s.l.u.t.

ellie. 20. she/her. (18+)

[yariation]

Megumi Fushiguro isn’t one for jerking off. He usually just ignores his annoying erection and tries to sleep it off. But ever since he got his hands on you…

“Y-yeah, squeeze it like that…Fffuck…” His breath is heavy, hitching when you squeeze him just right.

His hand on yours, guiding your movements. Dragging your touch up and down his hard cock.

“If you’re just going to hold and move my hand yourself, why don’t you just do it yourself?—“

He shuts you up by grabbing your head then pushing his tip into your mouth.

“Keep pumping, pretty. Or else you take more.”

[freakyquest]

[bokutos-bimbo]

me and wren

[391780]

prefacing: i have really bad vasovagal reactions to needles and usually almost pass out when i get blood drawn (i never actually feel the fear, but that’s besides the point lol) so, how would the tattoo lads react to someone who desperately wants a tattoo but almost passes out from fear ? 👀

(ik ur inbox is cluttered, no pressure on this one!!! delete if it doesn’t spark ur interest)

once again, gaz is the only one even attempting to be normal.

as soon as he notices, he stops and tries to wake you. he fills up a little dixie cup full of water and flicks some of it in your face, insisting that you drink the rest of it when you wake up. makes you drink a little cup of juice in case it's a blood sugar thing, and refuses to get back to work until you assure him at least three times that you're good to go, really! it isn't until you're home again that you notice he's put his number into your phone. (god, what else was he doing in there?)

price straight up does not notice. at all. man is too involved in the artwork to really pay much attention anyways, he's just glad you're not squirming around or whining. when the piece is done he just thinks you fell asleep because you're such a fucking champ. when you wake up he's singing your praises, patting you on the shoulder and saying that of all the clients he's ever had, you sit the best. he's so pleased with you that you don't even bother to correct him.

as soon as soap sees that you're out, his hands are all over you. doesn't even bother with the pretense of either finishing the tattoo or tending to you, just gets a big 'ol handful of you and goes to town kissing your slack, unconscious mouth. grabs your wrist so he can press your hand to his hard cock through his jeans. doesn't stop until price barks out a gruff 'mactavish!' across the shop floor, and then grumpily sets to work trying to wake you up.

ghost clocks that you're gonna pass out before even you realize it, he just doesn't care, particularly. just keeps his head down and continues working on your piece, stopping only so he can readjust the position of your unconscious body. when you wake back up he asks if you had a good nap with a little chuckle, telling you to make sure that next time you eat a protein rich meal and a cup of juice or something. it takes you a solid few days to notice that he'd tattooed a skull and s.r. onto your ass without your knowledge or permission.

[ceilidho]

and when I start writing original novels and there’s a commanding older man, a quiet masked brick shithouse of a man, a snarky Scottish guy with a mohawk, and an intensely moralistic guy with a baseball cap perpetually on, what then

[chosos-mascara]

satoru cums so loudly. he whines in your ear as he grows closer, a desperate plea of 'please' as his stomach sucks in - he can't hold out any longer. stuttered hips and a low groan followed by staggered deep breaths and stumbling whines as his eyes roll back, euphoria taking over every inch of pale skin. his nails dig into your hips, cock pushed to base inside your warm walls as he dumps every last drop of seed as far inside you as possible.

[jolalibrary]

it begins (i)

johnny 'soap' mactavish x f!reader summary: except, you're not entirely sure it is hate, and more an insistent need to prove to yourselves you’re alive. two people searching for a reason amongst what they saw, experienced and lived through. word count: 5k warnings: spice + smut. enemies(ish) to lovers. an: many thanks to @guyfieriii for listening, plotting and reading snippets of this and convincing me it’s good.

part one of it happens | soap masterlist

1.

It begins on a dusty floor. 

His teeth grazed over your collarbone, your fingers running down his spine. The two of you grasping for something—a pulse, a piece of evidence that this is real and not some twisted nightmare. 

Iron still taints the air, hanging between the two of you, swirling with fustiness and rotting wood. There’s still sand between crevices, grating against skin, no matter how much lukewarm water has coated both your skins. Sand always stayed—a bitter reminder of the hell you'd been through outside these walls. 

Soap sinks his teeth into your neck, making you groan, and hiss—rearing your head back, meeting his eyes even in the low light. Not surprised to find the same, cold stare. 

Because he hates you. At least dislikes you. You’re sure of it. Adamant, even. 

Before today, the two of you had shot comments at each other's suggestions—all wrapped full of brimstone and curses. You'd been ordered to spar with him, release the pressure—eyes digging into the other as the two of you landed and blocked shots. You weren't sure how the two of you got off on the wrong footing, but the two of you did. 

Now, you can’t help but look at him with a softer edge—because he’s here at least. 

Alive. Breathing. 

Your voice is still fragile from screaming his name when the bullets began firing, when the car had gone up in flames. Relief flooding through you the same as the pain did, when his body slammed into you, knocking you to the floor. 

Miss me, lass?  No. 

But you did. 

You had. 

The idea of him bleeding in the dust and sand, the twisted images of him losing the light from his eyes, the voice from his throat—even if it was full of sarcasm. Because you disliked him too, hated how self-sacrificing he was, how upbeat he was to charge into danger without thought. But you still wanted him alive—wanted to have him close, pushing you, making your skin prickle in annoyance and contempt. 

That’s why you’re kissing him: relief. 

You know it with each grasp of his hand, your teeth biting down on his lip, tasting copper and bitter. The taste accompanies how rough, and frantic this all is. The floorboards protests at each movement becoming the soundtrack to your hate-fucking.

Except, you're not entirely sure it is hate, and more an insistent need to prove to yourselves you’re alive. Two people searching for a reason amongst what they saw, experienced and lived through. 

All of it rolling around your head until your hips lift and the head of his cock teases your entrance until you’re stretching around him. And he’s big—bigger, and thicker than you thought. 

He fills you, stuffs you, making you feel so full you’re sure you’re forever changed. That rawness spreads as he stretches you until he bottoms out, making you whine and moan—almost cry out. But he swallows each one of them like it will quench his thirst, his overgrown ‘hawk pulled in all directions from how it’s dried post-shower. 

And fuck, does the sight lick heat up your spine. 

It mixes with the electricity in the air and knots something inside of you. Something feral and suddenly awake that makes you slowly begin to meet each thrust, makes you plunge your tongue into his mouth and groan against the back of his throat. 

Because you want it to hurt, want there to be bruises that paint over the ones from the ambush. Change the narrative, the memories—give yourself something positive from the fuck up of the day. 

Your nails claw at him, his own hands pawing at you, bruising, gripping you as if you would fall through his fingers at any moment. But you won’t—couldn’t. 

Not with how you need this… him. 

You should feel ashamed at how needy you are, how much you want him to break you in two. You want to ache and be sore—a reminder that you lived the bloodbath, that the two of you had made it through a near sandstorm and bullets. 

"Harder, Soap. Fuck me harder." 

But then, you’d had no shame about sharing the shower with him. Stripping, peeling unwilling layers from your skin. Not even when he comments on it—

“Fuckin’ hell, lass. Gimme a warning’ or summat.”

On any other day, your cheeks would have burned in shame. 

Today they didn’t. So empty of emotions and regret. You guess because it was clinical. A necessity. Reason flowing through your mind, because safe houses have limited resources, and neither of you knew when you’d be peeled from the heat by evac. 

Your back was to his, hands scrubbing at skin, muscle and bone. All desperate to rid yourselves of the day. Not a single thought ran through your mind to look, to take a peek—see if he was as built as he felt during training. His body had always felt like a wall of muscle when he sparred with you. When he’d put you on your back and stare into you like you were merely in his way. 

You had done well till then, toeing the line of professionalism well—and then you heard him hiss. 

And not a little one at that. 

One that stemmed from somewhere in the back of his throat. One that had been almost muffled by sheer grit and determination. Released wrapped in an array of Scottish that you couldn’t begin to understand. 

Then you looked, because he was hurt—and because he didn’t answer when you called his fucking name. Your sergeant, the one who charges into danger like he’s indestructible. Who teases you when you’re in the field but ignores you on base. 

And now you were fucking him. 

The air is stained with sex and sweat, it’s peppered with grunts and groans—all of it giving the creaking floorboards and stone walls something to talk about. The blanket under you bunching, clinging to your lower spine as your fingers crawl up his neck into his hairline, grasping him closer, heel embedding against him. 

And it’s messy, all of it. All teeth clashing, nails digging, his poorly applied bandage crinkling as his hips snap to meet his. You let his name roll from your tongue. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. It plunges from your lips, mixing with the sounds of your cunt squelching around him. 

Because he’s so impossibly deep inside of you, hitting that spot, over and over as you lose your goddamn mind. 

You have to have to fuck your teammate. The same one who barely held your gaze when the two of you were strategizing—

And now he can’t keep his eyes off of you. 

“Fuckin’ hell, lass. You’re so pretty. So fuckin’ pretty.

C’mon, hen. That’s it give it t’me.”

So you do. You stop fighting, back arching slightly, splinters grabbing to fix themselves into your shoulders—but you don’t care. 

You come instead. All mind further blanking, only feeling him, all of him. It ricochets through your muscles, sparking and electrifying—your body tensing, feeling him continue to thrust you through it, unwilling to slow even for a second. 

A part of your brain, the only part working, focuses on the way his hips keep connecting with yours, the way his hand is on your throat; how his eyes, those ridiculous azure-coloured eyes are digging into you—the ones which are trying to swallow you whole.

And succeeding. 

Dragging you under, making it hard to breathe with how intense they are. 

Then, his lids close, and you can breathe. His own pleasure ripping through him, embedding himself into you—coating your walls in his anger, his dismay and…

Something else you’re not able to translate from the way he groans your name, your real name. 

Then the air is filled with something else: breathing. 

Your eyes remain closed, needing to do so for preservation. Needing to not get sucked in, to dive into his eyes and have no hope of rising to the surface. 

Because you don’t do this. 

You don’t fuck your teammates. 

Any of them. Even the ones you like—even the ones who have a Scottish twang and beautiful eyes. But then, you also haven’t been close to death five times in the span of half a day. 

When you catch your breaths, you expect a glare—you expect him to move immediately. Realise what the two of you have done. Your eyes watching his, counting his blinks, one, two, three…

And then he kisses you—same passion, but with a little less anger. 

2.

It doesn’t happen again for a while. 

Soap wears a smile, and you throw up walls. 

A pattern he should have predicted, seen coming from a mile off. At first, you had been unable to meet his eye—a refreshing change to the lava-filled one he’d been receiving till then. 

What happened in the safe house is buried under regret and disdain. More from you, than him. 

He’d been fine with it, far preferring whatever verbal sparring the two of you had going on previously. The one which toed the line between school ground flirting and bickering. 

But, then you’d winced during sparring. Ghost having twisted your arm too far, a hiss and a pained look flushing across your features, and something changed—shifted, sprouted. 

The pretending had worked until it fucking didn’t.

His hand hooking around your good elbow, pulling you into a dark corner—the scent of jasmine and oranges hitting his nose, a scent he’d come to know as yours. One that you coat your skin in on days when your eyes are more sunken, your spirit a little more dampened. 

Y’don’t have to avoid me. M’not gonna tell anyone what happened. 

If you were surprised, you didn’t show it. Wrenching your elbow free, jaw rolling as you swallowed. 

You want a medal for being a gent, MacTavish?

There have been moments before when your eyes were full of lava, brushing over him, threatening to burn and turn him to rock. But that look had been something else. All multi-layered, gone before he could translate it—begin peeling the meanings back until he saw what you were hiding. 

In the days after, you held his eye line—found your body brushing past his, arm knocking against him, shockwaves darting through him as he tried to ignore it. 

Ignore you. 

But he’s weak. The line is so thin between want and hate that it gets smudged as easily as charcoal—his rigid determination almost crumbles as easily too.

Liquor is the catalyst. The spark that lights the charge. 

The reason he finds your nails scratching at his neck, his arm wrapping around your waist—desperate to have you close. Soap pulling your body flush to his—needing to feel your fucking lips again. The two of you stumble through the door. 

Your door. 

It’s nothing. He just needs you. 

It’s why he’s kissing you, all desperate and chaotic as it spreads through him. Tomorrow he can blame the tequila, scotch and vodka. 

Tonight, he can’t ignore it—you. 

Not the way you burn through him, knock the breath from his lungs and have his mind empty other than those sweet noises you made all for him. His name has never sounded so good. 

Never before letting someone other than Ghost call him Johnny. Now, he wants you to call him only that. Wants it accompanied by your hands on his biceps, clutching him, hanging off of him—looking as breathtaking as you always do. 

Just like you had done when they’d all been drinking. Him not able to take his eyes off of you, the desert changing things, unlocking it—yanking the lid from the chest he’d stuffed how he’d felt. 

Worsened when he grabbed your wrist, handing you a shot, a similar one in his free hand. 

You don’t need to get me drunk, MacTavish. I’d fuck you again sober. 

Your words had locked up his spine, rushed through his bones—not halting until you pushed him down onto your bed. The one which cries out in protest, that he hears gets worse when you're straddling him, knees on either side of him.  

Soap considers why he changed your last shot to water. He wouldn’t have before. 

Jus’ say the word, lass. 

And he had meant it. 

Then. Now. Since the moment you’d joined the fucking team. Your smirk imprinted in his brain, there on the back of his lids when he closed his eyes. You were there when he wrapped his hand around his cock, palm splayed across the tiles, the shower drowning out the way he hissed your name—hating that he does, finding he can’t stop it. 

You’re like poison—but one he wants to infect him. 

You have twisted yourself under his skin, and it’s why he’s quick with his hands, needing a second time with you—another taste. Each item in his hand he balls up, practically ripping it from your flesh before throwing it far from the two of you. 

Yer’ so pretty, y’know that? 

He watches you let it kiss your skin for half a second before you baton it away. Hand on your cheek, feeling how warm it goes, how it burns under his praise, before you tell him to Shut up, MacTavish, lips pressed against it, smothering any more of his words. 

And he lets you because it’s easier. 

This is sex. Hate fucking—even if he doesn’t hate you. He feels something, but it’s complex, too big for him to begin to unravel here, under you. 

The two of you are no more friends than you were before you found comfort in between each other's legs in that safe house. You don’t make him a cuppa when it’s early, you don’t want him to go easy on you when he’s training you. 

You’re the same. So he’s the same. 

But now, you’re looking at him like you are starving, so hungry—as though by not doing this with him again, it would ruin you. 

And fuck, if it wasn’t doing the same to him. 

If it hasn’t been eating him alive. Pecking at his skin, memories interspersing with dreams, lulling him in that space between awake and sleep that makes it hard to know what’s real and what isn’t. 

But this is real. 

His palm on your thigh is an indicator of it as you take him in your hand, your fingers wrapping around him, holding him tightly. 

Last time had been so rushed, so desperate to feel something, you hadn’t had the chance to wrap your hand firmly around him, feel him twitch in your palm. 

It’s wrong on some level, what the two of you are doing. He shouldn’t fuck his teammate—not want to fuck you until you’re cock-drunk and malleable. 

And then you press your lips against the reddened head, swirling your tongue over him before you take him into your warm mouth. It’s bliss, fucking everything. Your mouth is so hot, tongue flat against the underside now and again. Teasing and taunting—making his knuckles white as he clenches bedsheets and your hair.

His moans paint the air one after the other. Changing it, shifting the apprehension and tension into wants and wishes. 

Then he’s pulling you up, eyes seeing the tears in your eyes from taking him as far in as you could. It makes his throat dry, and his chest tighten. For a second, just admiring you hovering on your knees above him, lips all pink and swollen. 

He doesn’t think of how intimate it is when he swipes his thumb against the spit on your chin. But, he knows it is the reason you kiss him again, and again. Softer, gentler—no biting or nipping. 

Because he, like you, doesn't like that you make him feel something other than need. Desperate to kiss you so he’s distracted, and his mind stops telling him this is a bad idea. 

One which gets worse, and worse, and worse—

Because then you’re lining yourself over him, soft whimpers falling as he slides two fingers through your folds—feeling your heat, how slick you are, how much you want him. And he’s learnt to keep the other hand on your jaw, thumb stroking, keeping your mouth against his, swallowing whatever you’ll give him, whether it’s a murmur or his name. 

His name tastes like heaven from you. It’s different—and he can’t assess whether it’s good or bad. The two of you are slightly more familiar, but there’s no adrenaline—no direct cause for the way you’ve snapped together. 

Because the alcohol had made him braver, but it hadn’t caused this. The two of you had. 

Tequila hadn’t made you yank his hand from between your thighs or lift it till the tip of your tongue reaches out to taste yourself on his fingers. Just the same as scotch hadn’t made him wrap his hand around the shaft, helping you line yourself up as you slowly sink down on him—your cunt swallowing him, inch by inch. 

He hears your hiss escape from your tongue as your cunt welcomes him like an old fucking friend. Greedily sucking him in as your eyes clench and he quickly tells you to breathe. 

“Y’got this. I got y’, breathe with me—“

Soap isn’t prepared when your eyes flip open, landing on him, spitting at him that you know what to do. 

Of course, you’d still glare when you’re full of his cock. It almost makes him smirk, thankful you’re the same spitfire he likes being partnered with. So, he just grabs your chin. His calloused touch brushes against softness as you make fire bloom across his skin as your chin lowers, and he can look up at you like you’re fucking artwork. 

Because you are. 

“Yer something else, lass.”

He remembers saying that when you’d killed three men with a rusty knife. This contrasts that. But he means it all the same. Soap said it now because you were a different kind of mess—a flushed, sweat-shimmering mess all for him. One which sunk their nails into his shoulders, leaving half-moon evidence of whatever the fuck this is for him tomorrow. 

Is he your stress relief? A pain killer? 

He’s not entirely sure, and he also doesn't have the energy, time or want to explore it. 

He just wants to fuck you. You and only you. His body charged, fully alive and vibrating with restlessness and torment because he’d thought of nothing but you. One taste not stifling anything, just opening floodgates for something he can’t contain. 

Not that he’ll admit it. 

You and your sweet cunt that is letting him split you open, not waiting to adjust even if it burns and aches, because of course you don’t. You never back down, never willing to not excel—to show what you’re made of. He sees it—he sees you. Even if you think he doesn’t. 

Even if the thought makes your eyes sting. 

You catch him off guard, slowly rolling against him, his thick fingers grasping you in place—getting you to slow you down. 

Go easy, lass. 

But you can’t. 

You say it with your eyes, dig it into him until he realises he has to lessen his holds and go along for the fucking ride. 

“Steamin’ Jesus—“

You’re quick to swallow your name, your tongue against his—swirling the taste of one another around and around. 

And he needs to hear it. Your moans are like the chorus to a song. His thumb finds your clit again. Him showing you how his clever, calloused thumb remembers—knowing exactly how to draw circles that’ll make your eyelashes flutter. 

He groans as your walls tighten around him, clamping down, making each upwards thrust feel so good as he breathed heavier—hard thrusts meeting yours. 

You’re close. So close. 

And he knows it better this time. 

There’s a glint in your eyes, a darkness that mingles with lust that makes his own release curl and tightens inside him. But he needs yours first, wants to collect it, see it—fucking hear it. 

Your head goes backwards, head facing the ceiling as he fucks up into you, thumb meeting his movements as best as he can. You’re always something, but now you’re everything. 

Stunning. Radiant. Beautiful. 

All of you burning up with pleasure, one he’s made you feel and he watches even with how good it feels as it ripples through you. It rips through you until it’s a wave that crashes down and his fingers are over your mouth to muffle your cry as you clench and pulse, nails digging into his chest. But, he still hears it: his name. 

It’s more sinful, more fucking delectable. 

The vice-like grip you have on him makes him quickly follow as he waits for the drop—

But, this time it doesn’t explode through him. It builds and builds until it reaches a crescendo. And he’s filling you, releasing coating your walls, feeling your body falling, freely, slowly against him as his hips become lazier. 

He lets himself have a moment. 

Running his hand up and down your spine, feeling your heart hammer through your chest to his. Let your breath dance along his neck, feeling how heavy your body is becoming as tiredness spreads through your bones. 

Soap doesn’t blame you, it’s why he shifts you from on top of him. Hearing minimal protests as he slides from under you. 

It’s practical, merely aiding and finishing the task in the way he cleans you up. Finds a towel in your bathroom, dampening it before running it between your thighs. He throws the sheet over you, protecting your modesty, even if your eyes are full of confusion and sleep. 

He doesn’t stay, putting his clothes on, hiding the evidence of your marks and welts, hovering at the doorway before leaving. 

He has to. You don’t want him to stay. 

Not even a little bit. He knows that. 

He knows what this was. 

3.

It has become a habit. 

Both of you have tried to fight it, only to quickly realise the pull you’ve both created—the addiction both have for one other. 

You don’t talk about it, and he doesn’t ask anything. 

Your hand on his forearm, tugging him—asking silently letting him know you need him as you both hunt for a room, a corner, or a quiet bit of wall to ruin and mark.

Sometimes it is he who looks for you—who seeks you out. 

When it’s Soap, he doesn’t kiss you, just simply closes the door and locks it with finality. He’s on you, pressing his chest to your back as you find leverage, meeting him as he grips your thigh. Not bothering to strip you fully, but just enough to make himself feel good—while pretending he doesn’t want to make you feel just as good. 

When it’s Johnny, he crashes his lips against yours, pulls you flush, and makes you face him. Runs his hands up and down all your available skin as if memorising you, committing you to memory to make a sculpture.

You aren’t sure which you prefer. Which one you crave more—which one makes electricity run through your muscles, and have you rubbing your thighs together. 

Tonight, it’s Soap who finds you—who fucks you. Your eyes meet him at the laundry room door, and his glare makes you feel like he hates you all over again. Just like at the beginning, when he barely said hello and didn’t meet your eyes. All before the time when the safe house blurred the lines, both of you hate fucking on the wooden floor. 

You’re soaked just from the way his eyes burn into you, from the way he crosses the room to you—never mind from the way he strips you. Your long-sleeve tee pulled up, your shorts yanked down around your knees, underwear following suit. His eyes are no longer bright blue but something murky and needy. And fuck, you don’t hate it. Not even a little bit. 

He kisses you with venom and frustration, before he 

spins you, back to his chest—his nails scraping up your thigh as his other hand bends you at the hip. And you do so, willingly. 

Welcoming it—the shift. 

Sometimes it’s like this. Like your strangers, not teammates. As though the two of you don’t know a thing about one another—not what caused the scars, not the exact shade of each other's blood. 

It’s nice, almost detached. 

This a reminder of what the two of you could be, if you both stopped this before it continued. But, that’s too late now. It had been weeks, all of them bleeding into months. Neither you nor him are able to unknot what mess the two of you have caused. The thread tangled around the two of you, connecting, keeping you tied together. 

He drags his tongue down your shoulder, hand slapping against your arse—fingers grasping it, squeezing as he bites down on your clothed shoulder. 

“Fuck, Johnny…”

“Love the way y’say my name, lass.”

Your top is the only thing still covering your arms, hiding it—the bandage. You suspect it’s why he needs this. Still wrestling with the guilt of what sits under your left sleeve. The gash from a bullet grazing you—not entering, just sliding past, kissing it. The turmoil and anguish on his face, the harsh way he’d spat out for a medic. It had churned inside of you, unsure what any of it meant when he’d pulled you close to him, needing to see for himself the damage. 

I’m fine, Soap. I’m fine. 

He’d flinched at his own call sign. 

Not realising till now how much you call him

MacTavish out here, and Johnny when there are no eyes. That same concern flourishes darkly as you realise how close the line is, and how easily it would be to step over it with him. 

You blink as you watch the pile of washing being thrown over the washing machine. Camo and basic shades fall in a cluster as he swipes them from being in front of you. You smirk, just letting it spread across your features as he kicks your legs apart. 

You don’t even tense when your chest is pressed against the cold metal of the washing machine, the drum spinning, whirring—drowning out the hiss you make as he slides his cock inside of you. You welcome all of it. 

The stretch. The cold. The vibration against your body. 

“So good f’me,” he whispers against your spine, running his beard against your skin. 

Your nipples are hard as they’re pressed against the metal, and it’s both pleasurable and painful all at once. 

The coil in your stomach tightens and tightens with each stroke of his cock. The ache and itch being scratched each time his hips connect with you, each thrust filling you. 

“Need you, Johnny. Harder, please—“

“I know, I know, lass.”

And he does. 

You can tell. His usual self-control is gone, replaced with a need so desperate that he pounds into you as if it’s a goodbye—wondering if he sees how close the line is too. Your toes curl as he thrusts deeper, the machine hiding the slap of his skin against yours, your mews and moans. 

Wanting to kiss him. A want that’s so foreign than normal—usually kissing him to bury moans or to keep him silent. But this, it’s different. A change. You want to kiss him because you miss the way his lips feel. Like the way his mouth parts when you tug on his hair. 

But he wouldn’t let you—not today. 

Today he needs you face down, hands in front of you. The harshness of each thrust is evidence of it, mixing with the way he spits affectionate words down your ear as he leaves fingerprint kisses on your hip bone. 

“Yer a fuckin’ vision, lass.”

The resonance of his voice thrumming through you. Repeating. Swirling. Because he should know.

After all, you’d seen his drawings. Seen the shading he can do, the details he can bring to life on a page. You wondered if he’d drawn you. If he’d chosen an image from his mind where he had you like this, facing away, able to tell himself you’re someone else—someone he doesn’t hate. 

“You're something else, Johnny.” 

Each time he scrapes the edges of his beard against your back, you hope it scratches you—hopes you are left with something other than soreness between your thighs. 

Each thrust and stroke of his thick cock against your walls makes your hands clutch, grasp, and scratch for leverage. Hoping it’s not a goodbye, almost praying. 

The scent of sulphur, tropical fruits and your body wash all mix in your nostrils as the washing machine continues to whir. He presses your cheek down against it, the cold of it making you hiss, his hand flat against your cheek as he tells you: “Y’need to be quiet, don’t wanna get caught.”

And you know you clench around him at the thought. Pleasure creeping close to your edges, gasping, choking out a wheeze of his name at the idea.

“Yer a fuckin’ dirty girl, you.”

He doesn’t let you get embarrassed. He rewards you. Treats you for it. His fingers find your clit, teasing, circling it with the same precision he has come to master, as he continues to pound into you. 

Your back arches more as his hips jerk, feeling so full. And it’s bliss. It’s electric and fire all at once. All of your senses both heightened and dulled, your orgasm creeping, crawling over you, slowly stealing your limbs as you tremble and go weak—

His name rips from your throat as he fucks you through it. The way his hips piston, chasing his own release, hand lessening on your hair, turning softer, moving to stroke your hair as groans.

Not your call sign. Not lass or hen. Your name.

The one he knows, but never used. Never.

You suspect it’s why he holds you, and why you let him. Hips still pressing you firmly against the machine, cheek still down on the metal. The cold rooting you, reminding you it was him who did this—he who turned your legs to jelly, requiring him to keep you in place.

When he pulls away, you feel empty. More than you have done before. You dress, quietly, a different kind of tension bubbling in the air as the machine beeps impatiently.

You watch his hands, the ones that were formerly on your hips before, moving to smooth out his hair before he buckles his belt. 

“This the last time...” 

You’d let it meet the air—allowing it to form in his head either as a statement or a question. Saying it more matter of fact. Limited emotion and eye contact. 

It’s a cross between distance, walls and a barrier. 

One neither of you believes will last, it is made from paper rather than brick. It keeps none of it at bay, the two of you doing this dance so often, you can predict the others move. 

So you avoid him, his eyes and that fucking smile he does. The one you can’t be sure doesn’t mean.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” 

“Don’t know what that means, MacTavish.” 

He pauses at the door, shooting you a glare before it’s swallowed by a wink and a smile. “Ye’ you do.”

And you do. 

Biting back a smile. Thankful. Grateful. 

Feeling his spend between your thighs as you return your underwear and shorts where they were as you hear his footsteps vanish—realising he kept your hair band. 

part two of it happens ->

[day0walker-deactivated20240527]

Cold Comfort

Ghost x F!Reader (medic!reader)

Also found on ao3

This is an explicit work, minors DNI!

You have a cold. Ghost brings you some medicine and provides a little more comfort than just Nyquil.

Tags: 18+ Smut, Cunnilingus, Unprotected sex, Rough sex, Porn with minor plot

When you answer the door, it could have been Jesus himself risen from the grave and it would not have impressed you. Instead, it’s Simon “Ghost” Riley, who is a close second to Jesus in terms of unlikely candidates knocking at the door in the middle of the night. You know the cold has gotten to you bad when all you do is stare. The blanket you have draped around your shoulders slips a little.

In Ghost’s hand is a little convenience store baggy with the typical smiley face on it. It crinkles, unceremoniously.

Keep reading

[lunarvicar]

to the flame, pt. 1

Part 2 here!

He spots her easily, a limp heap of black against the wall. They’re lucky for the rain, which masks his footsteps as they get faster, and he reminds himself that Soap and Ghost are doing their jobs - keeping everyone out of the way. His pistol - illegal in this and most of the surrounding countries - sits cold in the back of his jeans, but he hopes they won’t need it. 

hopping on the cod fanfic train after lurking for a month. i know the reader format is standard for this genre HOWEVER i just couldn't do it so read this as a reader insert with third-person pronouns. john price is criminally under-loved. backstory and plot are imminent. enjoy bbs.

pairing: john price x f!oc wc: 2.4k synopsis: an escape gone wrong lands Moth at the mercy of the 141. warnings: adversaries to lovers, eventual smut, gore, illness, protective john price, also kind of mean john price, guns, cod-typical violence, platonically protective ghost and soap, epi-pen abuse also posted to ao3 here

The fever might be the worst of it - the sickening feeling of her body heat leaching out into the air, the cold stick of her t-shirt against her upper abdomen. It’s sweat, she hopes, that dampens every layer, but there’s something more sinister there too, something thicker, warmer. 

The past few hours have passed in a haze. She’s been on two - no, three - trains, crossing one border and then another. Her water bottle ran dry in the last station, but she didn’t dare stop long enough to find a way to refill it. Her neck aches from constantly looking over her shoulder, even though every movement sticks deep needles into her spine. Something is wrong inside, a pain she can’t hope to fix with a few days of bedrest - but there’s no point in thinking of that right now. A bed is too far for now, and all she can hope for is that the concrete wall behind her stays solid.

It’s dark out, under the canopy of the platform, and a harsh rain lashes down, splashing on the textured ridges just beyond her feet. Are those hers? She can’t feel them quite right. What time is it? It’s late - it must be. How long has she allowed to pass since her last step? It was just going to be a short rest, a quick lean against this wall before she left the station and went out to find somewhere to stay for the night. But her legs had betrayed her, slid out like a newborn fawn, and resolutely refused to resume working. 

A family passes by - two parents and two kids, nearly teenagers. She thanks the stars for her hoodie and black surgical mask which conceal her age, her gender, the splits in her lip and the vicious slice that starts at one ear and stretches across the bridge of her nose, ending under the opposite eye. It pulls every time she winces at the slow slide of liquid - it’s just sweat, it’s just sweat - down her torso. The family skirts a wide path around her and she glimpses the mom’s tight grip on her daughter’s wrist, the way she positions her body between them. Small mercies, that everyone is too afraid of what she could do to them to recognize the signs of a person dying in public. 

What’s the next step, Moth? If she thought she could get out of this, that’s what she’d be thinking. Get up, find the seediest hotel in town, patch yourself up, and sleep with the blackouts closed until you no longer feel Death’s every breath down your neck. Your blood will replenish itself in time - if you can get yourself off this train station floor. But she can’t. When her knees respond to the desperate entreaties of her brain - move, move! - her heels slide helplessly against the floor. Her hands scrabble against the wall behind her hips, leaving scarlet smears before her knuckles collide ineffectually with the ground. Her fingers sting from the impact. 

Get yourself together. She takes a deep breath, hoping it will steady the haze across her vision. The rattle in her lungs draws unwilling glances from two passers-by, who grip their bags tighter and walk a little faster. The haze remains. 

“Bleedin’ Jesus.”

That doesn’t make sense. Wherever she is, the locals don’t have Scottish accents - she thinks. Did she accidentally board a Eurostar at some point? No, she couldn’t have forgotten going through an entire customs entry. She must still be in Europe somewhere, she’d picked a destination based on what was the least pronounceable - 

A dark shadow falls across her vision - a man, his broad figure made artificially broader by a poorly-concealed tactical vest that peeks out under his black sweatshirt. When she focuses her eyes, she can see a handsome face turned to the side, speaking into what must be a radio on the shoulder of the vest. His hair is partly shaved into a mohawk style. What is going on? Is she hallucinating?

“Aye, I’m sure, LT,” he’s saying, and she can see him peering down at her. Maybe she should be afraid. Did they find her? Are they going to take her back? But she’s too tired to feel threatened, and the man in front of her isn’t making any sudden moves. “Ye’ll understand when ye get here, Ghost. Hurry, and make sure ye’ve got a med kit with ye.” A pause. “Nae, I haven’a got mine, not after patching up yer sorry arse last week.”

The bewilderment is too much at this point, and her eyes drift closed in the hopes that this odd specter will be gone when she opens them again.

“Nuh-uh, lass, none of that.” A hand lands on her shoulder, and she jolts back alert at the pain that it shoots through her whole upper half. A tight wheeze of agony leaves her before she can cut it off, and her eyes widen again at the sight of another man - huge - approaching behind the shoulder of the first, who has crouched down to meet her level. He looks behind him at the fear in her expression, but he seems relieved rather than alarmed at the presence of the second man. “Fuckin’ finally, LT,” he says, “thought you could move faster than that.”

The other man’s entire face is obscured by a balaclava with a white skull printed on the bottom half, and the skin around his eyes is blacked out. His voice is like gravel when he speaks. “Got delayed with Price. He wants the exfil under the radar, can’t risk a helo.” His gaze falls on her, and he starts to unstrap something from his tactical vest, under a zipped jacket. He crouches down next to the first man, pulling little packets from the pouch. His next words are addressed to her. 

“You’re Moth, aren’t you?” She nods dumbly as the first man hooks his fingers behind one of her ears and the mask falls to one side. Her face feels suddenly cold, exposed to the air and their eyes. Both men freeze, taking in the bruises, the cut across her nose, the caked blood that’s probably keeping pieces of her lip together. A quiet, fervent “fucking Christ” escapes the mohawked man.

“Moth, I’m Sergeant Soap Mactavish,” he says, recovering his casual tone. “This hunk over here is Ghost, our Lieutenant.” 

Ghost is busy pulling open a pack of white pills. He pops two of them into a canteen, which he closes and starts to shake. “How are you feeling, Moth? What hurts?”

“I’m good,” she croaks. She wishes they wouldn’t ask her to talk. “Can’t feel a thing.”

Ghost’s eyes shoot up to hers, and he stops shaking the canteen. She can feel the tension in the men, and they both pause in what they’re doing. Soap swears, and his eyes shift upwards, although praying. “Tell Price we need a better exfil plan, now.” You see Ghost turn his head to the side and start speaking into his radio, but he doesn’t seem to like the answer he receives. 

“Drink,” he growls, and he uncaps the canteen and holds it to Moth’s lips. The water tastes a little sweet, a little powdery, and she drinks even though it feels like half is spilling over her split lip and onto her hoodie. When he pulls the bottle away, she coughs, and it feels as though her ribs are trying to separate themselves from her spine. The sharp taste of blood reappears in her mouth, and she sees a few little dots of red appear on Ghost’s mask. 

“Moth, what did the fish say when it swam into a wall?” She can’t believe her ears for a moment, but there he is, looking at her expectantly. 

She sputters over the blood in her mouth. “What?”

“Dam.” He returns to his med kit. If this isn’t the weirdest fucking fever dream -

A thin line of chatter comes over their radios - she can hear it now she knows it’s there.

“He’s coming?” Soap sounds incredulous. “As if four of us is any more inconspicuous than three-”

“We’re leaving.” Ghost’s voice cuts across, as though he knows the plan before their radios can relay it. Soap’s face settles at whatever information he’s hearing, and the two of them stand back up to their full height. “Moth, you’ve got to hang on for the next few minutes. Captain Price is coming for you, but it’s no use if you’re dead before he can find you.” He leans down and tugs her hood further over her face. Before she can protest, before she can voice the fear that settles back over her, they’re gone.

The rain still pounds in sheets through the lights over the rails. Did she dream that? Another haze seems to be developing over her vision, possibly a symptom of whatever drug Ghost crushed into the water. The pain is fading into the background, replaced by the burning heat that still emanates from her back and head. 

What kind of name is Soap, anyway? 

He spots her easily, a limp heap of black against the wall. They’re lucky for the rain, which masks his footsteps as they get faster, and he reminds himself that Soap and Ghost are doing their jobs - keeping everyone out of the way. His pistol - illegal in this and most of the surrounding countries - sits cold in the back of his jeans, but he hopes they won’t need it. 

Moth’s face is a mess, barely recognizable from the file photo he saw of her. Her skin is both deathly pale and splashed in blood and bruises, and he focuses hard to see the weak rise and fall of her chest before stepping into her field of vision. She stirs, but just barely. It’s bad, he can tell - he’s seen worse, but not on anybody who lived. There are smudges of blood on the wall behind her and he bets that if he touched her sweatshirt his hands would come away red. 

He crouches down in front of her, watching her sluggish gaze struggle to track him. Laswell’s briefing returns to him. “She’s their soft spot. A valuable asset if we can get a hold of her.” He thinks of the soft spot on a baby’s head, kissed and adored. She’d been a tool, a toy, maybe, but there was certainly no love in the way she’d been handled. “Moth,” he grates out, his voice lost against the battering rain. Her eyes flutter open and shut again, a soft, shaky whimper floating out. He doubts she knows she even made a sound. 

“Moth,” He says again, and he sees her focus on him. The white of one eye has bled scarlet and makes the iris look black. He slides one gloved hand behind her back - he can feel the heat radiating through the layers between them - and another under her propped-up knees. When he lifts her, she offers no resistance, and her sticky forehead settles against his neck. He’s surprised he can’t see steam rising from her skin.

“Bravo 0-7, this is Price,” he says into the radio. “I have Moth, what’s your status?” He takes the platform in long strides. They don’t have much time.

Ghost’s strong accent comes through clearly. “Platforms 4 and 5 are clear, cameras operating only at the north and south exits. View of the doors begins at the departure boards and ends approximately ten meters from the north doorway.”

“Copy.” He takes the stairs into the underground passageway at a jog, trying to keep Moth from jolting too sharply, and then climbs the next staircase to the exit. As he approaches the departure boards, he lets Moth’s feet slide to the ground, but keeps her torso clasped to his side as he pulls an epi-pen from his pocket. He gives her a little shake and grits his teeth. Do the dirty things now so the world can stay clean. 

He looks her in the eye, watches her sway a little. “Moth, you’ve got to walk yourself to the exit. Soap will meet you thirty feet outside the door, and I’ll cover you from behind. Keep your head down and your gait normal.”

He swears he sees her eyelid twitch in irritation. “Sure,” she says, her voice harsh, “I just need a minute to freshen up-”

Price’s hand comes in from the side and slams the epi-pen into her thigh, holding her tight to him to keep her from toppling over. Her jaw clenches shut and she lets out a sharp wheeze of pain. When she looks up at him, she bares her red teeth at him. “Fuck you.”

“Go on, then,” he says, releasing her to take a few tottering steps away from him, watching the drug artificially strengthen her legs. She braces herself against a ticket machine for just a minute, taking a deep breath. “Go!”

With one last death glare in his direction, she straightens her hood, loops the mask back over her ear, and walks away from him. Her hands are shoved in the pocket of her hoodie - no doubt holding her ribs - and he can see the uncomfortable shortness of her stride. Price takes up his own forcibly relaxed pace behind her, holding his pistol inside one pocket of his jacket. “Bravo team, be advised, Moth is exiting north side solo. Do not approach within camera range.”

“Copy, Captain.”

She makes it out of the door with just the barest stumble over the metal lip, but catches herself. She gets five meters out, and Price can see her steps start to slur together, her knees forgetting to work. Keep it together. Maybe seven meters now. She jolts off a curb and he can tell she didn’t see it before she stepped. Nine meters - just a second passes, and she crosses out of the camera’s view. A dark, Soap-shaped figure casually approaches and takes her arm. “Soap to Price. Moth is in hand, moving to the safehouse now.”

Making sure he’s still within ten meters of the entrance, Price takes a purposeful turn to the left, away from the others. “Roger that. Ghost, provide cover. I’ll rejoin you when I can.” He keeps his head down but pulls the pistol fully from his pocket. 

A beat passes. “Copy, Captain.”

A shot rings out from above, and Price breaks into a run.

[kentoangel]

miya atsumu who pulls his baseball cap down as you’re riding him on his couch for the first time because he’s embarrassed by the way his cheeks reddened so quickly and the way he has hearts in his eyes :(

[venusflytrapstar]

Jailbird eren having a wet dream bout his chubby hunny 😗

been looking at this asks ever since you sent it tbh and i was trying not to write it bc i was gonna make a full-ish fic for alllll of jailbird eren but you… you really got me here. Sorry this is so short, i read this wrong like twice 😭. I read it as “jailbird eren masturbating to his chubby hunny” so i originally started it off somewhere completely different where he found a phone in his cell and got some photos of you and jerked off, soooo yeah lolz

Obvi! (18+) tags: male masturbation, dirty talk, jerking off, wet dreams, photos as material.

“Erennnn, please come in me? Please?” You we’re so whiny and sounded so small, he felt himself slipping deep inside until—

He woke up drenched in sweat but he could swear he was just with you. Your cunt hugging him tight and was completely slicked up, your dark tits in his face and him pounding into you — watching your thick thighs jiggle with joy.

“Fuck.” He moved the blanket and groaned. It had been years since he actually ever came in his pants. He was a man for crying out loud. This was so… juvenile. Eren was just glad it was night so he wouldn’t have to hear Porco speak about it.

He looked down to make sure the brat was still sleeping before he decided to whip out his best stash. Under his pillow, a dozen photos of you. You were clothed in all of them but the fabric did not justice to hide your plushness.

“Gonna put my dick down that throat.” He was whispering so softly, moving his hands into his pants. He loved seeing that pretty smile of yours and he loved it even more when it was very naughty and his cum was all over you.

He’d kill for some photos of that. He gripped his tip and looked at your smiley face, your cheeks so soft and squishy as you ate. The white frosting made him throb, memories flashing in and out of him brain. He closed his eyes and he was there again.

You bought him cupcakes, no reason in particular. Just wanted to know if he’d like what you made for him. Of course he did. He was a foodie and you knew that.

That was one of the many ways you made it to his heart. He stroked himself thinking about how after he took that photo, he took his time with you in the bedroom.

He loved teasing you. He loved watching you groan and cry when he wouldn’t give you enough of his cock, begging him for it.

“Please Rennie? I need you all inside of me…” You’d spread yourself so wide and he’d be lost in a trace, completely forgetting about teasing.

“Gonna fuck you so good when I’m out…” He told the picture, his hand slick. He was tempted to kiss you. He threw his hand back, “Gonna…fuck… gonna slip myself between those thighs and…” He twitched and came before he could stop himself.

Another picture he ruined.

[tteokdoroki]

shift’s not so bad. | k.bokuto. ʚ !! ɞ

❧ ; SYNOPSIS. things could be worse, your shift could be worse but lucky for you, your boss koutarou bokuto knows exactly how to make it all better.

❧ ; cpu characters. koutarou bokuto x fem!reader.

❧ ; word count. 2.1K

❧ ; genre + rating. barista!au, fluff, smut, 18+, minors do not interact !!

❧ ; game warnings. - proceed with caution !! reader is in their twenties, older!bokuto, slight!age-gap, mentions of violence, smut, exhibitionnism, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, oral sex fem!recieving, light!impact-play, soft!dom, praise!kink, spit!kink, size!kink.

❧ ; streamer commentary. hi everyone!! sorry for being MIA, i missed you all!! anways heres a little fic commissioned by my beautiful girl @patchworkpuzzle !! everyone else, pls enjoy this fic eee!! special thanks to @cellotonins for beta reading !! enjoy <3 m.list. + tip jar.

Keep reading

[bokutos-bimbo]

screaming i love this

[sems-diarie]

Y-yuta coming home to his sweet lil’ chubby roommate after a hard mission and getting bricked up when he spots her face down, ass up doing yoga in the middle of their living room :(( has to fight the urge to rip the crotch of your leggings open n force your sweaty little cunt on his mouth :(( wants to lick ur fatty clean so bad

Meanwhile you’re just happy your tired n bashful little roommate with the body of a athlete is giving you pointers on your form :(— Yutie’s so helpful :’)))

yuta… yuta just giving up one day. comes home n’ sees you all bent n pretty, n’ can’t resist getting his hands on you 🥺

“l-like this, yuta?”

he groans. you sound so sweet and unassuming, almost makes him feel bad for having the worst intentions towards you.

almost.

“yeah,” he coos, his breath fanning against your cunt from over your leggings. his hands squeeze at the softness of your waist, where he’s holding you steady. “yes, yes, doin’ so well. looks good.”

and then you lose your balance. yuta wasn’t focused on holding you upright, anyway >:( & you go tumbling back with a little squeal. land pussy-first on yuta’s face in the middle of your living room apartment. n yuta, the little perv, doesn’t move an inch. thinks he’s in heaven when the smell of you makes his eyes roll into the back of his head 🥺 lays there n’ let’s you sit on his face ‘til your poor heart can’t take the embarrassment.

“why wouldn’t you push me off?” you yell, face burning and your forehead sweating and tears welling in your eyes. “i—what if you suffocated? yuta!”

“s’okay.” he reaches to hush you. “didn’t want you to twist something. so i just thought i’d let you get up on your own.”

what you don’t know is that yuta chokes his cock to the memory of your pretty ass sat so deliciously on his face. in the shower afterwards. he’s fucking miserable. cums until his fingers are soaked, with his fist wrapped in the shower curtains and his head slammed back into the tile.

hhh rm yuta reaching his breaking point :(((

rm yuta who does rip the crotch of your panties open. who trudges in, looking like something that just crawled out of hell and being met w the softest, roundest ass cheeks he’s ever seen in his life. who bounces you on his dick after a long, hard mission and thanks you for givin your pussy t’him. it’ll help him recuperate so fast. you’re so good t’him. make his life worth so much more.

n you’re just bouncing n bouncing with little hearts in your eyes and soft little, “yuta”s whining into his ear. clawing at his shoulders n gushing around his cock, letting him suck your tongue from your mouth as he pleases. :((

rm yuta who calls you a little princess ‘cause of how particular n pissy you can be. his tone’s never mean, but everytime he says it he has this look in his eye that says what am i gonna do with you?

[sems-diarie]

do i want to bully deku ??? yes ??? do i want him to bully me ??? also YES ???

izuku is just so easy to bully!! he’s so easy to pinch n bite n lick—he’s weak for you. let’s you slide up behind him and rub his cock from over his pants. is too in love to even think ab the mess it’ll make when he shoots cum and soaks through clothing.

[sems-diarie]

Hmm mind sayin more about your will smith opinion?

(Asking because I'm genuinely intruiged and don't follow pop culture enough to acc know what's goin on)

will’s still facing repercussions for tapping chris rock on the cheek. apparently, netflix paused their new movie (or smthn) that he was starring in as the lead role, and then he was banned from the oscar’s for 10 years, and now people are calling for the men in black ride at universal studios to get taken down. but i’m so pissed because so many white men in hollywood are actual predators that deserve these same kinds of repercussions, greater repercussions actually.

and what’s crazier is that the people in or adjacent to white hollywood who’d been quick to tear will smith apart will still be and HAVE BEEN buddy-buddy with pedophile incest king harvey weinstein 😐. bitch what kinda shit is that.

so, ultimately, what this feels like is a bunch of white elitists trying to remind a nigger to stay in a nigger’s place. a lynch mob, so to speak. if you’ve ever needed an example of white privilege, look no further.

[tj-ivy]

connie, who whispers lowly into your ear, “don’t come to my house lookin’ like that again or i’m gon’ beat that pretty lil’ pussy in front of everybody ‘til it’s black and blue.” while his three roommates are talking and passing around the blunt you came over to smoke with them.

connie doesn’t mean it in a bad way, of course. he means you look so fucking good, damn near perfect. in fact, you’re so perfect and pretty to him that he’s been jerking off to the thought of you since he met you at both your friend’s party, which was about 3 months ago. god, the way you looked up at him through those pretty fake lashes and the way your plump glossed lips curled as you smiled when you introduced yourself to him had hearts and baby angels spinning around his head like he was in a fucking cartoon. you had him wrapped around your pretty little finger, and you didn’t even know it.

anywho, when he says, “don’t come to my house lookin’ like that,” connie is referring your outfits. you running in and out of his humble abode with them little ass skirts, showing the color of your panties and the shape of your ass to everyone FOR FREE???? don’t even get him started on those tight ass shirts that your nipple could cut through if it was cold enough. i mean, sure, he can fight, but then again, you’re not even his yet.

you didn’t think connie was actually gonna do it, so you showed up in your usual outfit aesthetic. you didn’t even think the outfit was too much. i mean, the skirt wasn’t even that short this time. you didn’t even get to say a simple “hi” or “hello” before he started dragging you by your wrist to the living room where his roommates were. now you look dumb. he told you exactly what the fuck he would do if you did what you did, but you just didn’t wanna listen. now he has you face down, ass up, on his couch, beating your pretty little pussy raw in front of his three roommates just like he said he would.

[rowsn-deactivated20220908]

fem!reader; perv!reader x perv!connie; nsfw

tags/warnings: underwear stealing, invasions of privacy, masturbation, pillow riding, degradation, overstim, mentions of cum eating, technically unsolicited but definitely wanted videos, weird dynamic like allies to lovers?, perverts in love pretty much (idk how to tag some of these so if i miss something important lmk)

A/N: i…don’t know how i feel about this one. never written something like this so we’ll see

never in his life did Connie think he’d meet his match. someone who was just as weird and perverted as him? hell no. and a girl at that? definitely not. but when he found you face deep in his roommate eren’s laundry basket. your ass sticking out in the air while your fingers pumped in and out of your cunt, that changed.

at first, you thought he was gonna snitch to eren, tell him you were a crazy obsessed bitch but he he never did. it was an unspoken agreement at first. he never told eren about you and you never told your friends about connie’s lingering eyes. that was until he picked the wrong friend to perv on.

you followed him from your apartment saying “he forgot his keys be right back.” but you only proceeded to quietly yell at him saying, “i don't know what agreement we have but mai is off the table.” now that you had acknowledged it, things changed. it was often a conversation topic with each other: advice, things you would never do, things you had done, things you wanted to try, etc

all that time spent together, stole your attention from eren. the urge to sneak into eren’s room and win him over went away. now, you wanted to do those things with connie, to connie. only difference was, connie was just as creepy as you. he knew your ways, your secrets, making it harder to get away with it but then you remembered the fun part…the embarrassment of getting caught. so when jean invited you over to hang out, you snuck away to connie’s room.

you knew connie would be home from work soon; it was perfect. you crawled into his bed, burying your face into his pillow. the smell of his cologne mixed with his body wash made you wetter than you could ever describe. thinking about all the conversations you had, you were sure he’d love it if he caught you humping his pillow. even if he didn’t like you like you liked him, he’d love it.

so you put it between your legs and hiked up your skirt. the longer you rolled your hips the more you realized he wasn’t coming up those stairs anytime soon so you stopped, waited, and waited, but not even jean came to look for you. so you picked up your phone only to see he’d sent you something.

a video of him lying in your bed with your favorite panties stuffed in his mouth. when you turned up the volume sounds of whimpers and grunts filled the room, “mm, fuck, you would look so good on my cock- fuck- ‘m gon cum on your sheets, sweetheart. you’ll clean it up for me won’t you?”

you knew something was wrong in your head when you smiled and got giddy. but it was so sweet of him, right? leaving you a nice mess to lick up when you got home. he knew just what you loved just as you did him. so you positioned the camera on his nightstand and recorded yourself rocking your hips against his pillow, lifting your skirt higher so he could watch you grind your clit onto the material, moaning his name over and over until you were ready to cum. “‘m gonna cum, con’ i know you won’t change the pillowcase before you go to bed will you? disgusting creep.”

you slapped a hand over your mouth, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you came, hums and whimpers muffled. you desperately continued, purposely overstimulating yourself for his enjoyment until your legs gave out and you gave him a nice view of your ass before you ended the video and sent it.

a cum covered pillowcase was left on the bed while you went downstairs and sat next to jean, acting like nothing had happened at all. the shakes and tremors in your legs giving you away. and when connie got home an hour later, with stains on his jeans and a cum drunk smile because he definitely jerked off in his car when you sent him that video pretending he got held up at work, it became abundantly clear you were made for each other.

[rowsn-deactivated20220908]

short college au connie hcs

i’ve been thinking abt this lately LMAO and i wrote more than i meant my b 😭 sfw + nsfw under the cut cause i’m a horny fuck gn

cw: sleep play (connie receiving), public play, general smutty things, and armin punches him in the face???

— either a hospitality major or mechanical engineering major no in between

— even so he would change it a million times

— decided to do coed housing, why? don’t ask he just did

— would dorm with armin cause connie and jean got separated for being too loud like 2 days in

— hates frat parties bcs sasha and mikasa hate frat parties and he’s always in their shared dorm and heavily influenced by them

— tries to fight frat boys for no reason other than them being dicks (which me too connie)

— takes his courses surprisingly seriously. everyone thought he would slack off but he wants to make his mom proud god damn mamas boy

— accidentally flirted with his professor thinking she was a classmate and got removed from her class by the next day

— hates coffee so he mainlines tea instead

— works for the school via work study (probably as a custodian cause he thought he’d look hot in the uniform 💀)

— joined a bunch of clubs to make friends

— avid pj wearer, never seen in real clothes during class (probably like plaid pants and a random shirt he found on armin’s bed)

— yeah he would totally steal his roommates clothes even if they barely fit

— drives his dads old car but dings it every other business day

— mistakenly took physics and had to hire a tutor

— just likes to cuddle with his friends, he’s touch deprived alright

— cuddled with sasha most of the time but she had to go home for a week and made armin/mikasa cuddle with him cause he failed a test

— said he was gonna stay single and just hookup with girls to focus on school but failed so hard

— tries to be a wingman but winds up stealing their attention

— romantically likes people the opposite of him aka smart

— starts going to the library after meeting a girl who works there 👀

nsfw…y’all

— goes into college a virgin and would lose it like the first week lol

— “sleeps in” until armin leaves for class cause he’s a horny ass and jerks off (damn down bad)

— took a sex and love course cause armin was and acted like he had saw god after each class

— he let his hair grow out a bit after finding out girls liked to pull it 💀

— before he settles down he gets a reputation for being a pussy eater LMAO

— he’s a fucking exhibitionist and likes to sext while he’s in class (don’t look at me *runs*)

— likes to fuck his s/o while you wear his university pullover, just pushed up to your jaw while you drool all over it (damn i should write a drabble abt this)

— he’s loud in bed and armin wound up punching him in the face bcs of it (don’t ask it just happened)

— has a glasses kink (this is so random but idc)

— heavy switch and tries to get you to role play as his prof

— drops to his knees the second he gets in your dorm on days you wear a skirt or sundress

— he’s a cornball in bed but will somehow makes it hot

— when he has to reapply for housing the next year, he gets a private room instead just bcs he loves waking up to head

— again exhibitionist, he’ll sit you on his lap at a party just so he’ll get hard and maybe even move you so ur grinding against him