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fangswbenefits · 11 months

Text

Tracking

𓂅 𓄹 Summary: You find out Miguel has been tracking something that concerns you… and him.

𓂅 𓄹 Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. Breeding kink. Period talk. Miguel going all scientific and keeping track of fertility windows for maximum efficacy. Dry humping. Inspired by this ask.

Miguel was in a bad mood that afternoon. You could see it coming a mile off, because having spent that much time around him over the past years had revealed many warning signs.

The circular platform was lowered all the way down to the floor by the time you walked past the door.

Miguel not turning to acknowledge your presence was warning sign number one.

You strode up to it warily, as if expecting him to explode at any given moment. Trying to lighten the mood, you tip toed to place a sweet kiss to his cheek.

He grumbled in response.

Warning sign number two.

His eyes were fixed on the multiple of screen sprawled in a half-moon in front of him, occasionally tapping and moving them around when needed.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” you teased.

“I’m nearly done here.”

“Hello to you, too, grumpy,” you nudged his arm with a smile.

Miguel merely nodded.

Warning sign number three.

At this point, you figured something was definitely going on.

“What’s up?”

“Hmm?”

You sighed. “You look and sound off.”

He tapped on a screen to his left. “You’re on your period.”

“What?”

Usually, that sort of remark would earn any man a slap at worst or a ‘fuck you’ at best. There was no shortage of men who would use women’s hormones as an easy way to deflect their feelings.

But there was something in Miguel’s tone that resembled… disappointment?

He scowled deeply, turning to face you. “You’re not pregnant.”

You stared at him for a long time, before bursting into laughter. “Is that why you’re all grumpy?”

“Oh, you think this is funny?” Miguel’s eyes narrowed, his scowl deepening.

You stopped at once. “Wait… how would you know that?”

He returned his attention to the hovering screens in front of him. “Know what?”

“That I’m on my period?” you asked, suspicion rising inside you. “And I still haven’t gotten it, by the way.”

And just like that, Miguel’s crimson eyes were on you expectantly. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

You folded your arms while tapping your foot lightly. “No. You answer me first.”

Miguel knew better than to antagonise you, especially now that you had information that interested him.

Dragging his index finger across the panel, you saw a file pop up with your name. That didn’t seem odd at all. Every spider in Nueva York was required to have one that displayed several strategic details as well as bio data that was fed by the dimensional travel watch. Your heart rate was at a steady 67 beats per minute.

“What about it?”

He tapped on a second tab that read ‘Fertility’.

Nothing could have prepared you for the influx of information you were about to be bombarded with.

And what it concerned.

July 4th

Cycle day 1 - low chance of pregnancy

Fertility window - 12 to 18

Ovulation day - 17 (high chances of pregnancy)

“You’re tracking my period?!” you snapped in utter disbelief.

“I’m tracking your fertility window.”

You glared at him. “How is that any different?”

“It’s not. Just nomenclature,” he shrugged casually as if talking about the change of weather outside.

You shot Miguel a death glare, before shoving him to the side, gaining full access to the flickering orange screen. The data collected went back as far as three months ago.

Miguel had been tracking your fertility window for months now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shifted to stand behind you, easily towering with his impressive height. “It’s my responsibility to get you pregnant.”

Your eyes widened partially in disbelief, but mostly at the realisation that this shouldn’t be a shocking revelation.

Miguel had to be in control at all times. It was embedded in his genetic code. A few months ago you had casually joked that you wouldn’t mind having a child soon.

It seemed that it was all the motivation he needed to begin his quest.

Now it made perfect sense why he had been so insistent on always cumming inside you. You just didn’t think he would be this dedicated.

Joke’s on you.

“But it seems the data is wrong,” he said lowly, arms circling around you to have his hands atop yours on the keyboard. “You can edit it,” he whispered, pressing himself fully against you.

The added pressure pushed your lower half gently against the control table, his thumb caressing the back of your hand.

“Are you trying to seduce me, so I ignore all of this?” you whispered, enjoying how the proximity was having a noticeable effect on his cock.

He rolled against you slowly. “Me? Of course not.”

His fingers intertwined with yours, and you watched your heart rate on the screen soar to 78 beats per minutes.

You fought back a whimper, as he was nipping at your neck, fangs lightly poking at sensitive skin. You could feel the hard print of his cock pressed against the curve of your ass, and as you bucked your hips instinctively, you felt his own meet you halfway, setting a slow rhythm.

90 beats per minute.

“Let me get a blood sample so I can test out,” he said, his erection pressed against your ass.

“Someone really wants to be a dad,” you said with a teasing smile.

99 beats per minute.

His other hand came to grip your jaw, tilting your head until you met his eyes. “I need you to get pregnant.”

Your breath was coming out in shallow pants as he kept humping you at a steady and torturous pace.

“You mean… you need to breed me, right?”

109 beats per minute.

His eyeds widened lightly and he thrusted harshly into you, causing a jolt of pleasure to travel all the way down to your clit. “That’s the same thing, cariño.”

You gave him a knowing smile. “Nomenclature and all that.”

Masterlist

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara x y/n

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lovebugism · 9 months

Note

grinding against virgin!eddie cock until he cums. skin to skin.

i love a good sinful request hahah hope you like it angel! — the one where you ride eddie for the first time (new-ish relationship, l-bomb, smut 18+, 1.6k)

bug's summer fic fest ♡

A summer breeze billows through an opened window. The evening air cools your burning, bare skin when it kisses your sweat-slicked bodies. It feels almost like silk. Nowhere near as soft as you are.

Eddie sits on the edge of his bed while you ride him. You’re made exactly of velvet and honey as you roll your hips in rhythmic motions over his thighs. Your warm cunt sucks him impossibly further in and in and in.

The slick drooling from your pulsating walls drenches his aching cock and the bushy thatch of pubic hair below it. You grow somehow tighter every time your sensitive clit drags across the coarse patch of his happy trail. You tilt your head back and exhale a gentle moan at the ceiling — as pretty as a wolf howling at the moon.

Eddie so desperately wants to kiss the newly displayed skin of your neck. His lips ache to suckle at the tendons you bear to him, to find your racing pulse point and bite you softly there. He might’ve — if only he could tear his eyes away from you for a fraction of a second.

This isn’t the first time he’s fucked you, but it’s the first time you’ve been on top of him like this.

His chest swells with the same burning pleasure you gave him the first time he slipped inside you. His cock is equally as sensitive, though maybe more so with the newfound sensation of the steady rise and fall of your velvety cunt.

His hands are still as unsure of themselves. They fidget with the urge to hug you tightly to him, though he's distantly fearful of touching such art at the same time.

You notice it rather quickly — the way his fingers idle on the outsides of your knee in a featherlight touch.

You can tell he wants to touch you, that he just doesn’t know how to.

He’s still scared of making the wrong move with you, still feeling the need to impress you in some way. Unsure of how he got you in the first place, he’s worried his inadequacy will ultimately lead to his heartache.

“You don’t have to be afraid to touch me, Eds,” you tell him, breathless, as you sink down to the base of his cock.

You still and linger there, exhaling a gentle moan from your nose at the combined feeling of him twitching inside you and your delicate button rolling across his lap.

Eddie feels close to exploding, both at how good you feel and how overwhelmed you’re making him.

Your trembling hands rise from his shoulders to cup his jaw. Your thumb swipes over his flushed skin as you force him to keep his eyes on you.

Your heavy-lidded stare pierces somewhere deep in his soul, a bolt of blue lightning he can feel down to his sensitive, bulbous head.

He wants to move, but his brain short circuits. You’ve effectively paralyzed him, it seems.

“C’mon…” you lilt when you notice him hesitating. A wavering smile quirks the edges of your swollen, kiss-bitten mouth.

Even though you’re not moving, you’re still suffocated by your own pleasure. He’s reaching a whole different angle inside you with this new position you’re in. You have no choice but to feel him everywhere.

“Touch me, Eddie… Need to feel you…”

Eddie’s never denied you of anything before. He’d be an idiot to start now.

With uncertain hands, he reaches for your waist. His palms are wide and warm as they settle there, pale palms smoothing over your skin and holding firmly at the soft pudge on your sides.

Even with his stern grip, his touch is not the least bit directing of you. His hands are obediently still — all-consuming with the love he holds within them.

The feeling of him in such an innocent way makes you sigh a pretty moan.

A pathetic whine sounds from Eddie’s throat when your velvet walls clench around him. He doesn’t have too long now — not with how intently you’re gripping his sensitive cock.

He grits his teeth and leans his head his back, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to fend off his inevitable orgasm.

It’s damn near impossible, he finds. He can feel you everywhere.

You’re on his dick and drenching his lap. Your damp skin presses against his, the slick between you all but adhering you to him. Your hands feel like slinking vines as they leave his jaw to curl into his hair. Your fingers twist in the sweaty tendrils at the back of his neck.

He feels the lightning strike of your touch in a tingle that shoots down his spine. Or perhaps it’s the growing need to fill you with everything he’s got to give.

Now, you’re the one that can’t stop looking at him.

His lips are pinker than usual with how keenly you’ve kissed them. The color pairs so nicely with the red splotching his pale skin — the apples of his cheeks, his jaw, the bottom of his neck, and the top of his chest.

You get too easily distracted by how pretty he is to worry about your own pleasure.

Your clit swells with every pass over his lap, but you can only think about making him feel good. You don’t want him to stop making such pretty little noises for you.

You want to hear him moan for you when he comes. You want to feel him shake like a leaf beneath you when you keep riding him through his high. You want to hear him beg you to stop when he gets too sensitive to function properly.

Surely, that isn’t too much to ask.

You need Eddie to come more than you need it for yourself.

With a knowing smirk hinting at the edges of your lip, you roll your hips over his thighs once more and clench tighter around him. A soft sigh spills from your mouth at the feeling of his cock quivering within your delicate walls.

Your smile grows when it makes Eddie moan, though it sounds more like a feeble sob in his chest.

“Doing so good for me, Eds,” you whisper as you drag your hips back again. You bring them forward a moment later, not stilling until your stomach is pressed against the soft pudge of his. “Making me feel so good.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he pleads through gritted teeth.

“Why?” you wonder with a breathless giggle.

“‘Cause it’s gonna make me come…”

“What if I want you to?”

His closed eyes squeeze further shut as a whine sounds in his throat, muffled through his clenched jaw.

Your hips fall slowly over his thighs again at a pace as steady as it is slow. They come forward again, unrushed and undemanding. The way you still and clench around him is obviously measured. It pushes him closer to the edge.

“You’re always so pretty for me when you come,” you confess, voice wavering as your own orgasm creeps up your spine. “Always makes me come so hard…”

Eddie whines again, louder this time, as he buries his face in your shoulder. He seeks solace there, with his nose smushed against your damp skin. He hides his moans there, too.

Your pace quickens over his lap, and he groans into your neck. Spurred on by his pretty sounds and his hands rising up your back, you keen and wrap your arms around his neck.

The two of you hug each other in a rather sinful embrace.

You bury your nose into his wild curls and push through the burning orange embers simmering in your clit and the pit of your stomach.

Eddie holds you tightly against him while his cock trembles relentlessly inside your satin walls, like he’s drowning in an ocean of pleasure and you’re the only thing keeping him afloat.

That’s what it feels like, anyway.

That’s what it feels like to be with you, too — in ways more innocent than this wicked one.

He’s too often lost, too innocent in his way. Still stuck in his boyhood, he rarely ever feels good enough — for life, for you.

He gravitates to you like a focal point, a reminder that he’s still alive when he feels like life is strangling him.

He doesn’t deserve you.

He doesn’t deserve to feel as good as you make him feel.

His chest swells with the very thought. It’s an empty, wet feeling that makes him feel like he might cry. And, god, what an idiot he’d be to get all emotional the first time his girlfriend rides him.

He can’t help it, though. He’s a lucky schmuck who managed to woo you into his bed — he’s owed a small sob of victory, he figures.

“Fucking love you like this,” Eddie babbles into your neck, fueled by his impending orgasm. “Love fucking you, baby… Love you all the time... Love you so fucking much, you know that? I fucking love you.”

Even though you’re distantly shocked by his words, you don’t stop riding him. You don’t plan on stopping until he’s begging you to.

You figure he’s too pussy drunk to understand what he’s saying, to know how meaningful his words really are. But he keeps on saying them — “Love you. I love you. I love you so goddamn much—”

Maybe he’s too overwhelmed by his impending orgasm, and his brain has short-circuited accordingly. Maybe he really does love you, and it took a good fucking to finally tell you.

You’re not quite sure.

You’ll ask him about it when all this is over — when his cock is softening on his thigh and his come is seeping out of you while he holds you in his arms.

But for now, you press your cheek against his burning one and whisper in his ear. “I love you, too.”

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #eddie munson #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #bug's summer fic fest!

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shotmrmiller · 3 months

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absolutely not a smoker but

imagine stepping out of that rowdy pub you tend to visit with your friends. The chilly evening air cooling your overheated skin.

The place can get a little too lively, sometimes you have to step out to take a breather. Or a smoke break, like in this instance.

Placing the lit cigarette in the corner of your mouth, you lean back against the brick wall of the establishment, feeling the cold seep through your jacket. Tipping your head back, you gaze at the night sky; shimmering specks of light scattered across the deep darkness, with the full moon gently illuminating the surroundings.

And then the pub doors squeal as they swing open, but you keep your eyes up and away.

Gravel crunches under the person's feet as they walk. Only for those footsteps to get closer to you.

God fucking damnit. You don't want to talk to anyone right now- your social battery is currently charging.

Exhaling softly, you close your eyes and open them as you turn to look at whoever is approaching and... the cigarette almost slips from your fingers from the fright.

A man that's a head taller than most, shoulders too broad, chest like a barrel. His thigh was the size of both of yours pressed together. He wore all black- the leather jacket creased around where the sleeves and where the elbow crooks. Well-worn but still in good condition.

But what almost sent your heart into failure was the skull balaclava mask he wore over his face.

Fucking hell, why is he staring at you like that?

Tapping the smoke with your pointer, you place it back in your mouth and pull the sides of your open jacket over your midsection, crossing your arms after.

"Can I help you?"

His response is immediate. "Bum a cig off ya?" he asks, a mancunian accent heavy on his tongue.

Shrugging to yourself, you shake the box and offer him the one, which he takes without even a thank you.

Ingrate.

"Got a match?"

Wordlessly, the lighter clicks once and a weak flame comes out of it. Only to get snuffed by the crisp breeze. Your thumb rotates the spark wheel once again, but this time you cup your hand around the pathetic little fire.

It holds long enough, so you watch him pull the mask up just enough to put the smoke in between his thin, chapped lips and lean forward to the lighter in your hands.

A warm puff of air extinguishes the flame.

His dark eyes cut to you- dark, nondescript. You flick the tip of your cigarette with your tongue in frustration.

Then his gaze wanders to the dim, orange glow on the other end. "Bum the light, then."

Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline but otherwise do as he says- rising to the tiptoes, and draw in a steady breath, the burning end flaring.

His face gets too close to what anyone would deem appropriate, getting a real good view of his unfairly long, wispy ash-brown lashes that framed his eyes.

The furl of smoke begins to rise, stinging your nose, and he finally straightens, the lit cigarette bouncing in his mouth.

The silence after is comfortable, just two complete and utter strangers having a smoke.

Tossing the filter to the ground, you step on it and crush it with your heel as exhale the remnants of it. A small wave his way and you head back inside.

If you'd paid any sort of attention, you would've noticed that the smoke that came out of his mouth was too thick, concentrated. As if it just sat there, instead of going through his lungs.

He gives it 3 more minutes before putting out his own, nearly full cig under his boot and following right behind you.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you

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niki-phoria · 15 days

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gn!reader with megumi, choso and yuuji where they fall asleep on the reader?? <33

⋆｡°✩ WHEREVER YOU'RE GOIN', I'M GOIN' THE SAME

fushiguro megumi, itadori yuuji, and kamo choso falling asleep on you

notes: gn reader (no pronouns used), thank you so much for requesting !! i hope you like it :)), header from pinterest, title from frank ocean - moon river

the train is quiet, the silence only broken by the slow hum of the motor running. FUSHIGRUO MEGUMI sighs as he leans back against the seat cushions. exhaustion settles deep into his bones. his head aches as he closes his eyes, letting himself relax a little in the safety of the bullet train’s cabin.

you startle when you feel a weight leaning against your body. megumi flinches when his head lolls onto your shoulder. he flinches, jumping awake with a sharp gasp and wide eyes. “i’m sorry,” he mumbles, glancing at the ground. he slinks a little into his seat in a poor attempt to hide his flushed cheeks behind the edge of his jacket.

“it’s okay,” you chuckle, brushing your bloody knuckles against his bruised cheek. “sleep. i’ll wake you up when we get back.”

pursing his lips, megumi glances out of the window. amongst the slow-moving landscape outside, he catches a small glimpse of a nearby sign. saitama - at least another forty minutes away. when he glances at you once again, you’re softly smiling. the sunlight illuminates your features beautifully. golden rays highlight the rise of your cheekbones and the way your hair frames your face. when you look at him like that, how could he ever say no?

“okay,” megumi relents with a soft nod, hesitantly leaning his head against your body once again. “thank you.”

ITADORI YUUJI is less than quiet as he clumsily stumbles into your dorm room. he’s welcomed with the soft glow from the sunset and the quiet echo of megumi’s door closing from across the hall. “yuuji,” you smile. he simply hums in return, settling himself into your lap so his head rests against your thighs. “long day?”

“the longest,” he sighs. “i thought it was never gonna end.”

yuuji’s tired gaze meets your own as you reach down, gently beginning to card your fingers through his hair. your hands carefully untangle any stray knots as you brush the strands away from his face. “wanna watch human earthworm four?”

he smiles brightly. “i’d like that.” yuuji sighs as you continue to twist short strands of pink locks between your fingers; his body relaxes at the feeling of your nails gently scratching against his scalp.

the movie’s action is forgotten in favour of studying yuuji’s features - the small scars beneath his eyes; the downward slope of his nose; the steady rise and fall of his chest every time he breathes. “love you,” he whispers, though the words slur together as they leave his lips. “love you so much.”

you smile. your ministrations don’t cease, even when you lean down to press a soft kiss against his temple. his eyes flutter shut as his breathing evens out, signaling the beginning of a nap. “i love you too, yuuji.”

it wasn’t often that KAMO CHOSO felt like this - loved; respected; safe. your shared bedroom is illuminated only by moonlight shining through your window, painting the world silver. in the quiet of the night, he can hear the rhythmic noise of crickets chirping and the occasional wind blowing through the empty city streets.

“choso,” you whisper. your voice is quiet in the night; it nearly startles him to hear you whisper after such a long period of silence. furrowing your eyebrows, you shuffle a little closer to his body. the blankets rustle as you reach up, carefully resting your hand against his chest, just over where his heart should be. he can feel the tension in his body slowly disappearing against your touch, making a soft sigh escape his lips. “why are you still up?”

“i can’t sleep,” he mumbles. and it’s true. curses don’t need sleep the way humans do, but the routine makes some part of him feel more normal.

choso can almost visualize the way your lips quirk into a soft frown. your movements cease for a moment before you’re tugging him closer until his head rests against your chest. he can hear your heart beating steadily against your ribcage, soothing the worst of his anxieties.

“i love you, choso,” you whisper.

he closes his eyes, finally finding solace in the safety of your arms. “i love you too, y/n.”

taglist (open! send an ask/dm to be added): @sunoooism @vamxpi @sad-darksoul @kamote-kuneho

if you liked this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, feedback, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, check out my jjk masterlist <33

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peachesofteal · 3 months

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The Pit

2/2

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.7k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dubious consent. Smut - M/M/F. Forced breeding and kink (but we're soft). Medical inaccuracies. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Misery inspired. Horror-ish. Whump. Caretaking. Imprisonment/kidnapping. Forced comfort. Addiction. Feelings of fear, panic, anxiety, hopelessness. Simon calls the shots.

It’s snowing.

The forest floor is covered in thick, white cotton, heavier than cement. It sticks to your clothes, your knees, soaking you to the bone. You slog through the snow; the forest grows longer. Taller. Trunks of trees enclosing you in a cold grave, a cage.

You have to try. You have to.

The moon illuminates your path, a swath of silver light refracting through weeping frozen branches, their backs bowed with the heft of the snow, cracking and shivering under their burdens.

They’ll snap eventually. They’ll break.

Just like you.

Wolves howl in the distance. It makes no difference; how close they are. You can’t take much more, newly healed leg already spent, lungs heaving for what little air there is in this elevation.

They circle. Blood-soaked maws snap at you, herd you closer and closer to the start, to where it all began, to where it continues to begin, again and again.

The house.

Your knees find ground.

You’d rather die now. Freeze in the snow. Or…

A jaw snaps. You hold out your hands. For freedom. For peace.

The last thing you see is the flash of pearlescent canine, ripping into your flesh.

“Shhh, jus’ a nightmare.” Simon’s thumb works across your brow, concern shining on his face in the dim lighting. You shiver, even in a room like a sauna.

“Did- did I wake you?” He shakes his head. Of course, you didn’t. He’s always awake. He’s always watching.

“Close your eyes.” He tucks you close, blazing heat from his massive, pillowy chest bleeding into your back, your ribcage expanding slowly. It’s rhythm, sick, twisted rhythm, syncing you together, your breathing evening out, steadying in his hold. He reaches for Johnny, who’s curled on his side, and strokes through some long, loved pieces of mohawk. Lips muss your hair. “Sleep, little dove.”

The floorboards in the hallway creak.

They talk to you, whisper about comings and goings, each spot singing a specific frequency just so, hitting the right pitch at the right time, a chorus of shifting weight echoed by hackneyed groaning.

The creaking is didactic in nature. It exists to teach you something, to plainly expose the things you should have been paying attention to all along: footsteps in the morning, in the evening, shuffles versus steps. Schedules, routines, things you didn’t pay close enough attention to, things you didn’t care enough to notice, all laid out very carefully in front of you. The weeping wood of the floor practically begged you to notice, but you were too distracted by the never-ending reminders of your agony, and the cups of tea that made you woozy. You were too busy craning your neck to catch a glimpse of the outside world beyond the window, too preoccupied with trying to stand on your own without vomiting all over the floor (again) to catch what the hallway was trying to say.

If you had listened, you would have stood a chance.

“Alright, here we go.” Johnny murmurs, an arm under your knees, another around your back. When he rises, cradling you into his chest like a child, you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, desperate to tamp down the whimper that breaks free. “I know, I know. Almost there.” He soothes, lowering you to the couch where the pillows are all placed in very specific positions. One of the goes under your calf, another your knee, and they line the sides of your ribs for your arm to rest elevated, comfortably. He cups your cheek, warm thumb gently moving across your skin, sweet, molasses thick affection, like the cough syrup you used to swallow when you were young. “Do ye want some tea?” Yes. God yes, a thousand times yes. Yes, you want the tea. Yes, you want to fall into the bleak darkness of drugged sleep, the vat of unconscious swallowing you whole every time. You want the buzz of numbness, the shadow of an orphic, endless pit. You want to slink away from everything, from them, from whatever this is, from what’s happened to you.

“Yeah, I-“

“Johnny.” Simon says his name softly from the kitchen. “Let’s wait a bit on the tea.” His brow furrows, light venetian blue eyes tracking across your face. They catch the light just so, sparkling downward, sea foam, sea glass and ocean spray, all mixed together into kaleidoscopes spiraling outward from his pupils, and when he frowns, you swear they darken.

“She’s in pain.” He protests, straightening to full height. There’s something happening above your head, something he concedes to with a sigh, shoulders relaxing, a regretful glance cast your way. “I’ll get ye some naproxen, dove.” He promises with a kiss, and then you’re alone in the living room, unable to move, snuggled against the worn leather couch.

Your leg is in a cast. Paper and glue, you think, makeshift at best, and they both remind you of it all the time, how it’s not medical grade, how you can’t attempt to walk on it, how the bone is incredibly fragile, and will be, for a while. It’s in worse shape than your arm, which at least has a black brace on it, covered from elbow to wrist, immobilized with a dull ache, a pain consistently throbbing, but doesn’t make you cry. Not the way your leg does. Your leg screams with agony, still, pins and needles and buzz saws in your bones, a haunting torment keeping you awake at night, making you second guess your desire to live.

The tea helps though. The tea makes everything less, makes the pain round, instead of sharp, makes the fear feel farther away, instead of right on the tip of your tongue, like a monster on your doorstep.

Simon says your name, broad shoulders stationed in front of the fireplace, glass of water in one hand, two pills in another.

“Do you want to sit up?” You blink at him, and he kneels before you can answer, perching right next to your shoulders. “Open.” You give the pills a dubious glare, unsure, lips zipped tight. It could be the naproxen, but it could be something else.

After all, the tea is not just tea.

He sighs in the same exasperated sentiment, and then his thumb and forefinger are grasping your cheeks, cold shiver erupting down your spine at the contact, and he pushes your mouth ajar. “Don’t be like this, sweet girl. Thought you were going to be good today?” He’s referencing something you remember vaguely, a discussion from last night in the dark, a promise you made when the world was coated in sap and too far warm, sticky like the sweat clinging to your neck-

“Ye dinnae need to cry, little dove. Don’ we take such good care of ye?” Johnny cooed, eager. “Ye just need tae be good for us, and we’ll do everything else.” He was holding you tight, too tight against his skin, heat radiating from him like the sun.

“I don’t understand.” You moaned, unable to move or twist away, trapped in the cage of his arms, Simon sitting prim on the edge of the bed, one hand on your hip.

“You will, in time. By spring, we hope.” Simon told you, dark sympathy in his eyes, words stretching into a mixed-up sentence jumping around in your mind. By… spring? What does that mean? Johnny’s hands roamed over your skin beneath the blankets, stroking across your breast to delicately pinch at your nipple, before dipping further south, slipping into your folds without warning.

“Ah!” You gasped, tense, frozen beneath his touch.

“Shhh.” Simon pats your hip. “Let Johnny put you to sleep, dove. You’ll feel better after a rest.” Johnny’s fingers stuffed in your pussy, thumb dancing across your clit, would lull you into tea addled sleep, and warring emotions swirled in your head. Your desire for this, your acceptance of this, is sick.

You’re sick.

You think of the snow. The reflection on the floor in this room, crystallized shimmer on the ceiling. The sun has been out, and you’re dying, wilting, from not feeling it on your face.

“Tomorrow.” You croak, and Johnny pauses. “Tomorrow can I… can I go outside?”

“Will you be good?” Simon’s thumb rubs at a spot on the corner of your mouth, and you nod.

“Yes… I- fuck.” Johnny’s breath hitches, and your walls clench up tight, squeezing. Small explosions of light dance across your eyes, pain mixed with pleasure, peaks and valleys rolling through your muscles. “Fuck.” A big, scorching hand spreads across your lower belly, just beneath your navel, and pushes.

You come immediately. It’s overwhelming to keep yourself relaxed, to prevent the spike of pain from your injuries, but an orgasm dulls everything else, and you cry with its intensity.

You’re sick.

You don’t miss the way Simon’s hand lingers, how his eyes don’t leave that spot, how Johnny’s hand covers his, and they hold there, lost in their own world for a second.

“If you’re good, sweet girl. We’ll take you outside.” He whispers, arranging limbs and waists and feet to his liking.

You fall asleep dreaming of a blizzard.

The pills go down so easily.

And you suppose they help. For a while, anyway.

Enough time for Johnny to get you set up on the porch, zipped up in their clothes and propped up on a loveseat rocker.

You wonder if they sit out here in the spring. In the summer. Do they drink their tea and eat their biscuits and watch over their domain like kings? It’s so American, so southern, to envision, and you almost laugh at the idea of either of them swapping their black bitterness for something iced and sweet enough to rot the teeth right out of their head.

“Dove? Can ye look towards me?” Johnny sits half on his knee across from you, on another outdoor, plastic chair. He’s got his sketchbook and pencil in hand, excitement brimming from eyes to lips, like a child. Full of wistful bright light, the sun itself.

Simon’s sun, it would seem.

You’ve noticed it, how Simon is the earth, but Johnny is the sun. The whole world, revolving around one ball of light, one eager, wild Scot, a star, the only, in Simon’s sky.

He draws you with efficiency. Moving and directing you just so, not daring to jostle you or cause you discomfort, but still ensuring he gets the best light. The barely-there dew drops of dawn. The glisten of a million frozen crystals at your back.

He handles you like glass. He stares at you like you’re a doll, a fragile one, like you had when you were a girl.

In the quiet moments, which are many, you catch them staring at you. If they’ve brought you down to the living room, they lurk in the kitchen, murmuring to one another in voices too low for you to catch. If you’re in the bedroom, they curl around you like wolf pups, pawing and petting until you’re asleep.

You don’t understand.

They won’t even talk about it with you now. How you came to be here, how they’re insistent you’ll have to stay until spring, when the pass opens.

Their words are a sickness, infecting you, spreading through your system until they’ve touched every piece, inside and out.

It’s madness. The kind of madness that pushed you to the brink already, made you feel like you’re losing touch with reality, with yourself. The kind of insanity that nearly got you killed.

You test the weight. Just barely, just enough that it screams under the pressure.

If you could make it to the door.

If you could make it down the hall.

If you could get out.

You grit your teeth.

The house has been silent for hours. No creaking floorboards. No heavy footsteps. You close your eyes, hold your breath, listening one last time.

They must not be here.

They go out, every once and a while. Bring things back. You’re not sure where, or how.

You shuffle a step, dragging your foot. It’s more a hop, but you use the bed to offset the inevitable thump of your body weight, managing to make it to the end, fingers deathly tight on the wrought iron.

You can do it. You can.

It’s only three, four hops at most to the door. On one leg, in a weakened state, it’s harder than you thought, but when your fingers lay on the door handle, the release of relief in your chest is overwhelming.

Yes! Yes. You can do it. Just-

The knob does not turn. You pull, applying more force, trying to jiggle it, see if maybe it’s stubborn or just old. This cabin is certainly old. Even though it’s been hollowed out anew inside, the bones are ones of a hunting cabin. A long-forgotten place, now housing horrors anew.

You twist and tug again. Every time it doesn’t budge, you try a little harder, each metallic scrap and jangle louder than fireworks.

You tug and you fiddle. You close your eyes and push down the rising panic.

The truth comes rushing over you all at once.

It’s locked. It’s always locked. That’s why Simon ensures it’s shut completely, each time they come and go.

They never intended to take you home. They never are going to give you your phone, or theirs, they’re never going to get you back over the pass.

You’re locked in here. With them.

The tugging becomes something else, something wired and frenetic, until you’re jerking the door handle with all your might, shaking the frame, screaming. The motion destabilizes you, and your lack of strength does you no favors.

Before you can self-correct, you stumble. You fall, instinct forcing your bad leg down, and when you try to catch yourself, you howl so loud you think the mountain shakes.

Your head smacks the frame of the bed on your way down, and then… as always now, everything is dark.

The first time you open your eyes after, Simon is seated in the chair. The same one he was in when they brought you here, severe and terrifying. The room is spinning, and you’re just as nauseous as the first day you laid eyes on him.

“I- I’m sorry.” You croak, but he only shakes his head, rising from his seat without even giving you a second look.

For a fleeting moment, the indifference stings.

“You’ll wear that,” he motions to your foot from the end of the bed, the good one, and you peek down to see a metal shackle clamped around your ankle. “until you can be trusted again.”

Johnny crawls into bed with you at night. He cries, hot tears on his cheeks, and coos over the leg with the break in it, and then over the shackle.

“I told him, ye dinnae mean to be bad.” His fingers shake as he traces your cheek. “Ye just cannae help it. It’s not yer fault, I know dove. Ye dinnae know any better. We have to teach you.”

“Johnny-“ Please. Let me go. Help me.

They all die in your throat when he presses his wet face to your neck like a dog, rutting his hard cock into your hip.“Ye’ll be right as rain by spring, I told him. Gon’ be such a good mum for the bairn, I know ye will.”

The world fades away. The silence suffocates, and you pray to die.

You cry the rest of the night, even when he shucks your pants down and licks your pussy until you’re coming on his tongue. You cry until he falls asleep, and Simon returns, settling in his seat, watching you both.

“How do ye feel about chicken soup tonight?” Johnny draws you back to him, sweet boy smile on his face, and your stomach clenches involuntarily.

Stupid handsome Scot.

You’re sick.

“That’s fine.”

“But do ye like it?” He’s so eager, back straightening with interest, really trying to learn, trying to figure out what you like and dislike, what will earn him your good graces, and what won’t.

You shrug. “Sure, it’s… it’s good.” A thought occurs to you. “Where do you get the chicken?”

“We’ve got ‘em in the barn. Can’t roam in the winter but we keep ‘em warm in there. Along with some ducks. A goat.”

“Farm animals?” “Aye. How else we supposed to make sure you’re healthy?” He waggles his eyebrows. You try not to grimace. “Si slaughters ‘em fresh. Everything tastes better that way.” A soft light shines in his eyes, a wolf’s instinct, and the shudder trembling down your spine makes your hands shake. “Ye cold?” He clocks it immediately, as he he does with every other single thing.

When he gathers you into his arms to bring you inside, tucking you back into the couch, you don’t even argue. You just sit there. Like a doll. Theirs.

Night is the easiest. It’s simple, to give in to your body, let them take over, take control of the parts that have long betrayed you. You close your eyes as they touch you, kiss you, make you come.

You even enjoy it.

That’s the worst part. You like it, when there are hands and fingers and tongues all over your body, like you’re being worshipped, like you’re some sort of god.

You like it, when Johnny gets overexcited and Simon settles him, guides him with a hand on his cock to your entrance, whispering slow in his ear, encouraging him to take his time. You like it, when Johnny’s pulse flutters under his jaw, when Simon holds you steady, when they get lost in each other, in you- you can almost pretend it’s not real, it's some fantasy, from a book, something dark and delicious-

Not your reality.

Tonight, Simon holds you in his lap on the edge of the bed, broken leg lying flat, his elbow crooked under your good knee and wrenched upwards, nearly pressing against your chest. The angle is intense, and Johnny grunts, muscles flexing with every thrust,

“Ah- fuck.” You moan and twitch, locked inside a cage, a confinement, the arms of your captors… your saviors. Simon swirls the pad of a finger over your clit, mouth open on your cheek, teeth nipping over your skin. You clench, Johnny cursing, some bitten off dialect you’re not familiar with, Simon’s voice dripping with smirk.

“Good girl, squeeze our boy, jus’ like that.” He does it on purpose, the talking. Knows how it makes you gush, long ago figured out the way to make your pussy clamp down around whatever he’s got worked inside you, his cock, Johnny’s, fingers, tongues.

Together, you’re an orchestra. Johnny is the strings, the violin, the viola, a cello. He plucks so perfectly, a harmonious blend of beauty spills from his bow, rising in the air until the audience is on their feet. His music trembles. It quivers and cries, like the wail of grief.

Your grief.

You’re the piano. An entire world, nestled in one instrument, but you play off tune, broken and sharp, pitch all a mess- you don’t even belong here.

Simon is the maestro. He directs each note, each melodious ring exactly as he wants it, working the music up to a brilliant crescendo, and it comes crashing like the force of a wave breaking onto sand. He conducts you, Johnny, the day, and night. He orchestrates the flow, lyrical give and take evolving in the house, your captor status slipping farther and farther away each night you take them into your body.

He knows you like it. Knows he’s in the lead, knows they’re winning-

And he doesn’t let up.

“Harder.” He coaches, and Johnny obliges, mouth open in bliss, eyes nearly rolled backwards. His fingers clamp down on your hip, too close, and you hiss in fear, the preparation of pain.

Simon snarls, yanking it away, holding to him tight before discarding it in exchange for the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” Johnny pants. “Sorry, dove.” You want to tell him to fuck off, to tell him you hate them, you hate them both, but you're only able to give them a high pitched moan of pleasure. “I’m gon’ come.” He grunts, and Simon yanks him forward, lips smashing together, tongue snaking messily between teeth.

For too long, the three of you hold fast. Johnny’s reckless, furious thrusts shove you backwards, over and over again. “Pull out.” Simon commands, flat palm on his chest. “Do not, Johnny.” He pushes him away from you like a dog, shoving him backwards with a firm forearm, a piece of rebar turned flesh.

He comes all over your belly, splashing thick white splatter across the mound of your cunt, up past your navel, choking on gasps of breath as Simon heaps praise onto the two of you.

Later, after they’ve bathed you, given you another orgasm, and all are almost tucked in, you whisper in the flickering fire light.

“Can I… can I have some tea?” Simon starts. It’s small, barely visible, but you feel it, in your bones. The echo of him in the room.

He holds your head between two palms, and you wonder if he’ll crush your skull. Decide it was all too much trouble. You’re too sick, feeble in your mind, too weak to survive.

“To sleep?” He asks softly, eyes darting over your shoulder for a split second, heavy with worry.

“Please?” There’s something in his eyes you don’t understand, a whirling mist of hell and desperation, and then it clears, and he motions a go ahead to Johnny.

“Alright, dove.”

The tea settles you into silence. With it, you can exist. You can survive.

It numbs you from the inside out, and as time passes, you feel no pain. You’re tangled in a dark web, a viscous manner of thing weighing you down from all angles. You feel nothing, and days turn to weeks, weeks to a month. Soon, the world is thawing. Snow melt turns to river and mud, greenery fighting for its chance to sprout and survive. Your leg is healing.

Spring comes.

The day you roast a chicken is the day your life ends, for good.

It’s domestic, the act. An olive branch to Simon, who’s angry with you, again. Who’s frustrated, took himself outside to chop wood.

Johnny mopes inside the house.

“I hate it when the two of ye fight.”

“Well, if he wasn’t such a stubborn asshole.” You hold the wooden spoon like a wand before returning it to the cast iron, swirling it around in the mess of butter and onion. “Then there wouldn’t be an issue.” You swallow the sting of his earlier refusal. The quick rejection of your request.

All you wanted was to go on a walk. It’s a beautiful day.

Why must the leash be so tight?

“He’ll be happy ye’re cookin’ again.” Johnny grins wide, pretty face beaming over the counter, and you sigh.

Maybe.

You’re watching out the window when Johnny approaches him in the yard. You can’t make out anything their saying, but the body language paints enough of a picture.

Johnny is rigid, angry.

Simon is calm, placating.

Words are exchanged, brows shifting with sympathy, sweetness.

Johnny erupts with glee. He shines like the sun, and Simon smiles, a real, true smile.

They’re beautiful.

And you’re sick.

The three of you tangle together in the dark. It’s a sailor’s knot, thrice over, difficult to understand which piece is which, where one begins and the other ends.

Simon’s anger is long melted. A glacier, gone leaving only a gash in the rock behind.

It’s this gash, this quiet undercurrent, keeping you focused on the wrong thing, pliable in bed until you realize Johnny is murmuring something in your ear, two arms banded around your waist from where you lay on your back, atop his chest.

“We cannae wait,” His hand strokes over your belly with reverence. The words cut through the thick, heady haze, and you try to twist to look at him. “watch ye get big with our bairn, goin’ be such a good mum.”

“Wh-what?” you choke, tensing. They try to settle you, sweet words and mouths everywhere, but you cannot get away from the fear.

From them.

“You- ahh.” You’re on fire, a finger rubbing your clit, Simon’s width between your thighs. He spears you open on his cock, unrelenting, making you keen and cry, face wet with tears.

“Waited long enough,” He grunts. “Been wastin’ it for months.” He steals your whimpers, swallows them, takes them inside like you take him, like you’ll take him-

“- until you swell. Until you’re heavy, dove, round with us.”

Until you’re forever theirs.

It’s a snarled promise. A prayer. Your eyes find the ceiling, fire flickering in shadow across old texture, and you breathe.

He shoves your knees towards your chest, Johnny still lock tight around your ribs, tongue in the shell of your ear.

“Need to be still, cannae lose a single drop." His palm is searing beneath your navel, and he's practically singing, vibrating. “We love ye so much.”

They’re conducting Beethoven. Ode to Joy.

You’re playing Bach. Come, Sweet Death.

Simon comes in you for the first time, and you come too, clenching down around his cock as he praises you, holding onto him like you can’t let go. Like your body knows. Like you’re craving it.

“Good girl.” He croons, spooning whatever slips free back inside, shoving it deep, wet lips on your own. “Gotta keep me in, dove… jus’ like that, there you go.” You throb, squeezing again, pulsing for him. For the words.

You’re sick.

When they switch positions, and Johnny smiles at you over your knees, his canines shine nearly red in the fire light. Two predators, one prey.

Your heart cannot help but flutter.

Sick.

Eight months prior:

The bar is packed. Summer music festival, the banners say. The park is thriving, alive with melody, musical acts rotating on and off the stage, children running amuck with candies and balloons, families relaxing in lawn chairs.

An Americana tradition.

They sat there themselves, for a while. Watching. Burning desire growing hot under his collar every time he saw a mum and her bairn, a small, precious thing cradled close to a chest, an overexcited five-year-old having a catch with his Da.

Eventually, they retreated to the darkness, hiding away in the one bar in town, it’s small windows and dim light practically a calling card.

And what they found inside, well...

“Hey, what can I get you?” You’re perfect. Sweet and soft, like a dove. Kind faced; kind spoken. You make Johnny’s cock twitch just looking at you, and he pictures you on your back, legs spread wide, exposed for them to feast on. To fill. He can’t wait to taste you, hold you, kiss you, have all his firsts with you.

Will you fight them? Will you squirm? No, you'll be good. You'll be so good for them, their perfect, sweet girl. He knows it.

How did they get so lucky?

Simon tucks his ballcap lower.

“Sorry, there are a million people in here!” You half shout over the raucous noise. “You’ll have to speak up!”

“Just two beers.” His yank accent needs work, but it does fine when there’s one hundred other faces next to his. A sea of forgettable memories.

Just as intended.

Your fingers brush his when you deposit two drafts on the bar top, shooting off a total, and for a lingering second, he stares at you.

Simon caresses the back of his neck, thumb circling a loving touch into his skin.

A warning. A reminder.

Can’t make ourselves stand out. Cannot be remembered.

Johnny peeks at the name tag pinned above your breast, and files it away. Files everything away as they finish their pints, how you scrutinize the crowd, how you’re constantly working, looking for things to do, cleaning. Taking care of everything. The people at the bar, your coworkers.

His heart overflows with love. With warmth, and when they take their leave, he can’t help but look back one more, catching a glimpse of your profile, singing a silent goodbye.

See you soon, dove.

#peaches writes #the pit #ghoap x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish

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pallastrology · 3 months

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observations on pisces

artwork by georg janny

saturn in pisces ('tis the season...) suffers greatly with feelings of guilt. something else they can struggle with is fear. the fear is often existential, and the natives experience it from a young age. they will often 'ritualise' their fears, creating structures that help them feel safe and protected, but in doing so, these structures can actually intermingle with their sense of guilt and lead to them feeling responsible for things no person is. they really do have the weight of the world on their shoulders sometimes.

pisces suns are often labeled as easily influenced, and while this isn't entirely untrue, i think it's a bit oversimplified. pisces is receptive and sensitive, taking in a lot from their environment and reading between the lines easily. they are a mutable sign, and so aren't naturally stubborn people. but when well-developed, sun in pisces is a very self-aware placement and that reflective, open nature helps them to actually become quite sure about their beliefs and values. so i suppose, an undeveloped pisces sun will be easily influenced, but maybe not a pisces sun in general.

with pisces in the seventh house, the stereotype is that the native is the type to dream about a prince charming figure who'll sweep them off their feet. in reality, this placement is more likely to not really know what they want from a relationship, to struggle with healthy boundaries, and to feel they have to save - or be saved by - their partner. it takes time and steady reflection to understand where these difficulties come from and how to heal their relationship with love.

mars in pisces tends to really struggle with conflict. they turn it over and over, ruminating endlessly. should i have said this? done that? did i go too far? pisces almost always struggles with boundaries and emotional conflict, but with mars here there's so much energy directed to working on these issues, it can feel like an impassable bridge to the native. as much as they struggle however, they are also fiercely caring, sensitive and surprisingly brave individuals, who can push themselves hard when they are connected to something important.

pisces moons will often disappear when things overwhelm them. they can get a reputation for being a bad friend because of this, despite their caring nature. while they can easily fall into despair over the issue, it doesn't need to be permanent; a big learning curve for these natives is learning to both not induce this crushing overwhelm and urge to vanish, and to better manage their emotions and health when things pop up unexpectedly. embracing their sister sign, virgo, can be a way forward here.

mercury in pisces, when writing or otherwise creating, is very sensitive to the feeling of their medium. so with words, for example, the word has to evoke the right feeling before it's considered to be the right word for the native to use. they are actually pretty perfectionistic in this sense, though their creations can seem to lack a strong, distinctive style; they are mutable after all, and this quality shines through in their work, as they flit through various influences and inspirations.

pisces ascendants get a reputation for being sweet and shy. while they are on the shy side, they are highly receptive and read deeply into what's going on around them, absorbing the atmosphere like a sponge does water. it's a placement that's often infantilised, probably because neptunian placements in general are easily misunderstood. but pisces risings are not so much innocent little faery children; they're a little reclusive, highly attuned to those around them, and easily confused by their own emotions and reactions.

venus in pisces is selfless to a fault, but there's an interesting process going on beneath the native's awareness. they often have a romanticised view of selflessness as a concept, and idealise being nice and giving. so while they are genuinely kind, caring and self-sacrificing people, they do gain something, unconsciously, from giving themselves to others; it bolsters their sense of self and lifts their often low view of themselves. which is part of why it can be so hard for them to set healthy boundaries and stop giving everything to everyone.

#pallastrology #astro community #astrology #astrology blog #astrology posts #pisces #astro notes #astro observations #astrology notes

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soft-girl-musings · 3 months

Text

Salt & Pepper

Moon Knight System x GN!Reader

cross-posted to ao3

tags: rated T for teasing, domestic fluff, author does not condone touching people's hair without permission, no use of Y/N

wc: 1,078

fic summary: Marc, are you familiar with the term "silver fox"?

A/N: i might have a problem lol

_____________________

“Put. It. Down.”

Marc Spector does not startle easily. So when he nearly falls from his perch beside the bathtub, you’re surprised you have to steady him.

“Jesus, where’s the fire?” Marc picks up the towel and small cardboard box he’d dropped because of your outburst.

Shifting your focus, you zero in on the latter: hair dye, just as you’d suspected.

“So this is what you get up to when I’m away?” You tut, cradling his temples and shaking your head. "What happened to you?"

"What? Nothing, I'm-"

"-I wasn't talking to you," you sigh, resting your forehead against the crown of his head. "How long has he been treating you like this, you poor things?"

“Ha-ha.”

You release his face to study it. "But seriously, how long have you been dying your hair?”

“... For a couple of years. Started to turn gray from stress a while back, and I guess it never stopped.” He fidgets with the loose edge of the container.. “You really never noticed?”

You take the box and set it beside him. “You hid it well.”

You’re not judging him for dying his hair, it’s just… surprising. Marc’s never been one to fuss over his appearance, as far as you could tell. When you first saw his closet, you’d half expected it to be lined with the same outfit ten times, like in a cartoon. Most days, “dressing up” means adding a jacket or blazer.

“Since when do you care? About your hair, I mean.”

He shrugs. “I’m not gettin’ any younger, honey.”

“Neither am I.” You kiss the bridge of his nose. “You got a problem with that?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Goes double for me, don’t you forget it.” Leaning in, Marc tries for another kiss, but you duck and grab the hair dye before turning away with a mischievous smirk.

“Gotta keep you honest,” you wink and dart out of the room before he can catch you.

_____________________

"Love?"

"Hm?"

"Might fall out if you keep playing with it like that.”

You’d been standing behind Steven for the past couple of minutes, meaning to check in on his preparations for his morning tour but had gotten distracted. Very distracted.

“Sorry,” you sigh, your fingers leaving the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck and trailing down to his shoulder. “It’s just… hm.”

Your conversation with Marc must have taken root: over the past few weeks, you’ve noticed the hair that had been dangerously close to another round of boxed dye abuse steadily turning lighter. A subtle blend of silver strands mix with the darker curls that frame his face, making his hair shine a bit brighter in the light of the desk lamp.

“It’s like starlight,” you finally state, leaning in to rest your head against his.

Steven sputters and puts his book aside. “Starli- that’s a bit much, yeah?” His brow furrows, but there’s no denying the smile tugging at his lips.

“Not if it’s true,” you contend. You adjust the reading glasses that had slid down his face and tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “It’s a good look on you.”

There’s no denying the heat rising to his cheeks when you talk. “This– you don’t–” Steven caves and sets his book down, hopelessly flustered. “Either go away or get over here. Cheeky.”

He makes room for you to settle into his lap, which you giddily accept. Your hands sink back into his curls and he shivers as you scratch his scalp.

“Did I ever tell you I had a thing for my professor, once upon a time?”

“Oh my days–”

You’re not sure who kisses who, but you’re certainly not complaining. Neither is he.

_____________________

The time apart has been agony.

You check your phone for the fifth time this evening. They’ve been gone for what feels like months (it’s been weeks) handling some business in California, of all places. Marc said he’d call when they were on their way home, meaning no news is sad news.

You’re pulled from your pity party by a knock on the door. It’s late, and you’ve already signed for your dinner delivery. Slowly, you get up and grab the bat you keep by the entrance (with a sock slipped over the end per Jake’s advice).

The knocking continues, getting more urgent. You take a deep breath and look through the peephole. A large brown eye stares back and you yelp, dropping your bat. The unmistakable boom of Jake’s belly laughter mocks you from behind the door.

“You’re hilarious,” you groan, standing the bat back on its head and unlocking the door.

You’re ready to lay into him when you open the door, but you’re stunned into silence. Jake’s smile is highlighted by silvery stubble, dusted with black. He adjusts his cap as his dark eyebrows raise in mock surprise.

“What, no hello?”

You tear your eyes away from his jaw. “Hm? Oh. Hi.” You open the door wider for him to step in. “Marc said you’d call first.”

“No fun in that, is there? Besides, you looked ready to handle some trouble.” he shrugs off his coat as you lock the door behind him.

“Trouble, yes. Nuisance, debatable.” You sidle up to him and drape your arms around his waist. You place a kiss on his cheek; it’d be impossible for him to not notice how you let yours drag along the rough line of his jaw.

“I missed you too,” he laughs again. “But man, is it warm in here…”

He tosses his cap and it takes everything in him to not lose it when your eyes widen at the sight of his hair, now more gray than black and curls longer than you’ve seen them before. You’re too enraptured to be embarrassed at your obvious loss for words.

“Your hair…” You reach up to touch it, but Jake grabs your wrist.

“Tsk, tsk, you threaten and barely say a word to me, then go straight for the goods without so much as a ‘please’? What happened to decorum, hm?”

“You fucking tease,” you huff. “...please?”

“Well, since you asked nicely–” Jake can barely finish his thought before your lips are on his, your hand tangled in his starlit hair as soon as he lets go.

“I take it we should cancel Marc’s haircut?” he murmurs as you catch your breath.

Your free hand grazes the scruff on his cheek and you grin. “I wouldn’t complain if you did.”

_____________________

A/N: marvel you cowards give us gray-haired moon knight

ty for reading <3

event tags:@moonknight-events @spacecowboyhotch @juneknight

addtl tags: @mrs-lockley @lunar-ghoulie @shadystarlightgentlemen @casa-boiardi @nerdieforpedro @queerponcho (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)

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cassieuncaged · 6 months

Text

Comforting Touch (Astarion x Reader)

NSFW/MATURE/18+/MDNI

Summary: You bring a new definition to a ‘good morning’ for a certain vampire spawn.

TW: explicit sexual content, oral sex (male receiving), hand jobs, language, etc.

WC: 1.7 K

A/N: Haven’t done a smutty reader insert in awhile so here ya go!

The windows are safely shuttered come morning, only the tiniest tendrils of sun sneaking through the cracks. Your shared chambers may be humble though they are rather cozy, stuffed to the brim with furs and a meager stone mantle. Astarion had pouted when you’d balked at a mansion nestled in Manor Born, telling the Grand Duke a cottage on the outskirts of the city would be preferred. Raised from elven nobility, he’d thought an opportunity had been squandered for a mere pittance. Though the vampire didn’t complain now, curled into your side as he tranced.

Organic warmth soothed him these days especially, no longer having the luxury of the sun beating down upon icy skin. Though he’d settled for the heat that his lover radiated, the moon coming to love the sun for all she offered. It was poetic, despite the pangs of frustration at losing something else. What had his last two centuries been but filled with loss?

Dashing the intrusive thought from a groggy mind, bleary eyes fell upon the prim man. One arm was slung across your torso, rising and falling with your every breath. Limp curls had bled out the rest of their pomade, laying messily atop his head and across a pallid brow. You giggled, knowing how he preferred to keep them so neat and tidy, practically styling every damned curl with his fingers. It was as frustrating as it was adorable. Now he didn’t care, nestled between your bosoms. Cold air escaped his mouth, fangs twitching as he remained blissfully unaware of the world around him.

Fingers gently muss silken curls, enjoying the locks of spun silver tickling the tips of your fingers. They were so lovely and soft, malleable as they wound around sure digits again and again. It kept you busy, refusing to move until your lover stirred. A long time had passed where Astarion had known no such comforts and hells you wanted to hoist them all upon him now. Of course there were adventures to be had, research to be done, companions to write to. But that could wait a bit longer. At least until those liquid ruby eyes fluttered open, as delicate as the wings of a butterfly.

Pads of cool fingers pressed into the fleshy curve of your thigh, flexing softly before even colder lips were pressing gently across your chest. He lingered for a moment, enjoying that steady heartbeat that ruminated beneath his touch. A delighted chuckle vibrated against a warm plane of skin, resulting in goose flesh that spread from your scalp down to the tips of ten toes.

“Morning, darling.” He murmured between kisses peppered up to one clavicle then the hollow of your throat, “Have you been awake long?”

“Not especially,” you sighed, enjoying his ministrations as soft touches migrated from thigh to navel, drifting down to trace the curve of one hip bone, “Just enjoying you.”

“Seems to defeat the purpose when I’m lost in a trance,” he cooed before rolling onto his side. Your mouth was agape, scraping across the sight of him, skin lustrous beneath the low light, groin delicately draped with the coverlet. “There’s more fun to be had when I’m awake, my dear.”

Propping yourself on one elbow, you studied him silently as a barrage of thoughts crept through your mind. One word and you’d be a fly trapped in the spider’s web, the hare bloody and twitching in the wolf’s maw. And as much as you enjoyed submitting to him, something more appealing came to mind.

“What is it, love?” his head cocked to one side, curls lolling as he did. Gods he was lovely, and you wanted nothing more than to remind him of that. “You’ve a mischievous glint in your eyes; what’re you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing…” You inched closer until your nose practically nestled beneath his chin, lips pressing against knot bobbing in his throat. One hand pressed against the flat of a lean chest, fingers drifting down the ridges of hard muscles, “It’s just that you always take care of me. Let me take care of you.”

“That’s, erm, a very nice thought.” His voice trembles as his fingers wrap around a slender wrist, stopping the descent to the apex of muscular thighs. “But this is all still very new to me.”

“We can just lay like this,” you whisper against icy skin, nuzzling into the column of his neck, “I won’t force you into anything.”

“I didn’t say stop,” burgundy eyes roll, unseen as warm lips continue soft ministrations. Carefully, he drags your fingers to the hem of the coverlet, urging you to uncover his cock. The silken bedclothes began to tent as he slowly hardened. “I often imagine your hands on me.”

You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. As much as you want to caress him, there’s a small request that hangs at the back of your throat. Eyes shutter at the thought of teeth slotting into those fading scars, feeding until warmth envelopes the icy marble of his body. How you swear it ignites a pulse within in his chest, how the veins in his cock become tight ridges along his shaft, skin dusky and warm…

“Whatever you’re thinking has you smelling absolutely delectable.” He inhales your arousal as it tickles his nostrils, filling his heightened senses. “Do tell, lover.”

“I’d like you to bite me. First.” You pull back, so your gaze can fall upon those shimmering rubies. An ashen brow arches upward at this revelation, corners of lush lips quirking upwards. “I want to feel your warmth beneath the tips of my fingers, against my tongue…

“How absolutely debauched of you,” he reaches out to stroke your hair, genuinely adoring such a suggestion despite the aching inside him. The spawn wishes he could provide such a natural warmth but appreciates your loving offer. “Let me sup from you.”

Then he curls into the curve of your neck, suckling and lapping at scars that have never healed completely, preparing you for the icy sting. You hiss at the initial insertion, the ice that shoots through your veins slowly dissipating into a thrum that invigorates as life blood is supped upon. And you feel it, the heat begins to pool beneath his skin, inviting as you finally pulled the sheet from his hips.

Astarion laps at the droplets oozing from your wound as lithe fingers drift down his length. He peels his lips away, mouth bloody as he looks upon you. Eyes drift down to see your own gaze glued to his now straining and rosy cock. Feeding upon you always stiffened him completely, leading to a pleasurable grind against your thigh while he shrouded you like a shadow.

But now, shallow breathing was parsed through gritted teeth as you finger gently traced a dusky vein from base to tip, enjoying how the blunt head was flushed and bulging. He twitched beneath such a gentle touch, enjoying how you used a fat bead of pre spend to lubricate the length of his slit. The muscles in his neck tightened at that familiar tug behind his navel, the one that demanded more. So your fingers splayed around him, enjoying how he felt like velvet wrapped around steel as you gave a firm squeeze. Slender hips thrust involuntarily, needing more friction as you suddenly removed that warm hand.

“What are you doing?” his voice came out in a strangled whimper, eyes widening as you lapped at his salty seed coating your thumb. It was still a mystery to the vampire how his body delighted you so, though he wasn’t about to complain. Awkwardly, you craned your neck upward to dribble a healthy amount of drool upon an upturned palm before slinking back to where he most needed such attention.

“Relax, my love.” You pressed a kiss to his chin before focusing on that task literally at hand. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did, savoring the rhythmic pump as your knuckle slid down his length, careful to stroke from head to base. His hips began to meet your jerks, imagining the tight heat of your cunt wrapped around him so pleasantly. Actually focusing on his own sexual pleasure was still so foreign, chasing his own release without worrying about another’s climax. Gods, it was delicious. Almost as much as the blood still staining his lips.

“On your back,” you demanded softly, removing a soaked palm to topple him onto the broad back, “I want to taste you.”

“If you do that, I’m afraid I won’t last.” His breathing was coming out in ragged pants as you slid between his spread thighs. Astarion watched with rapt attention, enjoying how your breasts swayed as you moved to lay flat on your belly.

“That’s alright,” you assured, tongue darting out to lap at the seam beneath the head. And he moaned, such glorious music cutting straight to your core. What a symphony every groan and whimper was, even as you continued to tease with short licks and kisses. “I want you to come undone in my mouth.”

“Get on with it, please.” His hips thrust upwards, tip pressing past the barrier of your lips before you complied with his wishes. Hollowing your cheeks, you sank upon all that could be fit into your mouth as a warm fist enveloped the rest. His heady musk invaded your senses, cock twitching on your tongue, practically begging you to move. “Hells below.”

Astarion’s deep bellow had been enough to spur you into a fervor, bobbing hungrily as his back arched off the mattress. Lithe fingers knotted in your hair, holding you still as he began to frantically fuck your throat. He could count on one hand how many times he’d enjoy such a pleasure over the past two centuries while he craved to lose track of how many times he absolutely lost himself in you. Pumping, striving, chasing that release while he imagined you bouncing atop him. Your blood warmed him but he felt like he was on fire.

“So good,” he muttered between ragged breathing as you struggled to breathe out of your nose. “So, so good.”

Then the dam broke as he came down your throat, twitching and spasming until he was still against your tongue. Swallowing all of the seed that was earned, you broke away and began to clean his softening length before snaking up to curl upon that delightfully broad chest.

“How do you feel?” your voice was a welcome whisper that buzzed in his ears, messy curls digging back into a down pillow as long arms cinched at the small of your back.

“Like I know what it is to feel true pleasure,” he groaned sleepily, nuzzling into your own nest of messy hair. “True love.”

“You’re drunk on ecstasy,” you giggled, eyes watching as his expression softened, any masks long melted away. “It’ll pass.”

“The feeling won’t,” he argued softly, “No, you’ve gifted me so much that I never thought I’d have. Taking care of me so sweetly. I’m eternally indebted to you, darling.”

“There’s no debtors in love,” you reminded him warmly before resting an ear above his dormant heart. “There’s only equals.”

“If this is your way of reminding me, I may need your help remembering more often.”

#astarion smut #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x ofc #astarion x you #smut #oneshot #reader insert

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lavishlyleo · 6 months

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Astrology Observations 5

One thing I've noticed with Gemini Moons is that while they do love to talk to people and share their thoughts, if they aren't interested in the conversation's topic or if you stay on one topic for too long, they tend to zone out. If they aren't very invested in the convo at hand it will be VERY noticeable (e.g. blank stares, they suddenly go very quiet, dry repetitive responses, checking their phone frequently).

The same can be said for individuals with a lot of Air in their charts in general, especially Gemini and Libra. It can be hard to keep these individuals attention for prolonged periods of time. They like to cut to the interesting part so keep what you have to say very brief and to the point.

Not something Leo Moons are known for, but that I've noticed is that they can be really good at analyzing peoples behavior. Like, they'll see how someone acts and can make connections to their own behavior to understand some elses emotions and feelings. It's how many Leo Moons relate to people, bonus points if their Moon is in a water house!

In your Natal chart, if your ruling planet 's transit is in opposition or square with your natal ruling planet's sign, it can indicate a period of bad luck and hardship. It may feel like the world is against you at the moment, especially if said aspect is in a less than 5° orb. Not a great transit aspect to have.

For example, My ruling planet is Jupiter (Sag Rising) and it's in Scorpio at 9°. IRONICALLY ENOUGH, in my Solar Return chart for this year, Jupiter is in Taurus at 9°. So I'm expecting a lot to happen this year. Later on this year I'll make an update on this aspect.

If you have Scorpio or Pisces in your SR top 3 this year, don't take this lightly!! Like I said in my last post with manifestations, this will be a year that your manifestation power is at an all time high! You may literally speak things into existence, for better or for worse.

On the topic of Scorpio/Pisces SR top three, my advice for this (and I'm speaking from experience) is try to think about things you want to happen, not things you don't want or like. For example, if you think about how much you don't like a certain person, later on down the line you may find yourself suddenly coming back in contact with that person a lot more, when either you wanted to or not.

People with Cancer personal placements, I'd advise you to frequently check the Moon's transit and positions! Whenever it's the full or new moon, keep tabs on what happens those days and how you feel. Let me know in the comments anything interesting that's happened to yall during those times!

I've said this once and I'll say it again, Scorpio Mars are some of the most PERSISTENT people I've ever seen. When it comes to their desires, NOTHING stands in their way. However this can be detrimental if it's bad habits like drinking, smoking, stealing, ect. One way or another they will get what they want, even if it costs them everything. These people can truly be the victim of their own desires. Honorary mention- Taurus and Leo Mars.

Listen, if you ever need someone to promote your music, call an Aquarius Venus/Dominant person. I swear to god these people listen to the most obscure, outta pocket things I've ever heard.

Taurus 6th/5th housers tend to be those people at work that live by the slow and steady motto. They don't like to rush and do a sloppy job on whatever their working on.

On the other hand, Aries 6th/5th housers may be very fast workers, and it usually works well for them, works well under pressure. not the most thorough people but for the most part they get the job done.

People with a lot of Gemini and Leo placements in their chart tend to give off Aries energy.

Capricorn and Scorpio relationships are literally ride or die. I know a couple with many of these placements and they are so possessive of each other. Even after heated arguments and many hardships, they always come back together and work out their issues, it's really sweet!

When in an awkward situation, Libra Risings tend to try and break the tension first. Sometimes they can make the situation more awkward doing this but they're always the ones to bring the vibes back to the way they were, so I appreciate it. Gemini Risings may also do this but can be slightly more unhinged in their methods. I love both regardless for it😭💕.

The reason puberty for all of us hits hard is because it's around this time that Saturn is usually in the sign opposite from our Saturn sign. It makes a lot of sense when you think about it, itcchanges a lot of what we focus on and introduces us to new struggles. Although with Saturn retrograde, the age of which these changes can affect us can range from 13 all the way up to 25. Saturn is trying to toughen us up before we become adults.

What your Rising Sign's season is may be the season/months you prefer. For example, I'm a Sagittarius Rising and I tend to like late fall/early winter.

Your Moon sign can show how you process not just your emotions, but how you handle other peoples emotions, and how you relate to them. For example, a Leo Moon may relate to others by thinking of themselves in someone elses shoes, and how they would handle situations. While a Gemini Moon may relate other peoples emotions with stories from others that they've heard, and use what they've observed from other people to help others.

Venus PC Moon can also show this, I'd look at both sign's relationship to see the full picture of how one truly processes theirs and others emotions.

Moon/Pluto Aspects in someone's chart can show a relationship where however the mother treats the native, is how the native will end up treating her as they get older. For example, if the mother was negligent to the native in their younger years, then as they get older they will have a detached and impersonal attitude towards her. Basically the natives mirror how they were nurtured in youth.

"She say do you love me, I tell her only partly. I only love my bed and my mama I'm sorry." -Drake, a Cancer Moon.

People who say Gemini/Libra placements are indecisive have CLEARLY never met someone with many personal fire placements, especially if it's their top 3. Fire sign energy is naturally high and can be all over the place sometimes, this can include their thoughts and decision making as well, mostly concerning the direction of their passions and work. They may have a million ideas of what they're about to do but have trouble slowing down and planning it all out into managable chunks at a time. Will fight for what they want but may have trouble picking their battles wisely.

HEY HEY, new post! I actually had this one in the drafts for awhile! I just got around to posting it now! I haven't been on at all lately because I'm having trouble finding what else to post about. Sooo I'm thinking of doing a little zodiac game soon since I want to practice my art more :] .

More Nitro Nexus art!! I'm not sure when I'll be officially starting my Anthro's Anthem series with him but if I'm being honest I probably won't be releasing the first official chapter until like 2025-2026. I have a lot planned for it but I don't know when I'll get around to it. Only time will tell!

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yuquinzel · 1 year

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BLUE LOCK BOYS AS ROMANCE TROPES !

— feat ⨾ itoshi sae, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo.

— contents ⨾ fluff, angst.

ITOSHI SAE + second chance at love !

it's raw with desperation and fear and hope— the way sae's fingers are clutching the fabric of your shirt. it's wasn't supposed to be this way. he kisses the tears trailing down your cheeks, “you said it was over. you said it wasn't worth it. you said you didn't want—” you choke on your own words, hand closing in fists on your sides when sae mutters breathlessly, “i didn't mean it, never ever.” he says. something like guilt burns in his eyes, a taste of regret on his lips, uncertainty and impatience in his hastened breaths.

it's crazy, you think. the way he still has that effect he had on you years ago when you were both seventeen in the airport terminal, teary eyes and staggered breaths. when the fear that the distance would tear you apart first took over, and sae stopped believing. when you looked away from him for the first time and he didn't reach out to wipe your tears. it wasn't supposed to be this way. he was back after four years and you weren't supposed to be in his arms. you promised yourself you'd talk like old friends do, and he trusted himself that he wouldn't say anything to try and make you stay.

“i think it can work, you and me, us. just the two of us and it'll be enough.” you know these words have burned on his tongue for long, because they're warm on your lips. you're kissing him back like it's only natural to do so.“i'm already yours, always have been.” he murmurs.

ITOSHI RIN + childhood friends to lovers !

it's the warm and golden hues of the setting sun melting into the evening blues, splattered colours of contrast coming together— the mark of a newborn eve, the smell of wet earth after the first shower of spring and the cool caress of the breeze. rin is standing by the entrance gates to your school, leaning against the wall, head rested to the side as he waits for you.

you think you're caught in a trance. his back covers the remnants of the sunlight like the moon eclipsing the sun, casting shadows of orange glows. when he breathes, the shadows dance with him. he frowns in wait, and you catch up to him. when you smile, it's almost melancholy, “what's got you smiling like that?” rin eyes the solemn curve of your lips.

“hmm? i think it's ’cause i like you.” the words bleed from your voice in saccharine hues, in bittersweet whispers of unrequited love and fear that maybe you've ruined the carefully painted mosaic of years of knowing rin and the sea green gleam of his eyes, the quiet hums and smiles only you know, the knowledge that he doesn't know how to make paper planes, summer nights of horror movie marathons and trading ice creams.

rin parts his lips, eyes as wide as saucers. he sucks a breath in— searching for the second you say you're joking, “do you mean that?”

you nod and rin's arms swallow you whole, chests pressed so close your heartbeats sync and improvise as one.

“i like you too, really like you.” he breathes into your neck— lingers of relief and gratitude like he's breathing for the first time.

NAGI SEISHIRO + forced proximity !

past 2 am into the late hours of midnight blues and the heavy patters rain against the glass window, reduced to background noise because you're subconsciously trying to trace the steady pattern of nagi's breathing, eyes skimming the fall and rise of his chest every two seconds.

you've been awake since thunder rumbled the walls of your temporarily-shared bedroom for the first time tonight. some fun, memorable just-close-friends trip this is. perhaps it wasn't enough you had to share the bed with someone, maybe it's truly because that someone happened to be nagi seishiro that you can't sleep at all. you're conscious of every breath he takes, how his body expands and relaxes. the heat of your bodies melding as one like a blanket of second warmth over you. “you still awake?” you ask, low and soft. nagi hums, “mhm, if you still are.”

his voice is nothing but a breath of the comfort of not being alone, exhaustion from the day clawing at his throat. “you can sleep if you want.” you say, it's whispered into the night— a silent thank you because he's letting you know he's here as long as you want him, “i wanna stay like this.” he urges, bringing a hand to brush your hair behind your ear and you let him. you let him hook his arm around your waist, foreheads brushing lightly, breaths tangling in knots and lips seconds away from meeting. you watch the curve of his lips, how they move to form words, “i like this more.”

MIKAGE REO + fake relationship !

you think reo had always looked like midsummer nights adorned with princely smiles and bubbles of champagne in the glass, glitters of neon city lights against damp car windows, juvenile secrets traded as i love you's with the hope it lasts forever. ( it doesn't. )

it lingers in the way he kisses you these days— a small talk to fill in loud silences, pretense and improvised. you kiss him back— a lullaby of aching heartbreak, unrequited and young. it almost makes you forget about the blinding flashes of camera lights, hurrying to capture the moment mikage reo is seen with his partner.

it's just like he had asked you to, “date me” he'd said, missing the way your eyes lit up, “it doesn't have to be real, just enough so my parents stop setting me up for blind dates.”

“i don't think i can do this anymore.” your voice breaks, eyes refusing to meet his.

“what? why?—” he rushes close and you step back, “it's getting too real for me, i can't.”

he pauses— ponders your words, lets them replay in his mind over and over again, “...and you don't want that?” you do. so much that you said yes before thinking when he first proposed this, “what about you, reo? this... this means nothing to you right? none of th—”

“it does”, his voice is almost begging, “it means everything to me. you do. it's you and it's always been you.” he looks at you, wondering if he should continue. he does anyway, “it's real. i loved you every time i said it, every time i didn't say it. I'll say it again if you want me to—” and you hear it, like it's always been there, like it's all he's ever known, “— i love you, y/n.”

#❀˖° ─ hana writes.#blue lock #blue lock x reader #itoshi sae #itoshi rin #nagi seishiro #mikage reo #bllk #blue lock x you #itoshi sae x reader #itoshi rin x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #mikage reo x reader #blue lock angst #blue lock fluff #sae itoshi x you #rin itoshi x you #nagi seishiro x you #reo mikage x you

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rafeandonlyrafe · 7 months

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bad f*cking friend: part 1

words: 2.3k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, male masturbation

part 2 part 3

rafe wakes up in the middle of the night, unsure of what caused the sudden jolt that shook his body. he waits for a noise, for a light, something that gives away what disrupted his slumber, but he finds nothing.

his eyes dart to your side of the bed. he had almost forgotten you were sharing it with him, until his ears picked up your deep breathing, clearly still asleep, so you weren’t the cause of him being awake right now. his eyes flutter closed, feeling the warmth from your body even though you’re a foot away. it’s radiating under the covers, enticing him to get closer, but he knows he can’t.

it was a fluke, a mistake made by the hotel. the room that should have contained two queen beds contained just one king, and all other rooms were full for the night. you shrugged and said you could share. you’d done it before, afterall, but not since you were kids. before you had grown taller, fuller, before you transformed in front of your best friends eyes from an awkward little girl with pigtails and braces to a beautiful woman, with piercing eyes and an ample body.

it’s what makes sharing the bed different this time. rafe is supposed to be your friend, but the thoughts that infect his mind when he’s around you now are anything but friendly.

rafe realizes, now that he’s thinking of you, the reason why he woke up in the night with the room cast in darkness, only a dull light coming in from the moon and stars of the open curtain. you’re on the fifth floor after all, no one can see us. that’s what you’d said to him, in your sickly sweet voice that makes rafe want to kiss you and more until he knows what that voice sounds like calling his name in pleasure.

his hand snakes down his torso, he briefly imagines it’s yours, but then shakes his head. bad friend, he thinks to himself. he presses his hand over the crotch of his pajama pants, feeling how hard he is, so hard it’s painful. you’ve taken all of the comforter in the night, and rafe can see himself. see the way he’s straining against the material.

the blood supposed to be supplying his brain, making him make good, rash decisions, must have all flooded south, because before he can help himself, rafes hand is down his pants, underneath his boxers, and wrapped firmly around his shaft. he almost lets out a groan, but settles for a light sigh in relief instead, eyes flickering over to you, making sure you don’t move.

he can’t help it. it’s your scent, it’s the knowledge that you’re right there next to him. that underneath the covers keeping you warm, is your flimsy excuse for pajamas. a loose shirt that falls just right on your breasts that theres no guessing whether you are wearing a bra or not, the answer is clearly no, the outline of your nipples visible no matter how you adjust the shirt to lay over you. and then the shorts. rafe is positive they only cover an inch, no more than that, more than your underwear does. they’re tiny.

a thought suddenly races through rafes head, making him give one firm, steady stroke of his cock. are you even wearing underwear?

it’s too much for rafe. he knows he should get up. he knows he should just finish himself off in the bathroom, not right here where you could look over at any time and see his hands down his pants. he takes a deep breath and pulls his hand out, even though his cock is still begging for attention.

“y/n.” he says softly, a whisper his own ears barely pick up. “y/n.” he repeats your name slightly louder, looking for movement on your side, but it’s all still, just the gentle up and down of your chest rising and falling with each breath.

rafe lets out a mental curse. bad fucking idea. but his hands are moving faster than his mind is, pushing his pants down just enough to reach in, releasing himself from the confines of the cotton. his eyes stay on you even as he wraps a hand around the base of his cock. it’s partly to make sure you don’t wake, that your eyelids don’t even flutter, and if they do that he can tuck himself back into his sweats before you see. but the other part, the bigger part, is that he’s thinking of you.

bad fucking idea. bad fucking friend. but as his hand strokes up and down, his eyes and his mind stay on you. he thinks of the first time he realized you’d grown up. it was on his dad’s boat. rafe took you and a couple other friends to swim, and when you whipped off your cover up to reveal the almost indecent bikini underneath, rafe felt a feeling rush through him that he never imagined he could have had about you. pure, almost uncontainable, lust.

he had shook it off that day when you looked at him and teased him. it reminded him that you’re his childhood friend, not a woman to be lusted after, not a woman he should masturbate to. he threw himself at your friend that you brought on the boat with you. it was wrong, and he imagined you the whole time, but he fucked her that day, back at tanneyhill after you went home. he fucked her so deep into his mattress, pressing her face into the pillow and plowing her from behind. but she didn’t have your same hair color, didn’t have your soft waist or grabbable hips.

your hips. rafes hand speeds up, thinking about touching them. about laying his hands over them, about squeezing them.

his eyes flutter closed as he pictures what your ass would look like uncovered by material. what lies in between your thighs, what he’d do anything to get any part of him on, his fingers, his tongue, his cock. what your face would look like twisted in pleasure. how you would moan, and he would be the cause of it.

rafe’s eyes snap open, regretting closing them as you rustle, turning to face him. rafe holds his cock at the base, ready to tuck it in, to hide it in shame, but while he can’t see your face now that it’s hidden in shadow, you fall still again. rafe lets out a silent prayer to whatever is keeping you asleep right now, wondering if you’re dreaming of him since you’ve plagued his dreams for the past few years. sometimes it’s innocent. holding your hand, hugging you, but most of the time his dreams of you cause him to wake up in a puddle of sweat and rush to take a cold shower. it all seemed so real, how he’d fuck you against the wall while you whine for him, trying to keep quiet. how he’d bend you over a countertop, or get down on your knees for him. but those are just dreams.

his hand starts to move again, satisfied that you’ve been still and quiet for long enough that theres no way you are awake, even if he can’t check your eyes. surely you would have said something if you were awake. surely you would have been shocked by his hard dick, standing at attention in the moonlight and let out some sort of noise, some sort of gasp. but his ears didn’t pick anything up.

his cock is pulsing in pleasure. it’s not the first time he’s masturbated to you, but he’s never done it with you so dangerously close. it’s thrilling, thinking of you waking up, of catching him. what your response would be. would you sink your lips down on his cock, would you watch in fascination, would you turn away in disgust?

the first time rafe masturbated to the thought of you was kind of on accident. you posted a photodump on instagram and tagged him in one of the pictures, and the notification popped up midway through a masturbation session where he was very studiously keeping you out his thoughts, focusing on the porn pulled up on his phone. sure, the actress looked like you, but that certainly wasn’t why he picked it, at least that’s what he was trying to convince himself of at the time. he clicked the notification and cummed before he swiped through all the slides when there was one of you in a swimsuit, lying on a towel with a book on your stomach, clearly going to be picked right back up and continued to be read once the photo was taken.

your legs were slightly ajar, so rafe could see a peak of material between your thighs, and that was where his eyes had focused when he burst, cumming harder and longer than he ever had before.

he continued to jerk off to you after that, no point denying to himself anymore the effect you have on him, but he tried not to look at your pictures. he liked the image of you in his head, like he could separate the real you, his friend, the one he’s known since kindergarten, with the naked, impassioned person of his daydreams.

rafe lets out a moan before he can help himself. it’s quiet, would have been barely audible if there was any other noise in the room, but even the highway outside the hotel has gone quiet. he keeps himself more alert now, not letting himself get lost in the lust, lost in the way his thumb swipes over the head of his cock, imagining it’s your tongue against tip.

he needs to get off, desperately, he knows that there’s no stopping it now, but he needs to do it quickly and quietly, already risking so much, especially now that you’re facing him. you could blink your eyes open at any point.

rafe goes faster. he hates not being allowed to draw out his pleasure. it’s shameful how long he spends masturbating when it’s to the thought of you. when other people would be on their phones, winding down watching tv or scrolling through social media. rafe is on his bed, eyes squeezed shut, hand around his cock and you on his mind.

he thought once about telling you. confessing, maybe not that he’s been spurting white all over his bedsheets to the thought of you for the past year, but at least his attraction, but when you came over the next day to hang out, you thanked him for always being such a good friend as he listened to you complain about your annoying college professor, and rafe knew he couldn’t say anything. he couldn’t betray you, sweet, innocent you, the one who not just wanted his friendship, but needed it.

rafes breathing increases in speed, panting as he brings one hand to grip the bed sheets. he is about to cum, so close to letting himself go, but then he realizes he can’t just let himself go over his own pants, visible for you in the morning sun to see the white stains, so his hand slows. he wants to groan out, he almost wants to cry, feeling a bite of tears in his eyes, but he holds them back.

not knowing a better solution, he is as silent as he can be as he takes his shirt off, cringing at every rustle of the fabric as he takes it off. he drops it into a heap on the mattress next to his hip, ready to grab and collect everything. he will just pass off being shirtless in the morning as getting too hot in the night.

his hand returns to his cock, hips raising slightly to meet his strokes, grateful that this hotel mattress isn’t squeaking and revealing how bad of a friend he’s being to you right now. rafe swears he hears you make a little sound, but it must just be a sleep noise as you remain still.

he imagines you loud, so loud that you’re screaming for him as his hands are on either side of your head, his hips driving into yours, grinding down onto your clit. he imagines his lips pressing against yours, swallowing your sounds of pleasure as you cum together, your body lifting upwards, pressing against his.

it’s the thought of finishing together, with himself pushed as deeply inside of you as your body allows, that has him cumming, free hand grabbing his shirt and throwing it over his cock to catch his cum. he bites his lip hard to stay quiet, tasting the metallic tang of blood, releasing his lip with a quiet gasp of your name as his orgasm reaches it’s peak. his hand has to slow suddenly as he becomes overly sensitive.

his last thought before he releases his cock from his grip is of you laying on the bed, legs spread with thighs glistening, cunt leaking, breathing heavily with closed eyes from pure satisfaction of the love making session rafe just gave you.

he stays like that for a moment, just breathing with that thought in his head, your hair splayed on the pillow, mouth ajar, forehead sweaty, but eventually he has to pick up his shirt, making sure everything is clean on his body as he crumples it up, keeping all of his cum inside so that you’ll never know his dirty little secret. he hisses quietly as he tucks himself back into his pants.

now that the sudden thing that pulled him awake is taken care of, sleep is quick to take back over, whole world turning to black. rafe lets out a smile right before sleep takes him, knowing his dreams are again going to be of you.

part 2

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