riot

☆ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹ are you real?

. masterlists. rules / tag system ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

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⠀☆ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹ am i dreaming again? ⠀⠀⠀⠀

i can never tell.

. will i wake up soon? ☆ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⊹

leon kennedy loved when you held him.

he’d come home—exhausted, filthy, always looking a little older than he did the day before—and exist in a routine that felt like a habit or memory than it did a necessity. like taking care of himself, despite wringing himself dry for others, was more difficult and more of an inconvenience than a growling zombie.

then, you’d coax him into bed, all warm smiles and the scent of sugar. he’d hesitate, knowing that there was still things to do—the ac sounded funny, the shelf you ordered still needed to be built—but you’d shake your head, hands reaching for him so enticingly.

he’d lay down, swept beneath the covers. it embarrassed him sometimes, especially on his rougher emotional days, but his tired days, he just simply let himself exist. he felt your arms loop around him, the nails of one hand gently dragging up and down his back, the other shifting through his slightly damp hair.

his head stayed beneath your chin, massive arms coiled around you. he felt one of your legs settle over his body, your warmth permeating his clothes. leon breathed slowly, the soft drag of your nails against his skin and scalp making his eyelids heavy.

he was a strong man, built and immune to much due to years in the field, years of putting his life on the line, years of fighting against a world that seemed to want nothing but misery and anguish for him.

he won that fight.

the proof rested within a humble home in the woods, a crackling fireplace, and the woman he loved holding him like he was the only thing that mattered.

hi sweetheart, my reqs are closed but don’t be afraid, i have several in the drafts rn!! 🫡

today’s trial was simple.

a unanimous vote—two killers, eight survivors.

the entity clicked and grumbled, black foggy tendrils circling your waist and depositing you in the woods. you saw the survivors’ camp, the sad fire they’d built as a source of warmth, probably the first bout of heat they’d had in a while.

you tensed at the eerie shuffling of feet behind you and the pause in motion, eyes barely shifting back to greet the ghostface.

danny johnson loved getting paired with you.

the soft huff you’d release upon seeing him, the way you twisted your dual flails in your hands before strapping them on your back.

“don’t you just love when ol’ entity puts us together, sweetness?” he cooed as he leapt over, arms tossing over your shoulders. the hard plastic of his mask dug into your shoulder, “must be hungry…”

you turned your head when he lifted his mask, the symbolic face hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. danny had such a pretty face.

dark hair, tan skin, eyes that swirled with serene insanity and a flicker of love that he only had for you.

his knife pressed into your thigh from its holster, his gloved hands redirecting your attention back to him. “you never come see me when we’re all resting,” he pouted, “poor trapper misses his friend, y’know?”

“do you?” you quietly asked, feeling the leather of his gloves brush lovingly against your cheek. danny grinned, all teeth and sparkling eyes, “i always miss my girl.”

you heard the survivors shriek, gaze shifting from a now jealous ghostie to their terrified faces. “who you wantin’, lovie?” he asked, voice dipping into something colder, something secure, “know you’ve got rules for me.”

“i want her,” you murmured, recognizing the way she held herself in fear, the way her irises trembled, “she’s…new.”

“you’re so cute,” he laughed, watching them fuss over medkits versus flashlights, “so kind to the newbies. so sweet.” you flinched when his tongue dragged over a healed bite mark—his, of course—mask falling back over his features.

“got any tips for me, honey? know i got a real special one for you—“

“watch the pallets,” you mused, playfully flicking his mask as the black fog curled at your boots, “you always get hit.” danny’s shoulders dropped, lovesickness visible even when he was disguised in full attire.

his voice was swept away by the entity, and you reappeared within the walls of the raccoon city police department. you always hated this place—too many corners, endless hallways, the stench of rotted flesh.

but you had a job to do.

the entity hungers.

three hooks, two dead, three generators left.

not bad.

you’d held the hand of one, watching as the entity pried her body from the hook. you wiped the tears of another, their body limp in your lap. you’d turned away when you saw danny sat upon the spine of another, camera angled to capture their exhausted expressions.

you were in pursuit, watching poor, new survivor feng min scrabble around the offices and vault through broken windows. she dropped a pallet, and your flails shattered the wood with little to no issue.

you hoped danny was having better luck.

“get away!” she cried, standing on the opposite end of a broken table, “please..”

you tilted your head, propping the wooden sticks of your flails on your shoulders, spiked steel balls clinking behind your back. you hated when they begged.

you stared.

she wept.

then, you heard the soft rustle of a cloak.

“get out,” you muttered, “i told you i wanted her.”

he emerged next to you, knife and mask slick with blood. feng min shakily breathed, her only defense a pallet that rested idly next to you. you were sure the other two were on generators, until danny raised a gloved hand:

“3, 2, 1…” he counted off slowly.

a loud tome sounded through the trial, and you heard the distant whispers of an opened hatch.

she was the last alive.

you scanned her shaking body, frowning slowly when she began to round the table. danny watched you as he backed away, hidden eyes surely glimmering with amusement.

he always loved to watch you work.

the spikes clattered against the floor, soft sparks pricking the air. “let me leave, let me leave,” she whimpered, bloody hands gripping the front of her shirt.

you dashed.

your flail embedded itself into her skin.

“i’m sorry, i know it hurts,” you whispered.

she fell to the ground, sobbing as you dragged her across the filthy floors of the department. danny followed, quiet yet proud, pausing in confusion when you passed a hook.

feng min had stopped fighting.

you followed the whispers, the shift in the air—there. the silver hatch, black fog bubbling from it as you neared it.

feng min crawled to it, crying when you tore your weapon from her skin. your hands gently ran along her back, helping her shift pathetically to the inky exit. she turned back, breathing heavy and uneven as she observed danny prop himself against the doorframe, watching with something she couldn’t quite decipher. you stood over her beaten and shredded body, boot holding the hatch open.

“go.”

“can…” she coughed, “can i get you every time?”

you stared, cold heart aching.

she smiled weakly, “your hands are warm.”

she fell into the abyss, the hatch closing harshly upon her departure. the silence was broken by danny’s slow claps, and you flinched when he slammed you against the wall.

splintered wood dug into your spine, his gloved hand secure around your throat.

“you drive me fuckin’ insane.”

“i didn’t do anything,” you whispered, flails dropping to the stone next to you.

“blood all over you, spare dagger strapped to your thigh, yet you’re still the nicest person in this trial,” he murmured, voice laden with desire, “you’re cute. savin’ a pathetic little thing like her.”

“you wished i’d killed her,” you smiled.

“you robbed me of a proper show, lovie,” he whined, feeling the entity creep nearby, “gonna make it up to me later?”

you nodded, breathy when his hand tightened around your neck.

“might submit a request,” danny kissed your cheek, lips brushing over your ear, “ask big guy to put us together all the time.”

he giggled, tongue dragging over the dotted blood on your cheek, “might fuck you into the ground after every trial…how’s that sound?”

“good.”

you never imagined the day that daredevil himself would be in your mortuary.

alive, to your dismay. you really wanted to cut him open—see what made him tick. maybe run samples to see how the hell he could do what he did.

but, you knew why he was here.

he had a dead man in tow, a bled-out witness who yanked a business card—yours—from his pocket and shoved it into his hands before croaking.

stupid dex, your mind conjured, an irritating fondness filling your bones. the kill was flawless, on the mark, that is, but the witness was messy. you’d taught him arteries and severe points better than that, taught him how to exsanguinate quickest—and this is what he did? blood dripped onto the floor, nothing you hadn’t experienced before, but it was annoying.

you had just cleaned.

you gnawed on the inside of your cheek, keeping your expression schooled into its usual boredness and unimpressed glamor, “can i help you?”

“following a lead,” he explained, showing you the card the victim had given him. you stayed quiet, tilting your head as if to make him go on.

“bullseye,” he spat, disdain coating his voice. you fought a grin, glancing down when he rummaged in his suit, procuring a small knife.

“i understand if this isn’t your expertise, but i was hoping you could examine it—“ daredevil, matthew, gently lowered the dead man, barely reacting to the growing pool of blood.

you raised a hand, eyes flicking to the window.

he was watching.

a 𖣠 gift

you trailed your fingers along the blade, ignoring the way matt tensed when you lifted it. you seemed indifferent to it, unaffected by the blood pooling at your shoes—familiar. he waited, patient as always, as you balanced the knife on a finger.

“you’ve seen these knives before,” he calmly spoke, and you lifted your gaze. you shrugged, flipping it in the air and catching it in the other hand, “usually say somethin’ different for me. how’d you get this?”

his head tilted, slight and quick, pondering.

“you are acquainted,” matt’s arms crossed, his suit flexing with his biceps—he was visibly angry, yet he had to keep his cool. you were a valuable lead, one that could produce worthwhile results. as you watched his body speak for him, you had to admit, he was—

swip.

you didn’t even flinch as another knife embedded itself in the wooden frame. the corner of your lips twitched, it was as if dex knew exactly what you were about to think. matt’s head jerked to the window, reaching for you and yanking you to a closed off area. you swept the knife from the bark as you went, fingers tracing the words:

try 𖣠 again

matt took the blade from you, confusedly glaring at it, “what does that mean?” you bit your lip, amused as you glanced out the barely visible window. you saw a dark outline, huge and lurking, lips curling up slightly.

“he wants you to re-guess our bond, matt.”

his head snapped up to you, disbelief shrouding his figure. “tell me where he is,” he spat angrily, and you grinned so playfully it made a stalking dex’s heart race. “he’s right here,” you cooed mockingly, fingers tracing around your heart.

matt pocketed the knives, presumably listening for dex’s heartbeat as he launched himself out of the shattered window. you lifted a hand to your ear, pressing the clear line behind it. you heard his breathing, the soft pants of air as he sprinted, “you’re real cute.”

“what? can’t let the guy think he’s got a chance.”

“could’ve let me stall a little more. needed more info,” you grumbled as your boot nudged the corpse in the room, “what to do with you…”

“i’ll clean him up, baby,” dex groaned, a loud crash making you wince, “don’t get your pretty hands dirty.”

“you just don’t want me to touch another man.”

“yeah, well,” he laughed, “that, too.”

a slow smile crept across your lips, the gentle thrum of your mutation lifting the body, “he’s dead, dexy. in case you forgot.”

“i remember, sweet thing,” he whispered, “you looked so pretty with his blood on you.”

you transported the body to the furnace, whispering a soft prayer as the flames rose to meet his flesh. you hummed quietly, boots splashing across the puddles of blood as you swayed through the room.

“gonna make it up to you when i’m home,” dex promised, “swear it.”

“mm,” you mused, “i’m having so much fun playin’ with matty, though..”

“i’ll kill him.”

you smiled, arms stretching across the metal operating table. your cheek pressed against the cool steel, a misplaced scalpel barely cutting into your skin.

“i wonder if his insides are as interesting as him, dexy.”

“thought you were gonna cut me open first?”

you laughed, visualizing your beloved boyfriend in an intense scuffle with the very man you were dying to dissect.

“you think his brain has horns, too?”

“baby.”

slenderverse men (habit, tim, brian) with an invisible woman / wife! reader (except i got distracted and lost any semblance of plot in brian’s part…so…no invisible woman aspect just me thirsting basically…)

HABIT ... evan myers

mud-caked boots thudded against the floor, the broken lock of the door clinking on the hardwood. the house was dead silent, the only sound an eerie drip from the barely on faucet he'd been meaning to fix. the lights were off, the only indication that you were even home was the messily stored shoes.

he'd deal with that later.

habit hated—no, loathed—when you did this. you would, in every sense of the word, disappear. you'd be fine in the messages you sent earlier, no trace of anything being wrong—then you'd become a ghost in your own home. all because you didn’t want him to worry.

he swore beneath his breath, kicking off his boots and slinging his blood-soaked jacket to the ground.

habit was a mean man.

a bully who wore violence as a shield, a man who picked flesh from between his teeth, a guy who found bleeding out far easier than managing his emotions.

he cared little for emotional matters, fueled by animalistic cravings and cannibalistic tendencies.

but, in his defense, as your relationship progressed, he became remarkably better at comfort. well, sometimes.

he moved to storm down the hallway, in pursuit of the nook that you hid in when you were upset. the record player next to the hallway's entry flicked on, a loud song blaring from out of the blue. habit tensed, shoulders drawn taught as he slowly glared at it.

"...that better be you."

silence.

he knew it was you. he heard your quiet breathing, he smelled spun sugar—and blood.

he sighed, crimson-stained hands jerking forward. he heard a soft footstep upon his action, and followed it. you flinched when he grabbed you with ease, wrangling you down on the floor. you remained in your translucent state, much to his chagrin. he heard the way your breath hitched when you moved too harshly, or when his thumb dug too much into your ribs.

"show me," he seethed, "or i’ll gut you myself.”

now, habit would be nicer, you see.

but when he's dealing with his hard-headed, irritating yet utterly intoxicating sweetheart? it’s like the miniscule nice bone in his body vanishes.

your figure flickered in view, your pretty eyes averted from him. “good girl,” he mused, lips curling into a frown upon the blood that soaked the side of your sweater. his gaze met yours, unimpressed, “where’d ya go today?”

you stayed quiet.

“ohhh, so we’re playing that game, huh?” habit snickered, “sure, sure, we can.”

a searing pain shot up your side when he barely pressed his thumb against the wound. you squirmed against the floor, hands catching his wrists. your nails dug into his skin as he let you pull them off, your eyes watery with anger, “you’re so mean.”

habit snickered, scooping you off the floor and bringing you to the bathroom. “yeah? tell me how mean i am, sweets,” he egged you on as he grabbed the medical kit from the cabinet. he slipped the sweater over your head, amusement flooding his body when you huffed and turned away. “aw, my girl poutin’?”

“can’t believe you broke the door lock.”

“you act like this ain’t my house. and it was your fault, hun.”

your wound was big, bigger than he was prepared for, but was fixable nonetheless. he handled the wound with minimal struggle, the only source of comfort he brought was the gentle sweep of his thumb against unbroken skin. he rolled his eyes when you flinched from the sting of antiseptic, he sighed when you gripped his shoulder when the gauze barely grazed your skin. “who did it?” he quietly asked, tone devoid of teasing.

“he’s dead,” you picked at the stray thread of his collar. habit hummed in approval.

he’d tease you, bully you, all the things—but god help whoever laid a hand or an eye on you.

“how y’do these missions by y’self is beyond me,” he muttered, the two of you now sprawled on the couch. he was on his back, freshly showered and clothed, and you laid between his legs, cheek squished against his chest. one of his hands was under your hoodie (his, actually), tracing your spine and the bandage that wrapped around you. his other hand was hanging off the side of the cushion, remote held lazily as he flicked through the channels.

“i do just fine,” you grumbled, “they can’t hit what they can’t see.”

the music from earlier still played, just quieter. the room was cold—habit’s preference, he liked when you sought him for warmth (but don’t tell him that)—and the lights were dim. “good one,” he dryly said, “come up with that on y’own?”

“i hate you.”

habit grinned, lips pressing against your head, “uh-huh.” you sighed, grumbling against him as your figure vanished. he felt your weight leave him, and he laughed, “where are you going?” the armchair on the opposite side of the room creaked, and began to rock slightly. the folded blanket was moved, tossed over you. he saw the outline of your knees pressed to your chest.

“you’re cute,” he mused, “my fussy girl.”

he heard you huff.

habit stayed where he was, sprawled out so invitingly. he knew you’d crawl back in his arms eventually, unable to resist the warmth and comfort nobody else saw in him. even when he was at worst, you still loved him.

and he’d rather die than admit it, but he’d grown to love you, too.

he let his eyes close, tired from the day. he kept his expression neutral when the armchair creaked, your footsteps quiet across the floor. the cushion dipped between his legs, and he felt you lay atop him. the blanket you’d carried over with you draped over you and his lower half. his hands found you, bringing you up further. your face nuzzled into his neck, and habit let his hands wander back beneath your clothes.

“…i don’t actually hate you,” you whispered.

he lazily smirked,

“yeah, i know. i’m just fond’a being mean to ya. the meanest.”

“habit.”

“poor thing,” he cooed, “y’hubby’s just the worst.” he looked down, amused at the way you became visible just to glare at him.

“shut up,” you muttered, “goodnight.”

“mhm. night, sweetheart.”

he felt you pinch him harshly, and he kissed your head. he was lovesick—irritated by it, too.

but he guessed you were better than being alone.

he guessed.

masky ... TIMOTHY WRIGHT

you assumed it was risky.

okay, yeah, you knew it was an insanely risky and a potential near-death experience.

but, in your defense, you needed out of the house. tim was supposed to be back from a week-long mission yesterday, and he hated it when you weren't home to greet him. he hadn't sent a message, anything.

so, when your girls messaged you late on the second night he wasn't home, you agreed. you'd gotten dressed—one of tim's favorite dresses and knee high boots—and grabbed his leather jacket off the back of his chair and headed out the door.

the only issue?

you saw headlights coming down the driveway.

you froze, purse already thrown in your car and the engine purring. the truck's wheels gritted against the gravel, and in a fit of panic, you disappeared. your car door remained unlocked as tim pulled into his usual spot. you saw him hop out, a deep groan leaving his lips as he stretched. you crouched on the opposite side of your car, eyes barely peeking over the hood as you watched him.

he didn't wear his usual jacket, the only thing he wore was a black shirt that exposed his happy trail with every lift of his arms. his jeans had dirt on the knees, bloodied handprints on the side of his thighs, his boots a muddy disaster. he rounded the truck after killing the engine, dragging his work bag from the passenger seat.

he kicked the door shut, pausing halfway to the door. tim, no matter how dull and exhausted he was, had sharp senses.

he stared at your purring vehicle, brows knitting together in confusion. he neared it, and you curled in on yourself. his hair was messy, no doubt tousled due to his hand constantly running through it, and you could smell him—nicotine, worn leather, that stupid cologne that always made your head fuzzy.

to your horror, he dropped his bag on the gravel, fingers curling around the door handle and pulling it open. tim examined your car, head tilting at your purse and keys inside it. "she goin' somewhere?" he asked beneath his breath, killing the engine and raising to his full height. he looked displeased, maybe a little sad.

you didn't have time to ponder though.

your phone blared.

you flinched violently, the device clattering against the ground. you stood, still shrouded in transparency, backing away as quietly as possible.

"sugar?" tim called, rounding the vehicle. he dismissed the ringing phone, eyes latched on the shifting gravel. you saw a dark little grin pull at his lips, "don't tell me. my girl's all dolled up to go out?"

the gravel stopped moving, and he took steps closer.

"y'hurtin' my feelings," tim cooed, "didn't you miss me? 'cause i sure missed you."

a strong whiff of your perfume flashed by.

he jerked a hand out, grazing the fabric of the jacket you wore. your phone was swept up, the call answered:

"babe! where are you? you were supposed to be here ten minutes ago!" nina whined. you jumped in your car, and failed to lock it before tim got the door open. he climbed in the passenger seat, smirking low when you came into view. "my pretty thing," he muttered, finger tracing the hem of the little black dress you wore. it dug into your thighs, and he near groaned at the way his jacket fell off your shoulders.

"um..." you breathed, "i might not be able to make it..."

"huh? what happened? you were so excited to go out! wait, did tim get home?! can he hear me?" nina shouted, "timmy boy, let the girl come play with us! please?"

tim's fingers slid the phone from your hand, his other hand lifting to cup your jaw and turn your pretty face from side to side, "mm. sorry, nina. gonna need my girl all to myself tonight." you parted your lips to complain, and he covered your lips with his palm. he felt the heat wafting off your skin, eyes warm with amusement, "might need'er tomorrow, too."

"big and greedy, you are so selfish—"

"sure am," he agreed easily, thumb pressing the red button. he tossed your phone in your discarded purse with a look so intense it made you squirm. "you were just gonna go out like that?" he asked, "what’nt even gonna show a man? send me somethin' nice? i'm real hurt, sugar."

"you're late," you murmured, crossing your arms, "you were supposed to be home two nights ago."

"sure was," he replied, voice deep and unbothered, "but m'here now, yeah? gonna leave me?"

you glared at him, and tim grinned something wicked.

"gonna leave y'poor husband all alone? he's tired, sweet thing. could use some of ya, sugar. be real nice on him."

you squirmed, his hands running freely along you as he leaned closer. his lips grazed your cheek, warm breath tickling your ear, "stay with me. y'can go tomorrow."

"promise?" you warily said, unable to resist the smile tugging at your lips when he kissed you.

"won't promise that," tim mused, "y'heard nina. i'm a greedy man, sweet thing."

HOODIE ... brian thomas

the bathroom renovation was going well.

you designed what you’d envisioned, and brian got to work. he built the vanity, the sink, reworked the old and rickety pipes that the house originally came with, and now, it was in the final stretch. the space above the toilet looked empty, and you decided that a cabinet would be too cluttered.

so, a shelf was decided upon.

brian had managed to get one built and drilled into the wall before he had to leave on a job, and you assured him that you’d assist in securing the second one when he returned.

however, you did not account for the fact that your husband would look like this.

“angel, you’re not helpin’,” brian mused, sat reverse on the toilet lid as he held a shelf he’d built against the wall. as you declared, you were supposed to help him level it and figure out its position, but all you could do was stare. his white tank was slightly dirty from working in the garage, his jeans stained with oil from fixing up the truck—he looked delicious. his arms were flexed, veins in his forearms popping as he continued to hold the shelf against the wall.

“wish i was that shelf,” you muttered, hand clasping over your lips in disbelief. his eyes flicked to you, utterly amused. brian laughed at your petrified expression, “that right? y’know i can make that happen for ya. just help me get this thing on, huh?”

you moved to stand behind him, having to force your eyes to analyze the shelf instead of the way his back muscles shifted under his shirt. the way his blonde curls were messy, sweaty at the back of his neck, the sun-kissed tan of his shoulders—

“angel.”

you shook your head, steeling your nerves, “um, little higher on the—the left…”

he did as instructed, waiting for your next instruction. he wasn’t oblivious to the effect he had on you, feeling your eyes wander along him as he sat patiently. “looks level to me, what do you think?” you asked, hands reaching out and landing on his shoulders.

“i jus’ had a change of heart, angel. i think i ought to handle you before i can get this shelf on right,” you stepped back when brian stood, him lowering the shelf to lay safely on the floor. he turned to you, hands perched on his hips as he stared you down, “my needy girl ain’t lettin’ me fix anythin’ today, huh?”

your eyes fell to his chest, head utterly in the clouds.

brian smirked.

“thought so.”

he drew closer, arms coiling around your waist and lifting you up. he pressed you firmly against the cool wall of the bathroom. you shrunk beneath his intense gaze, legs tightening around him. his thumb drew circles on your waist, tongue briefly wetting his lips. his jean clad thighs flexed as he held you up, the buckle of his belt digging against you.

“this what you wanted?”

you nodded, pleased and mildly embarrassed. he grinned, tiny tooth gap proudly revealed. brian’s eyes were warm, pupils dilated as he admired you. “y’want me, angel?” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. he pressed his lips to your cheek, dragging kisses down your jaw and neck.

“please?”

“ain’t no need to beg. my lady wants me, she gets me,” he carried you to the shower, and your brows knit together. “what’s the matter?”

“shower?” you asked in confusion. brian tilted his head, expression shrouded in a degree of shyness or meekness you hadn’t seen in a while, “i’m dirty, baby. i know i ain’t smell good. figured it’d be nicer for ya.”

“don’t shower,” you whined, “i love when you’re all sweaty and dirty.”

“filthy girl,” his lips connected with yours, knee finding the wall of the living room and having you rest upon it. you gasped when his knee lifted, pressing against you.

“i’ll take y’on every wall in this house.”

Also if so can I ask a question rq? Do you write for Hurt comfort (like angst but where most of the plot is comfort) more specifically hurt comfort evolving around mental health issues/relapsing?

If this question made you uncomfortable I sincerely apologize, I just wanted to understand the boundaries of your blog before I sent out a possibly triggering ask

hi sweetheart!! i’m just seeing this i’m so sorry! my fic requests aren’t open at the moment, i’m still struggling with motivation and writers block so in fear of disappointing requesters im not taking any!! however if you want to send in your idea, i can include it in a future various post im working on!!

slenderverse men x various scenario smau (pt 2: toby rogers, jack nyras, jeff woods)

pt 1: habit, brian thomas, tim wright

slenderverse men x various scenario smau (pt 1: habit, brian thomas, tim wright)

pt 2: toby rogers, jack nyras, jeff woods

bad habit puts his hat on you when he fucks you.

you’ll be barely lucid, hands reaching for anything to hold. your legs spread and aching, your lips glossy with his spit. the bed creaking and moaning with every push and pull of his hips.

he’ll loom over you, wicked smirk on his lips as he takes you.

the first time he did it was on a whim.

your hair kept falling over your pretty and flustered face, and he was not happy with that. so, in a fit of irritation, he yanked the hat off his head and put it on you.

it unlocked something primal in him.

you—bare, vulnerable, malleable, so sweet—crying for him while his hat rested on your head. he didn’t care if your sweat soaked the fabric, or if his hair was now getting in his face.

and when you’re riding him?

he’s all over you.

death proof cap pulled low over your face, the only visible feature was your parted lips as you bounced. his hands would dig into the plush of your thighs, groaning as he took what you gave.

and when it was over?

the two of you would breathe and bask in each other presence, and he would take his hat off you. he’d use the bill of it to lift your chin to him, kissing you before pushing it back over your hair and whispering:

“we’re goin’ again. y'look too sweet, hun."