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yeyinde · 2 months

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dangle on the leash | Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

The flimsy sarcophagus housing all his wants, his desires, cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant. Ghost cocks his head in consideration. Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. But he's a rabid dog burning with the urge to bite. No one should really be surprised when he finally decides to sink his teeth into you. Unfortunately, that hail mary Price sent into the aether never reached you.

(your bird is too big for a cage— —but maybe a collar would do.)

this is a babytrapping fic lmao but please read the tags carefully. a companion piece to this (Price + babytrapping).

DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+

HARD WARNINGS—coercion. dependency. intentional alienation. unsafe, unprotected sex. this very much toes the line of noncon (that is still very dubcon even when consent is given) in many ways, notably: somnophilia, and condom/contraceptive tampering. intrusive, violent thoughts. mentions of violence. manipulation; slight gaslighting. implied kidnapping. references to past abuse (Ghost), brief mention of drugging/threats of drugging (ambiguous as to if it was ever followed through on or not, mostly just Ghost's internal monologue unfiltered). ADDITIONAL TAGS—smut. rough sex. unsafe sex. dom!Ghost. mean, obsessive, unhinged!Ghost. spit kink. dacryphilia.

he's feral, but he's yours. too bad for you, no one is really sure if that's a good thing or not.

One of the things Price often tells new recruits is to shove their old life into a box.

“There's home,” he huffs, fingers twitching as if he's subconsciously flexing around the hilt of a lit cigar. “And then there's work. Whatever box you decide to put this, or your family, your personal life, into is your choice. But for fuck’s sake. Keep them separate.”

Most of the new recruits are fresh off selection, shaded sickly chartreuse, and take his words as a literal gospel. Work, this; home, them. They don't start to unravel the second part of his gruff speech until much later. Until they can't wash the blood from their hands, and the scent of their mum’s eucalyptus hand soap is nauseating. Unfamiliar. When being in civvies feels like wearing skin that doesn't fit, and everyone around you is alien, foreign. They don't know. They'll never know.

It's only when they find themselves gazing at the clock on the wall of their family home, counting down the minutes until their mandatory leave is over do they realise that home is the barracks.

That's something Ghost has always understood. Maybe it was because his home life was already in ruins, tatters. Beer soaking into the knock-off Persian rug a cousin nicked from a flea market when he was nine. No fine china in the cupboards because it'll end up in shards on the floor. Plastic plates and forks and cups. Always. Howling in his head. Screaming from down the hall in his mum's room. His bedroom door creaking open at night. The anger, the curdling fear (shameful—be a man; punch him back, hit him before he hits you, you useless prick—), of not knowing whether or not it was his dad, high as hell and itching for a fight after busting their mum’s lip wide open, or Tommy sneaking into his bed at night because his is soaked in piss and he can’t sleep when they scream at each other like this.

(Funny that, he always found; neither of them could ever sleep when it was silent, either.)

Blood on the linoleum. Trying to eat burnt toast and overcooked beans with a busted lip and a twinge in his jaw—

(Fractured, they'll say later, years later, during his mandatory medical checkup when he's first recruited. Healed all wrong. Son, didn't anyone take you to hospital?)

He understands the separation between home and work—even if the former lost all relevancy nearly a decade ago. Back when he buried them all. Was buried himself—

What Ghost never really understood was the box.

Shove it into a box.

When he asks over cheap whisky somewhere in Siberia, Price tightens his fingers around his glass before bringing it up to his head. His index finger juts out. He knocks the tip of that bruised, scabbed knuckle against his temple. Once, thrice. Levels Simon with a pointed look he both can’t understand and somehow knows all too well.

“Up here."

“Paid nearly fifty quid for that,” he grouses, shaking his head. “Think I've been ripped-off, Price.”

Price scoffs, places the glass down with a hollow thud. “Don't be a fuckin’ muppet, Simon—” his real name makes his shoulders tense. Around the barracks, they know him only as the Ghost. “You put it away somewhere. Hide it. I don't fuckin’ know. But if it keeps you goin’, keeps you sane, and doesn't become a mess I gotta clean up, well—”

The implication is stark. Heavy.

Price was always good at chiselling through layers of accumulated indifference to get to the madness within, but considering Ghost’s past and his mile-long rap sheet, the warning digging into his words like a dull blade isn't unwarranted.

Old dogs, he'd called the pair of them when they first met. There was a sharp keenness in his eye when he lifted his hand, waved his cigar toward the tangled mess of scar tissue crisscrossing his face (made with a dull, rusted knife, one that gouged out deep pocks of skin, ugly fuck, looks like the badlands, don't he? like a postcard from the Grand Canyon, sweetheart. not so cute anymore, are ya, pretty boy—), and said, “well, you're fuckin’ rabid, ain't you? Better put a muzzle on that before it becomes a problem, mm.”

His problem, specifically.

And Ghost gets it. Thinks Price might understand that particular brand of madness—despite growing up on literal opposite sides of the track, his Manchester to the others Liverpool; poverty and prestige—if only just. Because Price seems to be able to curb those baser impulses in a way Ghost hadn't yet mastered (and won't for quite some time yet). He's put together. Sort of. Respected. Normal.

The men in the barracks don't look at him and flinch.

But he sees the way the man's eyes linger in the crowd, shrewd and careless, before falling on the pretty bartender in the back. The one with roses in her eyes and a smile full of dandelions. Soft, like butterscotch. It's here when they darken. When he reaches, almost angrily, for his whisky. Pats his chest with a heavy fist searching for his cigar.

She's a sweet thing, he reckons. All pretty and trusting. Birds like her make his head itch—

“Don't even think about it, Simon,” Price grumbles, and it feels like territorial posturing, a challenge he almost raises to meet with his chin, if only to make Price fluster, but it's hollow. Empty. He denies himself, too. The prick.

“How'd you do it?” He asks, and doesn't specify. Doesn't think he needs to.

When Price swallows, it looks like a grimace. “Years of practice.”

He considers the weight of it, his eyes straying back to the woman behind the bar. She's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, wrist delicate like bone china, the kind they could never afford, and for a moment, the intrusive thoughts, the ones he gets sometimes about wanting to tear things to bloody pieces, rears—

It's stamped down in a swig of flat lager You stupid fuckin’ mutt, Price would say tomorrow morning, shaking his head. You always think with your prick?

Simon cranks his head sharply to the side instead. The resounding crack seems to echo through the empty pub.

Price just shakes his head. “Christ. No one ever house break you, yet?”

“Yeah, they did,” he rasps, staring at the bartender who gazes back at him now. Skittish, unsure. Not so sweet after all. She looks away, cowed. Her hands tremble. He leans back, and hums. “And now I piss outside, like a good ‘ol boy.” “Ain't nothin’ good about you, Simon. Fuckin' Christ—”

And he's not wrong.

The Ghost has a reputation of being a cold-hearted bastard. A Frankensteinian beast cobbled together with spare parts robbed from a jailhouse graveyard. Worst of the worst. An arm from a mass murder. The leg from a spree killer. Heart a patchwork mess of ichor and sulphur. Sutured together with barbed wire.

It's all sort of macabre. Rather trite, too.

The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.

But sometimes, he wakes up and he's still buried. Still dead. Dirt in his throat, lodged in his nose. He breathes in and feels pebbles scraping his lungs. Feels worms in his ears. Maggots in his head.

They crawl through his grey matter. Leeches burrowing into his thoughts, sucking the good in him dry.

Or, whatever's left of it, anyway.

He thinks with his teeth because it's easier that way. Cold, calculative instinct. Just barely boxed into a neat package slapped on the desk of Price's higher-ups.

A good man, they say, and turn him loose on the streets. One of the best we have, as he breaks jaws, and tears through jugulars. A force to be reckoned with.

They hand him a gun, a rifle, when the bloodied footprints leading back to camp become too much of a hassle to clean. Shoot from a distance. He takes to it like the bulk of metal was made for his scarred hands. Scythe to a Reaper.

It feels like bloodletting. Draining him of his anger, his fury, until a cold, gnarled indifference curls in the basin left behind. Icy, frigid. Down to the bone.

Sometimes, he doesn't remember what it felt like to be warm, even buried under a thick balaclava and layers of military fatigues.

Frankenstein’s monster. Patched together from the rotten remains of horrible men.

And as he stares in the mirror at the patchwork ruins of his face, his body, he wonders if there's some truth to it, after all. He's pretty sure if someone cracked his skull open—again—they’d find rot. Tumulus. Infested with maggots and worms. Cobwebs behind his eyes. In his nose. His brain perfectly preserved: a zombified tombstone. And oh, how it hungers.

Wants.

But in a box it goes. One shaped like a coffin. Placed pretty in the back of his broken head.

He stares in the mirror and thinks he sees something moving under his eye. Wriggling around. The temptation to claw it out rears, but the shredded tissue on his thighs reminds him of what happens when he listens to that insidious hiss in the back of his head (some amalgamation of his old man, and that bastard—) and goes searching for gold in bone marrow.

He huffs. Fingers curling around the porcelain. His head is rotten. Putrefied. He can feel the decomposing sludge press against his temples. It grows teeth sharp like a razor blade and hacks away at jaundiced bone. Ghost lifts his hand, digs his fingers into his temple. Down boy—

(Simon doesn't even want to consider what his heart must look like, then.)

Cold-hearted, sure—

But he likes sweet things.

The kind that will undoubtedly give him cavities. A spillover, perhaps, when candy bars were too expensive, and the only dessert he was given was a toffee by the neighbour when she wasn't moaning to his old man about all the shit he and Tommy got up to.

(Bruises came afterwards, the colour of liquorice. Sour cherries.)

Unfortunately for him, sweet things don't like him much—a shame, really. Simon has always had a sweet tooth.

His rough edges are too sharp for their liking, and Simon's—

Intense. Like a dog with a bone, he doesn't know when to let go. When to unhinge his jaw from the morsel between his teeth. He bites hard. Shakes his head. Tears into the things he wants until it's bloodied meat pinched in his incisors.

And so, they keep their distance. Like they can smell the rot on him. The funeral dirt. The stench of an unearthed sarcophagi.

Sometimes, though, the wiley ones will inch closer, looking to get messed up badly by a bad man, and it makes something inside his head howl when he turns them down. Following Price’s creed. Can't give in to the pretty ones, he'd said. Nothin’ but trouble.

Trouble, like a pair of shackles. A noose. Trouble, like gentle, clean hands and fragile bones. Fine china. Fine powder. The marshmallow soft kind of trouble that will melt in the acid that leaks from his pores. Aqua regia. Attacking anything that gets close.

(Breakable, is what Price means. Pretty chew toys that are beyond repair once he's finished with them.

He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)

But still. He stays away. It's easier on base, in safe houses, too far out from the general public to have to worry about doe eyes and soft touches. He doesn't need it, anyway—

Then comes you.

And the forfeiture of his self-control.

You're trouble of a different kind.

Trouble, like the end of a sledgehammer. Trouble, like the grill of a car. The barrel of a gun.

In the shape of a battering ram, one strong enough to dislodge the madness in the back of his head. Where the corrosive acid should ruin you, eat you alive, it doesn't. Not with your tantalum skin.

But oh, do you pack a punch—

At first, you think he's homeless.

Some scruffed-up man sleeping on a park bench outside of your apartment.

In another life, he might have been. He isn't a stranger to bad habits, and had the military not been his only choice in life for some semblance of good (laughable, considering what he does for a living), he could see the threads of his life leading him here. Drugs. Manchester is good for it, this he knows all too well. Especially the shithole neighbourhood he's from.

He doesn't clue into this, though, until you glance at him, warily, and then shuffle into the cafè he’s holed outside of, the place where his current target gorges himself on steeped tea and crumpets.

(Price's dry text sits, open, on his burner phone: and don't fuck this up—)

It feels a bit like an omen. Made worse when you meet his gaze through the glass, and—

Well. Shit.

The impact is a collision. Hitting a pole at top speed. Metal bent around concrete.

His teeth ache (so, so bad—).

You emerge from the small building a few minutes later—the faded eggshell with chocolate trim is nauseatingly sweet against your pastel yellow raincoat—holding a takeaway bag, and balancing a tray of coffees in your hand.

He tenses. It's instinctual. There's nothing about you that's an immediate threat to his person—unless you plan on adding to his scars with the tip of your umbrella, the scalding coffee in your hand—but it's odd, isn’t it? No one approaches him. Not unless they have a reason to.

And no one, in his experience, ever has a good one.

“Hi,” you chirp, disarmingly sweet, as you come to stand in front of him. His jaw aches. Even sprawled across a bench, you're barely looking down at him. Sticky, cold fingers tap a strange rhythm down his spine. “I, um, hope this isn't weird, but I saw you sitting here, and—well. I got this—”

You wiggle the bag. He smells something greasy. A breakfast sandwich, he's sure.

It's an unusual assassination attempt. Price will be livid.

“What for?” He rumbles, sitting up in the seat. The shift of his bulk seems to make you nervous. You take a step back, and he fights the urge to follow. To back you into a corner. No escape.

You regain your footing, even if the smile on your face wobbles. Weakens under his flat stare. Some people can smell the rot on him.

He wonders if you can, too.

(Pity that. You're a pretty bird, ain't you?)

And the way you take him in lacks a distinct thrum of hesitation, fear that’s normally there. It occurs to him, then, that you see him as just another man. Just another person.

(“deader than a doorknob, this one. such a goddamn waste, boss. he was a fun one, wasn’t he? should we burn ‘em?”

nah. bury him out back—)

It's laughable, really. A joke. He has the urge to crack one—sick and awful enough to make that little smile on your face wilt. Wither away. Almost does, too, but it get tangled in his throat when he feels the weight of your stare on him.

The easy sweep of your eyes is barely discrete, but it's clinical. Pitying. But the softened edges of that empathy dissolve as your pretty head adds up all the numbers on him, coming to a standstill. Your eyes linger on his wrist. The gold of his wristwatch peeks out beneath the black sleeve of his hoodie. An intricate web of complex timekeeping that only he's privy to. A little luxury he picked up in Italy when the cash he'd been given was getting too tiresome to carry around.

Dead men, after all, don't need bank accounts.

And then—

You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”

It clicks, then. The pity. The soft words. The goddamn coffee—

His gums itch. He has the sudden urge to be mean about it. Pick you apart in this street until nothing but embarrassment and humiliation remains.

“That I was homeless? ‘nd you brought me, what? A coffee? ‘ow sweet of you. Some breakfast, too. Well, aren't you a lovely girl?”

You are embarrassed. It blisters across your expression. Has your hands trembling around the cardboard tray, spilling droplets of coffee down the side. Your head is bowed, cowed in shame. It reminds him of that bartender some years prior. Pulling away when the bad dog growls—

But there's a thin sheen of intrigue in your eyes, burrowing holes into the shoes in front of you; a tangled knot of want coiling in the heat of your embarrassment over this blunder. Over offending him.

Well—

That's new.

Some get off on it. On humiliation. Specifically, of the public variety. He didn't take you as the type. The way you twist, squirming in place, is odd, though. It doesn't fit as well as he originally thought. No. It's not the public shame, but—

Him.

Ah.

Sweet, sweet girl.

(So naïve.)

He reckons he could get you to do just about anything to make it up to him. You would, too. You're soft enough to be submissive, to bow your head in contrition, but there's a flicker of defiance in the jut of your chin when you lift your head.

This is a blunder and you're sweetly embarrassed, sure, but it isn't enough to break you.

And now Simon just wants to ruin you. Teach you a lesson about bad, vile men—

(Something you'd welcome with open arms, wouldn't you?)

“Didn’t know Manchester was so charitable,” he rasps. His throat is dry. Parched. He reaches for the coffee—black, with extra creamer and sugar on the side, tucked neatly in a little bag; fuckin’ hell. Ain't you just adorable—and places it on the spot beside him. “I’ll be takin’ this. Will need it for later.”

You look like you want to protest. Fight back. His hackles rise, ready for it—eager. Something anticipatory, dark, bleeds through the moulted mess of his head. Sickly. Terrible. He thinks about what you'd look like sprawled under him, shaking and begging for more, for him to stop—

Fuck. Birds usually make his head itch, but you make his fucking skin crawl.

In the end, you just huff. Roll your eyes. He wants to chew them out of your head. Pop them between his teeth. He bet you'd taste divine.

You walk away from him before he can. You don't look back once.

Pity, he thinks. Someone's gonna snatch you clean off the streets like that—

Hours later, he sends Price a text message with the coordinates for where to pick up the package Ghost left.

He considers it a blessing when the man sends him back, good job, now get a pint from me as a little reward. Can't say I don't treat my team well.

A reward, huh?

Well. With your stature in comparison to his own, Ghost easily can see you being considered a pint.

So, he follows you home, and tallies this one as being on Price.

It's easy. Too easy. He slips deftly behind you, tucked away from view, and masks his footsteps under the echo of yours until he's standing in the shadows outside of your house. This, too, feels like a blessing. It's a duplex. He waits for one of the lights to flicker on, and—

The window brightens. Room number two.

He hums, and palms his pockets for the pack of smokes he nicked off the man. Needing something to take the edge off. To quell the urge to bite.

It's even easier to engineer meetings. Random run-ins. All blamed on happenstance, chance. Of course. This towering mountain of a man with his thick manc twang—the sort of gallows humour that can only be found in the blue-collar streets of Salford from the nasty old men squatting on the corners—must have better things to do than stalk you. Surely. You're not special enough to be hunted, right?

Still. You're a touch wary of him. Distrustful. You keep your distance—six inches for Jesus Christ, aren’t you a peach?—and try to skirt the line between neutrally polite to the strange man loitering outside of the shops you frequent (your schedule burned to his memory, naturally) and that fascinating skittish intrigue from before. All simmering heat. Blunt want. The kind wrapped up in silk threads.

It's interesting to watch it play out when he steps closer and all those long-forgotten instincts in the back of your head flare up. The shaky step you take back. The inward frown of confusion when you're not sure why your body craves space, acting almost on its own. And then the sweet defiance that breaks over you. The intentional step closer. The feigned warmth in your tone as you talk to him.

It's easy to pocket the uglier aspects of his personality. The coldness. The indifference. The flat, droll insincerity that leaks into his tone. All of it shelved, locked away, and he's not sure if Price would be happy that he listened to what he said, followed his example, or furious that he's bastardising it to lure this pretty fish in.

)The latter, undoubtedly. But Simon gets a sick kick from it all.)

Especially when it brings you closer to him. Thaws you as you rationalise his reaction during the first meeting, gears spinning. Kicking up excuses.

Anyone would be angry, offended. It's natural. He's alright now—

It makes you look at him differently as you forcefully fight the urge to flee.

Silly bird.

Wary eyes rake over his massive bulk. Brows furrow at the series of black medical masks he wears in public. Always. That, in addition to the heavy black of his wardrobe—black jacket, black hoodie, black leather gloves—sometimes makes you glance at him with a touch of worry. Fear. Probably wondering if you brought home a delinquent.

But it changes when he rolls up his sleeves one day after you've been moaning about your broken beach cruiser (the, I don't know, chain—or something—keeps catching—), and crouches down to fix it.

There's a hitch in your breath. A distinct swallow. A guilty tinge of something shy, deliciously so, shading your eyes ruby-red when you look down at him.

And ah—

Sweet little treat snagged on the line. Ain't he a lucky lad?

It's all the better when you do the work for him. Reeling yourself in, practically throwing yourself in his cooler when you ask about his tattoos, carefully—considerately—nudging the topic away from his ugly scars.

He guts you clean as he tells you he's in the military. Top secret, pet. Don't ask because I'd hate to ‘ave to hurt a pretty face like yours—

You preen under it. Pet. Pretty. You don't even notice when he slides his knife over your scales, dices you up on his chopping board.

You're the picture of sweetness when he unkinks the chain in your bike, and sets it straight. All happiness. Smiles. Appreciative glances. You flutter your pretty eyes at him as you say—

“Thank you—”

You're waiting for a name. His belly rumbles. He could eat, he thinks, and licks his teeth.

“Simon. Simon Riley.”

The risk-reward ratio is balanced when you breathe it out between plump lips, chasing the end of it with your tongue. He wants to eat it out of your mouth. Swallow it down.

You touch his arm, hand warm, soft. “If there's anything I can do to pay you back—”

He takes you out for a kebab later on. Nudges you out of the way when you open your wallet to pay. Draft girl. Naïve, too, because he can feel the heat in your cheeks from where he stands, reaching over to snatch the bag from the man with a grunt.

You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting.

Doesn't matter. He lets it take root. Especially when you shyly invite him back to yours to eat.

He makes a feast of it, and fucks you on your mint green chaisse after he's finished.

(Not on birth control, you say, and hand him a box of condoms, suddenly shy. It's unopened. He hums, and burns that to memory.)

He keeps his distance—an easy feat when he's halfway around the world, and you're stuck in the gloom of Manchester.

It's purposeful, of course. He made a promise to Price not to give him a reason to worry, but fuck—

You're proving hard to quit. He's never had anyone cuff him upside the head on his bullshit. Not anymore, anyway. Not as the Ghost. He likes the thrill of it, of this chase.

You don't let him steamroll you when he's in a mood to fight. You punch back, hitting him right in the mess of his guts, and fuck. Fuck. He's a little bit obsessed with it. With you. This wily little fish that acts so shy when he's got three fingers buried in your cunt, but rides him after like you're starving for it. Clawing at his chest. Scratching his arms. It's raw. Primal. He wants to break you—this fiery little kitten that bites his fingers until they bleed, and then purrs in his lap as he drives a pickaxe through your head, shredding logic into pieces. Rummaging around until he nicks the optic nerve that lets you see red.

You’re everywhere. In everything. In the back of his head, under the howling that hadn't stopped since you trailed your finger down the jagged topography of his bare chest, digging your nail into the crude x across his heart, and whispered, soft and sweet: you're all kinds of fucked up, aren't you?

A bludgeon to his self-control—

He resists. Has to. Is mean about it, too. Doesn't tell you where he's going (it's need to know), or what he's doing (would ‘ave to bash your pretty ‘ead in if I told you), but keeps you strung on the line (keep thinkin’ about that pretty cunt of yours; can't wait to come ‘ome and ‘ave you sit on my ugly mug—).

It's dangerous, this game of his. Thrilling for all the wrong reasons.

But he’s a good mutt. Good—

Until the text.

The one you send to him when you're out with friends. A picture. You're in a pub somewhere in Moss Side, a drink in hand. A gaggle of nobodies crowded around you. It makes sense, he supposes. There's that old idiom—you’ll trap more flies with honey—and he doesn't know anyone nearly as sweet as you.

His sweet girl.

(you fuckin’ mutt—)

Ghost stares at you for a moment, teeth aching. The little ensemble—a crop top and jeans—is a vision, he reckons. But it's spoiled when he catches more eyes on you than pointed at the camera. Practically spilling out of your top, aren't you?

He breathes heavily through his nose. Tastes guncotton in his throat.

Ghost commits every face to memory, and then calls you.

You're drunk. Too drunk to remember it tomorrow. Stuck in a pub on what's supposedly a bad part of town. Chatting away about going to your friend’s house. He gets the address, and something sour twits in his stomach. Shit council houses.

“That safe?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. He's already chubbed up in his slacks at the slur in your voice. “And dressed like that? Didn't take you for a slag—”

It makes you sputter on the line. “I'm—I’m not—”

You're so quick to placate him. So hasty to make him happy. Please don't be angry with me, Simon. I'm just having some fun—

The claws and fangs are tucked away when you're drunk. He shoves the information in the cache, eyes burning. Head aching. He's feverish. Hot under the collar.

Odd considering he's dead—

“Sounds like you will be.”

“It's not like that—”

“‘ow would you know? Might meet a nice fellow. Might take him home.”

“I don’t—I wouldn't—”

The sniffle makes him throb. Fuck. “Yeah? Well, ain't none of my business, I reckon—”

“It is.”

“Oh? How's tha’?”

“I—I like you, Simon—” he can taste your embarrassment through the phone. He didn't even need to bring you flowers and you're already boxing him into monogamy, confessing to him. So sweet. So tender. If he were a better man, he might have told you to sober up. To talk about this tomorrow.

Too bad for you, he isn't. And what’s worse is that he’s a loyal bastard, too.

But that's later, and right now—

He's halfway across the world, and you're vulnerable. In the den of hungry mutts.

It’s charr in his throat. Anger in his veins. “You like me? An’ you go out dressed like that?”

“There's nothing wrong with how I'm dressed—”

He sucks his teeth. “Dunno ‘bout tha’, pet. You look like you're achin’ to get fucked.”

You take a shuddering breath. “I just want you—”

“Yeah?” It's a growl. His cock spits prespend in his trousers. “Then be my good girl. Go home and wait for me.”

It's quiet on the line. He catches the hitch in your throat, the sharp exhale, like you can't really be sure if he's serious or not. He says nothing. Waits.

Where there would have been a fight—fists and teeth and snarling words—you quieten in the silence. Docile. Submissive. It's in you, he knows. He saw the glimpses back when you first met, when he'd bent down and fixed the bike he broke. All it needs is a little—

“Jus’ worried about my sweet girl, is all.”

And you relent.

Corrosive oil spills out of the necrosed holes in his head. It curls over his thoughts, liquid sin. He takes himself in his hand, blood pulsing in his veins, white-hot, damning, and bares his teeth at the urge to come to you, to push you down on the floor, and mount you like a snarling beast—

“Good girl,” he growls when you tell him you'll call a taxi, that you'll go home and have some wine with your friend instead.

Friend. Friends.

He'll have to do something about that.

(The thing about deprivation is that it bleeds into a vicious sense of possession when it's finally obtained. Greed. His wants have wants, have wants—

A perfect ouroboros. One you feed into almost destructively.)

Because the thing is—

Simon wants to tie you to his bed. Keep you locked up in the safe house he has in Manchester. Chained, shackled. A prisoner with him as your iron guard.

It isn't just fantasy, either.

The flies that congregate around you are an annoying, incessant buzzing in his ears. Remora clinging to the biggest fish.

But they're easy to scatter when he waves his hand.

(Waves off. Threatens with bodily harm, with physical aggression—

Same thing.)

The sting in his knuckles and the blood on his shoes are worth it in the end when your tantalum skin cracks. An aggregate of beautiful lines, pretty in their fragility, their brokenness. He wedges his fingers between the splints, widening the chasm to pet at the sticky-soft centre hiding beneath all that rough rock. Sweet girl. Hard candy enclosing taffy-softness.

His coos melt you to the consistency of mercury. Liquid silver pebbles along your lash line, spilling over in a dizzying display of raw vulnerability.

It makes every predatory instinct inside of him bristle. Locking onto the sweet lines of crystalline sadness that run down your cheeks. It has his heart racing. Eager, anticipatory. The thrill of the chase, of running you down into the ground until you're fine powder under him.

And it’s there, it's in his arms—the maw of a beast—where you seek comfort, lamenting the loss of your friends, your coworkers. No one wants to hang out with you anymore. They don't return your calls or answer your texts.

What did I do? You sniffle, throat bared. Belly turned up.

Flooded with tears. The lachrymal face that peers up at him makes his teeth ache. He rolls his head back, feels himself thicken in his pants.

Simon loves it when you cry.

“Fuck ‘em,” he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. “If they can't see what a catch you are, then they don't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

It makes you cry harder, makes you mumble into his chest about how lucky you are to have someone like him. Someone who cares.

His breath hitches. Warm floods his veins, fever-hot.

“Thank you, Simon—”

And then you, smooth silver and wickedly sweet, cradle him in your palms as if you could hold all the broken pieces of him together.

He thinks it's cute.

Doesn't really have the heart to tell you it's a lost cause.

“Anytime, pet.”

And you're perfect, too.

You take this mangy mutt into your house, and let it eat your food, sleep in your bed. You let him fuck you stupid, and listen so prettily when he convinces you to let him spoil you. Let him pay your rent, your bills. Let Simon dote on you the only way he knows how—mercilessly possessive, and a touch cruel, mean—but you roll over, showing your belly. Submissive and sweet.

It's even better when you try to lash out at him with a collar in the shape of his teeth branding your neck, spitting and hissing like a feral cat who doesn't know yet that's claws have been clipped. Only to then curl up in his lap, purring as he strokes your fur, and carves out a place for himself in your life.

He wants to sink his teeth into you, and you think he's a big dog. Undomesticated. One who comes and goes as he pleases. A stray. A mutt.

It's said fondly. Full of love—

His mouth is full of cavities. His teeth ache. His gums bleed.

(do you know he's rabid? that the faded name on his dog tags once read cujo—)

Everything about you makes that sludge flood behind his eyes, pounding rotten fists against his temple. take, take, take; mine, mine—

The howling doesn't stop. It tells him to press you into the mattress and fuck you stupid. Tie you to the bedposts and never let you go—

He throws fists in the dark, trying to hit the madness in his head. Ends up with bloody knuckles and laughter in his ears.

(a voice of reason says, your bird is too big for a cage—)

He clings to it.

You're warm beside him. Burning hot. He syphons it from your veins when you're asleep, pulling you close just to feel something on his skin other than dirt. Other than blood.

It's easy to pretend he's fine with these little nips. Leaving teeth marks in your neck. Bloody rings snaking up your thighs.

He wraps one hand around both of your wrists, holds them high above your head, and tells himself it's enough. Shackled by him, under him, as he takes you apart, pulling at your sense of independence like the gnarled fingers of winter bringing defoliation to summer's bloom, but even with this, all of it, he still aches. Still wants. Needs—

Stupid fuckin’ mutt.

Then you bring his hands up to your throat, letting him wrap his bearish paws around your delicate neck, and he knows these little bites will never satiate the hunger in his guts.

He wakes up the next morning feeling warm. Full. Edges softened, if only just, by the sticky sweetness of your breath ghosting over his chest.

Simon curls his arm around you, holding tight. He won't let go. Won't—

Hide it. Put it away.

Ghost does neither of those things. He buries it, instead.

But in doing so, you find cracks in the foundation. Ones that are just big enough for your willfulness to slip through. To hand him back the cash he gave with a scoff, and a, i work, too, you know? i don't need your money, Simon. that's not why i’m with you—

(All he hears is, I don't need you.)

And then you send him a text. I'm going out with friends from work tonight. We're going drinking. I'll talk to you tomorrow!

In the zombified remains of his head, a new howling starts. The hisses tell him you're pulling away, running from him—

It's a big world out there. It'll eat you whole—

Like Tommy.

The thing about want is that sometimes it grows teeth, hands. Claws. Without a body of its own, it tends to mould itself after its maker because that's all it knows how to do: devour, consume. Yearn.

He shouldn't be too surprised to find that this need of his has dug itself out of the grave he buried it in.

(he did, too—)

The flimsy sarcophagus cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant.

The howling in the back of his head stops abruptly. The pulsing ache in his temple abates. It's heavy, this weight. This absolute, utter emptiness—

No. It's not hollow. The chasm isn't drained, it's—

(In the silence, something growls. Feral. Possessed.)

—full. Perfect equilibrium. All of the patchwork parts of himself, the ones that don't quite fit, suddenly find synergy.

Communion.

Ghost cocks his head in consideration.

(your bird is too big for a cage—

—but maybe a collar would do.)

—after all, could you ever leave him with his name etched into your womb—

In leaving the key under the mat for him to come and go as he pleases, you've left yourself vulnerable. But—

Not anymore.

He has a safehouse he'll take you to. You'll let him, too, because it'll be the best choice for you. The three of you.

He's never entertained any ideas of family, not when the closest approximation he has is drenched in gun oil and smells of smoke from artillery fire, but the howling in his head quietens at the idea of it. He can't shackle you to the bed—stupid fucking mutt—but he can tie you down all the same. Make you his. Wholly. Always.

And the thing is—despite a pickaxe making figure-eights out of his grey matter; lead poisoning and rust giving him these sour, awful thoughts about locking you up in his house, leaving you a needy mess, dependent only on him—Simon supposes he knows right from wrong.

Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger.

But in carving himself a place in your life, he failed to realise that the walls behind him closed in. No way out. And so, his only option is to go forward. To keep moving.

He'll be crucified for this, but that's fine.

He doesn't intend for you to find out, anyway. It'll be an accident. He came home early, and found you drunk. Drank with you. Your drunken idiocy merged, creating a terrible, noxious cocktail of awful, bad choices. Permanent ones. Irreversible.

(You're so sweet, so docile when you're drunk—)

It'll be easy to convince you. To play the part of a stoic man suddenly in turmoil. You'll offer to get rid of it, a suggestion that he'll flinch at—a cornered dog, a hand raising in the air. You'll whimper. Shake in his arms as you tentatively smooth over the wrinkles in his brow, murmuring out your options in a stilted breath.

You'll be a Riley before the end of your term. It's only proper, he'll mutter, stiff and uncomfortable, and you'll melt. Liquid tantalum in his palm. The fruits of his labour laid bare, seeping from the corners of his mouth. Tucked tight between his teeth. Mercury he can swallow down, keep in the bracket of his rotten ribs. Safekeeping from this world that just takes. Devours.

But not if he eats you first.

The mere notion alone serves as an anchor, locking him to the seafloor. The tumult in his head calmed at the promise of owning. Biting to claim. To have. Greedy for it. For you, and the strange sense of quiet your proximity brings him. The warmth, too.

He's a rabid dog. This he knows—has known—for quite some time. Indisputable. It pools in his mouth. Liquid sin. Makes him ache for just a sip. Unquenchable, though, because he's wary of water. Hydrophobia, but only for how it washes his efforts away. Cleanses.

The urge inside of him to bite, to infect, quietens when he gets closer to you.

(a rabid mutt licking at the window you're on the opposite side of, dreaming of just a taste—)

A byproduct of that maddening virus in his veins, the one he must have picked up six feet in the ground. Bite, bitebite—

—and give you a collar in the shape of his teeth.

He finds you in bed. A bottle of wine on the end table beside you, courtesy of your friend. The one lingering remora he couldn't snap at—one who sends you messages about how you are being manipulated. Taken advantage of. Fuck that loser, the latest one says when he picks up your phone, scrolling through the dwindling conversations housed within. Just him now, and them.

It preaches about empowerment. About how you shouldn't let a man pay your bills (textbook manipulation. he's putting you in a position of dependency. making you feel obligated to stay. it's all on Google, babes. like, fucking get a clue!!!!), or how it's moving so quickly (maybe you should come stay with me in Durham for a bit, hun. get away for a weekend. i worry about ya, is all). He hums, thumbing through the old chats.

You told her to fuck off about the manipulation, but it came after a lot of, oh, yeah. well, he's just. you know. he's different, and you haven't declined the invitation. i’ll think about it, is what you write.

It simmers under his skin. That independence he plans on stomping out under his heel. With his kin.

(sick, sick sick, wrong—)

It's desperation, this. Clawing at the walls—the dirt—until his nails are torn off his fingers. Until his skin splits, peels. Broken under rock and rubble. That animalistic need for air. To breathe. Basic training tells him not to save the person drowning unless he's sure they won't kill him in their struggle to live. But what's he supposed to do when that person is his rotting body, sinking down to unfathomable depths? When all he has is you to cling to—

Damnation built by his own hands.

You'll die together, he reckons, and tosses your phone on the hamper in the corner of the room.

Ghost can't remember the last time someone made him feel anything at all other than impartiality. Indifference. Casual apathy.

Price is the exception to this on the grounds of being consanguineous to him.

And you—

An outlier.

One he intends on sinking as deep as he can with. Anchored, maybe, by this little plan that beats and pulses in the back of his head. That clogs his throat with a want so thick, he can already taste the brine from the ocean. Water in his nose. Down his esophagus—

Better than dirt, he supposes. And it spurns him forward.

You're malleable like this. Tensile. He bends you easily with just a touch until you're flat on your back, a pillow shoved beneath your tailbone, and stripped. The loose shirt you wear to sleep is hiked up under your neck. Panties are pulled off until your sweet, bare cunt is revealed to him. All pretty and soft, and his. Untouched, he notes, and gives an appreciative stroke over your clit with his thumb.

It was something you were whining about the other day, panting in his ear as if he wasn't a continent away. Pleading with him on the phone to please, please let you come.

Simon likes the way you cling to him when it's been a while since something has wrecked you as thoroughly as his cock. When your spoiled pussy was neglected for a few days, weeks, and starved for attention. You were so sweet to him then, cooing in his ear how good you've been, how much you want him and only him, need him. Begging so prettily for it.

He's almost sad to spoil himself in your cunt when you can't weep for it. Can't bully him closer. Try to claw his eyes out. That delicious push-pull where you hiss at him for pulling away, but whine when he gets too close.

Sad, but—

Not enough to stop himself.

You're not wet enough for him to slide inside unprepared—his cock too big, something that makes his bones tremble—and he rectifies it by leaning down, letting saliva pool between his teeth and lips. He holds it there for a moment as he spreads your folds apart with his thumb and forefinger.

And then he spits on your bare cunt.

It hits your clit, the thick glob siding down your slit. He reaches between your thighs, pawing at you. Slides his fingers through the slick mess he made, teases around your tight rim.

Simon usually likes to take his time with you. Lapping at your pussy for hours until you're a weeping, snot-nosed mess whining in the sheets. Spoiled rotten. Begging him to fuck you already, Simon, you can't take it anymore—

He's mean. Cruel. Edges you for hours until your legs shake, trembling around his ears. He never lets you reach that peak—doesn’t let you come until he's buried inside of you.

Coming on his tongue, his fingers, is rarely a privilege you ever earn. Too much of a spitfire, a spiteful little kitten, to give in and do what he demands. So he keeps you on the precipice until he's ready to fuck you, ignoring your bribes, your bargains. Simon doesn't give in even when you beg, when you relent and tell him you'll finally be good.

You never are.

Spoiled, he always huffs. Down to the fuckin’ bone.

Like now. Pulling away from him. Him, the only person in your life who stuck around. A little bullying (bones breaking, splintering under his fists; the wet, hot smear of blood on his hands, skulls smacking against the pavement—an’ if you tell anyone, he cracks his battered fists and it sounds like a snarl, a gunshot, your parents will be cryin’ over an empty grave—) shooed the gnats away. He took a more clandestine approach to others. Birds that kept circling you tight. Protective, shrill. They made his head ache, but—

(don't want to start nothin’, but i don't want to be alone wit’ ‘er. tried to kiss me, is all. ain't like that, pet—)

It was a test. And they all failed. All but him.

Yet—

come to Durham.

i’ll think about it.

Ungrateful. It's his fault, though. Simon doted on you too much, cosseted by his affection, when he should have clipped your wings from the beginning.

Ah, well—

Lesson learned.

You're wet enough now. He pushes in two fingers, scissoring them apart. You'd be yowling at him, kicking up a fuss if you'd been awake. But you're not. It thrums through him. Thick, heady. He likes you like this—probably more than he should. The heat simmering in his veins bubbles. Pops. Sap on charring wood. It clogs his throat with his smoke until it burns, a dry forest fire.

He needs you. Needs to be in you. He's tired of waiting. Impatience burrows into him like a maelstrom.

Simon adjusts his hold on your leg, fingers curling behind your kneecap. Steadying himself. His fingers slip out of your cunt with a sloppy squelch that ghosts across his spine. Anticipatory. A touch anxious. He wants you. Wants you bad—

He takes himself in his hand, and slides the weeping tip over your slit. Taps it once, thrice on your clit. And then guides it to your centre. Your warmth bleeds into him. Eager, he shuffles forward. Feeds you his cock. Eyes drilling into the place where his head slips in, swallowed by your sloppy, wet hole. The glands make you stretch around him. Rim pulled taut.

The sight alone must have been crafted by some Luciferian dream, dangled before him in the shade of nirvana.

take a bite, it urges. and then take more—

Like this, passed out with your legs hitched over his shoulders, drooling into the pillow unawares, you're just a doll.

Made for him, and—

“Fuckin’ hell—” He presses into you—cock splitting tight, warm heat—and tries not to lose himself to the sensation of being bare, raw, inside of you.

—“A perfect fit.”

It's always been condoms. You're not on birth control. Ink blots in his eyes. He goes a little feral with it. Instincts unleashed. Unfettered.

Simon bullies his fat cock into you until his hips tap the back of your thighs, buried as deep as he can go. It's molten heat cocooning him—a warm embrace. For the first time, ever, he thinks he understands the meaning of home. Sliding home, in particular.

(Welcome home. Home. Home. He'll make a house out of your body. Sleep inside the brackets of your thighs, head pillowed on your chest—)

As good as you feel around him—slick, wet, and tight—and as much as he wants to saviour the sight of you, passed out on the pillow, cunt split by his cock, he has a goal, a mission, to see through.

His hand falls, slick and tacky, to your lower belly. Palm pressing against the subtle bulge in your abdomen, the outline of his cock. You always whine and hiss that he's too big for you. That you can't take him to the root.

Hurts, you complain, hand against your naval. Fingers knotting over the place that aches.

He presses his fingers there instead, feeling himself under your skin. Changing your anatomy to make room for him to fit—

It lights him in fire. Spurns him on. He bucks into you, pace sloppy, clumsy. Selfish. He's unrelenting as he splits you apart, drilling the full length of himself into your supine body, supple flesh relaxed under him, practically melting into the sheets.

The thread keeping his resolve, his self-control, sprung up tight begins to quiver. Each piston into you has delicate fingers drumming across the strings of a harpsichord. It reverberates through him, echoing in the stifling, suffocating, silence of the bedroom, overtaking it. Clouding it with the musk of his desire, his devotion to you, to this dream blooming in the prison of his mind.

Everything narrows into a needlepoint.

There's just your burning flesh beneath him, softer than it's ever been; pillowy. Welcoming. And the sounds of him fucking into you—lewd squelches, slick and wet; the sound of his cock finding home in the basin of your spread thighs; his heavy breaths, his groans and growls that seem to rattle the bed. The noise breaks, an incomplete requiem of sin in his head, and he loses himself in the lulling notes, dragged under in the bestial beat of taking what his—

A sudden noise shatters through the room. Beneath him, you stir, gasping wetly. The sound mangled in your throat.

There's confusion in your sleepy, hazy gaze when you peer up at him, lashes clumping together. You moan, whimpering, as you struggle to latch on to the threads of cognisance that he's content to fuck out of you. Your hand lifts, falls to his wrist still pressed against your lower belly. The grip is lax, loose. You’re not pushing him away, but clinging to him. Centring yourself.

It makes his blood thicken. Has him burning red-hot.

“Wha’s a’matter, pet?” He taunts, grinding his cock into you hard enough to make your dazed eyes water. Your hand tightens around him, holding steady. “Don't like it? Not fuckin’ you hard enough?”

“Simon—”

His name tapers off into a keen when he angles hips, and starts pistoning into you with a mean, merciless fury. The desperate noises that spill, unhindered, from your slack mouth is the perfect accompaniment to the lewd sound of him fucking your sopping cunt; the piece he was missing when this started. His requiem, complete.

It's a serrated blade to his self-control, already frayed and threadbare as it is. The pressure makes it snap.

“C'mon, sweet thing. Thought you wanted this?”

There's a place in hell just for him. It's sealed when you blink your tired, sleepy eyes up at him, mind a slurry of lingering somnolence and the heady alcohol on your breath, and offer a shuddering whimper. Always so soft for him, so agreeable when you’re drunk.

“So’ry, Simon—”

You can barely string words together. Poor, pitiful you—vulnerable under him. Breakable. Malleable. Anyone else could have tricked you into this same position when he was away. Got you beneath them like this, compliant and unawares, and took what belongs to him.

(The only thing in this destitute existence he claims for himself—)

Not anymore. Not ever again.

It's almost callous when he grinds into you. Hateful. Brutish. Furious. And dazed as you are, you barely even flinch at the snarls that spill, unfettered, from the back of his throat. The low groans of him making promises with devils unknown; constructing shackles from brass, iron.

Entrenching his future in motion, cupped protectively between the parentheses your thighs make around his hips. It's almost a vicious sort of poetry, one laid bare in the odious ruins of that broken thing he calls a heart. Etched into his rotten pericardium. Necrosed devotion. He'll see it through—however noxious, and putrid, you might find the miasmal stench of it spun tight in his web.

It's for your own good.

And as if you agree, you answer him in perfect euphony, moaning sweetly as you tilt your hips up for more.

Ghost groans low in his throat, bestial and spinning rapidly out of his control. He feels everything spinning, slipping; the trudge to the finish line narrows into a pinprink. He needs something to cling to, to hold on to with broken hands—

The only purchase he finds is in your demise.

His hand lifts, shaking yours loose. He reaches up, fingers dig into your chin, forcing your pouty mouth open. You blink at him, sluggish, but he catches the thin gossamer of awareness spooling thin cobwebs over darkened crevasses, covering the canyons in your eyes with cognisance. It makes him leer.

“Stick your tongue out, pretty girl,” he rasps, words sticking together, muffled under the mask. Crushed aggregate stone under the weight of his own desire. “Tha’s it. Open up nice and wide—”

He lets spit gather again, pooling on his tongue. It's degrading, you always say. Gross. But you swallow it down like a good girl, anyway. Always. You come at him with fangs and claws, but somehow, you always merge in a perfectly dizzying polyphony.

Ghost spits on your tongue. Lets it land right in the middle of fleshy pink. A sick, twisted pleasure thrums in his veins at the sight.

There's checking the boxes of an established kink, and this. Horrifically proprietary. Ownership that ignites a fire in his marrow, setting him alight from the inside out. Turns bone into blackened char, cinder. He can almost taste it on his tongue.

It's made worse, turned frenzied, when you—sweet, perfect, you—bracket it protectively in the curve of your tongue. Completely dazed, head filled with a heady slurry of somnolence and alcohol, but still aware enough to know, even if only through muscle memory, what you're meant to do when he spits in your mouth.

If anything, you're more obedient like this. Little doll. Coddling it lovingly, this little piece of him that he gives you.

And it might be the madness speaking—these fraying thoughts take on a vitriolic edge, corrosive aqua regia pooling in his throat—but Christ. He's been stabbed in the guts, repeatedly, and it somehow packed less of a punch than this.

He wants, wants—

Family never crossed his mind, was never even on the table or something to be considered, but with you it brims. Blooms in rot. Roots in tenebrous.

He has this insatiable urge to devour you whole so you'll always be with him. The waves of his desire are monstrous. The waters below are rapacious. A gaping maw eager to eat you up—

Pity it’s not an option.

But he’ll make do. Buy a ring tomorrow. Something pretty that matches your eyes. The curve of your smile. Sanctioned ownership. A collar in gemstones and gold, glimmering and shining bright enough that should any light fade from your gaze, it’ll illuminate in the gloom; twilight made in sorrow. The prettiest blues—

Said eyes water. Ghost’s hold on your face relaxes when you give a muffled keen, cheeks bubbling up against the pressure. Tongue still stuck out even as he takes his pleasure from your supine flesh. Suspended in motion, stasis. Such a good girl for him—

He swallows. Tastes poison, rot, on his tongue. “Swallow.”

You're a little sluggish, a little slow, but you follow his command all the same. He knows, then, that it could only ever be you.

No one gets under his skin like this. No one makes him itch, want, crave, as much as you do—

You make a face, twisted up in some amalgamation of pleasure and confusion. It nudges the ruins of his chest and feels almost like a heartbeat when it pulses in his flesh.

“Simon, Simon—”

His name is all you can say, and he's not sure if you're begging for mercy, or muttering it out into the scant air between your heaving breaths like an obsecration, an orison, but he eats it all the same. Bites down on your pleas, your cries, your prayers, and chews them up between fangled teeth. Takes them down into the swirling pits of his belly where they're eaten alive by what grows in the decay.

(belly full of dirt:

he heaves, and heaves, but nothing comes out even though he can taste humus in his throat, feel worms using his organs like a playground—)

“Somethin’ you want, pet?” He taunts, and shifts his hips back just enough to drag a few inches of his cock out of your drenched cunt. A tease—cruel and mean. He’d get lobbed upside the head for this had you been in your right mind. A tap to his temple, shaking the cobwebs loose. He would have bent down, and sunk broken teeth into your jugular. Merging violence with love until bloody knuckles feel like a kiss. “All you ‘ave to do is ask. Use your words, pretty thing—”

You whine, low and drawn out. A lazy whimper in the back of your throat. “Pl’se—”

You can barely speak. Tongue too thick. Sleep too heavy in your veins. Alcohol, too. A lesson, perhaps, for his willful little pet come the morning when you struggle to measure just how deep into his gullet you’ve let yourself fall.

He can’t help rubbing salt into the shallow cuts, if only because he likes the way you pout.

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better’n that.”

And damn him—damn you—you do. Your hand curls over his wrist, pulling it close to your mouth where you place a kiss against his palm. Tender. Chaste. Midnight blooms in your eyes, casts shadows under pale moonlight. His breath stutters in his chest when you lean your head back, letting his hand fall to your bared neck.

Your heavy, lidded eyes gaze back at him, cutting through the shade of night that sews the air like satin. Etched in the file silk is threads of trust in stark white. The kind that bleeds for him; hungers. One that aches, always tender like a bruise. The throb of it echoes between mouldering ribs. Booms between his ears.

Ghost doesn’t fall into pieces. Doesn’t shatter. No. Something in the splintered remains shifts. Settles. He wraps his fingers around the thick of your throat, thumb notched tight against your pulse, and he feels complete. Whole. Remade from the ruins.

Your breath hitches. The sound is a gunshot in his ears. He squeezes down, a gentle press. Just enough to make the air spill out of your lungs, to let your eyes water. Lachrymose, eager. It does something to him when you cry. He feels tipped upside down, torn inside out. Left all askew, asunder. He wants to drown in the pebbling river growing against your lashline. Wants to drink it down until it quenches his neverending thirst. Wants, wants—

He feels his name spill from your lips. Brassy and broken, trembling against his palm. A plea—

More.

And he gives it to you.

Simon hitches your ankle on his shoulder. Adjusts the grip he has on your throat. He settles over your body, blanketing you under his bulk. Stygian beast devouring the maiden whole. The thought amuses him even as it knocks the air from his lungs.

He anchors himself into the mattress with his knees, steadying himself, curls his other hand around the iron ring of the headboard. All the while, you look up at him—glossy eyes burning coals in the dark, in the gloom. Wanting, hungry. Mouth held open as if you’re waiting for his scraps—

And then he bucks into you, the leverage giving his thrust a savage edge.

The whines are snuffed out under his palm. Your eyes widen, tears now spilling down your temple, soaking the pillow below your head.

He groans, head rolling back. “Fuckin’ hell—ain’t you a pretty sight?”

Tucked under him, throat swallowed by his palm. Split on his cock, slick and wet. The tears streaming down your face makes him feel wicked, foul; but the spit running down your slackened jaw quells any doubt. The hand on his wrist holds him tight, tighter still, to your flesh.

You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.

So, he gives it to you.

Simon’s almost ruthless when he snaps his hips into yours, cooing viciously into your ear about how you feel, how you look, how you sound—so pretty wrapped around him, under him; his little doll—

“S’where you belong, pet—” guttural words spill, flintlike and savage, from his mangled throat. Reinforced with the hateful way he blugeons his cock into you. Times it perfectly with the firm squeezes against your jugular, never letting you catch your breath. Your eyes roll back, legs trembling. Shaking. But you don’t move, don’t struggle. The hand on his wrist is a shackle, and it makes him smirk, scars pulling up in a gnarled mess of mirth; ugly and mean. “Right where you belong. Ain’t tha’ right?”

He leans down, babbles nonsense into your temple. Promises you the heads of gods, the ichor they bleed. Swears he’ll build a shrine for you in Durham.

But for as mocking as these words he murmurs into your ear are, they’re tremulous. Raw. A current roars beneath; a steady stream, a plea, all full of need: stay, stay staystay—

(please)

He buries his nose into your hairline to stem the ravening ache in his guts, breathes in the heady scent of you—of sex, and wine, and sweat. Drags it into his lungs in harsh, angry gasps to stain his skin with the smell of you. Of him.

It goes right to his head in a heavy rush until he’s dizzy, almost sick, with the swell of it flooding in. An animal, he thinks, drunk on merging pheromones that make him mindless. Unfettered.

It’s as if he’s driven on instinct alone; his frenzied pace ebbs, grows sloppy. The air around him feels thick. Syrupy. Stifling. The balmy breath in his chest is nearly as unbearable as it is addicting. Sickeningly sweet. Still—

His chest expands, taking as much of the potent miasma into his lungs as he can, filling them up, up, until he feels the edges threaten to brust. It’s only then, when ink moults across his vision, that he lifts his head just enough to shove his mouth against yours, a broken snarl ripping free from his throat as he forces the infectious air into your mouth, down to your lungs. Polluting you with the same sickness. The same rot.

Little hiccups tumble past your lips as you swallow it down, taking everything he gives you, and he catches them on his tongue. Plays with them between his teeth, basking in the salty tang of you—brine, loam; peatsalt. Ashes, guncotton. Molasses. He’s not sure if he wants to drown you in him, or crawl into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth that pulses around his tongue like a heartbeat.

Both, maybe. Everything. All of it.

Always—

But he’s chasing pleasure on fumes. Trying to run with broken legs. There’s nothing refined about this. About the way he cudgels the head of his cock into the places that make your mouth twist away from his greedy lips in a silent scream. His weight is crushing you, he’s sure, but you cling to him harder, holding him tighter. Almost afraid to let go. And fuck—the notion alone is a kick to the chest, harsh and heavy. He nearly gags on the litany of broken moans spiling out of his mouth, landing on your tongue.

Driven mad, maybe (or pussy-drunk, and high off of his own poison); but in that madness, he discovers this:

Nirvana exists between your thighs.

Home, too.

(well—

not yet.)

Pleasure fissions down his spine. The paroxysm taking him deeper into the battle-worn depths of his demise until the walls narrow, closing in. Crushing. No escape. But—

He won’t climb out of his hole he dug. Not until he makes a bed from your flesh; shelter out of your bones. He wants to ingrain himself as deep within you as he can, arsenic subsumed down to your marrow. Poisoned with the fill of him, too sick to let go.

(Bone nausea.

A death sentence.)

It metastasises inside of him, filling the barren spaces up until it leaks from his pores.

He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close.

Simon lifts his hand from your throat, and reaches out, grasps at it with a shaking paw—

All it takes is a few crass, careless swipes of his calloused thumb across your clit, cock angled toward that spot that makes you rake your broken nails down his back, yowling in his ear for more, there, please, Simon, please—

You clench like a vice around him. A pretty bow tied up at the base of his cock. He bows over you, grunts spilling from his chest as he sinks his teeth into your nape, splitting skin btween his teeth. The warm, ozonous tang of your blood flooding his tongue is euphoric, eclipsing his mind in a haze of pleasure that crackles and burns at the base of his spine, spitting smoke up his body and into his skull.

The harsh whine you let out—all prey, all animal; wounded, stuck under his muzzle—has some part of him, basal and inborn, rearing up. Roaring in his ears, ripping talons across the jagged remains of his head.

(mine, mine, mine—)

He answers your scream with a growl, one caught in the smoke clogging his throat. It sounds inhuman when its wrenched out of his mouth—more animal than man: the devastating howl of a forest on fire—but the feel of it vibrating between his teeth is connatural. Innate. It belongs between his incisors; fits like a puzzle piece in his broken muzzle. Unleashed now. Finally free from this ill-fitting cage he housed it, this goddamn box—

Cobbled together from palm ash and brimstone, ichor and salt. Sewed up with copper sutures in the shape of a man for a perfect fit.

Every cell in his body screams that he was made for this. To be over you, in you. Maw filled with your blood. Pussy stuffed full of his cock.

He might not have clawed out of the dirt for you, but this mossy, gnarled lump in his chest beats now only for you. Apodictic. Ironclad. His teeth in your jugular, your life pulsing wetly on his tongue.

It’s his apotheosis. His end.

His hips stutter. White noise in his head. It drowns out the shrill screams, the hisses. Everything is just—static. Pleasure of a silent kind, humming, buzzing, and molten. Ghost buries himself inside of you as deep as he can, until his cock is fit snug against the plug of your womb, and lays his claim by branding it with the potency of his name.

Tidally locked, you’re dragged down the summit with him, tumbling to your demise. Too dazed, too wound tight in his arms, his embrace, to see the jagged rock at the bottom of the hungry chasm thirsting for your blood, you just cling to him. Refusing to let go.

(silly girl—

His pretty little perigee.)

His body aches in ways that cruelly remind him of his age. Joints stiff, stomach quivering. His knuckles sting when he unfurls it from the headboard, skin pink and raw from the tight hold he had around the metal.

It’s made worse when he heaves a harsh breath, and pulls away from you with a long, drawn out groan. He settles back on his haunches, eyes searing into the space between your thighs. Messy with his spend. It dribbles down your slit, your ass, pools on the sheets below.

Your chest shudders, legs splayed out how he left you. He thinks, viciously, of gazelles, and wonders if the blood he feels drying on his mouth looks anything like the muddied mane of a lion after eating its fill.

“Fuckin’ hell—”

He should clean you up, hide his crime, but he burns the image of you into his head (another tattoo over scar tissue), and drops to a heap beside you. The moment his back hits the mattress and all thoughts of moving are erased in silk, in smoke and clover.

Chest heaving, slick with sweat, he feels the thrum of his victory in his veins. The high of the chase abates, and he nearly purrs with contentment. Hangs his pride on a pedestal, and doesn’t think about the absence of any guilt. Doesn’t even entertain the thought, not when victory dries between your thighs. When you roll over with a huff, reaching out for him.

It's as if you're trying to bury yourself inside of him, crawl into the safety of his ribs.

Ghost grunts, feels his sensitive, spent cock give a feeble twitch on his sticky thigh. The idea of you, blissfully unaware, seeking comfort from the man who writ your body with his virile spend, irrevocably changing your life and entwining it so deeply and so messily with his own that to severe either of you from each other is nearly impossible, floods him with satisfaction so deep, euphorically heady, that his chest seems to shudder. Resounding with some amalgamation of a purr, a grow, so utterly primal, that he sounds more beast than man.

His roots run deep within you, now, and every misaligned piece of his patchwork body seems to sag and shiver in an almost perfect parallelism. Congruence ascertained with the cupping of you between its mismatched maw. Shackled in a baleen prison. Nestled, safe and sound, between white teeth.

Ghost pulls you close, holding tight, and hums. As you drool on his shoulder, dripping with his spend, he knows he'll keep you there forever, until you're nothing but bones.

There's a cloud of confusion hanging over you the next morning, a twinge of uncertainty gnarling across the gaps in your memory. The pieces of a puzzle that belong to a different set. He watches you scramble through them, filling in blanks. Oscillating so deliciously between wariness and discontent.

“‘morning,” he greets, as if his spend hasn’t dried on your thigh last night. Tucked up nice and tight against your fertile, unprotected womb. As if he couldn't taste brimstone in the back of his throat when you wince as you walk, achy and battle-worn from the weight of his desire crushing you all night.

“Morning,” it's a sticky rasp in your throat. He wonders if you taste him on your tongue. “When did you get in?”

“Las’ night.”

You nod, but it's absent. Flickering through the timeline of events that aren’t drenched in black, shaded over like a heavy bruise. Your expression is fractured. Raw. Pensive. Something untouchable, unchartable, and yet he reads you as plainly as the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

You don’t remember. Don’t know what to make of this chasm, this fissure, that looms, icy and deep, before you. There’s no anger, though. You don’t demand recompense for what he stole, what he took. The lashings he deserves are tucked quietly between your teeth. Hidden under layers of normalcy to prevent yourself from seeing him as is: a beast.

“Well, um. Some homecoming, huh?” You joke, but it's hollow. Flat. Fragile like fine glass. You're digging for more. Rooting around to connect these vague, absent dots that linger, lost in the vacancy of your memory.

He almost purrs.

He wants to chew you up. Spit you in the palm of his hand. Maybe tuck you in his breast pocket, nestled against the lump in his chest—the one those silly enough to dream might call a heart. Keep you there forever. Hidden in the barrel of his loaded gun.

“Bit rowdy.”

It’s horrifically vague, but you cling to the prevacation he proffers to you; a lifeline in the turbulent sea, letting it overwrite the absence, the itching in your skull that must be clanging on the walls, begging for you to run.

“Sorry,” it's sheepish. He knows the ferality in which you sometimes come at him when he's buried deep inside you is something that makes you twinge with embarrassment. Little kitten clawing at the old dog trying to get it to play. Rolling over immediately when it growls. Docile, sickeningly sweet.

But even naive kittens know to watch out for the frothing, foaming maw.

“Did you use a—?”

He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”

And you take it as gospel. As truth. Why would Simon have any reason to lie to you about this?

Relief shudders over your shoulders. You relax, inching toward the seat across from him. Gazelle making a home for itself in the lion’s den.

The spell of unease is broken, now, and you quickly fill the chasm with chatter about your day. Your plans. Asking him how he’s been.

You shove at the warning signs until they’re hidden away, and ignore the bones of your brethren scattered around you. All because you trust him.

He aches with the urge to crush it between his teeth.

And he will one day soon, he’s sure, because it’s just as easy to enact his plan as it was to get you to open the door.

It starts with him convincing you to drink with him after dinner. Jus’ a glass. Got this fancy bottle. Reckon we should ‘ave some.

But—

Can’t drink forever—no matter what his dogshit dad thought.

So, he pokes holes in the condoms you hide in the bedside table, a little wary now. A touch fretful about your contraceptives in a way that makes him preen. You have good instincts, but rarely do you listen to them. Your head must be filled with sirens, but it's futile, he supposes. He's already stuffed cotton into your ears.

It only feeds into that gaping chasm that bellows up from the depths that this world is not good for you. That it will tear you into pieces, into shreds. You need him. Need the Ghost to protect you.

Case in point:

You’re needy beneath him, panting and mewling into the sheets as he teases your clit with his thumb. So wet, it almost feels like hot oil on his skin. Syrupy thick.

In your desperation, you cling to him, throat bared. Fragile fine china. Belly up. Vulnerable.

You barely notice when he pulls off the condom, crumpling it up into a ball and shoving it in the pocket of his slacks.. Don’t even react when he shoves his bare, raw cock into you.

You don't even notice.

(or when he slurs in your ear about how badly he wants to knock you up—breed his pretty girl until she’s stuffed full of him, making life with what he offers. salvation in the form of creation. ain’ tha’ a thought? he huffs into your ear, humid mirth curling over your skin. a stain. and the way it unfetters you—tightening around him, gushing slick—he finds his answer, one reinforced in the rolling of your eyes as your common sense, independence, trickle out of your ears and down your slackened jaw—)

And when that fails, he just slips you a sleeping pill. There's always an easier way to the finish line, he finds.

(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)

Nothing bleeds from the cracks he wrought, or slinks from the shadows cast by his machinations until weeks later.

Life just goes back to what it once was—Simon coming and going, letting himself into your home with the door you leave unlocked. You go to work, and chatter aimlessly about this vision you have about a home in the countryside, near the ocean. Saving up—uselessly—for sheep and goats, and the sought-after Highland cows. Chickens and ducks first, you say, and barely notice when his gaze drops, drilling holes into your stomach. Watchful. Leering.

He can almost scent the change on you. Nose pressed to your skin; bloodhound sniffing the ground.

Ghost keeps time in the slow, susurrus drawl of your voice sifting through the cotton in his ears, waiting for those precious decibels to catch on, to tilt up at the end as your eyes skim the calendar he keeps scratching x’s across in red, almost delicate, innocent even though it's from his sanguinary hand. A countdown to something you haven’t yet caught on to.

And it’s all so sweet.

—the waiting game, the subtle changes, the desperate way you cling to normalcy—

Sweet, like the way you carve this life out for yourself, filled with stuffed animals full of idealism. So much so, that it's almost bitter. Acrid. He watches the light glow in your eyes as your plans take shape, moulding putty between your hands, and like a pit viper, he coils in on himself. Frenzied. Fearful—

But only just.

The excitation has run its course. He’s drifting, languid, into his scheme. Content. The notion of you slipping from his fingers is a thought that rarely crosses his mind these days, especially when that house on the prairie grows from an occupant of one to two—

“And, you know… when you're not out saving the world—” your eye roll and air quotes make his lips twitch, tugging at the scar tissue, the acid burns, splashed across his mouth. An ugly fucking Pollock. “—maybe you can come visit.”

“Never fancied myself a rancher,” he drawls, just to watch you squirm. Brow furrowing into a deep ravine as you struggle to make your intentions known without actually giving them sound. Skirting around the issue of wanting him there, of planning a home with him.

(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—?

if only you knew—)

He finds it charming, really.

Still—

“It's just a thought,” you mutter, downcast. He wants to choke on your misery. Your sadness. Drown himself in your anger. Float in your happiness.

Fuckin' Christ—

All this playing daddy in his head has thrown him off his rocker. Made him soft. Sentimental. It's probably why he yields to you. Offers a lazy shrug and another smarmy twitch of his lips.

“Sounds like a plan,” and the way you brighten is a dagger to his chest.

And the thing is. It does. It sounds like a dream, a perfect vision. Just—

Maybe not in the way you'd want.

He's been looking into places unmarred by human hands. Ghost towns, uncharted territories. His home here isn't perfect for it, not like the vast geography of Mexico. The uninhabited wilderness of Canada, places so remote that it's almost untethered to modern civilisation. Islands of forest, mountains, all on their own.

Vast corners and crevasses where someone can disappear and never be found.

But those won't work in tandem with his flighty lifestyle. While he plans on keeping you barefoot and pregnant (common sense in the back of his head screams that he's foul, vile, monstrous—), he will continue to work. Has to, really, to avoid suspicion.

So—

Home it is.

But he gets inspiration from the Highland cows you coo on about and purchases a plot of land in the Western Isles. Gives this whim of his—yours, really—a concrete foundation made of the abstract. The filament provided by his newly christened Sergeant—an overeager mutt that bleeds warning signs from his pores.

(don’t get close, reactive dog. will bite—

the little mutt is a great pyrenees, ain’t he?)

But bless Johnny’s bleedin’ heart, he thought as the man prattled on about this cabin he owns. A place of solitude. Could fire a gun and no one would even peek out the curtains. Beautiful, the way all of Scotland is. The highlands, he breathes in that shade of catholic madness only the dutiful soldiers of god's right-handed wrath can be, is where he keeps his home. A place chiselled from stone, surrounded by wilderness that eats tourists alive.

(he didn’t ask at the time why Johnny was so keen on finding these places scattered around Scotland, ones with little traffic and a nearly negligible amount of souls within the vicinity, but he finds its best not to get too close to mutts crossbred with wolves.)

But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so.

You’ll get your fantasy ranch in the middle of nowhere. Your highland cows, your billy goats, your chicken, sheep, and ducks. A baby in your arms, too. One that shows its hand the next morning, dashing all your carefully laid plans. These paths of independence of yours run parallel to his whims but never converge. There’s the potential in this for these fraying threads to split, and diverge. Separate.

(But it’s all put to rest at the sound of you heaving in the adjoining washroom. His path eats yours until it’s overtaken. Consumed.

The evasive, unfettered little bird trammelled, caught. Wing-clipped, and all his.)

Any misgivings the part of his gyri not buried under the frothing mess of his polluted grey matter might have is vitiated by the unwavering certitude that, despite his own gains in this, it really is in your best interest.

And maybe it's something that should have come earlier in your relationship—however threadbare that word is in conjunction with the unhinged desire blooming in the pit of his chest; madness masquerading as love or some obsessive, desperate facsimile of it. Maybe a proper man, a better one, might have dug down and fully laid out the reality of intertwining your life with the living dead. That the idea of danger, death, and revenge are all everpresent threats scratching at the walls of this sickeningly sweet fantasy you wrap around yourself.

He’s a dangerous man. A creature of devastation—manmade, bent into, or congenital is yet to be unearthed—which, in itself, brings about a certain lifestyle. One with fewer people around, and always shrouded in secrecy. Friends, family—none of that matters when death curdles gnarled fingers around his jugular.

You’ll get used to it. Eventually. The only other choice is to let you, his now flightless bird, go. Released back into the wild vulnerable and reeking of his stench.

You’ll be devoured before daylight, ripped into pieces—only if they’re feeling generous, that is.

Simon has his own twisted remora. Ones with claws and fangs and a hunger that runs deep. Insatiable. Any scraps that fall from his mouth are devoured before they can touch the sea floor. They’ll crush you in their maw and dangle your mangled body from the gaps between their teeth.

You’re not made for the wild. Not anymore. You’re meant to be protected. You—this fragile, delicate thing. He’ll hold you close, keep you secure and safe in a mausoleum of your own making.

This little glass jar domicile.

A billet in the mountains.

He’ll fill it with the finest things—silk linens, fine china; mahogany and teak, pink ivory; a bed of soft, downy feathers, sherpa, Egyptian cotton; (sticks and stones and grass and moss). Buy you whatever you need. Chickens and ducks. Sheep and goats.

They’ll keep you company when he’s away.

(and if that fails, he can always plan playdates for you with whatever dirty secret Johnny’s been keeping tucked away in the woods.)

He draws an x in the empty, white box of the calendar, the tip of his red marker gliding silkily across the glossy surface. Something unfurls in his guts. Blossoms in his bones. There’s an almost indescribable sense of satisfaction—primal and animalistic—that grows from the upturned dirt in his head. Life composted from rot.

Ghost hums to himself when he turns, the sound nearly a purr—bestial as it is, suffocated under sulphur. It reverberates through his chest, trembling across the brackets of his ribs that expand with his deep, heavy inhale—breathing in the sight that greets him like a lover’s kiss

The kebab he ordered lays untouched on the table across from the television—some trashy reality show playing in the background while you tried to eat; a dating show, you’d said when he merely shrugged, having other things on his mind over what to watch while you ate. It all seems to be preserved in time. Frozen in on the exact moment when you’d sniffed the döner kebab he got for you—the same thing you order each time—and then promptly wrenched yourself back, gagging. The sandwich was flung back in the takeaway box before you slapped your hand over your mouth, rushing into the washroom.

If his phone wasn’t in the other room, he might have taken a picture. A little memento to remember this moment. Framed it in iron and perched it on the desk they gave him back in Hereford, the one just down the hall from Price.

(ah, speaking of—he’ll have to send that caustic bastard a fruit basket, or something, won’t he? maybe some pretty flowers for his lady.)

His reverie is shaken when the door to the washroom creaks open slowly, and you emerge through the gap with sweat on your brow, knots across your forehead, and a shaking hand resting over your churning stomach.

Shame, he thinks. He really should have brought his phone—

You lean against the wall, taking in deep, shuddering breaths to steady yourself, confusion and worry knitting over you like a thundercloud. It tastes of ozone when he inhales. An approaching storm. In the blue gloom of the living room, illuminated only by the light flooding out from the washroom behind you and the static glow of the television, you look etiolated. A wilting flower.

His budding rose.

He coos. “You alright?”

You glance sideways at the kebab on the table, mouth pinching into a grimace as if to stem the nausea still rippling through you. You stare at it for a long moment, seemingly trying to make sense of the reality sitting in front of you on scratched, old pine; confusion runs laps over the dawn cresting in your eyes. This puzzle is too unfathomable for you to piece together; the keys and slots all askew.

The air around him grows still. Silent. Anticipatory. A tiger crouched low in the tussock. A little fawn roaming too close.

There’s a heaviness in your eyes when they flicker back to the wall where he stands, drilling holes into the x. Something implacable frissons over your threadbare expression, fracturing across sallow cheeks.

The air is electric. It pulses across his bare flesh, irritating scar tissue, acid burns, and scorch marks. His skin prickles at its whisper.

“Feelin’ sick, pet?” He ponders, playing pretend. He’s viciously, deeply amused at the desperate denial splashing across your cheeks. The thin shade of askance that unfurls like the leaves of a flytrap when you look at him. “Mus’t’a been the kebab. Bad meat, I reckon?”

You offer a weak nod in response, pinching your lips tight together. The matter seemingly concluded, brushed aside. Pocketed for later.

And you say nothing else for the rest of the night—gaze unseeing, turned inward; pensive—but he purrs in contentment as if everything was alright, sprawled across the couch with his head pillowed against your churning stomach as if he could hear the whisper of another heartbeat from within.

In the saturated blue light, he catches your eyes listing toward the calendar every so often. Wary. Nervous. He thinks you might say something, might ask, but you don’t. It’s caught on a stilted breath. A harsh swallow.

All you do is bring your hand to his shorn head, and raze the stumps of your clipped claws against his scalp. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soothe the madness from within. Scratching that itch deep inside until it goes away. Gentle hands play pretend and dress up as a panacea. Affection to scrape the illness away.

He thinks you should know better than that, even as he leans into it with a soft exhale, more relaxed than he'd ever been his entire life. Content. Unassailable in his conquest.

Simon has always been more scar tissue than man, and no place is damaged more than the upturned tumulus inside his head.

But oh. How you try—

His sweet, sweet girl.

The look you give him the next evening is, in parts, brumous.

A polynya of dread, worry, guilt, fear that frissons across the deep valleys in your eyes, shaded in plumes of darkness, filled in deliciously with the weight of your beleaguered uncertainty. It yawns out before him, this heavy gloom.

So close he catch the embers in his hand.

“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”

You hold up a little rectangle, dismay, misery, etched in the blue tinge spreading across your face. It seems to steal the words from your throat, turn them into ash. What else are you meant to say, he supposes, when you look out at the world now from the gape in his maw?

But there’s a veil of wonderment that hides below the tidal wave; this precious, deadly, undercurrent that rents the air, splits his chest in two.

The happiness, however meagre, thin, it is right now (just a sunken boat on the seafloor), is there. Ripe for salvage, and he sees that it’s handled with care. Cupped between his palms, nurtured by his own conviction to do what’s right, an’—fuck, pet—know this ain’t what we planned, but—

but:

The howling quiets, turns to a low growl, and then a susurrus hum, when you shakily utter the words he was waiting for.

“Yes, Simon—”

You shudder when his fist closes over your wrist, pulling you into his purring chest. Shaking like a prey animal in the jowls of a beast, bested and ensnared. It has a profound, almost predatory, sense of satisfaction curling over his bones. He knows this was the right choice, and is sure, in time, you'll come to realise that, too. You’re in the early stages, he knows. Prodromal. You need to be handled with care to curb the lacrimation, the hyperesthesia.

And there’s no one better than him to guide you through the throes of it. To lead you to the unequivocal end.

He leans down, and whispers in your crown—

“Good girl—”

—and the sound of his voice is gravel encased in sticky, sweet honey. Dark, smokey molasses. The very same cadence as a key sliding inside of a lock; metal grazing metal. Turning—

“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Tommy.”

Click.

(he gives you that ring he promised when he takes you to the mountains. you smile wide, and tell him it fits like a gyve.)

Simon stops shovelling his want under the cold dirt and starts burying it inside you instead. Makes a domicile from your flesh; a place where he can rest his aching head every night until the howling scraping down fractured bone stops— (paralytic)

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #goddd this is foul #and was supposed to be up hours agooo but Nahanni closed at 5 today oops #cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #cod smut #simon riley smut #simon riley cod #ghost call of duty x reader #ghost cod x reader #in many ways this is a psa on the symptoms of rabies

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arminsumi · 7 months

Note

First request ever: Can you make a story about Gojo, where their both in a relationship but gojo had to end it because he was afraid that she would be in danger?

Thank you! Keep up the good work, I love your stories!!!

LET ME MARRY YOU

↳ GOJO さとる + fem!reader

The risk of dating you his too much for him to handle, so he breaks it off, only for him to come back to your doorstep years later and ask: "Let me marry you."

Note : istg each time i edited this... the wordcount grew lol. i hope u enjoyyy 🥹💗 tysm for enjoying my work it means everything

Warnings : angst -> fluff (?) -> happy ending trust me, Shibuya arc spoilers (Ep 9), manga spoilers (chapter 221)

🍒 More from Jay : Gojo works / Gojo fave works / JJK works / oct. reqs open

The risk of dating you is thrilling when Satoru's just a teenager in puppy love. But as he grows older, and heads into those dreaded 20s, the risk makes him more and more nervous.

What if something happens to you?

He presses kiss after kiss to your forehead and feels his chest tremble, feels his lips quiver, as he refrains from telling you the truth about the Jujutsu world. Satoru just can't do it.

There are so many instances of him saving you from curses that you're oblivious about. He just smiles strangely, and you wonder why he looks like he's just seen a ghost. Because he has, those pretty eyes see ghosts. But those pretty eyes also see you, "What am I looking at?" he responds after you ask why he's looking at you so tenderly, "I'm looking at my future wife." he flirts just to fluster you.

That's at the cafe, when things are still simple. He keeps thinking to himself, as he lays with you in bed some nights;

I want to marry you.

I'm going to marry you.

Please let me be your husband one day.

As if he's trying to manifest it.

Everything is okay-ish... until he gets pangs of fright when your name starts to be known outside of his closed circle of friends.

It's October 11th.

Gojo Satoru breaks up with you.

He leads you to believe that the two of you are just "right person, wrong time". It all hurts an incomprehensible amount for him, to finally cut the string that tethers the two of you together.

He sits on the stairs, head in his hands, mourning.

He starts many mornings with crying spells that last until midday.

He destroys evidence of you and him. In case anyone ever finds it and thus finds your apartment, or work, or college... or anything.

But he can't part with a very special photo. It's you and him in Okinawa, sharing a cheesy kiss at the beach. In the moment this photo was captured, Gojo remembers having whispered some dirty joke in your ear and that's why you smiled so big into his kiss.

He drifts to sleep to the lullaby lovesongs that defined your love.

Years pass, he refuses to even talk to you. The heartbreak worsens with time, he laughs when he realizes that on his 27th birthday.

Isn't time supposed to heal all wounds? Someone said that to him once. Well, they must have been lying without realizing it.

The day Gojo Satoru is sealed, he looks into Suguru's eyes, and remembers you through them. When he resides in that awful prison realm, he only thinks of you you you you you you you oh god he misses you so much that it feels like the very thought of your smile stabs his chest. Every memory is painful. Every flashback puts one more crack in his heart.

"Can't I ever catch a break...?" He laughs to himself, chattering skeletons making their eerie symphony around him.

He thinks. Ponders. Wonders. Broods. Daydreams. All about you. Always about you. Never anything else. Just his first love, from the late spring of his 17th year.

His earthly goddess.

The purpose of his benevolent actions.

He cries. And sobs. And weeps. Because no one can hear him but the skeletons and he's sure they don't mind the sight or sound of a 27 man howling in pain over a lost lover.

It's not just your relationship that he's mourning. But the fact he can't feel you in this cube... that he can't feel your presence in the world... that's worse than the heartbreak. At least through all these years, he's been able to sense your existence. Feel the subtle ripples of your soul no matter how distant you are; you'd be stood in a coffee shop, he'd be at Jujutsu High teaching, and yet feeling you.

Because as he promised to you at 17, "Half my soul is yours. And half your soul is mine. I'll always be with you even if I'm not there."

He has the biggest breakdown of his life in that little cramped suffocating claustrophobic eerie creepy box.

It's 19 days later. He's out. He's back in the world. And he feels the sense of you, your existence, swelling in his chest, tickling his mind, prodding his heart.

"Gojo sensei, where are you headed?"

"I'm gonna go find my other half." he says cryptically.

It's a stark bright day.

Gojo Satoru knocks at your apartment door.

You open it.

He looks at you, and you look at him.

"Hi."

"...hey...? Wow. Haha... you grew into your features, huh?"

Your voice fills his heart with life.

"You too... glad you still live in the same place... I was worried you might have moved out..."

"... Ah, Satoru, you'd be able to find me no matter what corner of the world I resided in."

Your laugh fills his mind with pleasant memories.

There's an a magnetism between you and him just like there always used to be. It feels like two magnets connecting at last, after feeling the distant attraction throughout all these years of distance.

"You're right." Satoru says after a silence of just staring into your eyes.

"I'll always find my way home."

A silence ensues after he says this.

"...haha... don't cry... or I'll cry..."

"... Satoru... I thought of you every day after you left me at the station."

"... me too."

"... why did you leave?"

He stares at you.

"... I was scared of you being in danger."

He gulps.

"Me? In danger? But you're the strongest, why would it matter."

Oh god that's right. You said it then when you were 17, "You're the strongest" and he carried that title with him from then. And now you've said it again. He's reminded. He feels a bit stupid. A bit ridiculous. A bit...

"You're right..." he chokes up. "I am. I could have protected you I guess..."

"... yeah, duh."

He smiles meekly.

It was more complicated than that, sweetheart. But I won't tell you.

He hesitates. He contemplates.

"I have to tell you everything... will you promise to believe everything I say even if it sounds insane?"

"Of course. What is it?"

He inhales deeply. And instead of blurting out his whole life story of being a sorcerer in the Jujutsu world, he just leans in and kisses you hard and truthfully. Cups your cheeks. Closes his eyes. Tastes you like a sweet from his childhood that he hasn't had for years. Presses to you. Takes in your scent.

Yeah yeah... he'll tell you everything in a minute.

But for now just let him kiss you until he runs out of breath.

Let him just...

"Hey..." he pulls away, gasping, "Let me marry you."

"Haha, Satoru..." you take it as a joke and laugh, because it sounds as bizarre and unexpected as one. Then you realize there's that serious look on his face. "... Satoru?"

"Can I?"

"... what?"

"Can I please?"

"... huh??"

"Can I marry you, please?"

He looks at you and waits for your answer. His poor heart. It's palpitating. His whole chest cavity inspires with love for you. This man that you haven't seen in years has just asked if you'll let him marry you — with very specific wording.

Can he? Will you let him?

It's funny in a way, because you think to yourself; this is such a Satoru thing to do... show up unannounced years later on your doorstep and ask for your hand in marriage as if no time has passed, as if you know the full story.

"Satoru... what happened to you throughout these years for you to come back to me and ask for my hand in marriage?" you ask, genuinely baffled.

He swallows slowly. "I know I sound like I've lost my mind. But I promise I haven't."

"That's hard to believe. The Satoru I remember was always on the brink of mania. A bit insane but not quite."

You make him laugh. "Yeah..."

"So are you asking to marry me out of insanity?"

"No."

"Well alright then. I guess I'll marry you."

You make him laugh again, with that funny tone. He hasn't laughed genuinely in years... it's always been that plastic laugh. But this is his genuine laugh. Silky and quiet. The opposite of his demeanor.

"I guess I should be explaining everything to you properly... before I ask you something like that."

"You're damn right..."

"... don't scold me too hard when I tell you all the reasons I left. Or, if you do, then at least hold me while you scold me. And run your fingers through my hair like you used to."

"Satoru."

"Yes?"

His heart throbs. He looks at you.

"Stop standing at the doorway and come inside."

"Oh."

You sigh. He smiles. Then he bows his head so it doesn't hit the top of the doorframe. Damn tiny Tokyo apartments. Your archway always had it out for the crown of his head. You laugh when he bumps into it just like he always used to.

So the two of you sit down and just talk. And talk. Maybe cry a bit. Actually, you cry a lot. And he holds you. And he says he's sorry. He says sorry over and over, as if the word is a bandage he's trying to wrap around all your heartbreak wounds that he caused.

"I'm sorry."

Satoru's apologies aren't easy to come by, and when you receive them, they nurse your heart. It's the gentleness with which he says it, and earnest too. Each successive sorry means more than the last.

"My angel..."

When you call him this after he vents to you about his time in the Prison Realm, and his overwhelming duty of being the strongest, he breaks down completely and just weeps in your arms.

He sobs like you've never heard him sob before, like a dog.

Finally. At least for a moment. He could be weak. Let down his guard. Be raw. Be emotional. Not a teacher. Not a sorcerer. Just your boy. Your Satoru.

Your consolation is all he wanted throughout these years. He looks up at you, eyes red and sore, nose sniffling, and stares at you like he can see your soul.

"...Satoru?"

"Marry me."

You chuckle again.

"If that will stop your tears..." you joke.

He sniffles loudly and swallows, composing himself.

"I thought about marrying you so much when we were together... 'n I tried so hard to bite my tongue when your name nearly rolled off it while talking to my students some days. I was always..."

On the verge of saying your name.

He sniffles long and hard and waits for your hand to weave into his hair.

"Will you think about it?"

"I will."

There's a silence. Satoru feels hopeful. He lays on your chest, arms around you like you're his whole world that he won't dare let go of again.

"There." you say with finality. "I thought about it. Let's get married."

"That took you, like, ten seconds."

You laugh with him. "Yeah... I already knew in my heart when you asked me at the doorway... you know... Satoru... it's funny. When you left, it felt like half my soul was gone. And when you knocked on my doorstep, it felt like I was whole again. Does that sound freaky, or does it tie into all this... Juju... Jujutsu stuff?"

He's silent.

"I have no idea."

"Wow. My future husband isn't knowledgeable at all." you joke.

His heart flutters at 'future husband'.

"Sorry." he says, smiling softly, "My mind is blank when your fingers are running through my hair."

The two of you go on and on, until you're laid in bed sleeping at each other's side. Resting. And god, did Gojo Satoru need a good rest.

In your arms, he's no longer an insomniac.

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

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lovifie · 26 days

Text

Well, I Wasn't On That Tunnel ❤️

Masterlist - Taglist Form

Next Chapter

Please don't look too much into the plot holes. Canon can suck my ass, I'm making my own, xoxo 💋

Pairings: Ghoap x Reader.

Warnings: Poly relationship, mentions of death, mentions of guns, rotating POV (mostly Simon's), Spoilers → amnesia, smut, voyeurism

“THE TUNNEL IT'S COLLAPSING! FOLLOW MAKAROV! I'LL TAKE JOHNNY OUT!”

That was the last thing Ghost heard of you.

It's been months since Johnny and you were declared KIA on that mission.

You weren't even meant to be inside, you were the medic, you were supposed to wait outside.

But the moment Makarov shot Johnny he panicked.

Ghost panicked.

And Simon panicked.

You came in running, panting for the effort of carrying with you the medical bag half your size.

You were the one who told them to run. To go after Makarov and kill him.

You were trying to wake up Johnny, Ghost knew it was a lost cause. He couldn't find the pulse, he was gone.

His Johnny was gone.

The last thing he expected was that he was about to lose you too.

Once outside, he kept looking at the tunnel. Waiting for you to come out, whether it was dragging Johnny's body or alone; it didn't matter. You needed to get out.

But after the tunnel collapsed and you didn't get out, it was Price who finally pushed Ghost away.

He barely remembers getting back to base, doesn't remember what Price kept telling him on the helicopter, doesn't remember skipping meals for days, doesn't remember crying himself to sleep for weeks.

But he remembers your face, he remembers Johnny's face.

Oh, what a coward he was.

Two people that he loved, that found their way under his skin right into his heart. Two people that Simon wanted to grow old next to, two people that made Simon want to wake up every morning.

And he was still not brave enough to confess his feelings to neither of them.

He used to stay awake late at night dreaming about how he would do it. After a long time of debating with himself, figuring out what those feelings inside of him were.

Until he figured out it was love, only to them have to face the complex situation of loving two people at the same time.

But even how complicated of a man Simon Riley was, when it comes to his wants it all turns simpler. If on the menu there are two dishes that he likes? He is getting both, obviously. Why choose?

So if all his lonely and twisted life he had never loved anyone, now he suddenly fell in love with two people. He wasn't going to give up one of them and their love just for society's norms.

Murder is also against society’s norms, and he gets paid for it.

But it was too late now.

Maybe it was for the better.

He could lie to himself, agree that he never confessed because it was not his destiny.

Not because they would have not loved him back.

Not because they would have been scared of him.

Not because they wouldn't have been able to see past his mask.

Not because they would have rather dated each other than him.

It's easier like this.

Simon knows how to mourn a loved one.

What he doesn't know is, how it's possible he got a message from you this morning when you died four months ago.

You are stepping out of the shower, skin warm from the water and baby hairs sticking to your forehead; when someone knocks on the bathroom door.

You furrow your eyebrows at how hard they knock, the whole door shaking with it.

“Calm down, I'm almost finished.” You grumble, pulling the towel around your body.

You drag your feet over the towel on the floor to walk closer, and open the door annoyed by the insistent knocking.

“I told you I am almost finish-” Your words are cut off by the barrel of a gun right on your face.

You don't even have time to panic, because you immediately recognise the stupid skeleton gloves holding the gun.

“Simon?” You whisper,scared that if you talk any louder he will disappear. Price and Gaz are behind him, slowly lowering their gun when they see it's you.

There is a glistering layer over Ghost's eyes that if you didn't known any better you'd think are tears.

You push his gun down, the man still immobile as if you were the ghost; and you jump into his arms, circling his neck with your arms.

“It worked! It finally worked!” You exclaim, tears slowly running down your cheeks. “I have been trying to contact any of you for months, it finally fucking worked!”

Ghost struggles to tell whether you are laughing or crying, a mix of the two. But he can't focus on that, he can only focus on your skin under his gloves.

God, how he hated his gloves right now.

He bites the tip of his finger, pulling the glove off spitting it somewhere. And he snakes his hand under your towel.

He knows is improper, perverted even; but he needs it. He needs to feel your warm skin under his palm, your heart beating loud and fast.

He surrounds your waist, hands big enough to rest on your ribs, right under your chest.

Boom, boom… boom, boom… boom, boom…

He sighs, melting onto you, his tears getting absorbed by the mask on his face. He hugs you tighter, daring you to slip from his fingers again.

He bites his lips, copper taste on his tongue, to prevent himself from sobbing.

But the sobs can be heard, and Ghost it's almost disappointed with himself until he notices your body shaking.

It's you who is crying.

And he panics again, pulling back to look at you and you cup your face, apologizing.

“I'm sorry. I tried my best, I really did.” He can barely understand what you are trying to tell him between sobs. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

He shushes you quickly, he understands; the survivor’s guilt is a special kind of poison. But he understands, he feels it too.

“It's alright, love. You are alright, everything is going to be alright.” He hugs you again, resting your head on his chest. Mourning Johnny will be easier if you are together, he now hates himself for thinking you were dead; for accepting it.

For mourning you for months and now having you on his arms.

Warm and breathing.

He can only imagine what you went through.

You entered the tunnel because he called for you, and then he left you inside with a corpse.

How did you get out?

How did anyone see you get out?

How did you find a house?

How did you survive alone with the guilt?

Are the scars on your shoulder for getting out or were they always there?

Were you trapped under the debris?

For how long?

But that doesn't matter, he knew you were strong. That you were clever. That you were better than him.

He already knew that.

Gaz and Price remain silent, reading in the situation that there is something underlying that they don't know. Letting the two of you, have your moment.

It's only when Gaz hears the almost unnoticeable steps get closer that he moves, turning his body and almost dropping his weapon in the process when he sees him.

“Johnny?” That's all he is able to see.

And that's all that is needed to hear.

Price and Ghost whip their head around like they have been smacked, coming face to face with the man.

There are still bandages on the side of his head, he looks thinner, less muscles, sunken eyes and dark bags. But it's Johnny.

A scarred, angry Johnny.

Holding the pistol on his hands pointing to Ghost's head.

Looking at him as if Simon was his greatest enemy.

“Johnny…” He tries to talk to him, keeping you behind his back by instincts.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” Johnny shouts, his hands are shaking.

That explains it, why he look like a madman, why he looks so scared under the rage, why he keeps trying to look under him.

“Johnny, it's alright.” You finally say, moving from behind Ghost, softly pushing his arm back. You walk ahead, still only on the towel; and you walk up to Johnny. You rest your hand on the pistol, pushing it down with ease.

You raise your other hand to the men, the signal of “wait”.

Johnny looks at you with utter confusion, eyes shaking moving around your face for any kind of explanation. His hand move around you, checking for any damage; the hand that doesn't have the gun clinging to the towel.

You cup his face between your hands, the man bending down slightly to make it easier for you to reach; you whisper something to him making him relax almost immediately.

And then you kiss him.

On the cheek, right beside the nose making him close his eyes for a second.

But it feels like a stab on Simon's heart.

He tries to think rationally, you were just calming him down. He knows Johnny is always desperate for physical contact, that's all. Nothing else.

He really tries to think logically, but logically the two of you are dead and buried under a tunnel. Not standing at the end of the hall, kissing and comforting each other.

Something about it, about the possibility there is something more going on between Johnny and you; sends Simon's inner gears spinning.

He sees the virtual space between the two of you, slowly getting in the shape of his body.

You whisper something to Johnny, he nods, touching your forehead with his for a second, before walking back. Looking at Simon with hate on his cerulean blue eyes.

You sigh, watching Johnny move and turn to the three still shell-shocked.

“As far as I can tell…” You whisper, once you are close to them. “He only remembers up to when he was 20, little more, little less.”

“So he doesn't remember anyone?” Price asks after a moment.

You shake your head. “Not that he hasn't asked me about, he asked about some people but I don't know them. He thought I was a nurse when he woke up.” You explain.

“What happened in the tunnel?” Gaz asks, looking behind you to check Johnny is not back. “How did you get out? And him? He was dead.”

You shake your head again. “Not yet. Almost… but not yet. I-”

“Bonnie! You want coffee or tea?!” Johnny's voice makes everyone jump.

“Coffee, please!” You answer without skipping a beat and turn to them. “I'll explain it later, alright? It's not the place nor the time.”

Price nods once. “Get dressed, I'll contact the pilot to let them know we are flying back tonight, right?”

“Roger that.” The three of you reply almost by muscle memory.

“I'll be fast, don't rile him up.” You say, before entering the bedroom closing it behind you.

Ghost feels Price's eyes on him.

Wondering.

Asking.

What's between you and him?

What's between you and Soap?

What's inside his mind?

“Tea is ready.” It all gets interrupted by the amnesiac man calling them to the kitchen.

They walk together, sitting around the table. Gaz and Price find it almost easy to talk to Soap, about how happy they are to see him again, about how they are flying back later, easy chatter.

But Ghost can't.

Not when Soap finally smiles at Price making fun of Gaz's cap and Ghost's breath is knocked out of his chest.

That's his boy.

Breathing and warm.

Just like you.

He knows it's the universe talking, telling him not to fuck it up again.

Still, he feels his heart sink every time Soap looks at him with such a sour look. Offended even. His boy.

That would jump at any opportunity to impress him, to earn his respect, his affection. Now locked like he wanted to stab him on the chest, twisting the knife in the process.

He knows it's because of you, the way the man stared at his hand as you pushed it out of the towel didn't go unnoticed by Simon.

Not the greatest first impression.

Does it count as a first impression if he has known the man for years?

You walk into the kitchen not much later, Johnny's eyes lightening at seeing you; his saviour.

You walk past Ghost, your arm resting on his shoulder as you bend down to slightly knock your head against Soap's.

And that's it, that all Simon's needs. To be involved. He doesn't need to be in the middle of you two, he is fine with being in the sidelines, but he needs to be a part of it.

He knows you are on his side, you remember him unlike Johnny. You can be the bridge to get him to Johnny; to keep Johnny from running. Make a pack with him; keep the two of you close.

A turmoil of emotions keeps spinning inside Ghost's head, all the versions of himself wanting to be right.

The part of him he thinks is unable to love telling him to let the two of you alone, you are better of without him.

The part of him he thinks is unable to be loved telling him to not even try, save himself the rejection.

The part of him that is still unsure of what even are his feelings telling him to not get involved, that it would only confuse the two of you.

But then there is also that part of him. The part called Simon Riley; that still holds onto the chance of loving and getting love.

And he looks at you and Soap, the way Soap looks up to you. The way he used to look at him.

“Let's pack our things up, Johnny.” You say, patting Soap’s back. “The sooner we are back home, the better.”

And you smile at Soap so kindly, so wide, so warm.

He understands how you managed to calm Soap down. Waking up from what he assumed must be something close to a coma after getting shot on the head, not remembering anything, in pain, alone. And then you appeared, so soft and so kind.

He wouldn't blame Johnny if he was already in love with you, with you being literally the only thing he knows since waking up.

Johnny stands up, walking out of the kitchen but looking back to make sure you are walking behind him.

The two of you disappear down the hall, voices low as you move away.

“I can't believe they are alive…” Gaz comments, sipping his tea.

“Neither do I…” Price answers, sipping his. “Bloody necromancer…”

And you are, Simon was also dead before meeting you.

“I'm gonna check on them.” He says, downing the beverage on a gulp that burns down his throat.

He stands up, Price and Gaz look at him as he does. They are going to talk about him as soon as he gets out, but he doesn't care.

He has made his choice.

He loves you.

He loves Johnny.

He walks down the hall, seeing the door ajar.

His hand reaches the knob when he hears it.

His blood running cold.

“Johnny…”

It's your sweet voice moaning the name.

The unmistakable sounds of kisses inside the room.

“I don't like how he looks at you, bonnie.” The man whispers, his breathing unstable.

“He's your best friend, Joh-Ah!” You moan, interrupting yourself as you speak.

“I don't care! I don't know him. You are mine!” The man grunts, the sound of skin slapping slowly becoming more and more clear.

“Johnny…” You moan again, and Simon is sure that he can hear your cunt squelch around Johnny's length.

He opens the door the slightest bit, just enough for his eyes to see the way Johnny has you bent over on the bed.

With you laying on your stomach on the bed, legs hanging from him without strength to push yourself up. Johnny behind you, a foot on the ground and the other on the mattress as leverage to keep sinking into your weeping cunt.

Neither of you bothered to take off the clothes, simply lowered the pants enough for Johnny to get inside of you. Your pants pooling on your ankles, legs limp with the rhythm Johnny has settled.

Simon wishes he could see your face, pleasure painted on your expressions with your face buried on the mattress. Johnny keeps your hands on your back, keeping you pressed against the bed. But the only thing he can see is Johnny's back.

So he sees perfectly fine when the man turns his torso around, still thrusting into you, and looks at Simon.

He looks straight into Simon's eyes, who panic just for a second for getting caught peeking into their room, into them together.

But the Johnny smiles, not the adoration-filled smile he used to gift Simon with. Instead, is the smile filled with pride that he only kept for after winning a match or catching an enemy.

Johnny raises his hand to show him his middle finger.

As he mouths “Fuck you.”

And Simon wants to laugh.

Johnny wants to play?

Then they'll play.

Game's on.

@waiting-so-long

Taglist: @whos-fran @thevoidwriting @sklt987659 @kayden666 @dumb12bvtch1212 @thatonepupkai @darkangel4121 @risingofjupiter @spadekip @herefor-tojis-tits @soupinasock @marymustdie @arbesa-mind @cmbghost @multifandomheathenannie @tooloudarts @panikk-attackkk @reap3erslov3 @mothsdrabbles @ghosts-hoe @cassiecasluciluce @sleepdeprivedkat @lunamoonbby @hatterripper31 @contractedcriteria @cod-z @jaguarthecat @savagemickey03 @fraserbraw @rosiehale23 @keiva1000 @sw33tsnow @viisgrave @theloneshadow24 @loveandplanet @sobbingnshtting @dprmoon @simpsallthetime1997 @ladyxtiger @soapsmohawk-16 @nina6708 @katreintjie @sacvh @mothymunson @archenillo @thesinsoflust @sodavrr @yuki2129 @mikaronn

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kafkasmuses · 1 month

Text

romeo meets juliet — luke castellan x reader : chess can be played in many different situations.

tags : 18+!! loser!luke (hes actually such a loser im sorry), college setting, brothers best friend!luke, mutual pining, religious imagery(?), classic literature references, body worship, smut, luke is pathetically in love

a/n : save me nerdy boy with sad eyes save me

luke didn’t acknowledge your existence at first, he stuck to himself, from his classes, to his dorm, maybe even the lunchroom if his roomate, your brother, convinced him to come rather than just making all of his meals in the dorm. luke and your brother were complete opposites, luke was studying literature, mostly classic, he didn’t speak to many people unless forced to— and your brother was studying engineering, which also basically required him to join a frat, and he spoke to nearly everyone with cockiness prominent in his tone.

one thing they did have in common, though, was chess.

now, your brother could never tell anyone, especially not his frat brothers, that he played chess, let alone was in the university’s chess club— but he felt pity for luke, most of the time luke played by himself, which was somehow equally as frustrating as having to play against someone else.

the only people that knew about your brother playing chess was luke, the chess club, and you.

luke remembers the first time you came trotting in to the dorm, complaining to your brother about some argument you had with your parents about how your friends are distracting you from your studies. your brother only rolls his eyes, barely listening to your non - stop whining about how it’s ridiculous, “i mean— you’re the one in a frat! why aren’t they mad at you?”

“because i actually do my work,” he mumbles, and luke breathes out in a silent laugh, moving a piece on his chess board.

“you’re in engineering, you don’t even have any actual work,” you frown, and albeit the fact that you’re wrong, you’re still confident in what you said.

“are you stu— whatever,” your brother waves you off, deciding to change the subject when he motions to luke, the boy in a nirvana t-shirt, currently moving to a different side of the chess board as he plays against himself, “this is luke, my roommate, obviously.”

luke immediately freezes, fingers curling around the chess piece he was adjusting to move— his eyes are wide, and they’re moving to look at you, only to immediately flicker to some other part of the room when they meet your expectant gaze. since he won’t speak first, you pick up the slack, “hey, luke.”

your brother notices how luke looks like a scared, lost puppy even by the slightest implication of having to speak to a woman, let alone be perceived by one, so he moves to whisper in your ear, “he’s like, deathly afraid of women, i’ve never seen him speak to one, ever.”

and you from that you don’t expect a response from luke, until he mumbles a short, “hi.”

that’s when your head tilts, noticing the way his curls fall over his brows messily, like he doesn’t pay attention to styling it, or maybe it’s on purpose, maybe he pays too much attention to styling it. the way he wore something so simple, yet so telling about himself, the way he awkwardly places the chess piece back on the board on the spot he wanted to. he assumes the conversation is over, so he moves to the opposite side of the board to make a move against his own.

“are you in the chess club?” you take a step closer, and he perks up, hand ghosting over the piece once more.

luke doesn’t say anything, his lips twitch around words that don’t come out. your brother speaks in his place, “he’s the president, he’s a fucking grandmaster.”

luke just awkwardly laughs, moving his hand to scratch at the back of his neck, eyes moving from the board to you, then to your brother, “i’m not like— actually the president,” another awkward, short chuckle, “i just— like.. um.. play a lot, i guess.”

“you are the president, dude,” your brother corrects, being insufferable as he always is.

but luke puts up with it, then you ask another question, “what do you major in?”

“literature,” luke responds for himself this time, finally able to move his hand to make a proper move on the chess board, before mumbling, “mostly classic.”

“you’re kidding, i am too, how have i not seen you before?”

luke’s eyes finally meet yours, now, pausing on your eyes, then resuming down the shape of your face, memorizing each feature, the curve of your lashes, the shape of your lips— he swallows thickly.

“i just— sit in the back.. and go to my dorm— as soon as class ends,” there’s that awkward, short chuckle again.

“have you finished the paper?”

luke nods, and that’s when your brother finally gets a bright idea.

“you should help her, luke, with the work.”

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

that’s how it all started, with a simple suggestion, that’s when you came to the dorm more often, when he began to notice that you were actually in his classes, and when you realized he had an awful staring problem. he thought he was slick with it too, letting his eyes move around the room for a mere.. twenty seconds before they finally snap to you, and from there, they stay, until you finally return the gaze and he’s immediately nervously looking away.

he hardly speaks to you, unless your brother urges him to, and he’s always avoiding looking at you when he speaks, stumbling over words, pausing in sentences to catch his losing breath. he was a complete and utter loser, terrible when it came to socializing, even worse when it’s with girls. with you, it somehow seemed to worsen.

“am i the first girl you’ve ever talked to?” you ask once, far too blunt for your own liking, you didn’t mean to really say it, it kind of just came out when seeing how much his leg bounced under the table with nervousness, nearly sweating himself to death under your gaze.

sweat beads down his temple when his eyes flutter up to meet yours, moving from the romeo and juliet book in his hands. isn’t it so ironic that he had just gotten done reading the scene in which romeo says, “did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! for i ne'er saw true beauty till this night,” when seeing juliet for the first time? truly, it isn’t the first time he saw you, but it’s night, and you are beautiful. truly, utterly, “beautiful.”

“what?”

oh, oh my god. saliva bubbles in his mouth, sour saliva, and he gulps it down, hoping it would somehow be a form of poison that would wake him from this nightmare. does he say what he meant? that he was thinking out loud? that he thinks you’re beautiful? or should he deny it? deny. he bursts into awkward laughs, “what— what do you mean— i.. i didn’t even say anything.. ha, haha.”

“why are you acting like that?” your brows furrow.

“like what?”

“like you’re hiding something.”

his breathing only shakes anymore, “i’m not hiding anything.. that’s like— a wild accusation.”

“it’s not an accusation, i’m just saying,” you frown at him.

his adam’s apple bobs with another swallow, “okay but like—“

“why are you harassing him?” your brother sighs, tired how much you press luke.

“i’m not— whatever, i was asking you— am i the first girl you’ve ever spoken to?”

your brother barks out a laugh, and luke’s eyes fall back down to the book in his hands. did not having proper conversations with women make him any less? romeo grabbed juliet’s hand once, and the first words he uttered to her was a promise to redeem himself if his hand was too unworthy to be touching her holy one. parallels sear in his mind, and he just mumbles a, “not really.”

he has spoken to women before, sure, small greetings, maybe even the slightest indulgence of conversation— but luke keeps to himself, and to be honest, he was a man used to running from women, as he did from his mother. he grew up being afraid of women, well, afraid isn’t the proper word, intimidated is better, and he just decided to avoid them as much as possible.

though, no matter how much he tries to avoid you, you’re always there, in his sight, in his mind. maybe it’s a disgrace, like romeo holding juliet’s hand, for him to even be thinking of you, looking at you— you were a goddess that offered a man on his knees the slightest bit of your grace, and now he was hooked.

it was pathetic, really, how he anticipated every time he suspected you would be over, how his eyes always found their way to you in class, how he made sure to purposefully walk past you in the lunchroom on the days he went, which was oddly more now.

a man who is still a virgin to adore a girl far too good for him, he is hopeless.

“it’s okay if i am,” you adjust, okay, there might be a little hope, “anyway, how do you like romeo and juliet?”

“it’s pretty nice—“ he notices the way your face perks up in shock, “kind of, i don’t know.”

“i think it’s a bore, i’m sure the movie is much better.”

“we should watch the movie— um.. together, sometime.”

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

if luke was being completely honest with himself, he didn’t entirely mean to say it, and as soon as you left the dorm, he nearly doubled over with shock at his own words, and even more shock at the fact that you agreed. not only did you agree, you actually came, and it was just you and him. your brother was off at some frat party, again, and he had left luke completely alone with you, even when luke begged him not to.

“you’re kidding, dude, i’m like— horrified of her,” luke frowns at your brother.

“you need exposure therapy, or some shit, call me your therapist.”

“you’re a shit therapist,” luke sighs, rubbing his temples.

“and you need to grow some balls.”

so, your brother left him, and now luke’s awkwardly standing with you at his door - step, staring at him expectantly, his lips twitch around so many possible words, possible sentences, and all that comes out is, “hey.”

he’s been staring for you for at least a minute, and all he can say is hey. your lips curve to an amused smile, “hi, luke.”

“um— you can come in, if you.. want, ‘course.” he moves out the way to let you in, watching you step past him so he can close the door.

“i wouldn’t be here if i didn’t want to,” you remark as if it’s the obvious, mostly because it is.

when romeo stood underneath juliet’s balcony, he praised how captivating she was, considers her as glorious as an angel, a winged messenger above his head. in his own words :

“one who makes mortals fall onto their backs to gaze up in awe as the angel strides across the clouds and sails through the air.”

consider luke on his back now, staring up at the stars in your eyes, the halo that shines above your head, the wings that flap with every stride you make— a goddess, an angel, venus incarnate, right before his eyes, staring at him like he had something deeply wrong with him. wait. he blinks a few times, and his eyes refocus onto your confused face.

“are you okay, luke?”

he quickly clears his throat, “yeah, yeah— duh, ‘course i am, uh.. we should,” he moves to the table in which his laptop was on, “watch the movie, yeah? ‘ts on my.. laptop, if you don’t mind.”

“i don’t, at all,” you move to sit next to him on the couch in front of the table, watching the veins in his hands pulse, palms sweaty when he moves to open his laptop, shifting a few tabs and pressing a few keys until he mumbles a small okay and presses the space button.

moaning. that’s all you hear, the sound of skin slapping, ah ah— oh fuck mmph you’re so b— luke slams the laptop shut.

dear god, save him now.

he can’t even bring himself to look at you, the sweat on his palms only worsens and spreads onto the top of the laptop as he smoothes his hands across it, replaying the scene a million times in his mind. to his surprise, you giggle, “you watch porn?”

he’s quick to awkwardly scoff out a short laugh, “yeah— i mean, everyone does.. but like.. i don’t watch it— that much.”

your finger moves to run along the vein on his arm, feeling him shudder under your touch, yet he doesn’t want you to stop, even the slightest touch makes his dick twitch in his pants, “are you a virgin, luke?”

he inhales sharply, “y-yeah..”

“do you want to have sex?” you lean the tiniest bit closer.

he pauses, “yes.. of course—“

“with me?”

“yes.” he responds quick, too fucking quick, it must’ve been at most a second after you said it for him to respond. the truth stings his tongue, to finally be able to say it out loud, how much he had fantasized about you in the late of night, even sneaking off to the bathrooms so his hand can dip underneath his waistband when he thinks about the times you’ve worn a tight shirt that frames your tits far too well.

but it was wrong, wasn’t it? you were a goddess, on a pedestal, and he was merely just a man, staring up at your statue in the hopes that you would notice him one day. forbidden, possibly, but all those thoughts leave his mind when his eyes move from the finger tracing up his bicep to your neck, then your lips, then your eyes.

“please tell me you’ve kissed before.”

“yeah.. yeah— i have,” a playground kiss counts, right?

it seems to when your lips fall against his own, the kiss was so gentle, until he dared to kiss you back, then it got hungry, mostly on his end. he kissed you like a starving man, nearly devouring you but at the same time, being horrified to. your tongue finds it’s way into his mouth, and to your surprise, he whimpers against your lips.

his hands are hesitant, unsure of where to go, does he touch your arm? your shoulder? your waist? he doesn’t want to push anything, so the waist seems far too much, his hands awkwardly place themselves on your arm, in a very weird position.

“have you touched a girl before?”

his lips are flushed from the kiss, eyes glazing over the position of his hands, and he quickly moves them off, “sorry— well, i just.. um.. didn’t want to push anything.”

“you can,” you reassure, but his hands still hesitate, the flesh of a goddess, to be touched by someone so inexperienced. was he really worth it? any of it? to even be in your presence was a blessing, and it was still taking him forever to register the fact that you had actually kissed him, prayers passed through your lips into his.

“are you sure?”

“‘course i am.”

it still took luke some getting used to, having you straddle his lap, you knew so much, it felt like more than just an honor to have you so close to him. his eyes flicked from your own to your lips, then to your tits, the low v - cut showing off your cleavage perfectly. and he looked like a complete deer in headlights, staring at the flesh pushed together between the window of clothing. you smile at his lack of self control, feeling the way his dick throbs underneath his pants, right against your ass, “you can touch them.”

“wha— nono, ‘ts okay— i just..” he trails off, sweaty palms moving past you to slide across his knees.

“really, luke, you can— why don’t i just..” you move to take off your shirt, his eyes immediately catching on to the lace of your bra, the way your tits are practically spilling out of it, all until you take off your bra as well and they immediately fall out.

his hand twitches around nothing, desperately wondering what it must feel like to have your flesh underneath his palm, fingers curling around the plush of it. it seems you must’ve heard his prayers when you move to take his hands, pulling them back to press against your tits.

soft, that’s his first thought, sweat sticks to your skin when his fingers curve around the flesh, gripping it ever so gently. praises spill from his lips almost immediately, thoughts he had since the day he saw you, finally being spoken, “y’re beautiful— fuck, i’ve always.. always wanted to— do this..”

you smile so sweet at him, nectar nearly drips off your teeth, “can i ride you, luke?”

his eyes finally meet yours, brows furrowing for a mere second, “huh— oh, oh.. yeah, ‘course you can.”

you didn’t expect him to have a big, no matter how cruel that sounds, you had heard rumors of nerds with big dicks, but sought to never believe it until you saw it, and good fucking lord you saw it. as soon as his dick springs out from the pants and boxers you were tugging down, luke’s hands mindlessly moved to your waist, your eyes widen.

no fucking way. he has to be.. six? seven inches, at least. slightly girthy too, he wasn’t all just length, and precum was beading from his red tip. he immediately inhales sharply when your fingers graze his dick, nervous under your gaze, “is it too small— i.. i’m sorry—“

“too small?” you scoff playfully at his scared expression, worried of what you think, “this might be the biggest dick i’ve ever seen, luke.”

“that’s— a good thing.. right?”

“obviously, god, it better fit,” this is the first time you’ve ever been concerned about whether or not a dick will fit, luke stiffens when you spit on your palm, pressing it to his dick and wettening it as you jerk him off, his response is immediate, carefully gripping at your skin and pressing his lips together to muffle his whimpers.

luke had jerked of many, many times, but it never felt as good as this.

“fuck—“ he grunts out, already far too close from just a simple hand movements.

you immediately stop, picking up on his nearing orgasm from the way his hips kept bucking up into your hands, pathetic whines slipping past his lips, but it was just so cute. the cutest thing, though, was his face when he got the first look at your vagina, he looked like a man staring at a piece of art he had admired. and this was art, sex was, you were, everything about you, it felt so sacred.

his lashes flutter when you take his hand, guiding it to your sopping cunt, allowing him to feel the wetness that was nearly pouring from you. like nectar from a fountain, it coated his fingertips when he touched you, his eyes focused onto your face, making sure that he was doing it right. he notices the way you gasp when his fingertips brush against your clit, so he presses against it again, and again.

he follows everything he has seen in pornos, spreading your folds, fingers grazing past your entrance, rubbing your clit— but he’s lost when you wave him off before he can finger you to prep you for his dick, wasn’t that something people did? “but don’t you…”

“it’ll fit,” you mumble back, relying on how wet you are to make it easier.

he watches the way your jaw falls when you move to press his tip against your entrance, allowing the tip to push into you and it’s already too big. his eyes widen at the feeling of your walls clenching around his tip, unable to hold back the noises that slip from his own lips.

“you’re like— the.. the girl of my dr— fuck— dreams,” luke hushed out between his mess of moans and grunts, he wondered if romeo ever felt this way when he kissed juliet for the first time, the sort of electric rush that riddled his bones, it felt unreal. you were a dream incarnate, one luke was always haunted with, the woman that would show up when his eyes would close at night, and now you were on his lap, sinking down on his dick.

“am i? really?” you question, inhaling sharply when you finally reach the base of his cock. for some odd reason, you didn’t believe you were all he was putting you up to be, and that made him sick— how could you think of yourself as any less? you were perfect, a vision, to be fair, luke would adore you even if you were an enemy, just like romeo and juliet.

he would stand at your balcony, stare at you from across the ballroom, kiss your knuckles, kiss you— he would do it all. he might even drink poison just to spend eternity with you.

“yes, yes— are you.. kidding? mmph.. fuck— you’re like.. a fuckin’ goddess,” it comes out like a prayer, as if he was on his knees at your altar, kissing your legs, and whispering worshipping words.

to nobody’s surprise, luke doesn’t last long at all when you’re bouncing on his cock, no matter how much he tried to distract himself from his throbbing cock by pawing at your tits, or moving to kiss you, his orgasm was just too close. “‘m g’na.. please.. g’na cum.. mmphh.. fuck!”

when he does cum, you had pulled off him, jerking him off, and he’s practically writhing, a whimpering and damn near crying mess. and once he’s helped you to your orgasm as well, you’re falling into his arms, finding a safe - haven in how he smells like old books, mint, and cheap cologne.

two star crossed lovers, one capulet, one montague.

“these violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder. which, as they kiss, consume.” — romeo and juliet, act two, scene six.

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan #luke castellan oneshot #luke castellan x you #luke castellan smut #pjo luke #charlie bushnell imagine #charlie bushnell x reader #charlie bushnell #loser!luke

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navybrat817 · 4 months

Text

Indulgence

Pairing: Dom!Bucky Barnes x Sub!Female Reader Summary: When Bucky calls, you go to him. Word Count: Over 5.7k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected vaginal sex, D/s elements, bondage, aftercare, established arrangement, insecurities, pet names, longing, possessive behavior, world building, mix of canon and non-canon, slight feels (it's me, okay?), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: I'm very excited for this new AU, lovelies! There's a deep bond between these two, but we know the road to love isn't always easy. ❤️Beta read by the amazing @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. And thanks to @targaryenvampireslayer for listening to me ramble about this part. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You had only been asleep for an hour when your phone went off, your eyes barely open as you reached for the device and saw the familiar name appear. “Bucky?” You answered drowsily.

“Hey, angel,” he said roughly, the pet name bringing a sleepy smile to your face. It sounded like he hadn't gotten much sleep either. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I have tomorrow off,” you said, a bit more alert as you sat up. “Are you at your apartment?”

“Yeah, I got back a bit ago,” he replied, swearing under his breath. “It’s really late. I just…”

“Need me,” you finished for him, stretching your back as you stood up. If he wanted to tell you he made it home safely from his latest assignment, he would've sent you a text. You knew by now that a call meant he had to see you in person. “Give me a few minutes?”

“You sure? I understand if you’d rather go back to bed.”

“I’m not going to get any sleep until I know you will, too,” you said. It would drive you crazy. “I want to come over. Okay?”

You wondered if the call dropped since you didn't hear anything on the other end. “Okay. I’ll send a car,” he said. He never let you pay for a ride yourself. “Thank you,” he added so softly you almost missed it.

“You don't need to thank me,” you assured him, though you appreciated hearing it. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he promised, your heart skipping a beat before he hung up.

You brushed your teeth again before you changed out of your pajamas. The outfit didn't exactly matter. If it had, he would’ve told you what you wear. It wouldn't stay on long anyway. You sensed that this was a night for him to simply blow off some steam or release anything still pent up from his assignment.

You were more than happy to help.

“On my way.” You messaged him a few minutes later as you went out to the car.

You politely greeted the driver before gazing out the window. If anyone had told you months ago that you’d be sleeping with the former Winter Soldier, you would’ve laughed at them for saying something so crazy. You never expected to meet the man, let alone connect with him. That was your life now though. You were sleeping with Bucky Barnes.

But it wasn't that cut and dry.

“I’ll be outside.” He sent back.

You smiled to yourself as you thought about Bucky, the man searching for himself again. After years of enduring horrific pain and having no control over his actions, he felt lost once he was free. In his eyes, he would never be able to right all the wrongs of the atrocities he was forced to commit, but making amends for his past was a start. It wasn't enough though to heal the cracks from within. It couldn't stop him from plunging into the deep abyss of his mind where it once felt whole.

He had to find a way to feel semi-normal again. He needed to do something good for someone else outside of his heroic duties. And he had to do so in an environment where he could express himself openly, honestly, and authentically with a person he could trust.

That was where you came into the picture.

If Bucky called, no matter what time of day and you were available, you went to his place in a car he paid for. You stayed until you were both satisfied. A more crude way to think of it was that you helped him fuck out his frustrations and gave him a means to inflict pleasure on someone instead of hurt. It was a routine you were used to by now.

“You wanna be my angel?”

You may be his angel, but you weren't his girlfriend. He wasn't in a place to have a typical relationship. You weren't just a fuck buddy either. You were his submissive of sorts, along with his confidant and a way for him to find release and some sense of normalcy.

While he sometimes fucked you like a whore, he never once treated you like one. He cared for your well-being and checked in on you the way a boyfriend would. He kept his place stocked with your favorite snacks. You didn't sleep with anyone else and neither did he. You looked out for each other.

Unlike your last boyfriend.

As far as arrangements went, you could do much worse. There were rules set in place. Bucky was honest about his needs and helped you heal your wounds from the failure of your previous relationship. But the more time you spent with him, the more you wanted to be with him.

Was it a recipe for disaster?

The drive seemed faster than usual because before you knew it the car stopped in front of Bucky’s apartment building. Your pulse quickened when you saw the brunette standing by the door, donned in his usual leather jacket. Even from a short distance, he looked massive and heat bloomed in your core as you knew what was to come. He moved to the curb with more grace than a man his size should have, his hard blue eyes set on you through the glass before he opened the door.

His gaze practically set your heart on fire and it went full ablaze when he tenderly smiled. He was stunningly beautiful even in the dark of night. It almost hurt to look back at him.

You had it bad.

“Hey,” he said, offering you his gloved hand to help you out. You hardly ever saw him out without his vibranium hand covered. “It’s good to see you.”

“Hey,” you smiled softly, giving the driver a quick thanks before you got out. “You, too.”

Bucky's large hand moved to the small of your back as he gently led you toward the building and opened the door. He didn't like to linger outside for too long. Neither of you spoke as he guided you to his apartment on the first floor and you didn't push him to make small talk. It was a delicate arrangement and some nights didn't call for filler.

Still, you tried to get a read on his emotions. There was a stiffness to his stance, but he didn't appear upset or angry. You also didn’t spot any obvious injuries.

“Were you hurt?” You asked as he took his keys out. He was only gone for a couple of days, but you knew how dangerous the missions were.

He turned and stared at you, not at all surprised by your question since you always asked. “No, I didn’t get hurt,” he assured you, reaching up to scratch at the stubble on his chin. “But I can't exactly talk about it either. I’m sorry.”

You nodded in understanding. It was information you weren't privy to and you doubted he called tonight to talk about it anyway. He peeled back layers of himself, yet there was so much underneath that you didn't know about. You cared for him regardless.

“Bucky, you don't have to apologize for that,” you reminded him.

“I just feel bad. You can tell me about your work, but I can't always talk about mine,” he said, looking both ways before he poked his head into his apartment.

“My job isn’t as ‘exciting’ as yours,” you teased before he let you in.

Bucky had a nice place. The partially exposed brick walls paired well with the hardwood floors. Tasteful, but not extravagant. The thick curtains in the living room matched the drapes in his bedroom. Since he occasionally slept on the floor by the oversized chair, it helped to block out the sun. He didn't have much as far as decor, but he did have a piece of art that his best friend, Steve, drew hung up in the hall.

He also had a bowl that you made on the console to hold his keys, which he promptly set them in.

It meant something that he even let you into his apartment when others close to him had never been invited.

“Need anything to drink?” He asked, slipping his jacket and glove off.

He had an empty glass waiting on the kitchen island in case you did. While you indulged in a drink now and then, he wouldn't allow you to have too many. He refused to have sex with you if you were inebriated. Said it took consent away and you wouldn't be alert enough to use a safeword if necessary.

He wouldn't budge on that rule.

“No, thanks,” you answered, gazing at him.

His T-shirt strained against his biceps, one flesh and one vibranium. You could still smell his cologne from the small distance across the room, amber and cedarwood. Warm, comforting, dominating. All the things he was to you.

Not the monster he sometimes believed himself to be.

You eyed him as he poured himself a shot of whiskey, the need to soothe him coming forward when you caught a distant look in his eyes. He didn't even make a move to down his drink as he set his hands on the counter and stared off. Maybe he couldn't give you the details about what happened, but you could take care of him.

Because as much as he sometimes had to have control over you, both of you had power in your relationship.

“Bucky?” You gently called out, pulling him from his trance. “You can talk to me, even if you have to keep some things to yourself.”

His shoulders dropped as he sighed. “Three months.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Three months since we started this,” he answered.

You realized he was right when you remembered the date. It felt longer yet still brand new. “Yeah. Three great months,” you smiled.

A knot formed in your stomach when he didn't smile back. “And you still feel safe with me?” He asked, gripping the counter so hard you thought it might crumble in his hands. “You really trust that I won’t hurt you?”

Your smile slipped, the questions like a punch to the gut as you walked toward him. You stopped a foot in front of him to give him some breathing room as he made eye contact. Where had that come from? What happened to make him question that?

“Of course, I feel safe. Not only do I feel safe with you and trust you, I know that you won't hurt me. You will always take care of me,” you said with fierce determination, yet with a vulnerability you couldn't hide. “If I didn't believe that, I wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t submit to you.”

You told him the same thing the day you two agreed on this arrangement. He wasn't your boyfriend, but he wasn't like your ex. He wouldn't just throw you away without a second thought or ignore your needs. You also had faith in him that he wouldn't harm you.

And as much as you trusted him, he trusted you that much more. If he didn't, he wouldn't have called you in the first place. That meant he still trusted himself around you.

He looked away and asked above a whisper, “Do you still think I'm a good man?”

“Yes,” you replied without hesitation, your heart aching when his jaw clenched. “Bucky, look at me, please.”

He slowly made eye contact with you, a storm swirling in his stare.

“You are a good man,” you stated, needing to reach the part of him that believed it. “And it doesn't matter how many times you ask me that, my answer isn't going to change. Ever.”

Bucky was silent, his breathing the only sound in the space. You were worried that you said the wrong thing before he pushed himself away from the counter. Instead of moving back when he approached, you stood firm, ready to brace the storm. You sometimes felt like a mouse confronted by a lion when he got close, but it sent a thrill through you. Because you meant what you said.

You trusted him and he made you feel safe.

“I just had to hear you say it,” he whispered as he cupped your face.

A fire lit within you as Bucky captured your mouth with his. There was care and tenderness beneath the hunger and you found yourself clinging to his arms as you kissed him back. No one before him had ever kissed you with such desire, such passion. It had you chasing his lips when he pulled away too soon.

“Now go to my room, get undressed, and kneel on the bed facing the headboard,” he ordered, his voice low and allowing the words to sink in just in case you had any objections. Because he was done talking and ready to play.

So were you.

It took you a moment to answer since you had to bite back a whine. “Yes, Sir,” you whispered, feeling his eyes on you as you walked to his bedroom.

You focused on keeping your breathing even as you shed your clothes, taking a moment to fold them before you set them on the chair in the corner. The only time you left your garments on the floor was if Bucky put them there or had you put on a show for him. It was his space and you respected it.

He hadn't told you how long to wait for him, but your heart thumped as you knelt on the queen sized bed. You didn’t see any toys as you glanced around, but there was water, snacks, wipes, and the soft blanket you loved waiting on the nightstand. It took a moment for you to spot that there was a blindfold and scarf on top of the blanket. Your womb clenched in anticipation, an exquisite feeling knowing your patience and obedience would reward you.

Bucky walked through the door a minute later and shut it behind him. The energy shifted completely, both of you ready for each other. As much as you wanted to lift your gaze and look behind you, you kept your eyes downcast as he approached the bed. He cupped your cheek once he was close enough and forced your eyes to meet his.

“My beautiful angel,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your skin as you glowed from the praise. He reached for the scarf and ran his fingers across the silk as he glanced at you. “As much as I hate to cover those beautiful eyes of yours and restrain you, I want you to concentrate on my touch tonight. Just let me have you.”

A shiver rolled down your spine as you nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Hands behind your back,” he said, moving to secure them once you did so. The silk was soft against your skin, almost as soft as the kiss to your shoulder. After years of being restrained, you knew he felt guilty at times taking your control away. The difference was you gave yourself to him willingly. “Tell me your safewords.”

“Green is good. Yellow to pause,” you stated, testing the scarf. He never bound you too tight, but it was enough that you couldn’t slip your wrists free. “Red to stop."

“Good girl,” he praised, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You turned your head a fraction so he could slot his lips properly over yours. Gentle, yet hot enough to melt your insides. “My good girl.”

He maneuvered you so you were in the middle of the bed and spread your knees a bit further apart. He joined you on his knees, still fully clothed. Casting your gaze down again, you bit your lip when you saw the prominent bulge in his pants. A hand came up to grasp your chin before you could stare for too long and lifted your head. If you were still wearing your panties, they would’ve dampened from his darkened gaze.

“So beautiful and all mine tonight,” he said.

“I’m yours, Sir,” you whispered, the word “always” unspoken.

“And I know you were staring,” he smirked, his fingers working the button and zipper of his jeans. His impressive cock sprang free once he pushed his underwear and pants down far enough and you wished you could lean down and swirl your tongue around the large head. “Greedy angel. Just desperate to have my cock in you.”

“Yes, Sir. Please,” you begged.

He made a show of lifting the blindfold before he slipped it over your head, your body tensing up when your world went dark. Sight was one of the senses you relied on the most. It helped you absorb most of the world around you. And now it was temporarily gone. It felt like your heart would burst from your chest as you breathed a bit heavier. But Bucky was there, softly touching your face until you relaxed.

“Breathe, angel. I’ve got you,” he whispered, drawing a gasp from you when his lips touched yours. His hands mapped your body, brushing along your breasts down to your thighs. You felt him everywhere. “Color?”

“Green,” you whispered as a hand moved around your back and forced you to arch. He was careful not to hurt your arms. “Please.”

Your head fell back with a moan as his lips closed around your nipple. You could practically feel that he looked up at you as he gently suckled. A wave of arousal crashed through you as he pinched the other. No one had ever lavished your body with such attention the way Bucky did.

“I love seeing you like this,” he murmured against the swell of your breast. “Helpless. Trembling. Needy.”

You didn't mean to let such a wanton moan escape, but he made you feel needed. He made you feel wanted. It was a beautiful thing to surrender to him.

“And I love that I'm the one you trust to take care of you.”

“I trust you with my life, Sir,” you moaned.

And your heart, even though he had the power to break it.

Your chest suddenly felt colder when Bucky pulled his mouth and hand away and you shook from the loss of his heat. His vibranium hand touched your torso to remind you he was close when he shifted closer to you on the bed. You gasped when he dragged his hand down and you were helpless to do anything but feel when it slid between your legs.

“You're doing so well for me,” he said, his teeth grazing your neck as his fingers spread your sopping folds. He teased you, letting you soak his metal fingers as you mewled. He lightly bit you again when he replaced his fingers with his cock, sliding along your slit, but not pushing inside you just yet. “You want me inside you? You need me to fuck you, don't you? Tell me.”

Your cheeks flamed as you whined. “I need you to fuck me, Sir,” you said, trying to widen your thighs to take him in more.

“I will. I'm going to give you everything you need,” he rumbled, gripping your hips with strong and capable hands to keep you still. “And you’re going to let me ruin your pretty little pussy with my cock.”

You panted with want at his possessiveness. Filthy words were something you never thought you’d hear from someone associated with The Avengers and they kicked your body into overdrive. You ached to have him split you open. “Ruin me, Sir.”

In one swift move he lifted you, pulled you into his lap, and buried himself to the hilt. Your mouth fell open as you let out a cry, every inch of his cock stretching and making itself at home in your welcoming cunt. You couldn't brace yourself on his shoulders with your hands behind your back. You couldn't see the ecstasy in his eyes as he let you adjust to his size, but you didn't have to. Not with the way he dug his fingers in and groaned against your shoulder.

He took you to heaven when he was inside you.

“Color,” he said against your skin, thrusting his hips up once.

“Green,” you moaned, reminding yourself to stay still when you wanted him to move. “So green.”

“Good girl,” he whispered, gently kissing up to your ear. “Keep being good while I bounce you up and down on my cock.”

Your eyes fluttered behind the blindfold as he pulled you up and slammed you back down on his cock. Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth and your heart beat frantically in your chest. It was difficult to string thoughts together, but they all went back to him and how good he made you feel. How he made you feel beautiful.

Flaws and all.

“It’s like your cunt was made for me, angel. Practically crying all over my cock,” his voice was smoky as sounds of pleasure tumbling from your lips. The next moan was softer when he slid a hand up to your neck, resting it there as the other kept your hips flush against his. “You deserve to feel good because you are good. So fucking good.”

Your lower lip trembled as a sob worked its way to your throat, “Thank you, Sir,” you whimpered before he squeezed.

“And I. Deserve. You.” He punctuated each word with a deep thrust. You didn’t have to see his face to know the fury that surfaced. “My angel. Mine.”

It overwhelmed you as he bounced you in his lap, sinking you down onto him again and again. His thrusts were almost unforgiving, but the hand on your throat didn’t tighten anymore. He couldn’t hurt you. He wouldn’t hurt you.

“I’m your angel, Sir,” you moaned as he reduced you to a needy wet mess.

“I wanna tear you apart,” he growled against your lips. “And put you back together so you still feel me when you fucking breathe.”

“Tear me apart, Sir,” you gasped, a plea for him to use you more. Your thighs hit his as he thrust up and all you could do was take it. He touched places inside you no one else could reach, physically and emotionally, and you never wanted it to stop. “Please!”

“Tell me you need me to come inside you and I’ll let you come,” he ordered, the hand on your neck squeezing a fraction. “Say it.”

“Come inside me, Sir,” you begged.

“Bucky,” he breathed against your lips. “Say. My. Name.”

Your next breath was shaky. He always had you call him “Sir” on nights like this. Why was this different?

Your orgasm began to crest, but you couldn’t let go until you gave him what he wanted. And he’d give you what you needed. “Come inside me, Bucky,” you exhaled. “Please.”

He swiped his thumb along your pulse with a deep groan, his cock still driving up into you. “I will after you come,” he promised, his tongue sliding past your parted lips and pulling away all too quickly. “C’mon, angel. Come for me. Show me you’re mine.”

The sob you tampered down earlier resuraced, wrenched from your throat as you came. Your release continued, practically leaking around his cock as tears slid out beneath the blindfold. You were beyond rational thought as pleasure spiraled through you, vaguely aware that he thrust through it to chase his own end.

“Good. Fucking. Girl.” He grunted, pulsing hotly inside you as he filled you up.

Both of you panted as you continued to drift from euphoria, your heart still beating wildly. You were warm, but your body shivered as he lifted you up. Your combined release slid from your aching cunt once he slipped free. You floated and wanted him to catch you, but you couldn’t put your arms around him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered when you let out a whimper. He made quick work of untying your wrists so he could lay you down properly and wipe away the tears still on your cheeks. “I’m going to take the blindfold off.”

Your eyes stayed shut for a moment when Bucky removed it, but you cracked them open when you wanted to see him. Your vision slowly cleared as you blinked a few times, your mind still floating as he came into view. He called you an angel, but he was the one who had a halo around his head at the moment. A gorgeous angel who had unrightfully had his wings taken away. He smiled like he wanted to eat you alive, but his touch was nothing short of tender when he brought his hand to your face.

“So fucking beautiful. You did so well for me. Fuck, I just wanna clean you with my tongue and fill you up all over again,” he praised as you clenched around nothing and whined. As hot as it sounded, you needed a bit of rest after that. “Not tonight,” he smiled, keeping a hand on you as he grabbed a wipe.

A reason he had everything close by was because you craved his touch after sex. If he ever got too far away, you whimpered and reached for him. It made you feel needy, but he assured you that he needed to keep touching you just as badly.

It just wasn’t fair that he looked so composed.

Bucky continued to shower you with soft praise as he cleaned you up. It didn’t take him long before he wrapped the soft blanket around you, trembles moved through your entire body as he put his arms around you, too. He took aftercare very seriously. It was a way for you to feel cared for and nurtured while allowing your body and brain to return back to normal. He never wanted you to experience negativity or sadness after any sort of session, especially an intense one.

You were aware that he moved you closer in his arms and rested his cheek against the top of your head, but you weren't ready to speak yet. It always took you a minute to come back to yourself and he was never one to rush or push you. If relaxing in his embrace was what it took to return to the world, he was more than content to keep you in his arms.

At least, that was what he told you.

You opened your eyes after a few minutes. Your heartbeat was back to a steady rhythm, but you still weren't ready to move yet. You were warm and safe. Bucky was there to take care of you. But what about him?

Had you taken care of him?

Bucky had a faint smile on his face when you lifted your head, his shoulders relaxed and eyes soft. Like he was at ease with everything around him. “Welcome back, angel,” he whispered, peppering your face with light kisses.

“Hey,” you smiled tiredly, your voice a little hoarse as you brought a hand to his hair, happy that you could touch him again. Judging by the way his eyes slipped shut for a moment before he opened them, he missed your touch, too.

“You okay?”

“I am and so are you. You're okay.” It wasn't a question. Whatever haunted him earlier was gone.

For now.

He didn't tear his gaze away as he reached for the water behind him, which you gratefully accepted as he put it to your lips. “You amaze me, you know? You just came back to yourself, but you're talking about me being okay.”

“Isn’t that why you call me?” You asked with a small frown, taking another large sip. “To help you?”

His brows furrowed. “It’s not just about me. This is about you, too.”

You took one more drink before you could say something stupid. Yes, this was about you, too. How he didn't push too far. How he’d hold you after sex and talk with you because those things were important to you. How he made you feel cherished and wanted for a short while.

You just didn't want to admit that he was a constant in your mind. But would it be so wrong if you did? Even if he’d never date you, didn't he have a right to know how you felt?

Communication was key and you would have to eventually tell him if those feelings persisted.

“It’s about both of us and I just want you to be okay,” is what you said because it was the truth.

He set the water aside and cupped your cheek, his calloused hand a little cool, but nice. You almost wished you could hide from his knowing eyes, but he didn’t press you for more. “I am now,” he said, swallowing a little. “I just couldn't let you see me tonight.”

Worry filled his eyes like he may have upset you, but you shook your head. You had seen his scars, but he was never obligated to show you his body. “You're letting me see you now,” you said, scooting closer as he brought your wrist to his mouth to kiss it.

You thought about how the evening played out. How he asked if you thought he was a good man. How he demanded that you speak his name. And how he said he deserved you. Either something happened while he was gone or someone said or did something to get to him. You wished you knew what it was since he didn’t expand on what had been eating away at him before.

“And before you ask, you didn't hurt me,” you told him, knowing the question was coming. You appreciated that he cared enough to check.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Good because I’d never stop hating myself if I did,” he admitted, looking at the ceiling for a moment. “You don't deserve that kind of pain.”

Your heart swelled, not letting any past hurt enter your mind. He made you believe that you deserved better than what you had. It was a good feeling.

“Neither do you. And that's a reason why safewords exist. Both of us can use them,” you reminded him. Like aftercare, he took the words seriously. He listened to you. And if he ever got overwhelmed, he had every right to stop it the same way you did. “So no self-hate tonight.”

He huffed in mock annoyance. “Yes, ma’am. And speaking of self-hate,” he teased, tilting his head to look your way. “I really don’t want to go to therapy tomorrow.”

There was a forced calmness in his blue eyes as you assessed him. “You still don’t like your therapist,” you stated.

One of the conditions of his pardon was that he had to go to therapy. It was meant to help him process his thoughts and past experiences in order to work through them. Though he didn’t tell you what went on in his sessions as it was none of your business, he didn’t keep it a secret from you that the doctor was far from his favorite person.

You wondered if Bucky told her about you.

“What’s there to like?” He asked.

You smiled a little, knowing better than to poke the bear and say she probably wasn't that bad. “Well, being able to speak to someone who provides non-judgemental and empathetic support is one thing.”

“That’s why I like talking to you,” he said, the affection in his voice making your heart skip a beat.

“Oh,” you said, not sure what else to say.

Moments like that made you think he cared. No, that wasn’t right. You knew he cared about you. But hearing things like that made you feel like there was hope for more and he wasn’t ready for that.

Hope was both a wonderful and dangerous thing.

“Have you met anyone else?” He asked suddenly, moving his hand to your back.

It was a question Bucky asked every time he had you over. He said from the start if there was another man in your life that you’d rather be with, someone who could offer you more, he’d step aside. There wasn't anyone else. You didn't want anyone else.

And while it was admirable that he would walk away if that ever changed, your heart ached at the thought that he’d easily let you go. Because at the end of the day he wasn't ready for a relationship. Not yet.

Even if he was, who said he wanted one with you?

“No, I haven't met anyone,” you said, feeling the warm breath of his exhale against your skin as his hand moved up and down your back. It relaxed you more and you found yourself fighting a yawn. “Have you?”

“No,” he chuckled. The crinkles by his eyes made him look carefree. “Not since you saved me.”

You shut your eyes, afraid that tears would well up if you looked at him. “I didn't save you. All I did was buy you a coffee one afternoon,” you whispered dismissively.

That day changed your life.

“I’m going to let that slide since you're sleepy, but I’m going to remind you when you're wide awake that you did a lot more than that,” he spoke. He held you a little tighter when you stayed quiet. You were more tired than you thought. “Get some sleep, angel. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You let your eyes shut at his command. “Thank you for taking care of me, Bucky.”

“Thank you for taking a chance on me.”

There was something else unspoken in the air, but a tender kiss to your forehead stopped you from reading too deeply into it.

In the morning, he’d send you back to your place after he made you breakfast. He’d text you later to make sure you were okay. He would continue to check in and you would do your best not to fall for him more. Because one day he wouldn't need you anymore. You didn't know when that day would come, but tonight you could indulge in the fantasy that Bucky wanted you to be his girl.

Permanently.

I just want these two happy and together. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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saddestsquid · 2 months

Text

Hopeless Romantic! König <3

Summary: Hopeless Romantic König who meets you at a park and finds love at first sight to be true. You two enjoy a cute date until he takes you home and gives you one last treat ;)

Words: 2342

Warnings: 18+, overstim, König eats F!Reader out, fingering, fluff to smut, praise, cute romance, squirting, certified munch König !!

He feels like an idiot standing there in the scenic park, awkwardly holding a bouquet of fresh pink roses. He’d picked them out specially for her, and took the time to sprinkle glitter onto the beautiful petals, but it was all for nothing. All his effort went to waste as the poor guy got stood up.

Wallowing in his own shame, he barely noticed someone yelling in the distance until it got closer. He finally snapped out of his trance to see a dog running straight at him. He bent down and stopped the panting golden retriever, caught off guard but smiling and petting it.

“Rover! Oh thank gosh…” He thought it might be the angels themselves speaking when he heard that voice, but he looked up to see nothing but a beautiful woman with a relieved expression. Looking at her closely, he figured perhaps he was looking at an angel.

“Thank you for stopping him, he just runs straight off whenever I let him off leash.” You apologized breathlessly.

König smiled, and found himself forgetting the failed date entirely as he got lost in your eyes. “It’s not a problem, he’s quite adorable.” He responded, and he noticed your eyes widen the tiniest bit at his unfamiliar accent.

“C’mere Rovey,” You cooed, and König’s heart pounded in his chest. The dog trotted straight into your arms and sat still while you hooked the leash back onto his collar. Gosh, what König would give for your sweet voice to be directed onto him like that.

König stood up and you followed suit after making sure your pooch’s collar was secure, and he didn’t miss the way your jaw dropped when you noticed his towering height. Seriously, what are they feeding this man??

You blushed and suddenly felt shy in the presence of this not only polite but incredibly tall man. He was handsome too, with alluring blue eyes that stared at you with such intensity you had to look away.

Only then did you notice the fallen bouquet.

“Oh! Is this yours? I’m so sorry, did Rover knock it out of your hands-“ you apologized profusely and picked the shimmering bouquet up, handing it back to him. He didn’t give a flying fuck about the fact it fell on the ground tho, he didn’t even notice since he’d been so focused on staring at you.

He shook his head and didn’t bother taking it out of your hands. “No no, no worries. I uhm…I don’t even need it anymore anyways, my date didn’t show up.” He admited with a sigh.

He regretted telling you the moment your expression turned upset. “That’s horrible, I’m sorry.” You muttered sadly, and he felt the desperate need to make you smile again. “Well this is beautifully made, too bad I couldn’t have been your date.” You joked, trying to lighten the mood but being completely honest.

He stared down at you and blushed as well, “You don’t mean that.” He denied.

“but I do! I would give anything for someone to put this much effort into something just for me.” You admitted, smiling up at him and giggling until you noticed his expression seemed serious.

“Anyone who hasn’t already is a mad man.” He said with a genuine smile, and took the bouquet out of your hands only to offer it back to you. “Little—Rover, was it?—seems to want to explore the park. So, why don’t we all go for a stroll Ja? Rover, me, and…..” He trailed off, so you told him your name.

“And you are?”

“König.” He announced, his addicting accent shining through when he said it.

“Well König…..I don’t see why not.” You accepted his offer and the flowers with a gentle smile that he found himself wanting to see for the rest of his life.

His awful day just got a whole lot better.

You both spent the day walking around the lovely park, with you having to take twice as many steps just to catch up, which only proved to make him cackle. You admired the ponds and threw sticks for Rover, trusting that König and his long legs could catch up to the hound if he ran too far. He told you about how Austrians typically love to walk everywhere, and you followed up with about a hundred questions about his home country. You even got ice cream, which gave König all types of thoughts when he watched you wipe off the dripping white cream from your lips. He assumed you didn’t notice his stare and flushed cheeks, but you definitely did. Not so much of a gentleman now, hm?

Finally, when it was dark and the park became quiet you both decided to head home. When exchanging numbers you mentioned how you had to walk back to your house since you walked here with your pup earlier in the day for exercise, and König was not having any of that.

“Nein, it’s much too dangerous at night.” he shook his head, leaving no room for argument. “I will give you and your golden a ride home, it’s not a problem.”

“Really König, it’s okay. I don’t want Rovers hair getting all over your seats.” You whined.

“And I don’t want you getting kidnapped off the side of the street Maus, which sounds worse to you?” He asked, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

You tried to argue but came up with nothing and sighed in defeat. “Fine, I’ll let you be annoyingly nice….” You pouted, and he laughed while opening the door for Rover to jump in the back—probably a sign you need a more protective dog if he didn’t even hesitate going in somewhere unfamiliar—and the passenger door for you.

You gave him directions like his own little passenger princess, looking tiny in the truck that must’ve been specially made to fit someone as giant as him. You dreaded the moment when he pulled into your driveway meaning you two had to part. You’d only met him a few hours ago, yet it felt like you’ve known him for years.

“Have a good night, liebling.” He got out to help you let Rover out and walk you to your door, but before he could turn around to head back to his truck you stopped him. “Actually, would you like to come in?” You offered, setting down the flowers on your counter and smiling suggestively.

He turned beet red like he did at the ice cream stand, but nodded quickly. You giggled and grabbed his hand to drag him inside, pressing your lips together as soon as the front door was closed and Rover was sleeping further away in the middle of the kitchen floor. (Don’t get nasty infront of your pets guys!! They can get scarred for life too ok 😣)

“Jump.” He ordered, and you did as he said and leaped into the air. He caught you with ease, hands grabbing onto the back of your thighs and squeezing the soft flesh.

He stumbled around for a moment, overly caught up in your make out session but eventually finding your bedroom. He dropped you flat on your back on the bed, kissing at your neck and seeing which spots got the biggest reactions out of you to start sucking hickeys into.

You moaned and writhed, begging him to do something, and like the gentleman he is, he decided to help you out and tugged down your bottoms, rubbing circles onto your clit through your panties.

He grabbed your ankles and tugged you to the edge of the bed, spreading your legs wide for him to fit his broad shoulders between. He bit and sucked deep purple marks into your sensitive thighs, watching them writhe in his grasp.

“König- fuck, please!” You begged, tho you weren’t even completely sure what you were begging for.

“What is it Maus? Tell me what you need.” He asked while pressing kisses up your thigh, leaving love-bites dangerously close to where you needed his mouth most.

“Want…..want your mouth on me. Or your fingers or- ngh! Anything please König- please!” You cried out, already begging pathetically for his touch.

With a devilish smirk he finally tugged down your panties. You clenched around nothing at the cold air and the look of admiration in his eyes as he stared down your cunt.

“Such a pretty pussy….” he mumbled, “all this just for me sweetheart?” He asked, gathering your slick on his fingers.

You turned your neck and buried your face in your pillow in embarrassment but he just reached up to grab your chin and turned you to look at him. “Eyes on me.”

Finally satisfied with your pretty eyes gazing down at him, König delved into your cunt, gripping your thighs and shoving you impossibly closer like he wanted to devour you whole.

Your moans and choked out whines served as fuel for him while he ate you out like a man starved, his big hooked nose bumping into your clit making you shake and arch your back off the soft sheets.

He dives his tongue into your entrance to fully taste you, and the satisfied hum he releases vibrates in your core and leaves you a leaking, panting mess as he licks you up like your the last bit of water on the Sahara ground.

He licks a stripe up your pussy until he gets to your clit and starts sucking on it. He’s shameless to the sloppy wet sounds he’s making while he rolls the engorged bud on his tongue and prods a thick finger at your hole. You squirm at how big just the one is—about the size of at least two of yours, maybe more—but you welcome it in with a loud moan of his name. You were already dangerously close by the time he had his mouth on you, but the feeling of just one of his thick fingers slamming into you while he starts to tease another in has you crying out to the stars and cumming all over his hand.

“That’s it schatz….just like that, mein gott you look so gorgeous when you’re cumming, Ich möchte für immer zwischen deinen Schenkeln bleiben.” He praised you, still pumping his two fingers into your clenching cunt to ride out your high for as long as possible.

He pulls his fingers out and licks them clean, leaning down to lick up any of your arousal that spilled onto your thighs. When you finally opened your eyes you noticed him staring at you darkly, and the expression made heat pool in your gut.

“W-what?” You asked, half nervous-half turned on. You went to close your legs but he gripped your marked up thighs and laid your legs over his shoulders to have even better access to your soaked cunny.

“Oh we’re not even close to done prinzessin.” He announced with a smirk before sinking three fingers straight back into your pussy, fully intent on making you squirt for him.

You gasped and nearly choked on your words, “wha-y hah-“ you moaned and twitched in overstimulation until he slowed.

“Tell me to stop.” It was a question; not an order.

Tears leaked down your flushed cheeks but you gasped out; “keep going” and he smiled, the whole bottom half of his face dripping. He wasted no time diving straight back in, inhaling your scent. “Mit Vergnügen, mein bedürftiges kleines Häschen.” He mumbled into your clit, not even bothering to speak English anymore as he knew your fucked out brain could barely comprehend anything. Four of his large digits split you open, grinding and prodding farther into you than you could ever reach on your own. Without much time he found that sensitive bundle of nerves, and you didn’t fail to let him know when you cried out and scratched at your sheets, chanting his name like a mantra.

“König- ah- KönigKönigKönigKönigpleasefuck- pleasepleaseKönig plea- hah . .!..” You moaned, fisting the sheets desperately.

He relentlessly abused that spot, slamming his fingers into you over and over and teasing your folds with the other hand. He messily sucked on your clit, circling it with his tongue like a lollipop, using every part of himself for your pleasure.

“Come on my gorgeous liebling, mein diamant, mein perfekter Schatz, come for me. Squirt all over my fingers.” He begged, voice whiny and muffled into your pussy while he continued his relentless assault on your puffy cunt.

“Kö….gonna- fuck m’gonna-“ You managed to stutter out the warning between moans.

“Go on hase, let go. I’ve got you, go ahead.” He encouraged, ravishing your sweet cunny until you were squirting all over his face with a choked out scream, whole body trembling. You were stuck between running away from the burning pleasure and shoving yourself closer, but luckily you didn’t have to decide as he had you pinned down, groaning into your pussy.

Your vision went blank for a few moments, but you came back when you felt him still lapping lazily at your folds until you were whining and shoving him away. He pouted but stood up to fall onto the bed beside you, pulling your spent body into him and engulfing you like you were a teddy bear.

You giggled and pressed a kiss onto his glistening lips, tasting yourself on them. “Not to sound like a jerk or anything, but I’m glad you got stood up.” You joked.

“Mm, I agree. That was the best, most unplanned date I’ve ever been on.” He bantered back with a cheeky grin.

You rolled your eyes, but then smiled sincerely. “Yeah, it was. I’m really glad I met you Kö.”

His pupils dilated adorably, like a kid seeing a candy store for the first time. “Me too, schatz.”

The two of you drifted off into a peaceful sleep, but not before you muttered,

“By the way, that other girl is missing out. You eat pussy like a champ.”

“You could call me a certified munch.” He bounced back, and your jaw dropped.

. . . Translations:

౨ৎ Ja = Yes, Nein = No

♡ Maus = Mouse

౨ৎ Liebling = Darling

♡ Schatz = Treasure

౨ৎ Mein gott = My gosh

♡ Ich möchte für immer zwischen deinen Schenkeln bleiben = I want to stay between your thighs forever (goals 😋)

౨ৎ Prinzessin = Princess

♡ Mit Vergnügen, mein bedürftiges kleines Häschen = With pleasure, bunny

౨ৎ Mein diamant = My diamond

♡ Mein perfekter schatz = My perfect treasure

౨ৎ Hase = Bunny

Quick tip: Depending on what device you use, If you highlight the text there should be an option to quickly translate! It’s a lot easier than having to go to Google/Safari/etc to search it up :))

Thank you so much for reading !! It’s 3:00 in the morning rn so I apologize if it’s not very well written :C :C

This is just a sweet little thing to prepare you guys for the FILTHY blurb coming soon 😇😇 get ready!!

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puppy-steve · 6 months

Text

Robin has spent plenty of time watching Steve Harrington from the shadows. The way he continuously stayed on the sidelines of the rest of his friends’ bullying was interesting. He never said too much of anything when it happened, didn’t look all that interested in it, either. Just leaned against a locker and looked bored out of his mind.

Until a week before Thanksgiving break a couple years ago, when Tommy Hagan started bragging to anyone who’d listen about how Steve got his shit rocked by Jonathan Byers and promptly dumped him and Carol to the curb after. Sure, Tommy made sure to mention that Steve was the one to push until Jonathan finally snapped and punched him, but he didn’t say how Steve had gone limp after. Letting Byers rearrange his face until a teacher ran over to break them up.

She remembers how lost he’d looked in the aftermath. Like he was a shell of himself.

So yeah. Steve Harrington isn’t the same person he was in high school. Or at least he’s trying not to be, that much Robin has noticed since he started working at Scoops at the beginning of the summer. But she didn’t think he’d changed so much to be openly flirting with the Freak of Hawkins.

Well. Not exactly flirting, but there’s something there Robin can’t quite put her finger on.

Steve’s manning the counter, right where she’d left him twenty minutes ago, but instead of looking like the picture of boredom slinging ice cream to annoying kids, he’s leaned his elbows on the counter where Eddie Munson is doing the same on the other side. They’re too quiet for Robin to hear what they’re talking about but Steve’s fingers are hooked on Eddie’s watch, not pulling or tugging. Just resting.

Eddie’s hands are clasped in front of him but his pointer finger keeps reaching out to lightly stroke Steve’s arm, and that’s when it hits Robin like a slap in the face.

They’re domestic.

The lobby is empty, save for Eddie’s friends that now occupy one of the booths, loudly arguing over something but Robin could care less because at that moment, Steve says something that has Eddie letting out a cackle laugh, his nose scrunched up and his shoulders shaking as he laughs. Her eyes slide over to Steve and he’s.

Huh.

Gone is the usual smug smirk that graces his face when a girl laughs at one of his (awful) jokes, and is replaced by something… fond. His face is relaxed into a small smile and his round Bambi eyes are shining with mirth. Like he’d expected this reaction. Sometime during this, their fingers have tangled together in a subtle hand-hold across the counter and holy shit.

Steve Harrington is dating Eddie Munson.

One of Eddie’s friends (Jeff, she thinks. They had pre-calc together.) says something and Steve only rolls his eyes as he replies. Eddie’s grinning at them over his shoulder. Neither of their postures have changed. Robin feels like the room’s spinning.

She knows about Eddie. Eddie knows about her. It’s never been verbally said, but birds of a feather and all that. It doesn’t have to be. She must accidentally bump into something in her attempt to rebalance the world because Steve’s head is snapping toward her and panic flashes in his eyes as he tries to rip his hands away from Eddie’s.

Eddie only holds them tighter as he locks eyes with her.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he tells Steve in a hushed tone. In front of him, Steve’s visibly shaking like a leaf, mouth opening and closing but not making a sound. Robin’s heart breaks a little. He looks downright terrified. Eddie’s eyes haven’t left her. “She’s safe. Aren’t you, Birdie?”

The question is directed at her. She swallows and nods quickly. “Y-yeah!” She winces at the volume of it. Clearing her throat, she tries again, taking a step forward like she’s approaching a frightened animal. “You can trust me, Steve.” Uses his first name instead of the ‘dingus’ that’s grown affectionate. “I'm—” She glances over at the booth that’s gone quiet. She doesn’t want to out herself to the entire freak population of Hawkins High.

“I’m a friend,” she settles on.

It takes Steve a moment for it to sink in, and when it does, his eyes somehow grow bigger in understanding. “Oh,” he breathes out, like a sigh of relief. Eddie’s rubbing his thumb over Steve’s knuckles.

“Yeah, dingus.” Robin’s close enough now to nudge his shoulder with hers. “Oh. Why don’t you go on break? I’ve got this.”

Steve gives her a grateful look and tugs Eddie to the booth to join Eddie’s —their— friends.

“It’s about damn time you guys remembered the rest of us,” the curly haired one complains as they both slide in on the same side. Eddie throws a straw wrapper at him and Robin stops paying attention after that.

permanent taglist: @yournowheregirl @judasofsuburbia @steves-strapcollection @thefreakandthehair @stobinesque @vecnuthy @scarcrossdlvrs @starrystevie @inairbinad @flowercrowngods @starryeyedjanai @matchingbatbites @corrodedbisexual @theheadlessphilosopher @patchworkgargoyle @sentient-trash @wormdebut @legitcookie @corrodedcoughin @steddieas-shegoes @wynnyfryd @sidekick-hero

🥐☕💕 buy me a coffee?

#cj talks #steddie #gseb #steddie ficlet #cj writes #steddie fic

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rinhaler · 5 months

Note

I’m begging and scratching at the walls for more plug!sukuna omg. I’ve been thinking about him at a party really clinging to a shy girl, trying to get her to “just take one hit you’ll like it” and something something he convinces her to sit on his lap and he lets her explore his body, slowly getting really worked up. Letting her have “control” until he loses it.

Once again this weeks dub has me by the NECK Ray chase ate and left no crumbs UNFFF I hope you like this! Scummy Sukuna my beloved 💖

warnings: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, dubcon, creampie, manipulation, vaginal sex, choking, degradation, smoking oui'd, coercion, slight oral fixation.

words: 2k

“Alone?” a voice asks, sitting beside you on the couch. You shuffle as much as you can to give him space, keeping your knees together as he decides to manspread and rest his arm around the back.

“No I’m with my—” you turn to look at Nobara before realising she’s attached her lips to someone else’s while you were disassociating. “Oh, well, kind of.” you shrug.

He smirks, leaning forward. “Good,” he tells you as he pulls some things out of his pocket and places them on the coffee table. It’s like a science, watching people roll blunts. You’ve never tried it and you’ve never wanted to, not when you’ve heard so many horror stories. But whenever you’ve been around to see someone roll, you’ve always been oddly captivated. “You look lost.”

“U-Um…” you huff, unsure of how to respond. “I don’t really like parties…” you sigh.

He nods, not saying anything else as he continues to finish rolling his joint. It’s quick and easy, like he does this all day everyday and has it perfected. You watch him light it, but look down at your lap when he leans back against the couch.

“Why not?” he wonders. “Too loud? Too many people?”

“Yeah…” you confess, feeling a little lame as you admit your true feelings.

You’re in the prime of your life and you’re complaining about being at a party. You wouldn’t mind as much if Nobara wasn’t occupied. But you don’t know anyone else here. Truthfully, you probably would have snuck home if he didn’t sit down to talk to you. You’d much rather be at home with some takeout food and a bingeable show.

Your heart sinks a little when he stands up. Have you really embarrassed yourself that much? So much so that you’ve bored him enough to leave. He walks away, turning to face you after taking a good amount of steps.

“Are you coming? Thought you didn’t like parties.” he speaks. He waits until you stand up, but carries on walking before you can catch up to him. You follow him through the house and up the stairs. It’s a lot quieter, though there are still muffles. Soft moans from one room and crying from another. “Sukuna. If you were wondering.” he introduces himself, not bothering to look at you as he does.

You tell him your name, and realise he’s brought you to a bedroom.

“Get comfy.” he instructs, he turns on a light, dimming it slowly when he sees your eyes screw shut from the brightness. The music still plays softly through the gaps of the door and into the room from the rest of the house. “Why’d you come here if you don’t like parties?”

“My friend… she wanted me to.”

“So you just do what people tell you to?” he asks, sitting beside you on the bed.

Your face fills with heat and your heart begins to race. You wiggle away from him slightly to keep some distance between you. He takes a drag of his blunt, looking up at the lights as he puffs a plume of smoke towards the ceiling.

“Not always.”

He doesn’t respond, instead, he holds the blunt out for you to try. You shake your head, though, declining immediately. Even with a few drinks in your system, you know better.

“Awe, no fun.” he chuckles, taking another drag. “C’mon. One hit, sweetheart.” he tells you, getting closer to you again and putting his arm around you. Your head drops, eyes finding where his hand rests on your hip before looking at the joint he’s holding right in front of you.

“I— I’ve never… I’ve never smoked before.” you admit.

“That’s cute. One puff won’t hurt, yeah?” he speaks, though you’re unsure if he’s trying to convince you or if he’s actually certain it won’t hurt. He smiles widely, it’s toothy and somewhat intimidating. He’s happy. He can see that you’re considering it. “Promise you’ll like it.”

You gulp, heartily, before wrapping your lips around the end of it. You’ve smoked cigarettes before, and you could only assume it would be similar.

Wrong.

You cough, sputter, gag from the invasion. He laughs at your expense, though he smooths a large palm up and down your back to soothe you. Your throat feels charred. It’s like the smoke has burnt holes throughout your oesophagus and the edges are scalding.

He gets up and walks towards a mini fridge you hadn’t noticed, tossing a bottle of water in your direction. And you drink it, quickly, the bottle crackling as you squeeze and drain it of every drop you can steal.

“S-Sorry,” you apologise, still coughing slightly. “That was embarrassing.”

“Yeah.” he agrees. “You really weren’t lying about it being your first time, hah?” he keeps going. Unfortunately for you, you don’t realise that he’s goading you. And it’s working.

You ask for another hit, out of principle. And of course, he smiles and hands it to you.

It gets easier, for sure. Soon enough, you’ve smoked the whole thing. He applauds you, impressed. But why does it make your ego swell? Your confidence soars, you don’t feel so shy anymore.

Not around him.

“C’mere,” he instructs, patting his thighs as an invitation. You look between his ruby red eyes and thick thighs as you decide whether you want to or not. You hesitate, a few times, before eventually standing up. He guides you down by your hips, your thighs straddling his while his hands dip beneath your skirt and thumbs stroke your skin soothingly.

Your eyes feel heavy, and he can’t help but smile when he sees how bloodshot they are. He can see how your eyes want to widen in shock. So utterly confused about how you got here.

He doesn’t give you a chance to think, though, not when his large hand cradles the crown of your head and pulls you towards himself. Your lips are caught together. It’s tame, to him. But to you it’s scandalous. A random hook up isn’t something you’ve ever done. You’re a long term relationship kind of girl.

But you can’t help yourself, now. His personality is magnetic, and his charm is captivating. You don’t want to disappoint him, for some reason. The thought of letting him down scares you. The idea of disobeying him makes your heart race.

That could just be the drugs, though.

You pull back, tracing your fingers over his body. A breathy gasp leaves you as he pulls off his vest, tossing it aside to reveal his chiselled body. Your cunt throbs as you feel how ripped he is. He’s the biggest man you’ve ever been with, like this, and he knows it too. He can tell by the look on your face.

The way you unashamedly squeeze his biceps. Two of your little hands aren’t even enough to wrap around the entire muscle.

He watches you, calmly, admiring how cute you look as you inspect every inch of his body.

“Having fun?” he asks, you give nothing but a dumb nod in response. His skin is smooth and you find yourself tracing a single finger over all of his tattoos. He guides you by your chin to look at him again, leaning forward to kiss you.

You reciprocate, allowing him to kiss you his way. He slips his tongue between the seam of your lips and two rough hands reach under your skirt and grab the fat of your ass. You wrap your legs around his back as he lifts you up, helping you back down so that your back is flat against the mattress.

He ruts his body against yours. And you can feel just how hard he is beneath his sweats. It’s huge, it feels huge. But you can barely focus as each dry humping of his hips stimulates your core.

“Fuck, need to fuck you,” he whispers against your ear and nibbling on the lobe. Your eyes roll back as he chokes you softly, and your own hips begin to buck as you search for more pleasure.

You’ve never felt so aroused before.

It’s like all of the blood is rushing to your core and pleading with you to stimulate yourself further. You need more. More. You wonder if anything will ever be enough, though.

“S’fucking cute, wan’ my cock bad, hah? Am I right?”

“F-Fuck me, please.” you whimper, screwing your eyes shut so that he can’t see how embarrassed you are.

He loosens his grip on your neck, moving it to cup your cheek instead. You instinctively open your mouth for him, and he lets out a soft laugh before pushing his thumb between your lips. He pulls down his sweatpants just enough to free his cock, eyes not leaving you for a second as you swirl your tongue around his thumb, bobbing and sucking all the while.

“I fucking knew it,” he speaks, “Always the quiet ones, always the dirtiest.”

You giggle a little, still suckling on his thumb like it was your sole purpose on this earth. He flips up your skirt to reveal a cute little g-string beneath.

“You don’t like parties? S’that why you came here dressed like a little whore?” he asks, pushing the material into the crease of your thigh. He lines his cock up with your entrance, slowly pushing in. “Sorry I didn’t prep ya, but you’re drenched anyway. Besides, a slut like you prob’ly doesn’t mind getting fucked like this.” he continues. He forces himself into you, ignoring the resistance until he’s snuggled inside.

He is huge.

The way your pussy splits open just to take the sheer girth of him makes you wonder if he’s even human. His cockhead nudges at your cervix, and every thrust he delivers hammers against it ruthlessly.

“H-Hurh…” you try to tell him that you’re hurting, but his thumb presses down on your thumb and it makes you gag. Though he slows down, knowing you were warning him. He isn’t a complete monster, after all. He’s a bit of a dick, sure, but he wants you to enjoy this, too.

His thrusts aren’t as deep anymore, sparing your poor cervix for the time being. The pain subsides and turns into something a lot more pleasant. So much so, that you can’t stop yourself from raking your nails across his back as he hits just the right spot inside of you with his enormous cock.

He pulls his thumb from your mouth, opting to squeeze the sides of your neck again instead. Your moans become lodged in your throat, and you can’t voice just how fucking perfect he feels inside of you. You’re close, so fucking close.

Though surprisingly, he cums first, loudly. Unable to withstand the blinding pleasure he feels as your tiny little cunt tightens around him. His body breaks out in a cold sweat as he moans, fucking his cum deeper and deeper into you. His restraint is lost, and he’s soon nudging against your cervix again, forcing every drop he can deep into your womb.

The warm feeling has your eyes crossing as you begin to spasm around him. He hisses, desperately, too overstimulated to keep quiet as your walls begin to hug his cock.

“You can stay the night, if you want.” Sukuna tells you, pulling himself out of your spent hole. He wipes his dick off on your inner thigh, though you barely register it as you think about what he said.

“Is this… Is this your house? Your party?”

“Little brother’s party. I live here, too.”

He doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea. You’re certainly a sweet girl, and you seem like the type to get attached. He has an ulterior motive in mind, though. Sure, maybe he’ll fuck you a few more times throughout the night. But he hopes you won’t be a fool and fall for him.

He has a goal for the following morning.

He wants to know how Yuuji’s girlfriend will react to seeing a girl leave his bedroom.

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zriasstuff · 27 days

Text

Slytherin boys x reader (kinky shit vol.2)

Warnings: 18+ sexual content, orgasm denial kink (?), not proof read, long lost trashy & horny draft from my wattpad era (a moment of silence for that), cringe, enjoy ?

(not that anyone rlly cares, but i thought I’d at least pull this out since i haven’t posted actual writing in 1,5 weeks, vol.1 in case you’re curious)

Mattheo Riddle:

Mattheo was incredibly skilled with his mouth, knowing just where to flick his tongue and how hard to suck on your clit to make you melt. Shaking and squirming, you’d grab onto his curly hair, and he would hold your thighs over his shoulders and bury his face deep within your sweet cunt. Always licking up every drip coming from your precious cunt and sucking his fingers clean after stretching you out.

Eventually he figured that he could make you even needier by removing himself for a few seconds. In response you would desperately pull his head closer to your cunt and whine him “don’t you dare fucking stop now”, but he’d just tease your entrance by slowly licking stripes, so you wouldn’t be able to reach your climax.

It was torture, yet you have to admit he made it worth it. “Please Matty keep going”, you’d plea, “plea- please just pleasee”, you’d just repeat that as often as you could, but he enjoyed seeing you on edge.

Tom Riddle:

It’s his favorite form of punishing you for when you act bratty towards him, or when he’s in an angry mood in general, which is quite frequently. His practice of orgasm denial involves painstakingly long teasing until your cunt is all worn out and until you basically can’t think properly anymore. All your thoughts just revolve around one thing, riding out your orgasm completely without feeling as if something was being ripped away from you instead. Tom always fucks you first, pulling out just when you’re about to cum. Instead he releases himself all over your thighs, and leaves you to your own devices. The more needy you become, the longer he’ll torture you to see your breaking point. He has a dildo his size, which he’ll fuck you with, always pulling out just when you’re about to cum. It was an endless circle, even bringing out tears in you because it’s too unbearable and you just desperately want to experience that intensive orgasm. Usually he doesn’t let you have it though. Because of that you become unbelievably horny during the next few days, wanting Tom to use you and fuck you in any sort of way, but of course he’d rather watch you squirm and whine under him. “Should’ve thought twice before being a brat”/“Only good girls derserve to cum”/“You look so pathetic, begging for my cock”

Theodore Nott:

Instead of the popular silent treatment you gave to Theo sometimes when you were mad, you also enjoyed seeing him all fidgety and out of control. “Please don’t do this”, he’d beg, but it would all be in vain. Once you decided to bounce up and down on his swollen cock, he couldn’t keep it together anymore. You didn’t allow him to grab your tits, nor to cum. Once you rode his cock long enough to get you close, you got off of him and fingered yourself in front of him until you made a mess of the sheets. His cock would just leak precum from watching you get off, but he was gonna try to not disobey you. He wasn’t allowed to cum until you gave him explicit permission. After you rode him, he was most likely a swearing mess, desperate to touch his own cock and replicate what you do to him. “That’s what you get for making me mad”, you’d tell him and he’d apologize about a thousand times. Sometimes, out of pity, you then satisfy him by allowing him to touch himself, but other times he wouldn’t be so lucky and had to wait until the next day possibly. “I swear I’ll never do it again”, he whines or “Please I’ll do anything”

Blaise Zabini:

He knows that you enjoy your orgasms way more when they’ve been delayed because then they’re just so much more intensive that way. So, when you do it, he obviously wants to make you feel good, even if that means making you feel incredibly bad, even if it’s in a good way, for a moment. His cock was big by all means, it stretched you out perfectly and fit you just right. So after he comes inside you, he makes you cockwarm him instead of pulling out completely. This way he’ll watch you struggle to not roll your hips because if you did you’d try to get him to hit your g-spot. Then, all of a sudden, he’d grab your waist, make you straddle him, and control your body movements with his hands on your waist. Blaise will pull down, and thrust into you from under you. You can’t help but let out a series of cries because Blaise pounded so deep into you that you were sure you’re insides would never recover. Although he’s lying down, he’s still the one in control, so any pleasure you get is decided by him. “Not yet babe”/“Hold on a little longer ok” As you finally get to have your orgasm, it’s the most intense yet satisfying feeling in the world.

Enzo Berkshire:

Broken was the only word to describe Enzo when he was suffering from not being able to cum due to having a cock ring on. You used it for punishing him sometimes, for unintentionally flirting with other girls, but also just for fun and to spice up your bedroom activities. It vibrated his inflated cock, but also restricted it from shooting out his sweet release. The entire room would be filled with Enzo’s variations of noises, begging and whines. “How much longer”, he keeps asking while making filthy sounds and “I can’t keep it in anymore please” he’d always plea. Enzo would also always come close to tears, though he definitely enjoyed the sinful mix of pleasure and pain too. There were also several intensity settings on the useful cock ring and any time he’d swear, you put it higher. He was entirely under your control, and anything he did would result in his cock just suffering longer from the prolonged torture. You watched him squirm in his bed, completely naked, and even humping the bed at times to get some sort of friction, but that never ended well as you would set the vibrations even higher. His cock was so close to coming, yet only measly drops of precum came out. It was truly a sight.

Draco Malfoy:

Combined with public factors, orgasm denial is your favorite way of watching your boyfriend struggle to keep it together. Otherwise everyone would find out what an obedient boy he was for you, totally unlike the usual bad boy persona he puts on. When all your friends hang out around the common room couch, near the fireplace, a blanket always covers you two. It’s normal, since everyone shares a blanket with either a friend or partner. The twist comes when you slyly slide your hands all the way down to his crotch and rub him through his pyjama pants first. Draco always inhales sharply, knowing he’ll have to be on his best behavior. He shifts all the time, trying to secretly hump himself on the palm of your hand, acting like a stupid fuck toy. So, to tell him to cut it out, you lightly squeeze his length, sending him a warning sign. He should remember that you were the one in control. When you decide he deserves it, you start massaging his cock, pumping it ever so slowly and circling your thumb over his crown. As soon as you hear the grunts, signaling that he can’t keep it in any longer, you slide your hands out of his pants again and act as you were. Draco’s own pleasure had to wait until you were in private, until then he’d quietly whine “Please let me cum, pleasee”/“I swear I’ll do anything you want”

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melonn-soda · 5 months

Text

Kinktober Day 3 - Dazai Osamu

word count: 3.2k

warnings: HATE SEX, dubcon, cuffing, overstim, slight dumbification, edging, dazai calls u petnames and he's an ass, reader is a slight brat, bottom cis male reader, top ftm dazai

prompt: dazai visits his favorite mafia member and gives him a little reunion gift

notes: READ WITH CAUTION, THIS FIC CONTAINS DARK THEMES. tell me if there's any other warnings I should add, please. sorry these prompts are super fucking late. different texting style but I'll go back after kinktober prompts are all posted. still currently working on the other ones because this is taking longer than expected. too much plot going on with them lmao. anyways, I'm tired of ftm characters always being on the bottom, so I contribute this. trans dazai canon because I'm trans and I said so.

fem aligned dni

The air blew a cold breeze around Yokohama, chilling the residents of the city and keeping them locked up inside their homes. Nobody went outside without some sort of extra layer to protect themselves from the chill of the atmosphere, either wearing jackets or hoodies over shirts when they strolled down the streets. Dazai Osamu blew hot air into his palms to warm them up as he walked down the sidewalk, eyeing every shop that was on his right. The bakery he passed by was closing down due to lack of patrons and he made sure to get some pastries for Atsushi, Ranpo, and himself beforehand. Some clothing shops were bathing in money because of the upcoming fall and winter seasons approaching faster with people preparing for the cold days by purchasing thick layered clothes. Every store was having its own ups and downs at the moment.

Even with all the tempting things he could buy, he still passed by most of them until he was at the edge of the city, with fewer people and cars coming in and out of this area. There were a few supply trucks coming in and out because of all the supply shipments coming in but that was going to be all. However, Dazai didn’t come to the warehouse for no reason. After all, he always went to somewhere that had a purpose.

He walked through the gates without anyone stopping him, walking to a particular warehouse before pushing the doors open. It was dark and gloomy in the place, yet felt strangely warm from the contrasting colder outside weather. Dazai made sure his steps were slow and quiet, keeping his presence minorly hidden to avoid getting himself hurt if someone were to attack him. He made sure to peek around the corners of supply crates to make sure no one was going to blast bullets directly at his face, eyes scanning with caution in every area he invaded.

A loud clang alerted his senses, and the sound of sizzling came humming after. Dazai’s intuition was right, he was here doing exactly as he thought he would. Footsteps increasing in speed, he rushed towards the source of the sound, still making sure to look over corners rather than going in head-on. Since he wasn’t that far away from his target, it didn’t take him long to get there, seeing the person he was looking for with a mischievous smile. Oh, how he missed seeing his face.

The burned part of a shipping container was melted off in the shape of a circle, laying on the ground as the material was still a glowing red before returning to its original color. The man who stood next to it, the person who caused the eruption of a loud noise from metal hitting cement was none other than his long lost Port Mafia ex-coworker. [l.name], [name]. So many memories were shared with that boy since they’ve known each other since their teens.

Dazai watched you step into the shipping container, following after you and watching as you rummaged through products, putting multiple things up to inspect before putting them back in place. He knew which product you were looking for and where it was, eyes landing on the box before flicking back onto your figure. With silent steps, he walked in, but once his other foot was placed inside, a loud creak was made and it alerted you to fire a burst of flames that shot out from your palms. Dazai, of course, saw it coming as he leaned so that he narrowly missed it, feeling the heat on his chest before grabbing your wrist and moving his weight around to get himself behind you and out to safety before using his foot to swipe and make you lose your balance. Alarmed and unprepared, you fell onto your stomach as Dazai moved your arm behind you mid-fall, getting your hands effectively pinned against your back.

“Ah~, [name], always so reliant on his ability. It was always your biggest flaw, y’know?” Dazai began to tease, pressing his knee against your lower back to keep you on the ground. He watched you try and wriggle out of his hold, knowing that you were too physically weak to actually break free. Weaker than him, I dare say.

“Dazai! What the fuck are you doing here? Let me go!” You scowled, glaring at him over your shoulder, cheek pressing against the cold metal. Your eyes still held the deep fire as always, so bright whenever you got fired up or even mad. The ex-Port Mafia executive always found that really cute about you, but he never really admitted it out loud, only doing it if he wanted to get a reaction out of you.

“Looking for you, of course!” He chimed with a playful smile, one that always managed to piss you off, “I figured you would be here looking for that really important document from overseas, but I can’t have you getting your hands on it. After all, we’re enemies, are we not? I have to do everything in my power to foil your devious plans.”

You tried thrashing around a little harder as he spoke, not wanting to see or even be within a 100-foot radius of this man, “Can’t you just leave me be this once, you fucking psychopath!?” You yelled out, clearly upset with the predicament you found yourself in. Chuuya really needed those papers and if he found out you didn’t even get the chance to find them, you don’t want to know how mad he might get.

“Oh my, is that the way you should be talking to your past loving boyfriend?” The brunet gasped in mock offense, leaning in a little closer to your ear.

Your face flared slightly at the closeness, “Past!! We’re not dating anymore, sicko. We broke it off the minute you left the Mafia, or have you forgotten?” You glowered at him, “For years, I’ve wondered where and how you were, only to get a message from an unknown number that told me we can’t be together anymore. I knew it was you because of your texting style.”

“But I can tell that you still want me,” Dazai continued to poke around with your feelings, not caring about any of the consequences that might follow after. He heard you immediately deny it all within a seconds notice but, “Oh, but you do still desire me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be blushing so hard over me just whispering thiiis~ close to your ear.” He chuckles as you shift your face so that he couldn’t see it.

“Just get the hell off of me.” You threatened weakly, feeling him shift around slightly while still on top of you.

You could hear Dazai sigh in what seemed to be in disappointment before he yanked you up and got you to sit on his lap. Dazai was sitting on the floor and you could feel your face grow even hotter as his body pressed against yours even more in this position.

“Y’know, I could really care less about you taking those documents. I didn’t come here to stop you either,” The detective told you, causing your eyes to widen and look back at him, “I only decided to foil your plans because I wanted to see you again. Do things we never got to do with you. For instance,” with a pause, one of his hands let go of your wrists and teasingly slid down your waist, getting dangerously close to your sex, “now that we’re adults, you can lose yourself to me.”

The last parts of his words were said in a whisper, causing a shiver to go down your spine as your lips pursed to suppress a whine. However, your body decided to show your true feelings you held towards the brunet with your dick hardening and sensitivity going to overdrive. You still loved Dazai, you really did, but you didn’t expect to react this way. Maybe it was because of the stress from the Port Mafia? I mean, it has been months since you’ve last jerked off.

“Oh dear, it seems like you're getting excited.” Dazai chuckled next to your left ear, his hand gently brushing against your crotch as you let out a whimper, “and your sounds are just the cutest.~ I’ve been imagining this scenario so many times, and now that it’s happening, it’s hard to believe that it’s ending up like this.”

A strained moan left your lips as you could feel his hand press harder against the tip of your cock, head falling forward in shame over turning into putty from just his voice and soft touches alone. In a near desperate tone, you still attempted to resist his efforts, “S-stop- this isn’t right-!”

“You may say so but your lovely body still craves my touch.” You could feel his fingers undo your pants and slip into your underwear, his cold touch coming into contact with your blistering heat, “You still desire me, otherwise, why would you still keep pictures of me on your wall after so many years, huh?”

“Go.. ah- fuck yourself.” You growled, a loud wince ripping through your throat at a particular tug at your cock, your back unconsciously arching and the back of your head hitting against Dazai’s shoulder, “Shit, shit, shit!”

“When did you become such a brat?” Dazai huffed out annoyingly, “Have you been spending too much time with that stupid slug? It looks like he’s beginning to rub off on you.” His hand picked up in pace and technique with a squeal of surprise coming from your mouth causing the brunet to smile slightly, “Ah, but I think it might make breaking you even more enjoyable.~”

Tears began to spill from your eyes from the stimulation, whining and moaning pathetically in Dazai’s hold as he continued to pump your cock. He even noticed that you stopped retaliating against his ministrations, fully submitting from the pleasure racking your brain into a state of stupidity. God, you looked so good like this.

“Fuck!” You suddenly yelled, thighs quivering around Dazai’s legs, “I’m close, ‘Samu- can’t take anymore-!” Words slurring like you were drunk, your hips bucked to bring yourself to your release.

Much to your dismay, Dazai pulled his hand out of your pants promptly, causing you to whine in protest, “Not just yet, lovely. I wanna see you scream and beg me for mercy as I dumb you down into oblivion.” He whispered sweetly though menacingly, causing you to shudder in delight.

Within a blink of an eye, he slammed you back down on the cold metal floors face first, taking out handcuffs from his back pocket and locking them on your wrists. You took the time to catch your breath as he got up away from you to dig into one of the containers, pulling out a black box with gold lining on it.

He took a seat next to your slumped figure with a mischievous smile on his face, opening the box and pulling out a solid black strap-on and a bottle of lube. The dildo was about 5-inches in length as far as you could tell, although there was nothing on the other side to please Dazai. Did he just buy that thing only to watch you become fucked out in ecstasy?

Dazai grabbed a bag of toy-cleaning wipes from the box as well, making sure to wipe the strap-on down as he continued to look at you deviously, “Do you like my surprise, lovely? Are you excited?” He asked, removing some of his clothes to place the toy around his pelvis.

Your dick twitched in anticipation, drool pooling on the ground as you looked dazedly at the sheer size of it, “However,” Dazai interrupted, “Because you’re a virgin, you’ll have to wait. After all, you’re nothing but my fragile little doll. As much as I would love to see you crumble, I wanna take my time shattering you.” He smirked, popping open the bottle and spilling its contents over his long, pretty fingers.

Positioning himself behind you, he gently grabbed your hips with his non-lubed fingers to lift your ass up into the air. Pushing only one of his fingers in your hole, he continued to pour lube consistently onto his hands to keep your insides from tearing. It wasn’t even 30 seconds before he found your prostate, pressing on it harshly to see you jolt and gasp, easily making you into nothing but a plaything. Even still, the fucker avoided it on purpose for the next few minutes of stretching you out. He added finger after finger when he saw you ready for the next, but wouldn’t even press that specific area.

After what seemed like an hour of teasing, he pulled out his fingers as you trembled on the cold floors. He wiped his fingers on the inner parts of his trench coat, hands then finding themselves on your waist to make it so you could feel the silicon against your thighs that were pressed together. You don’t know if you were enjoying this, or hating this.

“You ready, dollface?” He asked you, hands sliding up your chest and pulling you up so that your back came into contact with his body. You could feel the toy slip through your thighs for a brief second before he positioned it so that the tip could press against your hole, pressing lightly against your rim as you let out a shaky moan.

Glaring at him from the corner of your eye, you growled, “Just put it in, you asshole.” Maybe Chuuya has begun to influence your attitude.

With a grin, Dazai shoved you down onto the silicon dick without any lousy comebacks, causing a loud wince to fall from your lips. From the tip of the cock pressing against your prostate, you wailed pathetically in desire as your body was beginning to give up, letting your torso fall back onto the ground with a light thud. Your limbs started to feel like jelly, trembling terribly as Dazai pressed his hips even closer, reaching even deeper as you sobbed out in pleasure.

“Ah-! F-fuck-” You cried as Dazai began to pull out briefly before rocking his hips into yours repeatedly, setting a rhythm for himself. Incoherent ramblings spilled out of your cute lips as he continued to press against your prostate, your body feeling extremely heated.

“Oh, aren’t you just the prettiest little thing?” He cooed into your ear, one of his hands trailing up from your hips and to your nipple, pinching and pulling on it lightly to stimulate you further. He brought it up to his mouth to wet those fingers then returned them onto your chest, the slight chill making you shiver when the cold air brushed underneath your shirt, “So sensitive, too. I hope I’m the first person to see you like this.”

“U-urgh~... Dazai..” Words slurring and hiccups turning into broken moans spurred the brunet even further, pistoning his hips even better when he took ahold of one of your ankles and lifted it into the air with ease. You were just so cute like this.

“Osamu.”

Staccato moans turned into full on wails as you could feel the tip of the dildo poke at your prostate, sending you into a mess of tears and babbling nonsense. It was too much. It was all so much for you. From the edging Dazai did earlier, the pent up stress from being in the mafia, now the dick inside you that was ramming you into stupidity, you could feel yourself getting close to your orgasm. And fuck, if it didn’t come fast.

You were sobbing thick tears as cum spilled out of your pathetic excuse of a dick, seeing Dazai’s face contort into one of amusement as you came all over the floor. Body shaking from the heightened stimulation, you wanted a break, wailing at him in hopes to tell him to at least slow down.

You should really know better, though, because he’s an asshole and would do anything in his power to watch you crumble for his own entertainment. And you acting like you hated him only motivated him to fuck you even harder. So here he was, bending your left leg so that your knee nearly touched your chest while continuing to move his hips at his brutal pace. It didn’t help that his toy kept pressing into your sensitive spot either.

“W-wait! Nnng!” You cry out, fingernails digging into the metal of the shipping container, “Osa- ah! Osamu, sl-slow down-!” Your voice squeaked as he used his hand that was on your hip to press down hard against your tummy, feeling the tip of the silicon dick disappear and come back.

The agency member giggled, raising that same hand and wiping away the abundance of tears flowing down your face, “Look at you~ just so adorable and begging for me to stop. Don’t you remember what I said? ‘I wanna see you scream and beg me for mercy as I dumb you down into oblivion.’” The attitude in his voice becoming condescending and dark.

His hand travelled down to grasp your dick, causing you to bite your bottom lip to quiet down the scream that nearly left your lips. Almost too quickly, your cock hardened once more with tears flowing down the sides of your face from overstimulation. Dazai only gave you a shit-eating smirk while he looked down at your pitiful face, feeling a rush of excitment through his veins.

God, you should’ve taken the day off.

…

Dazai took off the strap on with ease, letting it fall back into the box, shiny with lube and Dazai’s own slick. He didn’t care about his own orgasmic pleasures, just wanted to see you once more, even if that meant fucking you stupid. He wasn’t lying when he said that. Dazai was cruel, there’s no doubt about it. However, he still had the courtesy to clean you up with multiple wet wipes and redress you. Too bad he couldn’t do anything about the bruises and bite marks littered beautifully across your sleeping form.

The brunet pulled up his pants and closed the box with the sex toy in it, holding it by pressing it against his side while his other hand fished his phone out of his trench coat’s pocket. Quickly, as if he remembered the phone number by heart, he dialed one of your co-worker’s digits and his phone began to ring.

“Who is this?”

“Chuuya!” Dazai said in a chippy tone, hearing the other groan and spit out a “what do you want?” in response, “Well- for starters, [name] is in a shipping container, currently knocked out. You know, the one you wanted him to check? Could you be a good friend and pick him up safely? Oh! But be careful, he’s a little sore in the lower half.”

“What the hell did you do to him!?” Chuuya barked on the other side of the line, Dazai hearing him kick open doors to rush over to where his coworker is.

“Just a little reunion gift.” Dazai singsonged, pressing the “end call” button before he could hear his long time friend yell again, “Man, they sure are becoming too similar. I’ll have to fix that.”

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