss across his ivory knuckles as he huffs a warm breath of affection.
“I will return.” He tells you softly, and steps towards the balcony, only to vanish in a billow of smoke.
You lounge in bed in his absence, feeling the pleasurable soreness of your lovemaking imbue itself in your muscles and limbs. Even after a full rest you find yourself exhausted, and it isn’t long before you curl back into the sheets until the chariot of the sun reaches its zenith. Even then, you wince to yourself as you creep from bed, roused by your empty stomach and the mess between your thighs. You don’t make it farther than the basin at the edge of the room before your legs threaten to fail you, and you resign yourself to a few sips of water and washing what you can before collapsing back into bed.
You’re still there when he returns, and Ghost pauses when he hears your empty stomach, hums with dissatisfaction when you tell him of your troubles. With no effort at all, he lifts you into his arms and walks in the way gods do- only several long strides before you find yourself at the baths. Candles cast shadows against the walls, dancing hypnotically as Ghost deposits you at the edge of the water, pausing to disrobe himself of all but his mask before once more lifting you and walking into the baths with you in his arms.
The moan that bubbles up your throat at the heat that ensconses your weary limbs prompts a laugh from the God above you, who releases you only enough to reach for oils at the tiled edge. Ghost is careful, deliberate as he washes you, and despite your protests he insists, as if the act itself is another means of proving his devotion. Yet he can’t resist grazing a rough thumb over your nipples until you squeak, dipping his fingers between your thighs in slow, lazy circles until your legs tighten around his wrist.
Ghost takes you like that, holding you flush to him as his fingers work deftly inside of you, plucking at something bright and powerful until your voice fills the chamber with gasping, wanton pleas. You grip at him as you gush over his palm with your climax, a whimpering sound caught in your chest as he lauds affections into your slick skin.
When you are at last clean and sated, Ghost wraps you in his own cloak before you find yourself in the banquet hall with grapes being lifted to your lips. You know the tale of the goddess taken to the netherworld and having eaten the fruit there, know it meant forever tying herself to a place of death. Yet as your lips close around his fingers as the morsels are fed to you, you can think of no other realm in which you’d rather be.
and silently, you wish you could see the face of the man who has taken you as his bride.
The days are spent as such. You become accustomed to the palace, teaching yourself its interior so you can navigate it blind. You spend hours in the baths, dozing with your head cradled by your arms on the tiled edge. You devour the poems in the library and write your own thoughts on parchment beside them which you find in boundless supply. In the afternoons before Ghost returns you walk on long strolls through his gardens which seem ever changing, blooming with iridescent blossoms and fragrant lilies bright like starlight. You find a harp which seems to offer no sour note despite your lack of familiarity, and wind beautiful music through the obsidian and onyx halls of his home. You find yourself wanting for nothing- not food or shelter or finery of any nature. In return, you offer your love to the God who has claimed you, and to you he returns the same.
Ghost returns to you at sunset, and most nights find your form tangled with his as he takes you whimpering and breathless against the sheets. He seems to know your body like a swordsman knows his blade, invents new ways to pluck at your desire until the only thing you can offer him is reedy, desperate sounds of his name, reminding him you are his. Afterwards he tends to you, and even then you kiss the other shell of his mask as steam billows around you in the baths as your bare bodies embrace. 
You find yourself increasingly nocturnal if only to spend the long hours of darkness in his company, talking and touching in the absence of any illumination. You ask him of the poems in his library, of the trophies that adorn his palace, of the emptiness between these walls and how he bore the loneliness that came before you. You ask him of the offerings given to him by his worshippers, of immortality and all things of a god-like nature.
You never ask him to show his face.
Instead you map it with delicate touches in the darkness, trying to instill in yourself an image of his likeness behind the mask. His jaw is strong, and along it you think you feel the smooth skin of another scar that snakes up towards his ear. His hair is short, and you wonder if it is the same dark color as his ember stare. His lips are soft as they press to your skin, as if he himself is the acolyte to your divinity.
As the weeks turn into seasons, and the high winds of autumn reach the mountaintop, he tells you of how he became a God.
Gods are not born. They are chosen, he says. Those of great valor, of devotion and strength are lifted into the pantheon and blessed with immortality, with divinity beyond that of human comprehension. Outliving those who once knew them as human, their legends are inscribed in the songs and poems, spoken of in many tongues until their following becomes great and loyal.
When you ask him with quiet reverence how he became immortal, Ghost’s form goes rigid with something you think can only be fury.
“I was betrayed.” He tells you, voice filled with murderous intent.
He tells you how he was once a soldier- a warrior that some claimed was already a demi-god. Yet he was mortal when his commander betrayed him, abandoned him on a hill of battle upon which Ghost was buried beneath a pile of rotting corpses, slowly suffocating under the weight of dead men. He had clawed himself free with savage intent, feeling rage become the only emotion known to him. It had taken days for him to free himself of the putrid flesh and decay that surrounded him, and it was only once he stood upon the pile of death that he breathed in his first gasp of immortality. The wrath became him, and he became wrath, or so the legends are said.
When you ask him how long ago this was, Ghost does not answer you.
You try not to think of what will happen when he witnesses your final, mortal breath.
and you try not to wish to see his face before you die.
“Are you hideous?” You ask him teasingly, drawing circles on his bare chest as his fingers idly soak themselves in the spend between your legs.
“Far from it.” He replies dryly, and you place a giggling smile upon his grinning lips.
You try not to dwell on it. There is so much you have to be grateful for, after all. A warm bed, a blazing hearth, clothes, a home, food, endless entertainment, and most importantly a husband who swears his devotion to you every sunset.
Yet in the daylight you find yourself missing him, and in the hollow place of his absence you try not to let temptation take root in the emptiness.
It’s on a cold morning when you find a snake in the garden.
You’re bent over a swath of coal-dark dahlias when you hear it slither behind you. When you turn, you’re greeted with mahogany dark eyes and shimmering green scales. Yet even as you flinch away the serpent doesn’t deign to chase you, regarding you curiously as it speaks in sibilant, seductive words.
“I see the God of Wrath has found himself a muse.” A feminine voice purrs, amused. “Which mortal realm did he steal you away from?”
“I wasn’t stolen.” You retort, shying away as the snake curls closer around your bare feet. “I was an offering.”
Sinister, the snake laughs at you. “And has he refused to let you leave? Are you too afraid to try? He may kill you, hermosa.”
“He wouldn’t.” You manage, tucking yourself up on a pedestal where your dress drapes over the edge. “He loves me.”
“Oh?” The snake asks, curling around the base of the stone, where the light reflects upon its shimmering body. “Are you sure, little muse?”
“Of course.” You reply quickly, even though a shadow casts longer upon your heart with every word spoken by the serpent.
The snake hums thoughtfully, winding itself around the stone slowly, until at last it raises its smooth head to the level of your gaze.
“Then why hasn’t he shown you his face?”
You falter at that, hugging your knees defensively and brow furrowing with dismay. The serpent plucks at the secret doubt inside you that you quietly tuck away at every sunset, that you feel thrum under your fingers as you trace the planes of his face in darkness. You try to conceal it, hardly ever speak of it, but you can’t help but wonder why Ghost refuses to show himself to you.
“Maybe he’s a monster.” The snake goes on. “Grotesque and rotten. The only way he can have your love is if you never see him.”
That can’t be true. Your husband is beautiful and strong, and you know even if he was hideous you would still love him for his fierce protectiveness and tender care. Even if his visage was obscured by scars of battle past, you would still love him.
“He doesn’t trust you, little muse.” The snake hisses quietly, and it sounds strangely pitying, a sadness which you feel plays upon the harp strings of your ribs. “Can you truly be wed to a man who does not believe in you?”
“Ghost loves me.” You repeat in a whisper, mostly to yourself.
“If that were true, he would love you even if you saw his face.” The snake offers, tongue flickering in your ear.
Something dark and viscous simmers in your stomach like tar, and you further hunch in on yourself, uncertain.
“Away with you.” You say at last, refusing to look at the serpent, who laughs wickedly as she winds herself into the bed of dahlias, and vanishes.
That night, when Ghost lays with you, the whisper of his affections feels sour against your skin.
You lay awake even as he sleeps behind you, his massive form curled around you and bracketing you in his warmth. The darkness looms long inside your thoughts, where the words of the serpent echo into the void where light fails to illuminate the face of your husband.
He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.
Yet you know of Ghost’s warning, his oath that you will no longer be his if you see his face. To risk the love he has given you for such a temptation seems sacreligious, a sin for which there is no return.
He doesn’t trust you, the snake whispers.
In the morning, you feign sleep while you hear him depart to realms unknown.
He’ll return after dark. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.
You do not find the snake in the garden.
He doesn’t trust you.
“You’re mine.” He huffs, dark and deep against your lips in your bed that night, and you shield your cry of desperation behind a moan. You give everything to him, your entire being, lay it bare before him as the offering you are, knowing he will keep you safe and love you with fierce devotion the way warriors love their oaths.
He loves you.
He leaves at dawn.
but he doesn’t trust you.
The wick burns against your fingertips as you light it.
You approach the bed with silent steps, your bare feet skimming across the stone as they did in the temple at the altar as you’d sacrificed yourself to him.
He loves you.
He’d taken you, spared you, made you his bride. He gave you his palace and all the treasures within, and with it came his love.
You see the broad, scarred plane of his back as you draw closer.
He hides behind a mask, refuses to let you see the one thing that nobody else has ever seen. Not even you, his offering, his bride, his muse, his beloved.
The candlelight illuminates his face.
and you feel your breath catch tightly in your chest.
He’s breathtaking.
The word ‘divine’ does not compare to his likeness, with his eyes closed and his lips parted in sleep. His alabaster skin shielded from the sun is written with scars, but the stories told by them seem like the songs of great poets, wild and magnificent in the way of feral things. Long, blonde lashes swoop gently over his cheeks, still rosy with the exertion of your lovemaking, face slack and open in his slumber.
He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.
Even when his dark eyes open, look upon you with despair, he’s still beautiful.
“No.” Ghost speaks in a tone you’ve never heard, full of grief, and it stabs through you like a blade. “How could you?”
“Ghost-” You try, reaching for him as he raises himself from bed, drawing to his full height and towering above you. Yet your fingers are just short as he draws away, towards the balcony.
“Leave.” He tells you, his voice hardening with fury as a cold wind begins to billow around his form, cast in starlight.
“No-” You try, panic bubbling up your throat as you try to move forward to him, pleas for forgiveness upon your lips. “Ghost-!”
“LEAVE.” Ghost bellows as smoke churns wildly about his immortal form, the cold wind slicing against your skin and preventing you from drawing near.
“I love you!” You cry in desperation as tears form, and the mantle of his cloak descends upon his shoulders, bone white replacing his face.
Ghost doesn’t respond, not as he becomes wrath, not as his eyes look upon you with betrayal and despair. You try to move forward, to touch him once more, but when you reach out your hand, skim your fingers against the outline of him-
He’s gone.
As the cold wind retreats, and with it your husband, you collapse to the floor and wail with your despair.
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gremlingottoosilly · 2 months
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141 with a soft, crybaby bunny reader who stumbled upon their base after being chased by a scary predator, not knowing they're worse than the monster who previously hunted her.
Awww...you're so scared, so vulnerable - if only you were a hare hybrid, with strong legs and good hearing. If only you were a fast, resilient creature, if only your monster form weren't even more helpless than your human one... You get it now - it would be better to die, to perish in predator's arms, than to sit on the lap of men who would love to devour you in every other scene. It's better to die than to have this crazy harpy push you over the edge of the watch tower only to catch you in the last moment - his mouth already forces its way to carve bite marks in your breasts, listening to the panicking beating of your fragile, weak heart. If you were stronger, you could have survived the fall without help - but you cry and squeal as the harpy pushes you clothes to his embrace, laughing when your fluffy ears are trembling and you cling to him, begging to not let go. Bunnies like their burrows deep in the ground...you'd have to get used to be suspended in the air.
Ghost was really going to kill you when he first saw you - such a pathetic, weak thing, your lips trembling and your nose twitching as you smell the decay on his skin. Poor thing, he almost feels sorry for you - but your cries are so delightful when he buries his cock deep between your soft bunny thighs, lying as he squishes your soft little tail in his paws. You might be just a human with few monster parts - but oh, aren't they just adorable. Ghost isn't the one to be soft with you, but he is here when you stumble into his quarters, rubbing your pretty legs together as you cry in the depths of your heat. He is the only one with enough undead stamina to handle your hungry, soaked pussy. Soap was the one to capture you in the first place - when you were running away from some weak, pathetic fox hybrid, when you were considered a petty enough prey - the werewolf didn't even acknowledge you at first, thrilled and high on the fight from the hybrid who breached 141 territories...and then he saw you. You didn't even get that he is a werewolf at first - you were so cute, so trusting, you begged him for help and shelter...and he gave it to you. He held you close, teeth buried in your shoulder when you started to push him away, when you finally noticed that he is your biggest threat out here. But, oh, how could he resist the swell of his knot in your plump bunny ass? And Price, oh, he is the only one you could really trust here. Gaz and Soap are your natural predators, Ghost is Death himself, but the bear hybrid...you thought he'd be different. Soft. He doesn't want to eat you, oh no - but you soon find out tat he is hungry for you just like all the others. Price loves his pretty bunny pet, you're so tiny compared to him - he lifts you in his arms and pushes your face in his hairy chest, forcing you to bounce on his meaty cock when you squirm and cry. He is breeding you, pushing the rest aside - you don't think you remember the night when you weren't laying under him, his cock buried deep in your cunt. You really should have think twice before asking the pack for help...
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witchthewriter · 3 months
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𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐩𝐫𝐞-𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩
⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  
ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ
𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿
P.s. this is pre-relationship, when your feelings are still untold...some of the guys are still awkward and some are not :')
𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄
Visiting Price in his office was a common occurance. Sometimes you brought a drink with you, other times you just brought your old tired self.
This was one of those times.
And without looking up, he patted his knee and you hesitated. But only for a moment because as soon as you saw his pen stop scratching on the paper, you stalked over to him.
You rest your head on his shoulder, trying not to think about the goddamn awful day you had. You knew John would want to talk about it when you were ready. It's one of the things you love about him. He wants to help you no matter what.
As if on Instinctive John wraps his arm around your shoulder and brings you in closer. Your face was flushes against his neck and your hands cling to his other arm.
John is so warm, and makes you feel so safe. Everyday is a battle for you; because you just want to fall into his arms and kiss him until you can no longer breathe.
But you can't, because he's your superior and you don't want to jeapordise anything.
𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘
Wide-eyed and trying not to move. Even his breathing becomes shallower. It's lucky he's wearing a mask otherwise there would've been a bright red Ghost for everyone to see.
Continues to death glare the others, placing a firm finger in front of his lips. Reminding them to SHUT UP.
No one is allowed to talk when you are asleep in the common area. On Ghost's literal orders.
But he never thought you would actually fall asleep on him.
It was a nice feeling. One that made him giddy inside. Like ... he had been chosen for something important.
And maybe he had. This could be a way for your body to tell Ghost that "I WANT YOU!" But unless you actually tell him, he isn't going to get it - or believe it.
𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊
Warmth travels to his cheeks as he realises that you've practically clung yourself to him and fallen asleep.
He had taken you to the movies because you had some spare time on your hands and wanted to feel like normal people for once.
But halfway through, drowsiness had overcome you, and consciousness faded away.
It was easy to fall asleep next to Gaz, whose smell and gentle heartbeat felt like heaven.
You hadn't wondered if this was going to far, you trusted Gaz enough to tell you if it was. But he would never tell you that.
Because there was no 'too far.' He would do anything for you. He just didn't know how to get you to see that.
𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐇
Oh our sweet boy Soap, he would become so goddamn giddy. His cheeks turn red as he moves ever so slowly to look at you.
Watching movies together was a common occurance. Your place or his, it didn't matter. Even the movie didn't matter - though you both argued over it relentlessly. It was a way for you both to spend more time together. A reason to say why you were late for ___
Your head had dropped a little and his eyebrows flew upwards. He would never live it down if you fell straight into his crotch area.
So he moved his arm around your shoulders and let you turn fully around to hug him.
Your face pressed against his neck, breathing in his scent.
"Tha gaol agam ort," he whispers into your hair. You only barely heard it. It means (I love you).
He only ever says it when you cannot hear him. But litte did he know you were catching on to certain Gaelic words. Maybe not at that moment, but you had better hearing than he thought you did.
𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐆
Did not know what to do, and in the midst of his panic, he had accidentally wriggled his shoulder. Which meant you curled up on his lap.
"Oh maus..." Konig whispered, afraid that you would wake up and freak out. But if he truly believed that, then he hadn't been paying attention to your friendship at all.
After ten minutes of the movie playing but Konig couldn't stop staring down at your curled form in his lap, he slowly and gently moved the hair from your face. Stroking your cheeks, running his fingers over your nose and forehead.
It was right then that he fell in love with you. Truly fell in love with you.
A monster and his love. That's how Konig saw the two of you.
𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈
Charming, suave, flirtacious and utterly awkward when it comes to you.
He makes as much spare time as he can to spend it with you. And curling up on the couch seemed to be the best idea for today.
His large hands wrap around your form and pull you closer.
"Иди спать, малышка" (go to sleep little one) he says quietly, watching you intently as you drift into a deep slumber.
Maybe there is a gun wedged between him and the armrest, but he knows his lifestyle, and how many people want to kill him.
But that is nothing compared to spending time with you.
𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐍
Coughs; yes he actually coughs and a few times at that. Why did he cough? He has no clue. Was he trying to wake you up? See if you accidentally forgot he was there?
In all honesty he was panicking - this wasn't the type of friendship that you had. It was all banter and poking fun at each other.
Someone actually asked if Keegan was being bullied a few weeks ago.
He snorted and just walked away. It was probably the best thing that recruit could've said.
It was after a long mission and you barely had time to undress from your military clothes, when Keegan barged in and held up two family sized bars of chocolate. "As a thank you for having my back out there, kid."
You couldn't deny the fluttering in your stomach. But saving face was what you two did. So you took both of the offerings and laid down in bed. "If you're having all the chocolate, I'm not leaving" "I'm not giving it back Keegan." "Looks like you have a bunk buddy then."
And the tall man climbed into bed beside you awkwardly trying to get comfortable. "Jackass," you mumbled. But a slight smile was on your lips. And within an hour you fell asleep.
When you woke up, Keegan was practically ontop of you, melted chocolate on his lips and slight snoring coming from his nose.
𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐏 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒
"What the fuck," he mutters to himself as you rest your head on his shoulder on the plane.
You had both been placed on a mission for months and now that it was over, you were exhausted (to say the very least).
The whole time you were together, there had always been bickering. Especially when you were undercover as a married couple.
So you were used to the hostility of Graves (even though he barely had any anymore when it came to you).
Hence, you were way too tired to give a shit. Honestly, if he were to wriggle you off, you would clutch his arm to keep him still.
But he didn't do that. Instead he feigns annoyance and rests his head against the back of his chair. His eyes flickering over to you every few seconds to see if you were okay (if that were to be brought up, he would say that he was looking out the window).
As the time went by, and you woke up, you found that Graves had found your hand and was clutching it.
𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐎
Sinks into you as well. His culture isn't so rigid as others. And showing affection means multiple things, but the main thing is that it means he cares.
Where your head lolled on his shoulder, he moved back on the couch, yawned, and pulled you down with him. Your sleeping head was rested gently against Ale's chest.
He knew about your feelings for him, and you knew about his, so this situation was awkward. He knew he had to step up and say something, but it had turned into a game of sorts. As if the first person who spoke up would lose.
But having you on his chest, smelling your hair, feeling the weight of your body on his, he decided that he would happily be the loser.
2K notes · View notes
freedomfireflies · 4 months
Text
Uppercut*
Summary: The fourth part to Knockout*
The one where Harry is fighting everyone. Even you.
Word Count: 9.1k (I mean at this point it's just tradition)
Content Warning: 18+, angst, smut, exhibitionism
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The halls of the subway station are quiet. Empty. A light flickers overhead, casting odd shadows across the concrete floor that lead you toward him.
The hooded figure sits on a lone bench, face downcast toward the ground. His leg is bouncing anxiously, a nervous habit you’d recognize anywhere. His fingers are curled around the seat below, as if holding himself back. Keeping himself still.
And then, he looks up.
Those soft green eyes find yours, and suddenly, everything is okay. Your limbs no longer ache from the strenuous shift at the diner, your heart no longer feels weary. You feel energized and alive, and you’ve never been happier to see his face.
Harry smiles when he recognizes you, instantly leaping up as you approach, and pulling you into his arms.
He hugs you. Pulls you directly into his chest and keeps you there as you laugh and whisper your hello.
“Hi,” he whispers back, lips nestling into the crown of your head. He releases a deep sigh. “Missed you so much.”
“I missed you, too.” You cling to his sweatshirt and allow your eyes to flutter shut. Indulging in the scent of him. The warmth. Stability. “Are you all right?”
“Better now. Are you?”
“Mhm.” You nod but refuse to let him go. “Was a little surprised to get your note, though.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs before finally pulling away. Allowing himself a good look at your face that makes his dimple pop free. “Figured it was the safest way. Don’t wanna risk somebody seeing us out there. And I thought maybe this could be our thing.”
“Our thing?”
He chuckles to himself and brings his palm to your cheek. Cradling it gently while running his thumb back and forth along the soft skin. “Yeah. Meeting up in the dark subway in the early morning hours. Sneaking around, trying not to get caught. Forbidden love and all that.”
Love. There’s that word again, and it makes your head spin. Dizzy in the best and worst way possible.
“How romantic of you,” you tease instead, reaching up to squeeze his wrist. “All right. This can be our thing.”
“Good.” He dips down and kisses you now. Slow and hard, exactly the way you like it. Keeping you against his lips for far longer than he should, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. “Might steal you away every night.”
With a soft grin of your own, you kiss him back. “You better.”
After allowing you enough time to catch your breath, he leads you back over to his bench. Curling up beside you while simultaneously tucking you into his side. Hiding you away from the rest of the world, and the few stragglers that are entering and exiting the subway. 
“Did you have a good day?” he asks, mouth ghosting across your temple as he speaks.
You nod, keeping yourself snug under his arm. “Mhm. Wasn’t as busy as it usually is.”
“Yeah? You make anything good?”
“Snickerdoodle cookies.”
He gasps, rather dramatically, and it makes you laugh. “Cherry, you know those are my favorite.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really, really.” He kisses your cheek almost absentmindedly before continuing. “Especially the way you make ‘em. Told you that, didn’t I?”
“Maybe. Don’t know if I was really listening, though.”
“No? You don’t listen when I talk, sweet girl?”
You smirk. “Sometimes I get a little distracted.”
“With what, baby?”
“Your…mouth,” you admit somewhat sheepishly. “Sometimes I just like to watch your lips move. And then I forget to listen to what’s coming out of them.”
He laughs now, and the sound is infectious. Bouncing around the concrete walls until you giggle. “Is that right?”
“It’s not my fault,” you pout playfully, reaching up to brush your thumb along the pretty, pink fibers at your disposal. They’re healing nicely from the last fight, and you feel relieved. “You have such a pretty face.”
He hums against your finger before pressing into it, leaving a soft kiss. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“So do you,” he whispers, dropping his voice into something soft and seductive. “See your face in mind every time I close my eyes.”
And it shouldn’t make your stomach flutter the way it does, but you find yourself biting back a sigh as you scoot impossibly closer. “You’re silly.”
“Am I?” Another kiss to your thumb before he moves down your hand and toward your wrist. Leaving a trail of them in his wake. “What if m’being serious?”
Your breath catches and you watch his mouth move closer and closer. “Then you’re seriously silly.”
His lips twitch up. “If I am, it’s because that’s what you make me.” Another collection of gentle kisses along the inside of your arm. “Think about you every hour…of every goddamn day.”
You feel lost on him. Drowning in his aurora, and this hypnotic haze he’s lured you into. Unaffected by the people around you, or the way this might look. 
All you really notice…is him.
“And believe me, sweet girl,” he continues in a huskier murmur, “the things I think about are anything but silly.”
Your pulse skips from somewhere beneath your chest while a whimper bleeds from your throat. You brace yourself against his stronger frame as his kisses reach the sleeve of your uniform, just beneath your shoulder.
He only stops once to meet your eye. “D’you wanna know what I think about, baby?”
Your first instinct is to nod, but you catch yourself just in time. Forcing yourself to finally say the one thing you’ve been meaning to all evening. “I wanna know what you’re gonna do about Jesse.”
He leans back, and the devious expression falls away.
“I don’t want him to hurt you, Harry,” you rush to explain, allowing him to drop your arm only so you can take hold of his. “I’m worried about you.”
“Please,” he snorts. “Jesse can’t fucking hurt me. Couldn’t hurt me even when he was in the fucking ring with me.”
Your eyebrow cocks up. “…what?”
A nonchalant shrug, almost like he doesn’t realize what he’s said. Or he doesn’t care. “Few years ago, back when he wasn’t such a little shit. He was one of the fighters."
And suddenly…it hits you. Slaps you across the face and leaves a permanent palm print. “How many years ago?”
He seems to realize around the same time you do, eyes softening as he rolls his shoulders back. “Three or four, I think.”
You feel the blood drain from your face. Feel your hands grow shaky and your heart begin to wrench. “He was…he was fighting. When he was with me.”
Not exactly a question. Rather a conclusive statement you both stumble onto as the picture becomes clearer.
There were a lot of things about Jesse you never learned. His anger always being his biggest question mark.
You saw the subtle scars that were occasionally smeared along his knuckles or painted across his back. But his excuse was always a vague, mumbled explanation of, “Oh, just this buddy of mine at the gym. We like to box sometimes. I’m fine.”
And that was that.
You figured what he did at the gym was his own business. And you had no reason to believe it was anything more than a few rounds with a friend. Had no reason to believe it was something bigger. That he was lying to you.
And perhaps, in some ways, he wasn’t lying. He was boxing, just not at the local gym. And certainly not for free.
“Cherry,” Harry calls to you now, reaching out to intertwine his fingers with yours. Tugging your hands onto his lap to recapture your attention. “Baby—”
“I’m okay,” you whisper, a bit airier than you mean to before clearing your throat. “I’m fine. I always knew he was doing something, I just…this makes sense.”
He’s unconvinced, frowning to himself before squeezing your palms. “You might not have known him very well, but I do. Okay, I know this side of him, and I know that he’s nothing more than a bunch of empty threats and a checkbook. And I’m not gonna let him hurt me. Or you. Never you.”
And even though your stomach is turning, you believe him. “I know. But what if…what if he tries to do something? To you, during your fights? What if…what if he sends somebody after you?”
To your surprise, he smirks. “Come on, do you really think I’m scared of some hitman? I know you haven’t seen very many of my fights, but believe me, baby, I can handle it.”
You, however, don't smile. “Harry, I’m serious.”
“I thought I was serious.”
“Harry.” You pout again and tug on his hands. “You didn’t see how angry he was—”
“I did,” he argues, the smug grin slipping away. “I know exactly how fucking mad he was, and all because I lost him a couple of fights. And I don’t give a shit because he’s nothing but a fucking rat.”
“Yeah. But he’s a rat that’s threatening to hurt you.”
The darkened expression returns, and his frown makes you want to cry. He’s far too beautiful to look so anguished. “I don’t care. I told you, he can’t hurt me—”
“But he can hurt me,” you interrupt, and his jaw snaps shut. “By hurting you, he hurts me. I mean, just the way he looked at you. The way he talked about you, it just…it…God, it made my fucking skin crawl, Harry.”
The crasser language that slips from your tongue seems to entertain him and disappoint him all in the same moment.
“Okay,” he mumbles in a lower volume, almost as though hoping to talk you down. “Okay, I know—”
“No, you don’t know,” you argue. “You…you don’t want him to hurt me, and yet he is. And he doesn’t have to, okay? You just have to win, and he doesn’t care. As long as you win.”
The frown seems to get deeper. “Cherry…it’s not just about winning. He’s put a fucking price on my head and expects me to pay it. And I told you, I’m tired of playing his fucking games.”
You squeeze his hands a bit harder, desperate to understand. “Is that why you threw the fights?” you ask gently. “To piss him off?”
Another shrug. Angrier. “Not exactly. I just figured he’d drop me if I wasn’t doing the one thing he wanted me to.”
Your eyes flick between his. “But it’s not that easy.”
“No,” he agrees. “Because he’s a fucking weasel that thinks he can use you to get what he wants from me. And I won’t let him.”
Your heart drops into your toes as the two of you grow quiet. Undeterred by the sounds of the subway entering and exiting the station, the screeching lines and opening doors. You’re immersed in your own little bubble here with him, unable to hear anything past the pounding in your ears. 
“So what do we do?” you dare to ask.
He sighs again before bringing your entangled hands to his mouth. Kissing your fingers as he thinks. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly, and it looks like he wants to say more…but he stops.
So, you finish for him. “Let’s leave.”
“What?”
You nod quicky and glance toward the tracks. “Let’s leave. Let’s just get on the train and go somewhere. Start a new life. No more Jesse, no more fights, no more threats. We can just leave.”
A hint of a smile is all you’re afforded before he chuckles and kisses your hands once more. “And I thought I was the silly one.”
“No, I mean it,” you insist. “We could, we could leave, we could start over. We could be happy. Just you and me. And a bunch of pies.”
There’s a gentle beat before his brows begin to furrow. “Cherry,” he mumbles, and you feel your heart sink.
You knew it was a long shot. Knew there was really no logic behind the suggestion, only the need to take action. And for just a moment, you liked the picture you were painting. Of you and him in a sweet little house somewhere out in the country. Working your typical 9 to 5 jobs before coming home to make dinner together.
Perhaps it's a little old fashioned and a bit mundane, but it looks so beautiful compared to what you have now. And you imagine any life would be exciting with him at the center of it.
“I know,” you finally whisper, allowing your shoulders to slump. “But…I had to try.”
His amused grin returns before he tugs you closer in order to kiss you. And it’s quick and playful and everything you’ve ever needed. An almost perfect fix for this ache in your chest.
“And I love that,” he tells you, and the second use of the forbidden word leaves you breathless. Even more so than the kisses. “But m’gonna be okay, sweet girl. I won’t let him hurt us.”
And you want to believe him. Want to be sure that Jesse is nothing more than a footnote in this new chapter you’ve opened together. 
But something doesn’t feel right. 
Because there’s this look in his eye. The same look you saw that night in the ring. Animalistic and unrelenting. Like he could split somebody in half and never think twice about it.
“And how are you gonna do that?” you whisper, reaching out to tangle your fingers in the hoodie on his chest. “Huh? Are you just gonna beat him up until he changes his mind?”
“Maybe.” He’s smiling, but there’s something serious in the way he speaks, and your stomach wrenches. “What? He’s used to getting the shit beat out of him.”
“Harry—”
“Cherry.” He leans forward and presses his lips to your cheek. “Don’t have to worry, okay? I’ll be all right.”
You’re ready to argue with him, another excuse already locked and loaded, but before you can fire it, he brings his hand to your temple. Sweeping his thumb along your forehead with a much softer expression.
“You know, you get the cutest little wrinkle when you frown,” he tells you, brushing his finger down the space between your eyebrows. “Right…here.”
You bite the inside of your lip to keep from giggling. “Oh, do I?”
“Mhm.” He smooths his touch along your skin before moving to your jaw. Tracing the line almost reverently. “There’s a lot of things about you that are cute.”
“Is that right?”
He nods once before he’s dropping both hands to your hips in order to lead you over to his lap. Placing your knees on either side of his waist and holding you there while you squeal.
And he doesn’t seem to care about anything else but you. Not the people walking by or the chilly gust of wind that dances through the station. He gazes up at you and brushes a bit of hair behind your ear. Taking in the details of your face as if memorizing every inch of you. 
“I think you’re beautiful, Cher,” he tells you, and not for the first time. “And I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders as you settle, finding stability in more ways than one. “Well, I think you’re being silly again.”
“Yeah?” He smirks as you dip down to brush your nose with his. “Then maybe I need to prove to you just how much I mean it.”
One of his large hands slides from your hip to your ass, squeezing you just over your uniform. And you laugh as you playfully swat at his chest, although you can’t deny there’s a part of you desperately searching for more.
Ever since the other night, you’ve felt rather insatiable. Distracted by the memory of him in your hand – of the weight and the feel. You see his body when you close your eyes, see the tattoos, and ridges, and lines. The curve of his spine and his hips and his thighs. 
And you’re reminded again of exactly how thrilling it was when you feel him beneath you. A gentle, subtle graze of something hard as you’re rocked over his lap. And it makes your breath catch.
“Harry,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.
His lashes flutter closed before he ghosts his lips along the edge of your cheek. “What, baby?”
Another pull to your hips makes you sigh, fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. “This isn’t fair.”
“Why?”
“Because…” You stumble over a whine before bracing yourself against his chest. “Because we can’t. Not here.”
“Not here?” he repeats, almost teasingly. “Why not here? Don’t want them to watch, sweet girl?”
You don’t have the strength to shake your head.
“Don’t want them to watch you grind yourself against my lap, like my desperate little bunny?” He grins and it’s so very devious. “Don’t want them to see just how needy you really get for me?”
And maybe…there’s a small part of you that does.
Common sense evades you now as you pant, “I do. I do, Harry, please.”
He’s amused by this. At your determination to take whatever he'll give. Soft, gentle hands slipping their way beneath the hem of your uniform, stroking and groping as though playing with you. Taunting you with the idea of more only to take it away with a kiss.
“Do you trust me?” he asks you now, eyes flicking to yours.
It’s the easiest answer you’ve given all night. “Yes. Yes, I do. Always.”
He smiles, filled with relief before he’s nodding his chin at you. “Okay, baby. Turn around for me, yeah?”
A bit confused, you rearrange yourself over his lap. Settling down with your back against his chest while his hands sneak around your waist to keep you still.
Those beautiful fingers land on your thighs, just above the hem of your dress. They toy with the fabric almost absentmindedly and you whimper beneath a strained breath as you wait.
“Shh,” he coos, resting his lips along the shell of your ear. “I’ve got you. Told you I’ll always take care of you, didn’t I?”
You nod as your head falls back onto his shoulder. Unable to hold itself up any longer while he does this to you.
Your attention lands on the train just a few hundred feet in front of you as it slowly begins to roll down the tracks before taking off. A gust of wind follows, sweeping across your cheek, and sending a chill down your spine.
Your small shiver makes him smirk. “Relax, Cherry. You’re all right.”
There are only three other people in the station, all scattered about on opposite ends, checking their phones, and reading their newspapers. None of them close enough to see what he’s really doing to you, and you imagine even if they could, they wouldn’t care. 
Yet the idea that any one of them could look up and glance over is thrilling. Worsening the ache between your thighs as Harry’s thumb finally slips beneath the hem.
“Breathe,” he instructs gently, instructing you to take a deep breath which you shakily do. “If you want me to stop, you tell me, yes?”
You bite back a whine. “I don’t want you to stop. Promise.”
“But if you do,” he insists, slowing the stroking of his hand until you nearly wilt, “you tell me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” you agree quickly. “Yes, I understand, I promise.”
Satisfied, he continues. Slipping his touch further up your legs while making sure the edge of your dress doesn’t move. Keeping you covered while he does this, offering you just an ounce of privacy. And you’re so grateful for him. 
He crawls higher and higher until he finds the soft lace of your underwear. Tracing the band almost lazily, running up and down the curve of your thigh without ever giving in.
“Harry,” you sigh, reaching for his wrist to compel him. “Harry, please—”
“Shh,” he hushes again, nudging his nose against your cheek. “Said I’ve got you, and I do. M’gonna make it better, baby, I promise. Just wanna play with you first. Wanna feel you.”
You’re tempted to argue that he’s nowhere close to actually feeling you yet, but you realize then that he means more than that. He wants to take in every inch of your skin at his disposal. Wants to feel the softness of your hip, the goosebumps along your thighs. Wants to learn you, study you, memorize you. Simply exist with you in his arms.
You unwind in his embrace, allowing him to indulge in you exactly the way he wants. But the coil in your stomach grows tighter at the tender implication, making your desperation for him that much stronger. 
Finally – finally – he moves closer. Brushing the tips of his fingers down the front of you, just over your covered clit and down.
He does it again. Over and over, albeit idly, while effectively worsening your need, making you whimper.
He only grins. “S’that bad, baby, huh?”
And you don’t need to answer for him to know that it is. He can feel it. Can feel exactly how anxious you are to be touched as he continues his soft strokes.
Then…he hooks his finger around the band and pulls.
The brisk morning air instantly finds the inside of your warm thighs, and you gasp. Squirming over his lap until he has to use one hand to hold you still. Shushing you once again while squeezing the top of your leg soothingly.
“I know,” he murmurs, allowing you no more than a few seconds to adjust before brushing his thumb down your pussy. “But I need you to stay quiet for me, okay? Can you do that, sweet girl?”
You nod, thankful that your outburst didn’t draw too much attention from the others in the station. But it seems that was only the start as Harry continues his playful flicks and pulls. Attempting to unravel you as quickly as possible, despite your muffled whimpers for mercy.
He starts with your clit. Circling it a few times with his large digits until he can really wind you up. Slow touches that turn fast, his lips trailing from your cheek and to your neck.
He kisses you as he does this. Nips at your skin, tugs it between his teeth, soothes it with his tongue. Marking you – claiming you. In more ways than one.
“Oh, Cherry,” he hums after a moment, and your insides wrench. “You’re all wet, baby. S’it that bad? S’it hurt that bad?”
You’d like to nod, but you don’t have the capacity. Only enough strength to squeeze his wrist and whisper, “Harry—”
“Mm. I know. Gonna let me have some?” 
You finally convince your head to move up and down while he chuckles and brings his other hand into play. One, large digit slipping between your folds and down to where your arousal has collected while the others continue stroking your clit.
And it’s almost too much. This screaming in your head for more. To be filled and fixed by the only man who can help you. 
And it’s not his cock, but his finger does feel beautiful. Pushing in to your tightness while your walls are quick to draw him in.
It’s ecstasy. Pure, unadulterated bliss. Happening right in the middle of this dimly lit subway station and the people who might see.
And yet…you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more alive and in control of your own experience. Even if it’s slightly dangerous and perhaps not something you previously would have considered. With Harry it feels…different. Destined. Because you know he means it when he says he’ll take care of you. After all, he always does.
When he reaches his knuckle, you keen, releasing a strangled groan that’s much too loud.
He takes the hand on your clit away in order to smack it against your mouth. Keeping you quiet until you finish.
“Baby,” he warns, but it’s sympathetic, “gotta try for me, okay? Gotta try to stay quiet.”
You nod again as you swallow the rest of your noises. But he keeps his palm against your lips, wet fingertips stroking your cheek. Painting you with your own arousal.
He begins to pump you slowly. Retracting almost all the way only to ease back in. It’s a steady pace he sets, but it’s addictive. Keeping you on the brink without ever actually offering you what you really need. Never scratching that itch.
“Harry,” you try, the sound of his name muffled by his hand. 
But he understands, nevertheless, kissing just below your ear before finally lowering his arm. “What? What do you need?”
More, more, more. One, singular word that’s ringing between your ears, loud and insistent. “Please…”
He hums. “Please,” he repeats. “Please…what?”
“Need…need—”
“Need? What do you need? Need me?”
“Yes,” you nearly gasp. “Yes, Harry, please. Hurts…”
And it does hurt. You’ve never felt an emptiness like this. Never felt so hollow and depraved. But he’s the only one who can fix it, and your eyelids grow heavy as you push yourself further back into his chest.
The tip of a second finger begins to tease your opening before he’s pushing both in. And it’s almost too easy, the sound of your arousal being pulled in and out rather loud. And so very lewd. Too much eroticism for you to handle, and it feels as though your limbs have turned to jelly as you slump in his hold.
“Okay, baby,” he whispers, tugging your earlobe between his teeth. “Gonna come for me, yeah? Just give me one. Just need to feel you around my fingers one time.”
And it’s an easy instruction. You can already feel the seams of your sanity coming loose as he returns to your clit and pinches it between his fingers.
The combination of pleasure from both of his hands is almost cruel, and it makes your heart wrench. Because it’s so close, you can taste it. Can swallow it whole, and you’ve never felt so insatiable. The urge to just have him rather prevalent and undeniable. You imagine if you could, you’d wrap yourself around him and never let go.
And you don’t think he’d really mind.
Your hips buck up the moment he curls his touch, a soft sigh fighting its way between your parted lips. 
And you’re so enamored by him. So endlessly addicted to the man doing this to you, and you can feel the way your orgasm barrels closer. The way he teases you with the thought of release, dangling it directly in front of you.
“There you go,” he breathes, and you can feel him against your back. The groan that sits in his chest as he works you closer. “So good, yeah? Love the way you squeeze me.”
As if at the mention, you feel yourself clench around his large digits. Pussy fluttering until he’s dropping his mouth to your shoulder in order to stifle his own sounds.
“S’fucking tight,” he mumbles before repeating the action again. “God, you’re so tight, sweet girl. I’d fucking ruin you, wouldn’t I?”
You nod fervently, the image of his cock painting itself behind your eyelids. The length, the girth, the way it looks between his thighs. He would, he’d ruin you. In the best possible way. And you’d thank him for it. 
You can feel him beneath you, just below your ass. And he’s glorious. Cursing to himself whenever you squirm over his cock, taunting him about the same way he’s taunting you.
It’s clear he’s losing the battle for control. Whispers of, “Oh, my sweet girl. My fucking girl. Aren’t you? Never knew how good he had it, did he?”
He doesn’t need to say Jesse’s name for you to know exactly who he’s referring to, and your stomach lands in your throat. 
You don’t want to imagine him when you’re with Harry. And you don’t think Harry does, either. But he grits the insinuation out through clenched teeth before settling into a faster rhythm.
“Could fucking kill him,” Harry seethes. “Could pull his heart out of his goddamn chest just for fucking looking at you.” 
He presses hard into your clit until you’re forced to bite your tongue. Drinking down your whimpers and cries as one of the men across the station folds his paper and begins to stand.
You pray he doesn’t look over, pulse thumping wildly against your ribcage. And yet, at the same time, you want him to know. Want them all to know what your stranger is doing to you. To watch you fall apart by his hand until you’re nothing but a pile of pants and sighs.
“For touching you,” he continues in your ear, a disdained hiss that makes your eyes roll back. “For putting his fucking hands on what’s mine.”
You squeeze his wrist so hard, you’re sure you’ll leave a bruise. But it doesn’t seem to matter because he goes faster. Harder. Plunging his fingers in and out of your cunt at an unrelenting pace. Needing you to cum more than he’s ever needed anything else.
“Come on,” he urges, kissing down your neck with a faint grumble. “God, come on, Cherry. Come for me. Let me feel you, just one more time.”
You’re almost there. Can feel the beginnings of your orgasm brightening the edges of your vision. You need far more than he’s giving you and yet, at the same time, you’ve never felt so satisfied.
“Show me how good you are,” he murmurs. “Show me how good you’re gonna be for me, taking my cock. All laid out in my bed. Tears down your pretty, little face.”
And you can see it so clearly. Sweaty bodies writhing together, tangled in the sheets. The way he holds you to the mattress, using his weight to keep you good, keep you open. His hard thrusts, his strong thighs. His hands pinning yours just above your head, his hips slamming into yours.
You clamp down around his fingers once more and he’s mesmerized. Sliding all the way to the knuckle and holding them there to feel every flutter of your pussy around him.
“Shit, that’s it.” His arm flexes from beside you, and you wish he wasn’t wearing that goddamn hoodie so you could see every pull of his muscles. “Know you’re close. Gonna get you there, baby, I swear.”
And you know he will. He almost has, and maybe there’s a small part of you that doesn’t want this to end. Wants to keep feeling this indescribable rush as he sits with you until the sun comes up. 
With all the frantic fumbling, the hem of your dress has slowly begun to ride up. Revealing the disappearance of his hands and the tops of your thighs until there’s no question about what’s really happening underneath.
And maybe you should readjust yourself, but you don’t. Can’t. You’re almost there and all clarity seems to fly right out the window as you decide that you don’t care. Onlookers be damned. If they see, they see. 
This is what gets you there. This realization that people can watch him touch you. Even if nobody is looking right at this moment, they could. And it’s wrong, and it’s strange, and it’s so not like you.
Yet you’ve never felt more at ease.
The moment it takes hold of you, he zeroes in. Fucking his fingers into your cunt rather mercilessly while the other hand returns to your mouth. Already anticipating your noises.
You moan against his palm while he tugs you impossibly closer to his chest. Attempting to shield you from everybody else as you experience the come down. 
“Shh,” he repeats for a third time, the soothing tone a stark contrast to the unrelenting movement of his fingers. “Don’t want them to hear you, sweet girl. Wanna keep you to myself. Cause your noises are mine, yeah, Cherry? They belong to me?”
Posed as a question, but you both know it’s not. You’ve never belonged to anybody the way you belong to him. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
So, you allow yourself to whimper against his hand through every second of it. Riding out his thrusts until your stomach nearly caves in. Until you have no further strength to hold yourself upright or keep yourself composed. 
“There you go,” he coos. “Just like that. Want it all, baby. Every fucking drop.”
You give it to him. Give him everything you have, everything he asks for. And the soft grunts in your ear nearly bring you to the edge for a second time, but he’s pulling away just before you can find out. 
Your exhale is strained when he finally lowers his arm, but he remedies this by wrapping it around your middle and straightening the hem of your uniform. 
“How’s that, hm?” He tucks his chin just over your shoulder. “Feel better? Y’gave me a lot tonight, sweet girl. M’so proud of you. You were so good for me.”
You offer a lazy smile at his tender praise.
Soft strokes are circled around your thigh as you both sit in the new silence. Indulging in these few moments you have left.
And just the idea of having to leave him nearly crushes you.
He’s rather addicting, you realize. This man – this stranger – that comes to your diner and sits in your booth asking for pies. Even without knowing much about who he is, you’re so endlessly drawn to him. Hypnotized by his charm and his face and his past. The scars that litteried his hands and body.
And now, after everything else…he’s the only one you truly feel safe with. Comfortable. It doesn’t matter if he’s nothing but question marks, he’s…Harry. He’s your Harry. And you don’t ever want that to change.
You watch his fingers brush at your skin, and your heart feels so full. It’s never felt like this with anybody else. Not during the sex, not during the tender moments. You thought you felt that way with Jesse, but it pales in comparison to how you feel now.
However, the fleeting memory of Jesse sours your smile as you’re forced to remember the reality of this delicate moment. 
Even when Harry was touching you, he was so angry. He is so angry. You know he’ll never be able to tame that demon that lives within his heart, but you aren’t sure there’s enough room for both.
You want to believe him when he says he’ll figure it out. But it’s becoming much too clear that he believes the only way to fix it…is to hurt Jesse.
And therefore get himself hurt in the process.
There’s so much more that you don’t understand. So much more that he clearly doesn’t want you to, and you’re devastated. You feel helpless. Because you want to protect him the same way he wants to protect you. You want to keep him from making these rash decisions just because he thinks they’ll protect you.
Because you don’t want to have to lose him or let him go. You want to take him away from all of this and make him happy. Find a way to keep him safe.
You want to find another way.
“Harry?” you venture timidly.
He hums.
“Why did you tell me not to tell Owen where I was going?”
There’s a brief beat before he sighs rather heavily and tightens his hold on you. “When I drove by the diner earlier, I saw Jesse.”
Your eyes widen.
“He was talking to Owen, and my guess is that he was looking for you.” Another pause. “Does Owen know where you live?”
You glance down at his fingers before tangling them with yours. Playing with them as though to prolong your answer. “…yes.”
He sucks in a sharp inhale. “Fuck.”
The heavy sound makes your chest ache, and you quickly sit up in order to glance back and see him. “Jesse would never do that.”
“You don’t know that,” he nearly scoffs. “He’s a fucking baby when he doesn’t get his way, and if he thinks you’re still seeing me—”
“Well, he won’t,” you retort. “He won’t know. We’ll meet down here, and we’ll figure out what to do. And it’ll be okay.”
His eyes flick between yours, and even in the soft light, that gentle green is breathtaking. “I think you have more faith in him than you should.”
Your stomach sinks.
“And I think you have the wrong faith in me, too,” he whispers, reaching out to cup your chin. “M’not sure I’m who you think I am.”
The implication makes you frown. “You’re exactly who I think you are. You’re kind, and you’re smart, and you’re strong. You take care of me, you protect me. I know you, Har.”
His expression falls ever-so-slightly. “Not as much as I should—”
“Harry—”
“You want to save him, and I want to fucking kill him,” he says. “You think he’s worth saving. You think I’m worth saving, and I’m not. We’re not—”
“Stop,” you nearly gasp, surging forward to take his cheeks between your palms. “You are always worth saving. Why do you think I’m trying so hard to keep you?”
He nuzzles his face into your palm before releasing a deep breath. “Because you’re good. You’re so good, Cherry. And I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you.”
You tighten your hold. “Stop saying that. You deserve me and I deserve you. Okay, we’ll figure this out. We’re fine. Everything is gonna be fine.”
You know he wants to argue. Has about a hundred excuses and arguments ready for use, but he bites his tongue. Allowing you to have this victory as you dip down and kiss him.
“I just want to keep you safe,” he says, and you understand more than he’ll ever know.
“But I am safe,” you argue, reaching down to tug his hoodie pleadingly. “As long as I’m with you, I’m safe.”
His sigh is gentle as he squeezes your chin. “I know. Just wanna figure some things out first, yeah? Make sure I can take care of you.”
You say nothing as his thumb sweeps across your parted lips, but you’re gutted. Touched by the thought, yet empty without him.
This is how you leave each other. After Harry helps you to your feet and makes sure you’re steady. And it’s quiet as you say your goodbyes. As he holds you against his heart until he has to physically take himself away. Leaving you with a lingering kiss that you feel all the way down in your toes.
“Tomorrow?” he makes you promise before you can slip away.
You smile, but it doesn’t reach very far. “Tomorrow,” you agree. “Right here.”
“Right here. Find me.”
“Always.”
And with that…he drops your hand and walks away.
However, the image of him follows you all the way home. The way his features fell, the way his voice cracked. The anguish so prevalent in his insistence, and the unmistakable rage behind his eyes.
He’s unrelenting. He doesn’t see a way out that keeps him safe. He’d rather risk his life in order to protect yours. And you don’t want to understand it, but you do. Because a part of you wants to do the same for him.
Jesse made his instructions clear. And it should be easy. It should be so easy for Harry to do the one thing he knows he can. To win.
But he won’t. He won’t win as long as Jesse’s his sponsor. And if he won’t win…
You know he can. Saw it happen just the other night. The way he threw his opponent onto the mat and held him down until he could hardly breathe. He’d been losing – he’d been throwing the fight – until he saw you. And once he saw you…the fight was over.
This is what Jesse wanted, and you know it. He wants you to be the reason Harry changes his mind, but it’s clear now that you’re the reason he won’t.
He’ll never change his mind as long as he’s convinced he’s protecting you. As long as he’s sure that his pain is proper payment for your comfort. 
And it ruins you. It ruins you this idea that you can’t help him. That he’ll allow himself to be beaten to the brink of death in order to keep you safe. To keep you untouched and unscathed.
Jesse’s threat is real. Frighteningly real, and there’s this ache in your stomach that can’t be mended with kisses and kind words. You can’t convince him, you can’t change his mind, and you can’t find another way.
There’s only one.
It taunts you as you go about your night. It wakes you the next morning. Follows you all the way to work. 
Perhaps the only way to solve the problem is to take yourself out of the equation. To force Harry’s hand exactly the way Jesse wants. To show him that it’s okay to save himself. That he doesn’t have to put you first.
But in order to truly take yourself out…you have to take yourself from him. And the thought of removing yourself from his life nearly wrecks you. It’s violent and unthinkable, causing a hitch in your breath before you’ve even decided. 
You can’t imagine a world without him in it. You don’t want to. You’re so irrevocably happy with him, and you imagine he feels the same for you.
But if you ever lost him…if your selfishness took him from you, you don’t know what you’d do. And it’s exactly the way he feels for you, but you realize then that you’d rather push him away than lose him forever. 
You’d rather have his life than his love.
Your shift goes by far too fast, and when you finally clock out and head for the subway station, your insides are in knots. 
You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to have to do this, but it’s the only exit you see. Right alongside the memories of each of Harry’s bruises and cuts. Reminding you of how much worse it could really get.
And when you step up to the subway and see his shadow just across the way…the decision finds you.
A grin splits his face as he strides toward you, instantly wrapping you in his arms and pulling you back into his chest. Exactly the way he left you the night before.
“Hi,” he murmurs, lips burying into your hair as though he hasn’t been able to breathe without you.
“Hi,” you whisper back, throat already growing dry. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t be, sweet girl.” He leans back in order to study you, fingers stroking across your cheek rather affectionately. “Owen didn’t give you trouble, did he?”
“No. No, it wasn’t him—”
“Jesse?” The sound of his name is sharp, and it makes your eyelashes flutter.
“No.” Your voice has gone quiet. Far too quiet, and his brows pinch together. “No, I just…I have something I have to do. And I’m not sure that I can.”
He steps closer. “Then let me help, yeah? We can do it together.”
You want to cry.
Your shift in demeanor doesn’t go unnoticed, and he quickly reaches for your hand in order to drag you toward the bench just behind him. 
“Okay, all right,” he murmurs as he brings you to sit. “Talk to me, sweet girl. Let me help, what can I do?”
You stumble over a breath and glance down at your lap. If you look at him, you’ll never do it. “I…I…”
You can’t force the words out. Can’t find what you really want to say – can’t even believe you’re saying it at all.
But you have to. You have to protect him; you have to do what he won’t.
He dips down in order to recapture your attention. “Deep breath, baby, okay? Just talk to me. I just wanna help.”
It hurts the way he speaks to you. Hurts the way he’s still trying to help. The way he cradles your face in his hand in order to comfort you.
“I…” You swallow thickly and revel in the feel of his touch for the last time. “I think…I think we should take a break.”
His head tilts, but he appears unfazed. Perhaps he doesn’t understand or perhaps he didn’t really hear you. “What?”
And you almost hate him for making you repeat it. “I want to take a break. I don’t…I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Now he hears you, but he it’s obvious that he doesn’t understand. Leaning back as his features twist together. “Cherry…”
And suddenly, you feel unsure. Consumed by the idea that you're making a huge mistake. Maybe there's another way, maybe...maybe you just didn't look hard enough.
Because what if letting him go does more harm than good? What if he can't find another way without you? What if you can't live without him?
But then Jesse's threat rings in your ear. The taunt that he'd kill him himself if he didn't do things differently. If he didn't listen.
If you couldn't convince him
And the moment you imagine Harry lying on the ground– dead – you realize that this is truly the only way.
You raise your eyes to his, and it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. “I’m sorry.”
But it appears your apology falls on deaf ears. He merely frowns, regarding you almost suspiciously. “He got to you, didn’t he? He’s making you say this.”
“No…no, he just—”
“He what? S’this about what he said? S’this about what I said? Because I meant it. I’ll fucking kill him—”
“No, Harry, I just…I think you were right. I think we’re never gonna agree on how to handle this and…and maybe there’s a reason.”
He considers this before rejecting it with a soft scoff. “We don’t have to agree. I told you, I can handle him—”
“I don’t think you can,” you argue. “And I think it’s better if we just quit while we’re ahead.”
It’s bullshit. All of it. A bunch of empty lies that chip away at your happiness.
The frown deepens. “Cherry…I don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t understand, and…and I don’t think you ever will.” You force the tears back. “We’re not the same people, Harry. It was never going to work.”
This is what crushes him. This confirmation of your differences and of the very thing he feared. That you’d reject him for being who he is.
You nearly take it all back when you see his expression soften. 
“Cherry,” he tries again, “if…if I did something, I—”
“You did a lot of things,” you tell him. Deciding that the only way you’ll get through this is if you fight him at every turn. “But I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.”
His shoulders visibly droop. “I know, I…I’m just trying to make it better.”
You didn’t think it could get worse. And you want to comfort him. Want to help him understand, make him see. Have this unshakable need fix the desolate expression on his face. Kiss it away, make it better.
But you don't.
“I know,” you echo instead, offering a just hint of kindness as you place your hand on his knee. “But this is how we make it better. By letting go. And saying goodbye.”
He glances down at his leg as though your touch stings, and you retract your arm almost instantly. “You want me to say goodbye?”
No. Never. “Yes. I think it’s for the best.”
He nods once and his eyes become unfocused. As though he’s lost. Completely checked out of his own body, and it sends the knife directly into your heart.
Then, he lifts his head, and regains a moment of clarity. “I love you.”
The knife twists and the first sob breaks free. “Harry—”
“I love you, Cherry. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to take a fucking break, I…” He stops, and you can see the torment painted so perfectly across his face. “I love you. I can’t do this without you.”
And you know he won’t. You know he’ll do everything he can to bring you back. To change your mind, remind you where you belong. He’ll never let you go.
So, you do the one thing you don’t want to.
“I don’t love you,” you whisper. “I love…him.”
You’ve never seen him look so miserable.
It’s like you’ve slapped him. He leans back so fast, you’re dizzy. Putting a violent distance between your bodies until you nearly lose your breath.
He takes in a quiet inhale that’s more like a gasp, and you want to change your mind. You want to throw yourself into his arms and apologize and tell him you love him and go back to how things were only 24-hours ago. You want to pretend you never saw that look on his face.
But you can’t. You have. You said it and for all he knows, you mean it.
“You love him,” he repeats, and it’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever heard. “You…no. No, you don’t love him, you…how can you love him? How…how?”
“I…I talked to him,” you lie, reaching up to swipe your knuckles across your cheek. “He’s…he’s my Jesse. He’s…I’ve always loved him. I just…I didn’t realize.”
He scoffs again, but it’s riddled with disdain and desperation. “Your Jesse.”
“Yes, my Jesse.” You don’t think your heart has ever broken this bad. “I’ve always loved him. I always will. And he…he explained, and I believe him. I’m choosing to believe him—”
“Oh, fuck that,” he nearly growls, springing onto his feet until he’s towering over you. “No, he…him? After everything he did to you, you fucking…you love him? You want to be with him?”
“Harry—”
“No. How can you…” He steels himself, and another tear falls from your eye. “You can’t love him. You can’t, I know you. Okay, I saw how you looked at him and I saw how you looked at me, and it’s not the same. You don’t love him, you’re just…you’re scared.”
He’s right, you are.
“I’m not scared, Harry, I just…I know what’s best for me,” you murmur. “And he’s what’s best.”
It tastes vile in your mouth. All of it, every lie, every false feeling, and you feel sick.
He steps back, and a part of you almost hopes he simply walks away so you won’t have to keep doing this to him. To yourself.
But maybe this is your punishment. To watch the way you ruin him as you do it. 
“You can do better than him and you know it,” he nearly sneers, but it’s sad the way he speaks. “And it doesn’t have to be me, but…fuck, you have to do better than him. You deserve so much better than him, Cherry, and I don’t…I can’t believe you don’t see that.”
Your fingers twitch on your lap, anxious to reach for him. “I’m sorry.”
He only shakes his head and looks away. “Don’t be. S’my fucking fault for thinking I could do better."
“Harry—”
“No, it’s fine,” he says, but you know, undoubtedly, that he doesn’t mean it. “If you love him, then you fucking love him. I’m never gonna be able to change that.”
You feel as though you’re being ripped apart from the inside out. You’ve never experienced a pain like this before, and you imagine it’s still only a fraction of the pain he puts himself through in that ring. 
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whisper, and it’s enough to draw his attention back. “I never want to hurt you, Harry. I really do care about you, I just…”
He looks gutted. “You just care about him more.”
You wonder if he really believes you. You wonder if that small pull of his brows is because he’s hurt or because he knows what you’re really doing.
Either way, he steps back, and takes himself from you. Putting the first few feet of the eventual thousand between you. “It’s fine,” he murmurs once more. “I just want you to be happy, Cher. And if you’re happy with him, then…”
He can’t finish the thought. Can’t force the words between his gritted teeth, and you understand.
“Thank you,” you exhale, and your pulse begins to race. Because you know what comes next, and you aren’t quite sure you’re prepared. “And…I hope you figure everything out.”
“Yeah,” he snorts, but there’s something dark in the way he speaks. Something you’re almost afraid to recognize. “I will.”
It’s ominous, but you suppose that’s all you deserve. “Right.”
He moves back even further, and you nearly collapse. 
“Harry?”
He pauses, hands disappearing into his pockets as though to shield himself from you.
“Thank you,” you call quietly. “For…for everything.”
His lashes flutter, and even despite the affliction written between the lines of his face, you realize he’s never looked so beautiful. “Don’t have to thank me, sweet girl. I’ve only ever wanted to make you happy.”
And all you can do is look down at your lap in order to shield him from the influx of tears that break free.
A moment passes of your soft hiccups and trembling hands before you hear his shoes shuffle across the concrete. He’s walking away. He’s leaving you behind. He’s saying goodbye. For good. You’ll never see him again, and he’ll never sit in that booth again, and he’ll never be your stranger ever again—
Two hands find your face. Lifting your head until you’re forced to look up and see him.
He’s here.
And he’s tugging you up onto your feet until he can hold you against his chest and really look at you. Thumbs sweeping just beneath your eyes to catch each falling tear.
Then…he kisses you.
You’ve kissed him before. Many times, in fact, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been this…heavy. Never carried the kind of meaning it does right now as he keeps you against his lips for as long as you’ll allow. 
Because this is the last kiss.
You don’t want to let go. Don’t want to let him let you go. But he does all too soon and you’ve never felt so alone.
“I love you,” he whispers. “And I’m so sorry I couldn’t be who you need.”
And you want to scream. Want to tell him that he is. That he’s all you’ve ever wanted.
But he’s already removing his hands from your face before you can.
And you’re forced to watch as the man that you love turns around…and walks away.
For the last time.
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Next Part:
~ Outlawed*
Previous Part:
~ Reckless*
~ Full Knockout Masterlist
~ Main Masterlist
Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞
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rene-darling · 4 months
Text
EXPLORING- him
In which you find yourself being able to closely touch and see your boyfriend's body..aka body hcs, and you examine their scars...im not sure if this is the original artist but I found the pic on scara.meowing insta
...Wanderer...xiao...kazuha...
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Wanderer
The wanderer isn't one to let just anyone see his body,
Even thinking about being so vulnerable in front of someone leaves his head aching and sends a weird feeling up his spine
Letting someone see the scars he has obtained from throughout his life is something he won't ever agree to doing,
So if you wish to be able to see him, you'll have to find a roundabout way to do so,
Luckily for you, for the past few days, he's been complaining about back aches from being hunched over all day trying to complete his assignments from being a vahumana student
You offered a massage which after much pain and annoyance he agreed to.
After he agreed he turned around from you and took off his kimono, slipping it off with ease as he moved to remove the top half of his black body suit as well, cheeks slightly flushed as he was basically stripping in front of you.
He laid on his stomach starting forward, his usual snappy self is a bit quiet, it isn't every day he's laid bare in front of you for you to touch without engaging in promiscuous activities.
"hurry up what are you starin-" Suddenly the boy goes quiet as you run your hand down his spine, chuckling to yourself at his immediate quietness
Imprints of big circles are left on his back, most likely from the tubes that once connected him to his shouki no kami, large red indents are all that's left on his puppet body, and his back tenses once your fingers trace the circle following it's track.
Your fingers trace his skin where forgotten scars lay healed, scars mostly gained by cruel experiments at the hands of the doctor, his face sours when you touch them, constricting in...annoyance? Sadness? Or perhaps at the reminder of bad memories.
And when your hand traces up his spine to a strange purple symbol on the back of his neck, one that represents the electro symbol but not quite.
And as your hand touches it, it's as if a bolt of lightning is sent through his body, his hand immediately reacting to slap away your hand from it, quickly getting up and backing away from your touch his panicked eyes look into yours his breathing ragged for a moment before calming down
"I'm...im sorry" his voice comes out in a whisper, as if that's all he could manage..
Xiao
If you thought getting the wanderer to show himself to you was hard think again.
In no circumstance will he ever allow you to massage him just because his muscles feel sore
He's too proud as an Adeptus and as a Yaksha to allow that.
No matter how many long nights he's fought allowing himself relief in this form is out of the question.
It's not just his pride speaking though, he's far too selfless to allow himself rest.
Only when his karmic dept clings to him and dark miasma swirls in the air that surrounds him does he agree to allow you to touch him, albeit very reluctantly.
Only after being pushed to his physical limit does he allow you to touch his bare body, his bare body that he despises so much.
Your hands, which remain untainted by the dark miasma that surrounds him, untainted by the blood of thousands of innocents, he isn't deserving of your touch.
But he holds his tongue, letting your hands roam over his toned back without arguing, not so much as a pip is heard from the man,
He has a small frame, and an even smaller waist but the muscles he's trained from over a millennia are quite clear and pronounced
Your hands ghost over healed scars that he's long forgotten the stories too, claw marks which indicated a time his very flesh was punctured and bleeding.
Those scars he had gained admits battle, those roughly edged scars that you touched oh so very sweetly. He doesn't deserve this. In his mind he doesn't even deserve you but this especially.
He breathes deeply, it's okay, it's fine, he doesn't mind as you touch the scars he obtained during wartime, a time when he used to fight with his brothers and sisters
But his breath does hitch when you touch a scar that...even after thousands of years is stuck deep into his skin, a scar he received long before being rescued by Rex lapis.
His fists clenched as the memories flashed before his eyes,, the memories of him..his breathing increased almost to the point of him having a mini panic attack..
He only calmed himself once your hand moved away from there and to his arm as you traced the tattoo on it, gently tracing its edges as you reassured him that it would be alright.
Kazuha
Kazuha does not mind one bit if you want to see his body
He'll make a sly remark about your request of course
But he'll never deny nor say no to you
He doesn't have any insecurities regarding his body
He's confident in them and the scars he has obtained over the years of being a samurai
He'll raise an eyebrow at your request and give you a sly smile, yet when you explain your reasoning he'll smile gently and he chuckles nodding to your request set
Taking off his shirt for you and laying on his stomach, you can see his arms wrapped in bandages and some freshly obtained scars on his back are too.
Most though, are healed each one having a story behind it,
Whatever scar you trace he'll have the story behind it, from the smallest of cuts to the deepest of gashes he'll tell you, in depth how, where, and when he got it
Scars trace throughout his body down his arms that are wrapped in bandages, perhaps this day, he'll let you redo them for him,
Other than his scars his skin is soft and smooth, it's quite fair and he definitely has a tan line, his face is a bit darker than the rest of his body due to him always being out in the sun
He sometimes likes going into gruesome details about how he got a specific scar, but when you asked him about one he got on the day tomo was killed, he hesitates.
Going quiet for a moment, thinking deeply about what to say or tell, but unlike the other boys, he's more open with you and he'll tilt his head back as he recounts the story of that scar.
He won't tell you the whole story but...little by little he'll start mentioning little details here and there, leaving you some empty spots for you to figure out.
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charliemwrites · 4 months
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Part 2 of charmed serial killer Simon. (Part 1 is here.)
This part is heavily inspired by this particular Badjhur audio “Surviving the Slasher” from, like, a long time ago. Where he’s a killer. Easier to find than expected, thank you masterlist. It permanently has a room in my pea brain, no rent, utilities included.
You’re out with your little friends again. Simon scoffs to even call them that. You give them so much more than they even try to give you - support, encouragement, time, energy.
One of them has a shitty deadbeat boyfriend that’s throwing a flat party, so they’ve dragged you along per usual. You’re still swearing off alcohol after the last time you went out - when you got a ride home with him. So you’re totally sober when the rest of the idiots suggest “investigating” the abandoned hospital on the other end of the block.
You go with them as the only fully-sober one, but spend the whole, stumbling trip trying to convince them to go somewhere, anywhere, else.
Apparently the boyfriend fancies himself something of an urban explorer because he knows just how to get in, bragging that he’s going to start some stupid internet show looking for ghosts there. You end up getting knocked into a half dozen times just trying to keep your woozy friends from getting tetanus.
It doesn’t take long at all for someone to suggest hide and seek. You try adamantly to put your cute little foot down - reminding them that it’s dirty and structurally unstable and there could be people just trying to camp out in peace in here. You’re adamantly ignored and your friends scatter.
And Simon starts to hunt.
Oh, he wishes he could have seen your face when the screams first started. If you recognized the shriek of Addy, the one who yanked you away from a proper apology when you first bumped into him at the bar. Wonders if you felt anything when Simon stabbed her boyfriend in the stomach and sent him stumbling away to incite more terror.
Of course you did. His pretty little chatterbox, coming to the rescue as soon as you heard their cries.
You get yourself lost trying to find someone, anyone. He picks off your group one. By. One. He finds you trying to triage a nasty slice to Heather’s thigh. She was talking shit about you just two days ago to Addy.
And oh, how brave you are, trying to stick with her to the very end. All it takes is one well-placed throw and you’re scrambling back as Heather burbles blood.
He takes a single, loud step towards you - and you bolt. Such a smart thing, you don’t even glance back to see if he’s following. He’s not; there’s still trash to take care of.
You find one more friend - one he doesn’t mind so much, mostly because you just met tonight. She’s crying, making a fuss and you’re trying to soothe her while still focused on escape, letting her cling to your arm.
Simon starts herding you both towards an easy exit. A few well placed foot falls here, a jaunty whistle there. He loves watching your big eyes dart toward the noises, how you get low like a bunny hiding in brush. Always put yourself between your new friend and wherever you think he could come from.
Your friends’ blood is beginning to dry when he decides it’s time to wrap things up.
He appears in a doorway, and you shove at your fellow survivor, make her squeeze through the rusty door first. You’re just starting to follow when he snags you around the middle. You yelp, feet kicking at air, tugging at his soaked hoodie sleeve.
He shoves your back against a wall and presses close, the flat of his knife against your pretty cheek.
“What did we learn tonight, hm?” he mocks.
You’re flinching away, but know better than to struggle or scream. So clever.
“W-why are you doing this?” you ask.
How sweet, that you can’t understand the motivations of monsters like him. He indulges you.
“To teach you a lesson,” he answers. “Get better friends.”
You look furious, even as tears well in your eyes. He coos over them, tugs the bottom of his mask up enough to lick them as they fall down your cheek.
“S-Stop, that’s - that’s so gross,” you hiccup, pancaking yourself to the wall.
He snorts in amusement and tugs his mask down again.
“Now, I know you’re a good girl with good manners, so let’s see them.”
You blink at him, eyes soooo big. Don’t understand what he means.
He tuts. “Say: thank you, ghost, for teaching me a valuable lesson.”
You press your lips together in a tight, pouty line. He wants to bite them. Instead, taps the point of the knife against your jaw. A silent threat that’s he’s still debating if he means.
But you manage to get the sentence out, stuttering, voice breaking halfway through. Mm, he’s missed hearing your gratitude. It’s almost sweeter this way than all the times you said it in his car.
“You’re very welcome, sunshine. Now, off you go, before I decide to teach you something else.”
You don’t hesitate when he steps back. Peel yourself off the wall and wriggle out to freedom.
Simon chuckles. What a fun little playdate, he’s so glad he let you go that first time. He’ll have to arrange another one soon.
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anantaru · 6 months
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DAY 13 — BITING/MARKING
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kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3
𖧡 — including — kaveh, kazuha, cyno, venti
𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, biting/marking, neck bites & marking you with his cum, tit play/tit sucking (cyno uses his vision on you but only a little), fingering, oral (fem! receiving), lots of cum & kind of messy (venti's part)
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𖧡 — KAVEH
kaveh will leave his eyes closed before he slopes his head into your neck, and oh, who would've thought? you can feel his blonde hair lightly prod your cheeks before you breathe in the cloying fragrance he wore— such candid scent was one wefted within sumeru roses, a prairie of perfume that had wended its way through his body pressed on top of yours.
"having trouble, hm?" a low, teasing voice rattles kindly into the shell of your ears before you cling onto him, the arch of your back more defined as you sneakily grind your sensitive cunt against his exposed erection, choking out a breathy sob as kaveh kisses the stinging splotches on your neck.
it's almost too slow to your own liking, amost punishing and it drives you mad— how kaveh doesn't give your little cunt some much needed attention, but instead wholly focuses on branding his white canines on your neck and collarbones instead, because the thought of someone seeing them was absolutely intoxicating, besides, it was way easier to spot that you're taken when your neck was littered all over with hickeys.
"mhm… no trouble." the gentle, candid noises you'd make whenever he tips you into a dreamy haze, it pushes kaveh towards the edge of cumming without even being touched by you yet. and he begins to rut the mattress underneath him in a feral tempo, immediately ghosting his hands over your shaky figure before settling two digits on top of your puffy clit— his wet lips, never leaving your neck and suckling strong on the soused places before rubbing your cunt, battering his rough finger pads against the thudding nerves and awaiting your moans turning the humid air all the more sweeter.
fuck— you’re barely able to express how good he made you feel and how impossibly deep his fingers reached inside, pummeling a hot bristle on your cheeks as your hips meet his sensual touch half way, the metrical movements slurred and passionate— perfect traces setting your skin aflame.
truthfully, it’s quite the win-win situation whenever kaveh marks you up and pleasures you at the same time— for one, it’s never hidden whenever curious eyes trail along your beautiful figure. whilst, okay, maybe you will end up trying to cover it up with a large scarf or a turtleneck, but your handsome boyfriend will scoff at you, overly dramatic, a sad roll of his eyes touching up his precious face when you tell him it's very inappropriate if someone spots those hickeys on you.
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𖧡 — KAZUHA
you blink down between your parted thighs, in a daze, and whine out in the most heavenly tune imaginable, in utter approval when kazuha drags the flat of his tongue inside the flesh of your folds— the wet lick on you was certainly claiming and presses the air from your aching lungs, the pink muscle expertly gyrating through your slickness as he begins to suddenly mouth away from your approaching sensation.
you sob at the loss— heaving out little why, why, why’s before becoming irritated, tilting your head in confusion as your eyes follow how kazuha laps his tongue all the way to your thighs, precisely the spot that served as a bridge to your legs and your cunt. ah, you smell so nice, quite the sweet fragrance and kazuha truly wonders what that might be, locking his soused lips around a spot before greedily suckling at the skin, the squelching noises of his mouth echoing into your thudding flesh— earning a whispery gasp from you when his palm, that was previously placed on top of your stomach, suddenly touches your clit to rub his thumb right on top.
kazuha can notice the reactions he coaxed out of you a little more precise now, how delicious and perfect you tasted and ugh, the feeling on how you tense entirely when his lips nibble and gnaw around your skin ever so slightly while his finger grow greedy in their movements, eagerly massaging two digits on your folds before prodding at your slit.
he teases, your arousal gushing out of your hole that it makes his mouth water at the sight— truly unsure what he preferred right now.
irrespective of wether it was guzzling on copious amounts of places on your thighs and mark them with bristling hickeys— so kazuha can look at them whilst fucking into you, or even afterwards when he pats the quivering skin and prances his warm palm on top.
his mind spins dizzily now— the very reason for that being when he abruptly notices how you're pushing your hips upwards into his fingers when he kindly inserts the first, long digit into your gaping hole, parting your cunt effortlessly and stuffing your arousal right back into you.
the atmosphere inside the room too, grew in hotness before coming crushing down on your fondling bodies pleasing each other, sweat forming around your forehead and right under your breasts.
ugh, how cruel, it's so hard to choose— and kazuha believes he'd never be able to pick a favorite between pleasuring your cunt or marking you up for that matter. yet of course— and such goes without saying, as long as you're wholly enjoying yourself whenever he has his hands on you— there was no reason for him to stop doing it.
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𖧡 — CYNO
cyno's grip around your wrists was powerful— so dominant and compelling that it's almost bruising your tender skin, in addition was it extremely pestering how he locked your hand above your head, rendering you moveless, so he could get a pretty good look on your cute nipples perked up all nicely and ready to receive his warm mouth gushing around them.
occasionally, he decides to pinch them, eagerly listening at how you're yelping out through a rigid jaw whenever he'd add a considerable amount of electric sparks through your flesh, then bring you back to his unwavering attention on your cunt as he keeps thrusting his hips hard.
"you do like that, yeah?" he mutters and makes sure he wasn't doing anything you weren't comfortable with, and hearing him say it through a luscious, cloudy tone made you clench around his dripping shaft even harder— but the very moment he slants his head down to mouth a couple wet spots on your breasts, you're done for.
"let me do that again.." he whispers, massaging one tit before gathering some of the flesh from the other, hollowing his cheeks, sucking down, repeating himself over and over. you whine, then moan his name, your lashes sticking together due to copious amounts of globules expelling from the corners of your eyes as you wiggle your hips for more, arching your back so you could push your tit into his mouth before he stains your skin with warm, tingling spots.
you swear he wasn't done yet, cyno was a sucker for drawing your orgasm out as long as possible, the little hairs on the back of your neck standing tall when he grazes his sharp teeth over a nipple, the trace of his canines stinging yet drawing you into his touch, luring your deepest, most desperate attempts to somehow make him reconsider, and give you what you truly desired.
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𖧡 — VENTI
your fingers strongly web into venti's hair as he greedily stuffs your cunt with his cock, so desperate and rough that your sore hole clenches around his entire shaft to keep him inside, the sudden constriction on your tightness throwing him out of his smooth thrusts, becoming sloppier and erratic.
although— he loves the way you pull at his hair while he fucks you silly, even lets out a breathy chuckle against your parted mouth as you pull at the roots to press his lips against yours, so you could show him what he was doing to you, and how insane it made you feel. "mhm.. venti.." you sob, whine and pitch your hips up so he could continue to greedily devour your pussy, plummet his entire shaft inside and massage the spongy insides of your cunt— like he's never touched you before and has been starved of you for what felt like a gruesome eternity.
and venti can't wait any longer, your moans absolutely wrecked his sense of self control as he pulls away from your mouth before rutting himself deeper, hiding his face in your neck to suckle at the skin and sense your upped pulse vibrate over his precious lips.
his long lashes conceal the brilliant, unique shade of his lusting eyes as he fucks you like he hates you, however, venti was utterly obsessed with everything regarding you, strongly nestled between your thighs, leaving an aftertaste of his long, pink length on your walls before he pulls himself out instantly, fisting his cock into the small tunnel of his palms feverishly— it's such a lewd sight to behold and your mouth waters right then and there, panting out sweet, little winces when he pumps two fingers back into your core.
the capture of your orgasm hits you deep inside your constricted stomach, the strong aftershocks becoming excessively noticable due to the reappearing twitches in your hips as tears began to pearl at your lashes when you cum around his digits the second he empties himself out.
on the spot, venti moves himself on top of you the way he always yearned for, the way it just had to be, his breathing low and through gritted teeth as he shoots his warm whites over your bare torso, reaching all the way to your collarbones.
you flinch at the warm feeling, your toes curling inwards as you're giving him a few more seconds to empty himself out— messy hair strands sticking on his damped forehead as he groans deeply into his chest, then huffing out an exhausted laugh right afterwards. fuck, how he immediately sets his eyes on you to watch you relish whilst being soiled and marked up by him, being fully aware that venti cannot help himself but imprint himself on you, wether it was inside or outside, the visual perception of it alone sending a new twitch straight into his groin, his lips coated of saliva as his brain feels heavy with an obsessive amount of both bliss and lust.
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©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify
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luvit · 4 months
Text
(gn!reader, mdni 18+)
feel like this's been done before but ghost!simon who currently haunts your apartment, not sure why he was tethered to your little home.
at first he was pissed, being stuck in some random place and especially stuck with you, who he hasn't the slightest clue what's going on. just does whatever he can to stay out of your way and be in a different place, rarely knocking something down or sending a shiver up your spine when you're a little too noisy with the tv or music, sometimes doing it as a way to send you to bed if you're up late
he knows your schedule by now, what places you like to hang out in whether it be the counter chairs in the afternoon and the couch at night. and he's tried to see if you can see or interact with him at all, but to no avail. the most he can do is give you goosebumps and make your hairs stand up when it feels like something is watching you, when he's right over your shoulder reading a passage from that trashy romance novel you picked up
but he doesn't expect himself to become so attached to you after a while
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it happened purely by accident. normally when you're hanging out in the living area to watch tv and do work, simon hides away in your room and sits by the chair in the corner of the room. you used to throw your clothes on there as a way of being too lazy to properly put it away, but simon corrected that habit by shoving it all off in the middle of the night and scaring you awake
except tonight, where's he's posted up and grumbling about being stuck as a spirit like this for the nth time tonight. and all of a sudden you come bursting into the room and flopping onto your bed. simon jumps at that and is stunned by your sudden entrance, and is about to leave to another room to brood until you randomly start stripping your pants.
he's completely taken aback by the way you do so. normally when you shower, you just take everything in there with you. plus the way your legs seem to look and the curve of your ass in those underwear are making him feel things he hasn't in a long while. he's been a respectable ghost, giving you your privacy when you showered and changed, mainly due to not wanting any contact with you but also trying not to project his anger at being stuck here onto you.
he knows he should leave, but somehow the way you flop back against your pillows after kicking your pants off makes him stay. he doesn't even mind as you throw the pants onto the chair he's at and how it swishes through him. his eyes are stuck on your core, dripping and leaving a wet spot on your underwear.
oh. that's why you came in here. in a hurry too with the way you lean over the side of the bed and dig something out of your bedside table. you're muttering with your ass in the air, giving simon a perfect view of the way your underwear clings around you and seeps with your slick arousal. it's tight on you right now, which leaves very little imagination at the way you look underneath. and the way your underwear is caving in to your ass? he wants a bite of it.
finally, you come up with a toy in hand, throwing it onto the sheets while you fish around in the drawer again. simon's eyes widen at the size of the toy. it's impressive, definitely not someone he'd taken you to be brave enough to try. which makes sense as you pull out a bottle of lube and start slathering it generously.
he gulps at the way you fist the toy. your fingers moving in a rough pace as to spread it everywhere so that it won't be as uncomfortable as a stretch. gah! and how you make sure to squeeze at the top of it as if it were attached to a person; simon wishes he could be that person. he hasn't felt like this in a long time. he continues to sit back in the chair and clenches his fists. you're so pent up and horny that you miss the way it creaks due to the pressure he's putting on the arms.
staring, that's all he can do as you spread your legs and palm and poke at yourself through your underwear. even so desperate for relief you want to build yourself up, tease yourself until you absolutely can't take it and need to stuff yourself. you keep going and you're absolutely soaking through your underwear.
and then he hears it.
a little whimper makes its way out of your mouth and it sends him reeling. makes him feel like he's alive. you bite your lip and finally kick off your underwear to reveal what simon salivates for. he narrows his eyes as you rub yourself a little harder, trying to gather some of your slick onto your already lubed hand and then... ooooh simon growls.
he growls at the way you add a finger into your hole, trying to stretch yourself out for your toy. you moan out and throw your head back as you continue to finger yourself. add another. good. is what goes on through his head as he watched you fuck yourself silly with your own hand.
when you finally work yourself to braving the thick toy you have, which simon is jealous of, he grunts and has to adjust himself in the seat. he's girthier, thicker, longer, downright better than that toy could ever be. but he knows all he can do is watch. can only imagine how he'd be able to please you until you're a mess under him. you stretched yourself so nicely that he can hear the way your toy slides in.
you keep up a nice pace until you pant and have to move it faster, harder. it has you moaning and you reach your free hand up to play with your nipples. you clench down hard and simon hears the way the lube and your juices squelch against the toy, having nowhere else to go as it drips down you and onto your hand.
simon feels like his whole body is on fire with the way he's watching you gasping when you angle it better to hit a more sensitive spot on you. and that instantly has you cumming around it as you push it deeper into you, giving your walls something to squeeze. you're panting as you calm down, slowly opening your eyes and having to gently remove the toy from you.
he watches your hole that's absolutely dripping and stretched out. simon doesn't even realize he's gotten closer to you, hovering by where your juices drip down and smear against your skin. he can't stop himself if he tried, doesn't even want to.
and you gasp and shut your legs shut, thighs coming together in a wet clap as you jolt upwards. because there should be nobody in there with you. and there's nobody in front of you. so why did it feel like someone's fingers were touching you around your freshly fucked hole?
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monzamash · 7 months
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off the record — lando norris
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"the line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it." lando norris x you (femreader) | 2.1k rating – 18+ (sex, coarse language, drug references) masterlist
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The media pen was mayhem after what had been an eventful morning on track. Cameras hoisted every which way, journalists vying for their chance to get front row. And then there was you; little old you trying your best to muscle into every nook and cranny available, wrestling with the big boys and girls. You were a bit of a hot shot now, rising through the ranks online as a media personality and bringing it to the stalwarts of mainstream media.
And you were good – really good. An exceptional storyteller and an extractor of sorts when it came to getting the scoop, something you had honed in on during your days working freelance before eventually realising your potential. Somehow, you’d made it here. Reporting for Sky Sports. Coming to you live from Monaco. Dream shit.
“Lando Norris…” You started, microphone locked and loaded in front of the sweaty, nonchalant McLaren driver.
“Felt like you left a little bit out on track in practice this morning. P10 – where do you think you can get the car in qualifying this afternoon?”
“P1 obviously,” Lando quipped, chewing through his comically large drinking straw in an attempt to hide his smirk. Mocking.
“Yeah?”
“What do you reckon?” He asked, leaning forward ever so slightly with a mischievous glint in his eye that had you rolling yours.
You shrugged, “Wouldn’t count the McLaren car out, that’s for sure.”
“The car and…” Lando smirk widened, lips still pursed and baiting.
“The driver too? Maybe?” Dickhead.
“Maybe that too…” You gave in with a sigh, eliciting a wide smile from the man standing in front of a gaggle of reporters, waiting for your next question with snickering expressions.
“So high expectations going into quali then?”
It had always been like this with Lando from the moment you stuck your little hand held recorder in his face at Bahrain last year to now. He knew he could wind you up and find levity in whatever situation he found himself in at the end of a session – good or bad. It was always a friendly back and forth between journalist and driver. Harmless banter to make the monotony of the media pen just that little bit more bearable. Professional, until it wasn’t.
“The flirting is getting out of hand,” You whispered into his kiss, teeth clashing, hands fumbling as you fell back on your hotel bed with a huff.
“But you look so fucking cute asking me questions like that,” He growled in retort, hands making quick work of the jeans clinging to your hips – the ones that had been taunting him all day.
Everywhere he turned he saw you swaying from side to side, aching to have this moment with you now.
“Well duh,” You quipped confidently, eyes fluttering shut as his feverish lips ghosted above the damp patch of excitement between your thighs. Focus.
“But it has to stop.”
“Oh you want me to stop right now?”
“I’m not talking about…” You stopped mid-sentence when you caught the mischievous glimmer in Lando’s eyes, lips pulled into a smirk, “Okay, fuck you.”
“You love it,” He breathed out in barely a whisper, leaving a trail of marks down the inside of your thigh before finally giving you what you were waiting for. 
“And don’t pretend like the thought of me going down on you when you’re asking me those silly little questions doesn’t turn you on.”
Well he fucking had you there.
Lando punctuated his point with a long, teasing stripe to your cunt before burying himself between your thighs, only coming up for air when you tugged on his curls and demanded a kiss. He knew how you were, how needy and insatiable you could be. This was a thing now; a god forsaken mistake in Australia that had turned into a runaway train. Neither of you could stop it.
“I can’t live without this.”
The desperation spilled from your mouth in a guttural moan as you titled you hips upwards and let the twisted knots in the depths of your stomach unravel. The sight of you thrashing in pleasure below knocked the wind out of Lando, eyes and mind focused solely on fucking you through your high so perfectly, fingers bruising the buttery flesh of your thighs.
“God – fuck…” He could barely breathe, “Don’t – you don’t have to.”
And with one last pump, he was coming into the condom he’d slipped on without you even knowing. It was second-hand now, muscle memory and so fucking good. But it didn’t start that way – no, it was awkward goodbyes and a cold ‘thanks for that’ which made you regret ever answering your hotel door. The situation had changed in the blink of an eye – now he was lingering, kissing you in places that had you melting into the mussed sheets and begging him to stay a little bit longer.
It was pathetic how reliant you’d become and how distant you could be when he had to leave. The leaving part was the thing that changed and had you questioning all of it. It used to be that you could go shower and come back to an empty bed and not even flinch. Four months of he is just a causal fuck, no hard feelings to now not being so stoic on that sentiment but you wouldn’t admit that. Not to yourself and especially not to the man peering down at you – all lazy smiles and dimples and ocean eyes. You were fucked.
“I gotta go,” Lando whispered, brushing the stray strands of hair from your flushed face, pout present and needy.
“You don’t really though.”
“If I don’t go now I’ll never leave.”
The little voice in your head was monologuing – screaming out all of the reasons why he should stay because maybe deep down that’s what you wanted. But you couldn’t have that. The line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it. It was the devil on your shoulder that tormented you when it came to Lando, pushing the boundaries more and more every time you had him in your clutches. Risking it all.
“Kiss me before you go.”
And he did. Passionately, like a man in love because maybe he was. Maybe he had been for a lot longer than he’d realised – somewhere between Miami and now he let his guard down too far, too soon. You were flawless though, unattainably perfect that he couldn’t be blamed for falling victim to your allure – sharp eyes following you around the paddock, wishing he was the little notebook in your back pocket that garnered all your attention on race weekends.
“See you tomorrow?”
“If you’re lucky,” Lando quipped, knowing he would be the one curled up in his cold, lonely bed for the rest of the night waiting impatiently for tomorrow.
In any other circumstance you would think the two of you were like magnets, drawn together amongst the travelling circus that was your workplace. But you had a job to do and that was to seek out drivers and team principals, digging deep for any story you could find. There was a trust that you’d built with the teams, all of them respected your work and knew that you weren’t malicious; in fact you were the opposite.
“I really appreciate you not writing about my drunkenness last weekend… It wasn’t my finest moment unfortunately.”
Oscar was a rookie driver but also a total sweetheart, who admittedly had found himself in a precarious late night adventure in a Miami nightclub post-grand prix. How he ended up that drunk, you had no idea but you saved him from himself with the help of Lando, who Oscar would’ve thought was suspiciously close by if he wasn’t black out drunk.
“I got you, buddy but I think your Australian citizenship might have to be revoked after an effort like that… Very disappointing,” You teased in jest, both smiling into the blistering Monacan sun as you walked side by side into the paddock.
“I woke up with an L on my forehead which I can only assume Lando put there so I think my ego’s bruised enough thank you very much.”
“Oh yeah,” You cringed, “That might’ve been my eyeliner.”
“Is that right…”
Oscar’s tone was laced with suspicion but before he could quiz you on why you were still there that night and that he had started to notice the budding friendship between you and his teammate, he was being whisked away by one of his McLaren publicists. You were thankful that they'd taken his curious questions away – how the tables had turned.
Lando was watching you wander through the paddock behind his dark sunglasses, as had been the trend all weekend. Every time you glanced around he was there, wondering if he could sneak over and say hello. Sure, you were friends with a few of the drivers outside of work but when you stepped over that white line, the barriers of professionalism came up again. They had to, otherwise you would end up in a situation like this – gawking at someone you shouldn’t be.
But god he looked good.
He wore what he knew was your biggest weakness – a backwards cap and the black denim jacket he slung over your shoulders on that dark, stormy night in London a few weeks ago when Imola was cancelled and you needed a fix. Hotel hook-ups only. And all of this had you asking yourself, how on earth could you deny a good morning from the man who was the subject of your every desire?
“Good morning.”
“Well it’s not a bad one,” You smiled, more energised than Lando who was yawning into the crook of his arm, “Late night?”
He loved it when you did that. Sneaking little inside jokes into seemingly innocent conversation, naughty reminders of the nights you shared together when nobody was watching. The cheeky grin tugging on his lips a definite tell-tale that he enjoyed it – the tells getting easier and easier to spot the more you got to know him. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought that maybe he was into this as much as you. Little did you know.
“Yeah just squeezed in a late cardio sesh – you know how it is…”
A soft ahh slipped from your smirking lips, eyes trained on your path ahead as Lando strolled alongside, “What’s on the agenda today?”
You shrugged, half out of genuine cluelessness and the other half deflecting how nervous you were. Working in the media was your dream but walking through the hallowed halls of a sport you had loved for your entire life and that dream coming true made your stomach churn with every emotion under the sun. Especially in Monaco.
“You nervous?” Lando asked quietly, shaking you from your thoughts and panicked that you were talking out loud.
“Huh? Oh…” You waved him off and chuckled, “No – I mean, yeah but I always feel like this on race morning… But obviously you’re probably a lot more nervous than me so it’s nothing…” You were a stuttering mess and all Lando wanted to do was reach out and give you a hug.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. This was your little secret, a delicious secret that only the two of you knew and he didn’t want to ruin that. Instead, he dug his hands into his jean pockets a little deeper and gave you a reassuring nudge. Shoulder to shoulder, the same way you laid together the night before after what could only be described as the best sex of your life. Lives.
“My mum always said that nerves mean you care,” Lando’s voice was lower than before – a seriousness taking over, “You’ll do great, as always.”
“Thank you,” You matched his tone, “Hopefully I’m interviewing Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix winner…”
That’s all you really wanted deep down. Not the breaking story of the weekend or the drama surrounding contract talks at Red Bull. Just for the guy you had grown profoundly fond of to have some semblance of good luck for once. He’d worked hard for it, you’d seen it first hand and you’d seen the heartbreak when things weren’t going his way. Alas, that was what started this whole situation – frustrated post-race sex. Chef’s kiss.
Lando simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly before leaning in a tiny bit closer than what you considered a safe workplace distance, “Kiss for good luck then?”
“Get the fuck out of here!” You laughed, kicking his calf with your platform boot as his infectious cackle of a laugh echoed through the growing crowd.
You watched him disappear somewhere between the motorhomes, searching for his team. The lingering feeling in your stomach made you slightly nauseous and a little excited for the next run-in with him. It was like a game of cat and mouse and you weren’t sure who was who but you liked it. More than you wanted to admit because he was Lando fucking Norris – f1's most eligible bachelor, the naughty boy from Bristol, all curls and dimples and undeniable charm. You couldn't help but wonder how many others he had wrapped around his finger like you.
He's just a casual fuck, you mumbled under your breath as you flicked open your notebook and got to work.
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masterlist | askbox
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sixosix · 1 year
Text
just say it | nagi seishiro
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angst to fluff, confessions!!, friends to lovers, time skip, 2k words
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you’re not sure, exactly, but seeing nagi seishiro sprawled like a cat on your couch, looking all too much like your home is his, leaves almost a strange feeling in your stomach. it festers, ugly and clinging.
and stupid nagi continues to lay there, oblivious to how your fingers clench to block out the beat of your heart.
“oi,” you throw a towel on his head, grimacing at the sight of sweat clinging to the back of his neck and sticking onto your headrest. “what are you doing in my house?” and did he travel by foot all the way here? under the scorching sun?
nagi cranes his neck, all slow and lazy, eyes wide. “oh,” he says. “you left your notebook,” he points at the table, without looking at it, “on my desk.”
“well, thanks, i guess.” you push his long legs away from the side of the couch and fall back onto it, sighing deeply. “you could’ve just given it to me tomorrow.”
he seems to pause for a second, thumbs hovering awkwardly on his phone screen. when you face him with a questioning look, he returns as if nothing happened. “reo said i could visit you.”
you hate it. you always hate when nagi does this.
when for a split second, he hesitates, shuffles a bit too close, his fingers tremble to reach for you, or his eyes flicker to your lips, but he never does anything about it.
he pulls away at the last second, and time seems to flow back normally in a snap. as if he wasn’t just about to ruin the friendship you’ve been picking scabs on just to get him to peel it off and make a move already.
and knowing nagi, he never does. he never does. (and he never will.)
“reo, huh,” you murmur, giving him a doubtful look. nagi doesn’t react visibly, but you can tell he’s starting to get uncomfortable under your scrutiny, burying his chin into the towel.
when you stretch your legs over his lap, he lets you. he doesn’t question it, doesn’t react, just keeps playing on his phone, and it’s almost infuriating how little you have an effect on him.
and knowing you, you’ll keep letting him drag this out. because underneath that frustration is fear, vulnerable and thin, ready to crumble faster than butterfly wings with the wrong move.
if you confess, and he pulls away, it can still be back to normal. that’s what everyone says, and those people don’t talk to their forgotten ones anymore. they wouldn’t understand.
but it will never be the same with nagi, because you know that you love him and will keep loving him. it will not be okay if he doesn’t feel the same, no matter how hard you try to fool yourself. it will hurt and claw out your heart, chew, and spit it out like it wasn’t someone’s soul.
it will hurt to know that you would peel yourself open and offer your heart to him, and he wouldn’t even accept it because he’ll say he doesn’t love you back. he shouldn’t deserve your dedication. it will hurt even more to know that nagi will bleed out for someone else someday, despite the longing glances and lingering touches he keeps giving your way.
“you know, you should be asking me permission, not literally anyone else who doesn’t live here.”
nagi hums, and the round finishes with a final slash of his weapon. the boss crumbles, and you kind of feel for it. he spares you a glance. “you don’t mind.”
you don’t.
even if you don’t say it out loud, the ghost of a smile on nagi’s lips says he knows.
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it should be enough that you could be under the same sky as him. someone like nagi. but you are selfish and obsessed, keening like a tamed lion when his attention is focused your way.
with an almost personal jab on the number button of the vending machine, you watch the juice box tumble out.
you bend down to pluck it out but almost drop it back down again when you feel a warm body press against your back as you stand straight.
with a chin propped up on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist, and a phone right in front of you, you nearly choke on your spit realizing who it is.
“fuck’s sake, nagi,” you breathe, pressing a hand on your chest as if that would somehow strangle it to quiet down.
when nagi huffs an amused laugh, your traitorous heart goes wilder.
“let me free so i can also buy you your lemon tea,” you grumble, wriggling in his grasp.
nagi continues fiddling with his phone, skillfully defeating virtual enemies. “no,” he says after a while. “you’re warm.”
“i’ll strangle you.”
nagi hums in acknowledgment.
with a defeated sigh, you press the number of nagi’s favorite drink, packed in a bright yellow box. hoping to piss him off, you abruptly squat down to grab the lemon tea, but nagi follows, unbothered.
he follows after you, and again when you rise back up. and he’s still unbothered.
“you are so annoying,” you grumble, tucking your juice box under your arm to unwrap nagi’s. you poke the straw in, scowling.
you twist in his grasp to face him, holding the straw up to his mouth. “here. you haven’t drunk anything recently.”
but nagi’s face is too surprised, his eyes flicking down to where your hand is on his chest, then to where his arms are still snug around you. if you still had any hope left in you, you’d say there’s a flush in his cheeks.
it makes you realize how this position must look to other people, pressed against each other like this.
“thanks,” nagi murmurs, sipping happily on the straw. the moment shatters once again, and he doesn’t fucking do anything about it. even later and tomorrow, and the day after that, you two won’t talk about it.
from behind you, his character makes a grunt of pain, and you notice nagi isn’t looking at his phone, but somewhere on your face.
down, his phone says.
down, indeed.
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when nagi and reo have to leave for this thing called blue lock, you say to yourself that you’re relieved.
you’ll miss reo a lot. he is one of your best friends, and you’re proud to watch him grow and become the person he wants to be. at least he doesn’t drive you fucking crazy.
nagi is an entirely different story.
the goodbye wasn’t anything remotely close to heartfelt. it felt like they weren’t even leaving, just taking a trip to the bathroom, but they had to make everything dramatic for no reason. and you’re fine with that. it will soften the blow.
but stupid nagi doesn’t allow just a gentle wound when he leaves.
[reo 6:43] don’t miss us too much y/n or else i might have to come running out :(
[y/n 6:50] don’t baby me and go play soccer, loser
[y/n 6:50] you better text me as soon as you can and tell me everything
[reo 6:52] i will i will
[reo 6:52] (sends an attachment of him and nagi on bus seats. reo has an arm thrown over nagi’s shoulder with his tongue stuck out, while nagi is frowning at the window.
[y/n 6:53] dumbasses. i love you.
[reo 6:53] we love you too
[nagi 7:35] i miss you.
you bury your phone face-first on your bed, as if that’ll spit out nagi’s message and let you cut it in pieces and throw it out of existence. you hate it. you hate it.
what was it about distance making the heart grow fonder?
fuck.
you bite your pillow and steer your mind clear of anything else.
nagi will probably forget about you after this whole blue lock thing anyway. it’s better to get used to being on your own now.
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“a match?”
“yes,” reo’s voice says over the phone. there’s a cheer of teen boys echoing, and reo apologizes, saying he’ll leave the locker room. “you’ve seen the news, right?”
no, you haven’t. “that’s… cool!” you don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. “with who?”
“come watch us play, idiot,” reo chuckles; he knows you’ll say yes sooner or later, and you hate that you know he’s right. “didn’t you miss us?”
it’s only today that you and reo started talking again. he says he’s been busy, and you tell him it’s fine because so were you. but meeting him again tomorrow when it’s been so long since you’ve even spoken? you’re not sure if that’s fine.
“i… don’t know.” you glance at the date displayed on your screen, considering. “tomorrow, was it?”
you really have been busy. you’re not sure if you can take it if the stress of life adds up to the stress upon seeing nagi’s stupidly handsome face.
“yup. you should see nagi, man; he’s been really awesome lately.”
just the mention is enough to seize your heart and sway you. you scowl, and judging by the smile you can hear from reo, he did it on purpose.
“i’ll see if i’m free, i suppose,” you sigh, falling on your mattress to frown at the ceiling. “how have you been, reo?”
when reo launches into a ramble about all the events that went down, you let him. you smile and freely admit that you did miss them more than you can bring yourself to admit. it’s a bandage for a bullet wound.
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“fuck.”
you weave through the crowd and halls with as much speed as possible. your ankles ache and protest with each step, but you ignore it. your heart beats and echoes in your ears, berating you for this stupid decision, but you ignore it.
the crowd erupts into deafening cheers, and you wince, scrambling to pick up your pace. the speakers from the corners of the wall announce the winners, and they scream and howl again.
“fuck, fuck.”
you’re late.
the worst part is, you can’t make them treat you to dinner for the stress this is giving you because they’re the ones who won.
when you finally reach the door, there’s already a string of people leaving, talking among themselves animatedly. you hear names, straining your ear when someone mentions reo, nagi, nagi, nagi.
the stadium is slowly filling out, and guilt eats you right up for missing even the winning shot. but you were too busy being indecisive not to be late when ( eventually ) leaving the house.
it’s fine. if nagi won’t care about you, then at least reo is there. he invited you, and you won’t lie that you also came to watch your best friend. ( you ignore the bitterness in your chest. )
“y/n!”
you perk up at the sound of reo’s voice, unable to fight the smile off your face when he comes running straight your way.
“come down here!” he calls out, grinning wide. there’s something different about it, though you’re not sure what it is exactly. was it the confidence he’s exuding? the sureness of himself?
you make your way to where he can reach you and gasp when his sweaty ass comes to hug you.
“gross, gross,” you hiss, trying to slap his arms away. “don’t slobber all over me.”
reo laughs, “you’re also all sweaty. did you just arrive?”
you grimace. “sorry. i was being an idiot overthinking again.” you smile at him, and hope you can convey that you really are happy seeing him again. “congrats on winning, reo. i’m proud.”
he sighs, shaking his head fondly. “well, whatever. at least you still visited. we missed you.”
we, huh? 
reo smirks, noticing immediately when you try to search for a certain white-haired boy discreetly.
panic fills you when reo cups his hands around his mouth. “wait, don’t call him—”
“oi, nagi!” reo turns to his left, and your eyes immediately find a home in nagi’s.
your breath catches in your throat when nagi’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly. strands of hair are sticking out from his head, and his nose is all burnt from the heat. his lips part to speak, but he shakes his head instead.
then, he’s jogging towards you.
nagi seishiro is jogging towards you. christ, that’s kind of terrifying.
“hey.” you hold your hands up protectively over your body. “hey, hey, don’t—”
nagi hugs you, trapping you in his embrace, and the words die on your tongue. you don’t know what’s worse: registering the cackle reo is letting out or the fact that nagi doesn’t actually smell, and you find comfort in his warmth.
“you came,” he breathes.
you blink up at him, wilting under his stare. “well. reo said i could.”
nagi’s brows knit together subtly, and you almost grin in victory. 
“i missed you,” nagi says, squeezing you in his grasp, “a lot.”
you look at him, and realize that it’s not just reo who’s changed. nagi is staring straight at you, in your eyes, and he isn’t wavering or shying away when you stare back. his eyes are alight with conviction.
suddenly, your mouth goes dry. “i—i missed you, too, nagi.”
something in nagi’s eyes shift.
this is what you wanted: for nagi to be forward, to take what he wants, say what is on his mind, but you weren’t expecting it to melt you in a puddle like this.
“hey,” you tug his arm, face in flames, “i think your teammates are calling you—”
“you came for reo,” nagi murmurs, inching closer, “you’ll stay for me.”
and, wow, okay. you need a bit to process that.
before you can respond, though, his lips meet yours and keep you there.
your heart lurches in your throat. for a second, you could only stare wide-eyed, frozen, but upon seeing the flush on nagi’s ears and the hesitant press of his lips; you let yourself melt into him. his arms tighten around you when you sling your arms over his neck.
when you start to feel a little lightheaded, you pull away, and he chases after you, pouting slightly.
“why did—” you heave, catching your breath. “why did you just kiss me like that?”
“you don’t mind,” nagi says, kissing the side of your mouth as if to coax you back into kissing him again.
“i don’t,” you agree. and frown. “why do you think so?”
this kiss will mean nothing until you can hear him say it.
“because you like me,” nagi says; there’s a dangerous glint in his eye.
“you don’t mind?”
“i don’t.” nagi smiles against your mouth. “because i like you, too.”
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sorry if this is a mess!!!!!! this was supposed to be like 500 words (and was supposed to end on a bad note) but it kept flowing out of me so i just let it be 😭😭🙏
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Hi can you please make headcannons for percy going on a date to an aquarium with the reader
p.s. would love for it to include percy buying the reader a shark plush and her naming it percy
⋆⭒˚.⋆ percy jackson aquarium date hcs
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content: percy jackson x reader hcs warning: language but other than that is fluff all the way!! author's note: this is me core at its finest. i counted, just for this, i've got like 12 shark plushies...THATS NOT INCLUDING THE NON SHARK ONES??? i do have a fav and i have no shame about it. its a squishmellow hammerhead my bestie got me for my birthday and in his little description it said he wanted to become a documentary film maker which is exactly what i wanted to do!!! his names nitro, which is like coffee, AND I LOVE COFFEE. so hes my fav and everyone else can cry about it.
first date instantly
bro. loves. the. aquarium.
(he just like me fr)
and its like the ideal place for a first date like you can talk about yourselves but also the fish but also get to know each over and also it's beautiful and-
if you can't tell, i love aquariums.
the whole time percy is talking to the fish in his head while also talking to you
its the adhd innit love
(sorry guys just got possessed by a british ghost my bad-)
and the fish are instantly gossiping
"oooo, she's pretty. too pretty for our lord," percy can hear an octopus mutter, causing the boy to glare at it.
"you know i can hear you, right?" he mentally hissed at the octopus, which just blinked at him.
"i stand by what i said, my lord."
"percy, look, he's so cute!" you squeal, pointing over at the octopus percy was currently beefing with
"nah, i've seen better. kinda ugly actually. just like his momma," percy bit out, glaring at the octopus, which shifted slightly closer to the glass, "yeah, i did mention your mom, what about?? oh, yeah, tough guy, you wanna-"
"percy, people are staring," you hissed, wrapping your arms around percy's and attempting to pull him away
"AND IM TELLING MY DAD, YOU LITTLE SHIT-"
"PERCY!"
you drag him to the jellyfish, figuring that was safe
no brain and all
no thoughts to be had
and percy was more than happy to pull you into a kiss in that dark room, the only light coming from behind gallons and gallons of water
he left the jellyfish area with a smile that not even the snidest comment from a shrimp could take away from him
and you were clinging to his arm, blushy and a smile as long as the nile
after another hour and a sweet conversation with an otter, percy dragged you to the gift shop, something about it being the only way to leave
"awww, percy look how cute!" you squealed, your hands instantly shooting forwards and grasping the shark plushie
and percy, ever eager to make you happy, took it from your hands and proudly marched up to the register, despite you trying to stop him
"oh, percy, no, it's okay!! im too old for-"
"too old?? now im definitely buying," he huffed before slamming the shark down on the counter, "one shark plush for the pretty girl please."
cue the blushing mess that is you
and every night, you take that little shark to bed with you and press a kiss to its little head, using it as a little percy fill in
and every morning, when you make your bed, you tuck the little shark in, ensuring it never touches the floor and falls from your bed
your prized possession from the water boy of your dreams
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sprout-fics · 3 days
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So lately I’ve been obsessed with bikers … and I can’t help but think of Ghost being a biker… would you ever consider writing about that??
OH. GIRL (gn)
I literally was just talking to @gazs-blue-hat about this.
Biker Ghost is a menace. This man has such an ego about his bike it would be so annoying if it weren't for the fact he looks so incredibly attractive. He works on the bike often, looks devastatingly handsome even with grease smeared across his knuckles and face. He's so incredibly proud of that bike and loves to show it off. When he retires his one true passion is taking the bike for long drives with you.
He keeps the skull aesthetic even on the bike, his helmet has personally done skull marks on it and he has skeletal biking gloves. In the summer he wears only a t-shirt, a little too tight where it clings to his massive biceps. The ink on his left arm swirls up and disappears beneath the black fabric, thighs bulging through his jeans. With his leather jacket on when it's cold he looks even bigger than he usually does- dressed entirely in black, visor dark and he revs the engine to be loud on purpose.
He'll come to pick you up from work just to show off, and you roll your eyes but how can you be mad when he looks like that? With his helmet on, visor up so you can feel his stare across the parking lot, arms crossed so his muscles bulge, leaning against the bike like he's a fucking guard dog.
Yet when you trot up like a schoolgirl with a crush he's disgustingly gentle with you. Takes your bag and stows it in the seat, gets your jacket and zips you up himself, and when you stand on your tiptoes to place a smooch on his helmet his hands hover at your waist as he gives a low, appreciative hum. He makes sure to kiss you too before he flips the visor or your own helmet shut. His voice is a low, deep rumble where you sometimes struggle to make out the words, but the warmth of it bleeds through all the same.
He knows to be extra careful with you as his backpack, double checks your gear and hauls you flush to his back. Your arms barely wrap around the trunk of his torso, and when they slip he waits until a traffic light to drag you closer, one hand stroking your knuckles as the other squeezes your thigh in appreciation. You're his beloved passenger, he's going to take extra special care of you even as the engine revs and the wind swallows you both.
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