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sarahblueskyyyy · 2 months

Text

Contract

MDNI!!! Barrack Bunny! Reader, Phillip Graves x Reader, Shadows x Reader, rough sex, vaginal sex, gangbang (imaginations), PWP, cock-warming, degradation, bang bang on table, plus-sized reader, etc.

Even before you lift your fist to knock on the polished wooden door—you already knew the reason why you were summoned by the commander.

“Come on in.”

The corners of your lips are pulled upwards, something you can’t deter anyway. Your grip on the door’s handle makes a click sound, and you step into the simple office of his. And when you close the door, you use the nudge of your back and backwards.

Phillip Graves forms a thin smile. His gaze is still directed at the pile of documents on top of his desk; he pretends to disregard the newly discovered existence of a certain someone in his private room.

“Anything you need, Commander?” you ask him cheerfully. Your grin widens as you get closer to him. If being imbecilic is the core rule, two can play the game. You’ll obediently carry out the objective. “I heard you were searching for me.”

Graves lets out a soft scoff. He puts down the papers and utilizes his stretching hands to push him away a little from the desk. The chair’s wheels roll, and it broadens your visual range.

You bite onto your lower lips and swallow down a smile—a futile effort, for your eyes glint when you see him sitting on his chair with a prominent erection. His cock stiffens with every vein carved perfectly on the shaft up to the bulbous tip, leaking with pre-cum already.

“Sit.”

“Yes, Sir.”

You gracefully bless him with a show. You tug on your pants’ button, take it off, and shove it down. Your fingers, playing around the hem of your underwear, nudge it until it reaches the knees before your legs stomp it off. You eliminate the distance between the two of you, facing each other, and you are ready to sit on his dick before he shakes his head.

“Turn around, doll.”

You nod faithfully. Your body spins, and now your ass is aligned with his chest. You crawl down slowly. The blue-eyed man’s fingers dip into your hips. The other arm strokes his own length, positioning it near your hole—glazing and pulsating.

You lower your body carefully. Your vulva caresses the tip of his cock, rubs it gently before it enters you, and fits like a key to its hole.

However, patience is never his strong suit. He wraps his arms around your plush stomach, pulling you down in one swift motion, and the plump of your ass hits his pelvis. His cock, hard and girthy, scrapes the velvety walls of yours. Your spongy inside is fluttering around his dick, and your yelp is forced out from the base of your throat. Your back’s arched as his erection stretches apart your tight, spongy muscles.

He groans and chuckles with contentment. His hug on your body is firm, and his chest is pressing against your back. You elicit another pained moan—a genuine manifestation of the pleasure and throbbing burn in your cunt. You feel so full and get teared in half at the same time.

“Already this wet?” His whisper, which is not louder than a breath, grazes the crook of your neck. It jolts you with a shiver that runs from your spine towards your pussy. His fingers creep on your shaking thighs that are spreading out on top of his own. His thumb rests on your hard clit, red and tiny, yet stands so bravely in the air, as if inviting any naked eyes to abuse it. He presses down on it, circling it. “This base’s favorite whore, hm-mnn?”

“Graves ...,” you mewl his name. So spoiled, so sweetly—you anchor your temple to the curve between his neck and shoulder.

“Mhmm.” The man netles his hands on your chest, covered by a simple t-shirt without a bra—your nipples poke through it. He pinches on those leisurely. “I have a proposition, by the way.”

You suck in a deep breath and exhale it—steady and slow.

“A proposition?”

Graves swings his legs forward to push the chair, once again glued to the edge of the desk. The simple course of action pushes his engorged tip more towards the base of your womb, which slides even deeper. You groan at the feeling.

“It’s no longer a secret that you fuck with everyone on the base,” he starts. He reaches for stapled papers from the left rear of the table and drags them to the center. His right hand settles for a pen, knocking the pointy side onto the wooden material. “I thought it was time to appreciate you.”

“Huh.” You blink a few times. Try your hardest to focus on the written words in front of you.

“This,” Graves says, throwing his index finger at the first lines on the first paper. “It is a contract. I’ve discussed this with the shadows, and they are very much in agreement. The ball’s in your hand. Of course—you’ll be compensated for your service, so read it well and carefully.”

You frown and wish to dispute that this is not the right time to sign any work contract. However, your eyes fall on the lined-up words, and your lips shut silently.

LETTER OF AGREEMENT

Name, date of birth, division, specialization …, you murmur inside your heart, taking in every letter.

The written agreement that is listed below involves 2 (TWO) PARTIES:

Phillip Graves, as the FIRST PARTY (along with his SHADOWS) initiates a cooperative sexual contract with the SECOND PARTY, [Full Name].

[Full Name] as the SECOND PARTY will be facilitated, compensated, and gratified for the service they provide. The settlement includes:

Increase in fixed salary,

Healthcare,

Et cetera.

Your jaw drops wide.

“You serious?”

“Of course I do. Read it until the end.”

You wince softly when he shifts his hips. Your cunny is getting sloppier, slicker—in each second. Yet Graves doesn’t intend to move at all—not yet, anyway.

With this letter and after careful consideration for the interests of both sides, the details of the contract and its regulations are attached on the next page.

You flip the paper swiftly. Letters form words, and words form paragraphs, neatly printed on the white paper. “You’re surely joking, Commander.”

His chest rumbles with a chuckle. Thin, short lines frame the sides of his squinted eyes. His arms slip underneath your shirt, making direct contact with your soft tits. He squeezes them down, feeling the curves and the fat that forms your massive breast, and you choke down an involuntary whimper.

“No—not at all. Your cunny has been a home for too many cocks at the base. Recognizing the kind gesture is the least I can do.”

You really feel the urge to massage your temple as your eardrums catch his filthy language.

“Read more,” he encourages you. His lips curl into a crooked smile. “I can do this all night. Read it carefully and ask me if there is anything you don’t understand.”

You proceed with your reading.

1. During sexual intercourse, the FIRST PARTY has the responsibility to pay attention to the consent, the well-being, and the limitations of the SECOND PARTY.

2. Referring to the first point, consent and concerns include:

The usage of external contraception devices,

Prior discussion of the rules, fetishes, and kinks that will be applied during the activity,

Comply and exercise the agreed-upon safe words,

Et cetera. (Regulation points will be added and enforced if necessary.)

3. The SECOND PARTY has the rights and obligations to report and grant sanctions with the approval of the FIRST PARTY [Phillip Graves] if any of the bullet’s points were to be violated.

So serious, you think. However, your smile blooms and fills your round cheeks. Of course, considering all things, what you have been doing with everyone is a combination of fun and carelessness. You don’t have any problem with that, nor do you pay too much heed to this whole escapade. However, when you are offered clear rules and objectives with your well-being in mind, of course it’ll feel safer. Fuck hard, play hard—but safely done.

4. Considering the nature of the sexual activity that is conducted, the FIRST PARTY is obligated to provide the necessary needs and health care for the SECOND PARTY. The utility includes:

Routine STD tests and checks-ups for both PARTIES [Phillip Graves, Shadows] [Full Name],

Provide medical assistance and aid such as hormonal contraception, vaccination (AIDS, HPV, cervix, etc.),

Et cetera.

“Oh,” you mumble under your breath. “I’ve been vaccinated for the cervix a couple years ago.”

“Mh-hmn.” Graves tweaks your nipples, inducing a small jolt in your sitting. “That’s good. Let’s just do the rest you haven’t done.” He himself stifles his groan as your walls tighten. His restraint is nearly thrown out of the window for his cock, swollen and full, stuffed inside that tiny, cramped hole of yours.

You once again elicit a whiny moan. Being teased by his member almost feels tortuous now—like a cruel punishment that indicates his wish to ruin you whole. How the fuck does his hardness stay this long?

“Have you reached the fifth point?” Graves presses his forehead against your back. “I wrote that after another discussion with the Shadows. Anything you dislike—tell me.”

How much discussion were they having?

As soon as your eyes get back to scanning the writing, absorbing every detail, your heartbeat jumps an interval. Its thump acts like it’ll jump out of your ribs before it settles into its initial state. Still fast, but stabilized, and in every pulse, your cunt follows it as if it pumps the blood itself.

5. Sexual intercourse can be done between the [Shadows] as the representative of the FIRST PARTY without the need to acquire [Phillip Grave’s] permission.

6. Sexual intercourse can be done in pairs or more. Allowed penetration access depends on the SECOND PARTY.

In general, penetration is done by inserting a penis into a vagina.

In cases of anal penetration, if allowed by the SECOND PARTY, lubrication is mandatory.

In cases of oral penetration, safe words and/or gestures to ensure the SECOND PARTY’S safety need to be discussed prior.

In cases of double penetration or more, activity is to be STOPPED if the SECOND PARTY taps her chest twice.

And there is it—your imagination works instantly. A visual is served into your head. A hypothetical situation where you were lied down on a desk or a bed or any surface plausible—and your body is being waltzed around like a rag doll. Either that or all of them simultaneously ravish you. There is a thought where your back would arch perfectly and your perky chest protrudes towards the air, just for them to be fondled roughly. To be slapped and abused until the pair of soft flesh are red and the nipples are erect. There would be a shadow under you, supporting your weight as his swollen tip nudged your anal rim before he pushed deeper into you, scratching the inside of it. Your legs would be spread so widely, like a pair of wings, as another shadow rammed into you, knocking on your deepest part, suffocating you with his cock that was determined to tear your womb. Rough and harsh, pelvises met each other. And as both of your holes were stuffed full and you got bullied relentlessly, you’d lift your neck, receiving another dick in your mouth. You’d feel how his length is throbbing, wet by your spit, in-and-out at an erratic pace, trying to spurt out his seed in your warm, tight throat. You’d gag in every thrust, and your glossy lips formed an outline around his member. A shiver runs through your nerves in every way possible.

Graves’ grunt is guttural; it is stuck on his throat before it evaporates into a hoarse whimper into your ears. “You grippin’ me like a fuckin’ vice, baby.” Both of his hands grasp onto the sides of your curves, pressing into the flesh and fat there. He loves his woman full and thick. “What’s wrong, hmn? Picturin’ somethin’ fun?”

Your mewl is intertwined with his. “Graves, for God’s sake.”

“Read more.” His order is loud and clear—it’s absolute. He softly pinches down onto your lower belly, to the part of the stomach that hangs low, perfectly made by God Himself to guard your fertile womb. “I want you to sign this fuckin’ document and let me cum in you.”

Speaking of it—you think you finally reached that point in the paper.

7. Orgasm and ejaculation can be done in any body’s parts as long as the SECOND PARTY permits it. However, secretion in risky or harm-prone areas is strictly prohibited. These rules include ejaculating the eyes, nose, pharynx, and larynx; forcing swallowing; et cetera.

“What if I—nghh, get pregnant?” you say, teasing him. You wiggle your ass and drive down more into his pelvis.

Graves rolls his eyes—a reaction to both his slight annoyance at your antics and the heavenly sensation that keeps pawing on his cock. Your sloppy folds rub onto the base of his shaft, and they haven’t stopped dripping since the first time you sat on his dick. In one fast movement, he gives you a harsh spank on your hips, and you jolt—eyelids fluttering. A burn traverses from the impact region to your cunt, and before you know it, Graves is already stroking on the pain he just inflicted.

“Fine, then, get fuckin’ pregnant,” he bites back. His head starts to spin from all this stimulation, and arousal has reached its peak. “This base’s bastard child, it’ll be. That’s what you want anyway, right? Swollen belly, tits filled with milk. I don’t see any problem with that, whore.”

You inhale and try to compose yourself. Again, a feeble effort. But then you laugh airily, gently, and unburdening. “Alright, then. Where do I sign?”

“Read the last point.”

8. The SECOND PARTY’s health and well-being are priority. The SECOND PARTY has the right to revise, adjust, and modify the rules and the contract according to her needs. A contract can be cancelled and revoked at any time if the SECOND PARTY wishes for it.

5 March 2024,

(SIGNED).

FIRST PARTY

[Phillip Graves – Shadows]

--------------------

SECOND PARTY

[Full Name]

You inhale deeply once again and let it out gently. This is downright insane; it's deranged. Who the fuck would construct such a work contract? And even before you ask for a pen, he already gives it to you. You snatch it, press the button, and with a slight trembling hand, you etch your sign.

One second after that paper is legalized, Graves shoves away the papers with one arm. He stands to his feet, moves your body, and pushes your front against the hard surface of his desk. Your chest is squeezed flat onto the table, and your arse is up in the air, like a pure sacrifice offering on the altar. Your legs hang by the edge of the table, and your toes curl in response to his cock drills deep inside you.

“Ah, ah—fuck, Graves!” Your stuttering cry is dirty and lewd as his sensitive cock plunges into you. He grasps onto your hips as the leverage for him to move and ram you. His pace is harsh, fast, and deep. Every time he pulls out, his eyes glint with the sight of your juices that glisten his length, and when he buries himself to the hilt, he makes sure he hits the right place.

Your spongy, slimy walls are locking him in; envelop it tautly. Graves’ thrusts are almighty, and his balls swing to slap your skin.

You are not in a condition to form any words except elicit a train of whimpering, incomprehensible moans and a series of ah-ah-ah, accompanied by the wet slap sound. Between those, Graves doesn’t overlook your jiggling ass. He hits them; his palm falls onto your reddened cheeks with force, wringing out your desperate wail.

“Grav—angh!”

“Feel good?” The blue-eyed man ducks down his head, gluing his lips to your neck, sucking on your skin. His hips rock fiercely, impaling you, as you dive upward and grind around. His harsh blows don’t stop, and the mixture of his tender kisses and brutal swats is throwing all your senses off. You feel everything at the same time.

You sob. Twinge and bliss dance around in your whole nerves and muscles, forming a taut knot in your sex. Your inner walls start to flutter. You’re cumming.

“Graves more, more, please—” Both of your arms are stretching forward, grabbing on the table’s rear. Strengthen your holding as Graves keeps railing you. You’re on the precipice of an alarmingly intense orgasm, and you can’t even back away from it.

His thrust grows hasty, imbued with desperation, eager to snap off the remaining self-restraint he has. His gummy tip smoothly brushes all over your creaming walls. On one last shove, he invokes your orgasm. Your hole clamps down on him, quivering terribly tight; it makes the man cum inside you and gets milked as easily as a faucet flows its water.

Graves groans, trembling in his hips. His head lolls back as his warm cum washes your cunny.

You are raided by the same tension. Your vision blurs for quite a number of seconds. The legs stiffen and vibrate. You whimper as you feel the mixture of his liquid and yours trickling down your thighs. He keeps riding out your climax, and your heartbeat hasn’t ceased from its rapid rhythm.

No, not yet—as the door is knocked softly.

He chuckles and kisses the side of your hanging jaw. Then, to your lips, sucks on it gently. A string of saliva is bridged between the tongues before it falls and drips to your chin. You feel flushed—you know you are; your face must be as red as blood, and sweat must engulf every inch of your skin.

He smiles. A sight he wouldn’t get bored of.

“Commander? This is Shadows.”

You almost forgot the knock on that door.

“Should we let ‘em in, sweetheart?” He asks you. His whisper is delivered more like persuasion than an order. He pulls out his softened cock.

You swallow and nod. Muscles are tensing with the expectation of what is to come.

“Come in,” Graves says, raising his voice.

And as the door’s opened, five shadows are walking in. So politely, so neatly, like elementary school kids on the outside of their classroom. You still lie down on the desk with your legs open wide. Your cunt, gaping and shutting softly, melts the white, milky cum of his. Messy and dirty—but that’s the whole point, right?

Graves smiles, pressing on the back of your neck. “Have fun.”

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sarahblueskyyyy · 5 months

Text

Sore

MDNI!!! Headcanon/drabble, Ghouls/Ghoulettes x f! Reader, romance, fluff, explicit, PWP, penetration, nipple play, dry-humping, boobs job, etc.

Picture Credit

You tell them your breast is sore. Perhaps a massage or two might help.

Cumulus

“‘Lus, my bweebs hurt.”

She laughs softly. “Aw, my poor baby ... is your period coming?”

You nod and whine.

With her plump body, she wraps you with her arms. Warmth floods all over and she can’t help but notices the rising cheeks of yours against her arm. “Let me massage them, yeah?”

And it doesn’t take long until she slips her hands under your shirt, squeezing and massaging your breast, tenderly at first.

“That feels better?”

"Mh-hmn ...,” you murmur and sigh contently. “Feels so good, ‘Lus.”

It’s a little bit too late when you realize Cumulus has been slowly changing her tactic from massaging to—pleasuring. Her fingers latched on your tits, giving it a circular motion, and each stroke firmer than before.

Not her fault that you keep grinding your ass on her and let out strangled noises every time her fingers pinch on your nipples, tugging on them, until you can’t hold your moans and heavy breath.

"‘Lus please ....”

“Please what—baby?” Her hands firm on your tits. “You gotta say it clearly.”

“Touch me more—nghh.”

“I am touching you. My hands are full. And—no cheating baby, don’t touch yourself.”

You try your best not to slid your fingers to your already wet cunt and rub your clit. All you can do is pressing your thigh together, feeling the obvious sticky sensation in your underwear.

And she gets a little mean too. She grasps on your tits, playing with it and give them occasional slaps. You aren’t sure you can cum just by this, but—Cumulus is persistent.

And it’s proven to be successful when she is unrelenting in kneading the lumps of fat, rolling her thumbs on the nipples. And when you cum, you cum hard.

Cumulus smiles triumphantly. “Maybe I need to massage other area ... don’t you think so, love?”

Phantom

“Phantom, my breast kinda ache.”

Poor ghoul still hasn’t quite grasp how a human’s body works. He quickly gets up from his phone, eyebrows knitted and worriedness seeping through his heart. “Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?”

Your lips curl up into a gentle smile. “No, it’s just ... it’s the usual. Women experience this when they are getting their period.”

Phantom nods hesitantly.

“Anyway, you wanna help massaging them?”

Well, anything for you, right? So you lie down the bed and take off the shirt, and when he looks at your tits, a little bit swollen than it usually is, he gulps.

“Will it hurt? Will I hurt you?”

“No, baby. Just touch it softly.”

His thumb reaches out first, brushing your nipple. And it’s so sensitive you jerk at the first contact. It doesn’t deter him to do more though.

He sits beside you, two hands now on your soft flesh, squeezing on them.

You exhale in pure bliss and it switches something on him. He’s hard rock and he can’t hide it.

So when you offer him, “You wanna ... uhm, get off using my tits?” of course he says yes in a heartbeat.

So he changes his position, now on top of you. Two hands still cupping your breast, full and swollen, and he put his hardened cock between it.

He is pressing on your chest as he moves his hips, forward and backward. At some point, her movement becomes erratic, nd he slurs out incoherently, “Feels good, mnghh, love—”

And when he orgasms, his cum spurts on your chest, messy and sticky.

You laughs lovingly. “So good for me, baby.”

But, he hasn’t finished, though. Phantom once again anchored his fingers on your tits, and he opens his mouth, ready to suck on your nipple.

“Still hasn’t finished massaging it. Wanna clean it up first, okay? Please?”

Dewdrop

"Dew, my tits are sore.”

“The fuck am I supposed to do with it?”

You roll your eyes and whining, shove your face into the pillow. “Never mind.”

Dewdrop sighs and puts down his book. “Your period is coming, right? You’re always in a bitchy mood every time.”

And when you don’t answer, he slowly pulls your shoulder, makes you look at him. His voice softens as he says, “I won’t understand if you don’t tell me, doll. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, mhh ... massage them?”

“.... That should be easy.”

And one thing about Dewdrop—he always takes his job seriously. And finishes it; ties every loose ends.

So don’t be surprised if he does more than a massage. He grabs on your plump flesh like there is no tomorrow. He bites, he sucks, and he rolls his tongue all over your nipples until it gets even more red and swollen. His teeth are rolling on that bundle of nerves.

Does it relief the sore? Well, yeah, maybe, maybe not, one thing for sure—it feels damn good.

And while his lips are working on the areola, his fingers are sliding into your slick cunt, pumping into it.

And you arch your back, wailing when the fire ghoul ends up gliding his cock in your drenched pussy, ramming into you, while his two hands keep squeezing on your tits every time they are bouncing because of his harsh thrust.

“Dew, too much, anghh—”

His laugh is raspy and breathy near your ear. “No worries. I’ll put a warm compress on your tits after this.”

Actually, after this, it’ll be your whole body that needs a warm towel, but—whatever. You love it anyway.

Bonus!

Copia

“Papa ... my breast is aching.”

Copia looks up from his paper. The colour red creeping into his face, up to his ears. “Uhm, ah ... are you okay, tesoro mio?”

“Yeah.” You act coy, swaying your hips a little, and sit on the side of his table. You push your chest out, both of your hands are cupping your tits from outside your shirt. “It’s the usual. I think my period is coming soon.”

Copia clears his throat, eyes are fixated on your bulging nipples under the shirt. “What should I do to help you, dear?”

The corners of your lips are pulled upwards. “Can you maybe massage it, Papa? Maybe it'll relief the aching."

You need to guide him in the beginning. His hands are callouses and carefully placed on top of your shirt. He starts from the below of your tits and pushes his fingers to the centres and realizes he ends up pinching your nipples.

You moans involuntarily, shudders fill your body.

“Are you—was I too rough?”

“No, Papa—in fact, you can be rougher. It won’t hurt me, I promise.”

So, he does as he told. He keeps the same motions repetitively. From the below, to the centre, and slowly but surely—he’s getting brave to pinch on the nipples and pressing it with his thumbs. The frictions between his fingers and your shirt make you more sensitive tenfold.

At some point, his patience gets eroded completely, and he slides his hands under your shirt, directly massaging your tits.

“Ah, ah, Papa—”

“Ti scongiuro,” he begs. “Wanna make you feel good, my treasure.”

You nod obediently as he gestures to spread your legs and rubbing his crotch against yours. Hands still persist on your breast, kneading and playing with it.

You’re not sure if it’s your wet juices or is it his pre-cum that stains his pants. One thing for sure, the more he toys with your tits, the more you feel your high approaching.

And when you cum, he orgasms as well under his pants. You need a few seconds until you realize the soreness on your breast is coming back. And still, you need more of it.

“Copia ... one more time, please?”

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sarahblueskyyyy · 6 months

Text

Games

MINOR DNI! Dad! Price's best friend AU, Simon x Reader x Kyle, threesome, blowjobs, vaginal sex, squirting, rough, phone call in the middle of sex thingy, dirty talk, PWP, overstimulation, age gaps (I didn't specify, but make it legal, okay?) multiple reader orgasm, etc.

“Oh,” his voice is raspy—and far too relaxed, despite the visual that is being presented in front of him. He cocks his head and he physically have to contain his amusement when he says, “Guess you beat me to it, Garrick.”

Kyle’s laugh is light. His hands are still traversing on your curves, before both of his palms settle down on top of your breast, cupping it firmly from behind. You gasp softly, head rolls back against his shoulder. His fingers are absent-mindedly twirling on your bundles—yet, it is capable of making you squirm.

“Early birds get the worms. Glad you’ve taken notice of the invitation.”

“Hard to miss that one,” Simon remarks and slowly closes the door behind him. His gaze is unswerving, pointed at your and Kyle’s bare figures; both are sitting on the top of the bed. Doing a scrutiny is instinctual for him—and he catches the taut nipples of yours and how you adhere your thighs into each other; as if you’re afraid someone might peek in between them. “The little slut basically undressing us with her eyes in front of her fuckin’ dad.”

“Ha!” you scoff. The genuine delight, coated by a faux mockery, is being delivered graciously. “Oh—I didn’t do that.”

“You didn’t?” Kyle lowers his tone, nose nuzzles at your jaw. His lips are placed on your neck and a small kiss is given. Leisurely at first. “Then what’s with those gestures under the dining table before?”

You still maintain the playful attitude, tilting your head a little for him to nib at your neck. “What gesture?”

Simon rolls his eyes. He crawls onto the bed and the soft mattress slightly sinks due to his body weight. His body, big and carved by muscle, towering you as if he’s able to swallow you whole.

Well—in a way or another, you’re gonna be.

“What gesture, indeed?” he states back. Question is seeped with thick sarcasm. He stretches out his arms, fingers latched onto your knees, and spreads it out; and it elicits a small grunt from you. Arousal is clear and indisputable, as his eyes locked into your wet cunt, already dripping because of the subtle foreplay Kyle has been giving you. “Wouldn’t you want to explain it yourself.”

You bite down your lower lip. Kyle’s teeth are comfortably trapping your earlobe—not too rough it’ll hurt, but definitely not a tender one.

“This gesture?” Simon doesn’t wait for your answer. His fingers travel down, to your inner thigh, before the thumb rests on your engorged clit. You flinch involuntarily, tingle and heat crawling up from the base of your sex to the every end of your nerves. You’re sensitive—and the two pairs of arms increase that sensation tenfold. “Your hands accidentally brushing our cocks under that table?”

Kyle’s laughter is ringing mellifluously—once again. Simon has always been crude and raw with his words.

And perhaps—you’re getting a bit distracted by how that low chuckle beats into your eardrums, sending shivers to the centre of your heat.

“Maybe it’s your cock that accidentally came in contact with my hands?” you grin, both sides of lips tugging upward, and it’d be a lie if you told them that you didn’t find bliss in this whole … antics. Your antics.

“Wonder what’d Price says if he sees his daughter fuck around,” Kyle blurts out. His hands never stop—exploring, claiming, through the fingers that are pressing on you, feeling every slope. “Flirting with his old friends, offering herself on a pedestal—you’re quite the rebel one.”

You smile. “I’m just having fun and being a responsible adult—is all.”

“Being responsible?” Simon presses your clit. His thumb circling the bundle of nerves, reddened. Your breath hitches and even the smallest reaction isn’t escaping his eyes. “Is fucking your dad’s old subordinates—plural, mind you—count as being responsible?”

“Well, since you guys are taking the opportunity to stay—ah, fuck!” You wince when three of his fingers slide into your pussy without even a tad warning. Kyle holds your body down while Simon pushes into you, deep and slow. Squelching noise is heard, in tandem with every pump, and the stretching feeling is maddening. Simon pokes at the spongy walls, imitates a digging movement, and by God—you feel your cunt clenching on him. You’re enveloped with embarrassment when you realize you whimper and moan just by his fingers, but the way he plays with them, and bully your sex relentlessly, you justify your own response towards the stimuli.

“Ah—no,” you yelp out, verbalizing high-pitched words, and arching your back. There is a recognizable build up on your lower stomach, and it burns you, making you unconsciously stiffen your legs muscles. It doesn’t help that now Kyle’s middle finger and ring finger are circling your clit, massaging it with enough gentle force to render you wordless. Your breath heavily and you sense a tight knot down there, threatening to bust at any time; awarded you with a blowing orgasm. “Kyle—”

“Oh, not me, love,” Kyle coos. He can’t help but let out a groan, seeing your whole body trembling, tits fumbling in every littlest shake. With his other hand, he cups your left breast, clutches on it. “Beg to Riley. He might make you cum if you ask him nicely.”

Simon’s lips form a crooked smile. You can see a line of scar trailing diagonally from his left cheek and ending up on his lower lip.

“Ple—ase,” you articulate as best as you can. More in literal than metaphorical sense, your breath is being taken away, and the fingers that have been abusing both your spongy wall and stiff bundle of nerves are being fiercer than ever before. It’s just the starting game and your cunt already flooded by your own slick. You whine, muster the most adorable plead you can give, “Please, Simon—make me cum, pleasepleaseplease ….”

“Oh, I will,” he growls. He feels you are clamping down on his fingers like a vice and he doesn’t miss the flutter of your inner muscle. It’s incredulously warm inside and his head is almost empty except for the thought of replacing his fingers with his fat dick; wrapped by your pussy. “We will make you cum and scream repetitively that your daddy will know his daughter is a whore.”

“You’re deranged, Riley.” Kyle’s words indicate nothing but a pure lust and projection of his own thoughts—because it does sound heavenly; to break you and fuck you dumb, letting Price know his only kid is being passed around like a slut, enjoying the touch of a pair of older men.

“You gotta blame me for everything.” Simon’s orbs dart at your lolled head. Then, to your tightly-shut eyelids and the knitted eyebrows. The muscle on your neck is tensing, emphasizing the v-line from both sides of your jaw to your clavicle. Sweats create beads on your temple and the rosy cheeks, agape mouth—are enough signs for him. “Cum for me. Hey—let it go.”

“Be a good girl and cum for Simon, mkay?” Kyle kisses the side of your head. Fingers are steady and the rhythm of his strumming is not changing while he’s making sure you reach your peak.

“I—fuck ... !”

When you come, as if every single cell is exploding—it arrives strong and like a big wave washes the shore. You quiver and you practically hear your own heartbeat, running around and echoing in your ears. Your limbs are strained and when the euphoria is descending from its peak, your body sag, leaving you with a twinkle on your eyes.

Kyle snickers. The dark-skinned man caresses your forehead, wiping the rivulet of sweat. “Satisfied, yet?”

You put on a smile. A shake of your head is the answer you give him.

“Of course not,” Simon enunciates. He groans as the biting zip of his pants is suffocating him. The outline of his erection is visible and you can see how big he is.

You blink a few times, helplessly attracted to the view in front of you; the bulge that is in the same level as your eyes are.

Simon scoffs. “Don’t drool.”

And you return the simple jest with a blop of your tongue. “I’m sure you’d rather have me drooling.”

“God, this fuckin’ kid.” He unfastens the zip of his trouser, then brushes his own cock, still coated with underwear, before he pulls down the boxer to his knee, and his hardened cock is now unrestrained, curving up alluringly. You observe it from the bulbous, reddened tip, to the prominent nerves that covered it, to the hilt and the trail of his pubic hair—blonde and all.

“Yeah—she’s drooling alright.” Kyle puts his arm on one side of your face. Bringing you into a kiss, with his teeth nibble on your lips, and his tongue slips in furtively.

You hum, the clicking sounds are timid, but it undoubtedly reignites the fire.

“Had enough rest, doll?” Kyle whispers after he backs away from the kiss. “Wanna fuck your throat. Sounds good?”

You giggle. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Simon is palming the throbbing dick. Pre-cum emerges from the tip, half-transparent. “I’m taking her first, Garrick?”

“Yeah,” Kyle answers the light-haired man. Then, he shifts the inflection of his sentence towards you, “Bend over, on your knees—can you do that for me?”

You nod and obediently do as you’re told. Knees and elbows on the mattress, orbs are looking up at Kyle, filled with anticipation and impatience grows in every second passed.

“Don’t worry. We’ll switch.” Kyle raises his eyes, looking at Simon. “Or we might even do her simultaneously. ‘S that what you want?” He ruffles your hair, thumb grazes on your eyebrow, down to your eyelids, and to the bridge of your nose, before it anchored on your lower lip, encouraging it to fall apart.

Simon from your back is landing a harsh, sharp blow to your arse, and you can’t help but wail and bend your body even more.

“Can’t do anything without an answer,” he says. The hoarse voice is softened to coax you into giving a verbal confirmation that the three of you have actually known, “‘S that what you want? To be filled with both of our cocks?”

“Yes. Fuck—please. Want you both to fill me up,” you open your lips and Kyle uses the chance to dig his thumb deeper into your mouth, pressing into the surface of your tongue.

Honesty is a virtue. And for a while now—they have been the objects of your longing. Whether it’s one of affection or an undeniable thirst—to be honest, it feels a little bit overwhelmingly good right now.

Kyle’s dick is pulsating already. He prods the tip of his shaft on your lips and the sound of your heartbeat ricochets once more. Your jaw lax even more, welcoming the hardened flesh, a particular tang invades your taste buds. Kyle pushes his hips, lazily, takes in the feeling of your palate slowly gripping his cock.

He groans, head is thrown back a little, and Kyle’s arms carefully holding your head, slithers his fingers between the strands of your hair.

“Mhh—” The gag reflex is working and tears are building on your glossy eyes.

Simon kneads your ass and he mumbles near your ear, persuading and guiding you, “Good girl. Breath through your nose—there we go. Can you take more of him?”

The consistency of Kyle’s breath is starting to dissipate, and both you and Simon can hear the way that man is trying to focus on the pleasure of his lower body.

You mutter an intangible word. An affirmation that you can, in fact, take more.

“Kyle, push more. Slowly.”

“Fuck—,” he exhales heavily, sinks deeper into your throat. And when he finally settles in you, up to the hilt, he gulps down. God. The sight alone could make him burst out. The way you’re struggling taking him whole, eyes gleaming because of the tears—truth be told, this is not the first time he has such a fantasy. Sure is the first time he executes it.

“Good man.” Simon kisses your nape. His pecks tracing your spine, and he goes down until his lips end up at your tailbone. He taps his cock, nudging your pulsating arse hole. “Spread your thighs a little more.”

You oblige. The expanding access allows him to rub his dick between your flaps, smearing himself with the natural lubrication of yours. His callous thumbs unfold the labia and you can feel even more of your wetness. You leak out a short, needy whine—a manifestation of the coil that breaches your stomach.

Simon glides himself easily into your cunt and his hips slap your arse—and your moaning is high-pitched, composed from your throat, squeezing Kyle’s more strongly than you intended to.

“Fuckin’ hell—Simon,” Kyle sighs.

“What?” Simon would be lying if the dirty squelch when he put it in didn’t rile him up. However, it’s always fun to show a little façade, a nonchalant response, even though—he swears his sanity is crumbling down and his brain is addled because of the flesh that entraps him. The muscle of your sex is perfectly oval; it outlines the shape of the grith of his cock. “Fuck—she’s tight. Grippin’ me so hard down there.”

Kyle lets out a broken, wheezing laugh. “You ready for us to move?”

“Mh-hmnn.” You inhale. Your nose touches the slightly curly pubic hair of his.

And from that on—it’s just a series of pull and thrust. Kyle ruts into you, balls swat on your jaw, and when he pulls back, it’s Simon’s turn to sink your swollen cunt, ramming deep into the entrance of your cervix. Grunts and groans are heard from both men, ripped from their chests, synchronizing with the quenching, lewd sound from your fluids. You try to follow the orchestrated movements of theirs, but it’s futile since both of them practically hold the wheel, drive into you as they wish.

At some point, the movements turn erratic and uncoordinated. Simon is still as deep as he can reach; withdraw as far back as he can before lunges himself into you, pressing every crook of your velvety walls. When he slides out, he’ll lower himself a little, and he snaps back in with an upward roll from his hips and you feel the inevitable climax; magnifies itself in every strike.

Kyle is more vocal than the light-haired man. He abuses your mouth in a tender way—a contradicted adjective, but you couldn’t define it in any other way. His fingers clasp onto your scalp, his cock is entering the deepest part, racing himself to cum in your tight throat.

You wail almost pathetically—pussy is sloppy with Simon’s thick shaft burying into you and his hands keep wandering all across your body; catches your bouncing tits, rolling your nipples with his palms, appreciates you through his spanking on your arse.

“Argh, fuck, love, I need to cum,” Kyle announces. He grits his teeth; whimper escapes him freely. His pelvis meets your cheek with each pound. Cock surely bruises your palate and it’s gonna leave an obvious mark there. “Si?”

Simon nods. He bites down his own groans, voice grows even more gruff. “Yeah. She’s about to as well. Don’t you? Keep throbbing around me—fuck.”

Let me cum, I want to cum, your mind screams. There is a muffled cry from you, a varied train of mm, mnn, nngh—like a mewling of a dog, loud and needy, begging even without any syllable. At the same time, it feels too much—and you keep bucking your hips in a ridiculous attempt to run from the alarming sensation.

“Fuck’s sake,” Simon grips down your hips, stopping you from wriggling. “Pipe down. Your dad is sleeping downstairs. Don’t want to wake him up, do we?”

“Simon—,” Kyle mutters one more warning.

Simon nods. Hands holding on your hips as the intensity of his ruts increases.

“Cum for us. Good girl—gorgeous girl.”

And then—it’s a simple countdown. The tight pressure in your stomach bursts and your head once again spiralling.

Water-like substance is squirted out from your pussy, gushing like it is a small river stream, dripping to Simon’s cock before it trickles onto the bed. Your toe curling because Simon hasn’t stopped knocking on your sweet spot, scratching every part of your cunny.

Doesn’t take long for Kyle to catch up, cum smears your mouth, and he whimpers. The unbearable glee overtakes him—like an ecstasy to a healthy mind, Goddamn—the feeling is addicting.

“Don’t swallow,” Simon’s order is loud and clear.

Simon is the last to reach his orgasm. Your wall squeezing him, firm and quivering—makes his cock twitching to the point it is almost painful. When he lets himself fall to the edge of release, he’s growling a moan. His plethora of a load forming a dense milky liquid on the ring of your pussy, oozing out shamelessly. Like a white paint drizzling on your thigh and his.

“Good girl,” Simon appreciates you. His heart swells in an indescribable way as he reaches for your arms, elevating you tenderly, before he puts you into a sitting position; your back against his chest. He knows when to be rough—and definitely knows when not to. “Doing so good, aren’t you—sweetheart?”

He smiles when he realizes you did comply with his order. So, he brings your lips into a collision with him, and his tongue drives inside, tastes the same tang you do. The remnants of Kyle’s load, and it’s so messy, it’s insanely hot—some of it slips away from the sides of your mouth.

“Fuck,” Kyle’s eyes are a crosshair; secured at the erotic, almost pornographic view that is laid-out in front of him.

Simon pulls away from the gentle clash between two lips. His thumb swipes your lips. “Bet your brain is a mush right now, huh?”

You let out a choked sob, still trying to come down from your high. Simon placed a kiss on your temple. Hands cozily set on your body, grounding you down, sending a warmth from his burning fingertips.

“One more, okay? Kyle needs you.”

And before you could reply, Simon uses her arms to spread wide your thighs, pussy still sticky and puffy; the result of the previous activity. Kyle is positioning himself in front of you and inserting his cock into your pussy; still aching and sore.

You writhe and whine, “‘S too much—”

“Sh, hey—I know,” Simon’s tone is mellowed. In an effort to comfort you, he’s hugging your stomach, snaking his arms around you. “Just a little bit more. Yeah?”

“Mhh—”

Your head lolls back. Pelvis bucks into Kyle instinctively. The dark-skinned man’s thrust, a bit different from Simon—is deep and swift. It’s giving the impression of agility, but not hasty. The grith is not as big as the other man, but—it is longer, and his length rubs a different part of you.

“Kyle!”

“Yes, doll,” he answers back and grunts. The cumulation between Simon’s cum and your own coat his cock nicely. “Your cunt feels so good—ngh, fuck, love. Could do this all day.”

You mewl. Throat feels bone-dry, but you don’t wish for a stop—not at all. He ruts into you, the sound of slapping is more powerful this time. You didn’t realize how fucked up you are—quite literally—until all you hear is your own broken moan, blaring up to the air. Simon does an attempt to quiet you down a little by giving you a sloppy kiss between each thrust.

When the swirling fire creeps up to his lower stomach—Kyle knows he’s reaching his edge. His words are gentle and even though at this point he recognizes the signs of your climax, he still asks, “You close, baby?”

“Yes, yes, fuck—”

DRRRT.

Simon and Kyle are moving their heads faster than a fuckin snapping turtle when they hear the vibration from the other side of the bed.

Kyle slows down his hips and you're clenching; holding him still. His phone is lit up, and judging by the interval of the vibration—someone is calling him. He looks at Simon through the corners of his eyes.

“Why—what? Who’s calling?” you slur out, mind still hazy.

“My guess?” Simon extends his arm to pick up the phone. He scoffs when the name of the caller is written on the screen. “Yeah. It’s Price.” He throws the phone to Kyle and the man catches it with one hand.

“What?” You feel the instant dread washing over you. “Is he—is he know?”

“If he were, might have come here himself.” Kyle put his index finger in front of his lips. A simple request to mute any sound that might have been—obscene. He clears his throat, and when he answers, he tries to sound as calm as he can be, “Yeah, Price?”

He thought to himself—he should at least behave and bear it, at least until he finishes the phone-call. However, there is a hint of dismay in your face. A clear agitation that shows itself because the perfect daughter is afraid that her dad would find out about her acting like a little minx—is stirring something inside him.

Kyle smirks and rolls her hips; makes you flinch and slaps your own mouth. Deterring any kind of sound you might produce.

Simon widens his eyes, but, honestly—he’s not surprised. Kyle is a ball of unpredictable stuff and he’s not exactly the epitome of tame.

“Yeah? Riley’s with me. We can’t sleep, so we’re buying cigarettes right now in the minimarket.”

Simon rolls his eyes. It’s a shame to ruin the game, so—he participates in a way he can. Fingers pinching at your nipples, pulling it up against the gravity, before releasing them and letting it drop. And when it happens, you bite down your wail, the muscle of your sex is contracting—clasping on Kyle’s shaft.

“Yeah—,” Kyle masks his grunt into a cough. “Yeah. We’ll be back. Is there anything you want?”

Fuck’s sake. Couldn’t he just make it quick and cut the call?

“No? Okay.” Kyle grins widely. “Yeah. See you.”

And when that call is finally finished—Kyle wastes no time to fuck into you. He really needs to blow his load. “Simon, God—muffle her, please. ‘M not gonna go slow.”

“You’re fine with that?”

You nod without thinking. Simon clashing his lips with you once more. His fingers run to your puffy clit, giving it a circular pressing. Your gummy walls flutter and you’re sure that the up-coming orgasm will, for the lack of a better word, break you. In a good way. In a heavenly, sinful way, but still—it’ll drag you down. You’re overstimulated, every inch of body is sore, and the swollen tissue of your vagina has been working for far too long. The aftermath is not gonna be pretty and you’ll feel it for days, aching between your legs—but, whatever.

This is bliss. Simon pulls back from the kiss. He’s putting an attentive focus with your bundle of nerves instead.

It doesn’t take long until Kyle’s forceful thrust and Simon’s methodical massage on your clit finally evoke your third orgasm. The last peak makes your eyes get forayed by a short, a millisecond whiteness, and you’re doomed by the repeated ejaculations, makes you spasm all over—and it’s followed by Kyle’s own high.

“So good for me.” Kyle’s hand resting on your shoulder blade. He gives you a kiss all across your neck, to the line of your clavicle. “So good, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.” He hasn’t pulled out. He lets his seeds pool in your pussy.

Simon sighs. He sees you whimper, tears streaming to your cheeks. And despite how harsh he was in the beginning; he brushes his thumb to your face. “You with us?”

“Mmh …,” you mumble incoherently.

Kyle’s laugh is pleasing to the ears. He eases out his cock from you slowly. “Where did your arrogance go, hm-mnn? You said you’re gonna take us both.”

“That was before I knew you guys are fuckin’ massive and rowdy.”

Kyle’s laugh is rumbling. “You fucked around, and you found out. A fair consequence.”

You huff. When you remember that your dad was searching for both men, there is a reluctant diminishing gesture. “You guys should go back downstairs. Sleep in the guest’s room.”

“We will,” Simon says. “After we run the bath and clean you up.”

And—without wanting to sound too happy, you say to them, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course, we have to.” Kyle comes down from the bed. “Price is likely going back to sleep. He won’t realize if we come back 30 minutes later.”

You shake your head weakly as Kyle walks into the bathroom.

“You know,” Simon speaks out. He can hear his friend turning on the faucet. The sound of water hitting the tub is reverberating softly. “We can give you our numbers. Next time you decide to act like a slut—give us a call.”

“And you’re telling me I’m the slut.”

“Well.” Simon lifts you up with his arms, holding you to his chest when Kyle calls from the bathroom. “You’re the one who asks two older guys to fuck you. My point stands.”

“Then what does it make you?”

Simon scoffs.

“I’ll think about it and give you the answer next time.”

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sarahblueskyyyy · 6 months

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Ghost x Reader, Detectives! AU, drama, mystery, short-fic, crime, murder, detail description about blood and crime scene, angst, hurt/comfort, bad ending, thriller. Dead Dove: Do not Eat.

Photo by Cassi Josh on Unsplash

"Let's look at the bright side. We can try to do a thorough analysis one more time and let's see if we can catch the killer faster than he kills his next victim. Right, Riley?" Your grin is wide, smeared with innocence and unbelievable amount of excitement.

Simon sighs and rolls his eyes. Oh, his life.

FPS

Forensic Pathology Services

THIS IS A CONFIDENTIAL REPORT TO THE CORONER AND SHOULD NOT BE DISCLOSED TO A THIRD PARTY WITHOUT HER PERMISSION.

Final Post Mortem Report

Dr. Kate Laswell – Date of Birth: 11.03.75

At approximately 0100 after midnight, 5th August 2023, at the request of Greater Manchester Police, I attended the crime scene of—

His eyes jump and skip the beginning part of the report. He doesn’t need to know the unravelling part of the corpse.

When he finds the information he was searching for, he continues reading, absorbing every single word in it.

SCENE EXAMINATION

The crime scene, for the lack of a better word, was anarchic. It was undoubtedly a torture room.

The body belongs to a woman in her [redacted]. She was tied up in a chair, nails were pulled out from her fingers, and were lined up on top of a desk near the door. Both of her shoulders were dislocated and her right popliteal bone was broken. Judging by the state of the body, she has been dead for at least 2 hours before 0100.

Her partner, who is also a police officer, managed to catch one of the perpetrators, but received a strike on his head as well.

Bloodstaining, contamination on clothing, and contamination on exposed body surfaces.

A white shirt, jeans, and short-heeled shoes. Clothes were intact, except for the damage they’ve taken.

There was bloodstaining on both sides of the sleeves.

There was some bloodstaining on top of her jeans in the right knee area.

Dirt and bloodstain over the ankles and shoes region. Possible cause: running in the mud before finally captured and killed.

Heavy bloodstaining over the neck, cheek, jaw, lips, arms, and hands. It was suspected that the victim received multiple physical abuse to her face and arms using dull weapons such as a hammer.

Lighter bloodstaining over her chest.

Small bloodspots are found on the inner side of her stomach and back—

When someone calls his name, his eyelids flutter. He closes up the paper, then sneers. Whatever. Job has been done. He gets up and answers the calling of his title.

"A 45-year-old woman, known as Larisa Barkov, ex-wife of Roman Barkov. Cause of death, loss of blood; hypovolemic shock. Precise cuttin' in jugular veins, artery, and behind the knee; popliteal veins." Kyle huffs. He traces the outline of the corpse with his eyes, then moves his orbs towards the photos that have been taken before by the forensics.

"Ye must be kiddin' me," Johnny chirped in. He looks as frustrated as the others. "Last mudder looks like a perfectionist did it, noo they role-playin’ as a surgeon?”

Price is pressing his nape. "It's indeed all over the place. What do you think, Simon?"

Simon blinks. He glances at you before he answers the police inspector, calm and unwavering, "Well, the method is different each time. It's hard to believe that these are the work of the same person. But then again, the consistency of the murder timing, the body placement, and the fact that every victim we find used to know each other ...."

You shrug, looking at the body. Poor, poor woman—her pupils are blown; she died in a state of great shock. Probably couldn't believe that this is the way she dies. Her blood was gushing out faster than her brain could comprehend and her heart was pumping empty vessels. As a result; here she is now—mouth gaping, eyes rolled back, and a pool of blood forming a big circle around her. Her body is bloated—all swelling and her face looks like it’s a red balloon, ready to burst. One poke on her eyeball and it probably will.

"Too much of a coincidence, don't ya think?" You mutter.

"You're right," Kyle stands up from his squat position. He trades gaze with his team. "Might have to re-analyze everythin'. Even our profiler is nearly throwing himself out of the window because of this case. Whoever does this; they are clearly familiar with how an investigation works."

"Ye sayin' he's someone like us?"

"There is a possibility," Price fills in Johnny's direct question. "The way the perpetrator purposely messing with us with different murder methods, rearranges the victims’ homes and represent themselves as someone different, yet showin' us that they are one and the same through the connection between the victims ... they're toyin' with us. Someone who knows how we move and think."

"I don't like th' soond ay thes ...."

You give them a soft, hopefully—comforting smile. "Let's look at the bright side. We can try to do a thorough analysis one more time and let's see if we can catch the killer faster than he kills his next victim. Right, Riley?"

Simon rolls his eyeballs to the corners of his eyes; staring at you before he sighs and says, "Let's just pack it up for tonight. I'll make the report and let's see what we can find out in the mornin'."

Price nods silently. His eyes, blue and dark, dabbed with tiredness, looking at the man with black, skull-painted mask. He sighs.

Simon’s gaze is set on every picture and document that are laying on the desk. The take out he ordered; a simple fried noodle from a Chinese restaurant, is ignored and already half-emptied. The brown eyes are scanning through the data with a keen scrutiny of words and numbers and the visuals that are carved into the paper.

These pictures are not usually paired with dinner. But he needed to eat something; his stomach was protesting; emitting various kinds of gurgles. So, he settled for the easiest choice.

You tug the corner of your lips. “Shall we start from the beginning?”

Simon doesn’t answer.

You decide to start anyway. “First victim; Hadir Karim, long lost brother of Commander Farah Karim from Dubai Police Force. In early 2003, Hadir joined the Bratva1 and had been active as a brigadier since then. He was assigned to handle all the organisation’s operations in here, Manchester. He was murdered in his home 2 months ago at precisely 11 P.M. The inside of his home was purposely re-arranged to imitate a torture room; dark, flickering light, scattered and broken furniture, and a single chair where he was tied up and killed with all his nails were ripped off his fingers.”

Simon looks down and shuts his eyes. With his knuckles, he’s pressing the middle point between his eyebrows, trying to crumble down the throbbing in his head that has been bothering him since three months ago.

You shift your attention to the second document. Photos were compiled neatly, a contradiction of what it portrays. Shame. The pretty face of the man in that picture was mauled ruthlessly. “Within a span of two weeks, the next victim was found. Hassan Zyani; the former right-hand man of General Ghorbrani from Iran's Quds Force. After the death of his general, Hassan Zyani joined the Bratva and quickly enthralled the top executives. He climbed rank as the bookkeeper and was tightly connected in terms of work with his direct man; Karim. What a coincidence, right?”

Simon scoffs. “Time of death was 11 P.M., in his own house that has been trashed around to imitate a burglar’s work.”

“Correct,” you nod. Your hips move as your legs take some steps. One, two—until you get closer to the man in the skull mask. “The third victim is Roman Barkov. One of the most trusted men of the Boss. Ranked as the Two-Spies and pleaded loyalty to Vladimir Makarov, Roman Barkov was his Judge, Jury, and Executioner. When there is a mutiny inside the organisation, or when an outsider gets and or sniffs too close to them …,” you float your sentence in the middle of thin air. Giving him a short smile. “… it’s Barkov’s job to pursue the outsider, interrogate them, and kill them. But of course, Hadir Karim and Hassan Zyani played a big part in that game."

Simon scowls at you. However, you pay no heed. His glare is an empty threat, an accessory tied up to his hardened demeanour. At least—you know that’s the case for you.

“With the same time of death, he was found in his house, died by the shock of torture and his nails all were stripped from his fingers, then was lined-up. Judging by the crime scene, his house was untouched by the killer, and it shows us just like how Barkov died; he was a perfectionist.”

Simon lets out a soft hmn.

“And, the newest victim is—”

“—Larissa Barkov,” Simon cuts you off. The hammering pain in his head has not subsided at all. His brown eyes dart at you, irritation seeps into each syllable, “I know this. Your repetition is redundant.”

“Hey, I’m just helping you!” A grin flashes all across your face. Too cheerful for a detective who works in a police force—for an individual who deals with carcasses on a daily basis. “You might miss an important part.”

“Yeah?” Now, his voice is thick with sarcasm. “And what the fuck it might be?”

You hum. “For example … why were all the victims murdered exactly at eleven P.M.? Why does the perpetrator bother rearranging their homes? Was he trying to send a message? If that’s the case, then what kind of message? To whom, for what purpose? Is it revenge, or—is it entirely something else? Why did he kill the ex-wife of the sovietnik3, Roman Barkov? To let him have the taste of losing someone dearly?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

You smile. “You love me the most when I open my mouth—wide and nicely.”

Simon widens his eyes. Eyebrows knitted together and to be perfectly honest—he is not surprised at all. He knows you too well, he has an expectation that the things that are verbalized from your thoughts are either messy, unhinged, or straight up obscene. Sometimes, it’s the concoction of all three.

“In any case, we know why, don’t we—Simon?”

“For God’s sake—"

Knock-knock.

“Simon? You there? Can I come in?”

Price’s voice is muffled a little by the door that stands between him and the room that Simon is occupying right now. The detective takes a deep breath, shoots you a glare, before answering, “Yes. I’m here.”

Price takes the statement as a consent for him to approach Simon. The Inspector grabs the door’s handle, rotates it slightly, and expands an access for him to enter the room. After he goes in, he closes the door with a push using his back.

Price throws a furtive peek towards two boxes of fried noodles. A take-out. One of them is half-eaten, and the other is untouched—sitting compliantly on top of the desk, with wrapped chopsticks on its side and all.

“I thought we are gonna review this in the morning, hm-mnn?” Price delivers a mild and harmless teasing.

Simon tugs the corner of his lips a little. It isn’t obvious under that mask, but—Price can see the way Simon’s eyes are lifted. “Sorry. Can’t help it. Just wanna solve this.”

You snort—trying your best to swallow back your laugh.

“You need to tone it down a little, Simon.” The tone of Price’ sentence is undoubtedly tender. It is not an absolute order nor an ultimatum—just a friendly, sympathetic reminder. “You’ll crash if you keep doing this.”

Simon doesn’t respond. Seeing that, you decide to return the remark on his behalf, “Work is his way to avoid overthinking, Sir. He’ll pipe down once he’s satisfied.”

Price sighs.

“Why are you here, Price?” Simon finally asks. “I’m sure there is something else beside the suggestion to sleep?”

This time—Price breathes out a playful sneer. He raises his right arm—his fingers are anchored to the files he’s been holding. “Your medical assessment.”

“What does it say?”

You’re gazing at them. Pupils are focusing on two men exchanging words and you intertwine your own fingers.

“You might wanna see it yourself. You’ve been ignoring this far too long—enough is enough,” Price tells him firmly. He puts down the document. For a moment, the blue eyes of his are softened, and he squeezes Simon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Simon. I’m not telling you to get it over with, but—be kind to yourself. You might feel you’re fine, but it doesn’t hurt to admit that you’re not.”

Simon feels anger crawling up to his chest, then slowly bleeding to his head. But before it turns into something unretractable, he extinguishes it—calmly, within a heartbeat. His common sense and the cogs of his mind are working clearly and he knows better than to lash out.

“I know,” he utters. “Just … I don’t want to think about it. Working here is far better than—,” he stops.

—than staying at home, with the remnants of her in every part of the house?

Price completes the sentence in his own head, but he doesn’t transform it into a tangible voice. Instead, he takes a few seconds. He knows he needs to weigh every word; he’s walking on a thin line, and he has no choice but to tread carefully. “It wasn’t your fault, son. You did her best—she did too. And for what it’s worth—I believe she wouldn’t want to see you break yourself; for her or even your sake.”

Simon scoffs gently. “Just wanna live up to the expectation, Inspector.”

“Mh-hmn.” Price looks at the investigation board. Photos and information are neatly sticked there. Too precise for his liking. “And who knows, maybe this is their karma. You reap what you sow, right? Probably better for them to die and stop makin’ a mess in this town, or any other one.”

The brown-eyed man counters the half-hearted joke with the same tone, “Probably. Too bad, Price—if someone other than me heard you, you’d have been faced with arraignment real quick.”

Price’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Go home. Or wherever you want to be—but not here. Take a rest. Enjoy your night. ‘Ya hear me?”

Simon relaxes his body, falls his shoulders from its stiff stance before. He smiles and nods. “Crystal. Goodnight, Price.”

“Night, Simon.”

After Price’s withdrawal, silence fills the room once more. The ringing in Simon’s ear, however—remains intact, possibly gets louder in every passing time, echoing in his head.

Your call jerks him out, “Simon. Do you want to continue—or … perhaps go home and take a rest?”

You slant your head a little. Voice meek and sheepish—almost innocent, pristine like a growing child who knows nothing but the small world of her backyard. An extreme switch from the arrogant and witty behaviour you present before. An insane, inconsistent change that makes his head spiral; as if throwing him out of his reality.

However, hearing the geniality in his own ears, Simon sighs. The sharpness in his words erode when he says, “No—I don’t want to continue. Besides, look at the time. We’re almost late.”

You check the clock—hanging obediently at the wall. Ten past twenty. You beam, eyes are sparkling.

Simon’s lips form a simple curve. “Let’s go.”

“Okay!”

His eye is sealed into the crosshair. At the end of that scope, there is a man, pacing back and forth in his place. A skyscraper building, mimics a castle with all its residents inside of it. Well—it might not be a hyperbole to call him a king.

“Aha. Vladimir Makarov himself—Godfather of Bratva, the Boss, the man in charge. What a title.” You sag your body against the short wall. A simple barrier to enunciate there is a void across the roof you’re sitting on. Head straight up ahead. The visual of a night sky is served at your sight.

Simon let the red mark trailing the man’s every footstep.

Makarov is on the phone with someone. His body gesture is erratic and a clear dread can be seen through the way he’s screaming. His nerves are bulging on his neck, sternocleidomastoid muscles are lengthened from the base of his jaw to his clavicula—every time he shrieks to whoever pitiful receiver at the end of that phone call.

His first and foremost man; a security guard of his—Imran Zakhaev, is standing near him.

“You’re not gonna do the usual, Simon?”

“What usual?” His voice is deep and raspy and the question is rhetorical.

“You know,” you alter your body, now facing the same direction he is. “Trash around the house, rearrange it, or—something?”

“No need,” he declares, not so powerful that the world can hear it, but making sure you are able to. “This is just to finish the job.”

You grin. “To banish evil down to its roots, hmn?”

Simon stops the chatter. His eye is fixating on the target. And bless—or curse?—the skill of his that has been honed since the first time he entered this industry; when he pulls the trigger, a silver bullet glides from the barrel, steadfast towards its destination, before accurately piercing the skull of that poor man, rendered him useless in a matter of a second, and his body falls to the floor like a opossums pretend to be dead.

The difference is—he is dead.

Simon launched one more bullet. This time, it ends Imran Zakhaev’s life.

The grin in your lips grows. “Finally satisfied?”

“Humn.” He’s tidying up his rifle, putting it back to its case.

“Should we go back, then?” You stand and stretch your arms up in the air. Your smile persists as usual, sweet and naïve. “Maybe we could buy a gelato on the way home? I really want a salted caramel—oh, and maybe we could try the stracciatella!”

Simon huffs. He zips up the case. He’s still sitting there, taking his breath. Dear whoever God is listening—his head is hurting, and sound won’t crumble no matter how many pills he has gulped down.

“Simon?” You blink, sitting near him. Your hands reach his. He can feel the warmth and it makes his stomach hurl. It makes his chest tightens and he knows it’s a really short countdown until his heart is stopped—either by the headache, or by his own hand.

“Let’s go home?” you offer.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Can’t do it anymore. I’m really—tired.”

“Yes,” you affirm. “That’s why, we go home, take a rest, sleep, and—wake up as usual tomorrow! Okay? You promised Johnny to bring him a sandwich from your favourite place, right?”

You are greeted by silence. Simon sighs and he reaches behind his back—and when you realize it, his fingers already clamped on a small gun.

“Nononono, Simon, aren’t we—doing just well?” You force a smile. A nervous, desperate, laughter is rumbling from the base of your larynx. “It’s finished! It’s finished, right? Please?”

“Stop—fuck.” His chest is up and down, slowly, following the heaviness of his breathing pace. Your voice lingering inside his eardrums, making its way through his head, and the sweetness in it is almost sickening. “Stop talking.”

Your eyes broaden when he lays the muzzle in his temple.

“Si—”

Patient Medical Record

Patient Information: Simon Riley

Date of Birth: 18 April 1989

Address: [redacted]

Height – Weight: 6’2 – 224 lbs

In Case of Emergency: [redacted. The involved party has passed away]

Diagnosis: Non-penetrating TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury)

By Dr. Phillip Graves

As requested by Greater Manchester Police, a thorough medical examination was conducted on Mr. RILEY, Simon, after a case on 5th August 2023. Patient received a hard blow on his frontal lobe. Physically speaking, the blunt trauma on the skull is not severe. However, a neurological and psychological exam are encouraged to provide more information regarding the patient’s motor and sensory skills, test hearing and speech, coordination and balance, changes in mood or behaviour, and mental status. It is not uncommon for patients with TBI experiencing auditory and sensory hallucination.

Warning: Individual with a history of TBI never experience suicidal thoughts, however, there is a high possibility that a PTSD or a recent lost of an important person could increasing the risk for suicidal thoughts and behaviours. Mr. Simon Riley is encouraged to seek medical help.

A/N:

Bratva: Russian Mafia

The hierarchy is basically like this:

1. Boss/Godfather/Pakhan

2. Two Spies/Sovietnik

3. Bookkeeper

4. Brigadier

LMAO this is such a cliche story, I like it. I’ll come back next time with a much lighter story because my brain hurts lololol.

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sarahblueskyyyy · 6 months

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in him we trust

#badjhur #voice acting #voice actors #fanart #illustration #smut #artists on tumblr #call of duty #digital illustration #digital painting #painting #art #i post this on twitter too #illustrator #smut audio #m4f #m4f audio

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sarahblueskyyyy · 7 months

Text

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

Photo by The Cleveland Museum of Art on Unsplash

Hello guys! I'm gonna put my whole work in here, whether it's art or stories and everything else I create. I made this account to thrive with my new pen-name, I hope we can connect with each other.

Along with this post, I also want to tell you that I am opening commissions, both for writing and drawing. I'll make a detailed FAQ, but if you're interested, let's talk about it! <3

The Ghost Band

Fire (Dewdrop x Reader, NSFW)

Call of Duty

Night (Dewdrop x Rain)

Sore (Nameless Ghoul/Ghoulette x Reafee, NSFW)

Drippin' (Ghost x Soap, NSFW)

Path (Ghost x Reader, NSFW)

Lead (Ghost x Reader, DDDNE)

Games (Ghost x Reader x Gaz, AU, NSFW)

Attack on Titan

Ghost from the past (Artwork)

#masterlist #artwork #drawing #artists on tumblr #digital painting #illustration #digital art #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #fanfic writing #fanfics #ao3 writer #ao3fic #open commissions #art commission #commission #art

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sarahblueskyyyy · 7 months

Text

Drippin'

MDNI! Ghost x Soap, romance, drama, smut, vaginal sex, trans male character, boy pussy, healthy relationship, creampie, mask kink, cunnilingus, etc.

Original idea by JAYK (@18ksae) on Twitter! Beautiful, beautiful brain of yours, I love you. Enjoy, all of you!

[“Uh … we probably need to talk to Price, huh?” “Oh.” Ghost yawned, resting his eyes for a little bit. “He knows.” “He—what? Wait. Does this mean—wait, does he know we are fucking right now?”]

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish didn’t remember what ignited the fire. As soon as he realized, it was already fucking burning, casted out his sanity and capability of thinking straight. Or maybe, he already knew the reason, but he simply turned away his face.

Because, for the love of any God that might have been existed—the feeling washed over him like a tsunami, drown him in this cliché, corny thing called love. He looks at Simon “Ghost” Riley and all he could think about is how the Lieutenant becomes the reason every time his heartbeats increasing so hard as if it’s ready to jump out of his ribs.

Ghost confronted him one day, asking about his obvious weird behaviours, “Johnny, you okay?”

Soap just smiled that day, nodding. The unspoken issues were a pandora box—better left untouched or just throw it away once and for all, let it sink somewhere in the middle of the ocean.

Because—loving your superior and makes him the object of your desire, whispering his name when the dark engulfs the world, and each day more often than not; your fingers wrapped around your cock, thinking about him … are not a wise choice at all.

Soap gave Ghost the reassurance he wanted, “‘m fine, L.t. Did my job well, didn’t I?”

“Well, you did,” Ghost responded. “But your eyes have been wondering like it doesn’t fuckin’ know where its own socket eyes.”

Soap laughed lightly. He loves the way Ghost voiced his concern through a pinch of a humour—just like always.

That’s because I didn’t know where to look, Soap thought to himself. All I want to do is lookin’ at you.

“I’m fine, really!” Soap gave the brown-eyed man a pat in the shoulder. “Don’t worry, L.t.”

The conversation ended just like that.

But, Soap knew, Ghost knew—rather sooner than later, they might need to address this.

Although, Soap doesn’t allow himself to be questioned—he does things perfectly, flawlessly, in every way, not leaving room for any defect. He does his job extremely well—a demolition expert, they say. Sweeping an area, reaches every corner, a lethal shot for every enemy.

And that’s where the problem started. The more precise he is with his work, the less reason for Ghost to talk to him. To hold him off a little bit longer when debrief. To give advices and suggestions and any other of that bullshits that he actually, admittedly (albeit hesitantly), likes to give.

So, on a random night, under a clear dark sky, filled with the scattered pieces of shiny stars—Ghost confronted the sky-coloured eyed man. He grabbed Soap’s wrist, dragging him across the hall—hell if people were staring. They knew better than fucking spreading rumors or trash talk about a man whose callsign is Ghost.

“Fuck, Ghost—what’s wrong with you?” Soap asked, raising his voice a little. The confusion, the uneasy, were loud and clear, eating away his collectedness in mere seconds.

Ghost slammed the door behind him, locked it. He took a deep breath, then let it go, before finally his gruff, low voice, dominated the quiet room, “Okay, fuckin’ spit it out, Soap.”

“Spit what out?!” Soap was desperately trying to calm himself and within a short moment, he delivered his answer with dripping exasperation, “Ghost, you draggin’ me here straight after the debrief. People see us, Price sees us. He’s gonna demand for a fuckin’ explanation and I don’t even owe him one.”

“Just—,” Ghost let out a ragged breath. “Johnny, I swear—I realize you’re avoiding me. I know you are. My only question is; why? At least give me some arguments, some pointers—so the next time you run away at the sight of me, I’d understand.”

Soap stammered. His fist was formed, he pressed his own forehead with it. He’s a fucking idiot, isn’t he?

“It’s not your fault. It’s—fuck, I have no intention of running away at the sight of you.”

It’s the other way around. It’s the fucking—opposite of it.

“Yeah, of course,” Ghost retorted. “Because you avertin’ your eyes every time you see me is a nice fuckin’ gesture, right?”

“Fuck, Simon,” Soap called. “I—I can’t, I don’t know how to explain it to you!”

“Literally, just say the words.”

“It’s not that easy!”

“I’m not asking to make it easier!” This time, the man with the skull mask snapped back. His voice cracked, a manifestation of how every little emotion enveloped his very being. All the anger, the silent affection, the worriedness—everything. “I’m asking to understand. I’m asking because I want to know, because it’s fuckin’ you. I don’t even understand why that thick head of yours is so hesitating.”

Soap didn’t realize his mouth was agape. His lips dry and his tongue was sour. However, the undeniable fast heartbeats were slowly crawling in.

“I like you, Simon.”

Ghost blinked. “I like you too?”

“Jesus fuckin’—I love you.” Soap’s footsteps were bringing him closer to Ghost. In every step, his resolution, his sense of responsibility, his calmness—were crumbling, left him with nothing but one absolute, pure feeling he has been experiencing. “I love you the way a man to his woman. I—fuck, I fell for you so hard my eyes follow you everywhere. Notice your every move, the way you absorbed in your work, using that authority, leadership quality of yours—I love it all. I fuckin’ fantasize about you, masturbate at the thought of you, my head is in a fuckin’ gutter and I’m not proud of it but I can’t help it because I love you! That’s the kind of like I am talking about.”

Ghost looked at him quietly, calmly, like a tranquil surface of a water in a glass. “Johnny.” The name ringing tenderly on the end of his tongue. “When I said I like you, that’s what I fuckin’ mean.”

This time, it’s Soap’s turn to blinked like a damn frog on top of a waterlilies.

Ghost sighed. He tilting his head a little. “Should’ve been talking about this long time ago.”

Soap, the lad’s poor brain—was still processing things. When he finally wrapped his head around it, fully acquiring the information and let it soaked in his mind, he let out a low, breathy, “Oh.”

“Mh-hmnn …,” Ghost hummed. He extended his hand, his thumb caressed Soap’s jaw, before lifting it slowly. Blue and brown orbs reflected each other. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it. But your fuckin’ attitude pisses me off, so emotion got the best of me. ‘M sorry.”

“Fuck, no! I’m sorry. God, Jesus Christ—I’m a fuckin’ daft, aren’t I?”

“Well, not denying that.”

Soap chuckled. “Fuck off.”

Ghost smiled. No one would be able to see it behind the mask he was wearing—but he knew Soap could.

“What do we do now, Sergeant?”

“Oh, no, don’t fuckin’ call me that …,” Soap groaned.

“Okay, love.”

“Simon, you are fuckin’ insufferable!”

Another light-hearted laugh. Ghost waited for a few seconds. There was an ambivalence in his mind. A scale with two choices, indirectly mocking his decision-making ability. However, his heart was swelling—in a good way. His chest felt light and as if every dilemma had been extinguished, now he selfishly wanting more; craving for more.

Even though his logic knew better—his heart yearning for him.

“Johnny.” Ghost looked at the man in his eyes. “If you—if I’m still the object of your desires ….”

He purposely stopping his sentence in the air. Soap widened his eyes. If that wasn’t an invitation, if that wasn’t a genuine plead—then he doesn’t truly know what does a plead means.

“Fuck, yes, Simon,” Soap answered.

Ghost scoffed at the eagerness. He knew—both of them were hanging on a fucking spider thread; ready to fall anytime, to a deep, dark, gorge of impulses. Of arousal and passion to claim each other, mutual feeling of possessiveness.

“C’mere.” Ghost pulled away his mask a little—lifting it up to his nose, exposing his mouth.

He cupped the sergeant’s jaw, bringing it closer, pulling him into a kiss. He was tilting his head, searching for a better angle, making sure both lips fit perfectly into each other, melting together.

Soap groaned, struggling to be softer as he intended to do. He put his palm on Ghost’s nape, pressing it. His tongue licking every spot inside the Lieutenant’s mouth. The kiss was wet, a little bit rough—a clicking, wet sounds, echoing around the walls.

He thought to himself—how he just realized how starving he was for this man. How every inch of him longing to be with him, to touch him, to melt him under his touch.

“Simon, fuck,” Soap whimpered. He could feel the arousal threatening him, blood rushes to his cock, making his pants tighter in every second that passed. “I want to taste you. Let me taste you.”

“Mh-hmnn.” Ghost nodded. His whole body trembled at the thought of that. His lower stomach already full of tingling sensation, spreading out to the tips of his fingers. “Lie down on the bed.”

Soap did as he told. His instinct to comply was working faster than any other sense. He lied down on his back, as he watched Ghost taking off his remaining gear. The strap, the unnecessary pouch, the belt, until eventually he unzipped his pants, shoving them down to his ankles together with his boxer and all, left him bare.

Soap almost choked on air when his eyes drafting below, to the hips area, a little lower, seeing a trail of pubic hair was created from the navel until the top of Ghost’s cunt.

“Fucking—Simon, fuck, you fucker, bastard. You never told me about this.”

“Right, not really a lunch topic. Enthusiastic?”

“Yes, fuckin’—yes. Just—fuckin’ come here. Please.”

Ghost carved a smirk on his lips. Fully satisfied by the reactions of his sergeant—and part of him was so turned on. He got on the top of Soap, widening his thighs, rested his knees on each side of Soap’s shoulders.

Soap gulped, latched his palms on Ghost’s arses. His head spinning in a way it needs an immediate endorphin, oxytocin release—or whatever that chemistry shit.

“Fuck, okay—can I … can I touch it?”

“Whatever you want, Johnny.”

Fuck. Ghost knew to well of to stir him up, leave him a mess. Johnny groaned, using his thumbs to softly rub the vulva. Already wet—drenched in glistening, clear liquid. The clit was erect, sheepishly showing itself between the outer lips of the entrance.

“So fuckin’ soaked ….”

He pushed a finger up to his cunt, elicit a stifled moan from Ghost.

“Simon …,” Soap whined. He didn’t even bother to hide the excitement, the built-up pressure on his sex.

His fingers probing the inside of that clenching muscles, and in every stretching move he made, Ghost twitched. The Lieutenant’s breath getting more huskier, lower.

“Sit on me,” Soap said. He pulled out his fingers. Still, his eyes directed at the puffy sex, unable to look away. “I need you. Please.”

“Fuckin’—greedy man.” Ghost obeyed the request. Soap was asking nicely after all. He lowered his hips, pressing half of his height on that face. His core was heated up when he felt Soap’s breath caressed his sex. He silently watched how his own cunt met Soap’s lips. The way Soap’s drew out his tongue, slipped between the labia, taste the slope of his entrance.

And wave of pleasure hit Ghost—like a storm that is brewing so suddenly, like a typhoon whirling for a while and now ready to make a foray on everything it touches.

“Fuck!” Ghost arched his back, his inner wall was pulsating, hard, intense. Clenching on air as Soap lapping on his quim like a dog with his fresh meat, enthralled by the smell, gnawing on the soft, silky textures. Soap was grabbing Ghost’s thighs, deterred him from closing those.

“Ahh—Johnny!” Ghost groaned. He whined, he was fucking whimpering—and Johnny never heard that before. Every sound that filled his ear drums making his dick harder it was almost painful. The pants suffocated it and God—he could do this all night, assault on the needy, swollen clit, biting softly, sucking on his sex.

Ghost’s knees were too weak to hold his body. His core was throbbing when Soap flicked his nub with the tongue, enforcing something urgent, something burning inside him. The tongue swiped across his pussy, from the back near anal, up until the sensitive nub, as Ghost instinctively rolling his hips, created more frictions and stimulation.

“Fuck—you smell so fuckin’ good, Simon,” Soap growled out. He gave Ghost a little bite this and there, still eating him out like there was no tomorrow—nipped it with a gruff voice.

“You—nrghh—like my scent, Johnny?”

Johnny confirmed it through a hum. The vibrations on his throat travelled to the tip of his tongue, still swirling around.

And like a light bulb went off in his head, Ghost raised himself from his sitting. It caused Soap to knitted his eyebrows in agitation. Like a kid whose candy was being snatched suddenly, leaving him empty with just a little to none remaining sweetness in his sense of taste.

Ghost took off his mask fully, presented his face.

Soap blinked. He has seen Ghost’s face before, but, on God—he could never comprehend how a man could be so beautiful. Despite all the scars, or the crooked nose. His eyes were glued to Ghost’s brown orbs, covered in obvious affection.

“You like my smell?” He repeated.

Soap answered fast, “Yes.”

“Good.”

In one move, Ghost made Soap wear his mask, enveloped him with the piece of the black clothing.

Soap jerked. His olfactory was overflowed with a familiar, natural odour of Ghost. He took a deep breath, let out a shaky, wavering voice, “Fuck.”

“You like that?” Ghost wasn’t really waiting for an answer. Because then he shifted his position a little, now caressing the prominent outline on Soap’s pants, evoked a groaning from the Scot. His fingers caressed the bulge, before unzipped Soap’s pants, withdraw his erect cock.

“Simon!”

The owner of that name didn’t respond to the whiny beg. All he did was gripped slowly the thick, long shaft, put his thumb on the reddened, swollen tip. The carved veins on that dick were bulging, and the head already leaking with milky-like substance. He gave Soap an excruciating slow stroke from the hilt to the top.

Soap groaned. His legs jerked once more; his stomach was tightened painfully.

“Do you think you can cum like this, Johnny? Eating me out with that mask on your fuckin’ face?”

Soap whined. “Fuck,” he replied, low. “Yes. Come here.”

Ghost went back to his initial position. The difference is, this time, when he dropped his hips, he could feel the combination of rough skull texture and soft balaclava on his weeping cunt. Starting slow once more, he rolled his hips, grinding himself there.

Soap thought giving the man cunnilingus was already a paradise of itself. However, this … his entire smelling capacity filled with Ghost’s, along with every each of fluttering stroke on top of his face—it felt more than any nirvana, or euphoria he has tasted before.

This is pure bliss. He could feel his cock shivering, ready to be ambushed by his own orgasm.

Ghost starting to feel the rushing flare on his lower stomach. He grumbled, swallowing down a spit. His all senses were tightened and his thighs are quivering. The heat creeping deeper, louder, faster, it made him couldn’t contain his wails.

He knew that Soap felt the same as well. By the way his dick is keep trembling, so needy—waiting to be squeezed, but Ghost bet one touch and it’ll explode in pleasure, spurting away his thick cum.

“Fuck, Simon—I need to … argh, ‘m close, ‘m close.”

“Fuckin’ cum for me,” Simon barked. “I don’t even need to touch you, Johnny. You come off just from my fuckin’ smell and sniffin’ on my cunt?”

“Yes—yes, yes, please, fuckfuckfuck!”

Simon pressing his weight more, suffocated the man under him a little. He knew Soap likes it a little bit hurt—a challenge to push his own self, to break over the limit. To be made a moaning, crazy mess.

“You fuckin’ whore ….” Simon arching his back. His quim was pulsating so hard, need a release of his own.

He maintained his rhythm, bucking his hips unrelenting, even if there is a thin cloth—a restriction between his sopping pussy and Soap’s lips.

His fingers were sneakily drawing a pressured circle on his own clit. He was close as well. “Cum, make a fuckin’ mess.”

Soap cursed. God’s names were chanted from his filthy, almost drooling lips. He felt so good, fuck—he’s so high, he needed to get this. He needed to, more, more, a little bit more, send him to the edge, and—

“Ah—ah! Fuck!” He spasming uncontrollably when both of them reached his climax. He squirted a milky, high-concentrated liquid, and the beads dripping on his own stomach. On the contrary, Ghost releasing a waterier substance, soaking Soap’s face with it.

The concoction of smells—sex, his, Ghost’s—filled his nostrils.

“Good man.” Simon freed him from the balaclava. When that mask finally hiding nothing from his visual, Ghost scoffed softly.

Soap was still trying to calm down his ragged breath. He was drooling—alright, looked so pussy drunk. Deep shade of red covered his whole face, ear to ear, even to his nape.

Ghost standing up a little, let Soap sitting up, cupped his face, bringing their lips together for a slow, soft, kiss. Mouths clashing each other gently, noses pressing against cheeks.

“I wanna—,” Soap took a sharp breath. Pulled himself from the kiss, as his lungs were screaming for air. “Fuck, I wanna get inside you. Wanna fill you up, Simon. I wanna—”

“Yes, Christ.” Simon gave him a kiss on his temple. “I never intended to say no.” His kisses were soft, pressing on Soap’s skin, sweet and light. He kissed him on his nape, tracing his jugular, to his jaw, to his upper lip, to his nose, and the fluttering closed eyes.

Soap sighed, relaxing his body. Taking a short break from the previous powerful activity. And perhaps—Ghost was right; of course, he always is. Because Soap loved him too much, his heart warmed instantly like it was flowers in the middle of spring under the glaring sun.

And when Ghost teasing him with a soft flick on the tip of his cock, Soap whined. It hardened up already. The blonde-haired man couldn’t hold his curved smile. His fingers reached the base of Soap’s length, fondling the balls like a fucking water balloon they were.

“Mhh—fuck, Si ….”

“You want fuck me?”

“Yes. God—nrgh, yes.”

“Okay.” Ghost retracted his hand. He lied on his back, spread away his thighs, wide—letting Soap having a privilege to see all of him. He deliberately uplifted his hips, using his fingers to pried open his drizzling pussy. “Come in, then.”

You’ll be the death of me. Soap’s inner voice was yelping. However—he thought, maybe that’s not a bad way to die. Strangled in a heavenly sensation, between the grip of someone you love, let his existence creeping further deep down to your soul.

“Go on,” Ghost cooed. “Suddenly gettin’ cold feet?”

Soap holding his own erect, caressing the girth. He growled, aligning himself with the slicked hole in front of him. He gave it quick taps before he thrusting into him—fast, deep, sinking fully, and both men grunting loudly.

Soap could feel the warmth that blanketed his cock, so velvety, squeezing so strongly, yet delicately.

This was not his first-time having sex. The first time it felt out of this world—though. Soap panted, set his fingers on each side of Ghost’s hips; searching for something to hold on.

“Fuck, fuck—Simon, you feel so good … so fuckin’ beautiful.”

Ghost groaned. The size—the fucking size of it was tearing him up, splitting him, striking so deep that it was probably nudging his cervix. He let himself to adjust for the enormous dick. It hurts—in a good way, in a way that he wouldn’t have it beside this one.

“You alright?” Soap asked. A hint of worriedness seeping through his soothing tone. His cock was twitching—itching to move, to scrape the spongy walls that were surrounding him. But he wouldn’t move an inch if there wasn’t a clear affirmation.

“‘M fine,” Ghost bite back. His patience was eroding—if there was any in the first place. “Move, Johnny.”

“Okay, fuck.” Soap starting off slow, gliding in and out deep. The tip of his cock reached and slamming into the right spot every time, it made Ghost wail in a messy tempo.

“Ah, ah—fuckin’—mh!” Took a sharp, short breath, holding it for a moment, before let it go together with the moan. Ghost’s growls came from the chest and every cut-off whines encouraged Soap to go faster. “Johnny, fuck—more.”

“More?” Soap thrusting harshly, slapping on Ghost’s hips. Balls swung and hit his crack. Every grinding evoked a wet, dirty, lewd voices that reverberating across the room. “Fuckin’—you are clenching so much, Si. Takin’ me so fuckin well … fuck, my handsome, prettiest L.t.”

“Fuckin’ hell—God, shut up.” He didn’t hate it. Ghost simply wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of appreciation, in the bedroom nevertheless. He didn’t know what to do, because when those mellifluous praises showered him, he could feel himself tighten, squirming, clenching on the inside. He could feel himself leaking more than he has ever before.

Soap’s thrusts are rocked a little bit more roughly now. His voice was cracking, gruff and covered in lust. “‘M not—‘m not gonna last, Si. Nrghh, fuck—are you close?”

“Yes.” The overstimulated cunt clearly started taking an effect on him. He knew the up-coming climax will rip him more merciless than it did before—but he would be fucking love that. “Yes, fuck, Johnny!”

“Okay, cum for me, yeah? Cum with me—let me fill you up.” Soap chasing their highs ruthlessly, rubbing Ghost’s sensitive, perked nub. He pinched the poor bundle of nerves, making Ghost convulsed by the additional stimulant. His knees are trembling, the muscles all tensed up.

“Fuck—you fucker, Johnny! FUCK!”

Johnny laughed. His laughs were rich and shattered up in the air. Oh—how ecstatic his feeling was, how blessed he was. He was fucking into him harshly, but oh how every lunge filled with beautiful sentiment. “A fuckin’—good man, Si. Fuck, fuck, I love you, I love you so much.”

“I love—ngh!” A broken sob, a whiny groan. More of those guttural whimpers when Soap massaging his clit.

Ghost’s toes were curled up, back arched. Something accumulating once again inside his stomach, unfurled the hidden thrill, the peak of humans’ primate needs.

Soap’s movement were starting to stutter. He looked down and he could see how clearly Ghost was swallowing him whole. How that reddened cunt formed an oval-like outline between his shaft, enfolded his flesh—a very attractive and pornographic view.

With one last thrust, their orgasms were crashing hard.

Ghost felt the nerve on his neck was tensed up, in tandem with whiteness that splattering on his field of view.

Soap was cumming inside him, smearing Ghost’s inner walls with his cum. His mouth was wide open, taking as much air as he needs, lost in his own high. Ghost’s cunt was also working effectively, efficiently, milking out every drop of his sperm.

Soap pulled out, observing his handiwork. He smiled seeing the gaping hole, streaming with his cum, dripping to the butthole. The sky-coloured eyed man hummed, then using his thumb to pushed back the semen.

Ghost flinched softly. He lost his energy to fight back or protest—not that he would.

“You happy, Johnny?”

Johnny grinning widely. As if he hadn't been just ramming into Ghost brutally, abusing his puffy genitals.

“Yes, yes I am. C’mon, Si—let’s clean up.”

“Mh-hmnn.”

Soap took a deep breath, and gave Ghost a quick peck on his lips. “Uh … we probably need to talk to Price, huh?”

“Oh.” Ghost yawned, resting his eyes for a little bit. “He knows.”

“He—what?”

“I talked to him about … my feeling before. He said he doesn’t mind as long as it doesn’t affect our jobs.”

“Oh.” Soap’s jaw fell. “Wait. Does this mean—wait, does he know we are fucking right now?”

Ghost lifted up his eyelids. A small smile formed on his lips—a transparent showing-case of his emotion. “I wonder ….”

“Fuck, Simon?”

Ghost got up from the bed, walking toward the bathroom. He snorted once again when Johnny called for him in a sheer panic and embarrassment.

“Steamin’ Jesus—Simon!!”

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sarahblueskyyyy · 7 months

Text

Path

MDNI! Ghost x Reader, smut, angst, romance, drama, canon, bittwersweet, creampie, breeding, etc.

Our paths are different, and that’s okay. [“Let me have you for the last time."]

“You know—I’ll miss this.”

Ghost blinked slowly. He heard that—clearly, as the world around him was silent. A tranquil night is never taken for granted—he knows better than to do that. Filled his whole life with excruciating loud sound and agonizing work make him appreciate calm atmosphere like this one.

The man with the skull mask took a deep breath before answering you, “Miss what?”

He knew it was a stupid question—you knew. Yet, your laugh was scattered lightly to the air and you leaned one side of your shoulder against his.

“The whole team. The crazy routine, the high adrenaline before every mission, and …,” you purposely hanging your words. Your eyes flickered to his before the rest of the words unfurled at the tip of your tongue, “… us.”

“I don’t know,” Ghost gave a snarl, a harsh tone he regretted a little the moment it was delivered. “Ever considering not leaving?”

The small curve on your lips stayed there. “You know I—”

“—you can’t,” Ghost interjected. His sigh was low, heavy. His head looking down, even though all the stars were shinning brightly, sprinkled on the dark colour of the night sky. The grass under him were fluffy, yet he felt perturbed in his sitting. “I know. Sorry.”

You lifted your fingers, softly, carefully, placed it on top of his arms. Gave it a tender rub, a light squeeze. “Simon, we’ve chose our own paths. I will never hate you for it—so, please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t,” the answer was quick. But the following sentence was injected with forlorn, disguised as a persistent argument. “I knew people bound to drift away—sooner or later.”

You wait, because you knew some words were still waiting to be said.

“… I just didn’t expect that of all people; you will be the least likely to stay.”

Something pierced through your heart. It bled, and the wound still gaping open. The grief that hit ever since the first time both of you talked about this. Surely, as the saying goes—time will heal all wounds. However, for now, the dripping sadness still lingering like a moon to its earth; desperately covering your chest with it.

“I want to get married, Simon,” your tone didn’t lose its compassion. It was kind, it was—ironically, hurtfully affectionate, it sent another sting to the man’s chest. “I want to have kids, be a regular mom, be there for my children, watching them growing up … I’ve always known I’m not going to stay in the military my whole life. And—even if this feels repetitive, even if you’re tired hearing this, I’ll keep saying it to you; what we had was not a lie. It never was. It’s just …”

…. Your dream contradicts mine. And neither of us want to let go of what we have now, Simon finishing the sentence in his head.

He brought his hands on top of yours. His thumb made a small circle on the back of your hand. “I know,” he whispered. His voice was gruff, yet—the genuine sentiment was undoubtedly there. “No one’s fault, yeah?”

You smiled. “No one’s.”

“Fulfil my selfish request?” Simon asked.

You raised your eyebrows. “You’ve always been a selfish, Lieutenant.”

He rolled his eyes; instantly made you laugh. A cheerful, carefree giggle—something that Simon always have loved.

“Anything for you,” you said. “What is it, hm-mnn?”

“Let me have you for the last time,” he put his nose at your nape. Drown himself in your scent, albeit the mask hindered his bare nose. “Be mine for tonight. Okay? One last time.”

You let out a heavy breath. The pain drilled to your soul once again, made its stop there. However, another emotion that gushed all over you, overwhelmed you with the bittersweet warmth, made you answer him, “Yes.”

And you and him made love like there was no other day. Actually—that phrase wasn’t so metaphorical as it was intended to be.

The way he embraced you was delicate. He always has been treating you like a fragile being you are, like a small fairy he’s holding on the top of his palms. Because even though you were ruthless when it’s necessary, even though you were the top sniper from your regiment; sending enemies to death faster than they can take a second breath—for him, you will be always his soft, tender, fragile woman.

And it will be a lie if you say you don’t enjoy the gentle manner.

Because just like this night—you were wailing daintily in pleasure every time his fingers traced along your skin. Your breath hitched and fire lit inside your body, burning to the tips of your fingertips. And oh—how he loved the way your head lolled back, your back arched, and your full, plump breast pressed against his own.

How you were so responsive, so sensitive—responded nicely to every stimulation he administered to your nerves. And he adored the way both of his hands rested on your bottom, gripping it strongly, bringing your body to bounce on his.

And with every move, the slow, the relaxed push-and-pull—he could see the way you gasp. The falter, shaky moan, were emitted from the back of your throat, vibrating in his ear, before it eventually diffused with the air, hidden inside the forest that engulfed both of you.

And he made a mental note to himself—that he’ll always remember this night. Not only about how your velvety wall gripping him firmly, not only about your whines that was carved into his mind—but also about how your whole existence swallowed him whole, made his heart fluttered and hurt at the same time.

When both of you almost reach the peak, when the edge felt like it was closer than it had ever before—you sobbed. Almost pathetically, you clinging to him, your arms wrapped around his shoulder.

I love you, you said. No stronger than a bird’s chirp, but unyielding.

Simon rocked his hips one more time—deep, and he felt the spongy texture that surrounded him spasming.

He didn’t give you any replay. However, after the ripping orgasm, after a warm liquid flood in you, he gave you a soft kiss on your temple.

And that was enough.

It's not until many years later he sees you again. He gets three weeks off after the last deployment—and his brown eyes notices you walking across the street. However, you are not alone—a man is walking beside you, holding a small boy.

And he watches and you laugh freely, lovingly.

Simon smiles.

For almost ten years—finally, he can confirm that you were right.

Paths are different, and that’s okay. He takes a deep breath, and let it go. When he raises his head, sun is shining brightly—almost blinding. It’s a nice blue sky.

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sarahblueskyyyy · 7 months

Text

Fire

Minor DNI! Dewdrop x Ghoulette! Reader, toxic, manipulative, panic attack, fight sex, vaginal sex, breeding, cruelty, porn with plot, blood and injury, Dewdrop is being an a-hole, burnplay, etc.

Fire is destructive. When it meets each other, it either grows stronger, engulfing the world around them, or—it quells and extinguishes its own existence; fights to dominate and die until there is nothing left. Yet, both you and him—find comfort in fire. [“Shame. Had you begged, I’d have let you go."]

Fire is destructive.

When it meets each other, it either grows stronger, engulfing the world around them, or—it quells and extinguishes its own existence; fights to dominate and die until there is nothing left.

Sometimes it works both ways.

Sometimes it clashes, gnawing at the opposite’s core, in attempt to burn it down. The other times, it stands alone. In forlorn, its flame flickers, turns to millions of embers, before shattered completely and dissolve with the sky.

Sometimes—it’s just like that. A daily occurrence, an unfazed phenomenon.

Your snarl dragged out from the base of your throat. Your eyes—just like his, glint in intimidation. Too prideful to back down—a vanity determination to take down the other side; even when you know full well there is no worthy conclusion to be taken in the end.

“Fuck off,” Dewdrop hisses. “Stop bitchin’ for one day.”

You scoff. Hand still wiping on your guitar—using unnecessary amount of pressure through the piece of cloth. “You messed up. Be for fuckin’ real.”

Cirrus and Cumulus are trading looks. Then, Aurora’s violet orbs turn to Swiss. The Multi-Ghoul shrugs—a sign to let whatever happens unfurls by itself. Only interfere when it’s needed.

Dewdrop doesn’t lose his venom. Despite the calm tone, his gruff voice echoed, piercing the right place, “Of course it’s me. It’s hard to see where the mistake comes from when you are one.”

You freeze—fingers stop moving. The piece of damp cloth, imbued with cleaning liquid, stays on top of the guitar.

“Dew,” Rain is warning him, softly.

“Mia caro, that’s not nice.” Copia then swifts his glance to you. “You too, dear. It’s just a slight miscoordination. No need to engage in distasteful argument.”

“What, why?” Dewdrop pulls one corner of his lips. His voice injected with faux innocence. “She should always remember who she is. A failure, unwanted being, accidentally summoned from the pit—”

“Okay, spitfire.” Swiss reaches for him, wrap his arm around his shoulder. He’s trying to direct the red-eyed ghoul’s attention by ruffling his platinum hair. Tenderly, playfully. Refuse to be pulled into the heated atmosphere. “Let’s pack up. We need to go back to the hotel anyway.”

However—a fire is unyielding. It will not stop until it strikes to every side possible. “You cryin’?”

You blink. You can feel your visual blurred and there is a pang prickling in your chest, quickly spreading to the end of your fingertips. However, you just take a deep breath, put your guitar back to its case, and walk away—let yourself be the first one who arrives at the bus.

Cardinal Copia pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You are not a mistake,” Cumulus says gently. She let your head slumps to her chest comfortably. She uses both hands to give you a back rub in vertical motion, while your biceps rest on the sides of her body. “You know that, right?”

“Mh-hmnn.” An incoherent mumble. You need some moment before uttering the words that have been lingering in your head; even before the Fire said it himself, “He’s not wrong, though. It’s not supposed to be me—you’re not supposed to have two fire wielders in one pack.”

She sighs, kissing the top of your head. You find an unbelievable amount of warmth through the simple gesture. “Sweetheart—there is no rules in things like these. You bond well with the others—it means you belong here.”

With the others, except …, you let the words hang at the end of your tongue. Prisoned by your own voice box.

“Cumulus,” you call for her.

The Air Ghoul bats her eyelashes, waiting for your answer.

“I love you—you are the best.”

She laughs. “Bet you use those lines with everyone, you flirt.”

A grin flashes across your face. “I do.”

You remember the ordeal as if it was yesterday. It was as clear as the water in small stream, so transparent you can see the bottom of it.

You didn’t remember what kind of being you are—or if it was matter in the first place. But, you do recall the way something rips apart your soul, your physical body—unravelled it through space and time, until you landed on the symbol, infused with devilry.

You remember how you felt your whole body burn and ache. Horns bowed heavy at the sides of your temples. Long, acute nails scratching on the concrete below you. You recognized the smell of your own blood, from the scars all over your body—because a summoning never delivers something unscathed.

You relive the anger back then—the hatred and all the conniption you carried with every inch of your nerves because you knew you shouldn’t be there.

A mistaken calling, an unwanted prodigy.

And you remember the harsh, rough flame that covered you, rendered you useless, made you writhe and wailed and cried pathetically—begging, pleading, to be freed from it.

And then—

--you wake up. Your breath hitch and the oxygen stings your lungs. You stand up from your position, trying to calm the remarkably fast heartbeat, trying to comprehend your surroundings.

But it’s a vain effort. Your head is spiraling like you’ve been hit by a powerful swing—it affects your eyes and now everything seems splitting. You curse under your breath. Sweats make rivulets on your back and forehead.

I need to grounding, you think to yourself. In theory, it’s easy—try to focus on your senses and pay attention on the smallest things. Something real—something to make you certain that you are here instead of anywhere else your mind tries to convince you.

Once again—it’s no use. All your fingertips could feel is a hard, freezing pavement below you. And instead of the aroma of your own room—it smells like blood, fire, and a hint of morning dew.

Fuck. I need to breathe.

You inhale sharply. No matter how many times you try to feed your lungs—it feels never enough. The air is not going there; it sits in your throat and that’s it.

Call the others?

No—I can’t bother them.

You open your drawer—snatching an object, made of metallic with wooden handle. A simple folding knife; a gift from Swiss—to celebrate your arrival, he said.

You place one of your hands on the table. Palm heads up. The other hand gripping the knife—fingers anchoring on the wooden handle. You don’t count to three when you raise your arm up to the air, before shoving it back down in rapid speed, piercing your palm, right through the other side.

You hear a wail much more faster than your ability to recognize that it’s yours.

The pain hits you abruptly—sending shivers to your nape, crawling to the end of your toes. And, Satanas, it’s fucking—hurt, but then all your senses are wondrously working.

Pain is an effective everything, Dewdrop verbalized that once. And now it’s ringing in your ear. He’s not wrong.

Your eyes have stopped its whirling. You can see your own feet and the bleeding hand. You can smell the result of your body perspiration—and the faint morning dew. You can hear the sound of your thumping heart, and—one’s footsteps in the hall, before it amplifies in every stride, stops at the front of your door.

Wait.

Morning dew and—

“Open your fuckin’ door.”

You sigh. You try to gather yourself. But you can’t hide the hoarse on your voice, makes it lose all its arrogance when you say, “Fuck off, Dewdrop.”

He calls out your name. Not a nickname that is intended to sneer or scorn at you. Your name—one that you chose for yourself, to represent the whole you.

Dewdrop enunciates every word, “Open the door.”

You felt your head heavy. As if the gravity suddenly increases tenfold, pulling your head down.

“‘S not locked.”

When the door is swung open, you could see his unvexed expression. You’re not sure whether that’s a façade or not, but—you do realize he takes a short glimpse at your palm. He closes the door behind him and gets closer to you.

You could see your own reflection on the red orbs. Without averting his gaze from yours, he stretches his arm slightly, grabs the knife, and pulls it out in one motion.

“Mngh!” You bite down your lips. Okay, Lucifer—that hurts, hurt.

He puts the knife on the table. Kneels down, he takes your hand from the table. “The fuck is going on,” he starts. Not even a question. “Everyone can smell your blood miles away.”

And hears your wail, but he doesn’t turn that into an audible voice.

You see him inspecting at your cut. With little energy left, you answer him, “Panic attack. I needed grounding—nothing helped me. Resorted to drastic measure.”

“And you can’t just call?”

“Who—you? Right.”

“Use your fuckin’ head,” he spats. You shut your mouth. “Next time; you call.”

You detect a small spark of fire from his fingers.

Memories flash once more in your head; the summoning, him restrained you on the ground, the fire—you pull away, blood dripping everywhere.

“No!” You let out a choked word. Heat creeps to your eyes, forming a puddle of water. “No fire ….”

Dewdrop looks at you. He doesn’t need to do a scrutiny to answer the sedentary questions on the back of his head. He waits a few seconds before trying to reach you again. “No fire. I bring Rain’s medical kit.”

You still hesitate.

Dew scoffs. “Give me your hand—I don’t have all night.”

You let him grasp on your palm. And—you just realized he does bring a medical kit. Didn’t aware of it before.

He works on your hand. His movement is not of a compassionate one, but also far from rough. You can feel the stings when he tugs the bandage. Small bullet of tears falls from your fluttered eyelashes. You harshly wipe it away from your cheek.

From your point of view—you could see his horns. Perfectly placed on his temple, framing his head. The horns are simple, straightforward without any curve. It’s white with dark red gradation at the base. The colour shines under the light.

“Done.” Dewdrop closes the box. “Try not to stab yourself again.”

“Why do you even come here, Dew?”

“Babysitting shift. Apparently, it’s my turn.”

You growl. Eyes glint dimly, scowl at him.

He smiles. Challenging. An attempt to ignite another fire. “What? Wanna cry?”

“Get the fuck out.”

He shrugs.

Then, after you close your door, you look at your hand. The bandage is neat and perfectly protects the injured hand.

You don’t get him.

It doesn’t mean anything has gone better. As the matter of fact—it’s been going downhill, keep rolling, and hasn’t reach the bottom, however deep the end line will be.

However, it’s undeniably going there.

Speaking truthfully, you have a basic idea why he loathes you so. Probably has something to do with the way you share his specialty. Or the way you push yourself to the edge in everything you do; all or nothing. The same determination you put on stage while chanting the words of Satan.

The way you bleed and bruised because you practice more than you should be, pushing yourself to the brink of exhaustion.

However—you still think that’s a bad reason to hate his own kin.

Actually, you should be the one who nurtures the grudge. Keep it safe deep inside your core—let it unleash when the time is right. He burned you that day—that was not an accidental mistake, despite how your summoning was.

You are still a defect. Not were; not back then. Now. Until the end.

You can practically hear him, albeit no exact words are spoken. It’s crystal clear what he is thinking, even when he’s peacefully enjoying his dinner. Let his sharps teeth rip apart the sitting grilled meat on the perfect-polished plate. It’s not cooked all the way—you can taste raw blood on your tongue.

The first time dinner were served in this abbey—you asked naively, “What meat is this?”

Phantom’s soft smile and Aurora rubbed your back were enough of an answer. You never brought up about it anymore.

“What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?” Cirrus chirps. She moves her eyes between your plate and your eyes.

You put a smile. “No, just ... I’m full.”

Cirrus blinks at your half-eaten foods.

Mountain, tries to be as subtle as he can get, sniffs the air. He then says, “Just leave it be. I’ll finish it.”

“Well, that’s not fair, is it?” Swiss takes the last bite of his portion. His grin is wide, deliberately showing his teeth.

Cumulus laughs. “Boys.”

“Holding yourself back from getting a second fill, Dew?” Rain asks, he nudges the Fire Ghoul besides him.

Dewdrop carves a simple smile. “I don’t eat dog’s leftovers.”

You stands up. Smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m going back to my room first.”

You realizes some pairs of eyes that are directed to your back. You tries to ignore it; along with the sentence that spitted out from his mouth.

You did feel full—however, for some reasons, your stomach grumbles once more in the middle of the night. You swipe your palm on one corner of your lips. A splatter of blood. Your eyes are luminous—much more so in the dark. Looking at the dead rabbit—or at least what’s left of it. The intestines are scattered on the dirt, the eyeballs protruding from its eye sockets.

Not bad, but ... eurgh.

You hear a rustle and footsteps. You turn around, in reflex you flick your wrist, and flame bursts on there.

“Drop it,” Dewdrop spits.

You growl. “I’d rather burn you instead.”

He’s unperturbed by the threat. Glances at the carcass. “That rabbit has rabies.”

“I’ll bite you then, let’s see if it’s true.”

“Calm down.” He cocks his head to the abbey. “Rory was searching for you. Worried by your lack of appetite.”

“Right.” You shakes your hand. The fire vanished in a mere second. “Tell her I’m fine. There is nothing to be worried about.”

“Yeah.” Dewdrop pokes at the poor animal with the tip of his shoes. “Okay. Suit yourself.”

You frown at him. “That’s it?”

Dewdrop waits for the following words that might follow.

You stammer—baffled by your own question. But you refuse to back down; to retract the illogical query, “No mockery, no taunt, the throwing insults—”

“You want me to?”

—then why the fuck have you been hostile all this time?

Something snaps on your head—quickly eroding your patience, sends lump to your larynx, and all you want to do is spit out.

But instead—you reach where he stands. In one swift movement, you clutch at his shirt, pull it down until his neck is accessible to your lips.

You expand your jaw—flexing the fangs, before it digs to his neck.

Dewdrop hisses.

You taste a distinct metallic liquid—a long stripe of your tongue dances across the freshly made scars. You allow your lips to latch on him a little longer. Drinking softly, satisfied the thirst.

Weird. You just ate, but—the hunger rises even more. There is sweet, cold sensation on your throat, flowing abundantly.

Dewdrop presses his forehead on your shoulder. “Fuckin—bitch.” The words almost lose all its meaning. He puts his hand on your back, tracing the spine, before his fingers stays on your waist.

You unconsciously whimper. Goosebumps all over, soft electricity tickles every cell of you.

Guess she’s still hungry after all.

Dewdrop waits for a perfect 10 seconds and he realizes that you have no intention to stop. Blood literally drained from his body—and he starts to feel light-headed. His vision swaying, as if it’s rocked like a new-born baby.

He struggles, holding your shoulder. “Fuck, stop it.”

You hums. His request falls on deaf ears.

Dewdrop grits his teeth before deciding to flex his fingers, nails short but sharp, claws at your back. Not deep—yet, enough to invoke your screams.

You gets away from him. Pupil wide, looking at him and the streams of blood on his nape, dripping to his shirt.

Your first grunt is sent to give a warning. The second one is a promise.

Dewdrop stands sturdy on his feet. You leaps at him, claws and fire blend into one. You pushes him to the ground, using full force of your body, sit on his stomach and plant your nails on his chest, dragging it forward.

You grins. You shouldn’t feel as excited as you do now, but—you do.

Dewdrop groans, he hits your side with his knee—not his best attempt, not using his entire power, yet capable of launching you away from him.

He coughs. Spews blood. He already lose some of it because you latched at him like a stupid leech. He sees you writhing on the ground. Suspecting your ribs must have been broken.

He uses the chance to strike back, caging you with his body, teeth slashes your neck.

You cries, fights back, grabs at his arms.

He bites harder, using one of his hands to caged your wrist, put it on top of your head.

You wail, relight the fire on your palm.

Dew hisses, pulling away his hands, lose his momentum. Despite him owning the element, a foray from the same kind still hurts the same—your fire burns him in a way he can’t burn himself with his own fire.

And you jumps once more at him. Scratching, burning, killing, claiming—at least that’s the idea.

The fight lasts for only another 5 minutes—before Swiss found his teammates ripping each others’ guts out and processing to separate them. The others are showing up almost at the same time with him. Half of them seize Dewdrop—his hands still digging out from the arms that contain him; seeking your flesh, nails bathed by your blood. His grin is as wide as yours.

The ghoulettes grip at your waist—for both of your arms covered with fire. You keep trying to magnify the flame—but Rain pours a colossal amount of clean water on you. It's prickling on your wounds and you kicks uncoordinatedly in retaliation and expressing the pain.

When Copia hears the news, both you and Dewdrop already fell into the state of forced slumber. Phantom used his devilry—a forte of his—to make you and Dewdrop lose consciousness, stopped the fight instantly.

Copia, in the state of frustration no one ever seen before—says calmly, “We need to send one of them back. Or both.”

Mountain knits his eyebrows. “It’s just a fight.” He doesn’t sound sure of his own statement. It sounds like he’s trying to assure himself—rather than the leader.

“One of these times, they are gonna kill each other,” the man speaks in authority and absolute law. He looks at the sag bodies of his ghoul and ghoulette. Wrapped in bandages, black and blue everywhere. The obvious burn spots are tormenting to look at. “And that’s not a pretty sight I’d want to see—for the rest of you to see.”

“Sending them back to hell will relive the previous memory.” Cumulus’ tone is soft. “‘S not going to be a pretty sight for both of them either.”

Copia sighs.

“Then make sure they stop doing this.”

It was a disaster. It truly was. You weren’t sure how you lose it. Perhaps it was the last trigger that you needed to break loose all hell. Perhaps after all this time—all you wish to do is fight back.

You take a deep breath, then let it go gently. You raise your hand to reach the cupboard. Grab a cup glass, wanting to fill it with water.

But then you notice the healed scar on your wrist. An inarguable prove that someone once raked your skin.

You look at it then blink. After the incident—Copia strictly advised you and Dewdrop to create some distances. Practice is withheld until further notice. You clearly heard the underlying threat from Copia, albeit unspoken, “One more of this tomfoolery, I’m sending you back.”

So here you are—avoiding him as much as you can. The same way he’s excusing himself every time he notices your presence. Both of you have enough sanity to not fuck up for the second time.

Even so, the relationship between you and the pack haven’t changed, so does him and the others. Cirrus, Cumulus, and Aurora still hang out with you a lot—and you cherish every second of it. Mountain and Rain, using their alchemy, tend to your wounds. Swiss is still as the same as the usual.

You’re sure that’s the case with him as well. So, it really resurfaces the question once more ...

... why does he despise me?

No. It’s maybe ....

You look at your wrist. The recollection of that night flashes in front of your eyes. The calm, shining moon, under a starry sky. And in a matter of a second, as if something ties up your chest, pressing it down—you feel your breath hitched.

You put the glass on the table before drop it down and possibly break it.

Oh, no.

You recognize all too well of what’s coming. The sound of your own heartbeat is loud, pounding your ear drums.

“Hey—are you okay?”

You bring your head up—eyes land on Mountain’s figure, just a few steps away from where you are. You suspect he’s going to have a breakfast, as you were intending to do.

You swallow a chunk on your throat, “Yes, I’m fi—”

—ne? Really?

Mountain calls for your name. He gets closer, places his palm on your jaw.

“Sorry,” you say weakly. “Can you squeeze me—really hard?”

“Yes,” he answers, fast, doubtless. He puts both of his arms under yours, adhered his body against you. He gives you a firm hug, pats your back. His tail, spade-pointed, even delicately wrap around you.

It is so strong, yet—you don’t feel suffocated. It’s warm and more than you can hope for. It makes you smells the particular earthy fragrance—as if you’re lying on a field of flower in the middle of the spring. Your hammering heart slows gradually, back to its original resting rhythm. You sob quietly, hugging him back when the addled brain finally clear.

You sigh.

He was right.

You should have called somebody—no matter who.

You meet him again after a while. You find him sitting on a window tracery. A big one—located in the highest part of the building. From here, you could see the view of the whole hill. The green and dark forest, skirted this—castle. And on more far away, you could see the faint, glimmering light of the city.

Dewdrop, without turning his head, asking, “What?”

“Rain is looking for you,” you say, face directed at him. Leaning one of your shoulder to the frame of the window. Built out of stone, all the slopes were precisely carved into pointed trefoil, with flowery-like strokes all along the edges. “Wanna take a look at your knee. He’s at the chapel.”

He scoffs. “And out of all people, he asked you to fetch me?”

“No.” You still look at his eyes—reddish with a tint of blue. The colour of flame. “I volunteered.”

Now—there it is, he looks at you. Confusion painted on his scowl.

“Tomorrow is our first rehearsal since ... the incident.” You smile. “Wanted to talk to you first. Make sure we don’t fuck it up again, hm-mn?”

He delivers a humourless chuckle. “Right.”

And, amongst the silence that fills the air, you break it gently, “Why do you loathe me, Dew?”

Without missing a beat, he speaks, “You’re a mistake.”

“No—I’ve heard that one,” you persist. You stand on your tip-toes, raise your head to meet his eyes—because he’s sitting in a higher position from you. You extend your hand, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “Why, exactly, do you that relentlessly—scorn on me?”

Now—you are not sure what kind of face you make at him. Or what gear just clicked on his mind, turning, rolling around—linked on the correct places. However, he seems determined to answer truthfully, as he grabs the back of your neck. Strong enough that you feel his nails.

“You are insufferable.” His fingers rubbing your nape. “You fuss, you howl—testing my patience. Ever since you rose from that pit.”

You wait.

“To the point I want to burn you whole.” He smiles. “To scars you—rake my claws on you. To see you bleed and writhe—to see you fuckin’ break, ruined and wrecked.”

“Then fuckin’ break me,” you growls. An invitation, disguised as a provocation. You whine. “Ruin me, Dew. What are you waiting for?”

He snarls. Eyes lustful—one claw is teasing your skin, prickling it. He clutches on your sides, lifts you up—makes you sit on his lap. Groins grinding at each other and you bucking your hips—frictions send quiver to your legs.

“Shame.” He catches your jaw with one hand. Forcing you to look at him. “Had you begged, I’d have let you go.”

Had I begged; you’d have enjoyed it more. You want to say that. But you don’t bother. No, when his hands roaming on your body—take off your shirt, fling it somewhere. You’ll find that later. His fingers outline your curves and find themselves on your breast. He pinches the nipples, hard—unforgiving.

You tremble and he orders you to stay still with the scratches he makes below your tits, between the lines of your ribs. He twists the tip of your tits. Smears your chest with your own blood.

As a way to distract yourself from the pain—you nib on his neck. Teeth are sinking and Dewdrop groans—a mix of pleasure and a throbbing pain.

You can feel heat and wetness pooling at the centre of your sex. His hands are unrelenting working their way on your soft plump of flesh. Kneads it, harshly, like a cat forcing its paws.

And see—it’s been going on fine, until the scent of metallic liquid distorts your mind once again. Your breath in and out in a broken tempo—but not in a good way. You inhale, hold it as if water strangles your lungs, and you exhale as if you are choking on something.

Dewdrop notices it, holding your jaw, cupping it with his palms. He hisses—then seals his eyes into yours. “None of that. You focus here—only here.”

You nod frantically—trying to follow his lead.

He brings your forehead to meet with his. Horns clunking, nuzzling against each other.

“Deep breath.”

Trembling, you close your eyes. Try to grasp the air, let it walk through your diaphragm, slowly, but surely. And—here it is, the smell of a morning dew. Droplets on the leaf when dawn emerges from the dark.

Dewdrop uses his fingers to tap on your back—like playing a piano. Careful on each tuts, but demolishes any gesture of hesitation. You feel the warm taps behind you—recognize the heat, the unusual high temperature that separates him and the others.

When you lift your eyelids—red orbs, black sclera, are there to welcome you.

Dewdrop’s eyes are crosshairs, locked into you. “You with me?”

A nod.

“Words.”

“‘M here,” you say. Slightly pull your head back. “I’m here,” you repeat, murmuring so soundlessly. You take another breath before tilting your head, calculating the right angle.

Dewdrop let you work with your own pace. His hands still tapping and you kiss him. It’s slow at first—testing the water, getting known of the uncharted territory. Doesn’t take long until you find the guts to do more—to bite on his lips, to increase the magnitude, knock around his teeth using your tongue. The clicking of each lips, the hungry, and needy sucking are growing—ravaging in a way no one ever has before.

Dewdrop stifles his moan. Can feel you drooling and he involuntarily scoffs against your mouth.

He makes sure you’re not relapsing first before his fingers travel south. Circling around your navel, before stopping on the zipper of your pants. He takes off the button, zips down, middle finger and ring finger swipe the outside of your underwear.

You gasp, stomach muscle tightens. He strokes the damp cloth, made of soft cotton. Patience was never really his strong suit—he said that before—he slides down your underwear from your hips. A trail of half-transparent slick makes a thin bridge before it severed by the created distance. He slips his two fingers up to your entrance, creating an incline inside—a contour, moulded by him rightfully.

You shudder, nails digging on his shoulder. Clenching from the new sensation—almost shut close your thighs together. But his other arm clasping on it—prevents you to do so.

His fingers move inside, stretching the overly, unbelievably—spongy walls. Your hip keep shifting and he feels stiff in his pants it’s almost hurt. As if something is biting down on him. But mostly it hurts because he knows that the urge that has been seeping through him since who knows when—is now attacking back as a horde, nullifying the sane part of him (a small part he has).

“Ah—”

You bite your lower lips.

“No. If you hold it; I’ll stop.”

You moan. The fingers poking at the right place. Scratching your inner muscle that keep contracting-relaxing. “The—,” you hold a wail, “—chapel is right below us.”

“Not my concern.”

“Dew—!”

He presses at the clit using his thumb and you slightly jump. You purr and elicit high-pitched, un-verbal cry as the touch on your bundle of nerves doesn’t stop. You gripping on his fingers, wave of pleasure ready to wash over you and just a little bit more—just a little bit more, you’ll cry in relief, let go of the tension.

But—he stops in a precise time. Like a cruel joke, he grins, and all the pride, the resolution, or anything that was left of you—was burned completely.

You look at him, all teary, stimulations sending you over the edge. Heart is torn-up by shame and the desire to wanting more; to savour what heaven feels like.

Or hell—if it’s any matter.

“You want me to break you?” Dewdrop slides off his own pants. Fingers circling on his own erection, thumb idles on the tip—purple-ish colour. So beautiful, so unworldly. It’s hard, blood filling his sex so fully, leaving no space between veins, nerves bulging almost painfully.

He position himself, glides his cock between your labia—slippery, soft. Wetness helps him, but nothing compares to your evoked whimpers; drumming in his ear, intensified the arousal that keep building inside him, ready to burst anytime. Ticking bomb of indulging deed you both are participating right now.

He groans. “I’ll break you, love.”

You moan. His hand on your bottom and a harsh slap is given ruthlessly. You wail, forehead droop on his collarbone—keening into his touch, despite all the abuse he’s been putting you through. Your ass must be red and probably bleeding, for you can feel he keep whipping on your skin.

And when he finally thrust inside—he does it rough, hips slamming, squelching, each sound lewder than before. You roll back your eyes, back arching. He grips on your hips, moving it in tandem with his pace, and with every push-and-pull, with every shove—he feels so good he almost whining, for his shaft gets drown in the molten, spasming flesh.

There are trains of grunts and moans and you can’t help the sad, pathetic, dog-like plead, “Pleasepleaseplease—”

Dewdrop slams his hip, knocking at the base of your cervix, plant himself to the hilt. You cry, incapable of forming words. Nothing really matters except the gushing feeling on your lower stomach; the absolute relish of the most primal, worldly—longing.

Dewdrop spread your half-dried blood to your clit. He’s trailing a repetitive motion there. You can feel your legs twitching, toes-curling, and your ragged breath becomes more and more disarray. The threatening climax is there and by Satan—you wish to embrace it like a good girl of Lucifer you are.

It’s doesn’t feel like it’ll be enough. Out of your own volition, you keep bouncing down, chasing the immeasurable peak, and your claws deep on his shoulders, near his neck. Incoherent words, breaking moans—you sob as he rutting inside.

And when he releases inside you, at the same time when you orgasm—something zaps you hard, rattling on your brain, reverberating through your body and your vision turns to white, glimmering, shattering pieces. The back of your eyes are running around, cells swirling and all that. Your scream is erotic, hurdling on every corner of the room. You can hear Dewdrop’s choked up groans as he fills you inside, as his cock still scraping your walls, deterring his cum from coming out.

You cry, limbs vibrate, but—all of your energy has been wringed, and nothing you can do except squeeze out the remaining tears, the manifestation of the overwhelming euphoria.

Dewdrop exhales heavily, chest moves up and down—slowly, following his breath. He grabs the side of your head, kisses your temple. His hand brushes the sweats on your cheek before he bites on your chest.

You whine—a useless protest.

Dewdrop smiles.

“Finally found a way to cope with your own emotion, dear?”

Dewdrop blinks. He offers a smile and caress his nape. A new bandage encircles his neck softly enough to make sure he doesn’t lose the ability to breath. Rain’s handiwork is neat, clean, and flawless as usual.

“I always knew how to cope with my emotion, Papa.”

Copia sighs. He’s scanning the ghoul in front of him and he gets reminded by one particular ghoulette—with almost the same pattern of new scars. “Yes, but she didn’t know how. You let her standing on a too thin of a line, Dew.”

Shoving her around like a cat playing with its food. Copia almost verbalize that. But he doesn’t have to—he knows Dewdrop knows the implication behind his words.

Dewdrop’s crooked grin expands, just a slightly. “Well—but it’s all true. She is a mistake. The incantation was supposed to bring a being with more—peaceful, element. She raised hell on earth the moment she arrived.”

“Yes, but it was your request to keep her—instead of sending her back right away.”

The Fire Ghoul hold his hands behind his back. Like a merciless, wicked child—knows nothing except taking what they want. Inflicting pain is their first and foremost nature, laughing on the misery of others.

“And yet—the final call was in your hand and you chose for her to stay.”

Copia rolls his eyes. He swears to the King of Hell he adores one and every single of his ghoul, but sometimes—they are his everlasting headaches.

“One rule, Tesoro.”

“Anything, Papa.”

“I don’t want to see another blood-bath,” he states. “Your fellow mates are far more delicate than you are—and her.”

“I won’t,” promises Dewdrop. He waves his hand as Copia turns to the other way, walking across the hall. He lets out a snort and walking to the opposite way. On the corner of the hall, he notices the unmistakable footsteps.

He looks at you and says, “Rain and Mountain have checked you?”

You give him a nod. “Yeah. Met Papa after that. He asked me where did I get the wounds.”

He scoffs. “What did you tell him?”

“Hunting,” you speak nonchalantly. “Fought with the bear.”

“Right. Smart.”

You hear the sarcasm and decide to ignore it. “Well—anyway, I’m going back.”

“Tomorrow before practice,” Dewdrop calls for your name. “My room?”

You laugh half-heartedly. “What, like a bitch in heat?”

Oh, so now—she bites back.

"Aren't you one?"

“No,” you answer. “Can’t have the guitars smeared in blood. Use your head.”

Dewdrop doesn’t return the taunting as you’re walking away from him. He just smiles, going to his own resting place.

Fire is destructive.

When it united, it grows so powerful it swallows up the world around them. More often than not, it fights each other, meeting in the middle, before eradicates its own life.

But, just for a fleeting moment, a second when two fires meet each other—there is a foxtrot between them, every flame, every ember, intertwined like lovers’ fingers, twirling and drowning together, like a pair of bettas with their flowing and colourful tails, brush against one and another.

And both of him and you—find comfort in fire.

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sarahblueskyyyy · 7 months

Text

Night

Dewdrop x Rain, fluff, romance, friendship, etc.

It’s not really a rocket science to figure out Dewdrop’s emotions, really. ["I can't sleep."] Well. Mountain, Phantom, and Swiss are not really surprised.

It’s not really a rocket science to figure out Dewdrop’s emotions. Most of the times, anything he feels or thinks are easily seen through his expression. Crystal clear—even the siblings of sin have no difficulty guessing his train of thoughts.

Funnily enough—he doesn’t recognize that aspect of his. He doesn’t think he show that much of a reaction when he’s faced with something. And a lot of times he doesn’t even realize why he feels the way he does.

That’s why, Phantom, Swiss, and Mountain are not surprised when Dewdrop barges into their room, all frowned and seems in a bad mood.

The three ghouls are throwing looks at each other.

“I can’t sleep,” Dewdrop kindly provides the explanation before anyone could ask. He closes the door behind him.

Obviously, Phantom thinks to himself. But he tries his best to not show his smile. He’s sitting on the swivel chair, leans his chest against the backrest cushion. While he’s continuing his game, fingers swiping all across his phone’s screen, he humours Dewdrop by asking a question with faux innocence, “I think it has to do with the caffeine you consumed.”

Dewdrop rolls his red orbs, gets closer to Mountain who’s sitting on the bed and lying down on the Earth Ghoul’s thighs. Instantly, the gentle giant brings his fingers to brush over the platinum strands out of Dewdrop’s face.

“I’ve always been fine drinking it,” Dewdrop says defensively. “Besides, it doesn’t do much to our metabolism.”

“Right,” Swiss chirped. He’s tuning his acoustic guitar. “Maybe you ate something wrong?”

Dewdrop shakes his head in frustration. “As I said—I don’t think it’s something I ingested.”

Mountain smiles softly. His green eyes are glinting dimly. “Maybe we should call Rain?”

“What? Why? He’s busy,” Dewdrop sighs and closes his eyes. “He’s still in the practice room with Papa and the others.”

Phantom chuckles. “Okay, then. Want to try some method to make you fall asleep?”

“…. Huh. Do things like that work?”

“Well, we don’t know until we try.” Swiss puts his guitar back into the case. “So, what are our options?"

“Oh, right.” Phantom switches the game application to a social media platform. “Okay, so—according to this video—there are several ways to fall asleep easily. Guaranteed, it says.”

Dewdrop feels like this is a trickery or some sort, but—he sighs and asks, “Okay, what is it?”

“Drink warm milk.”

Dewdrops gives his middle finger to the youngest ghoul. “‘M not a toddler.”

“Hey! Milk contains tryptophan which is an amino acid that can help make you feel sleepy."

Mountain laughs when he sees Dewdrops knits his eyebrows. “Okay, let’s try the other alternatives.”

Phantom let his thumb scrolling on the screen. “Listen to ASMR and try to empty your mind.”

Okay, that one is worth the try. Swiss turns off the light and Phantom plays a raining ASMR. Dewdrop, still rests his head on Mountain, can hear the faint, gentle, lullaby-like sound of raining. It’s as if there is a real rain outside the building and its spatters are being muffled by the walls. It sounds calming.

Dewdrops wants to relax the working mind of his—he really does. But it keeps wandering around, like a kid jumping on one place to another. First, he’s imagining his own, comforting room. Inside his head, Rain is showing up, lying on his own bed. He remembers the way he scooted over on Rain and the ghoul once complained—saying something like, “You go to your own bed, Dew!”

But of course, Dewdrop never one of following orders. He knows Rain will surrender and let him annoy him, squeezes the blue-eyed ghoul with all his might. At the end, Rain will scoff but never shoo him away.

Wait, this is not helping him at all.

Dewdrop fusses, “I still can’t sleep.”

Swiss boos. “And here we are trying to be as quiet as a rock.”

The Fire Ghoul hisses.

“Okay, how about breathing exercise?” Phantom suggests another trick. “Slowly inhale and counting to 4, hold your breath for 7 seconds, and exhale through your mouth for 8 seconds.”

“Why do I need to breath manually?”

Mountain grins and ruffles Dewdrop’s hair.

Swiss rolls his eyes. “Do you want to sleep or not?”

Dewdrop does as he told. He takes a deep breath for a solid 4 seconds, then hold it, let the air sits on his lungs, before he finally breathes out. He repeats this, hoping he’d fall asleep. But, seriously—why is it so damn hard? He never had this problem before.

Well, it’s not like he’s always have a perfect slumber every day. There are some times where he tosses around for a while. But it was never this severe. It’s like no matter what he’s doing, the whole universe and every cell of his body are collaborating; alerting his nerves, as if telling him that he can’t fall asleep yet.

What did he do when he can’t sleep before, anyway? Went to Rain? Then—what?

Dewdrop opens his eyes once more. “Swiss, can you hug me?”

Swiss squints and then nods. “Sure.”

He crawls up to the bed, snatches a pillow, and put it on Mountain’s thighs. The drummer simple question is ignored, “Can we not do this on my legs?"

Phantom chuckles. The big man is going to have a muscle cramp.

Swiss sighs tenderly before wrapping his arms around Dewdrops. He gives him a light, but firm squeeze.

Dewdrop frowns. Amongst the others, Swiss’ figure is the most similar with Rain’s. Swiss has this comforting fragrance, like a mixture of mild soap and ocean. But somehow—this doesn’t feel right. It feels weird. It’s like pushing a piece of a puzzle in a wrong spot. It works somehow, the whole picture is finished, but—there will be a small, micro gap, and it just feels … incomplete.

“Okay, off you go,” Dewdrop says in irritation—a tone he directs mostly towards himself. “I want to go back to my own room.”

Swiss nods and letting Dewdrop go.

Dewdrop lifts his head, gets up, and ready to leave the room. But before he does that, he turns his head first to the others, and says genuinely, “Thanks anyway.”

Some replies are echoing throughout the room and Dewdrops goes out from there.

The moment he opens that door, Dewdrop is greeted by Rain’s blue, sky-coloured eyes. The Water Ghoul just taken a bath—Dewdrop can see the towel still anchored to his head.

Rain smiles, sitting on the side of his bed. “Oh, welcome back. Swiss said you were hanging out in their room?”

Dewdrop doesn’t answer. Instead, he shuts the door, and walking towards Rain. His strides are fast, but not rushing. Then, Dewdrop plunks himself to Rain, makes Rain swaying and fall backwards; head bumps to the pillow.

“Hm-mn?” Rain’s fingers are slipped between the filaments of Dewdrop’s hair. “What’s wrong?”

Dewdrop’s body is relaxing, letting all his limbs sags and rests. He could feel gravitation is pulling him softly, drags him to the world of dreams, as if it’s doing a rock-a-bye to him. Dewdrop smells a petrichor—and it’s lulling him away.

“Sleepy,” Dewdrop answers, half-asleep. His eyelids feel ridiculously heavy.

“Why didn’t you sleep first?” Rain looks at his phone. Exactly midnight. “Papa, Cirrus, and I were discussing new choreography.”

The question is not answered. When Rain takes off his attention from the phone—he snickers seeing Dewdrop is already falling asleep. Rhythmic breath, un-knitted eyebrows. Dewdrops sure looks peaceful when he’s not awake or throwing fits.

Despite Dewdrop puts all his weight on Rain, Rain tries to get up a little; bring his lips and kiss The Fire Ghoul’s forehead. Then, Rain picks up the towel on top of his head and flings it to wherever it may land.

“Goodnight, Dew.”

Is he asleep?

Yeah? The minute he flops down on the bed.

What, why? He couldn't sleep??

Nah, nothing. You get rest.

Swiss looks up at his phone and scoffs. Then, he places the electronic on the top of his nightstand. He turns over his body and hugs Phantom—who’s already snoring faintly.

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