#go out and sniff grass

[catacomas]

look at this bunny in my yard it’s just laying down RELAXING… i have to show you this . i have to…

ohh my goodness i feel this so hard. i wish i was you little bunny

[sigery]

Shadow: *has been sitting by the garage door for the last like 5 minutes*

Me: Uh, is there something out there?

Shadow: *stands up and walks a little circle by the door*

Me: Okay. Quick look *props the door open with a doorstop, watching her wander around for a few before going to get a snack*

Me: *comes back like 10 minutes later* Hey, you still out here?

Shadow: *sitting in the cat stroll we brought and never used*

Me: It's dark out, we aren't doing stroller time.

Shadow: ...

Me: C'mon *goes and picks her up and she immediately starts yelling but doesn't seriously try to claw at me*

Shadow: *is huffy after being put down, going to my mom on the couch nearby to complain about me*

[taintandviolent]

be my woman, girl ; Remmick x reader

summary: As a lonely woman whose prayers are going unanswered, you prayed for something to take away your hurt. This time, something answers.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 2.6K | female reader, vampires, brief religious themes (praying, mention of God), spit kink, spit as a major aphrodisiac, dub-con if you tilt your head and look at it the right way, vampire sex, monsterfucking, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, biting, blood mention, blood drinking and loss, I guess it's implied virgin!reader (though it isn't focused on).

a/n: just a quick lil somethin' somethin', but it is HEAVILY inspired by Nosferatu, and the vibe of this song. sorry that - spoiler alert - the vampire bites reader in every fic I write about them, I literally cannot stop myself from doing it. not beta-read, as per usual. dividers by @/v6que and @/adornedwithlight! PS: Thank you so much for all the love on my previous Remmick fic, you guys are such darlings!

↓ fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

The house is quiet aside from the occassional creak or whine; wood panels shift against each other, moaning low like your grandparents as they sat in a chair. Houses breathed every now and then — never scared you any.

Unlike everyone else, you're wide awake. Though your room is dark, the dreams haven't come for you. Pale, blue moonlight washes your features as you stand in front of the window, looking out into the front yard. There's nothing, no one.

That's just it… no one.

Your head hangs heavy, burdened by the aching, stinging loneliness that you felt.

No one for you, ever.

Hell, even your sister had found someone this past spring. Everyone always said you'd get married first 'cause you were the pretty one of the two. But you hadn't. Men didn't flirt with you, they just passed you by, as casual as can be. People shushed your worries by saying that God works in mysterious ways, when the time is right, can't rush love, and so on. None of those trivial phrases helped you any, you were still alone at the close of every night. So you'd pray. Just like you did every night. You looked up into that sky and prayed your heart out, prayed until you were blue in the face.

You thumb the latch to unlock it and with a small vocalization, push the window up. The sheer curtains flutter delicately, like ghosts in the breeze. The night air floods in, bathing your face and neck in it and you sink softly to your knees, resting your elbows on the wood of the sill. Your hands are clasped tightly together — as tight as you can — and you press your fists against your mouth for a moment as the tears well up in your eyes.

"Please," you beg, speaking against your own fingers. "I am so lonely. I can't bear it any longer. My heart aches somethin' awful..."

You sniff, and lift your eyes to the moon in all her luminous glory, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. "If there's anyone out there… take away my sufferin', take away my pain. I am beggin' you."

You hold your breath, waiting. You're acutely aware of all the sounds; a breeze flutters through the tall grasses and the old trees on your daddy's property, the branches creak loudly against each other, a twig snaps somewhere in the distance. Pricks of light flitter across the forest. An animal, probably. You see them every night.

"Please, come to me." Spoken through tears and snot. "I'm beggin'."

Still shrouded in the shadows of the forest, two of the pinpricks of light stop in the foot-trodden pathway to your front door. You clumsily wipe your tears away with the back of your hand and lean forward out of the window, trying to focus on the fuzzy darkness. They look like eyes, of a coyote or something similar, but you didn't notice until now that the figure seems taller than that, on account of where the eyes are.

You blink.

They blink back before they grow closer, carried on upright steps.

You gasp. Shocked by your own noise, your hand flies to your mouth as though it'll muffle the breathing. You duck back inside the window and fall backwards, catching yourself on your hands. There's a funny feeling roiling in your stomach, like a pit of wet snakes, slippin' and slidin' around in your gut.

From this angle, you can't see the reflective gaze anymore, but the curtains still flutter, seeming to whisper to you, calling your name in a tone that only you can hear. You scoot back, dragging your body along the floorboards until your back hits the bed post, and keeping your gaze locked on the window, you awkwardly crawl up into the bed, twisting your body in a way that doesn't disrupt your line of sight. You slither underneath the covers, pulling them up to your neck like a frightened child.

The window's still open… but you're too afraid to get up again, 'cause maybe those eyes would still be staring right at you. So, you nestle yourself deeper under the covers and stare at that window until your lids get heavy. Eventually, though you don't know how long it takes, you drift off to sleep.

The dreams start as soon as your body settles, as soon as your limp hand falls off the side of the bed, fingertips pointing towards the floor. A shadowed figure stands at the edge of your bed, his hand extended. His fingers are long, tipped by claws that reach out to you and cast terrifying shadows on your bedsheets. Those same reflective eyes stare down at you, watching you tremble. He moves closer, the shadows crawling up the length of your bed until they're pressed down against you. There's nothing on top of you but shadows, and yet, you can't move, pinned in place by some unseen force.

You awake with a heave, a strangled cry that dies in your throat as soon as you're upright. Beads of sweat decorate your chest, and ribbon down into the confines of your nightgown, disappearing into the fabric. Your room is dark and cool, but that does little to bring down the temperature of your feverish body.

Downstairs, you think. It felt natural, like you'd thought it. You throw the covers off your body, and tiptoe to your bedroom door, careful of each barefoot step. You bite your lip and with a gentle pull, you twist the knob and pull it open, praying it doesn't squeak. It doesn't.

You pad carefully down the steps, avoiding the one that creaks, and make your way to the front door. Again, the night air greets you like an old, forgotten friend and you inhale.

Those reflective eyes are staring right at you through the screen door. You can see 'em, clear as day. A moth flutters past your line of sight. As you turn on the porch light, your bare toes tease the edge of the threshold.

"What… what do you want?" Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You make a fist in your nightgown, digging your nails into the soft fabric. He takes another step and leaves the shadows behind, allowing the light to illuminate his handsome features. His head tilts slightly as he considers your question, and an assured smile crosses his face.

"Aww, darlin'. You. I'm here for you…" he says, sweet like honey.

His accent is heavy and Southern, but something hides underneath it. You grip your nightgown tighter, suppressing a shudder that threatens to rip through your core. Something about him makes you wanna' step forward into the night, into his arms, but you resist. You shake your head, dislodging the lustful thoughts that try to take root in your brain.

He looks you up and down a few times before clicking his tongue in a disapproving way. You look down at yourself; sweat-soaked and dissheveled, your hair probably a mess, eyes swollen with sleep… God knows what else this man saw. Smelled. Understood.

"You poor thing… Ain't you tired, baby? Tired of screamin' and cryin' for a God that don't listen?"

You were.

"You called," he drawls. "I came."

He did.

He shoulders the door frame, leaning against it, peering at you through the mesh screen. You take a step back, and shake your head again, like a child shaking off her bad dreams. He runs a single finger along the edge of the screen, sharp nail scraping across the mesh with a barely audible tick tick tick. You understand now.

Quickly, but quietly, you push the door shut with a flattened palm. Maybe you were still dreaming. There. All better. Because really… what kinda' prayer is answered in the middle of the night? You hurry back through the darkened house, up the stairs and back into your room. For a moment, you listen in the hallway for sounds of stirring.

Satisfied that everyone's still sleeping, you turn around, leaning your back into the door gently. As soon as your eyes focus again, your muscles tense up and go rigid like steel. You slap your hand over your mouth, muffling the yelp that claws its way up your throat. You reel back, pressing yourself tightly against the door, like you could melt back through it.

Your eyes scrape tenatively along the floorboards, crawling up the elongated shadow of a man until you get to the figure that owns it. That same man leans against your window in a casual, relaxed position.

Be brave, girl.

"How'd you get in here?" You hiss, looking back at your bedroom door. "I ain't said you could—"

He lifts up a single finger, waving it back and forth, effectively shushing you. "Ohhh, you sure did, darlin'."

Remmick clears his throat theatrically, and falls forward to his knees. All at once, his nonchalant expression contorts into one of pain, of longing, of desperation, as he crawls towards you, frowning. "Please come to me…" he mocks in a higher tone, clutching his hands at his chest. "I'm beggin'…"

The realization feels heavy, your jaw hanging slack as you hear him. The world seems to lose its color around you, the floor drags you down by the hem of your gown. You sink to the wood, your ass hitting it with a soft thud. I called him.

His hands drops away from his chest as he knee-walks closer to you, reaching out to sweep your hair away from your temple. "Don't you fret now, ain't no sense in that. Remmick's gonna' make that hurt go away."

Remmick? Was that his name? When you give a devil a name, does it make him less terrifying?

As Remmick crawls over your body, you flatten against the floor, trying to shrink yourself away from him. He throws one knee up and over your hips, pinning you in place with his own. The sensation is intoxicating, and you feel damp heat pool between your thighs. He smiles, savoring the look of you beneath him, soft and supple, pretty and vulnerable.

Somewhere, you were scared. That somewhere that was too far away because your cunt, hot and aching, betrays you, clenching deeply at the feeling of a man on top of you — his weight felt like a blessing, like the long-awaited answer to a prayer. You writhe out of instinct though, clinging to some pure ideal, one that makes the corner of Remmick's lip hitch up in a snarl like he's smelled something foul. His teeth glint in the moonlight, pricks of jagged white amongst the darkness of his mouth.

"Y'got whatcha' asked fer'… don't go and be ungrateful now."

Lightning fast, Remmick's hand lurches out, pinching the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. He holds it there, while his own mouth opens, a stream of thick saliva stretching from his tongue. As it descends, you want to convulse and rip your head away, but with a clawed grip, he holds your head in place. It hits your tongue, dripping towards your throat. A warmth, a comfort, settles over your body, like the rays of sun kissing your body on a summer day, or slipping into a warm bath on a cool night. It's an all-enveloping feeling and you shudder, relaxing into the floor. Your body is no longer rigid, no longer fighting against him. Your legs part, hitching your nightgown up around your thighs in the process.

All you can do is look up into his glowing eyes, watching as the corners of his mouth curl up into a smile. Your back arches against his touch, his thumb brushing over the plumpness of your bottom lip. He smears his own saliva across your mouth. Onto your cheek. You smile lazily, and he nods encouragingly. "That's a-girl…"

With a little maneuvering, he slots himself between your thighs and his hands come down on either side of your neck. You feel his proximity, and whimper, angling your hips upward to grind against a rigidness you know is there, and Remmick lurches forward, sealing his lips to your neck.

He sucks at the skin, sucks until the flesh reddens, until it aches. The ache is a dull one, and even though you ought to stop him, you don't. Your hands find the nape of his neck, fingers sliding up through his dark hair, pulling him closer. He draws one hand down to free himself, and yank your panties to the side. You're no longer lonely, no longer sad. Lust claims your senses, without a care in the world.

Two fingers prod your entrance and you hitch your leg higher, allowing him more room. He sinks them in, breaching her, his thumb bumping into your swollen clit. Satisfied, he exhales above you, enamoured with the way your body sings back to him. With no hesitation, Remmick curves them deep within your cunt a few times, sending stars across your vision. As soon as you moan against the shell of his ear, he withdraws them and you feel him line himself up, the thick, velvet head pressing against the slit.

He's met with no resistance from your eager body, so Remmick sheaths himself inside your slick, waiting walls in one thrust. At first, there's heat as his cock stretches you wide, but your cunt adjusts, hungrily clenching around the shaft. His body undulates against yours, pressing tightly against your sweet, womanly figure as he thrusts, driving himself as deep as he can.

For a good few minutes, there's nothing but the sound of skin slapping against skin, feverish breaths and hushed moans. Remmick hums suddenly into your neck, pressing one tender kiss to the bruised flesh, reverently. He's still buried inside you, cock twitching with an impending release.

Breathily, he speaks as he strokes the side of your sweat-streaked face. "You asked fer' someone to take yer' sufferin' away and I'm gonna' do just that. I'm gonna' take away that hurt."

You whimper below him, a semblance of understanding of what's about to happen flashing across your darling features. "Shhh, this ain't gonna' sting but a second."

He leans in again, and you feel a flash of searing pain as fangs pierce your tender skin, drawing a gush of your sweet, cerise nectar out onto his tongue. Remmick groans at the coppery taste of your blood as it floods his mouth, and begins hungrily suckling at your neck, swallowing against the bleeding flesh. His hips find a new rhythm, and you feel your heartbeat pounding through your body — every inch of you seems to have a pulse — but he's right. It only hurts for a moment before you ease into the feeling, your body's natural defenses numbing the pain.

Now, the feeling drives you over the edge. Your vision darkens around the edges, throbbing between focused and blurry. You give a hard shiver as you spasm around his cock, coating him in slick arousal, and Remmick bucks his hips hard into your clenches, chasing his own release. With your hot blood clogging his throat, he asks of eternity, and you nod sleepily.

When he crashes down from that electric peak of pleasure, you feel dizzy. The sensation of being full claims you, wraps you up, and coddles you. Though, in your last moments, you can't mourn the loss of your precious life, you can't be sad… you'd asked for someone to take away your pain, your suffering, and for someone to come to you.

He'd heard you.

"Remmick," you say, drowsily.

He shushes you again with a clawed fingertip. You hear the dull thud of knuckles against a door. Your head lolls to the side, and Remmick straightens it out, leaving crimson fingerprints on your cheek before his weight leaves you.

The last thought you have is daddy, don't open that door.

But he does anyway.

Remmick is there to meet him.

[cameronsbabydoll]

drew starkey and younger!ditzy!reader going to coachella part two!

wc: 1,047 — a/n: part one is here!

you find it by accident.

you’re lying belly-down on the hotel bed post-coachella, legs kicking lazily in the air, your hair still braided and a tiny smudge of glitter stuck to your temple. drew’s in the shower. you’re just scrolling—mindlessly tapping through stories—when you see it.

deuxmoi: SPOTTED—drew starkey’s “barely legal” girlfriend causes a scene at coachella. sources say drew was “visibly annoyed” with her the entire time. still cute though?

and then:

“she looks like she needs a babysitter, not a boyfriend.” “imagine being drew starkey and ending up with THAT.” “she probably thinks coachella is a drink.”

your stomach sinks. it feels like you’re watching your reflection crack. like your glitter’s turned into something ugly. your chest gets tight and your eyes sting before you even realize why.

the thing is, they’re not saying anything new. you know what people think. that you're young, ditzy, clingy. that you're not smart enough. that you just float around in your own little world, and drew.. drew is too calm, too serious, too grown for you.

and now you think—maybe they’re right.

you slip off the bed quietly, wipe your eyes, and grab your bag.

you’re halfway out the door when he calls out, towel around his waist, wet hair dripping onto his chest. “where are you going?”

you freeze.

“back to home,” you mumble, not turning around.

he’s behind you in two seconds. “what? why?”

“i’m just… i’m tired,” you lie, fingers curling tight around the strap of your purse. “and i don’t wanna keep embarrassing you.”

“embarrassing me?” his voice drops. “where the hell is this coming from?”

you turn slowly, eyes red and puffy. “i saw the tweet.”

his jaw flexes.

“they’re right,” you whisper. “you’re always fixing my top, or babysitting me, or explaining things, or covering for me, and i—i’m just... too dumb for you.”

he exhales sharply, stepping closer. “don’t you ever say that.”

“i don’t want you to feel stuck with someone who’s always messing things up,” you say, swallowing a sob. “and i don’t want you to hate me one day because i’m not good enough.”

his hands are on your cheeks before you can run, before you can hide. “you think i’m stuck with you?” his voice is low, but you know. “you think i cover you because i’m ashamed?”

you sniff. “aren’t you?”

he kisses you. hard.

you’re breathless when he pulls back, his forehead pressed against yours.

“i cover you because i want to protect you,” he says, voice rough. “because i know how soft you are. and i’d rather the whole world see me as annoyed than ever see you cry.”

you hiccup softly. “but you were annoyed…”

he chuckles—gently this time. “yeah, because you were about to flash a crowd full of dudes with their phones out. not because you’re dumb. you’re not dumb. you’re just... you. you’re soft, and sparkly, and ask me what time zone we’re in at least twice a day—"

“i-i get confused!” you whimper.

“—and i love that about you,” he cuts in, brushing a tear off your cheek. “you’re not too much. you’re mine.”

you crumple into him, burying your face in his chest. “i thought you didn’t love me.”

“i’ve been in love with you since you asked if hummus was dairy.”

“…it’s not?”

“baby…”

you’re curled into his lap like a kitten, legs draped over his thighs, your cheek pressed against his chest. one of his hoodies is swallowing you whole, sleeves dangling past your fingers. you haven’t said much since you cried—just little sniffles, pouty silence, and an occasional “mmh” when he kissed the top of your head.

he knows you’re still hurting. so he pulls out his phone and opens his camera roll.

“wanna see something?” he murmurs.

you peek up at him, lips still trembling. “what?”

he swipes once, then flips the screen so you can see.

it’s a video of you from earlier that day—standing in the middle of the grass at coachella, sun blaring, flower crown crooked, and you’re bouncing on your toes with a popsicle in one hand and your tongue bright red. you’re yelling over the music, trying to get his attention:

“drewwww! babe! look at me, i match the popsicle! i am the popsicle!”

he snorts, and so do you, just a little.

you let out a small, wobbly giggle, cheeks heating up. “i sound so dumb.”

he presses a kiss to your temple. “you sound adorable.”

then he swipes again—another photo. this time it’s the two of you backstage, your legs wrapped around his waist as he carries you because your sandals “felt like knives.” your lips are pressed to his cheek, and you look like you don’t have a care in the world.

he shows you more—candid shots of you twirling in your sparkly skirt, one where your sunglasses are way too big for your face, another where you’re mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. and then a video from the hotel that morning, you dancing while brushing your teeth, hair all crazy.

“you took that?” you whisper.

“yup,” he says, scrolling. “you don’t even know how much i take.”

you peek up at him, bottom lip still a little pouty. “because you’re trying to collect evidence of how annoying i am?”

he gives you a look. “no, baby. because i don’t ever wanna forget how happy you make me.”

you blink. your lip trembles again—but this time it’s not from sadness. “you’re so mean to me,” you whisper dramatically, flopping against his chest.

he grins. “mean?”

“you make me cry, and then show me cute pictures of myself and kiss me on the forehead, and now i feel dumb for being sad.”

he shifts, laying back with you still curled into his arms. “you’re not dumb for being sad. but i’m gonna remind you every time that i don’t care what deuxmoi or whatever the hell it’s called or twitter or some troll behind a screen says.”

you nuzzle into him. “even if i say things like... are cucumbers baby pickles?”

he sighs playfully, tightening his arms around you. “especially then.”

you grin into his chest. “and you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

“i still wanna marry you.”

you freeze.

“w-what?”

“nothing,” he says quickly, kissing your forehead. “eat your gummy bears, baby.”

“drew?!”

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic Idea: Silver Tounge Snake

Damian has a brother, except said brother wasn't trained for combat operations. He was trained in the administration positions needed to keep the empire Ra's built functioning.

In essence, Damian was trained to rule, and Daniel was taught to manage the estate. This does not mean Daniel can't fight because Ra would never have a regular civilian lurking around; he just wasn't physically trained as harshly.

While Damian was climbing a mountain with a broken arm at five years old, Daniel was handed account logs of failing businesses that he needed to get out of the red or else at the same age. While Damian was slashing opponents, Daniel was told to sniff out the planted traitors in the staff.

While Damian was grinding his teeth against the senses-deprivation training, Daniel was bearing his teeth in a smile as he convinced local rulers to sign over their properties to Ra without bloodshed.

Daniel was raised in this role not because he was born five minutes after his brother or because he didn't show combat talent. On the night of the twin's first birthday, Ra had a well-known magic user do a soul test on the children.

He had all of his descendants participate in said test, and they rarely came out with traits that made them possible heirs. Talia, along with her sister Nyssa, was one of the few among his children who resulted in the green glow.

Many of his children were white glows—talented in the mind rather than in the body like Daniel. Once Ra saw the white aura around Daniel, he had tutors set up for estate management. One step above servant of the family.

He was just about to doom Damian to the same fate, effectively cutting them from the line of succession until the eldest started glowing green.

His green was much more vibrant than Talia's, as she was just the lowest shade of green, right above white, which was why he had not made it clear who the inheritance would go to. Nyssa had also been a light shade, balanced with Talia's.

But Damian? His was a bright emerald, the shade of green he hadn't seen in almost seven hundred years. Ra knew the boy would be grand when he aged.

Then, one day, his daughter ran off with his heir. Taking the boy to his father prematurely because she had discovered that Ra would use his body to preserve his immortality. She had left behind Daniel, viewing her youngest the same way all green souls kin viewed white soul kin.

Damian was raised knowing that he would one day inherit everything Ra had to offer as the Heir Apparent, and Daniel was to be his most trusted right-hand man. He was meant to be a helpful tool Damian could wield.

Daniel, however, did outshine the rest of white souls. He was a master manipulator, a snake hiding in the grass, able to convince anyone of anything. He never saw a line too immoral to cross if it was beneficial for the Ghul ruling family. He even convinced Ra's to ease off many punishments for Damian with a few soft spoken words and gentle movements.

Ra's could admit that Daniel was terror in an entirely different way than his brother. His loyalty, however, was never in doubt.

In her mind, he was a servant and not worth the risk of getting him to the Detective. Ra saw no reason why he couldn't use that against her.

He had his men whip the boy's memories, set him up in an American home with a couple that owed him a favor for using his Lazarus Pit to study the undead, and sat back. Daniel would live as Danny Fenton, thinking he had been a member of that family since birth, unaware of the sleeper agent he was.

Ra faked his death, amused by the Detective's wails upon finding the trails, and waited until Damian grew soft enough from his father's foolish sentiments to throw his dead brother's fate back into his face. He allowed Daniel to be Danny Fenton for four whole years before activating the boy to kill Damian.

The last thing the runaway heir would ever see was the smile of his silver tongue brother, whom he left for dead. The twin with a sharp mind that even Timothy Drake could not predict. The one that Bruce Wayne would hesitate to kill, unlike the clones he attempted to send before.

He did not account for Daniel developing a second personality known as Phantom. He took all the sleeper agent training and somehow twisted the boy's ghostly part into thinking he was Damian's dead brother.

It was a glorious plan meant to shatter their minds as much as their bones.

Before he could activate Daniel to complete his four year old mission, the fool wandered into an experimental protal. It did not kill him, but it made some.....side effects.

Ra's waited a week to see if anything would come of Daniel's accident, but when no evidence indicated any change, he had his ninjas active, the sleeper agent.

That he had actually died that day.

Phantom did not know he lived in Fenton. Fenton was unaware that his "fainting" spills were his body, giving control to the assassin's support stored away in his mind.

Worst Phantom seemed utterly convinced that since Damian was running around as Robin, a hero of the innocent, he should too. He set out to protect the silly American town Ra's had planted him in, and then, he began managing the damn thing.

He caused the unemployment rate to drop in Amity Park, worked on getting the neighbor's company up, sweet-talked the local landlords to lower rates, and got the Americans to take their education seriously enough that every graduating student of his high school received at least two scholarships. He covered the property damages his battles caused by convincing the people they were responsible.

Ra's had trained that silver tongue had sharpened that devilish mind, and it was being wasted on the Detective's sensibilities. At least Phantom had convinced the entire town to be ecto-mindful.

It nearly made up for the ghost finding his way to Gotham. Fenton and his class won some kind of competition hosted by the Detective for all high schools in the nation. It was some idiotic science experiment, but once Phantom was there, the ghost fell into his support role of Robin like a duck did to water.

Wayne Enterprises' stock value skyrocketed when Phantom pretended to work for them, turning his silver tongue on the belly of Gotham and carefully breaking every crime origination with a smile. Fenton himself grew the eye of the Detective for being the leading mind of the experiment, and Ra knew it was only a matter of time before his son-in-law pieced it all together.

The boy would forever be out of his reach, and he only had himself to blame. He should have killed the white soul kin years ago.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

butterflygirl738 (1)

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, sickness, medical bills, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You love butterflies and your mother, but life isn't that simple. As life gets complicated, and expensive, you find yourself in need and an unexpected miracle presents itself.

Characters: Steve Rogers (CEO/Sugar Daddy)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You rush off the bus, stumbling as your toe hits the curb. You stagger and right yourself, rushing by the other passengers as they shuffle along the pavement. You cut across the grass into the parking lot and hurry towards the front doors of the box store. You're just on time to punch in. 

You sweep in through the front door and wave at Claudia as she stands at the front door welcoming in customers. You flit around the displays of seasonal candy and dip in between customers and aisles until you get to the back of the store. Before you can key in the code, the lounge door opens. You back up as Drew, the store manager, steps out. 

He stops and checks his watch. He curls his lip. You're not late. Not yet. Not unless he doesn't let you through. 

"On the floor in the next minute," he demands. 

"Yes, sir," you agree. 

He steps out and lets the door fall behind him. You barely catch it as you spin through and keep the door open with your foot. You punch in your employee code. The screen blinks green. It's right on the hour. 

You toss your bag on the shelf above and hang your jacket from one of the many bent hangers. Lilian pull the door back from against your toe and huffs as she steps out. You follow her. She's worked there about two decades too long. 

You go out to your zone; with the vases, candlesticks, and lamps.  

You wander around, waiting on any customer to come by and distract you from the slow grind of time. You rove around for the fifth time and relent to your mindless urges. You take out your phone and check your notifications. A couple of hearts and shares. You smile. You don't have too much time for more than work and everything else piling up around you. Your little corner of social media is your one escape. 

A shadow steps into the same aisle as you. You hide your phone, slipping it into your back pocket, and smile at Drew doing his rounds. He marches toward you. You turn to tidy the shelf. 

"Name tag." 

You look down. "I got it..." your voice fizzles as you see the logo. It's the wrong one. "I'm so sorry--" 

"You're more than entitled to have another job but once it starts interfering with his one..." 

"It's not, sir, I'm sorry." You reach into your pocket and find your other name tag. You switch them out. "It was a long night." 

He doesn't smile. He doesn't care and you know it. You don't make excuses a lot but some things you just can't control, no matter how much you wish you could. 

"This is work." He sniffs and saunters away. 

You stare after him. Yeah, it sure is. You prefer your other job. It's always quiet in the small boutique. That's probably not a great omen for your employment but the vintage re-seller is much calmer than the corporate discount depot. Some days, you can't handle all the people. 

When you're sure the coast is clear, you take out your cell again. You hide in the corner with the decorative bowls. You rewatch your reel of the chrysalis moving ever so slightly. You're really excited for that one. You hope you didn't leave your window closed. The air gets too hot in your room. 

You flip over to your messages. You key in a quick 'how's it going?' and hit send as you hear voices. You tuck away your phone and push your shoulders back. You strut up the aisle and greet the pair of older ladies with a smile. 

"Hi, how are you today? Can I help you find something?" You ask. 

"I think we can find the discount shelf, thank you," the red-haired woman retorts flippantly and rolls her eyes at her companion. "As I was saying, Gia is coming back next month..." 

"Let me know if you need anything," you call after them softly and retreat to the next aisle. 

You give it a couple minutes before you go back to scrolling. The women chatter about their children and their husbands. They have so much going on. Happy things they couldn't be more miserable about. 

A message blips up, a small envelope in the margin. You pull down the menu and click on it. It's your mom. 

'Just woke up. Can't find my water bottle.' 

You type; 'I left a note by your bed. It's in the fridge with your dinner. Sorry if I worried you. Love you.' 

She replies with only a heart. If she just woke up, it's likely all she can manage. You return a heart of your own and put your phone away. It's no longer a doorway to distraction; it's a reminder. 

You stop just at the edge of the clothing section. If Drew catches you, he'll write you up again. You look at the pink paisley scarves hanging beside the tan purses on sale. That would look nice on mom. She needs a new one. Her cap is getting ratty. 

Well, only seven and a half more hours, a bus ride home, and you can check on her. 

🦋

The apartment is quiet as you enter. It usually is regardless of the time of day. It wasn’t always like that, but you understand why it is now. 

You sanitize your hands and turn on the living room light. Your mom is on the couch, hugging a pillow, eyes closed. She looks peaceful. Despite that, you can’t let her stay there. 

You drop your bag on the chair and near her. You gently touch her shoulder. “Mom, hey, you gotta go to bed.” 

She grumbles, “I’m fine...” 

“Mom,” you squeeze her, feeling the bone through her skin. She feels fragile. 

She hums and bats your hand away lazily. She yawns and sits up. As she does, she blinks and touches her bald head. Her eyes round and she feels around the cushions. She pulls on the floral skullcap. 

“How was work?” She asks as he keeps the pillow in her lap. The shirt that once fit her snugly, hangs over her chest loosely. 

“It was work, that’s for sure,” you say chipperly. “But I got through it.” 

“Did you eat?” She asks. 

“Did you?” You counter. 

“Some,” she shrugs. 

You nod. She’s always nauseous. The doctor said she would be. 

“Finish it,” she says. “Please, I don’t want it to go to waste.” 

“Sure,” you agree and turn to the chair. You flip open your bag and dig inside. You pull out the pink scarf, the fabric cool and sleek. “Here. It’s getting hotter out.” 

You hand her the scarf. She admires the fabric between her fingers. “It’s pretty.” 

“It’ll look great on you,” you assure her. 

“You’re too sweet, pie.” 

You smile at the nickname. She always calls you that. Ever since you stole that slice of pie in grade one after bed time. You’ll never forget your first crime. 

“I need to eat and sleep. Somewhere in there, I need to shower. Tomorrow morning, right?” 

“I can go alone.” She says. 

“No, you won’t,” you insist as you go to the kitchen. 

You go to the fridge and take out the container of grilled chicken, rice, and green beans. She had a little rice and veg but none of the chicken. You put it in the microwave. 

You go to the doorway and peer into the living room. She wraps the scarf around her naked head and ties it. She peeks over her shoulder. 

“Well? Is it a good colour for me?” 

“You always look good in pink,” you assure her. “You need anything?” 

“Yes, I need my daughter to take care of herself.” She grunts as she pushes herself up. She throws the pillow on the couch and stiffly waddles around. “I’m going to bed, okay?” 

“I’m not coddling you,” you cross your arms. “I just don’t want to hear you whining when you’re all out of joint tomorrow.” 

She sticks her tongue out at you and kisses her palm, opening it to you as she shuffles by. 

“Get some sleep. I mean it.” 

“Take your own advice,” you throw back and grin crookedly. 

She waves you off and heads for her bedroom. You watch until her door snaps shut. You look down at the floor. The silence slowly rises around you, like water it getting deeper and deeper, until you could drown in it. 

You jerk out of your trance as the microwave beeps. You spin and hurry across the small kitchen. You take a fork from the drawer and grab the container as it steams. You drop it on the counter to cool. 

You hurry into the living room and grab your phone from your bag. You return to the kitchen as you twirl the fork in your hand. That notification remains; the one that blipped in an hour from close. A familiar subject line: OVERDUE. 

In the morning. You continue to ignore it as you open up your Insta. You put the phone on your counter, leaning on the edge, and eat bite by bite as your scroll. Someone liked a few older posts from last year. That beautiful monarch you hatched and the green caterpillar on the log in the park. 

You have a red admiral. Or so you hope. It’s a particular sort of patience you need to have for the hobby. If you can call it that. 

Waiting and waiting to watch the chrysalis crack and bloom with large wings. A butterfly born and released off to flutter. It’s so beautiful but sombre at the same time. The small changes, the subtle twitch of the cocoon, it reminds you of the passing of time. Of the inevitable. 

You rinse out the container and wash the fork. You set it all away and shut off the kitchen and front room lights. You scoop up your bag in the shadows and slink to your bedroom. 

The light in there is duller. Softened to keep from affecting metamorphosis. You stretch out your neck as you drop your bag and phone. You go to the mesh hamper in the corner, covered with a dish towel on top. Through the holes you can see the sticks you set up on and angle and the cocoons hanging within. 

The curtains stir and draw you back. It’s getting cooler. You close the window and bounce onto your bed. Half of it is covered in your clutter. The crinkle of paper has you straining to fish out the envelopes. Bill, bill, bill. You’re trying. So hard. 

You toss them to the corner of the bed and fall onto your back. What if it’s not enough. You don’t think it is. The invoices outpace your checks. Your hours at work can’t measure up to those at the clinic. The chemo is draining your bank account as quickly as your mother’s body. 

You put your hands over your forehead and sigh. Your eyes sting and a wobble of tears brim along the edges. You inhale deeply and wipe away the moisture. 

No. You're not giving up. It’s too early to grieve. You won’t be doing that any time soon. You promised your mom that. 

You sit up and grab your phone. You swipe around and open the app. You have a camera inside the hamper, recording in the chrysalises. It’s tedious and dull. One of your followers suggested a stream but you worried about the cameras picking up conversations or even just running up the internet bill. Besides, what’s there to watch? 

You scan through to find the most interesting bits when you can. If there are any. You edit them into shorts and put them up on your page. People love it, much to your surprise. And you like answering questions. Sometimes, they even teach you something. 

Ten new followers that day. It’s nothing compared to the beauty influencers or the fashion bloggers; or those gamers and their cult-like fans. It’s your own little space where nothing else can touch you. Where all you have to worry about is misting the cocoons so they don’t dry out. 

There’s nothing bad there. No managers, no crowded bus rides, no doctor’s appointments, or red numbers. It’s where you can forget. It’s where you can fly. Reborn just like the butterflies. 

[rhiannonsknife]

The baby fever is going insane now from your recent jackie post ☝️😭, I loved it so much that I need more 😩

this picture is SO housewife!jackie coded guys!! anyway you asked so you shall receive!! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

i’ve mentioned this before but hear me out!! jackie who wants to teach your kids how to play soccer!!

even though she hasn’t played seriously in over a decade and flinches every time the ball flies directly towards her face, she insists on it. she even brings out her old yellowjackets jersey for the occasion, faded and a little snug now, but worn just as proudly.

you’re not sure if it’s meant to inspire the kids or herself, either way, it’s not working: your youngest is spinning in circles and chasing a butterfly across the lawn, while the eldest is enthusiastically kicking the ball in the opposite direction. jackie shouts “good game!” anyway, trying to look authoritative despite the grass stain streaking down her leg and the whistle she keeps forgetting to use.

the ball hits her in the chest and she drops to the ground, laughing and groaning in equal parts while your toddler rushes over shouting “i scored!!” and throws themselves into her lap.

oh my god jackie who calls for back up eventually!!

van shows up twenty minutes later, dramatically cracking her knuckles as she steps onto the makeshift “field”. she rolls her eyes and takes the ball from the jackie. “you suck. move over. aunt van’s in the net now, babies.”

the rest of the yellowjackets she’s still close to linger on the patio with you, watching with varying degrees of amusement and commentary: nat with a cigarette tucked behind her ear that jackie didn’t allow her to smoke around the kids, tai & lottie sipping their drinks, and shauna feeding your youngest grapes from the fruit tray while self proclaimed “aunt van” is doing summersault saves between the goal posts and jackie still directs the chaos from midfield (your kids call her “coach mommy”)

jackie who wears a necklace with tiny engraved initials for each child!!

jackie who carries the baby on her hip while she’s on the phone with her mom, making little faces at them to keep them giggling while she politely tells mrs. taylor she will not be dressing them in those weird tiny loafers she sent in the mail. she hangs up and turns to you, exasperated. “she thinks i don’t know how to raise stylish children!” jackie mutters, kissing your kid’s cheek. “you’re perfect just like this”

housewife!jackie who sends you countless videos of the kids throughout the day, texting you: “look what you’re missing”

jackie who most definitely cries when she packs their lunchboxes on the first day of school. you find her in the kitchen with the lid to a tiny dinosaur-shaped tupperware clutched to her chest. “i remember when they couldn’t even chew solid food,” she sniffs.

jackie who keeps a framed picture on the nightstand of your toddler’s first finger painting <33 “they said it was a portrait of me,” jackie nods proudly. you remind her it also has three arms and no face. she reminds you it’s art.

[erenasia]

𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒚, 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝟐 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: 𝟏𝟖+ 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝑫𝑵𝑰. 𝑵𝑶 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺.

𝑰 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐𝒅 𝒊'𝒎 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉 𝒐𝒖𝒕---

𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑵𝑶𝑾 𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑳𝑼𝑫𝑬𝑺 𝑩𝑶𝑻𝑯 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑺.

𝑾𝑯𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑬𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑺𝒀𝑴𝑩𝑶𝑳 *** 𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬𝑨𝑵𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻'𝑺 𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑬 𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑰𝑵𝑨𝑳𝑳𝒀 𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑫.

(𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒉𝒉𝒉𝒉)

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑱𝒆𝒇𝒇 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕?

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔: 𝑱𝒆𝒇𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑲𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔: 11.5𝒌 (𝑰’𝒎 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚)

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑺/𝑻𝑾: 𝒅𝒖𝒃𝒄𝒐𝒏 (𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂) 𝑺𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒑𝒍��𝒚, 𝒅𝒐𝒎/𝒔𝒖𝒃, 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒆, 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒅𝒆𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

𝑨/𝑵: 𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 (𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒐). 𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒐.

𝑨𝒍𝒔𝒐…𝒑𝒔𝒔𝒕, @horny-marbles 👀

Regret. The word hung heavy in the air. 

People lay slouched in the chairs, cigarettes burnt low, fingers pulling at grass just to keep the blood flowing. 

No one was there by choice. 

Not anymore. 

They were just waiting for it to end.

Waiting for this unfolding nightmare to be put to rest; to go back inside and enjoy the warmth of the house, or eat unlabelled human organs in the privacy of their own room.

But it wouldn’t. They couldn’t. 

Because they’d agreed to it.

And now they were paying the price.   

The atmosphere was tense, quiet. The strained squeak of a chair leg only highlighted the unusual silence spilling over the forest. 

You shifted in place. 

Everyone was attending a garden party. 

One held in the dead of night. With a guest list of serial killers, crazed psychopaths, unnatural beings, and a dog, to boot.

It was freezing. It was uncomfortable. 

No one wanted to be here, not when the threat of freezing to death lingered like a dense fog.    

No one except, that is, for Toby. 

Because he was the man of the hour, the king of it all— the organiser of this cursed ensemble. Just an hour before, all attendees were sleeping soundly, tired from a long mission or a tricky day at the house. 

Yet Toby had other plans. 

The clock had struck 3am. The entrance had flung wide with a deafening ‘thwack’. Toby stood in the centre of it all, causing a ruckus so loud that sleeping dogs could no longer lie in peace.

At the time, you tried to ignore it, tried to nestle further into the bedsheets and push away the craziness happening outside.   

Yet it couldn’t be avoided.

Smile was the first to wake, bounding down the grand staircase to greet Toby with a wagging tail and curious sniff. 

Jeff soon followed. 

After that, all hell broke loose. 

You didn’t manage to catch the first part of their conversation. You didn’t want to catch the rest, but it became impossible to drown out. 

“W-well, m-man, I d-don’t see why not?!” His voice was raised, defensive. 

Jeff hissed, before groaning in annoyance. You threw a pillow over your head. It didn’t help.   

“Because it’s a stupid fucking idea, that’s why.” Footsteps followed, then so did the sound of metal grinding against wood. “These chairs look like dogshit anyway!” 

…Chairs?... Idea? You sat up in bed, throwing away the pillow before letting out a deep sigh; this could no longer be ignored. Whatever was going on downstairs suddenly became far more interesting than sleep anyway, and with a scoff, you swung your legs over the bedside.

“M-motherf-fucker, d-don’t fucking ins-sult my ch-chairs! I went through a l-lot of e-effort to get those!” 

Jeff grinned, as if Toby's words had lit a fire in the room, then handed him a can of gasoline. You didn’t need to see it— it was present in the tone. The rat bastard couldn't help but antagonise every situation he was a part of.  

“Don’t insult your chairs? What, they got feelings or somethin’?... They gonna start cryin’ if I call them rusty, no good, god awful, pieces of—”

“Jeff.” 

A voice cut through the carnage. 

Yours. 

It cascaded down the staircase and brought the two bickering men to a halt. Clad in a long shirt and wearing it like armour, you stood tall at the precipice— quiet spilling into the dilapidated foyer, tense and uncertain. As Jeff dropped the chair he was holding, a metallic clang echoed off of the walls.  

He glared. “Yeah? Got somethin’ to say?” Then he took a step forward, and If it were at all possible his gaze would have narrowed. 

In the meantime you’d descended into the scene of the crime, and surrounding the culprits sat four rusty garden chairs. Looking behind them, an equally grimy table wedged the front door wide open and let in a sharp breeze. The whole scene was disjointed, like something out of a comedy sketch; almost impossible to read at first glance, and requiring you to have seen the past 3 episodes to understand. You hadn’t been privy to those, so instead you directed your attention back to Jeff.  

“Yeah, I do,” The words slipped out through a yawn. “Stop being mean to Toby will you? and instead,-” Another yawn, “-tell me what the hell is going on?” 

The man scoffed, arms crossing in a firm ‘x’ across his chest. He opened his mouth once more— most likely to spit venom— before Toby interjected, the persistent twitching seemingly having eased at your presence.   

“W-well, I found these.” He gestured to the chairs, as if they were something marvellous. A flicker of a smile ghosted across Jeff’s face, noticing how you looked over the furniture in confusion. 

”I… see that, Tobes. And… why do you have them?” You gave Jeff a warning glance, one that reflected the words ‘Don’t fucking start’, as much as humanly possible. In response, furrowed eyebrows raised to create an expression— one that was smug, waiting, expecting.

“Stole t-them on a mission. I-I thought we could throw a party outside— one of those, like, g-garden parties, you know?”

You grinned, side eyeing Jeff. What was wrong with that idea? Why the looks? Maybe he was just trying to get under your skin like usual, or vehemently hated the idea of being a community. 

“...Oh! Sure, I’ll attend. We could grab some beers from the store, I'll make potato salad, it’ll be fun. When are you thinking?” 

You and Toby were pretty close. Close enough, that it was almost always you who felt the brunt of his strange ideas, or impulsive decisions. He let himself run free in your presence, and more often than not, you indulged it with open arms. 

Jeff let out a sliver of a laugh.

Toby responded.  

“... R-right now.”

Expressions stalled. Thoughts ground to a halt. 

He wanted to throw it right now? In the dead of night? In the cold, dark, nightmare ridden forest? 

No chance.

You’d be mauled to death by Seed-eater, eviscerated by the rake, or worse, have to spend the whole time with Jeff complaining about the cold. Feet tapped the ground trying to think of an excuse, or a way to let Toby down gently. 

Because Jeff was right, this was a stupid idea.

No sooner had the thought crossed your mind, did something sour begin to dwell; something that pooled in the depths of your stomach and settled like a thick venom— something vicious. 

Spite. 

The feeling festered, no matter how fleeting the moment was; it worked quickly, poisoning every judgement you made with precise accuracy. It only worsened, when you glanced at Jeff.     

The bastard was smiling. 

Smiling, because he knew you were about to agree with him. 

You, whose main objective in this place centered around driving him to the depths of hell— arguing every point he made without reason, getting under his skin when things went awry, poisoning people against him— you. 

And the cherry on the cake? You weren’t just about to agree with him—   

You were about to prove him right.  

This concept was so foreign; if you had to place money on which would come first— the rapture, or Jeff and yourself finding common ground— your bets would be on the rapture. No hesitation. You weren’t about to lose hypothetical money, either— so with a sly grin thrown his way, you turned to Toby. 

“Oh, right. Well, we can’t have any beers or food, because there isn’t any, and the store is closed. But, I don’t see why that should stop us. So come on, I’ll help you get the chairs back outside.”

Jeff’s face was a picturesque mix of anger, disbelief, and embarrassment all at once. It was perfect, and you? You lived for it.

Toby smiled, excitement bubbling under his skin as he began pushing at the table almost immediately, trying to un-wedge it. You were, of course, doing this for him too. You weren’t about to let Jeff bully your best friend— no matter how stupid the idea. 

Another large yawn echoed off the walls. 

“Actually, I'll help in a second. I’m still shrugging off the last of my sleep.” 

A lie. You just wanted to watch Jeff unravel in full view. 

Toby nodded, groaning with another push to the table. 

Your smile remained sweet, ‘genuine’, looking from one man to the other like there wasn’t a problem in the world.  

Meanwhile, Jeff fumed.

He wasn’t the type to admit when he’d lost, nevermind accept it with open arms. In any other scenario he’d storm off, throw a calloused insult, then slam the door. He’d retreat. But not with you. Never, with you. Because you worked so hard, so damn hard, to bring out the worst in him; to take his fury and set it to a boil, all while wearing that damned innocent smile.

“Oh fuck you! You bitch. You really wanna go outside and play tea parties? Right fuckin’ now?” He laughed, callous, raising his arms with a grin. “Just fuckin’ fess up already, doll, you think it’s a stupid idea too. Admit it, come on, I know you want to” 

With that said, it wasn’t as if he was guilt free. He forced your hand many a time— deep rooted insults, petty theft, ‘harmless’ pranks, often curating his own torture as a result— but the blame was never on his shoulders.   

An emotionless stare was thrown his way, as if the mere act of paying attention to him was a cruel punishment. It was then followed by a phrase, and a grin. 

“Admit what, Jeff?” 

Then Jeff stalled, his anger festering even further. He could’ve kept it contained, too, if you hadn’t paired the words with that smug expression. 

With that smile. 

That damned smile.

After that, he lost all composure. The man was stepping closer now, pointing angered fingers and almost frothing at the mouth. Meanwhile Smile stood up beside him, his teeth bared and growling, mirroring his owner perfectly. 

“That you’re lying. Fuck– you know damn well what i’m talking about. You’re just sayin’ that, you’re not agreeing just because—fuck— you fuckin-’,” 

He cut off the mismatched sentence, taking a deep breath. 

God, it was so easy to get under his skin. 

Your response was the opposite: calm, composed, and soft. 

“There’s nothing to admit. I just think we all need a break, and it could be a nice way to let off steam. I get along with the others, and it’s a lovely idea from Toby. So no, I'm not just saying that. I genuinely don’t see a problem here!” 

You paired the phrase with an evil grin, knowing exactly what it would do to him— knowing that even though he had clocked half of your motivations perfectly, he could do nothing to prove it. Each insult lay hidden, laced perfectly between feigned ignorance and wove a tapestry only he would understand.  

Even when he let out a low hum, clenching his fist tight, you still persisted. 

You still pushed further. 

For Toby, and yourself.  

“Well, no problem other than you I suppose. No one wants to spend that much time around you, Jeff, no offence and all. But I'll put up with it, for Toby. I’m kind like that, you know?”

Truth be told, you didn’t even know why Toby himself wanted to throw this party; usually, he was standoffish to most other inhabitants, only really talking to them to relay orders or bark commands. Unless they were his friend, he purposely hid much of his bubbly personality around them, a hard lesson he came to learn many years ago. If you had to guess, it was nothing to do with the people attending, and more to do with the chairs serving a purpose. 

But that didn’t matter. What did matter, was forcing Jeff into a situation he’d do anything to avoid, whilst still having your friend’s back. 

Jeff was breathing deeply now, trying to hold on to any semblance of his temper. The venom tripled, forcing out a line that would make the man crumble. 

“And, look, If I have to put up with a giant man child for a few hours to make my best friend happy? Then so be it.”

Although he was still in a fight with the table, Toby grinned at your words, chuckling softly.

And that was all it took for Jeff to snap. 

To no-one’s surprise, the both of you ended up in an explosive and heated argument— so loud, in fact, that if Toby hadn’t woken everyone up with his earlier racket, they were definitely awake now. 

That point proved to be true, as at the end of this horrible debate, the whole house stood divided on two opposing sides of the foyer.

The chairs remained in the centre. 

Majority voting was the way this house worked. Although it was full of people who never even obeyed the law, the inhabitants strangely obeyed this one rule:

The majority vote is final. 

They’d figured out long ago that nothing would get done if they continued to work solo, and none of them denied the fact that they were selfish, either. So this system, as flawed as it was, worked; at some point, everyone would get something out of it. They didn’t have to vote fairly— put biases aside, rationalise,— they just had to vote. The deciding factor could be as arbitrary as someone forgetting to take out the trash.  

The state of this vote was troubling, however. It was a perfect split, directly down the middle, completely equal on both sides.

Jeff smirked, eyes locked intently on your form with a gaze that rivalled a burning pyre.

You started to think you’d lose, that the vote would be called a draw, that you’d have to backpedal and seek revenge another day.   

That is, until Eyeless Jack entered the fray.

Your smile returned, as your rivals fell. 

You delivered him organs last week—

unprompted, and free of charge. 

Wearing a blank expression, he calmly walked to your side of the room. 

Jeff scoffed.

And then, it was decided. 

Everyone was having a garden party. 

-

So there you were. Planted In the grass, shivering from the cold, and wondering whether your win against Jeff was even worth it. 

Masky stood with his back turned, looking out into the forest whilst smoking a cigarette. Hoodie lingered alongside him, the two somehow silently communicating with subtle head shakes and glances. 

Jack sat hunched on the grass opposite, showing nothing but a neutral expression. 

Nina and Jane perched beside you on the chairs, nattering quietly about a new ‘pop figure’ coming out soon. 

Clockwork lingered nearby, sharpening her knife.

Toby lounged across two chairs, using one as a footrest and gazing at the sky. 

Smile slept in the centre. 

Ben was texting. 

And he was sitting right next to Jeff.

Who for the past thirty minutes, had been scowling at you in total silence. He sat upon one of the seats, elbows leant on his bouncing knees, fingers clasped together, eyes burning a hole through your skull. Maybe he was trying to explode your mind with his; the act wouldn’t be unusual. It was as if he were begging for you to react, to respond, to lash out at him and tell him to stop staring. 

But you didn’t. 

The act was instead countered with a grin. 

A soft smile. 

One that made Jeff tremble with rage. 

Someone broke the stillness after that, evidently noticing the red-hot staring contest occurring around them despite the icy temperature.  

“Hey. Tell me again, why are we out here?”

Ben spoke up, barely looking away from the phone glued to his hand. 

“Because, I’m cold. And I don’t even get cold– I’m dead. So can we wrap this up, like soon? Cause, I got more interesting shit to do than this.”

The leaves rustled as if they had a response, crashing against howling winds which slithered between each tree. 

Toby went to argue, before Masky turned his head, interrupting.

“No.”

His mask, lifted ever so slightly to expose flesh, glowed orange as a deep drag was pulled from his cigarette. 

“Majority vote. We’re seeing it through.” 

The masked man’s gaze lingered, daring Ben to respond and throwing down an imaginary gauntlet.

Yet it wasn’t him who spoke up next.

“I mean, It is pretty chilly out here. You know, like, maybe, we can change it? Or something? I know I voted for this, but, um…” 

Nina. Her voice was wavering, the cold seeping through her flashy clothing and freezing down to the bone. 

Jane continued the girl's sentence, picking up where she left off. 

“What she means is this. We’re not opposing the vote, or questioning our stance on the matter,” She eyed Jeff, taking a shuddery breath.  “But we want to reschedule. Because I know I’m not alone in feeling like my fingers are about to drop off.” 

The air tightened.

She was right, she wasn’t alone—

Almost everyone let out an agreement, a nod, a hum, a scoff. 

Fingertips blue, nose red, lips chapped, you let out a frost ridden breath too. 

It was the middle of winter. 

And you’d all been sitting out here for an hour and a half. 

Masky hesitated, eyes glazing over in deep thought, the cigarette surging to life once more and providing a dull light. It seemed the man required nicotine to even breathe, let alone think. After a brief pause though the lifeline slipped from his lips and fell, crumpled underneath his boot. 

Then the mask readjusted. 

“Not how this works. We’re out here until Toby says it’s done.” His voice dripped with authority, each word punching through the air like a molten fist. 

“---um, hello? we’ll freeze?! And—and the Rake? And Seed-eater? What about them?” 

Nina again. 

She was right. Those monsters lurked in the shadows, waiting for the perfect time to strike— and when they did? You’d never see it coming. They would be on their way soon. 

If they weren’t here already. 

As Nina’s concerns fell on deaf ears, a small sense of guilt began to blossom, flourishing the more you looked around the garden. 

People were shivering. 

People were cold. 

People were hungry. 

People were angry. 

You weren’t just getting glares from Jeff anymore. 

Jack now wore an expression of annoyance, his body tense and breathing labored. 

Jane trembled, refusing to look at you, refusing to blame you, even though anger simmered beneath her skin. 

Clockwork nestled into her coat, breaths fogging the cold air. 

Masky glowered as his gaze flicked between Jeff, and you. 

Hoodie sighed. 

Ben glanced up from the phone, his eyes hardening. 

Jeff remained the same. 

Locked in his thoughts and seemingly having phantom arguments in his mind, the man barely paid attention to the world around him. That was, until he noticed the concern etched deeply into every wrinkle, the worry lining your lips, the fear clouding your eyes; the sight was relieving, like ice on a sizzling burn. 

He smirked, his lips mouthing a silent phrase dripping with conceit. 

“You. Lost.” 

He was right. 

You had. 

Even though bile simmered like acid and venom seeped into every pore— he was right. 

You’d lost. 

Because you were ending this. 

Whilst Toby had the final say, it wouldn’t take much to persuade him. All you had to do was admit you were cold, admit you were done, and that you needed to go back inside.

All you needed to do was admit Jeff was right, all along.

Everyone knew this fact too, their sly glares and pleading glances reflecting it well. It wasn’t a secret that you were close with Toby, that you had a sway over his occasional bullheadedness. Nor was it a secret that you had a deep hatred for Jeff. 

It didn’t take much to connect the dots.

So, the longer time passed, the more resentment began to fester.  

With a final tight lipped grin in Jeff’s direction, a voice slipped out from behind gritted, chattering teeth.  

“Hey, Toby…?”

His head snapped over, ripped from a deep daydream with the stars above. 

Trembling from both frustration and the cold, you closed your eyes in resignation.  

“I think—” 

The words got trapped in motion, as Toby launched from his seat and accidentally hurled the ‘footrest’ in the process. Then, following a grin that reached the eyes—

 He became your hero.       

 “H-hold on a minute–” The man raised a gloved palm. “G-got something t-to say f-first.”    

 A harsh twitch of the left hand.

If someone knew him—really, knew him— they’d know that was his tell. 

So If Toby ever wished to take up gambling as a hobby, you’d pull him out of the casino by his hair and scold him for being so stupid. Because every time a white lie escaped those damaged lips, his left hand almost always followed suit. 

He spoke again.

“T-this was not as f-fun as I thought i-it would b-be.”

You raised an eyebrow, mouth falling open slightly as frozen air raced its way inside your lungs.

“L-lets head back inside.” He turned, stomping a mud crusted boot on top of the chair discarded by momentum, then puffed out his chest. 

“I h-hereby, e-end this g-garden party. So s-sorry everyone! G-guess I got bored.” 

And then, In the dim light, illuminated only by the small camping torch placed in the centre, you saw it. 

He winked.

A faint gesture, veiled by the dim light and obscured by the tint of his goggles, meant for nobody except yourself.

You could’ve kissed him. 

You could’ve run over to him, thrown your popsicle arms around his torso, and tackled him to the ground— showering him in friendly affection. 

But you didn’t. Toby kept his motives quiet for a reason: to protect you from a loss in front of your rival. 

So instead, with a real grin, you stood from the grass, dusted off icy speckles of dirt, and sighed. 

“Alright, Toby. Well, thank you for- 

“No, no, come on, tell us bitch, what were you gonna say?” 

Eyes flung to Jeff, the man standing tall and huffing deeply as he paced towards his opponent. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but didn’t get a chance; the sentence hung stagnant in the air, interrupted by another. 

Masky held a firm hand on the man’s chest, glaring down with a stare so inhuman, it should’ve belonged to a wolf. 

“Leave it. Get the fuck inside.” He growled, shoving Jeff backwards before pacing towards the house, grabbing your best friend by the hood. 

“And you? You’re coming with me. We’re gonna have a little chat about what’s fucking appropriate, around here.” 

While Toby was dragged away, with growls, punches, and phrases like ‘g-get the f-fuck off m-me!’, being yelled out into the wilderness for no-one to hear, you grimaced.

You’ll have to make it up to him later. 

You had the power to stop this event from happening; the ability to prevent this punishment and nip it in the bud before it had a chance to flourish. 

But you didn’t. 

And the reason why? Stared deeply into your soul, eyes burning and raging with a fury so unrivalled, it could’ve raised the temperature enough to make the winter months masquerade as summer ones. 

And while each inhabitant trekked their way back inside, taking off boots kissed with frost, breathing hot air into each hand, there you both stood. 

In the frozen wasteland.

Snarling and grinning. 

Even Jeff’s scars, wounds carved many years ago to form a twisted smile, gravitated to the ground from the hatred coursing through his veins. 

Then, calloused, scarred, pale fingers flexed around something hidden beneath fabric. Jeff’s eyes darted to the door; he scanned the walls of the mansion, flicking across each window before finally focusing on one. 

The second highest in the place, hanging just below the bosses— one which looked out onto the forest, but was too far up to see anything going on in the leaf littered undergrowth. 

That one. 

The one that belonged to his keeper:

Masky. 

Although Jeff hated to admit it, deep down in blackened the depths of his soul, lay an undercurrent of fear— one which swept through him on days where the self righteousness keeping his head attached took a day off. One which kept him chained to this place, forever drowning, taking order after order.

The being that resided within the highest floor was the overarching cause— but Masky? Was only one level below him. Physically, and metaphorically.  

He’d already been warned once. 

A second time only entailed darkness. 

Eyes darted back to your own, fingers and muscles tensing when they took in the sight of you once more. 

In your nightshirt. 

Alone.

Smiling. 

Then something in his eyes… changed.

In turn the expression you wore proudly faltered, and in its place, lay fear. 

It was time to wrap things up. 

See, there was a line with Jeff. One that you don’t cross, one that you never even toe, unless you want to wind up dead in a ditch somewhere with nothing left but teeth to identify you.

You were approaching that line. 

Fast. 

The only thing keeping him tethered, was the threat that window held, and the reins the person behind it wound tightly around their weathered fist. 

But that only went so far, didn’t it? 

This was Jeff, after all. 

He’d cut free before. Broken out of the chains, let himself loose— but then returned with his tail between his legs. Other times, his misdoings had gone undetected, and the tales of said moments lay buried with those who experienced them.

You tried to fight the nerves. Tried to keep up the charade, even as his hoodie pocket shifted with his fist, highlighting the shape of a weapon.

But no part of you forgot what he was, deep down. 

A monster.

One much greater, and much scarier, than anything you could ever come close to rivalling. 

However, as you turned to go back inside, moving frozen limbs in a mechanical dance towards the door, something simmered. It lurched its tentacles to your mind once more, pushing down the fear one final time; fighting every adrenal instinct and crying out in a last stand.

Spite. 

Maybe you assumed you were safe. 

That you hadn’t gotten as close as you thought, that there was still breathing room for a final, lasting, remark. 

One look back. 

Two words. 

Three mistakes.

“I. Won.” 

The light in Masky’s room flicked to life.

The light in Jeff’s eyes faded to a dull grey. 

And that was all it took. 

In an instant, he lurched forwards, grasping your wrist in a bruising grip.

You didn't even have the luxury of time to react as he stalked towards the edge of the garden, his strides quick and powerful, only looking back to revel in your fear. And revel he did, for when wide, terrified eyes met his own, it only filled him with the urge to continue; the urge to push further, just as you had so many times before.

He didn’t say anything. 

Only dragged your body as if it was a corpse, one that fought against him with every ounce of strength it had left. 

You didn’t say anything, either. Words were trapped, caged, by the element of surprise.  

He turned his steely gaze ahead once more, stepping into the forest and pulling you through with a harsh tug. 

“Keep that silence for me, bitch. I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ word.”

A low whisper. 

Unfortunately for him though, Jeff never got what he wanted, for his words seemed to jolt you back to the present; the reminder of who you were rippling through each and every inch of your body. 

“Jeff! The fuck are you d-” 

A hand, cold, rough, stifled the words penetrating dead air. Meanwhile, a blade, sharpened and wanting, found its way to soft flesh, resting firmly atop it. The tree was next— it’s harsh bark colliding with the thin cotton of your night-shirt, trapping you. 

“I said, be fucking quiet. You an idiot? You wanna be fuckin’ mauled?” He hissed.  

A slow shake of the head. Narrowed eyes. 

“Thought so.” He looked around then, eyes dancing in the darkness for signs of life. After a tense moment, hot breath graced your ear, trickling down your neck and prickling every hair in its wake. “So shut the fuck up. You’ll have plenty of time to scream once we get there. But do us both a fuckin’ favour, and be quiet for now, got it?” 

A sinister smirk.

A nod.

A palpitation. 

Then a shiver of disgust. 

He moved his hands, leading a now silent, but resisting corpse further into the dense woodland. All the while, you begged to ignore the feeling; to overlook the way your heart rate increased the moment he neared, put aside the fact your chest instinctively leant towards his as if it was born to do so. You pleaded with a phantom god, to tune out the faint sense of desire born only from a single spark. 

Because it was wrong. 

Because you were scared.

Because you hated him.

Even more so as he tugged your arm harshly, a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth in a muted tone. 

You refused to acknowledge it any further.  

Instead, eagle eyes scanned the surroundings, watching for any sense of movement that was out of the ordinary. 

Jeff stalked ahead, your wrist clasped tightly between his fingers with a stinging grip, tugging as if you were a dog on a leash. 

You had a good idea of where he was taking you. 

The safe house. 

Nestled deep in the centre of the woods, this place was a refuge for those caught in this treacherous landscape after the sun had escaped into the horizon; a place to hide out until morning from the hellish monsters that prowled beyond its doors. This was the intended purpose, of course, but it was used for other things too:

When people wanted to be alone,

When people wanted to talk without having eavesdroppers, 

When people wanted to fight,

When people wanted to fuck. 

You swallowed, almost tripping over a thick root. 

Jeff spent a lot of his time in the little cabin, mostly when things had gotten too much back at the house, or he had landed himself in a messy situation with the higher ups. From your place on the second floor, which looked out into the thick forest, it was often you caught him stalking out into the dreadful environment, whiskey bottle in hand. 

You grilled him about it. 

Countless times. 

Asked him why, why he went there alone to drown his sorrows, why he skulked off in the middle of the night. 

He obviously refused to answer. 

But you had a feeling.

A feeling then, and a feeling now—

You were going to find out.

You were right. 

The cabin emerged slowly out of the thicket, surrounded by bushels of leaves. 

Jeff, wasting no time, paced towards it, hauling your body up the decaying steps and onto the decking. 

Then, with one large push, the door flung open. 

A shove had you staggering inside. 

He followed,

turned, 

then bolted the door shut. 

And there you both stood, treading water in an ocean of darkness, broken only by sporadic rays of moonlight dripping through the clouded, dusty windows. 

One foot tread backwards, mirrored by one stepping forward. 

Hearts raced. Pulses quickened. A mirror of reactions, yet both for different reasons. 

“J-Jeff. What the fuck are you doing?”

You didn’t know whether it was the cold, finally managing to get through to an adrenalised body, or the terror, coursing through each vein and rooting you to the ground—- but the words came out stuttered. Forced. Scared. 

He only chuckled. 

“Something I should’ve done a long fuckin’ time ago.”

The floorboards creaked. 

Further away to where you last remembered Jeff standing. 

“…Masky will find out, you know. They all will. And Toby… Toby won’t forgive you.” 

Picking out which feeling was most overwhelming became impossible. Thoughts raced, emotions ranged, flipping between fear, anger, resentment… and something else.

Jeff hesitated. Another long creak echoed against the wooden walls, his next step drawn out, as if to haunt you further. 

“You don’t think I thought of that?” He smiled; It was audible. “There’s a fuckin’ reason I waited until Mr.Perfect was in his room.” 

“What?’ 

A ruthless growl of a laugh. 

“You think he pays any attention to the shit going on outside, when he’s away in his room of personal torture? Nah-“

Another step forwards. 

Another creak.

He was close now. 

“The guy’s too wrapped up in self pity. Drowning in bottles of pills, looking over photo albums, you know�� that sorta stuff. Wouldn’t even occur to him to look outside. Not when he’s alone.” 

You shrunk away, feet hitting the opposing wall with a thunk. 

You were trapped.

Cornered.

Alone.

And all at once the realisation dawned, 

This was why Jeff liked the cabin. 

Because It was isolated. 

Quiet. 

Hidden. 

The idea of anyone coming to the rescue, slipped away with the howling winds. 

“And, Toby?…”

A knife shot out, splitting the wood beside your head as it brought with it your aggressor, hand strained around the hilt. On the opposite side, his nails dug into the panels. 

“Now, who the fuck is gonna tell him, princess?’ 

The knife was retrieved with ease, and instead traversed the length of the wall, before resting underneath your chin. 

Jeff tilted it upright, forcing you to look at him. 

Spit turned to ash.

You couldn’t see him. But he made sure you knew he was there. 

Looking down. Enjoying it. 

“Well? Come on, use your words, who?” 

“… Fuck you.” 

The words ran free before you could stop them. And with a short grunt, he pressed the tip of the knife further into your skin.

“Don’t fuckin’ start.” A drawn out sigh. “Fine. Since you’re too fuckin’ stupid to string a damn sentence together, I’ll answer for you.”

He leant closer then, chest pressed against chest with a suffocating force, lips gracing your ear. 

“No one. Not me, and sure as shit, not you. No one will tell him. No one… will ever fuckin’ know.”

His breath lingered in short, sporadic pants. It was as if he still held back a monster, one that beat mercilessly upon his castle walls and yowled before the gates.

One he was failing to contain. 

Jeff’s fingers trembled around the hilt of the knife.

What followed was a moment of quiet. A silent pause in the charged atmosphere, where the creaks and groans of the outside world seemed nothing more than an exit melody.

Thoughts once cast out by adrenaline cut through once again, unfortunately taking refuge in the stillness.  

You fought them. 

Because they were wrong. 

Because it was him—

And he was about to kill you. 

Fighting could’ve worked, if you’d had a weapon. But left forgotten on the night shelf, your knife remained a taunting reminder of the fact you’d rushed outside without a second thought— save for one. 

The thought of embarrassing Jeff.  

And look at all the good that it did you now. 

You couldn’t take him without a weapon, either; In one on one combat, he beat you every time— and he had an advantage. 

It was over. 

You were going to die. 

You swallowed, the knife’s edge moving as your jaw hardened. 

The faint flame of desire, the one that trembled in the winds of his closeness, grew brighter. It swallowed the initial match, almost burning down to the pale fingertips which held it. 

You put it aside. 

“I fucking hate you.” 

He smiled, retreating slightly, only to run his cold fingertips through your hair. Then in one swift motion he grabbed a fistful, eliciting a sharp whine. Jeff chuckled lowly, a sound more akin to a growl than a laugh. 

“Good. Because I fuckin’ hate you too.” 

Your sudden twisted smile met him in a standoff. Fight or flight, you supposed. 

“So, so what’s your plan, huh? Kill me, leave my body outside, tell the others I’d been eaten by seed-eater? Lie and say you were too far away to help? Or is that excuse too overused by now? Whatever it is, fucking hurry up and get on with it.”

Jeff’s hand retreated, instead finding your wrist and pressing it against the wood. 

With one sentence, everything changed. 

“Who said anything about killing?” 

His breathing, rugged and unkempt, slowed; his words once controlled and calm, sounded staggered and strained. 

“…what?”

There it was again. That silence. That pressure. 

The match, now burnt entirely, still held a flame; It simmered for a while longer, before the hand that held it tight let go.

And from there it fell into a pit. 

A pit filled with years of stockpiled fuel, waiting for something to ignite it. 

A pit filled with venom. 

In a mere moment everything caught alight, creating a blaze so intense it took over every thought and feeling. It controlled each action, like you were a puppet on a string. 

With your one free hand, you threw it around Jeff’s neck and dragged him close, lips crashing into his with a starved hunger. He groaned before dropping his knife in surprise, deciding instead to rest a callous hand around your neck. 

He pushed you back, smiling as you both took in a breath. 

“Turns out you’re not as fuckin’ stupid as you look.” 

It was an insult. But you didn’t care. Thoughts had long escaped you, now all that remained was hatred and desire, mixed into a perfect cocktail. 

“Yeah?” You hummed. 

“Yeah.” He replied. 

A beat of silence followed. 

Then, as if no time had passed, his lips met yours once more.

He hummed between gasps, strong hands feeling around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pushing you further against the wall. Legs then curled around his abdomen instinctively, a stark heat boiling in your core. 

“Don’t get it twisted. I still-“ a gasp followed, as he bit down on your lip. “-I still fucking hate you.”

 You felt the grin as it crept upon his face. 

“Good. You should. Wanna know why?” ***

His body shook as he tore away from you, chuckling whilst you dropped to the floor.

Wincing, glaring, eyes holding a feverish hunger, you responded. 

“Why?” 

He crouched low, retrieving the knife that had clattered to the ground in surprise, then brought it to your chin. 

“Because… you’re not off the fuckin’ hook just yet.” 

Blood raced through each vein. Meanwhile, Jeff moved closer, his calloused hands finding their way underneath your thin nightshirt and coming to rest on your underwear. With a soft but firm caress, he had your legs trembling. 

“What do you mean off the hoo-“ 

A weaponised hand clasped over your mouth, whilst the other pressed firmly on your clit. 

“You think that because you’re gonna open your pretty legs for me, I’ll let you off, just like that? You really think your pussy is good enough for that, bitch?” 

Eyes pleading, chest heaving, you whimpered. 

You fucking whimpered. 

Because everything within you had been turned on its head. 

He laughed in response, callous, cold, cruel, before freeing your mouth.

Then with a snarl, he cut away your underwear. 

The cold air was a shock as it hit your pussy, now slick with your own arousal. But Jeff wasted no time in letting his hand explore it, his other dropping the knife and slithering up to tangle in messy strands of hair. 

“No. It’s not good enough.” He grinned, leaning closer. “But it sure as shit makes it easier to forgive.” You glared at him, body tensing as you tried to fight the embarrassment. His next sentence did nothing to alleviate it, either. ”Jesus you’re fuckin’ soaked.” He purred, fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your messy cunt. “And you’re supposed to hate me. How fuckin’ embarrassing.”

“S-shut the fuck up” You whined, angry, humiliated, twitching. 

He merely scoffed, grinning at your words and leaning close, hot breath leaving shivers in its wake.  

“Watch your fuckin’ tone.” 

You eyed him. Body betraying each hateful thought with a jolt, only furthering your want for more. 

“Here’s how it’s gonna work, sweetheart.”

His hand slowly trailed towards your entrance, bringing your slick with it. 

“I’m going to teach you a lesson,” He teased then, keeping a thumb trained on your clit whilst letting two fingers caress your folds. Hands gripped his hoodie, body shuddering. 

“I’m gonna show you exactly how it feels,” A sharp breath. A whine. Fingers barely slipping into your warmth. “When you fuck with me. When you drive me to the damn edge,” His grip on your hair tightened, only amplifying the desperate need for him to go deeper. “And then fuckin’ smile about it.” 

Your warmth took his fingers to the hilt. 

And as he began to move, harsh and rough, you became a moaning, whining, mess; the pleasure was overwhelming, even from just his hands working in tandem. Then came the bites, fierce, harsh, unforgiving, leaving teeth marks trickling with blood. You could do nothing more than cry into the chest of his hoodie whilst he cradled you on the ground, lurching over you like a predator feasting on its hard earned prey. 

“You should be counting yourself lucky” He growled, his voice low, sadistic, enjoying every second of your unravelment.

“A lot of fuckers have done way less,” he let out a shaky huff, his own arousal culminating in his jeans, amplified by the slick coating his fingertips. “And come out of it way worse.”

The words elicited a spike of fear, yet that only amplified the experience. 

Your self control was long gone. Your body thrummed with excitement, grinding into his fingers and milking them for all their worth. 

He laughed, releasing his grip on your scalp to grope harshly at your clothed tits. “So I guess being a whore worked out, huh?” 

Deep down, a part of you wanted to lash out at him, to spit in his face, to tell him to go fuck himself— all because he called you a whore. 

But you couldn’t.

Because you enjoyed it far too much. 

As soon as the words left his mouth, your back arched, moans catching in your throat and turning into nothing but silence. In turn, his hands moved faster, desperate, frantic, forcing an orgasm to the surface quicker than anyone could have imagined. 

He grinned. “Really? That fast? Pathetic”

He increased the already mind numbing pace. Nails reached up, digging into his neck, and with a growl he shook them off. The pressure suddenly building within was too much to bear, so overwhelming and begging to be let out. 

“Jeff, wait, I’m-“ 

“you’re…? Go on, say it. I wanna hear it. Beg me, and I might let you.”

Your face flushed red, heart pounding in your chest as the moans became too fast and frantic to be consistent. 

“Please, I’m going to come, please let me co-“ 

Then everything stopped.  

His fingers retreated. 

His body moved away. 

And what they left behind, was a trembling pathetic mess shuddering on the floor of the cabin. Gasps, stuttered words, sounds of confusion, all escaped your mouth within a matter of seconds as you grasped at him. 

Jeff started to laugh, before uttering a lone phrase. 

‘You to take me to the fuckin’ edge… and then smile about it.” 

His laugh continued. Even as you pushed against him, angry fists beating down on his chest but garnering no reaction at all, he cackled.

Then in an instant, it was as if a switch had been flipped. Hands grasped at your throat, and as you struggled to breathe, pussy throbbing from the lack of touch, he leant close. 

“That’s, what it fuckin’ feels like,” 

He let you gasp for air a moment longer. 

“When you’re a bitch. I want you to remember this, every fuckin time you decide to test me. Every time you say something, do something, cause something, and then smile— remember this moment. Got it babe?” 

A frantic nod. Gasps for air. A low hum. 

“Good. Now stand the fuck up.” 

You stood, choking, gulping down oxygen like a lunatic. 

Jeff stumbled somewhere in the darkness, obviously knowing the layout by heart, before a beam of light finally battled against the shadows. A small camping torch sat on the nearby table, silhouetting Jeff as he faced it.

The table creaked as the man turned around, then leant against the wood. 

“Come h-…”

Jeff hesitated for a moment, drinking in the sight of you bathed in low light, desperate, wanting, broken. It fuelled the fire in him; the very same fire that had brought you both here in the first place. His cock throbbed with want, with need.

Jeff turned away from you again, barely managing to contain himself. 

“C’mere, now.” He spat.

But you didn’t listen.

Instead, your eyes remained glued to something highlighted by the blue tinge of the camping torch.

His knife.

Laid forgotten on the ground. 

Eyes floated towards Jeff slowly as you moved. 

Then his appearance fully took hold; he looked as freaky as he normally did, sure— but the way his back rose and fell, the trembling of his hand, the sweat gracing his neck, his strained grunts— all painted a picture of something so desirable that it only cemented your want for him.

But this was not going to happen in the way he pictured.

Not now, 

Not after that. 

You didn’t know where the new-found confidence came from—- whether it was the frustration of a denied orgasm, or the false confidence of obtaining a weapon, or maybe you just remembered who you were. 

You weren’t some helpless girl, who bowed to his every whim. You were here for a reason. You lived here, for a reason. 

He was a monster, sure. A terrifying one, at that.

But so were you.

“Hey, are you fuckin’ listening? I said come here. Don’t make me fuckin’ ask-“ 

The words were cut off. Trapped, by the feeling of his own knife pressed harshly against his neck. Your words came next, whispered over his shoulder, hot breath just gracing his ear. 

“I’ve got a better idea.” 

He shuddered. He could get out of this, he thought—- but not without damage; not without ending up in Jack’s care. He’d win, but at what cost? 

Not to mention part of him wanted to see where this went, where your little attack would lead. 

His cock strained against his jeans, the material clinging to his legs and almost suffocating him. 

The man raised his pale hands, slowly. 

“What the fuck are you doing.” He stated, low, shuddery.

You smirk, knees trembling with anticipation, heart racing. 

“You’re not the only one here, who has fucking issues.” You press the knife harder into his neck before continuing. “You’ve shown me how you feel, now it’s my turn to show you.” 

Jeff paused, his hands lowering, shoulders slumping as breaths escaped in quick succession. 

He could end this. He could. He was far stronger than you.

But he didn’t want to. 

Because he couldn’t deny the ache in his groin that was growing more and more pertinent by the second; the way it throbbed, leaking with excitement. He couldn’t deny the way his heart rate spiked, nor the way his fingers flexed in anticipation. 

He couldn’t ignore the fact he still wanted you. 

Like this.

He’d let the scene play out for now, pride battling with internal instincts that screamed for him to be the one on top—- for him to be the one with power. But he’d let you get your way,  then take back control when you were least expecting it. 

Atleast, that’s what he told himself. 

“Lie down.” You spat, ripping him from an internal monologue. 

He smiled then, letting out a nervous hum of laughter. 

Your eyes, heavy with lust, stalked him as he retreated from the table, steadily treading over to the tattered couch nearby— all the while, you kept his knife trained against skin. Your core throbbed, wanting, begging for more, needing to be touched once again; the feeling only worsening when he sat down, his chest heaving, cheeks flushed a deep red. 

You kept the knife still, yet hopped effortlessly over the back of the couch, crawling over to his lap. You said nothing. Instead, simply straddled his thighs with your own, pressing the weapon harder into his skin as you neared. 

“Take them off, Jeff.”

The man stalled. His heart raced. His expression faltered, but slowly, nervously, he shifted. Lifting you up with ease as you sat on his hips, he shuffled down his Jeans and freed his length, before resting on the couch again.

He should’ve had something to say. Something to bite back against your tone. But nothing was coming to mind. 

He only stared at you. 

With a mixture of awe, and absolute hatred. Admiration and arousal; disdain and frustration. 

“Now.” You uttered, tracing your free hand down his face, watching his expressions react to the touch. Meanwhile, slowly, you shifted, hovering over the bare length which almost reached his navel. Gently you ground against it, liquid arousal coating it entirely as his back arched in response—- calloused hands grasping at the cushions beside him with a groan. 

“Here’s how it’s going to work” 

The words were a mockery of his, and with a cruel smile, you brought a cold thumb to his lips, jutting it inside and capturing his jaw between your fingertips. His eyes grew wide as you kept his lips parted. 

His inner conflict spiralled. 

He’d take back control soon, right? 

Because he fucking hated you, as much as you hated him. 

He wanted to destroy you. 

So why was he continuing to let you steal the power from him?

You pulled him close by his Jaw. 

“I’m going to show you,” You ground hard against his length then, eliciting a shuddery moan, and panting gasps. The feeling was immense, overwhelming, and after a soft series of breaths, you spoke again.“I’m going to show you exactly why I hate you. Why I grew to hate you.” You grinned, letting go of his jaw and capturing him in a rough kiss, hand flying to tangled strands of hair and grabbing them in a fistful. 

He whined into it. 

Jeff the fucking killer, whined into your kiss. 

You couldn’t hide the grin that jumped into your features after the soft noise escaped his lips. 

He couldn’t hide the shame he felt, his anger bubbling beneath the surface, subdued by a want for more. His hand reached out, grasping your hips with an inhuman strength— then pushed you down further against cock, his hips jutting, swallows strained. 

You pulled back, grasping his cheeks in a firm grip. 

“You don’t move until I fucking tell you to move, got it?” 

He stared, wide eyed. 

His emotions failed to make sense; he wanted to kill you—- now more than ever. 

But instead, he nodded.

You smirked, yet your own heat was becoming equally as overwhelming. With a shuddery breath, you raised from his hips, lining him against your entrance. 

But you wouldn’t let him inside. Not yet. 

Not until he begged. 

You lingered there. 

“When you first arrived here,” You begin pushing down slightly, as his chest jerks. “I wanted nothing more than to get along with you. Remember that?” 

This time Jeff actually had something to say.

”Yeah, you were pathetic. Even brought me a damn-“ He interrupts himself with a sharp gasp, followed by a whimper. You’d shifted away slightly. It worked in getting him to shut up. 

His face crumpled, beet red.

”Yeah. It was. And you only made it worse.” Your own legs were failing you now, begging to give in, begging to lower yourself and chase a much needed release. But you persisted, your slick pooling on him. Your breath hitched. “You never stopped. You took my kindness, and you tortured me with it, forever harassing me, never giving up,” You grabbed a fistful of his hoodie, bringing him near. “And do you remember what you said, Jeff? When I came to talk to you about it. When I wanted it all to stop.” 

Jeff swallowed. His dick twitched. 

He did. 

The implication of it hit him no sooner, knowing what was about to happen. His face twisted into what can only be described as pure dread. 

He struggled, yet you kept him caged with one flick of your hips. 

“You said that I needed to beg. To get down on the floor, and beg. Beg for you to stop.” 

Jeff shook his head, his chest heaving. 

He couldn’t beg. He wouldn’t beg. 

But when you let go of his hoodie, letting a hand fall beneath your legs to appease the lewd need for him, he caved. 

He didn’t know why. But he caved. 

“S-so.” You grinned, letting breathy moans escape into the tense atmosphere. 

“Beg. Beg, and I’ll sit down.” 

His response was quick. It surprised even him, as the words left his lips without so much as a second thought. 

“God fuckin’ dammit, please, sit down, holy fuck-“ 

“Louder.” You interrupted him, a sadistic chuckle paired with the phrase. “Fucking scream it.” 

His voice, choked up, followed soon after— much louder than last time. 

“S-sit the fuck down, please, I’m damn fuckin’ beggin’, god, sit the fuck down. Plea-“ 

And with a devilish grin, you finally obliged, his thick girth sinking into your warmth and trapping any sense of sound escaping the man’s lips. 

It was damn near euphoric. 

The two of you let out shuddery whines, gasps, your free hand falling to his chest as your grasp around the knife trembled. Jeff was still almost silent, the only noise present in the short gasps that escaped his lips; he could feel everything, the way you clenched around him, the way your legs shook, the way your head rolled back as you began to move. The man clasped his weathered hands to your hips, letting out an almost disbelieving whine after each bounce. 

Meanwhile, you were losing control. After every rock forwards, each harsh slap of your ass against his thighs, each time his dick hit that sweet spot over and over and over again— your will to keep your head held high was beginning to falter. So much so that after a short while you leaned forwards, threading a hand down to your clit as you rocked against him. Then you rested your head against his. He didn’t fight it. Instead, he lifted a trembling hand, running it through your hair and grasping it tightly. 

“H-hey, bitch,” He uttered, his throat letting out a low groan. “Your little act is starting to slip.” Although the growing urge to submit to your whims remained—confusingly—- in tact, one fact proved true: 

This was Jeff. 

And you were never going to have him under complete control. 

Not in a million years. 

His psyche just couldn’t handle it. 

The defiant words were paired with a low chuckle. His hazy eyes scanned your face for a response, an indication that he was in trouble, but he found nothing. Nothing, except that is, for a weak point.

You were already losing yourself. 

You should’ve grabbed him by his hair, whispered in his ear that if he ever spoke out of turn again? You’d stop. But instead: 

“F-fuck you,”

The words were bitter. Intertwined between moans which only became louder, hips which only moved faster. 

As if awakened by the phrase, something started to creep up on Jeff, something that had been temporarily subdued by his need to be inside you so desperately. 

Anger. 

Fuelled by the words that were spoken to him, the position he was in, the way you made him act, even for a short time. 

The way you made him feel weak.

He’d given up control voluntarily, sure— but enough was enough. 

He gripped your thigh with one hand, teeth gritted and breaths escaping in rugged gasps, then used all of his force to thrust up into you; his other still tangled deeply in strands of hair. Your grip on the knife loosened, as a knot in the pit of your stomach began to tighten, an unbearable heat brimming at the surface. 

You tried to regain control at least a little— pressing your free hand to his chest, but he merely fought through it, forcing you to give in. The man continued to relentlessly abuse your insides, grinning as he felt the knife loosen from his throat, tumbling to the ground and clattering against the wooden panels. 

He figured he’d let you finish this time. 

And you did. Coming so hard against him that it left your body a trembling, shaking mess— slick pooling on his stomach as your thighs clenched around his, head aimed at the sky. He grinned, watching you with heavy lidded eyes, his sinister intent surging the moment you came down from your high. 

You lifted your hands to your face, taking deep breaths.

Then paused. 

Slowly, you lowered them, staring at the man beneath you— realising something. 

You’d dropped the knife. 

He grinned. 

In an instant, he lifted you from his thighs, cock slipping out of you and hitting his stomach with a slap. Then he carried you towards the table, throwing you down against it with a clatter and grabbing a fistful of hair, pulling your face up to meet his. 

“Playtime’s fuckin’ over.” 

He didn’t take long to line up again, and you— too fucked out and swimming in a post orgasm haze— did nothing to fight him. Not even when he grabbed an arm, twisting it behind your back and holding it there, whilst burying himself to the hilt. 

The pace wasn’t soft, gentle, no, the moment he felt you clench around him, it was full speed ahead; animalistic grunts, curses under his breath, like a feral monster chasing nothing but his own release. It didn’t take long before your body writhed underneath him; it took every thrust with a sharp moan, raised its legs to hook around the backs of his thighs, surged with excitement. 

Your rational thought had been cast to the wind. Because the feeling was more than overwhelming. 

It was almost addictive. 

He dropped your hair then, in favour of slapping your ass, and before you knew that familiar tension began to build; he seemed to notice, almost cackling as he belted out a laugh. 

“Hates me so much, but wants to come twice on my cock? Startin’ to think you’re full of shit, whore.”

He matched it with another deep thrust, grunting as he grabbed your hip with a free hand, the other still pressing you firmly into the table.

You said nothing, only glancing at him with clouded eyes, mouth open wide and gasping for air. 

He grinned. 

“Beg.” 

The word slipped out through staggered breaths. Yet were too fucked out to acknowledge them. 

“Beg.” He spat, firmer, matching it with a harsh smack. 

You did just that. 

You begged for him to let you finish, screaming his name over, and over, and over, free-hand grasping at the panels of the table. 

He snarled, satisfied. 

“Cum then, slut.” 

Then, for the second time, you were coming— and all he could do was laugh. Laugh as you shook, as you milked against his cock as it drove into you, as you gasped for air. He soon stopped; twitching as you rode through your high, shuddering when he felt himself nearing his own release. He let go of your wrist to grip you by the back of the neck, pulling you upright then hooked an arm around it in a chokehold. 

Your eyes rolled, letting out sharp, desperate, whines as he grasped at your tits. 

“Fuck,” Jeff rasped, groaning into your shoulder before biting down harshly. 

You cried out. 

Only for it to send Jeff completely over the edge, his body tensing, his arm flexing and choking out any form of air. His hips jutted to chase his fleeting orgasm, as he filled you in entirety, the hot liquid already escaping down your thighs. 

You both remained for a moment, his arms loosened, his chin rested by your neck. 

A heart beat passed. 

Breaths slowed to a halt. 

Then, the air was still. 

The gravity of what you had just done hit you both like a ten tonne truck, mowing over any sense of life in the room.

It only brought with it a thick sense of dread.  

Jeff was the first to move. Silent, hesitant, pulling out of you with a crude ‘pop’ before treading over to the couch. Clothing shuffled as he grabbed his jeans from the ground. 

You had yet to shift, eyes glassy and clouded over, staring at a distant point on the wall; even though your lips spoke, it’s as if you weren’t even saying the words. 

“Nobody hears about this Jeff.” You swallowed. “No one.” 

A moment of silence passed, before Jeff responded. 

“Yeah, I know. Not one fuckin’ soul.” 

-

Over the next week, everyone could tell something had changed.

The house was now eerily quiet; the violent arguments that once adorned its halls in excess now simply ceased to exist. There were still chitters, still disagreements, still conversations which got loud—- but they weren’t one sided screaming matches. They weren’t altercations which ended in one party being dragged off screaming, whilst the other stood there smiling. 

They weren’t between you and Jeff. 

Toby was the first to notice something was up, and you had expected no less from him. 

It started with the subtleties; First, you couldn’t give him a straight answer on what took you so long to get inside that night. Second, every time Jeff passed by in the hall, Toby looked at you expectantly, faltering when the man passed you both without a hitch on multiple occasions. Third, the moment you sat amongst Jeff and the others at the dining table a few days later; not a single foul word was said between either of you.

It all came to a head, when Jeff took your seat on the couch.

Toby knew the perpetrator was in for a rough time then; witnessing time and time again the passive aggressive, sweet-sounding, psychological remarks that would roll off your tongue in quick succession whenever it had happened before. 

Yet, 

When you entered the room… 

Jeff moved. 

He said nothing. He rose from his seat, cleared his throat, then sat somewhere else. 

You didn’t acknowledge him either. Instead, you flopped down into the seat that was previously being kept warm, then closed your eyes. 

And that is what alerted the others. 

That’s when they knew for sure, something had changed— but nobody could figure out exactly what. Hushed conversations followed your form everywhere, hiding behind closed doors and happening when they thought nobody could hear. 

“Those two confuse me, Jane. One minute they’re at each other's throats, the next? They’re strangers.”

”Maybe they came to an agreement, Jack. Or maybe they got bored of tormenting each other. As you know, Nina and I had a feud with him for many years, and after a while, the aggression became exhausting. That doesn’t mean their feelings have lessened, though. Ours haven’t.”

Each time you heard their twisted theories, it only made the fear of being found out fester; only made your ears hypersensitive to the sound of whispers. Your heart stopped the time Ben hit the nail on the head.

”Maybe they hate fucked. I dunno. I’ve seen it works.” 

“No, y-you’ve ‘seen’, it works, in f-fucking p-porn. It d-doesn’t work like t-that in r-reality.” 

Luckily, he’s a known pervert, so nobody took him seriously. 

Toby pulled you aside on every free moment he had, to poke holes in your lies. But you wouldn’t let up, no matter how hard he tried. 

Besides, by the time he’d even gotten to that stage, you’d long since figured out an alibi. 

“I don’t know where Jeff went, why would I care? I went to the safe house, I needed some time alone. When I got there, I fell asleep after getting cosy. Then, I came back.” 

You heard through the grape-vine that Jeff said he went for a walk; he could fend for himself in the woods, so the excuse was plausible. You hadn’t spoken to him about it directly though, In fact, you hadn’t spoken to him at all since that night—- 

Until now. 

A lit cigarette dances between your fingertips, blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders, as you sit on a garden chair. 

Jeff leans back into a different seat, fingers tapping away at the metal as smoke curls into his mouth. 

An empty pack of Marlboro reds lies discarded nearby. 

You’d come out here to smoke, to get away from the whispers that wouldn’t cease inside the house. 

He’d come out here before you, to stare at the sky. 

And now, after sharing the last pack of cigs you own over brief small talk, you sit here, silently.

Together. 

The quiet lingers for a good while. The trees groan in discontent. 

Then, Jeff stands.

He tosses an extinguished cig to the ground. 

He rolls his shoulders. 

Then slowly walks to the edge of the forest… 

and stops. 

He turns his head. 

You meet his gaze, the blanket slowly falling from your shoulders as you come to a stand. 

You see, throughout this past week, there has been something else happening in your mind; a realisation. 

You hate the stares, the theories, the whispers— the fear of being found out. 

But not… 

Jeff. 

Because since that night, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him; fingers delve between your thighs each time you get into bed, imagining it happening all over again, frame by frame. 

Little do you know, he’d been doing the same. 

You meet him at the edge of the forest. 

He grins, letting out a breathy chuckle. 

“Thought so.”

𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒖𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒆. 𝑺𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒄? 𝒐𝒉 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒉, 𝒏𝒐, 𝟏𝟏𝒌 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆. FUCKIN HESUS CHRISTE.

[insomniac4000]

Puppy Love- WillNE

Will has Basil back for a week only and meets you in a park

The flat felt empty again.

Will Lenney sat at the edge of his bed, sock half-on, phone abandoned on the duvet, watching Basil sniff around the sheing room like it was unfamiliar terrain like he hadn’t sheed there at all. It had been two months since Basil had moved out with Mia. The shared custody had lasted a few weeks,handovers in the Tesco car park, the awkward “how have you been?” conversations. But eventually, they’d both admitted it: Basil deserved stability. Mia, with her more fixed schedule and quieter home, was the better fit and that was that. Suddenly Will regretted

So when Mia texted Will, asking if he could take Basil for a week while she went on holiday with her friends, Will had stared at the screen for a full minute before typing, “Of course. Would love to see him.”

And now, Basil was here. The flat wasn’t silent anymore. There were claws tapping the wood floors, sleepy snuffles from the sofa, and the occasional little bark at pigeons outside the window.

The next morning, Will pulled on a hoodie and cap and took Basil out to their old usual spot—a narrow path that curved around the park, where the trees had just started to bloom into something spring-like. The sky was the pale kind of blue that didn’t promise warmth but hinted at it, it was the first sign of spring.

He let Basil off the lead and followed at a slow pace, sipping his iced coffee.

That’s when he saw her.

She was crouched beside a small, fluffy white dog with a fox-like face and a plume of a tail that wagged excitedly as Basil approached. The girl looked up just as Will reached them.

“Yours?” she asked, nodding at Basil.

“Yeah,” Will said, a little too fast. “Well—sort of. Ex-girlfriend’s, technically. Long story.” His face fell and she nodded, knowing not to question anything any further.

“Got it,” she smiled, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “This menace is mine. Name’s Cloud.”

Will raised his brows. “Cloud?”

“Like the weather. Or the Final Fantasy character, depending who you ask.”

“Strong name,” Will nodded. “I’m Will.”

“Y/N,” she said.

They smiled. Their dogs had already made fast friends, chasing each other around the grass and jumping up around each other playing.

And that was how it all started.

The second morning, Will found himself walking slightly quicker than usual Basil almost out of breath before they even got to the park. He spotted her before she saw him. She was tossing a tennis ball for Cloud, laughing as the dog darted after it with comic enthusiasm. Will felt Basil’s leash tug and followed him over.

“Back again,” she said, grinning.

“Gotta get the steps in. Basil’s a high-energy beast.” Will bent to unclip Basil’s lead, who immediately tore off after Cloud. “You come here every day?”

“Pretty much. He won’t shut up unless I do.”

They walked a little. Talked more than the day before. She mentioned she worked remotely in marketing, which Will thought sounded suspiciously vague but didn’t push. She didn’t ask what he did, which was oddly refreshing and something he had never encountered since his last relationship ended/

Will found himself wanting to stay longer, but eventually Basil flopped onto the grass, panting. She said goodbye with a little wave and a “see you tomorrow?” that felt casual and not-casual at the same time, he couldn’t hide his grin as he nodded.

By day three, they didn’t even bother pretending it was a coincidence.

“You always look exactly like someone who just rolled out of bed,” she teased, eyeing his joggers.

Will glanced down. “This is fashion. It’s intentionally dishevelled. Casual like.”

“Right. You’re going for ‘depressed ex-boyband member who writes poetry at 3am’.”

He laughed. “That’s… alarmingly specific, apart from the poetry.  I have a friend who’s a musician to do all that for me,” he said only half joking luckily she laughed.

They sat on a bench for a while, coffee cups in hand, the dogs lounging in the sun. They talked more. She told him about how she adopted Cloud during a rough patch—how he gave her a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. Will nodded along, understanding more than he wanted to admit.

He didn’t mention Mia. Not really. Just said, “I had Basil for a while, then things got complicated.”

That was all he needed to say, he really appreciated her just sitting and listening to him. Most of his friends were great but they cracked jokes or told him to “get over it.” It was nice to have someone who would sit and not judge him.

On day four, it was raining. Will thought maybe she wouldn’t come, but there she was wearing a green parka, her hood up, and Cloud in a tiny yellow raincoat which he thought was the 2nd most adorable sight in the park.

“Wow,” Will said as he approached. “Matching rain gear next?” He gave a smile, one of the cocky ones.

“Don’t tempt me. Just be grateful I didn’t put the matching boots on him.”

They walked slower that day, clouds heavy overhead. There was less joking, more comfortable silence. Will found himself glancing sideways at her, wondering what she looked like without the muddy walking boots, what her other hobbies were, what her favourite food was. She was intrigued too, why was he so coy about what he did for a sheing? So she asked him directly and he mentioned he made videos, finally. “Just dumb YouTube stuff,” he added, almost dismissively.

“Oh yeah?” She asked, amused. “Like what?”

“Product reviews sometimes. Random challenges. General idiocy. My content has shifted a lot through the years.”

“Sounds like something I’d hate-watch at 2am.”

Will grinned. “Perfect. YYou’ll fit in with the rest of the audience.”

By the fifth morning, the familiarity was easy. They knew each other’s coffee orders now. She knew he hated people who didn’t control their dogs. He knew she hated it when school kids walked in big groups and took up the whole path. The walk was cut a little short that day as it was a filming day. Unlucky for Will he was filming a weird amazing products video with James. Between takes—after mocking a blender that couldn’t even crush ice James bought up Will’s attitude.

“You’re in a strange mood today. Stranger than usual, what’s up?” The musician asked, Will sighed but thought it would be best to try and get someone’s take on it.

“There’s this girl I’ve seen every day this week,” he said, casually wiping water off the counter.

James arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“She walks her dog the same time I take Basil out. We talk. It’s nice.”

“Nice?”

“I mean…” Will scratched the back of his neck. “Like, I look forward to seeing her.”

James didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. He just said, “So ask her out.”

Will blinked. “I dunno if I’m ready for that.”

James narrowed his eyes. “Well you only have two days before you have to give Basill back so it’s now or never dude.

Will nodded slowly, he hadn’t thought about that, about the days when she’d be gone he just assumed this was last but James was right. They only had two more days.

Day six was cool and clear. She wore sunglasses, even though it wasn’t that bright. Will told her she looked like a washed-up pop star. She retaliated by calling him a dilapidated TikToker. They sat on their usual bench, and this time, their knees touched.

Will noticed, but didn’t move.

She told him about the guy she dated last, who hated dogs. “Can you believe that?” she said, shaking her head. “He’d flinch when Cloud barked. Like it was a gunshot.”

Will smiled. “Sounds like a psychopath.”

“Close. Estate agent.”

“Same thing.”

They both laughed.

When they got up to leave, their hands brushed. Will looked down and saw her fingers twitch like she almost reached for his. But she didn’t.

Neither of them said anything.

Day seven.

Basil was wagging like mad before they even reached the path. Will’s stomach twisted strangely. He was nervous, he kept hearing James’s voice in his head: Sort your shit out.

She was already there, Cloud perched like a regal fox beside her.

“Morning,” she said.

Will nodded, swallowing something thick in his throat. “Hey.”

They walked slower. Talked less. It wasn’t awkward—just heavy. Like they both knew something was ending but didn’t have the language to name it neither of them wanted to bring it up. At the fork in the path, She turned to him.

“So,” she said, forcing a smile. “Last day?”

“Yeah,” Will said. “Mia’s back tonight.”

She nodded, biting her lip. “Basil’s been good for you. I can tell.”

Will looked at her, and for the first time in days, he didn’t try to be funny. “You have too.”

She held his gaze, then looked away. “Well. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

They didn’t hug. Didn’t say “bye.” Just smiled tightly and walked in opposite directions, dogs in tow.

Will didn’t turn around.

But he wanted to

A week passed, Will didn’t go back to the park. He thought about it, once or twice. Told himself it was about Basil, really what was the point, without the dog? But it wasn’t about Basil. It was about the bench. The path. The memory of her laugh echoing across the green.

He kept busy. Edited the product review video with James. Did a bit of filming, tried to focus on the numbers, the content, the growth charts. But everything felt weirdly dull. Even his group chats—usually chaotic with memes and half-formed video ideas—felt muted. Is friends noted he was going into his shell again, James was worried.

He didn’t text Mia. Didn’t ask how Basil was doing.

He didn’t want to know if she was still going to the park every morning. Didn’t want to picture her standing there alone or—worse—talking to someone else.

The thought stung more than it should have.

Still, he said nothing.

It wasn’t like he’d made her a promise. They’d talked, that was all. Just a dog-walking acquaintance. A fleeting little week.

But why did it feel like something more?

It was the following Monday when it happened.

Will was cycling to work, finally trying to clear the mental fog. He wasn’t particularly athletic, but cycling gave him that little spark of clarity running never did. The air was sharp, the roads quiet. It was nice.

Until the dog.

A blur of white shot across the pavement from between two hedges.

Will swore and jerked the handlebars, wheels skidding sideways. He missed the dog—barely and crashed into a patch of grass, tumbling over in an embarrassing mess of limbs and bike frame.

“Shit! Oh my god—are you okay?!”

The voice was achingly familiar.

Will sat up, wincing, brushing grass from his hoodie. “Y/N?”

She was crouched beside him in a flash, Cloud now trotting innocently in circles around them.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, touching his scraped elbow with a frown.

“And your dog nearly killed me.” He sounded a lot harsher than he intended, he put it down to the shock.

“I know,” she groaned. “He saw a pigeon and lost his mind I am so sorry, are you okay? Do you need  me to call someone?”

Will gave a weak laugh, adrenaline still rushing through him but his face calmed. “Typical Cloud.”

They looked at each other.

And there it was again. That charged pause. That feeling like the world was holding its breath.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, softer this time.

“Cycling. Thinking. Avoiding feelings,” Will replied, too tired to lie.

She smiled. “Any success with the last one?”

“Not really.”

They stood together. Cloud had already started sniffing Will’s bag, tail wagging like he remembered him.

“I missed this,” She said, quietly.

Will blinked. “What, nearly killing a man with your dog?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “You.”

He looked at her properly now,hair loose, face flushed from the run and panic.

“I thought about going back,” he admitted. “To the park. I just didn’t know if… you’d be there.”

“I was,” she said. “Every day.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I’m an idiot.”

“Bit, yeah.”

Will stepped closer. “So… would you want to get coffee sometime? One without dogs, maybe?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Cool,” Will said, heart hammering. “Cool.”

Cloud barked suddenly, interrupting the moment. They both laughed, and the tension broke like sunlight through fog.

Will took out his phone. “You know, just so I don’t nearly die next time… I should probably have your number.”

She smirked. “Good idea.”

As she typed it in, Will looked up at the sky, pale blue and promising. The same kind of sky from that first morning. Maybe the world wasn’t so bad after all.

[mahalachives]

Part 1: How to Crash Into a Book Boyfriend in 10 Steps (Literally)

Summary: You were just rereading A Court of Thorns and Roses in bed when the universe decided to yeet you straight into Prythian, landing face-first in Rhysand’s lap. Now, you're a pajama-clad disaster with Cheeto fingers, emotionally harassing Azriel, befriending Mor, verbally sparring with the High Lords, and naming feral chickens after the Shadowsinger. You may not know why you’re here, but one thing’s for sure: you’re going to make it everyone's problem.

Genre: humor, drabble, minor az x reader (bcus why not)

Oops, I tripped Into Prythian - Masterlist

You were just minding your business, lying in bed, rereading A Court of Thorns and Roses for the fiftieth time, when the universe decided to absolutely wreck your life.

One second, you were flipping a page; the next, you were free-falling through what could only be described as the worst interdimensional portal ever. No warning, no flash of light... just a violent, gut-churning yeet straight into the land of hot Fae males.

You crash-land face-first onto something soft, groaning as your limbs flail like a traumatized starfish. Someone clears their throat.

"Why," a silky male voice muses, "is there a human in my lap?"

Your eyes fly open. Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. Captain of Sarcasm. Maker of poor life choices. And you? You were sprawled across him like some overenthusiastic fangirl who finally got her wish, but at what cost?!

"Oh gods," you whisper, scrambling off, only to face-plant into the grass. "It's happening. I'm in Prythian."

Rhysand raises a brow, looking equal parts amused and suspicious. "You know where you are?"

You sit up, brushing dirt from your face. "Yes, obviously. Unless I have a really specific fever dream going on right now."

Before Rhys can respond, Mor appears, grinning like she just found the juiciest gossip. "Well, this is new. A human dropping out of nowhere?"

Cassian strolls up, arms crossed. "Did you summon her, Rhys?"

"I did not summon a clumsy human who smells like anxiety and... is that cheese dust?" Rhys sniffs disdainfully.

You blink. "I was eating Cheetos before I got transported. Excuse me for having snacks."

Nesta appears. "What's a Cheeto?"

Feyre, looking far too composed for the insanity at hand, sighs. "More importantly, who is she?"

You inhale, sit up straighter, and declare with absolute confidence: "I am just a humble reader who was yeeted here against my will. But," You raise a dramatic finger, "I refuse to waste this opportunity."

Cassian smirks. "Opportunity?"

You whip around, eyes locking onto him. The shadowsinger, lurking in the background like a hot, brooding cryptid. Azriel. The Book Boyfriend.

Your voice drops to a sultry whisper. "Azriel."

His shadows twitch. His brows raise just slightly. He looks at you as if you are both an anomaly and a problem. Which is fair, because you are.

"Oh no," Rhys mutters, face-palming. "Not another one."

You scramble to your feet, dusting off your pajama pants. "Listen. I don't know how long I have before the universe decides to yeet me back to reality, but I am shooting my shot."

You turn fully to Azriel, who is now staring at you with the intensity of a thousand unread texts. "Azriel, my dark and broody king, my nightmare of the night..."

Cassian snorts.

"I would like to formally volunteer as your emotional support human."

Azriel blinks. Once. Twice. And then, he walks away. Just... turns and leaves.

You spin on Rhys. "DO SOMETHING."

Rhys, grinning, shrugs. "If he didn't kill you immediately, I'd say that's progress."

You fist-pump. "Yes."

Nesta mutters, "I want to hate this, but I don't."

Feyre, ever the diplomat, sighs. "Let's get you inside before you fall into another male's lap."

Mor loops an arm through yours. "I like you. This is going to be fun."

Cassian winks. "For us."

And just like that, you, a simple ACOTAR reader, are now a walking disaster in Prythian.

...And maybe, just maybe, Azriel's shadows linger a little longer than usual as he watches you.

Because what fresh chaos is this?

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You'd been in Prythian for approximately four hours, and already, you had:

Fallen from the sky like a cursed shooting star.

Launched yourself into Rhysand's lap (an experience that would haunt you forever).

Profess your undying love for Azriel, only for him to stare at you like you were a particularly difficult puzzle and then walk away (rude).

Been force-fed fae food by Mor, who was far too excited to introduce you to "actual, non-poisonous, non-human garbage food."

Currently, you were in the House of Wind, which was all well and good except for one small problem:

"No elevators?" you whisper, staring at the 10,000 steps leading up to it. "No escalators? Not even a rope lift?"

Nesta, standing beside you with her arms crossed, smirks. "You think we just float up there?"

You give her a very serious nod. "That is exactly what I expected. I mean, Rhysand has wings, Azriel has wings, Cassian has wings. Feyre could have wings. This entire operation seems wildly ableist."

Cassian cackles from behind you. "She's got a point."

Nesta squints at him, then turns back to you. "If you want to get up there, you have two choices: One, train until you can make the climb without dying. Or two, bribe one of the bat boys to fly you up."

Your head whips toward Azriel, who is conveniently leaning against the wall, arms crossed, exuding maximum broody energy.

You smile. "Azriel."

His shadows curl around his shoulders, as if sensing danger.

"Would you like to give me a ride?" you ask, voice absolutely dripping with suggestion.

Cassian chokes on air. Mor drops her goblet. Feyre buries her face in her hands.

Azriel, who has likely survived countless wars and assassinations, looks like he wants to die on the spot. His shadows frantically swirl around him, whispering all kinds of warnings, probably screaming abort mission, abort mission.

But to your absolute delight, he simply stares at you for a long, painful moment, then says, "...No."

Cassian howls with laughter. "I take it back. I love her. She's staying."

You huff. "Fine. I'll get another ride."

Mor, still laughing, grabs your hand. "Come on, I'll winnow you up before you give Az a heart attack."

You shoot Azriel one last dramatic look. "You could have had all of this," you say, gesturing to yourself. "But you played yourself."

Azriel blinks slowly.

He looks... confused. Intrigued. Maybe even a little impressed.

The moment Mor winnows you away, you just know his shadows will be whispering about you for weeks.

Later that night, in the House of Wind...

You are lounging in the giant fae living room, eating whatever snacks Mor gave you, when you hear Cassian scream.

You shoot up. "What the..."

A second later, something huge crashes through the door.

It's Azriel.

Holding a chicken.

Correction: a very angry, flapping, unhinged-looking chicken.

Cassian is on the floor, laughing so hard he's wheezing.

Rhys is leaning against the wall, covering his mouth with a hand, his shoulders shaking.

Nesta is watching in judgmental silence.

Feyre looks between everyone. "What... exactly... is happening?"

Azriel glares at Cassian, who is too busy dying to explain.

You blink at the chaos, then point at Az. "Why... are you holding a chicken?"

Azriel exhales sharply. "Because Cassian thought it would be funny to sneak a mortal farm animal into my room."

Cassian cackles from the floor. "You should have seen his face. Pure terror. The great and mighty Shadowsinger, scared of a little chicken."

Azriel glares at him, but his grip on the chicken tightens as it attempts a murderous escape.

You stand, crossing your arms. "Azriel."

His hazel eyes meet yours.

"I have a very important question."

He sighs. "What?"

You smirk. "Would you say that this is fowl play?"

There is silence.

Rhysand snorts.

Feyre groans.

Nesta covers her face.

Cassian completely loses his mind, laughing so hard he starts crying.

Azriel, for a brief second, looks like he might actually be fighting a smile.

And you?

You decide right then and there that you are never leaving Prythian.

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Azriel, still holding the feral chicken, looks one deep breath away from assassinating Cassian. His shadows curl around his shoulders, clearly debating if this situation is beneath their skill set. The chicken, meanwhile, pecks his leather vambrace with zero fear.

"I swear," Azriel mutters, "if you don't take this thing back, I will personally deliver it to Eris."

Cassian, sprawled across the floor, wheezing, waves a hand. "Take the chicken. See if I care. Maybe Beron will make it his heir."

The chicken squawks in defiance.

You, being the kind, merciful, and deeply chaotic human that you are, decide it is your duty to name this creature.

You step forward, tilting your head. "Azriel."

His eyes flick to yours, cautious.

"His name is Cluckriel now."

Cassian completely loses his mind. He rolls onto his side, pounding the floor, gasping, "Cluckriel..."

Rhysand is now facing the wall, shaking.

Feyre bites her lip. Nesta is openly smirking.

Azriel closes his eyes, breathes through his suffering. Then, he turns, completely ignoring you, and walks away with the chicken still in his arms.

You call after him, "Are you keeping him?! Is this your emotional support chicken now?!"

Azriel does not answer.

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You were beginning to accept that Prythian was your new home, and frankly, you were thriving. Between terrorizing the Inner Circle and dramatically flirting with Azriel (to which he mostly responded by walking away or sighing heavily), you were settling in just fine.

Which was precisely why it made perfect sense that Rhysand decided it was time for you to meet the other High Lords.

"Be on your best behavior," Feyre warns as you stand before the shimmering portal leading to the neutral meeting grounds.

You give her an exaggerated salute. "Absolutely. I will represent the Night Court with grace and dignity."

Cassian leans in. "She's lying."

Nesta sighs. "She's lying."

Mor grins. "I kind of hope she isn't."

You dramatically adjust your borrowed Night Court cloak, striking a heroic pose. "Fear not! I shall charm them all."

Rhys rubs his temples. "Let's get this over with."

The moment you step into the meeting, you realize two things:

You are underdressed. The High Lords are all adorned in their regal finery, and you are wearing what can only be described as Night Court athleisure.

Tamlin is here. And he looks like he just smelled something foul. (Probably your sheer audacity.)

Beron eyes you with the disdain of a man who thinks fun is punishable by death. "And what, exactly, is this?"

You beam at him. "Hi, I'm Y/N, and I'm here to ruin everyone's day."

Helion chokes on his wine. Kallias straightens in interest. Thesan tilts his head, studying you as if you are an interesting new species.

Eris mutters, "Oh, this will be fun."

Tamlin crosses his arms. "Another human playing at being something they're not."

You gasp, clutching your chest. "Oh no, my deepest insecurities, exposed by such a keen intellect! However shall I recover?"

Rhysand makes a strangled noise. Azriel looks suspiciously like he's trying not to smile. Cassian grins outright.

Helion leans forward, intrigued. "Tell me, Y/N. How did you come to be in Prythian?"

You consider your answer carefully. "I fell through a wormhole. Or perhaps the universe just decided I deserved to be here. Either way, I am thriving."

Kallias, cool and composed, nods. "And what is it you do?"

You shoot Azriel a slow grin. "Oh, you know. Make things awkward. Bring joy to those who don't want it. Offer emotional support to broody males."

Azriel exhales through his nose. Cassian is beside himself.

Beron sneers. "And why should we tolerate this nonsense?"

You tilt your head, giving him a sharp, knowing smile. "Because it amuses you, Beron. And gods forbid you ever admit that you need a little amusement in your miserable existence."

For the first time in history, Beron has no retort. He just squints at you like he is debating whether to set you on fire or adopt you.

Rhysand claps his hands together. "Well, I do believe that concludes introductions. Shall we proceed to the actual discussions, or should we just let Y/N continue to terrorize everyone?"

Helion raises a hand. "I vote for terror."

Eris raises his goblet. "Same."

Tamlin storms out.

Azriel sighs. "I hate this."

You grin. "No, you don't."

And for a moment, just the briefest of moments, his shadows curl around his shoulders in silent, reluctant agreement.

[ilium-ilia]

As Your Skin Gives

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist

Chapter Seven: eyes

tw: non-con

That night, Johnny does not let you go.

He keeps you like a long broken promise, arms squeezing around you tight enough to punish himself on your sharp edges, until his blood has coated you in an apology. It’s suffocating breathing the same air as him. Shared breaths. A union that’s almost worse than the joining of flesh. 

The heat makes it difficult to sleep. Between the summer breeze and Johnny’s warmth radiating off of him, you’re covered in perspiration when dawn breaks over the duvet in soft streams. Simon’s alarm rouses him not too long after, prompting him to roll over to look at you with a glare. His nose flares. Deep sniffs to the crown of your head before he grunts, fingers pushing Johnny’s arms off of you before he tugs on your collar. 

“Time for a bath, Bonnie. C’mon. You smell like a fuckin’ dog.” 

It’s the same thing all over again. Doted on hand and feet by a man who’s very existence attempts to convince you that you don’t deserve such grace. Fingernails scraping the grime and dried cum from your skin, angry lines searing into your muscles from his pressure—his fingers grace over your throat, and when it does you fear he might like how tender the flesh is there. That he might want to squeeze and see how far it compresses until the cartilage pops like fireworks in summertime. 

Your days continue to pass like this. Pathetic whining from Johnny as he begs Simon to have his way with you. Fingers down your throat to ensure you’ve taken your medicine like a good pup. Body crushed by sadistic love—nothing but a catalyst for debauched fantasies in rotten brains. Your bravery comes slow and careful as you find your voice again, though your words often fall flat. Too gauche to save yourself. Forever looking out the window, yearning for something softer—

—for fresh air. 

Sweat clings around your throat like a noose. It nestles underneath your collar, sticky and thick, where the leather adheres to your skin like it’s becoming a part of you. You’re morphing. Becoming the dog Simon so desperately pretends you are. A finger slides between your skin and your damnation, collecting moisture and grime, forcing you to grimace. It’s fine. You wipe your hand on the grass underneath you, and you remind yourself a little bit of sweat is worth it. 

You’re outside. 

Rays of sun kiss your skin between dancing leaves in the humid summer air as the grass acts as a bed below you. You could cry. You feel it build up in the back of your throat and the corners of your eyes—an odd relief. You never thought you’d be outside again, forever locked in that house with that crazy man and his disobedient mutt. A sweet summer breeze teases your hair and cools your skin as you lean against the trunk of a tree. Nature’s call whispers just beyond the edge of the forest where a cool stream babbles as it smooths stones and sediment along its bed. 

This is the most free you’ve felt since you were brought to this wretched place, though it doesn’t come without its drawbacks. There’s a ten foot radius in which you’re allowed to travel, as Simon has taken care to tie you tightly to the tree via your collar, ensuring your bright ideas can’t get the better of you. 

Johnny had begged and pleaded fruitlessly for days on end to let you outside with him, and then even more to let you join him in the forest—where he’s surely stalking around now—but Simon refuses to have any of it. You’re left alone with the brute as he tends to a modest garden with flowering tomatoes and cucumbers while Johnny allows himself to be swallowed up by the thick foliage and bramble of the woods. 

Still, while Simon works, you are allowed peace. Birds sing and call to one another in the branches above you as you pull budding clovers from the base of the tree. Pale green roots peel easily beneath your fingernails, and you shove them into your mouth. Its flavor is bland—watery and earthen. It’s the closest thing to freedom you’ve tasted for weeks. You savor it. Roll it around on your tongue before swallowing it down. 

“Bonnie!” 

Johnny calls your name from the environs of the forest, returning from his adventure with a wild array of flowers in hand. Metal clinks as the tag of his collar jingles in tune with his jogging, and he approaches you with a grin. Knees sink into the grass next to you as he holds the flowers for you to take—you’ve gotten better at not flinching when he moves around you. 

“Look! Pretty, aren’t they?” he asks. 

There’s no rhyme nor reason to the mess of flowers in his fist. Bruised daisies with spindly stems mixed with bright yellow buttercups and blood red poppies. They’re tied together with the thin, malleable stem of some greenery you don’t recognize. There’s a surprising weight to them as you take it into your own hand, thumbing over the cool stems. 

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, voice stiff. 

“Just like you. So pretty and soft.” He looks at you, and you can see the earth’s reflection in his eyes as it curves around the shape of your body. Large hands reach for you, warm palms cupping your cheeks as you freeze, tree bark digging into your spine as you stiffen. “I can’t get enough of you.” 

That brief taste of freedom quickly sours in your mouth as Johnny’s lips crash against yours, and you are reminded that not even in the glory of the outdoors are you safe. He is surprisingly soft with you, a gentle and adoring embrace, but there is a heat behind his skin that bubbles and roars. You feel it fight against him, skin searing and blistering. He’d eat you alive and leave your bones to bleach in the sun if he wanted. 

Johnny doesn’t stop at just a kiss. He never does. He’s always hungry. Always yearning. Greedy hands paw at your chest, pinning you against the unforgiving trunk of the tree while your heels dig into the soft earth beneath you. It gives you no purchase as your elbows buckle underneath his weight while you attempt to urge him off. 

In your head, you scream as clear as day, but your mouth makes no sound. 

“Johnny!” 

Simon’s call is the only voice of reason he listens to. The man tears himself from your lips as he looks over his shoulder, chest heaving. Thin strings of saliva keep the two of you connected, but they break with a gentle gust of wind, leaving the moisture to fall on your chest instead. A basket of vegetables sits in the brute’s gloved hands, and you want to laugh at how terribly domestic he looks with dirt stained pants and a sweat slicked brow. 

For a moment, he almost looks human. 

“Bring ‘er inside,” Simon orders. 

Muscles tense in your body as Johnny undoes the tether keeping you bound to the tree. Wilting fibers of pretty flower stems stain your hand, grip having destroyed their beauty in your poor attempt at denying Johnny his only right on this property. You leave them on the ground beneath the tree as Johnny beckons you inside with him. Truly, they are beautiful. Vibrant colors, soft petals—but you will not damn such an innocent thing to the same life as you. Better to rot in the shade of a tree. 

By some miracle, you are left alone after you’re locked back inside. You’re perched by the window in the living room, gazing at the dying bouquet of flowers as a curious bird pecks at the decaying flesh of its pollen. You envy it. Not the bird, but the floral mess it tears to shreds. You shouldn’t. You are already in the flower’s shoes. One in the same. Dainty things too soft to fight against the fingers that plucked you up from home. You wonder if, at the end of all of this, you’ll be laid to rest beneath a tree that will sing whispering lullabies to your corpse. 

Sharp, grating metal clinks and clatters in the kitchen capturing your attention and ripping you from your daydreams with clawed fingers. A fetid odor wafts around the house, assaulting your nose with a sharp sting that not even the breeze blowing through the window can quell. Curiosity gets the better of you as you slip free from your perch and you quietly wander through the living room. After spending more time than you would like to be trapped in this house, you have every squeaky floorboard memorized; you approach in silence. 

Gingerly, you peer around the corner of the entrance to find Simon sitting faced away from you at the table. Hulking shoulders stretch apart a stained white shirt as he scrubs away at something with a blackened toothbrush. Metal parts of varying sizes lay in neat lines in front of him, coupled with the wood stock of—

—a gun. 

Beautiful and well loved, the dark stain of the wood stock glistens in the light seeping through the windows as Simon scrubs at the inner mechanisms with a solvent. It’s gutted. Completely useless. Yet, your blood turns to ice in your veins at the very idea of the weapon. Every organ halts its functions, and you’re left in breathless terror. This shouldn’t surprise you. He drugged you, kidnapped you, and now keeps you like a pet—why wouldn’t this monster have a gun? And still, it’s a violent reminder. 

A gun isn’t as fun as his bare hands. 

Simon huffs as he places the part down in favor of a new one, coating the toothbrush with more solvent before continuing to scrub. Your brain finally begins to wake up as it sounds alarms deep within your psyche, urging you to flee, but as your eyes scan the surface of the table, you quickly realize there is no running away. There is no hiding place where his eyes cannot reach you. 

Phone propped up against a tool kit, Simon has a perfect view of everything in the house. The living room where you spent the last hour daydreaming, the empty bedroom, both entrances to the house—everything. There is not an inch of this prison that is not able to be broadcasted to his phone. Even now, the way your body curls around the doorway is within his view, proving your guilty nosiness. 

“Huntin’ season soon, Bonnie,” he says, hands still working. He does not look back. He doesn’t need to. You’re already in his line of sight. 

There’s a faint, gruff chuckle that leaves his lips when you silently back away, slinking into your burrow like the scared little rabbit that you are. You want to retreat back to the window, to watch the world pass you by, but it’s too close. It’s too close to Simon, and there are eyes in these walls. 

So you wander with your gaze trained above you, seeking out the glimpse of a camera lens as you try to calm your breath. You’ve been here for weeks and had never noticed such an intrusion, always too busy keeping your head low lest you gather unwanted attention. What has he seen you do? What has he watched happen to you? Has he seen it all? Every little thing Johnny’s done? How his favorite pet takes and takes and takes? Does he enjoy it when you’re undone? When you’re so used up you can’t even move? 

This is why he looks at you the way he does—asks you questions he already knows the answers to. You feel your fists clench, nails biting into your palms as your fingers quake. What a foul, nasty, terrifying creature. A beast with too many eyes for his own good. If you could, you’d pluck them out of his very skull one by one and eat them.

“Bonnie?”

Johnny’s voice stops you in the middle of the hallway. You’re not even sure why you’re here. Perhaps you were wanting to hide in the bedroom—cover yourself up in blankets as if you’re a child attempting to will away the scary man preparing for his hunt. But there’s something new; an unfamiliar door open, one you have never been quite brave enough to venture through. 

Treading carefully, you approach the door to find a strange room. Somehow, it’s quieter here than it is in the rest of the house, yet chaotically strewn about. Bookshelves hold art supplies on old boards, paint stains the floor in various spots, and a large cork board displays inky artwork. It’s overflowing. Pins diving into the walls, hanging up depictions of trees and unfamiliar rooms. In the midst of it all is Johnny, who sits at a large cartography desk marred with small scratches and spilled ink. He’s already looking up at the doorway before you enter, a smirk pulling at his lips. 

“I knew it was you. Your feet are lighter than Simon’s are,” he gloats. 

Blinking, you can’t help but tilt your head at his tone. He seems different somehow. Relaxed. A pencil lazily sits in his hand, tip resting against paper, graphite smearing along his pinky. You venture a step into the room, and he doesn’t seem to object. In fact, he welcomes it as he gestures to the corner of the room on your right. 

“You’re welcome to have a seat,” he offers. 

An oversized reclining chair sits nestled against the wall with fluffy cushions. Its seat is sunken in—well loved and used—yet looks all the more comfortable for it. Confused, you narrow your eyes at Johnny as you take another cautious step toward him. 

“Are you drawing?” You don’t know why you ask. It’s obvious what he’s doing, and speaking to the man who uses your body against your will on a regular basis is the most degrading thing you think you’ve ever done, yet your tongue moves anyway. 

“A bit,” he concedes. “The stream looked nice today. I wanted to draw it before I forgot what it looked like. I like saving memories.”

He turns the paper in your direction, and you can make out the image of it clear as day. Pristine water cascades over smooth stones in a tiny waterfall in the stream, swirling with faint bubbles and lost leaves. You can see every ripple of water; the tufts of grass that kiss the bed, and the flowers that sway in their midst. It’s alarmingly beautiful and expertly captured coming from a man who has only ever brought you pain. 

“It’s lovely,” you breathe. A proud smirk pulls at his lips as he brings the paper back into his view, and you swallow. “Do you… have trouble remembering things, Johnny?”

He shrugs. “I used to, but not much anymore. I’m all healed up now.” He states this flippantly as if it’s not a concerning thing to admit, all while tapping the side of his head. 

For the first time since you had the misfortune of meeting him, you look at Johnny. Really look at him. You see past the collar and the dumb glaze of his eyes and you catch on to the scars that litter his body. The tattoo on his arm—some sort of coat of arms you don’t recognize—the graphite staining his fingers, the puffy scar that dissects his hair near his temple. There’s a stark difference between the ruggedness he holds and the one Simon displays—Johnny is softer, somehow. Better loved and cared for. 

Someone else is in control of your body; someone stupid. Your fingers float through the air as you reach for him, skin brushing against the overgrown mohawk of his hair and then tracing the scar. It’s blunt. Round. Somewhat hidden behind the thick, dark hair on his head, but you feel the way it tugs and protrudes out of his skin. He sizes you up as you press against him, blinks, then leans into your touch. 

“Were… were you hurt?” you ask through the tightening of your throat. 

When he nods in confirmation, your touch slips from his head, but Johnny catches you. He’s gentle. Loving. He holds you, tracing the back of your hand with the tips of his fingers as he looks up at you through heavy lids. 

“What happened?” You need to stop. You need to shut up but the questions won’t stop pouring out of your mouth. No, you need to know more about them. Gather as much information as you can so when you finally get out of this hell hole, you’ll know exactly who to point at. 

Johnny moves your hand to his lips, pressing a fat kiss against your knuckles before rubbing it in with his thumb. “I had a bad day. That’s all, Bonnie.” Once again, his lips are on your hand, tender and soft, before he relinquishes it. The eraser of his pencil taps lightly against the wooden desk as his head quirks to the side, eyes clearing. “Go sit down, Bonnie.” 

Against your better judgement, you do. Something thick hangs in the air. A gnarly trepidation that you can’t shake, yet you sink into the recliner so easily that you nearly forget the discomfort. It’s easy to ignore the feeling of dread clawing at your chest when you’re busy searching the walls for eyes—

—and you find it. A small, impossibly tiny hole drilled near the far corner of the room. With that angle, it’s able to view nearly the entire room, save for the space just under it where a bookshelf resides. A faint glint from the overhead light illuminates the lens as if it’s winking at you, taunting and toying with you like the pet you are. Its reminder rings clear in your head, and you take care to engrave it in your mind as you glance back at Johnny. 

You’ve got to tread more carefully than this, Bonnie.

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[riddikulusravenclawbelle]

taste

plot - she’s a Slytherin who plays with fire. He’s the Gryffindor who finally gets burned. When a Potions mishap leads to late-night detentions, sparks turn to smirks, insults turn to touches—and suddenly, hating each other isn’t the only thing they’re good at.

characters - harry potter x you, draco malfoy x you (mentioned)

warnings - possessiveness, heavy themes, smut, and angst

wc - 4.8k

creds - @cafekitsune for the divider! <3

final notes - this is my first smutty fic, and i didn't even mean to start it as one. enjoy reader ;)

edit: part 2 out now

Professor Slughorn clapped his hands together. 'Attention to detail is the prerequisite of all planning!' He beamed—just as the door opened to reveal the Chosen One himself.

Draco hated his guts. You tried not to, but there was always trouble where Harry went…

“Ah! Harry, my boy, I was beginning to worry. Get what you want from the cupboard.” Slughorn instructed Harry and barely acknowledged Ron.

Harry’s eyes cut over to you. You looked away immediately. You were a Slytherin. Practically Draco’s best friend, and a bit more. You’d stolen one to many kisses from Draco and had many nights where you ‘accidentally’ slept over at Malfoy’s dorm. As for the chosen one? Potter was very easy on the eyes but, you weren’t going to risk being shunned from your house.

“Any ideas what these might be?” Slughorn asked, referring to the potions he concocted earlier today.

Hermione, ever the know-it-all, answered swiftly. The love potion. “It’s rumoured to smell differently according to each person, according to what attracts them.”

“Exactly. Now Amortentia doesn’t create actual love. That would be impossible. Who wants to try to give us an example of what they smell?”

Your eyes immediately went to the floor, praying to Merlin that Slughorn doesn’t pick you. But he did. Great.

You cleared your throat and stepped up to the cauldron. “I smell old parchment paper and ink.”

“Go on, Y/L/N.” Slughorn says.

“Um I also smell freshly cut grass, almost like how the quidditch field smells. The fresh rain smells after a storm and hints of a fireplace freshly stocked with wood.”

“Good.” Slughorn says.

Draco frowns, but Harry smirks.

“I think she smells you mate.” Ron says nudging Harry.

“No, I don't!” You quickly snapped, almost biting his head off.

All the students take their turn, including Hermione who smells fresh mint toothpaste and Luna who smells warm wool and candy. Then, It’s Harry’s turn.

“Don’t be shy my boy!” Slughorn insists. Of course. That could only end badly.

“I smell-”

He pauses.

Sniffs.

A faint pink flushes across his cheeks.

“Um cherries, warmth, and,”

He hesitates, but eager to get on Slughorn’s good side, he finishes by mumbling:

“That vanilla scented stuff she wears.” His eyes cut to you only for a second before looking down in shame.

Why did he have to smell you?

The slytherin boys teased Harry and made multiple ‘woo’ noises. Bloody hell.

“Looks like someone’s got a crush on Y/N.” Lorenzo couldn’t resist teasing.

Blaise silently shot you a knowing smirk.

“As if Y/N would ever go for Potter.” Draco sneers.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

You and Draco gather the last of your things from the Slytherin table.

“Merlin you take forever.” Draco complained, eager to catch up with Blaise and the rest of the Slytherins. That’s when you hear footsteps approaching. You looked up and saw the golden boy himself, Harry Potter.

“I’ll catch up.” You say, looking at Draco, smiling and resting a hand on his arm.

“Alright.” Draco said walking away but not before giving Potter a scathing look. “I don’t trust that git.” He muttered as he walked away.

Harry scratched his neck, you could tell he was nervous for whatever he was about to say. “You always wear that vanilla scent, don't you?” He lightly chuckled.

“Yeah.” You stopped packing your stuff and put a hand on the desk. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” He said, not meaning to offend you. ”Guess I just noticed today in Potions.” He smiled then walked away leaving you flustered. No teasing. Just that awkward boyish honesty that had no business being that charming.

It wasn’t the first time you noticed him, obviously. But it was the first time you blushed at his comment and the first time your stomach twisted.

You froze in place for a moment, temporarily stunned.

“You coming, princess?” Draco said, groaning.

“Yeah, my bad. I thought you already left!” You said, quickly grabbing the rest of your stuff and meeting Draco at the door.

“What’d Potter want?”

“Nothing.” You said, but in reality the scent of parchment paper and a warm fire were still lingering. And all you could think about for the rest of the week was bloody Harry James Potter.

So when Potions arrived again, you prayed to Merlin you would have a normal time as you walked with Draco, Theo, Mattheo, Enzo, Blaise, and Pansy.

“Do you think Slughorn ever forgets which potion he's drinking and ends up sipping Amortentia?” Theo asked, jokingly.

“That would explain why he keeps smiling at his own reflection.” Enzo adds, which gets an eye roll from Blaise.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

“What you see before you, ladies and gentlemen…is a curious little potion known as Felix Felicis. It is more commonly referred to as -” Slughorn stars before getting interrupted.

“Liquid Luck.” Y/N responds, sitting with all the Slytherins now at their table. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t cut your eyes over to the Gryffindor table to see Harry a couple of times. Sometimes, you’d catch him staring at you.

“So, this is what I offer each of you today. One tiny vial of Liquid Luck to the student who in the hour that remains, manages to brew an acceptable Draught of Living Death. Let the brewing commence.” Slughorn announces and immediately you—and all the other students in the class— start to brew.

“Hey, Y/N.” Mattheo says, already has a smirk on his face that reads nothing but trouble

“Yes?” You say, sighing as you were focused on making the potion, but now facing Mattheo.

“Hope you like blokes with glasses. 'Cause apparently one’s obsessed with you now.” Mattheo teased, loud enough for the whole class to hear.

Mattheo Riddle’s book went flying with a hex before he could finish his sentence.

“Miss Y/L/N!” Slughorn says surprised. “I expected better from you. You’ll be serving detention scrubbing the old Potions classroom after hours.” He said.

“Ugh.” You said, putting your head down on your desk. “Thanks, Mattheo.” you mumbled to where you could only hear.

The class ends with Slughorn announcing Harry had won the Felix Felicis and you all clapped for him.

“Oh Potter.” Slughorn said, grabbing the boy’s attention.

“Yes sir?”

“You’re top of the class and one of my best students—would you mind overseeing Miss Y/L/N’s detention? She’s a bright girl, just needs a steady influence.” Slughorn winked.

“Sure, sir.” Harry smiled, even though he sighed inside.

“Was Slughorn congratulating you even more mate?” Ron asked as he walked down the hall with Hermione and Harry by his side.

“No, actually. He asked if I could watch over Y/N’s detention. He’s lost it. Who in their free time would want to monitor detention?”

“Harry.” Hermione started, in her intellectual tone. “It’s clear Y/N and you had smelled each other's scents last week. He’s obviously setting you up.”

“Did you say yes?” Ron asked.

“Yeah. But I’m just doing this to appease him, Dumbledore wants me to get close to him.” Harry explained, although a small fraction of him was looking forward to spending time with you–without Malfoy.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

You were elbow-deep in soap suds and whatever magical gunk stained the walls of the old Potions classroom. You were too busy scrubbing to care how you looked at the moment. Then you heard the door creak. You turned to see it was the star student, Harry Potter. You turned back around.

“Slughorn sent you?” You inquired but you knew he did. Of course he did. You rolled your eyes as you continued scrubbing.

“Nice to see you too, Y/N.” Harry said, fighting a smile that threatened to creep onto his face.

Of course, he’d be smiling. He knew he was charming. You looked back to see that Harry was rolling up his sleeves, his hair a little messier than usual due to the day. He looked so effortlessly handsome.

“I thought this was my detention.” You said distracting yourself from the man that you were just admiring.

“Professor Slughorn sent me to supervise. Make sure you don’t hex anyone” He explained.

“Well you can tell Slughorn I won't hex anyone unless they deserve it–and Mattheo did.” You replied, which earned a laugh from Harry.

You felt a warm feeling inside. One that made you want to hear him laugh more. “You don't have to pity laugh.”

“What? No, no, that was funny. Mattheo can be a bloke sometimes.” He grinned, reflecting.

“Yeah,” you breathlessly laughed. You wringed out your towel as he squatted beside you, rolling up his sleeves even more, inspecting what you had been scrubbing for the past few minutes.

“I can handle it, golden boy.” You looked at him.

“I know you can.” He looked back at you. Something inside you lit up like a firework, those striking green eyes. You looked right back down.

He’s off limits. You knew this.

A few minutes passed before you needed more of the cleaning potion. You reached up toward one of the higher shelves where Slughorn kept old potions ingredients. You stretched on your tiptoes, fingers just grazing the edge of the jar as you felt the back of your shirt stretch up revealing your bare lower back.

“Need help?” Harry asked, you rolled your eyes in defiance. You knew you needed his help—and so did he.

Without another word he came over and grabbed it for you. His hand brushed the bare small of your back sending an electric spark up your spine. Nothing overt, you don’t think he meant to do it. But it made your breath hitch.

You cleared your throat. “Thanks.”

“Told you, I don’t bite Y/L/N, unless you want me to.” He smirked, his voice soft but his smirk spoke louder than the both of you combined.

“I figured I’d help anyways. I’m nice like that.” He said with a soft smile on his face. Why was he being so kind?

For a while there was only light conversation, jokes sprinkled in (mostly at Ron’s expense.), and the sounds of enchanted cleaning equipment to take up the sound in the room. It was quite nice.

And you smiled. And laughed. A lot.

He reached over your shoulder to grab a cleaning potion, and that’s when it hit you.

That smell.

Fire wood, the quidditch grass after a fresh cut, and a soft hint of an unknown warmth.

The exact combination from Amortentia.

You froze because you couldn’t deny it anymore. It was him.

“You alright, Y/L/N?” he asked, quietly. Like he actually cared.

You blinked. Then blurting out: “You changed your cologne.”

“Noticed, huh?” he said, smiling. “Hermione picked it—said it smells like me.”

“It does.” The words slipped out before you could catch them.

“Like the Amortentia you smelled in class the other day?” Harry teased, leaning closer to you. His voice changed to a lower, softer tone–he was certain at this point.

You didn’t respond. Your mouth had already betrayed you the last two times you spoke. Unfortunately, your silence spoke volumes.

“I knew it.” He smiled, smug. Blushing.

You looked at him then. Really looked. He was close enough to count the freckles on his nose. Close enough to see all the different shades of green in his eyes. Close enough to see that his lips were parted like he was holding his breath.

“Harry..” you whispered, almost so quiet to where you couldn’t hear it.

“You’ve got something-” he trails off as he wipes some soap off of your cheek. He keeps his hand there though. Your brain is telling you to look anywhere but in his eyes. Pull away. Slap his hand away. But you don’t.

And that’s when he kissed you. Softly. His lips felt like clouds you could lay on forever. It was warm and felt shy, like he was unsure if he should be kissing Draco’s best friend, a fellow Slytherin.

“Bloody hell.” you whispered on his lips.

You knew this was dangerous. You knew kissing Harry was the kind of thing that could unravel everything you’d worked to protect—your status in Slytherin, your friendship with Draco. But Merlin, you wanted him.

Eventually, your hands started to wander. And so did Harry’s.

“D’ya think Slughorn planned this?” Harry asked between kisses.

“If he did, I don’t think he planned it to go this far.” You replied breathlessly.

His hand was on your waist before you had a chance to even think about what you were doing. You gasped into his mouth, letting him guide you backward until the desk hit the back of your thighs. Your hands were tangled in his hair, pulling slightly, and he let out a low groan against your lips.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmured, even as he backed you up against the wood. But he didn’t stop. Neither did you. You helped him take his shirt off. You wanted to explore all the parts the cape was normally covering.

He hoisted you onto the desk with ease, parchment crackling beneath your thighs as you landed. The wood was cool through your slytherin skirt, a sharp contrast to the heat in your chest.

“Spread your legs.” He commands. His voice is deeper and eyes darker.

“You're distracting,” he said, breathless now, fingers trailing up the edge of your blouse. “How’s a bloke supposed to finish a potion like this?”

“You’re the one who kissed me.” You teased him, pressing your hand against his erection. Rubbing it.

“You kissed me back.” He growled.

A soft knock echoed from the far door. You both froze.

“Shit,” you whispered.

Harry cast a quick Silencing Charm toward the hallway, then leaned back in with a grin.

“You owe me ten points from Slytherin with that save.”

“She smirks. “Fine. But you’ll have to work harder if you want the House Cup.”

“Then maybe you should make it up to me some other way,” he said, fingers slipping just under the hem of your skirt.

The parchment crinkled louder now, mingling with the sound of their quickened breathing, the faint creak of old wood. Every noise felt dangerous. Every kiss felt like a dare.

The Silencing Charm fizzled suddenly, the glow snapping out with a quiet pop. They froze again—this time for real—just as Slughorn’s voice echoed faintly down the hall.

“Everything alright in there?”

Harry blinked, panic and adrenaline lighting his features.

“Brilliant,” you muttered, hopping off the desk and straightening your skirt.

He didn’t stop smiling as he helped you button the top of your blouse, eyes flicking down to your lips.

“We are so getting caught,” you whispered.

“Worth it,” he replied.

“Okay. Just finish up in there.” Slughorn says before you hear his footsteps retreat.

“Oh we will sir.” Harry said as you smacked his chest. It took no time for him to devour your face again like it was his air he needed to breathe. As he went to kiss your collarbone, he noticed a necklace.

He looped a few fingers around your silver necklace with Draco’s initials on it. He immediately ripped it off, throwing it across the classroom. You were more of a gold girl anyways.

The moment the necklace was gone, something in Harry changed. You weren’t Draco’s property anymore. His restraint—snapped.

“You’ve been wearing his initials this whole time?” His voice was low, rough, barely recognizable. “That git doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

This time when he kissed you, it was harder. Like he was staking a claim on you. He wanted to make you forget any guy you had ever been with. And you let him.

You moaned into his mouth as he gripped your thighs, spreading them apart with a firm hand as he stepped between them.

“The silencing charm is gone, so you have to be quiet, yeah?” He instructed. You nodded. Anything to have him please you right now.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh in your legs, forcibly pulling you closer to the edge of the desk until there was no space between you. You could feel him—all of him—pressed against your core through layers of fabric. It made your head spin and your heat ache.

“You’re so fucking warm,” he murmured, his thumb trailing around your lips and eventually going into your mouth—which you started sucking. “Been imagining this since the first time you smart-mouthed me in class.”

“Merlin, Potter you’re addicted to me.” You smirked, tugging at his belt.

“Maybe,” he slipped his hand to touch the space between your two legs. He leaned to whisper in your ear. “But I’m not the one soaking for your best friend's enemy.”

After, he pushed your underwear to the side like it was nothing. “You’re dripping for me.” He said, more to himself as an achievement than to you. “All of this for me.” He said, admiring the view.

“Merlin Harry.” you said, bucking your hips.

He pulled back his fingers after you finished, licking them while maintaining eye contact with you. “You taste so sweet. Like cherries and trouble.”

“C’mere,” you begged, grabbing his shirt and dragging him down for another kiss, all teeth and tongue. You could feel the hard line of his cock through his trousers, grinding against you with each movement. You needed him.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, voice hoarse, his forehead pressed to yours.

You grabbed what you wanted.

“Use your words, or I walk out of here right now, love.”

“I want you to fuck me right here on Slughorn’s desk,” you said, unashamed, fire blazing in your chest. “Like you don’t care if someone walks in.”

“I’ll be quick,” he muttered, pulling his pants and underwear down in a swift motion, voice thick with lust. “But next time, you’re riding me until you forget Malfoy’s name.”

“Yes sir.”

And then he was inside you.

You gasped, nails raking down his back as he filled you all at once. There was no easing into it, no time for gentle. He thrust deep and hard, making you moan out of pleasure.

His hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your moans as your head fell back in pleasure. “I said to be quiet.”

His pace was brutal, unforgiving, like he was punishing you for making him want you this much. You clenched around him, making him choke on a moan against your neck.

“Fuck—keep doing that and I’m not gonna last,” he hissed.

You bit down on his shoulder, trying not to scream. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he slammed into you, each thrust hitting your core perfectly, you swore you could start seeing stars. It’s like he’s done this before. Your bodies were in sync perfectly.

“Harry,” you moaned, which only sped his pacing up, “Gonna cum,” you whispered into his ear, desperate and wild. “Please—don’t stop—”

“I’ve got you,” he growled. “Cum for me, darling.” He said before moving stray hairs out of your face to look in your eyes.

You shattered around him, muffling your cry into his shoulder as you clenched hard, your whole body pulsing with the release. Harry followed right after, groaning low as he buried himself deep inside you, spilling with a final thrust that left you both trembling.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just the sound of you both catching your breaths, the creak of the desk, and the faint sizzle of a potion that had overheated across the room.

Then Harry slowly pulled back, resting his forehead on yours, still inside you.

“Well,” he panted, smirking. “I think Slughorn’s desk might need a second round of cleaning.”

You smirked right back, running a hand through your hair. “Only if you supervise again.”

Your legs were so jello you almost fell when you both started to put your clothes back on. Although he giggled at first, he was gentle, slowly putting your shirt and underwear back on, making sure you were okay. He stole a few kisses before you had to part ways. Nobody could find out. Especially Draco.

As you walked down the hallway, alone, you were smoothing out your skirt and running your fingers through your hair. Thats when you caught a glimpse of your new tie. Gold and Red.

“Bloody hell.” you muttered. You quickly snatched it off, that would be a bold fashion statement in the Slytheirn common room for sure. One you were not ready to risk tonight.

But you couldn't help the smug little smile curling on your lips, reflecting on tonight’s events. Your neck still tingled where Harry had kissed you. Branded you. Your thighs ached deliciously with every step. You smelled like his cologne and sex and sin.

“Ah, Y/L/N. How was detention?” Draco asked.

“Terrible.” You said fighting a smirk, to which you lost.

“Where’s your tie, Y/N?” Theo noticed.

“Oh I lost it.” That earned a smirk from Blaise. He never spoke yet he knew everything.

You walked to your dorm when Lorenzo followed you.

“Ah, Y/N. You smell like sex. A scent I know all too well. So what really happened at detention? And if you don’t tell me, I’m assuming it was Slughorn.”

Meanwhile, across the hall, Harry walked in with a huge internal grin on his face. While trying to maintain an external ‘innocent and casual’ look. His hair was messier, sticking up in all different directions, where you had tugged on it. His lips tingling and his shirt untucked. But most importantly? The tie around his neck was not red and gold.

“Oi! Mate! What took you so long! ‘Mione made me do all of my homework.” Ron inquired.

“You had detention with Y/N, didn’t you?” Hermione interrogated.

“Yeah. The one I had to oversee.”

Hermione raised a brow. “You’re wearing a Slytherin tie.”

Fuck.

Worth it.

He looked down and pretended like he was surprised. “Huh. Must’ve—uh—mixed them up by accident.”

Ron blinked. “How do you accidentally put on a tie that’s a completely different color?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Harry mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “It was dark.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You smell like cleaning supplies and… something else.”

“I know what your thinking ‘Mione.” He paused as he sat down in the chair, facing Ron and Hermione who occupied the sofa by the fireplace. “But nothing happened okay?”

“That’s not what your body says. You're practically glowing mate.” Ron said half embarrassed for Harry. Half proud of Harry.

“Your lips are swollen,” Hermione added as she continued to analyze him. “And you’ve got a love bite on your neck.”

Harry slapped a hand over it, heart racing. “Merlin’s beard, Hermione.”

“Harry snogged a Slytherin!” Ron said, putting all the pieces together. “You snogged Y/N Y/L/N.”

Harry stared in the fireplace, refusing to answer. Not out of embarrassment, but out of respect.

“I must say,” Hermione began.

“Must you?” Harry said, throwing his head back.

“Yes.” She paused, then continued. “Y/N is a good match for you-”

“If she wasn’t Malfoy’s best mate.” Ron added.

Which made Harry flashback to when he ripped off your necklace with Malfoy’s initials.

He giggled, remembering the memory, proud of himself.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

“I’m just saying, if Hermione and Ron don’t get together by the end of this year, I will give you ten galleons,” Pansy laughs beside you in the courtyard between classes.

You laugh, shaking her hand. “Deal.”

Draco saunters up like he owns the damn place—confidence and arrogance wrapped up in a perfectly pressed Slytherin uniform. His eyes scan you slowly.

“Y/LN.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?” Your laughter fades, but you keep the smirk. You know how to match his energy.

“I was—” He pauses, eyes flicking down. “Wait. Where’s your necklace?”

You blink. “What?”

“The silver one. The one I gave you for your birthday.”

Your hand instinctively goes to your neck. Empty. “Oh. I must’ve misplaced it.”

Draco narrows his eyes, something unspoken tightening in his jaw. But he doesn’t press. You feel it though—whatever illusion you two had? It’s slipping.

And then, as if on cue, Harry walks up.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just clocks Draco standing far too close to you. His jaw tightens.

“Ah, Potter,” Draco smirks, catching the tension. “Careful. Keep staring at Y/N like that and people might start thinking you actually like her. Especially after that little Amortentia stunt in Potions.”

Harry’s expression darkens. He knows exactly what Draco’s doing—but so do you. And you don’t stop it.

“Yeah?” Harry says, voice low.

Draco steps closer, smug. They’re almost nose-to-nose now.

Harry looks between the two of you, jaw clenched like he’s debating something dangerous. Then he turns to Draco, voice low but lethal.

“Next time you get close to Y/N…” He pauses. “Let me know how my dick tastes, Malfoy.”

The courtyard goes silent.

Mattheo chokes on his pumpkin juice somewhere behind you. Enzo’s jaw? On the floor.

Draco stares, stunned. He’d expected a snide remark. Not that.

You? You can barely breathe. Heart racing. Legs weak. And somewhere deep down—way deeper than you want to admit—you’re completely, shamelessly turned on.

Harry doesn’t wait. He brushes past, fingers grazing your wrist in a possessive little touch that feels like a brand.

You stare after him, stunned. Then at Draco.

“I—”

You don’t finish. You run.

You find Harry in a shadowy corridor, one no one uses anymore. “Potter!” you snap.

He turns. There’s something flickering in his eyes—guilt? Regret? But it’s gone just as fast.

“What the hell was that?” you push him, palms on his chest.

He pins you to the wall, dark eyes wild. “No.”

“What?”

“You don’t get to look at him like that after last night.” His voice is rough, angry.

“I wasn’t—”

“You’re mine, Y/N.” He leans in, breath hot by your ear. “You know you’re mine.”

His hands plant on either side of your head, caging you in.

“That doesn’t give you the right to—”

His lips hover just inches from yours, daring you to keep going.

“He looked at you like he still had a chance. Asked about the necklace like you’re still his. And you just let him.”

“It’s not like that,” you whisper.

“Then make it clear.”

He looks at your mouth, then your eyes. Your lips crash into his like you’re starved. Need outweighs reason.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

“Say what?”

“Say it, Y/N.”

You hesitate—then surrender. “I’m yours.”

Harry grins against your mouth before kissing you again like he’s claiming what’s his.

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Later, you sneak into the Slytherin common room, Harry’s kiss still burning on your lips.

“So it’s true then,” Draco’s voice cuts through the quiet. He’s slouched in a chair, signature green apple in hand. He takes a bite.

You freeze. Of course he knows. Everyone does by now. You sigh.

You don’t say anything.

“Snogging in corridors. Switching ties like love letters.” He scoffs. “You think no one notices?”

“Why do you even care? Draco, we hooked up five times. It didn’t mean anything—you know that.” That was cruel, and you both knew it.

“Because you were mine first, Y/N.” Draco rarely referred to anyone by their first name, so you knew this was serious. He took a swig of his fire whisky. Always was his go-to.

“Tell me, Y/N.” He hesitated, did he want to know the answer to his next query? “Is he better than me?”

You stared off into space, it was at least thirty seconds before you responded. “Yes.”

You looked back at Draco, you could tell that stung. “That half-blood golden boy who doesn’t know what to do with a girl like you.” Draco sticks his tongue in his cheek. “He’ll only break your heart, princess. You’ll regret choosing him.”

You turn to go, but his voice follows you, quieter—almost vulnerable.

“I asked about the necklace because I thought maybe…” he trails off, then swallows hard. “Thought maybe you’d still wear something I gave you. Never mind. I guess you had other things wrapped around your neck anyway.”

That almost gets you.

Almost.

“Draco, stop.”

“Was it when we were…?” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

“Don’t twist this.”

“Well, you’re not denying it.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Enjoy being his dirty little secret. Let me know when the Gryffindor guilt eats him alive.”

You walk away, letting Draco have the last word. But this isn’t over. Not with Draco. Not with Harry. And definitely not with the girl staring back at you in the mirror.

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 P9 P10 P11 P12 P13 P14 P15 P16

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: Mentions of drinking, drunk driving, mentions of death, Chris being a dick, perv mentions.

A/N: Chris is fucking mean in this lmao. Also, don't go for walks with people you don't trust at 2 a.m. like...yeah, just don't do that!

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P4: Nipple Perv

wc: 1900+

My head hurt from endless thoughts. I was trying to comprehend what happened—what made Chris so mad? What made Matt so closed-off? 

I couldn’t figure it out. Clothes and miscellaneous items are sprawled in a mess around my room. I was trying to clean, have some sort of organization since my mind felt so helpless. 

“Fuck!” I hear Baylen screaming at his computer through the walls, the loud game effects echoing through the vents in the house. 

My lips purse as I clench my teeth. He’s so fucking annoying.

“Sweetie!” My mom’s voice yells through the house. Sweetie—I know she’s not talking to me, she’s talking to him. “Do you want the protein bowls for dinner?” 

Ugh. My least favorite thing ever. But, since it was Baylen’s favorite, it didn’t matter. Nothing I had to say ever mattered in this house. 

My eyes drift across my room. I see an old picture frame on my dresser covered in dust. The familiar face stares back at me–dad. I missed him. Everything was better when he was around. He understood me.

“Yeah, can you do the brown rice and…” 

I drown out the sound of Baylen’s yelling. My hands rub along my face as I feel my eyes burn with tears. No. I refuse to cry. It won’t do anything except make it hurt more. That’s all it ever did. 

“Fuck this,” I mumble, walking over to my bay window and sitting on the cushions. It was the place I loved. Honestly, I fell asleep in this spot almost as much as my bed. 

My nose scrunches as I sniffle. I try to take deep breaths while pulling the window open, the fresh air making my mind feel clearer within an instant. This is what I needed. This is always what I needed. 

The slight shuffling of movement makes me squint my eyes open. Chris—well, Chris and Trevor. 

Trevor’s tongue is hanging out from his mouth with harsh pants, his tail wagging as his paws trot on the sidewalk. He looks content. Chris, however, looks less than thrilled. His face is tight, his brows furrowed, like he’s in a deep thought—or maybe just frustrated. 

Trevor halts on the grass of my front lawn, his nose twitching as he sniffs sharply. My heart seems to beat louder in my chest as I watch Chris’s face turn toward my direction, his eyes landing on me. 

Like a deer caught in headlights, all I can do is freeze. 

As Chris’s eyes float up to mine, I can feel the heat of his gaze, sharp and annoyed. He’s glaring at me, staring through me as if I did something unspeakable. 

The weight of the silence is heavy. Trevor, blissfully unaware of the tension, sits down on the grass, looking up at me with big, expectant eyes, probably waiting for me to come out and pet him. 

But that wouldn’t happen—not with the way Chris was looking at me. His eyes appear even colder, his jaw tensing as he shakes his head, tugging on Trevor’s leash before pulling him further down the sidewalk. 

What did I do?

___

The air is thick with something unspoken as I sit across from Matt, my fingers tracing the rim of my empty water glass. Chris had stormed out again as soon as I had walked in the house, even though it had nearly been a week since the last time we saw each other. 

I stare down at Trevor as my fingers hover over my computer keyboard. His strange behavior lingers in my mind, gnawing at me, demanding answers. 

Matt exhales deeply, rubbing a hand down his face before finally speaking. “You really wanna know?” 

My eyes shift over to him. I nod slowly as I pull my hands into my lap, rubbing my thumb over my palm as I try to take a quiet breath. “I mean, yeah… I feel like… like I did something wrong,” I let out. 

Matt’s jaw tightens. A rough sigh leaves his mouth, his hand rubbing over his lips before running through his messy hair. “Trevor… he’s not usually like that with people,” Matt says, his voice quieter now. “Not since—” He swallows, eyes flickering away. “Not since our mom.”

My stomach twists. “Your mom?”

Matt nods, drumming his fingers against the table, as if the movement might help him push through the words. “She died about a year ago with our um… our other brother. Car accident.”

“Oh,” I whisper. Guilt coils in my chest, details binding together as I reanalyze the home surroundings. It all made so much sense. 

“It just hurts, you know? It felt like—like seeing a ghost,” he remarks, his tongue prodding against his cheek as he stares down at the table. “That’s why Chris freaked out. He—he’s really relied on Trevor since everything happened. I mean, Trevor doesn’t even do that for him, I guess…” 

A lump forms in my throat. “I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He offers a small, tired smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s just… complicated.”

Complicated. That feels like an understatement.

I let the silence stretch between us, my mind whirling. Finally, I straighten my spine. “I should talk to Chris.”

Matt’s mouth twists. “Good luck with that.”

___

Chris sits on the porch steps with his arms crossed. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, but the shift in his posture lets me know that he’s aware. 

“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than usual. 

Nothing. 

Taking a deep breath, I sit down on the steps next to him, watching his spine straighten as his jaw tightens. “Listen, I—I didn’t know about Trevor. About your mom,” I say. 

Chris exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Doesn’t change anything,” he tuts, his tongue clicking on the roof of his mouth. 

My heart thumps as I try to take a deep breath. What could I change? Trevor’s acts of affection? He’s hurt, I know he’s hurt—but what was I supposed to do?

“I was just trying to say I’m sorry…” I whisper. 

My shoulders slump as he lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah? For what?” he questions.

“For…” I falter, unsure how to phrase it. “For whatever just happened in there. For upsetting you.”

Chris finally turns to look at me, his expression hard. “You didn’t upset me.” 

I scoff. “Really? Because you ran out of there like you saw a ghost.”

His jaw tightens. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then help me understand,” I snap. My face scrunches, my nails clawing into my palms as I try to take a deep breath. “I understand you’re hurt, but I’m trying to apologize. I didn’t make your dog do that—”

His eyes harder, his gaze flooding with hate. “You don’t get it,” he huffs blankly, his nostrils flaring. 

I feel my body shrink into itself under his stare, a lump gathering in my throat as my stomach churns. “I’m sorry. I’ve said I’m sorry, I don’t know what else you want me to—”

My body freezes as he leans in closer. 

“You and your stupid partying and drinking—like it’s all some big fuckin’ joke.” His words make my chest feel heavy as I struggle to keep my eyes on his. “Like people don’t fucking die because of it. Do you know how many people die from drunk drivers? From stupid people like you who think alcohol is fun? My mom and my brother–” His mouth opens and shuts, his lips pulling into a tight line as he turns his gaze back towards the street. 

Oh.

Oh. 

My chest tightens, his words slamming into me like a punch to the gut. I swallow the lump in my throat, my eyes tearing as if I’m a child being scolded. 

“Forget it,” he says, his voice rough. “Just go home.” 

And for once, I don’t argue. 

___

My body twists in my bed sheets restlessly. Chris’s words swirl in my head, replaying over and over until they blur together, tangling with my own thoughts.

I should be angry. I am angry. He had no right to throw that in my face, no right to act like he knows me. He didn’t even know why I was walking home the night we met—it was because even I knew drunk driving was stupid. 

A sharp knock at my window makes me jolt upright. What the fuck? 

I push my blankets off, heart hammering as I shuffle toward the window. When I pull back the curtain, I’m met with Chris’s face, his expression unreadable. 

My mouth drops open as I slide the window open as quietly as possible, the cool night breeze whistling by my ear. “What the hell—what’re you doing here?” I whisper-shout. 

Chris shrugs, “Come on a walk with me.”

“A walk?” I repeat, my palms resting on the bay window cushion seat as I lean to get closer. “Are you insane?” I question. 

“Sure,” he stares blankly. “Now can we go for a walk?” 

The repeated question makes my head tilt. “Why the fuck would I go for a walk with you at…” My eyes shift across the room, looking for my phone to tell the time. 

“It’s a little after 2 a.m., your favorite time to go walking apparently,” he says, offering a small smirk with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Although, maybe this time you should wear more, um—” He clears his throat as his eyes drift to the side. “-clothes.” 

Oh shit. 

I always sleep in a big T-shirt and sweats. Of course I had to be wearing a thinner white one right now, of course it had to be so cold my nipples were practically poking through the material. 

“Oh my fucking god,” I mumble, reaching over and grabbing a sweatshirt before pulling it over my head. “Perv,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief. 

“If I was a perv, I would have asked you to wear less clothes, actually,” he points out. 

“Chris, why are you here? I’m not going on a walk with you at—”

“I brought Trevor.” His hand tugs upwards, showing a leash. Am I really about to go for a walk with an asshole just because he has a cute dog?

My eyes squint as I lick over my teeth, sliding my feet into my sneakers that I had left discarded on the floor. “Fine. You’re lucky I like your dog and I can’t sleep,” I announce, climbing through my window before slowly sliding the glass pane back down, leaving just a crack open. 

“Lucky, hm? Would that have been a better name than Trevor?” he taunts, holding out the leash. I grab the hope cautiously, my eyes softening as I see the dog’s tail wagging from the corner of my eye. 

Chris walks forward towards the sidewalk, peering over his shoulder as he waves his hand for me to follow. “You coming?” 

What the fuck am I doing. 

[xeeljii]

I need joost whimpering into my neck so bad its not even funny anymore IM GNAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE (touching grass rn thanks)

can i write a little something .... ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

WARNING! Explicit RPF! 

CW: 18+, f! reader, dry humping sorry im in my dry humping era, drunk! Joost, established relationship, needy so needy Joost.

Late at night the window to your shared apartment is still open letting a little breeze in, it is the middle of summer and you are just laying on the living room couch watching TV ready for bed when you finally hear the ring of the doorbell. Joost had been gone since the midday with his friends and now so late you guessed he must have had a good day if he wasn't even able to use his keys.

You get up, turn the TV off and open the door with a soft smile on your lips, he is hanging between Appie and Stunje, red to the tip of his ears and so obviously drunk. His eyes are closed, his face is hanging low, he looks like a rag doll as both his friends hold him trying to keep him from falling, you laugh slightly at the sight.

"Thanks for bringing him home." You say voice low to not wake him but as soon as the words leave your mouth he raises like coming back to life at the sweet familiar sound of you.

He opens his eyes quickly, pupils unfocused and hair all tousled on his forehead. He smiles brightly his whole face lighting up and the so beloved dimples appearing.

"Liefde!" He all but screams as he lets go of the shoulders of his friends and throws himself all over you.

He is never mindful of his size even less so when he is drunk, he rests all his weight on you and you do everything to hold him and not fall backwards. You place a hand securely on his back as he rubs his face against your neck, he bends down in an awkward position to sniff at your perfume. You feel yourself blush quickly when he starts placing kisses on the exposed skin still very aware of the presence of his friends who break in laughter when they realize what he is doing.

But he doesn't care, he can't care when you smell so nice and feel so good and soft under his hands.

"I'm so sorry." You say mortified, they just continue laughing before Appie speaks.

"This one kept whining about missing you at the bar then when we got in the taxi he kept trying to call you but couldn't figure out how to unlock his phone so he threw a fit." You can see the image so clear in your mind it is so embarrassing and so adorable all at the same time.

"You are his screensaver you knew that right?" You blush deeply, you didn't know, but it is not surprising Joost is practically bordering on obsessed with you.

Joost is holding you tightly and shamelessly planting kisses on your warm skin completely ignoring the conversation happening right in front of him, then he gets bolder and starts sneaking his hand right under your sleeping camisole. You wince.

"Okay we are leaving." Stunje says saving you any further embarrassment you throw him an apologetic smile and a thank you before everyone says their goodbyes and leaves.

When the door is finally closed you can breath a little easier, you pull hard at Joost's shirt trying to peel him off you.

"You are such a handful." You say, so much love dripping from your tone it comes out with no bite.

"I missed you~" He whines into you stretching the last syllable.

"I can see." You start pulling him towards the bed room, he stays pressed close to you not allowing you to leave his embrace even by an inch.

When you get to the bed he finally releases you a bit but only to push you down onto the mattress, you fall with a soft thud in the middle.

"Hey!" You chide.

"I missed my baby." He says with furrowed eyebrows standing over you, he is so whiny when he is drunk, he is so clingy and so needy.

"Just take your clothes off and come to bed." You say rolling your eyes, you do have work early and whatever he is trying to get at can't happen.

He quickly does as he is told and starts crawling on top of you only on his boxers.

"I have work in the morning." You remind him softly before he gets ahead of himself.

"I know." He mumbles, cute little pout adorning his puffy lips. But knowing doesn't stop him from much and he makes himself a little place between your legs wrapping the muscle around his hips before he lets himself fall right on top of you.

"You can't sleep like that, you are crushing me." You pull lightly at his hair to get him to move but he doesn't and you already know that he won't.

"I really missed you." He says in that airy breathy tone that has you dampening in your panties.

He reaches a hand over your camisole stopping over your breast, his head is pressed right against the crook of your neck. He starts softly massaging at the mound of fat over the fabric and you can't help but sigh at his touch. He is kissing at the sensitive skin over your pulse and licking intently to pull more sounds from you.

"Joost." You whine unsure if you are asking for more or chiding him again, but he just likes the way you say his name so it only spurs him on.

He feels the nipple harden against the soft fabric and wants to touch directly so bad, he pulls his hand away before moving it to the hem of your shirt and pulling it up all over your breasts. At that he finally pulls slightly away from you just so he can admire at your beautiful forms, without even touching him he is already twitching in his boxers and a dark wet spot forms at the fabric of his underwear.

"So pretty." He says before he bends down chasing back after your warmth again.

He goes straight for your nipple wraps his lips around the sensitive skin and starts sucking as much of you into his mouth as he can, his other hand massages at your chest. His hips start moving against yours, he is grinding hard against your pelvis, moaning agains your tit on his mouth and groping hard at the other one with his big warm palm. You involuntarily start grinding back, back slowly rising from the mattress to match his pace.

You feel him so hard against your core, his length pushing right against the fabric of your shorts, he is breathing so heavy against your chest nose buried against your skin moaning as he sucks on you. He keeps rubbing himself on you, harder, faster, he is going to crush you, you really feel his whole weight on you as he wildly uses your smaller frame to get off. You feel him twitching even between the layers of fabric still separating you, you already know his body so well.

He pulls away from your nipple, grabs with both hands at your waist moving you harder against his body, you feel his hips start to stutter, he bends down again and searches for your neck, he is panting and leaving wild kisses and love bites everywhere he can reach, he can't help himself he needs to mark you so bad right now, alcohol high on his bloodstream he forgets any reservation.

"Let me come." He says in a whisper accentuated by a hard thrust.

"Can I come baby?" He asks sweetly as he licks under your ear.

"Please" He whines against the sensitive skin of your neck, you feel his deep voice sending waves directly to your cunt, you are so wet, your clit is so hard and throbbing at his words alone.

"Please touch me." He whimpers right against your hair.

"Please touch my dick." He is begging now, so close, just needs a little help, just needs the smallest touch from his sweet kind girlfriend to get off.

And who are you to deny him?

So you move a hand low between the two of you, reach inside his boxers, you don't even bother pulling them down and just stroke him hard and fast, your hand clenching around him tightly just how he likes it and twisting around the tip. Just within a few movements he is coming, on your hand, on his underwear, on your pajamas. Long white stripes dirtying everything with delicious heat.

"I love you, I love you, I love you." He continues mewling against your throat as he weakly thrust against your palm with the last waves of his climax.

He pulls enough strength to kiss your lips messily before he finally collapses onto you with a deep content sigh.

You still feel yourself throbbing inside your shorts but before you realize it he is already fallen deep asleep holding softly at your tit with a big warm hand. Sleeping so peacefully like an angel, like he didn't just use you to get off. You roll your eyes with so much fondness.

"You really are a handful." You say almost in disbelief kissing at his cheek as his face rests pressed on your neck breathing softly.

You pull your hand away and wipe it on the duvet. He is going to have to wash that tomorrow, and your pajamas and his boxers, it is his fault it all got dirty. And he will probably wake you up with head as an apology for leaving you high and dry and you will most likely not make it to work on time because he won't be happy with making you come just one time, no, for the grieve offense of not making you finish he will want to pull as many orgasms from you as he can before you are begging for him to let go, all overstimulated and pretty on his mouth. But all of those are problems for tomorrow you, so you just wrap your arms around him and pull him closer before his comforting weight over your body on you drags you to sleep.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

A/N: idk where this came from idk lol not proof read etc

ps. this is not THE DRY HUMPING fic this is just me being insane

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes

Note: We need this on a Monday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“Don’t move too slow, girly,” Angelique teases in your ear. You cradle your phone as you stick out your tongue at her mocking tone. “I’m already bikini shopping.” 

“Pfft, how much is it for string these days?” You retort. 

“Don’t be jealous. A little more confidence and you’d look fine as fuck in one. I mean, given your hooters, you’d be getting all the attention.” 

“Not worth the back ache. Besides, the thing would get lost,” you stop and look back and forth before you cross. “I’m getting there, alright? I mean, what do you think about the guy? He’s older, alone... at his age, he must be divorced. I mean, he’s gotta be into it.” 

“I’m sure he is,” Angelique assures you. “But stop dragging your feet. Just fucking pull your tits out.” 

“I as good as had them on my plate,” you snicker as you get closer to the duplex. 

“No, out,” she insists. “Your nipples need to make eye contact.” 

You hiss and slow down as you get to the crispy blades of grass bent over the pavement. “Gotta go.” 

“Wait--” 

You hang up as you watch Bucky’s back. His muscles move beneath his skin, his shoulders and arms thick and rounded. He has no shirt on but sports his typical black denim. His flesh bulges a bit above his belt. His sleeve tattoo extends to his shoulder blade, the edge resembling the silhouette of a wolf. 

You look down at yourself. You have your work standard on. A pair of straight cut pants and a sleeveless blouse. The bank is very stringent about the dress code. Nothing above the knee. Oh well, the elastic waistband is forgiving and comfortable enough to sit in all day. 

You sneak up the walk and through the front door. You drop your bag and hurry into your bedroom. You change into a pair of short red shorts and a razorback white tank top. Your bra straps peak out but that’s only a bonus. 

Wait. You stop. What did Angelique say? You undo your bra and slip free of the straps. Your back will hate you later. 

You slide into your fluffy white slides and head out. You glance over as Bucky fishes around in his tool box. He sits on a rolling stool, his boots set wide as he keeps it from moving. You approach him as he hunches and fiddles under the tank of the bike. 

“Hey, Bucky,” you skip up beside him, nearly falling out of your slides. “Whatcha doin’?” 

He keeps his eyes on his bike, “tune up.” 

“Oh, sure. You take good care of it, huh?” You bend to watch his hands closely. 

“Sure,” he sniffs. “Thing was left in a warehouse too long.” 

“Really? Is it used?” 

“It’s mine,” he assures you as he sits back and drops the wrench. “Just couldn’t... couldn’t keep her with me.” 

“Must be nice to get it back. Um, can I help with anything?” You push your hands behinds you and twist back and forth. 

He turns to look at you. You can’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. You preen and tilt your head. 

“You know the difference between a star and a flat head?” He asks. 

“Sure do,” you bounce in triumph. 

You go around his other side and get down on your knees. He takes out a cloth from his belt to wipe his hands. “Six-inch wrench,” he demands.

You bet he’s got more than a six-incher. You find the one he wants and hold it out to him. He takes it without looking. 

“It’s so cool you know how to do all this. When I get my bike, will you help me?” You wonder.” 

“You’re serious about all that?” He mutters. 

“Sure am! I could use help picking one out though. You have good taste,” you praise. 

He shrugs. You look down at the tool box. You stir around boredly as he offers no reply. 

“I guess I’ll need to by my own box of goodies--” you hiss and pull your hand back, “ouchie!” 

You raise your finger, a cut around the line around the top of your ring finger. He sits up and lowers the wrench as he looks at you. Before you can register your blood dribbling down, he tosses down the tool and grabs the cloth he left on his thigh. He snatches your hand and wraps the fabric around your finger, squeezing hard. 

“What’re you doing? Those aren’t toys,” he snarls. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky, I was going to sort them out for you,” you sniffle. “It’s not that bad. Doesn’t hurt too much.” 

He growls and shakes his head as he swivels the stool to face you. “You, grab on.” You hesitated but grab his forearm. His cheek twitches. “Not me, your finger.” 

He takes your hand and guides it to the cloth. He folds your hand around your ring finger and squeezes tight. You clamp down. 

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” you hold back the reverberating pain with a bat of your eyes. “I can handle it--” 

“Stay here,” he stands before you can argue further. You peer up at him and nod. 

He strides away with a sigh. You watch him, craning around as he storms onto the porch and disappears inside. The door snaps shut behind him. 

You turn straight and look down at your hand. It was stupid. You shouldn’t have been playing with the tools. Still, he touched you. It’s almost a perfect accident. 

You hear him come back out and suck back the tears. You don’t want him to think you’re weak. He nears and sets down the small white chest next to the toolbox. He bends over you and cups your elbows, guiding you to the stool. He’s intent on his task. 

You let him move you. He gets down to his knees and opens the first aid box. He takes out the bottle of rubbing alcohol and square of gauze. 

“Let’s see,” he gestures at your hand. 

You peel the rag away and show him. He holds out his palm and you put your hand in his. He wipes the cut, it’s mostly stopped gushing. He tuts between his teeth. 

“Shouldn’t need stitching,” he says. Your gaze crawls up his uninked arm; he has scars along his bicep and more on his chest, a thick one along his lower stomach. “Just a bandage.” 

He pinches your finger as he fishes around for a bandage. He uses his mouth to unwrap it. He sticks it around your finger snugly. He lets you go and your fingertips tingle. It’s not just the loss of blood. 

“Aw, thanks, Bucky,” you smile and examine your finger. “You take such good care of me.” 

His eyes meet yours and you push your shoulders up. He swallows stiffly and searches around, his attention clinging to the motorcycle. He clears his throat and turns on his knee. He scoops up the wrench he dropped. 

“No big deal. Just a nick,” he drawls lowly. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologise again. “I was only trying to help.” 

“I know, girl, I know,” he tightens something and puts the wrench back. 

“It’s real hot out. Can I get you something to drink?” You offer. 

“Don’t gotta do all that,” he says. 

“I want to. It’s the least I can do since you fixed me all up,” you hop up. “I’ll be right back!” 

You turn and feel how high your shorts are on your ass. You don’t fix them as you walk away. You hope he’s watching. You know he is. 

You go inside and find a nice tall glass. You take out a can of frozen pink lemonade and put in the plastic pitcher with water and ice. You mix it all up and taste. Perfect. 

You come back out as Bucky locks up his toolbox. You approach him, the glass in your uninjured hand. You stand beside him. 

“Here you go!” You say, “it sure is a hot one.” 

You offer it and he looks up. His sunglasses reflect the sun. He reaches for the glass and grumbles in thanks. You put your hands on your hips. Your fingers are cold from making the lemonade. It sends a shiver through you so your nipples poke against your tank top. 

“Bucky,” you begin, digging the toe of your slide into the tarmac as he sips. “I hate to ask but... could I go for a ride?” 

His throat clenches and he lowers the glass. His cheeks pinch and he pushes the glasses up over his hair. “A ride?” He rasps. 

“On the bike,” you giggle. “Since I wanna buy one, I’d like a bit of a go round. Just to make up my mind for sure. Doesn’t have to be right now but... it would be nice.” 

He’s quiet. He takes another gulp. Sweat beads on his temple and his chest glistens with it, his chest hair damp and shining. He stands, lifting the toolbox with him. 

“Sure, another night,” he says. 

“Of course, like I said, whenever you want me, I’m yours,” you smile and do a sort of awkward curtsy move. He keeps a hold on the glass and angles to flick his sunglasses back down with just his pinky. 

“Thanks for helping,” he says. 

“No problem,” you realise he’s trying to escape. You’re okay with that, he said he’d take you for a spin. It’s progress. “If you need anything, as usual, I’m right next door.” 

“Sure,” he utters and takes another swig. 

“You can bring the glass by whenever,” you assure him. “I need a nice long shower after today. See ya, Bucky.” 

You spin and strut away. You smile to yourself, happy he can’t see the menace in your eyes. Fuck Angelique. You are going to get this one. 

👙

You sing along to the poppy melody. You’re pretty sure you have the words wrong. You don’t care too much. It’s just you and your tweezers, thinning out the strays around your brows. 

Tomorrow, you’ll see if Bucky’s up for a ride. Maybe on more than just his bike. You giggle and tilt the mirror, checking your arch. As you do, something catches your eye outside the frame. You flinch and look over to the moving squiggle on the ceiling. 

You scream as the millipede skitters onto the wall and you drop the mirror on your mattress. Your skin is crawling. You hate bugs. They give you that jittery feeling. Your stomach is rolling. 

You panic and run out of the room, screaming as you search for anything to defend yourself. You manage to muffle yourself to a disgusted ramble of ugh and ews. You open the lower cupboard and take out a frying pan. 

A knock makes you shriek again. You hurry to the thumping on the door. You unlock it and pull it inward, pan handle gripped tight. 

“Everything okay?” Bucky asks from the shadows, his hand on the door. “What’s going on?” 

You’re breathless as you get a hold of yourself. You hold the pan with two hands. You didn’t mean to lure him in but you’re not unhappy about it. Especially since you only have a baby tee and panties on. 

“Oh, Bucky! I’m so scared. There’s-- there’s-- a millipede in my bedroom. They really freak me out and—and---” 

“A bug? You’re screaming about a bug?” He snarls and moves his hand away from his hip. You wince, taken aback by the steel in his tone. 

You pout, “I’m sorry, I--” 

He sighs, “where is it?” 

Your lashes flick, “um, thank you, so much. I was about to break the wall.” You show the pan. 

“Mm,” he looks around as he steps inside. He grabs your sandal from beside the door. 

You turn and lead him away. You’re happy you chose a smaller pair of panties. You set the pan on the couch as you pass and point him into the bedroom. You step back as he passes. 

He stops in the doorway. You stay behind him. He takes a breath before he enters. He searches out the bug on the wall and marches over to the bed. You watch him from behind. He’s in a pair of black boxers and a tank top. 

He reaches up and smushes the millipede. You squeak in surprise at his quickness. Your gaze sticks on his bicep. He’s strong. You wonder what it’d be like to have his arm around your neck. You shiver. 

“Oh gosh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” you squee. 

“Got a tissue?” He asks. 

You hesitate then flit into the bathroom across the hall. You grab the roll of toilet paper and return to your room. You tear away a strip and hand it to him, setting the roll close by. He trades you for the sandal. He wipes the bug guts from the plaster. 

He faces you. You rock nervously, “I’m real sorry. I was scared.” You bite your lip and poke your fingertips together. “I... You look after me, Bucky, thank you.” 

“Mm, I heard screaming. Typically, it means trouble,” he shrugs and strides toward you.  

“I know, I... I’m not used to having neighbours so close.” 

“Yeah...” he utters. 

“Well, er,” you stand in the door as he comes close, “have a good night. I’ll keep it down.” 

He hums. You stare at him and turn your back to the door frame to let him through. You genuinely feel bad. He’s angry. 

“I don’t like to hear women screaming,” he growls and marches into the hall. “Come lock the door behind me.” 

“Okay,” you follow him guiltily. 

He stops as he pulls back the inner door. He looks at you and the tension eases in his jaw, “I’m glad you’re not hurt.” 

You nod and smile, “and I'm so glad I got a good guy like you watching over me.” 

His brows rise just slightly. He quickly looks away, “lock it.” 

He sweeps through the door and pulls it shut sharply. You stare a moment before you move to lock it. It’s only then you hear his footsteps on the porch; leaving. 

As stupid as you feel, you won again. He can’t hold out much longer. Especially since you forgot to put your vibrator away. 

[duvetchico]

Write me play minecraft w my baba karina 🥺👅😈🤤

chickens and bitches

summary you're just minding your own business until jimin forces you to play minecraft with her as soulmates ha ha ha ha

genre PLATONIC (die die die) / fluff / crack / friends to lovers (?)

pairing yu jimin x fem!reader

masterlist.

you were peacefully in bed, about to knock out, when jimin—your longtime friend and eternal thorn in your ass—texted you.

“get on minecraft. now.”

you replied, obviously, with “go touch grass whore”

and she hit you with a “u scared or sum? thought u were good at this game?”

…and that’s how your night derailed into a pixelated descent into hell.

-

“bro i don’t even remember how to open my inventory,” you mutter into your mic, respawning for the fourth time.

“press e. jesus christ,” jimin laughs, already in full diamond armor with a base that looks like it came out of a build battle on crack. she’s been playing nonstop for a week. you’ve been playing for six minutes.

“why are you built like a tryhard. you have a chandelier made of GLOWSTONE??”

“it’s called aesthetic, peasant.”

you shove your mic closer to your mouth and scream directly into it.

-

an hour in, you’re arguing over which biome to settle in.

“desert base,” you declare.

“hell no, you’re gonna die from husks. swamp or bust.”

“swamp is UGLY. literally moldcore.”

“moldcore is in.”

you glare at her stupid little pixel avatar and build a dirt penis on top of her house in protest.

she retaliates by filling your mine with lava and leaving a sign that says “skill issue.”

-

“bro if u kill my sheep again i will come to your house irl and unplug your router.”

“you named it jimin’s mom. it had to die.”

“say sike rn.”

-

at one point she logs off for five minutes and you take this golden opportunity to fill her house with chickens.

she logs back in, freezes, and you hear her mic crackle.

“…y/n.”

“hm?”

“i have 94 chickens in my kitchen.”

“they’re friends.”

“i hate you so much it physically hurts.”

“love u too bbg.”

-

2:53am.

you both somehow end up mining side by side like old married bitches.

you’ve been silent for twenty minutes—just chilling, occasionally shrieking when a bat flies by. jimin’s humming to herself. you feel weirdly… peaceful.

“why do u always hum that one song?” you ask, yawning.

“dunno. it reminds me of u.”

“…cringe.”

“shut up.”

“…u still have chickens in your kitchen btw.”

“y/n I SWEAR TO GOD—”

-

3:20am.

you die in lava.

again.

you slam your desk. “THIS GAME IS BULLSHIT I WAS SHIFTING.”

“did u panic and hit spacebar.”

“…maybe.”

“bozo.”

you glare at your screen. “why are u so good at this. are u secretly a twelve-year-old boy.”

jimin giggles, and you can literally hear her smiling through her mic.

“nah,” she says, soft this time. “i just like playing with you.”

your heart stutters.

you stare at her pixel character.

a dumb little steve with a flower crown.

you swallow. “you’re gross.”

“you’re cute.”

“BITCH—”

-

4:00am.

you’re both half-delirious and building a giant heart out of red wool for no reason.

“why are we doing this,” you ask, stacking blocks wrong and immediately breaking them.

“team bonding.”

“we’re not a team.”

“we’re soulmates.”

you freeze. blink. almost fall off the ledge.

“what?”

“IN THE GAME. like. platonic building soulmates,” jimin says fast, tripping over her words.

you don’t answer.

she doesn’t either.

you both keep building.

-

4:27am.

you’re sitting on a hill watching the minecraft sunrise, side by side. jimin hasn’t said a word in a while.

you open your mic.

“…hey.”

“hm?”

“do you actually think we’re soulmates?”

silence.

then jimin says, barely a whisper “i don’t know. maybe. i just know that whenever you’re on, the game’s more fun.”

your throat gets all tight. you sniff.

“you’re so fucking corny bro.”

“you love it.”

“…yeah. i kinda do.”

-

5:01am.

your minecraft avatars are standing on top of the red wool heart.

you type in the chat:

“bestie u tryna kiss rn or what”

jimin types back:

“irl or in minecraft”

“yes”

“get in the boat”

she places a boat.

you both sit in it.

neither of you say anything.

but both of you are smiling like idiots in real