Miya's library @siminlibrary - Tumblr Blog

antidote

You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.

— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader

— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+

author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.

"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.

He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.

hinakamiya

holy fuck man that was amazing

clinquantribbons

kyle’s always been the pretty boy. the one birds fawn over at the pub, and in the cereal aisle at the shop, and on the midnight train after the captain bullies him into going home and getting some well-deserved rest. old ladies coo at him, waitresses draw hearts on his cheques, his own teammates tease him, for fuck’s sake.

“maybe if kyle bats his eyelashes at ‘em, we can slip past before they notice us.”

“the only way you’re comin’ out with us tonight is if you were a fuckin’ bag over your head. i never get laid when you’re around.”

“price might fall for those eyes, but i won’t. paperwork on my desk by noon, garrick.”

even when he was young, his ma’s girlfriends would laugh about how much trouble he’d cause, all the hearts he was bound to break, when he grew up. he still remembers how his sisters made fun of him come prom season, when he couldn’t decide which of the dozen invitations he received to accept.

kyle’s always been the pretty boy — until an untimely explosion melts the entire right side of his face into something unrecognizable and, in his eyes, horrific. gone is that heart-stopping grin, his silken skin, and quarter-deep dimples. no more of the cheesy winks he loved to throw around, what with his lack of an eyelid.

no-one’s swooning over him anymore. rather than the blood rushing to a handsome someone’s cheeks when he says hello, it drains from their face completely. no-one will look him in the eye nowadays. the pretty single mum down the street who he once had lunch with now goes out of her way to cross the road when she spots him, shielding her children’s’ eyes like the mere sight of him might traumatize them. the grandmas who used to compliment his warm eyes and soft curls stare at him blatantly, piteously, whisper behind their hands when he passes but won’t dare to address him directly. his favorite bartender turns his flirtations to johnny, who, uncharacteristically, doesn’t even have the heart to poke fun at him for it.

but he should be grateful, right? he could’ve died. he’s lucky to even be here. to be walking, talking, his limbs in tact, heart still beating. it could be worse.

that’s what he tells himself every time a toddler wails at the sight of him standing behind them in line at the coffee shop. whenever price gives him that look, full of worry and self-loathing. it could be worse, he tells himself, the first time he sees his mother after the explosion, and she gasps like she can’t recognize her own goddamned son. but he should be grateful.

he damn near throttles laswell when she suggests that he check out a local support group, saying that he needs to talk to someone since he clearly isn’t going to talk to them. talk about what, he wonders. it isn’t as though there’s anything that can be done about it. it’s beyond fixing, the doctors said so themselves. talking about it will only make him out to be some shallow, self-obsessed little prick, who obviously cares more for his vanity than his life.

he knows what he is. he certainly doesn’t need anyone to point it out.

the flier collects dust on his kitchen counter, gets lost in all of his junk mail and get-well-soon cards, damned to oblivion. he forgets about it — for a while at least, until his oldest sister forces her way into his flat and starts cleaning, claiming that their mother would have his head if she saw what a mess he’s made. she tacks it to the fridge, where kyle has no choice but to see it.

“what harm could it do, ky? you’ve been hiding from us for months — we’re worried about you.”

that’s what finally convinces him. not because he thinks he needs it, or believes it’ll do him any good, or even because he wants to soothe their spirits. simply because he wants them off his back, wants to be allowed to wallow in his misery, in peace, just for a little while longer.

so, he goes. he surrounds himself with a bunch of war-torn veterans, with stories so gruesome that even his stomach churns, he sits alone and speaks to no-one, doesn’t look anyone in the eye, and he listens.

he listens to them talk about their dead friends, their battles won, and their loves lost, about their journeys back to health, and their wisdom hard-earned.

one man — pushing eighty and missing both legs — says something that sticks with him.

“you can be mad, you can curse god, you can spend the rest of your life thinkin’ ‘what if’, but it ain’t gonna change shit. you either grow a pair and get over it, or you don’t — if you can’t make peace with that, you’re better off dead.”

yeah, maybe.

he goes again the following tuesday, and the next, until it’s become a regular part of his routine. he sits alone, still, he doesn’t talk much, to anyone, but they come to expect him. they recognize him. they smile when he walks in. no one flinches at the sight of him, no one’s pitying him, no one’s demanding answers he’s not ready to give. they accept him without expecting anything tangible in return, sans his company.

it doesn’t necessarily make him feel better, it doesn’t make him hate the man in the mirror any less, but it gets him out of his flat. it gives him something to tell the team about when they check up on him on sunday nights.

then, about two months into his newfound routine, he spots you, sat on the opposite end of the room, holding space like it’s been yours all along.

the last time your paths crossed was in boot-camp. a lifetime ago, it feels like. before the 141, before the incident. he was somebody else back then. and so, it seems, were you.

he remembers you as an over-eager, overly-confident recruit, like he, himself, was. you’re older now, battle-weary, weathered by war, grief, and the world itself. you sip your coffee through a straw because your hands tremble too fiercely to hold a mug. an angry, red scar cuts your face in two.

you aren’t new around here, that much is made clear by the way they greet you, with hugs and well-wishes. how long’s it been, he wonders, since you got out?

sammy, who runs the group, goes down the line one-by-one, like she always does, asking all the right questions. elijah saw his grandbabies this weekend. cody’s been cleared for active duty — he’ll return to the front lines next month, for better or for worse. olivia’s met somebody, she thinks she’s found the one. kyle listens, but pays especially close attention when it gets to be your turn.

“how was your trip?” sammy asks, and you laugh, albeit nervously.

“weird.” you admit, profoundly. “first vacation i’ve ever taken in my whole fuckin’ life, y’know? i tried to enjoy it, but— my friends wanna go swimming with dolphins, and tan on the beach, and, whole time, i’m thinkin’ that i’ve got no goddamn business flouncing around in a bathing suit, looking the way i do. i just couldn’t wait for it to be over, honestly.”

and, fuck, he gets it. he knows. it’s the very thing he’s been grappling with for the past year. nobody likes to talk about that part, the doubt, the insecurity. but you do, honest and unapologetic, and he wonders if this is what making peace with it looks like.

and then, sammy looks to him. “anything you’d like to share with us today, kyle?”

usually, he’d wave her off. offer her a tight-lipped smile and shake his head. he almost does, if only out of sheer habit. but he catches your gaze from across the circle. your eyes brighten with recognition, and the hard set of your brow softens. you smile at him, a little crookedly, as if you’re eighteen again, unburdened, naive as to what awaits you.

you might as well have grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him around, the way that smile knocks loose all of the things he’s allowed to fester in his heart. for the first time since he started attending the meetings, kyle’s honest. not only with this motley community he has infiltrated, but with himself.

“i had to take all the mirrors outta my flat. couldn’t stand the sight of myself.”

“i always wanted kids, but now— now, i’m scared they’d think me the fuckin’ boogeyman.”

“i dunno who i am anymore.”

his lungs feel tight, his palms slick with sweat, cheeks warm with an awful, feverish sort’ve heat, but he feels lighter than he has since his brothers dragged him from the wreckage. the old man from that first meeting, colby, lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

no one scoffs at him, or calls him petty, or reminds him of how lucky he is. sammy smiles, soft and empathetic. “sometimes, the man who comes back from the war isn’t the same man that left for it. it’s okay to mourn him, kyle.”

you’re waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk outside, stiff with an indefinite, inescapable ache, but smiling still, when it’s time to leave. he hesitates only momentarily when you open your arms for a hug — he’s careful, weary of whatever injuries you might’ve sustained on the field, but you grab him tight, like you know how desperately he needs it.

“s’good to see you, garrick. s’been a long time.”

“fuck, has it.” he laughs, and it sounds foreign in his own ears, before sobering. “it’s good to see you too. really. i didn’t know you were …”

“yeah,” you help him out before he can start floundering. he isn’t the smooth-talker he once was. “a couple years ago, now. s’a long story. one i’m much too sober to tell today.”

“another time then,” he offers, wryly. he understands. he doesn’t like to talk about it either. talking about requires thinking about it, which isn’t good for anyone involved.

you soften, and he watches the scar on your face stretch as your lips pull down. it’s been years, but he still thinks you lovely. “you haven’t been out long, have you?”

“not long enough, no.”

“hm.” you nod, like you understand, but you don’t say you’re sorry, or tell him that it’ll get better. he appreciates that more than you know. “fate’s a funny thing, ain’t it? what’re the odds,”

“it’s a small fuckin’ world,” he murmurs, and your laugh thaws the ice in his chest. “you live close by?”

“just a couple o’ blocks, not too bad.”

“i could walk with you, if you want. or we could—” he stops, swallows hard, trying valiantly to find his nerve. it used to be so easy for him to ask a sweet someone out, he hardly even had to work for it. hell, he’d flirted with you plenty, back in the day. “we could go get that drink,”

it’s soft, uncertain, timid in a way that kyle garrick is not. you simply stare at him for a moment, as if considering him, your gaze painfully soft, before, finally, “i’d like that.”

“yeah?” he murmurs, hopeful.

you laugh, but it isn’t mocking, or cruel. it’s mirthful, almost flattered.

“lead the way, pretty boy.”

beebymoonlight

baby mine — ghost x f!reader

when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.

type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3

kmlottin

Kylian Mbappé one shot

Day 7 of Kinktober

Sorry for making everyone wait x

Part 1 🤭

warning: it's a lot

He looks even more unreal in person than he did on the stream.

Black suit, precise and sharp, sleeves falling just right at his wrists. The lights and cameras catch on the fine line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he smiles. And then there’s the trophy — that ridiculous, gleaming golden boot in his hands — as if he needed more reason to walk like the world belongs beneath his feet.

You stand near the back of the ceremony, half-hidden behind a pillar, badge around your neck, champagne flute sweating in your fingers. Staff, not star. Close enough to see everything, far enough to stay out of the photos.

That’s the rule, after all.

Friends with benefits. Not girlfriend. Never public.

You pretend you’re watching the stage like everyone else, but your focus keeps narrowing to him alone. The way his hand settles on the base of the trophy. The way he laughs at something the president says. The way he tucks his tongue into his cheek when the host lists off his numbers for the season, like he’s trying not to grin too hard.

Too late. His ego is practically its own guest of honour.

“Golden Boot winner of the 24–25 season…”

The crowd cheers, you clap along, and he lifts the trophy again, that bright, blinding smile spreading across his face. He looks out over the crowd and, for a second, you’re delusional enough to think his gaze finds you.

Then his eyes flicker, the barest beat, and his smile softens in a way the cameras probably won’t catch.

You feel it low in your stomach anyway.

You take a sip of your champagne to cover it up.

He gives the usual speech: thanks the club, his teammates, his family, the fans. Talks about how this is just the beginning, about wanting more. His voice is smooth, steady, his Spanish rolling easy off his tongue. You know that voice when it’s wrecked, low, broken beside your ear, but today it’s polished, public, golden like the trophy in his hands.

“…and to everyone who believed in me this season,” he finishes, eyes skimming the room again, pausing for a heartbeat at the back, “Thank you. We’re not done yet.”

You shouldn’t feel like that means you. You shouldn’t feel a warm flush creeping up your neck.

You put your empty glass down and remind yourself: this is just fun. Just for now.

When the ceremony ends, the room dissolves into pockets of people: officials, executives, cameras, microphones; suit jackets and handshakes. Camera flashes and Spanish, French and English all overlapping. You hang back, watching him navigate it like it’s a game he’s mastered: picture with the president, picture with the club reps, picture with the trophy alone.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

K: Where are you hiding?

You glance up to the stage. He’s mid-photo, trophy tucked against his chest, the same wide smile on his face, but his gaze is pointed somewhere over the photographer’s shoulder, toward the back of the hall.

You text back:

You: I’m busy. Go be famous.

The phone barely has time to dim before it lights again.

K: Already famous. Come congratulate me.

You roll your eyes even as your lips curve.

You: You just got a whole ceremony for that. That wasn’t enough?

K: No. Need you.

Your heart trips over itself at the last word. You stare at it for a second too long, then slip the phone into your bag and move, weaving through clusters of guests, staying low, small, forgettable.

By the time you reach the side corridor, security is guiding people out toward the exit and the back rooms. Kylian disappears behind a door with two officials and the trophy in his hands. You pause, unsure if you should even be here, when a security guard spots you.

“Player area,” he says, though his tone is more apologetic than stern.

“I’m just…” you start, then the door swings open again.

Kylian steps back out, suit immaculate, trophy tucked against his forearm, phone in the other hand. He looks up, spots you, and his whole face lights in a way that has nothing to do with the cameras anymore.

“She’s with me,” he says simply, nodding to the guard.

The guard steps aside without question.

You raise a brow as you come closer. “Abusing your power already?”

He leans down just enough that only you can hear him. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Heat flickers to life under your skin. You swallow it down. “Congratulations,” you say instead, tilting your head toward the trophy. “Golden Boot. Couldn’t have done it without your most loyal supporter in the back row.”

“Hmm.” He squints, faux-thoughtful. “Funny, I don’t remember seeing you in the front celebrating me properly.”

“I was working.”

“You could’ve worked closer.”

“I didn’t want to distract you,” you reply, matching his teasing. “God forbid you trip on the stairs because you were too busy staring.”

You mean it as a joke, but his eyes darken just a shade, something sparking there. “You really think you’re that distracting?”

You open your mouth, shut it again, and look at the trophy instead. “Maybe I was more interested in the award than the winner.”

He presses the golden boot into your hands so suddenly you almost fumble it.

“Here,” he says. “You can hold it in the car. Get it out of your system.”

Your fingers curl carefully around the base of it. It’s heavier than you expected, cool and dense, all sharp details and gleam. The weight of a season condensed into a single object.

“Careful,” he adds softly, a flash of something sincere behind the cockiness. “That’s our baby.”

You snort. “You’re not calling a trophy our baby.”

“Why not?” He starts walking down the corridor with you, casual, like he didn’t just say something that made your stomach clench. “Took nine months of work. Constant attention. Kept me up at night.”

“You are impossible.”

“And you like me like that.”

You don’t answer, but he hears your response in the way your shoulder brushes his as you walk.

The night outside is that particular Madrid kind of soft — the city humming, sky washed in orange light, air still warm even though the hour is late. The driver pulls up the black car by a side entrance, away from the journalists and fans gathered near the front.

The moment the door closes behind you, the noise of the world is replaced with the low murmur of the engine and the quiet click of your seatbelts. The city’s glow bleeds in through tinted windows, painting the leather interior in streaks of gold and blue.

You balance the trophy in your lap carefully, fingers tracing the detailed laces, the ridges of the boot. It’s absurdly beautiful, in that over-the-top, football way. It also feels strangely intimate — like you’re holding a piece of him.

He watches you for a moment instead of telling the driver to go. The car smells faintly like his cologne, clean, dark and expensive. “You like it?” he asks.

“The boot or the man attached to it?” you say lightly, still studying the way the metal catches the light.

His chuckle is low. “Both, I hope.”

You glance over. His suit jacket hangs open, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the curve of his forearms, the black T-shirt beneath clinging to his chest. The faint glow from the car light catches on his watch, making it gleam sharper than it should. The look is dangerous: not polished trophy-winner now, but something between tired and wired. His knee nudges yours.

“You looked good up there,” you admit, the words slipping out more honest than you intend.

He smiles, slower this time. “I always look good.”

You aim a playful kick at his ankle, gently enough not to upset the trophy. “See, this is why I stayed in the back. Your head is already too big.”

“Lies,” he murmurs. “You stayed in the back because you like watching me from a distance. You like pretending you’re not going home with me.”

Your throat tightens. You look out the window to hide the way your cheeks heat, the way the line lands too close to the truth.

“Drive,” Kylian tells the driver finally, voice easy, and the car glides into the night.

For a few minutes, Madrid is just a blur of lights. You rest your head against the back of the seat and let the motion lull you, thumb smoothing along the engraved plaque at the base of the trophy. You can feel his gaze on you, heavy and curious.

“Say it again,” he says suddenly.

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

“That you’re proud of me.”

You blink. “I never said—”

“You were going to,” he cuts in. “Back there, before I gave you the trophy. You had that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one that makes me play better,” he says simply.

Something tender curls in your chest, unexpected and fragile.

“I am proud of you,” you say, because lying feels pointless in the dark. “You worked hard for this.”

His exhale is quiet, almost like a sigh of satisfaction. “There it is.”

You shake your head, but you can’t keep the smile off your lips.

“You know,” he muses, turning his attention to the window, “a lot of people want me tonight.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “And here I thought this ride was exclusive.”

He grins. “The club wants me for more photos. Sponsors are already calling. Fans outside the building, waiting. Cameras, interviews, parties.”

You hum. “And yet you’re in a car with me.”

He shifts closer, knee pressing more firmly against your leg. “Exactly.”

You swallow.

“What do you want?” you ask, the words out before you can stop them.

He looks at you then, full on, like he’s considering how honest he wants to be. Outside, the city lights streak across his face, making his eyes look even brighter.

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek. “I want,” he says slowly, “to get home, take off this suit, and remind you why you shouldn’t hide in the back next time.”

Your fingers tighten around the base of the trophy.

“You already did that,” you say. “I was there. I saw the goals.”

“That’s for them,” he say”. “What I do to you after, that’s for us.”

Heat flares dangerously low in your stomach.

The driver takes a turn, and the car’s movement pushes you a fraction closer to him. His hand drops to your knee, palm warm through the fabric of your dress. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, weight and promise.

Your pulse picks up. You stare straight ahead, pretending to be fascinated by the traffic.

“Kylian,” you murmur, a warning that doesn’t sound like one.

“What?” he asks, all faux-innocence. His thumb strokes once along the inside of your knee, slow. “I’ve just had a very successful season. Let me celebrate.”

“You’re going to blame everything you do tonight on that trophy, aren’t you?”

He nods toward it, still balanced carefully on your lap. “You’re the one holding it like it’s sacred.”

“It is,” you say, a little too earnestly.

His hand squeezes your knee, and you feel the shift in him, from light to intent. “You know what else is sacred?”

You don’t answer. Your mouth is dry.

“The way you look at me when I score,” he says softly.

The words land heavy between you. You squeeze your legs together without meaning to, the movement subtle but not subtle enough under his hand.

He notices. Of course he does. He leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Every single goal,” he murmurs, voice low, “and all I think about coming home and putting that same look on your face. Over and over.”

You inhale a shaky breath, the city outside vanishing into blur. “You’re really drunk on yourself tonight,” you whisper, but it lacks bite.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I’m drunk on the idea of you in my bed with nothing between us.”

Your heart slams once, hard.

Nothing between you.

Your gaze drops instinctively to his hand on your leg, then to the trophy in your lap. Golden boot. Golden boy. Golden season.

You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t push. The rest of the ride stretches out thick and quiet, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin, your mind running ahead of your body, imagining, wanting.

By the time the car slows to a stop in front of his house, your nerves are a live wire. The driver moves to get out, but Kylian leans forward, murmuring, “We’re good, thanks. See you.”

He’s already stepping out, coming around to your side to open the door himself. His hand extends toward you, steady, familiar. You try not to think about how many cameras were trained on that same hand tonight.

“Careful,” he says, nodding toward the trophy in your lap. “If you drop my boot, I’m dropping you.”

“You’re not funny.”

His grin flashes in the soft wash of the porch light. “You’re still here, so I must be.”

You follow him up the short path to the door, the night air still buzzing with the echo of applause from the ceremony. Inside, the quiet feels heavy. As you step through the entryway, your reflection catches in the window, him, tall and composed behind you in black; you, slightly undone, clutching the symbol of his triumph like something breakable.

Kylian pauses behind you, gaze flicking to the glass before meeting yours in the reflection. His hands find your hips, fingers spreading lightly.

“You see that?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“How good we look together.”

You scoff, but your heart stutters. “You and your boot, sure.”

“You, me, and the boot,” he corrects. “The perfect family”

“Liar.”

His hands tighten once on your hips before he lets go, guiding you down the hallway with a hand at the small of your back. His touch burns through the thin fabric of your dress.

Inside his home, the air is cool and faintly scented with whatever expensive candle he’s been using lately. The space is tidy but lived-in: a jacket on the back of a chair, a couple of controllers on the coffee table, a pair of trainers by the door.

“Here,” he says, nodding toward the shelves by the TV already lined with trophies and framed photos. “Give him a place to sleep.”

You move over, careful, still cradling the boot like it might shatter if you breathe too hard. There’s an empty space between a silver cup and a framed shot of him mid-celebration, mouth open, eyes wild with joy. The golden boot slots in like it always belonged there.

You take a step back.

He comes to stand just behind you. In the reflection on the black TV screen you see him, dark suit, dark eyes, your smaller frame in front of his, the gleam of gold between you.

“Looks right,” he says quietly.

“The shrine is getting out of hand,” you mumble, but your voice comes out softer than you intend.

He huffs a laugh and dips his head, his lips brushing the side of your neck in a quick, warm kiss. “You love it.”

You pretend you don’t shiver. “I love that it means you’re finally going to sleep in on your days off instead of pacing around the training ground at 8 am.”

“Can’t promise anything,” he says, mouth lingering by your skin. “I’m already thinking about World Cup.”

Of course he is.

You turn to face him, meaning to say something half sarcastic, half sincere — of course you are, you’re ridiculous — but the words tangle when you see him up close like this, without the cameras and the speeches. The suit, the small crease at the corner of his mouth from smiling too much tonight, the tired brightness in his eyes.

He smiles, slower now. “What?” he asks. “You’re staring again.”

“Just taking it in before you get insufferable,” you say. “Golden Boot, World Cup, what next? ‘I can’t hang out, I’m too busy being a star’?”

He makes an offended sound. “I already make time for you. Very valuable time, by the way.”

You snort. “Yes, thank you for blessing me with your schedule.”

He rolls his eyes but the corner of his mouth curves. His hands find your hips again, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your dress. “Speaking of my schedule,” he says lightly, “what are you doing tomorrow?”

You blink. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He tries to keep it casual, gaze sliding past you to the trophy for a second before coming back. “After the match. Thought we could… do something.”

“Do something,” you repeat, wary. “Like what? Netflix and you pretending to let me pick the movie before stealing the remote?”

He laughs softly. “We can do that any night. I meant…” He hesitates, searching your face. “Go out. Dinner. Somewhere you don’t have to hide in the back and drink cheap champagne.”

The word dinner lands heavier than it should. Different to ‘come over,’ different to the unsaid you know where the spare key is.

You pull a small face to cover the sudden flip in your stomach. “Out-out?”

He shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “Could be quiet. Not a big scene. Just…you and me. Food. Maybe a drink that doesn’t come from the players’ lounge fridge.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. You do have plans tomorrow.

They’re just not with him.

“I can’t,” you say, and immediately cringe at how stiff it sounds.

His brows draw together. “You can’t?”

You blow out a breath, glancing past him to the boot, anywhere but his eyes. “I’ve got plans.”

“What plans?” he asks, too quick.

“Just plans,” you say, which is obviously the worst answer you could have given because his expression sharpens instantly.

“With who?”

You pause for half a beat too long.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m stupid.”

You swallow. He’s still holding your hips, grip gentle but firm, like he’s worried you might bolt if he lets go.

“It’s just a date,” you say finally, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s not a big deal.”

His jaw ticks once. “A date.”

“Yeah.”

“With who?” he repeats, slower this time.

“Someone my friend introduced me to.” You shrug like it’s nothing. “He works in marketing. It’s not serious, it’s just… drinks.”

Kylian stares at you for a long second, like he’s waiting for you to laugh and say got you. When you don’t, something in his posture changes.

“He works in marketing,” he echoes flatly.

You resist the urge to fidget. “You don’t have a monopoly on my Saturday nights, you know.”

The second the words are out, you see them hit. His eyes flash, then go cool, his mouth flattening.

“Right,” he says, carefully. “Of course I don’t.”

You hate how defensive you suddenly feel. “We said this wasn’t…” you gesture vaguely between you. “whatever. We both know what this is.”

“Do we?” he asks.

You blink. “Kylian, come on.”

He lets out a short laugh, no humour in it. “I just thought, since you’re in my bed more than your own lately, maybe I get to know when you’re… when you’re seeing someone else.”

“It’s not someone else,” you say, then wince, because that sounds worse. “It’s just… someone. Once. Maybe twice.”

His grip tightens on your hips. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make heat spark low in your stomach in a way that annoys you.

“Why?” he asks simply.

You stare at him. “Why what?”

“Why do you need him?” His voice is calm, but there’s something loaded under it now. “You’ve got me.”

You laugh, startled. “You can’t be serious.”

He doesn’t laugh back.

“Kylian,” you say slowly, “you’re the one who didn’t want a relationship. You literally said the words ‘no complications’ to my face.”

“I know what I said.” He runs a hand over his jaw, frustration flickering. “I just didn’t realise ‘no complications’ meant you going out with some guy who sells shampoo.”

“He does more than shampoo,” you mutter, then groan at yourself. “That’s not the point. I’m allowed to date. You’re allowed to date. That was kind of the agreement.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped, low and rough. “And you think he’s going to be better than me?”

Your heart jumps. “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything is a competition,” he says, and it’s so very him that you almost smile.

You don’t, though, because his eyes are serious now, burning into yours.

His thumb presses a slow, deliberate circle into the dip of your hipbone, the pressure just shy of bruising. The air between you crackles, thick with the scent of his cologne and the faint metallic tang of the trophy still warm from your hands.

“Kylian,” you start, voice thinner than you want, “Come on, we’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?” He leans in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. “Talking? Or pretending you don’t want me to remind you exactly why you keep coming back?”

Your laugh comes out shaky. “You’re jealous.”

“So what?” The admission is rough, unfiltered, nothing like the polished speeches from earlier. His hand slides lower, fingers curling possessively over the curve of your ass. “Some shampoo guy gets to take you out, buys you cheap wine, and I don’t even get a heads up?”

You swallow, pulse thudding in your throat. “You don’t own me.”

“No,” he murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “but I know every inch of you better than he ever will.”

The words hit low and filthy, a spark straight to your core. You feel yourself clench, thighs pressing together instinctively. He notices, and his grin turns sharp and smug.

“See?” His voice drops to that register that always unravels you, the one he uses when he’s buried deep and whispering French against your skin. “You’re already wet just thinking about me.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but you don’t deny it. Can’t. Instead, you reach for the only weapon you have left: distraction. Your hands find his belt, fingers working the buckle with practised ease. The clink of metal is loud in the quiet room. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t stop you.

“Hey…”

“Shut up.” You sink to your knees before he can finish, the plush rug soft under your shins. You look up at him through your lashes, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way his hands hover like he’s not sure whether to pull you up or push you down.

You palm him through his trousers, feeling the thick line of him already hard and straining. “Let me congratulate you properly,” you say, voice husky. “Since you’re so desperate for attention.”

His laugh is ragged. “Fuck. Yeah I am.”

You unzip him slow, the rasp of the zipper loud in the hush. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the head already glossy with pre cum. You wrap your fingers around the base, stroking once, twice, feeling him throb hot against your palm. He’s thicker tonight, veins pulsing with the same adrenaline that had him owning the stage.

“Careful,” he warns, voice already shredded. “You start this, I’m not stopping.”

“Who said I want you to?” You lean in, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting salt and him. He groans, fingers threading into your hair, gripping tight.

You sink lower, lips stretching around the crown, taking him inch by inch until your nose brushes the trimmed hair at his base. He’s thick, filling your mouth, your throat, the stretch making your eyes water. You hollow your cheeks and suck hard, pulling back with a wet pop before diving down again, sloppy and deliberate.

“God, yes,” he hisses, head falling back. “Just like that.”

You work him with your mouth and hand in tandem, slow at first, then faster, messy, the way you know drives him insane. Saliva slicks your chin, drips down your wrist. His grip tightens in your hair, hips starting to thrust shallowly, fucking your mouth with restrained power.

But even as you take him deeper, choking slightly on the length of him, you feel his gaze burning into you. He’s not lost in it, not completely. His free hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your stretched lips.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice rough.

You look up, eyes watering, and the jealousy is still there, banked but blazing. He’s not forgotten. Not even close.

“You think he’ll ever get this?” he growls, thrusting deeper, making you gag softly. “This mouth? This throat? You on your knees for me like you were made for it?”

You moan around him, the vibration making his cock twitch. Your own arousal is soaking through your panties now, thighs slick. You’re distracting him, yes, but you’re losing yourself too.

Saliva drips down your chin, slicking your hand as you pump what your mouth can’t take. Gagging softly when he hits the back of your throat, then swallowing around him until his thighs tremble.

Kylian’s head falls back for a second, a low curse in French, but then his gaze snaps down, dark and hungry. “Dress,” he demands. “Need your tits. Now.”

You don’t stop sucking, just reach up with your free hand and yank the neckline of your dress down. The fabric catches on your bra for a second before you shove that down too. Your tits spill out, nipples already hard, bouncing slightly with the rhythm of your head.

He hisses at the sight, hips jerking forward. “Fuck, look at you.”

You pull off just long enough to swipe your thumb over the tip of his cock, gathering the fresh bead of pre cum, then smear his tip over one nipple, then the other, painting yourself shiny and obscene. The cool air hits the wet peaks and you moan, the sound vibrating around him as you take him back in.

Kylian’s grip tightens in your hair, guiding you now, fucking your mouth in shallow, filthy thrusts. “That’s it,” he pants. “Mark yourself with me. Let him smell me on you tomorrow.”

You’re dripping down your thighs, the rug rough against your knees as you shift higher, sitting up straighter so your tits bounce with every bob of your head. Spit and pre cum mix, dripping onto your chest, sliding between your breasts in slick trails.

He’s close. You feel it in the way his cock swells, the way his abs clench under the open shirt. “Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked. “Open wide, baby. Drink my cum.”

You do, pulling back until just the head is in your mouth, tongue swirling, hand pumping fast. He comes with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as the first hot spurt hits the back of your throat. You swallow what you can, but there’s too much, thick ropes overflowing, spilling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto your tits in messy, pearly streaks.

He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself dry, painting your chest until you’re glazed and filthy. When he finally pulls out, a final drop lands on your lower lip. You lick it away, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on his.

Kylian stares down at you, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and glistening. His thumb swipes through the mess on your breast, smearing it over your nipple, then brings it to your mouth. You suck it clean without hesitation.

“Still think he’s gonna be better?” he asks, voice low and dangerous, jealousy still simmering under the euphoria.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The taste of him is thick on your tongue, his cum cooling on your skin.

He hauls you up by the arms, spinning you until your back hits the wall beside the trophy shelf. Your baby glints in your peripheral, a mocking third party.

Kylian cages you in, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding under your dress to cup you through damp lace. His fingers press against your clit, circling once, and you whimper.

“Tell me,” he says, voice lethal soft, “when he kisses you goodnight, are you going to be thinking about how I taste? How I stretch this pretty pussy until you can’t walk straight?”

You arch into his touch, helpless. “I need your fingers”

“Say it.”

“Please,” you breathe, the confession torn out of you. “Please, I need you.”

Kylian’s eyes flash at your gasped plea, pupils blown wide, the brown shimmering under the low lights. In one motion he bands an arm around your waist, lifts you clean off the wall like you weigh nothing, and hurls you onto the wide sofa. You land on your back with a soft, breath stealing bounce, tits still out, streaked with his cum, glistening wet and obscene. The trophy watches from its shelf, golden and smug, catching the light like it’s laughing.

He’s on you before the air returns to your lungs, knees shoving your thighs apart with bruising force. Your dress is already bunched at your hips; with a rough yank he drags the rest of the fabric up and over your head, the cotton catching on your arms for a heartbeat before he tosses it aside like it insulted him. The bra follows, straps snapping against your skin as he rips it free with a single impatient jerk, the elastic stinging your shoulders. You’re naked now except for the ruined lace panties clinging to one ankle, soaked through and useless.

“Stay,” he orders, voice gravel and smoke. He plants one hand beside your head, forearm caging you in, veins standing out against the muscle. His watch glistens in your peripheral. The left hand slides down your sweat-slick stomach, fingers splayed wide, possessive, before two of them spear back inside you, with no warning. The stretch is immediate, brutal, perfect. You arch off the cushions with a broken cry, the leather cool and sticky against your spine.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans, pumping hard, knuckles curling to stroke that spot that makes your vision blur white at the edges. Every thrust drags over swollen, sensitive walls, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room, slick mingling with your ragged gasps. “Still dripping my cum from your tits and you’re already begging for more.”

You claw at his shoulders, nails raking the cotton of his shirt until the seams strain. “Please…”

“Say it again.” He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, the burn exquisite, your pussy fluttering around the intrusion. His thumb finds your clit, circling fast, relentless, “Tell me who this pussy answers to.”

“You,” you sob, hips bucking involuntarily, chasing the pressure. “Only you.”

“That’s fucking right.” He leans down, teeth grazing your earlobe, breath hot and humid against your skin. “Nobody else gets this. No one.”

His fingers piston faster, curling, scissoring, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with every brutal thrust. The pressure builds low and vicious, different from the usual climb, sharper, deeper, almost frightening. It coils behind your pubic bone, a hot, liquid weight that makes your thighs tremble and your toes curl against the leather.

“Kylian, I— wait.” Your voice cracks, high and desperate. “I can’t…”

“You can.” He cages you fully now, forearm braced beside your head, the other hand relentless between your legs. His bicep flexes with every pump, the heat of him radiating through his shirt. “You’re gonna give me everything tonight. Gonna squirt all over my fingers so you remember who you’re coming home to.”

The words snap something inside you. Your back bows off the sofa, spine cracking, thighs shaking violently. Then it hits, an explosive rush, hot and uncontrollable. You scream his name as you gush around his fingers, clear liquid pulsing out in messy, forceful spurts, soaking his wrist, the leather beneath you, dripping down your ass, over the floor, in warm rivulets that pool beneath your tailbone. The sensation is overwhelming, like your entire lower body is unravelling, pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

He doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through it, drawing out every shudder, every spurt, hand coated, fingers curling mercilessly until you’re limp and gasping, tears streaking your temples, chest heaving. Your pussy clenches in aftershocks, milking his fingers like it’s trying to keep him inside.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice wrecked with awe. He pulls his fingers free slowly, the drag making you whimper, and brings them to your lips. They’re slick and shining, dripping with you. You suck them clean without thinking, tongue swirling around the digits, tasting yourself, sharp, musky, mixed with the faint salt of his skin. The proof of what he does to you.

You gasp his name over and over, a desperate plea.

“Bedroom,” you gasp, remembering the rule, the condom, the one thing you both swore you’d never break. “Condom…”

“Fuck the condom,” he groans. “One time won’t hurt. I need to feel you raw. Want to fill you up until you’re dripping with me.”

The words hit like a drug. Your pussy clenching involuntarily , the thought of him bare, hot and thick and coming inside you, making something primal unfurl in your gut, a dark, hungry ache that makes your hips roll upward on instinct.

His cock is rock-hard again, jutting against your thigh, still slick from your mouth, the head flushed dark and leaking. He drags it through your soaked folds, coating himself in the mess you made, teasing your entrance with slow, deliberate nudges. Every pass over your clit makes you jerk, oversensitive and trembling, the swollen bundle of nerves sparking white-hot.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Pussy still fluttering, begging for more. You’re gonna take me raw, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you until you’re dripping with me for days.”

You nod frantically, beyond words, legs spreading wider on instinct. The leather is cold and slick beneath you now, your own release cooling against your skin, pooling beneath your ass in a sticky puddle. He lines up, the blunt head pressing against your entrance, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp.

“Beg,” he demands, voice rough, hips rolling just enough to tease. “Tell me what you need.”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea spilling out before you can stop it.

“Please what?”

“Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Please—”

The plea snaps something in him. He thrusts in to the hilt in one brutal stroke, no barrier, just heat, skin and the drag of him bare inside you. You moan loud, back arching off the sofa, the stretch exquisite and overwhelming. He’s thicker than his fingers, hotter, the veins along his shaft dragging against your walls with every inch. You feel every ridge, every pulse, the way he bottoms out, and his balls press flush against your ass.

“Fuck,” he groans, stilling for a moment, buried to the root, forehead dropping to yours. “So tight. So good. Can feel you squeezing me already.”

Then he moves, hard and fast, hips snapping with the same precision he uses on the pitch. Each thrust punches the air from your lungs, the sofa creaking beneath you, leather sticking to your sweat-slick back. His hand finds your throat, slightly squeezing, just holding, thumb pressing over your pulse so he can feel it race.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, voice shredded, hips grinding deep on every downstroke, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each punishing roll. “Gonna pump you so full you’ll feel me for days. I need my cum inside you.”

You’re beyond words, nodding frantically, nails raking down his back through his shirt, leaving red trails that burn under the cotton. He shifts his angle, the blunt crown dragging hard over that swollen spot inside you — once, twice — and the pressure snaps like a live wire. Your orgasm barrels through you, violent and unrelenting. Your back bows off the leather, hips jerking so hard the force of your clenching pussy pushes him clean out with a wet, filthy pop. A fresh gush of slick sprays across his lower abs, dripping down his shaft in messy rivulets.

Kylian hisses, eyes blown black, cock bobbing heavy and slick in the air between you. “Fuck, look at that,” he moans, voice raw with awe. “Pushed me out like you can’t take it. But I know you will.”

He grips the base of his cock, lines up, and slams back in, one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs. Your walls fluttering wildly around the sudden invasion, still spasming from the aftershocks. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. Just sets a relentless rhythm, hips snapping, balls slapping against your soaked ass with every drive. The sofa creaks beneath you, leather sticking to your sweat-slick back, the room echoing with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.

Your thighs tremble around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He drops his weight onto one forearm beside your head, the other hand sliding between you to find your clit, swollen, sensitive. His thumb circles slow at first, deliberate, spreading your slick over the bundle of nerves until you’re whimpering, hips rolling to chase the pressure.

“Ky-” It’s a broken sob, your voice cracking on the second syllable.

“Not yet,” he murmurs against your temple, breath hot. “Hold it. Let it build.”

He slows his thrusts, grinding deep on every stroke, the head of his cock dragging over that spot again and again, deliberate and maddening. Ten strokes - slow, filthy, each one dragging a whimper from your throat. Twenty. Your pussy flutters around him, greedy, trying to pull him deeper. Thirty strokes, and sweat beads on his temples, dripping onto your chest, mixing with the mess already streaking your skin. His shirt clings to his back, damp and rumpled, the fabric rough against your nipples as he leans down to suck a bruise into the swell of your breast.

Fifty strokes, and you’re shaking, the pressure coiling low and vicious, heavier with every drag of his cock. He feels it, the way your walls start to ripple, the subtle tightening that tells him you’re close again. His hips stutter, then steady, grinding deeper.

“Fuck, I feel you,” he groans, voice cracking. “Squeezing me so tight. I’m gonna cum, baby. Gonna fill this pussy.”

Your legs snap around his waist, heels locking at the small of his back, pulling him impossibly deep. “Inside,” you gasp, the word torn from you. “Cum inside me.”

Your words snap something inside him. He buries himself to the root with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as the first hot spurt floods you. You feel it, thick, pulsing, the warmth spreading low and heavy in your belly. The sensation tips you over. Your second orgasm crashes through you, slower but deeper, your walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses, milking every drop from him. Another flood of slick gushes around his cock, soaking the leather beneath you.

You come together, bodies locked, his cock twitching with every rope of cum, your pussy fluttering in perfect sync. He keeps thrusting through it, shallow, filthy, pushing his cum deeper, drawing out every shudder, every clench. Only when you’re both limp and trembling does he still, cock still half-hard and plugged inside you, cum leaking out around his base, slick and white, dripping down your ass to join the mess on the sofa.

He collapses half on top of you, both of you panting, sweat slick and trembling. The air is thick with sex. The scent of leather, his cologne, your perfume, your combined release. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling.

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

Then he presses a kiss to your temple, soft, almost tender. “Stay with me,” he murmurs against your skin.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The weight of what just happened settles between you like the trophy on the shelf — undeniable, gleaming, impossible to ignore.

You both know what this means.

Neither of you says it.

jkkyks

Midnight’s Alibi💋

Content : heat x smut x confession

Kylian is definitely being Kylian here. wink wink

You’d been part of Real Madrid for almost three years now, not a player, not part of coaching staff, but somehow the team treated you like you were both.

You were the main counselor and appointment coordinator for the club, the one who managed schedules, handled their personal requests, sorted conflicts, soothed egos, encouraged them before big matches, and occasionally made them breathe through panic or disappointment.

lilskippity

beef.

Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much. simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but there’s verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words] based off of this request!

Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.

Doesn’t understand why you’re perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your boot’s sole.

Not that he cares; it’s only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever he’s busy tracking a target down his scope.

Better not miss, Lt.

Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.

Don’t tell me you’re getting rusty, Lt?

A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when you’re both on base– when the verbal pettiness turns physical.

theorist-fox

yandere-daydreams

Title: Dress-Up.

Pairing: Yandere!Tim Drake x Reader (DC).

Commissioned by the very lovely @distortedhumor.

Word Count: 4.0k.

TW: Non/Con, Prolonged Captivity, Obsessive/Controlling Behavior, Mentions of Stalking, Mirror Sex, and Voyeurism.

It felt like you were wearing agony.

You’d been trying to ignore it all night, ever since he came home with that love-struck smile on his face and a package donning the name of some high-end brand. A pure silk slip: cut on the bias, subjected to all the most expensive treatments, and tight as a bear trap. The fiber seemed to rub your skin raw, too smooth not to cause friction, while the straps hung limp off of your shoulders, never staying where they ought to. The sweetheart neckline plunged deep enough to have you in a state of constant readjustment, always tugging upward, while the skirt’s hem barely came to your upper thighs, leaving you terrified to roll over or stretch at risk of losing that much more of your modesty.

The color was the worst part – a bright artificial red, as unnatural as candied apples or overly oxygenated blood. His red.

Tim’s red.

yandere-daydreams

The Yandere!Demon Brothers’ Darkest Fantasies.

TW: Graphic Violence, (Imagined) Non-Con, Power-Play, Master/Servant Dynamics, Dub-Con, Mentions of Masturbation, Mentions of Blood/Bruising, and General Unhealthy Mindsets All Around.

Lucifer wants you to bow to him.

Out of everyone on the list, he does the least to hide his fantasies, regardless of how depraved or dubious or down-right disgusting they get. Why would he? There are only a handful of people stronger than him, more capable than him, and when it’s so clear that you’re so weak and feeble and in such desperate need of guidance, he hardly feels the need to wait for you to ask. It borders on pet-play, honestly, if only because he’s so quick to pull out a collar the first time you puff out your cheeks and refuse to get on your knees when he was nice enough to order around you politely.

It’s all about control for him, or rather, the reassurance that he’s the one who has it. The knowledge that he’s the strongest, the most responsible, and that he deserves to be in charge, even if things tend to get bloody under his command. He’ll make you say such awful things, telling you exactly what he wants to hear as the heel of his boot digs into your bare spine, keeping your chest pressed against the floor while you sing his praises and drag your own name through the mud, confessing every rash, irresponsible thing you’ve ever done in an effort to distract him from the whip that never seems to leave his hand. He knows what it’s like to be treated as something holy, what it’s like to be revered rather than feared, and he doesn’t want to stop pushing until you look at him with the same admiration, the same unadulterated love he used to be showered in.

And if you don’t, if you won’t, he’ll be happy to break you down until you don’t have another choice. Obedience is a close second to reverence, and Lucifer has enough toys to make either a viable option.

Mammon wants to keep you to himself.

It’s a natural progression, honestly. He’s your first, he’s your man, and you’re his human, his responsibility, the most useless treasure in his collection and the only one that truly, genuinely matters to him. For now, he can wrap an arm around your waist, narrow his eyes and keep any potential rivals at a distance, but he can’t do anything to keep away his own brothers. Baring his teeth and sharpening his claws feels childish when all you do is smile and tell him not to be so jealous. Everything he does feels pointless when you can just laugh and run off with the first person to pull you away from him. You make it pointless. You are pointless, you should just be lucky he wants you anyway.

It’d be so simple, too, so easy to just close the door to his room and not open it again, not until you’re chained to something too tight to slip out of. No one would be able to get their hands on you, no one would be able to take you away, it’d just be you and him and no one else, not if he can help it. You’d be his to ruin, his to care for, his to dote on or discipline or do whatever he pleases to, whenever he wants to. It’d be heaven for him, and… it wouldn’t be, for you.

That’s part of the fantasy, and he hates it. He doesn’t want to be cruel to you, he doesn’t want to see you cry because of him, and yet, all he wants to do is polish his newest addition until it’s as shiny and as his as the rest of his hoard. He wants not to care when you cry, he wants to look down at your shaking body and he wants to laugh, to sneer, to tell you that this is your fault and you have no one to blame but yourself. Maybe he wants to be more apathetic, maybe he just wants to stop being so hesitant, but what he wants seems to be less important than what he’s starting to need. If the number of ‘packages’ he’s been getting is any indication, I wouldn’t count on his reluctance lasting for much longer.

Leviathan wants you to make him cry.

He’s not a masochist. Or, he is a masochist, but not in the way you’d assume. Leviathan doesn’t bother pretending to be confident. He doesn’t act like he has all the self-esteem in the world, and he doesn’t try to hide his (admittedly poor) view of his lifestyle. That might be why he loses his composure whenever you compliment him, why he stutters and blushes and gets so awkward when you try to tell him that you like the way he is, that you love him for it. That you don’t mind.

It’s an awful, unhealthy part of himself that wants you to say otherwise. To contradict yourself, to smirk and shove him onto your bed and say you couldn’t find him more disgusting, that you’ve never known someone so pathetic. Maybe it’s just a depraved daydream, a desire to have his worst fears proven right by the person he loves most, or maybe, he just likes the image of you riding him into overstimulation as you make him thank you for taking pity on someone so hopeless, maybe he just likes to imagine the feeling of your hands around his neck, your grip tightening every time his gaze falls lower than your eyes. He has a whole list of names for you to call him, insults ranging from ‘pervert’ to ‘drain on society’, but he’d never tell that to you. No, he can barely bring himself to think about this kind of stuff, let alone say any of it outloud.

All he can do is let his touch wander whenever he hugs you, let his fingers brush against things they shouldn’t and leave them to linger for far too long for his actions to be taken as an innocent mistake. He isn’t sure whether he’s trying to push you to hate him, trying to really make his fantasy into a reality, or if he just wants you to get the message that he wants something more intimate, something more violent. Either way, he’s started leaving his door unlocked when his mind begins to wander. Open, sometimes, if it’s just the two of you home. Just hope your room isn’t too close to his. He tends to get… explicit, when he’s feeling passionate.

Satan wants to show everyone who you belong to.

His fantasy is one of the most depraved, if only because it barely has anything to do with you. No, it’d only be fitting for the Avatar of Wrath’s favorite daydream to be centered around something more possessive, something more domineering, something totally and utterly separate from the person he loves. You’re not replaceable, it has to be you for him to care to put in the effort, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to check whether or not you’re enjoying yourself when he bends you over the dining room table in the middle of breakfast, for no other reason than Asmodeus commented on your outfit and Beelzebub offered to carry your bag and neither of them should be doing so much as looking at you when he’s right there, when it’s so clear that you belong to someone and that he doesn’t want to share.

On the outside, his self-control is as impeccable as always, but he’d be lying if said his hand didn’t twitch every time Mammon stood a little too close, every time Leviathan scraped up the courage to talk to you. He’s so strong, too, and you’re so, so weak, it wouldn’t even be a fair fight. He could cage you against a bookshelf or throw you onto a countertop and what would you do? Try to push him away? Scream for help? An audience is what he wants, what he craves, a crowd of anyone and everyone who’s ever touched you to watch as you beg for him to stop and moan his name and cry as you cum, even if he has to get a little messier than he’d like, for that. Risky sex might come close to scratching his itch, but the risk of being caught and making a show of something so private are two different vices entirely. You’ll be lucky if it does anything but make him bolder, more blatant with his plans. He takes after Lucifer, in that regard. He doesn’t know why he’d try to hide it.

As far as he’s concerned, he owns you, and you’ve only got yourself to blame if you haven’t realized that yet. It’s only fair that he gets to mark what’s his, as plainly and as publicly as possible.

Asmodeus wants you to say ‘no’ to him.

Do I really have to say anything else? He’s so tired of seduction, so sick of glazed eyes and glossy lips and people so intoxicated by his presence, they’re practically tripping over themselves just to feel the heels of his boots press into their backs as he walks over them. It’s not that he wants a chase, he’s always been a pacifist at heart, and he’d rather not have to resort to any unsavory means, he’s just bored and feed-up and he wants something new, even if it’s only fun for him.

It doesn’t help that he’s terrible at holding himself back. He’s good at hiding his true feelings (he’s already so touchy, it gets hard to tell what’s innocent and what’s not), but it’s impossible not to notice how fond he’s become of admiring your wrists, buying you bracelets so thick and so heavy, you can hardly hold them up. You can’t ignore it when he takes a moment too long to pull away when you tell him you want space, or just how hesitant he seems to let you go after ‘playfully’ pinning you to his bed. He wants to keep going. He wants to see the light drain from your eyes as you realize he’s not going to stop, to feel you writhe and struggle and try to get away, to hear you scream your safeword and to ignore it, to not care than you don’t want him. He doesn’t want to make you suffer, not any more than he has to, but his heart never fails to beat a little faster when he pictures it, and he gets more excited than he’s been in centuries by the thought alone.

If anything, you should feel honored. It’s been so long since he wanted something so specific, someone so specific, he almost forgot what it was like to lust for rather than be lusted after. I’d say he’s unprepared for it, but Asmodeus is hard to catch off-guard, and this just so happens to be his area of expertise. He has a way of getting what he wants, even if he has to make things a little difficult for everyone else.

Beelzebub wants to see how far you bend.

You really can’t blame him for being curious. It’s more of an intrusive thought than a fantasy, something he can’t help but think about, not once he realizes how strong he is and how resilient you aren’t. And, unlike the others, his fantasy has a specific catalyst, a real, substantial reason for its existence. He’d just been holding your hand, his grip still bordering on loose, but your fingers had cracked under his like glass under a bulldozer. It was just a sprain, something Simeon had healed with a contemplative glance and a flick of his wrist, but it stuck with Beelzebub. It stuck with him and god, he wishes it hadn’t.

He can’t help the places his mind wanders to. He can’t stop himself, not once he starts wondering what it’d be like if he was just a little bit bigger and you were just a little bit smaller and he cared a lot less about hurting you than he does, in reality. You’d be so tight, warm and welcoming and so easily broken if he does so much as breaths on you the wrong way, and you’d look so pretty afterward, too sore to move without his help and absolutely covered in bruises and bitemarks he didn’t even have to try to leave.

The aftercare is the only part he doesn’t mind wanting. At least it’s softer than the rest of it, full of kisses and snacks and touches so light, he can almost pretend he hadn’t just imagined fucking you until your ribs caved in under his palms. He’s mapped out every ugly, tender mark he’d leave, every place you’d ache and throb, every minute of your recovery - every second it’d take you to get well enough for him to do it all over again. Maybe he’ll even call in a favor, bow his head and swallow his shame for just long enough to have someone who’s got a hand for healing on stand-by so he wouldn’t have to wait, but he never lets his mind drift that far. He’s too busy trying to convince himself he still doesn’t want to hurt you.

Belphegor wants to take advantage of your trust.

Unlike his twin, Belphegor wishes he just wants to hurt you. Pain is simple, or, physical pain is simple, anyway. He could tell himself it’s because you’re human, that hating you is just an old habit he hasn’t kicked. He’d pinch your cheeks and pull at your hair and he’d try to be satisfied with that, he’d tell himself he doesn’t want anything more. He’d be lying to himself, of course, but it’d still be an honest effort. Unfortunately, what he wants isn’t that clear-cut. It isn’t that shallow, and that’s why he has to hate himself for it.

Maybe it arose the first time you fell asleep before him, when you were so vulnerable and exposed and so helpless he had to wonder whether or not you had a deathwish. Or how at-peace you seem during his rare shows of affection, as if the talons tracing patterns into your skin couldn’t easily dig in and pull at the slightest hint of a threat. You’re so comfortable around him, so careless, you need to be taught a lesson and he needs to teach it to you. On good days, it’s almost innocent. Groping you while you’re only half-awake, letting his hand trail up your thigh during a council meeting because he knows you’re too nice to say anything. On bad days, on most days, he’s fucking his fist to the thought of holding you down while someone you like much less than him does something vile to your anatomy, only offering the barest hints of comfort when your crying gets loud enough to be annoying.

You trust him, and the worst part is, you’ll probably still trust him when he’s done. He’s been forgiven for worse, and that’s what gets him off, the idea that you’ll still look at him like the closest friend you’ve ever had the moment he averts his eyes and offers a half-hearted apology, saying he’s grown, that he just had to get it out of his system, that he won’t do it again even though he absolutely, definitely will. And you’ll believe him, because somehow, you still trust him. Because you’re always going to trust him.

Because he’s prepared to bleed you dry until you don’t know how to do anything but trust him, anymore.

siminnmsis

Found in translation | Soap MacTavish.

Pairing: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish X Reader.

Summary: Soap and reader bound over language and odd sayings.

Warnings: none, it's just fluff, can be interpreted as platonic.

___________________________________________________________________________

"Hen? Like a chicken? "

A hearty laugh fell from his lips but stopped quickly when he winced in pain, folding over with his hand on his chest.

Calm and kind to a fault, she helped him settle back slowly on the makeshift bed and continued cleaning his wound. A stab wound, not enough to kill but definitely painful, made by an amateur mercenary, graced sergeant Soap's muscular chest. If anything, the sergeant felt grateful, as a strategist she did not have to play medic after hours but she was nice enough to share what little medical skills she had with the team and Soap would lie if he said he didn't like her playing nurse with him.

Now, loving and caring as she was, he felt like a term of endearment wouldn't be out of place, but that was without counting on the language barrier; him and his heavy Scottish accent, her and her literal, too-polite English she learned as a second language.

Keen on fixing the miscommunication while she put the last of gauze on his wound, he explained " no, like honey or sweetheart...you know".

Oh he hoped she didn't mind the steps he was taking toward her, but she didn't look mad in the slightest, if anything she looked pensive. Finally she smiled warmly at him " I understand, for a moment I thought you meant it as in coward"

"Never in this life or the other, lass"

They already went through the word "lass" last week and "bairn" the week before.

"Does it sound weird to you?" He asked curiously.

She fixed the last piece of adhesive bandage before removing her gloves and gesturing for him to get dressed.

"Not at all," then she thought for a second while bringing a stool close to where he was sitting "in my country, when you really love someone, of unconditional and unlimited love, you don't call them your heart" she leaned forward with a conspirating look and a mischievous grin, and Soap found himself leaning too, impatient to hear what she had to say "you call them your liver"

He laughed again, this time boundless and free of pain.

Anyone else enamored with the way he talks to the mother box?

#it's so tender and sweet #turn me on a little ain't gon lie #dc comics #victor stone #cyborg #mother box #dc cyborg

delavegaaaaa

I’ve had some drinks sooooooooo

I want Jason Todd to stuff me like a goddamn thanksgiving turkey, dressing and all. Cover me in cum and fuck me till my voice is gone. I want that man to glaze my face till Kristy Kreme hires me as the donut instead. I need him to fuck me like the hates the fact he’s in love with me. I want him to choke me, spit on me and in my mouth, and pound me until he’s so guilt ridden he can’t even look at me.

The list of things I NEED Jason Todd to do me is so diabolical I won’t even be flagged, I’ll just wake up to my account gone.

hoodzgyal

jason todd, who moans like a pornstar. first they're raspy and deep, the kind you'd expect from a burly man who drives a motorcycle. but as he gets closer to the sweet taste of release, the noises become pitchy, almost whining. he's embarrassed by how easy he sounds; the way a well placed nip of your teeth can pull a broken, whiny noise from the man's throat, no matter the length he goes to hide it.

jason todd, who can't shut the fuck up when he's inside you. it's like his brain shuts down; he's unable to stop himself from saying "you look so pretty like this, ma," when he's folding you in half, his lips between his teeth like it'll keep the sound of low, broken whimpers from leaving his throat. it never does.

jason todd, who underestimated how much he'd end up liking the feeling of your hands wrapped around his neck, just barely providing a hint of pressure. something about it just makes his mind feel fuzzy with pleasure, like nothing matters but the feeling of your fingers on his skin and the feeling of being inside you.

jason todd, who wants you to smack him around a little during sex. you're riding him, hips slamming down over his in a sweet rhythm. yet it's not enough; he's perilously close to the edge, but jason just needs... needs... "hit me," he babbles from beneath you, his brows furrowed in flustered frustration, "hit me, ma."

your hips stutter as you cock your head, murmuring a low, "what?"

"hit me, i... i need--" he groans in quiet frustration, "smack me, baby, please."

and ever one to please, you do.

the moan jason lets out is sinful. its a broken, needy thing; the kind of sound you want to keep for yourself alone, like a treasured secret.

jason todd, who is a secret mashochist.

cherienymphe

Regrets of Yesterday (Steve Rogers x Reader)

WARNINGS: arranged marriage, infidelity? (does it still count if all parties are consenting?), mafia!Steve, side of Bucky x reader, jealous!Steve, eventual NON-CON, Steve’s an ass

DNI IF ANY OF THIS OFFENDS YOU

➥ {page breaks done by @whimsicalrogers}

➥ This will be a short 3 part series ➥ part 2

summary: your arranged marriage to the infamous Steve Rogers isn’t what you initially thought it would be, but things have worked out better than you could have imagined. However, your arrangement with your husband becomes complicated when feelings, and circumstances, that neither of you anticipated come into play.

Keep reading

cherienymphe

The Cabin in the Woods

Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Thor Odinson x Reader

Summary: Another year, another Purge spent at Bucky's cabin has you questioning your sanity when you think your best friends want to kill you.

Warnings: NON-CON, g*ngbang, The Purge AU

🕸 HAPPY HALLOWEEN 🕸

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies

silverlullabies

OlderRoommate!Price who had no interest in fucking you until he finds out no one has ever made you cum before.

He was content being the older, reliable roommate, paying his portion of the rent on time, letting you wear his shirts and steal his coffee, smirking when you padded around in tiny shorts. But then you let it slip: nobody’s ever made me come before. And something in him twists, ugly and possessive and deeply, shamefully pleased.

That night he can’t sleep. All he can think about is your pretty face twisted up, begging, all for him. He pictures you squirming, helpless, soaked just because he says so. By morning he’s so hard he’s considering fucking his fist, but then he hears you in the kitchen, yawning, not a clue how close you are to being devoured.

When he finally gets you into bed, he’s shameless about it, soaked in satisfaction as he drags his mouth down your body, fingers and tongue everywhere, not just to make you cum, but to watch how messy you get, to hear the sounds you make when he won’t stop, even when you’re shaking. He strokes you over your panties, lazy and greedy, lips at your ear. “Christ, that’s pretty. Been missing’ this, have you?”

You nod, cheeks burning. He slides your panties aside, runs two thick fingers through your slick, then brings them to his lips, sucking them slow, groans like a man tasting a vintage he bought at auction.

He eats you out like he’s starving, rough and messy, lapping and sucking, not stopping when your thighs clamp around his head, not even slowing when you sob his name. When you finally break; shaking, gasping, your whole body bucking, he keeps going, tongue mean, greedy for every drop, every twitch, every broken sound. “That’s it, sweetheart. Give it to me. I want to see you cry for it.”

You come again and again, and each time he’s filthier, hungrier, holding you down, sucking your clit until you’re limp, drool on your chin, voice gone raw. When he finally stands, he doesn’t even let you recover. He flips you on your stomach and pushes into you hard, bottoming out so deep you choke on a moan.

“Christ alive, listen to you,” he groans, rutting in slow, heavy strokes. “Tight little cunt- no wonder the boys tapped out before the job was done.”

He kept you there and used you; angle nailed to the spot that emptied your head, thumb back on your clit because he wanted you milking him when he lost it. You clawed the sheets, babbling, mindless; he only sounded, darker, hungrier. “That’s it. Take it. Make a mess on me. Let the whole damn building hear what you’ve been missin’, sweetheart.”

He pounds you through another orgasm, then another, never stopping, never gentle. He’s insatiable, greedy, grinding out his own pleasure and loving every ruined sound you make, every sob and plead, every helpless, fucked out whimper.

When he finally spills inside you, he stays buried, chest heaving, mouth filthy at your ear “Right. From now on, if you’re in my bed, you finish. Every time. And you thank me proper.”

You swallowed, wrecked and smiling. “Thank you, sir.”

He smirked, wicked and pleased. “Good girl.” A kiss to your shoulder. “Not a one off, by the way,” he added, casual while he tucked your knickers back into his pocket. “Consider it… a standing arrangement.”

ohcaptains

HELL YEAH !!

crucifihx

𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐅𝐌𝐀𝐒!

&&&. dilf!dick grayson, dilf!jason todd

❪ W. COUNT! ❫ — 11.1k

❪ C. WARNINGS! ❫ — gn!afab!lawyer!reader is in their mid-30s, reader is depicted to be pent-up and a workaholic, “we saw you across the bar and we dig your vibe” trope-ish, no (y/n)s, no gendered terms for reader, PRAISE, bit of cucking (?), bit of exhibitionism (?) if you squint, jason has a daddy knk while dick has a sir knk, double stuffed, implied hickeys but no descriptors, oral (m & reader receiving), dacryphilia, power play, creampes, overstimulation, pet names used are little one, doll, pretty, and birdy, multiple o's for reader, implied choking

❪ A. NOTE! ❫ — since y’all loved dilf!jason so much, i’m treating you to a first-class trip to paris. ( - ᴗ •́ ) i got a little bit carried away, so... merry dilfmas everyone!

this blog makes content for 20+ audiences only. please proceed with caution.

When Jason and Dick had separated from their partners, who took their kids with them, they figured that they wouldn’t be too attractive as long-term partners. Although Dick had long retired from being Nightwing and took over Wayne Enterprises—keeping the throne warm for Tim and Damian, he’d joke—his instincts as a protector and fighter still stayed with him.

Jason’s not so lucky. He’s still got an iron grip in the underworld of Gotham, now leading an entire operation from the shadows still as the Red Hood. He’d accidentally knocked up someone while in his 30s, and now he’s paying child support for a daughter he’s apparently not allowed to meet. That’s more than enough to convince him that he’s never going to find true love, that he’s truly his father’s son.

Dick is sure that Jason has a confidence problem—he’s always had it, he claims—and he’s more than ready to build up his younger brother. They’re both attractive, he keeps telling Jason, there’s nothing wrong with lavishing in the attention of someone else, even if temporary. Jason being Jason, he’s someone who prefers to go the whole nine yards of romancing a potential partner before getting down and dirty. Dick tells him he needs to let loose and relax. Jason tells him to shove 'one of his old sticks’ up his ass.

siminlibrary

Peeping Tom. [A Batman transformative work]

*The author's barely disguised fetish.*

~Batman spend all of his time snooping around Gotham, he was bound to see something he wasn't meant to see.

Or; in which Batman plays at being a peeping tom.

~CW: Suggestive content, voyeurism, female character didn't give consent but assume she Don't mind, Perv!Batman, not smut but still a little dirty.

Header by the very talented @bronzewasp

In the last days of August, the nights in Gotham felt like being stuck in an oven. The fumes from the nighttime activities, cars, and restaurants in the most populated parts of the city made some neighborhoods suffocating.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Miya's library