#prompt: discreet private take | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

scoutofmymind · 5 months ago

Note

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #I need to learn when to stop yapping

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tabiito · 4 months ago

Text

DEBÍ TIRAR MÁS FOTOS II — hard launching with the blue lock boys after a rumour includes: isagi, barou and nagi read part 1 note: chat it's actually oliver who's the close source for barou

Shouei Barou, who's offended that he's linked with anyone other than you

You can hear Barou's disgruntled "The fuck?", as you're towelling yourself dry in the bathroom. Since there are a million things on God's green Earth that could elicit such a reaction from your neurotic boyfriend (including the state of the bathroom right now, with your various cosmetic products strewn about the place), you don't pay him much mind and go about your merry business.

That is, until you barely have half a second to cover yourself when he dramatically throws the door open and shoves his phone in your face. Shrieking, you attempt to push him out, but thanks to him being built like a brick wall, he doesn't budge.

"Have you seen this drivel?", he seethes, as you sigh, grabbing his phone and scanning the headline that was beginning to catch the eyes of the internet. Your lips curl upward, amused at how you'd and the entire team had been conveniently cropped out of the photo, focusing only on Barou and the lovely girl you'd met while picking him up from work.

"And?", you prompt, taking this less seriously than he is. "How could they even think of launching me with someone other than you?", he rages, feeling personally wronged as though they'd posted him with Isagi rather than a model was very clearly taken. You do a double-take at his words, feeling a soft smile creep up your face at his words, contrasting it with his furious expression.

The decision to keep your relationship private hadn't been one you had consciously taken; the nature of your public oriented careers had made the both of you discreet individuals when it came to your private lives. Perhaps you had done too good of a job sneaking around, since Barou, who solely alternates between training, matches, and his apartment caught a rumour in the rare time he'd been dragged along for a quick breakfast by the staff.

Barou fumes on about how you were the only person worth his "royal time" and other schizophrenic ramblings about the monarchy you'd wish he leaves on the pitch sometimes. The paws of his grubby agent are all over this; the man was constantly begging Barou to develop a more "family friendly" and "relatable" image in the name of PR. Glancing at your softened expression, Barou can't help the wicked smirk that crosses his face as he fishes his phone out of your hands.

If his agent wanted PR, he'll give it to him.

Yoichi Isagi, who can't help but exhibit strategic brilliance both on and off the field

Isagi's contract negotiations with BM were a little tense this time around. Sure, he was indebted to the club that had cultivated him since he was a young prodigy fresh out of Blue Lock, but in his prime, the German squad, now with Noel just as a coach couldn't quite match his style of play to the level he liked. So naturally, when the superstars of Madrid, where football legends are born, came calling, everyone expected him to instantly terminate his commitment and take the first flight to Spain.

Or so they thought. What they did not expect though, is for Isagi to hesitate, even slightly. Ever improving, adapting, constantly in search of more opportunities Isagi, for the first time, exhibited reluctance in his footballing career.

You thought it was absurd, though you certainly couldn't tell the man who was not his usual slur-shouting self, and instead emulating a rather tame house cat as he propped his laptop on his knees, head in your lap reviewing footage from his last match.

You tsk, pointing at the clear moment where he'd allowed Barcha to break through their defence.

"That should've been a clear red. Too bad the ref's been tapped since, like, forever," you shrugged, clicking your tongue. Isagi's eyes light up as you speak nodding along excitedly.

"Right? And I thought I was the only one! This new UEFA rule is so fuckin' stupid though, I swear that jackass was about to book me for arguing," he grouses, and you can't help the giggle that escapes your lips at the litany of profanity that seems to lace itself into Isagi's vocabulary whenever he talks about football.

"They completely narrowed the centre of the field for you guys. Forced you to pass wide and Schneider didn't even attempt to move forward. He could've completely shifted the midfield around," you add, and you notice Isagi furiously typing your words down.

As the child of a footballing icon, the sport's been in your blood since the very start. Though it wasn't in your fate to pursue it, you've always had a keen eye and an opinion that wasn't hampered by the yes-man group psychosis that inhabited a locker room, so it was only natural that Isagi would seek you out the first time you critiqued his trivela during training.

"Why are you typing all of this down?", you groan, tugging at his hair ever so slightly so he hisses in pain. "You won't need this for the next season," you grumble, and he snaps the laptop shut, flipping over so that he's looking at you with those stupidly large blue eyes of his.

You squint back down at him, sighing. "You need to sign that Madrid contract already. This is what you've been preparing for all your life," you say softly, as his fingers find yours, interlinking.

He grimaces, and you can see him internally tussling with his thoughts. His face has always had subtitles. "Yeah, but there's my whole life in Münich: you, the guys — "

You can't help but roll your eyes at his words, but also appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. "Please. You didn't bat an eyelid running into a mental facility for an unspecified amount of time without telling your parents to improve your game in Japan. I'm sure a two-hour flight distance is nothing for you."

He opens his mouth, but you interrupt him quickly.

"And don't tell me all of a sudden that you've developed an emotional attachment to Kaiser."

He slowly shuts it and you smirk in response.

"I'm going to be there with you every step of the way," you promise, and he simply flops back into your lap, inhaling your familiar fabric softener. "You've outgrown us now. You're meant for bigger things, Yoichi," you prod, and when he looks back up at you, you can see that he's made his decision.

Fast forward to the Champion's League final. You've put aside your petty irritation at the fake news an Instagram model decided to spread a day prior to the match by jumping on the clout bandwagon to finally make an actual appearance at one of Isagi's matches, much to the annoyance of your father.

You're seated on the opposite ends of where you usually sit, proudly sporting white and purple that clashes with the red and black that sneers at you from the BM stands, screaming Isagi's name til you go hoarse. You'd gotten some weird looks from those who knew of you, but you completely lost track as Madrid cooked Münich in a thrilling 90 minute rollercoaster. With Isagi proudly sporting the heavy champion's gold medal around his neck, you can't help yourself as he motions to you to join him on the field. Skipping over the barriers, he catches you in his arms, laughing ecstatically for thousands to see as confetti showers from above.

He wouldn't have made this move if it wasn't without your go-ahead, so he rightfully slides the medal of his neck, sliding it on you as you gape at him in awe. Snapping a quick picture, he posts his true appreciation for you much later into the night, when the music and crowd dies down and it's just him and his thoughts, laying any useless rumours to rest.

Nagi Seishiro, who's down a little too bad

Nagi's baffled at how you can sound so chirpy despite a 9-hour time difference over FaceTime. Along with the mechanics of Azir, your affinity for early mornings remains one of the great mysteries of the universe for Nagi.

As you ramble on about your day, along with your first professional game that you played as a part of Worlds qualifiers, Nagi finds himself being slowly lulled off to sleep. You couldn't possibly blame him, right? His bed was so inviting, and it was 1AM in London after all.

"Hey! You better be listening to me!", you protest, and Nagi's eyes flutter open, losing the warm embrace of sleep he was so desperately chasing.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, hmm I was," he sighs, rolling over in his bed. Somehow it was taking him much longer to fall asleep in an empty room.

"Really? What was the last thing I said?"

"Er. Something about trying a matcha latte," he mumbles, knowing he's skipped larger portions of the conversation. You, however, seem to have a worse short-term memory than him as you proceed to repeat the entire incident back to him. He doesn't particularly mind, considering the calming influence your voice has on him.

Once again, he's just about to fall into dreamland when you snap him back to reality.

"Your manager called me by the way. I haven't returned her call. Do you have any idea why?", you ask, and he hums. He does remember something she was ranting to him about during today's PR briefings.

"Uhh, I think it was about me being shipped with someone," he says, trying to recall the name. You blanche on camera, your eyes widening as he names some generically popular streamer who everyone in the world watches, but apparently Nagi watched with a special interest.

"What the fuck? How come they confused one of my lives with somebody else's?", you groan, as you scrolled through the hashtag that had already begun shipping Nagi and the other streamer together.

"Does it bother you?", Nagi asks simply, propping the camera up since he realises that he's not going to be in for much sleep tonight when you start reading out the comments that have flooded gossip pages across the net.

You pause mid-rant, choosing a minute to think. The first time you and Nagi had started talking, it was clear that this was going to be a private relationship. You were already an overworked E-sports player, and Nagi, a global footballing phenomenon, had initially taken to your streams to figure out some decent plays. The last thing you needed was the internet on your ass.

But this rumour in particular though, hit a little too close to home. You'd made it two years in without an inkling of suspicion for the both of you (even though you chose him in FIFA a little too much, and he'd accidentally made a half-body cameo in one of your streams when he walked in and picked up your cat), and at this point you'd rather have him linked to you than some streamer, who was, in reality in a very loving relationship.

"I guess. It's not like we can do anything without PR's approval, though," you say exasperatedly, and Nagi doesn't like the way your chirpy tone drops to a more flat and dull one.

"Ah, this is such a hassle. Hold on."

a/n tbh I'm not happy with how any of these turned out but something's better than nothing 😜😜😜

#[ tracklisted ]#bllk #blue lock #blue lock fluff #blue lock x you #blue lock x reader #blue lock x y/n #blue lock x gender neutral reader #isagi yoichi #nagi seishiro #barou shoei x reader #barou shouei #yoichi isagi x reader #nagi x you #nagi x reader #nagi smau #blue lock smau #barou x reader #nagi blue lock

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luiluvr · 2 months ago

Note

I have a little fluffy thought either for a fic (if your requests are open) or a bot, you choose! Being Luigi's first ever girlfriend!! I imagine meeting him at a robotics competition in his last year of highschool, your school being there too. And you just clicked instantly. But both misread that click for friendship instead of more. You kept in contact over the year, and don't see each other again until second year of university when you switch from the one you were attending to Penn. And now they both are like oh!that click was something else!

you are in love || luigi mangione

A/N: i love this prompt sm, i know you guys are awaiting a couple different fics i've been talking about, but this one has me in such a chokehold (btw it’s literally 3 am for me i am DYING but i persisted to finish this fic or else i wouldn’t be able to sleep peacefully. 😈)

WARNINGS: none, fluff, f!reader, mostly proofread?

SUMMARY: You met Luigi back in 2015 during a robotics competition and hit it off. However, what could've been was overlooked. You kept in contact, but it wasn't as often as either of you would've preferred — not until you transferred to UPenn in your sophomore year and found Luigi again. It was a fun reunion, you spoke about your first meeting and soon both came to realize: it was love. you are in love.

WC: 3.3k

Circa 2016. You saw him from across the room, it was a big robotics competition in Pennsylvania, you were nerve-fueled and simultaneously excited for this day. That was until you saw your competition was Luigi Mangione, a boy you had only heard about from the people on your robotics team, they competed with Gilman the year before, and boy the stories of how competitive, (while staying respectful,) kind and intelligent he was – he is – it was intriguing. You wanted to meet him, but you felt out of place almost. Such a bright person while also knowing how to use it; especially in this area… Perfect mix of looks and brains, it didn’t help he came from a private school – with that knowledge you just knew you were done for before it even began.

“Why are you staring at Mangione?” Your teammate, not friend material quite yet. A sigh leaves your lips, you turn your attention to Erin. “I’m not staring, I’m observing the competition, Erin.” Your voice lingers with a slight attitude, he chuckled, “Pretty sure that’s what staring is.” “No, not generally,” you replied.

“He’s a looker.” Erin grins suggestively, you hit him in the side with your elbow, brows furrowed. “Do not go there.”

“Why? You got a crush on him?”

“Absolutely not, he is the enemy today.”

Erin tosses his hands up defensively, a stupid smile on his face. “Just know he’s been observing you too.” With that, and not answering your “what?!” Erin takes his leave, quickly. Very quickly. You look at your beat-up sneakers and blink, taking in those words. He’s been observing you too, was he? Or was Erin being a total prick? Usually, you would know when someone’s staring at you, was Luigi just that discreet? Probably. A perfect kid like that, no surprise.

Twenty minutes later you were busy with your team’s robot and making sure it was ready for the face-off. It was crucial that everything was just right and worked properly because the smallest mishap could cost you everything. “What’s the voltage on it?” A voice asked from behind you, as you were wiping the side of the robot, you found Luigi standing in the corner of your gaze.

Trying to stay put together, with the curly-haired brunette watching your task, you answered. “About 12, anything higher would’ve fried it.”

“Couldn’t have made it bigger?”

“That would take away from the specialty of Pochacco.” You smile cheekily, knowing you had snuck the name of the Sanrio character last minute for the robot. It had a white-light blue tint to the coloring. Made sense. “Pochacco?” He laughed, he had such a pretty smile. That laugh was even better, so gentle to the ears and tender to your heart.

“Yes, Pochacco.” You say, standing and placing your hands on your hips. “What’s that, a cartoon character?” Luigi responds.

“Sanrio.”

“Ah, so like Hello Kitty?”

“Precisely.”

He gazes at the robot for a moment and looks back to you, “Got to say I’m impressed with the modeling here.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Very much so, you seemed to have hidden the wires better than other teams, usually exposure of that stuff takes away points of display, I suppose.”

“This is my first year participating. I didn’t want my robot looking goofy despite my teammate’s extra five cents.” He pauses, letting your words sink into his brain, “First year participating, huh? So, did you code and engineer prior to this or...?”

You shake your head, it sounded unrealistic, “This is my first year doing any of it. I’ve always been so intrigued by robotics, computer sciences in general, and although I suck at like the primary subjects I figured, why not?”

Luigi listened to you intently, smiling the entire time. He soaked in and completely enjoyed listening to you talk, “That’s fascinating. Most of the other students doing this have been trained since middle school — I, myself included.” He began rambling on about his team’s robot, using a lot of terms you weren’t fully familiar with yet, and honestly, it sounded really complicated compared to little Pochacco. You nod and smile as though you’re smart enough to understand everything Luigi was saying, even though it felt like his big, nerdy language was slowly frying your brain.

“Interesting.” Was all you could muster up as he chatted, although it felt so brief – in reality you had been talking for over thirty minutes because now the teachers were rounding everyone up back to their teams, and unfortunately, now Luigi had left your side.

Even though your team placed a solid 4th, you know you did as well as you could – for Luigi now, his team was struggling. You could sense his stress from across the room, seeing as he wasn’t the one handling the robot, he fidgeted with his hands anxiously and shot small glares at the other boy on his team who was using the remote control.

When the competition was over and finalized, neither your team nor Luigi’s made it to the big, stupendous finals – you walked towards each other once more and firmly shook hands, respectively. “Good effort, Mangione.” You state as his hand swallows yours. “To you too. Are you doing anything else after?” You shake your head in response and shrug. “Doubtful, sometimes we get pizza after our meets and stuff but normally I just go home. I’m not big on pizza.”

“Not big on pizza, huh? That’s a first.”

“Ate it too much growin’ up,” you say quietly, adjusting the sleeve of your sweater. Luigi nods, he rubs the back of his neck and gazes over you, “suppose that’s fair. I think we’re going to uh, Dylan’s family’s restaurant.” He paused, clearly nervous about his question, “Would you come with me?” He flashes a gentle, welcoming smile. “If you don’t want you, you don’t have to, I understand – one-hundred percent, I-” you pondered it as he stumbled over his words.

“I don’t have my wallet with me.” You chuckled; and he waves it off. “Nonsense, I’ll pay for you. I mean our coach usually pays – and Dylan gets a discount since… But no – I’ll take care of you – I mean, the bill. Don’t worry.” He was cute, the way he butchered his chance of speaking to you, it only made him that much more endearing. You gently brush a bother lock of hair behind your ear and adjust your posture as you finally give in and nod. “Okay, but I’ll pay you back.” He denies the offer, but you insist on it.

For almost three years.

Erin did mention during the last robotics competition that Luigi had asked for you, where you were and why you were no longer on the team. He longed to see you again, to chat, to see that face he had once gazed at and found himself imagining new things he never really thought of prior. Love and a life that he could’ve gotten used to.

Luigi knew it wasn’t the time, he saw you once, then that was it. He couldn’t just message you and confess how he felt when he was seventeen – because surely you had moved on in life to bigger and better things. The girl he imagined the rest of his life with at a robotics competition, in love, destined to be betrothed to another man – or lady. He would never know. Perhaps it was best that he stuck to the occasional “hey, how are things?” and move along. The odds of meeting up with each other due to his busy schedule and bodily problems, it would be a little difficult, considering he knew you were still residing in Maryland when college season rolled around for the two of you. He just couldn’t fathom that – not having you, he never even had a girlfriend before, so it’s not like he knew the feeling of longing for a girl who was probably on another path, who could care less what he felt then – and what he still felt today.

You and Luigi had spoken often after the robotics competition, exchanged numbers and checked in on one another – not as much as either of you wished. Truthfully, sitting in that booth when the two of you were just about seventeen, (or eighteen) — there was something in the air you could never quite pinpoint. You felt oddly drawn to the male, was it those beautiful hazel eyes, or his genuine, humble personality? The answer was still unsolved, but you carried the thoughts with you for the time following. Whatever God used to make that boy really stuck on you, as you wondered about him every day, when you didn’t talk to him or see him for a long time. You never signed up for the robotics team during second semester of senior year – ditched for AP and concurrent classes in hopes of having the perfect application to any college around your home state.

When you transferred from a local college in Maryland to UPenn – a very fascinating ivy league university in Pennsylvania, you weren’t one to envision yourself going to a big, fancy college like UPenn, Stanford, or any of the other ivy leagues in America. Although, studying abroad would’ve been interesting.

Now, here you were, walking into the campus as some guide assisted you toward the dorms, because you had no clue where the hell anything was in this place. There was a map – sure, but it was more confusing. Whilst walking, you just happened to glance up at some laughter of two boys trailing in front of you and the guide. You recognized the slightly taller one almost immediately; those tight dark curls, those disgusting, long lashes, and cheeky smile. He was still somewhat lanky, but it was obvious he grew a few more inches, tanned, and maybe started working out. Opposed the shorter, skinny nerd you saw at the robotics face-off in 2016.

Stopping in your tracks, you tilted your head as he was about to pass by and you awkwardly stepped in front of him and when he realized who you were, it was like an angel kissed life back into him with the way his eyes lit up and twinkled in the midday sun. “Luigi?” You question, he nods, almost mute at the shock that you were here, in the flesh, right in front of him – looking as gorgeous as ever honestly. “Holy shit, what’re you doing here?” He smiles, without hesitation, bringing you into his tight, warm embrace. You wrap your arms around his thicker-growing waist, your hair barely meeting his chest. Gosh, you had to rub your face clear of the pink tint that grew in your cheeks.

“H-how are you?” You smile nervously.

“Good – I’m good…” he says quietly. “How about you? I didn’t know you went here..”

“I just transferred actually – but I’m doing well, thank you.” You replied, he rubs the back of his neck, the same way he used to. You can’t help but let your smile grow a little more, you couldn’t deny the way your heart flooded with happiness – because all of those nights spent wondering what happened to him and where he was now had haunted you. Here he was though, not moved too far away, somewhere someone with his brains would be expected to attend college.

With your newfound – old friend here, you kindly dismissed the tour to be able to hang out with him, of course the girl understood and you were enthralled to spend time with the boy you never thought you’d see face-to-face again. Luigi helped you find your dorm, which *coincidentally* he also was staying in, unfortunately though, he did mention he was planning on trying to join a fraternity, so him as a neighbor might not be for long.

You both spent extra time together, he helped you settle into your dorm, unpack and you both caught up. Discussing how life’s treated you so far, what you’re up to education wise — so on and so forth. It was surreal, seeing him, knowing he was next door now.

For him he knew he had a chance again, when questioned about your love life, you only chuckled. Luigi raised a brow as he helped you disassemble the moving boxes and gently slide them underneath your bed for another time’s use. “I’m not seeing anyone, I guess I’ve just been too busy trying to figure out other stuff I forgot about that part of life. Not really looking either.” You say after a minute.

He nods understandingly, pouting his lips as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Me either. No girlfriend or exes.” He says, stretching just enough. His shirt rides up his hip a bit and he exhales.

“So no man has caught you yet?”

“No.”

“Too bad…” He murmurs, smiling softly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You cross your arms, leaning back on the wall across from your bed where he sat. “Well… You’re very pretty, obviously you’re smart because you were admitted into an ivy league university, plus you’re just nice from what I know.”

Was he hitting on you right now?

“I’m flattered.” You say quietly, eyeing him a little. “I could say the same thing about you though.” He blushes a little, shrugging.

“Just haven’t found the right one.” He stated nonchalantly.

“Neither have I.”

Imagine that. Being Luigi’s first girlfriend ever, getting to experience him as a human romantically all to yourself. You couldn’t — okay you could imagine it. Even if it was wrong. The two of you sat and chatted even longer, ordering some DoorDash and staying in. Furthermore, just getting to know each other, you never really spent a lot of time asking about the other’s favorite things, hobbies and interests so now was the time. Now — you could finally focus on one another.

Luigi was one in a billion. The sweetest and most overall perfect man ever created. You had no idea how someone could even be this caring and talented. He dreamed of going to Hawaii, saw himself living there for his life, the culture, the sights, you could tell that it meant a lot to him.

You hoped life would always be good to him.

For Luigi, having you back in his life wasn’t enough. He needed you, he wanted you, he didn’t even realize it but you were the person he wished to wake up next to every day for the rest of his life. Maybe he was jumping into this too fast but he envisioned himself putting a ring on your finger as he fell asleep, now that you were here — he might have a chance at that fantasy he pondered for five years.

He was grown up a bit more now, he wasn’t “out of his mind” anymore. He felt the thump in his chest, and lying here now, in the dead of night — with you as a dorm neighbor. The possibilities. He could just text you and see you in the hallway, even if it was wrong. He could ask you to go out and do something off campus with him, even if it meant stringing out his feelings just so you were comfortable and not feeling pressured or rushed to a relationship with him.

Weirdly enough, you were up late too thinking about him. Normally you would pass out the second your head hit the pillows but now it just felt — odd. Like a force was pulling you from slumber just to remind you of the male next door.

Quietly you got up, without disturbing your new roommate, your first impression wasn’t the greatest of bringing a random guy into the dorm and making a lot of noise by chatting almost the remainder of the day.

You shot a text to Lu, “Are u awake?” and he very quickly responded.

“Yea, I can’t sleep lol.”

“Neither can I, do you want to go downstairs or something?”

“Sounds nice.”

With that you both crept out into the hallway, and begun chatting again, you walked down the dorm’s stairs, slowly and savoring each second with the other. It wasn’t until Luigi halted and looked at you, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “When we met each other, you know — I always felt like there was something more between us. Am I crazy?”

You paused and stared back at him awkwardly, you knew what he meant though. You were fully aware of how strong that tension was but both of you were so unaware. “We clicked.”

“Exactly.” He says. “Like, back then I felt drawn to you, maybe it was a crush but also… I just think it was…”

“Something else?”

“Yeah.. Somethin’ else.”

“Don’t worry, me too. That’s how I’ve felt.”

“I’ve been nervous to express that to you, after the competition I really wanted to reach out and hang with you more. Every day. All the time. I really just wanted you. But I kept pushing it off more and more until it was really late and it wouldn’t mean anything anymore.”

You felt a pang in your chest at that, you tilt your head and smile weakly, reaching to place a hand on his shoulder. “I know. I lived that exact same experience as well. I guess that ‘click’ was more than just us getting along.”

“I think so.” He smiled.

A small silence hung over the two of you, he titled his head to look at you better in the dim-lit stairwell and even with his messed up hair it’s the best he’s ever looked. “Will you let me be your boyfriend?” He blurts out, obviously spur of the moment, and his eyes read that he panicked internally after asking that.

Will you let me be your boyfriend?

The way he worded it, not will you be my girlfriend, or would you be my girlfriend, but will you let him be your boyfriend.

That sold you out, you nod and smile. He grins, his dimples flashing his pretty teeth and handsome complexion. Your heart flutters and you can’t help but gaze at him with all the love your body can offer. “May I kiss you?” He asked politely, itching just to hold you.

“Absolutely.” You said, and he quickly — but gently cups your jaw and tilts it up just enough to press his soft, plump lips against your own. You melt into him, tip toeing on your old Converse to wrap your arms around his neck while his arms envelop your waist.

The kiss lasted longer than maybe it should have — but it was tender and everything you ever dreamed it would be. Something for the books, something to document eternally because Luigi Mangione would be the boy you would never forget.

And he was so proud to call you his, he loved taking you out, showing you off. You were his first girlfriend and overall, his first love and vice versa. He would do anything for you, anything. He took you shopping even when you weren’t feeling up to it, because you didn’t want to spend extra money on things that weren’t necessary to everyday life — but secretly he’d buy things you were looking at and saying you liked throughout trips and then surprise you with them.

He’d take you out to eat at least once or twice a week, but always eat breakfast, lunch and dinner with you on campus any other time. He told all his friends about you, and they were astounded at how he had evolved since you came back into the picture.

He was so happy — and you were too. He loved having dates with you, whether it was a restaurant, movies, a long walk at the park during sunset or just laying in bed together rambling for hours and annoying your roommates; he couldn’t think of anything better to do.

He brushes your hair behind your ear as you lie beside him, smiling so sweetly as you always had. “You’re so beautiful.” He whispers.

“You’re so handsome.”

“Yeah, but you’re so perfect.” He snickers.

“Well, you are in love.”

“Damn right.”

#luiluvr #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi fanfiction #luigi mangione #luigi x reader #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione x yn #luigi thoughts #request

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hannie-dul-set · 2 years ago

Text

HOME FOR THE BITCHLESS [8].

SYNOPSIS. wherein your friend offers a room for you to crash in while your dorm is being renovated, but fails to mention that your new housemates don’t know how to talk to women (oh, and they also have an ongoing bet about you, too).

PAIRINGS. choi soobin, choi beomgyu, lee heeseung, park jongseong, sim jaeyun, park sunghoon x female! reader. GENRE. housemates! au, rom-com, sitcom, reverse harem time baby. WARNINGS. swearing, vomit, heeseung is sick, tormenting said sick man, sex jokes, and loser hee backstory reveal. WORD COUNT. 3.8k.

NOTE. merry christmas. my gift for u all is the heeseung chapter. let's pretend that it's still summer for the sake of the fic yes thank u hope u enjoy.

MASTERLIST | NEXT >

CHAPTER 8 — hot, drenched, and sweaty.

“I THINK HEESEUNG IS IN A FIGHT CLUB.” That unprompted statement catches the interest of all the four boys currently in the living room. Soobin looks up from his half-finished crocheted bonnet, Jake and Jay pause their game of scrabble, and Sunghoon drops a rubik’s cube on your face because you gallantly decided to use his lap as a pillow on the lounge sofa.

“Oh god, I’m— I’m sorry,” he sputters out an apology. You take this as a sign to stop invading his space. “What do you mean though? Fight club? Heeseung?”

“Listen.”

You spring up from your position, sitting with a very determined look on your face which simply prompts their attention further. “Heeseung leaves the house at exactly 10 p.m. every Saturday night and comes back at like two in the morning. I asked him about is once, and all he said is that he’s doing ‘business,’ whatever the fuck that means. It’s suspicious as hell.”

The only reason why you were up at 2 a.m. to catch him in the act in the first place is because one time, you challenged Beomgyu and Jake to a no-sleeping contest and those two are the most gullible and have the most money from the lot. Little did those suckers know that you slept for fifteen hours prior to challenging them. They dozed off at the thirty six hour mark while you were still awake enough to catch Heeseung sneaking into the house at the devil’s hour.

After that, you had more money in your bank account, and a new curiosity that’s begging to be satisfied.

“I think he’s in an underground fighting club,” you declare. “There’s no other reason.”

“No, no,” Jay contends. “It might be something else. He could be a stripper.”

A silent moment of consideration.

Then you all release a unified, “Nah.”

“Maybe it’s private,” says Sungoon. “What—whatever it is, it could be none of our business.”

He has a point, but you’re nosy and bored. So are Jake and Jay because turns out, today’s a Saturday, and you have nothing to do, and you’re acquitted from any charges of instigating things because it’s Jay who announces, “Should we follow him?”

You grin. Sunghoon doesn’t approve of your expression. “We should follow him.”

“I’ll keep a lookout.”

“Text us when he’s about to leave.”

“You got it.”

Thus starts your mission of finding out whether Heeseung is secretly an underground fighter or a stripper. Sunghoon refused to be a part of it, but Soobin wasn’t strong enough to deny your puppy dog eyes, so it’s you, him, Jake, and Jay who might be charged for stalking and invasion of privacy because the moment you get a signal from Jake that “the target is out of the house, over,” the four of you, willingly or otherwise, start to tail him.

It’s disconcertingly easy to follow Heeseung without him noticing the four not so discreet people lagging behind him. When he takes off on a bus, you quickly hail a taxi for the four of you to jump inside of and continue the trail.

“I think—I think we should head back,” says Soobin, squeezing his arms against his torso because there are three of you cramped in the backseat. “The sky is glum. I think it’s gonna rain.”

“The sky is glum because it’s the fucking night. Mr. Sun has died. Wait, he just got off the bus. Let’s go, let’s go before we lose him!”

As you stalk down the sidewalk, you can’t help but feel a sense of deja vu because you swear you’ve crossed this same path before. You’ve been here before. You’re sure of it, and it’s not just because this area is just around your university, of which you haven’t stepped foot on since the beginning of summer and since living with Jake and his friends.

“Hey, he’s over there, he’s going to that cafe.”

Your deja vu is answered when the familiar facade of The Lounge shows up right before you. Heeseung enters the building. Sunghoon knew all along, that fucking rat. That’s why was so against this plot, that’s why he refused to tag along with you. “I’m going in,” says Jay. You postpone your revenge plan against Sunghoon for later and quickly follow behind Jay into the cafe. Once you enter however, it starts pouring.

The clear glass windows of the place get stained by an assault of raindrops. Crap. None of you brought an umbrella. “I knew it was going to rain…” Soobin laments, and you pat circles against his back to apologize for doubting him, further telling him that he has a knack for weather prediction and if he’s considering switching career paths.

“What now?” Jake asks.

“We can wait for the rain to stop or call Sunghoon to pick us up and bring us umbrellas,” you tell them. “For now, let’s find out what the fuck Lee Heeseung is up to here. This wasn’t part of any of our calculations.” The calculations being either violence or promiscuity. You didn’t make a lot of calculations.

The problem is, Heeseung is nowhere to be found. You end up ordering some drinks and food and decide to settle in a booth at the corner of the place so that you guys can have a full and complete view of the cafe’s entire interior, yet you still can’t find him, so you end up reminiscing the time Sunghoon dumped your lemonade on you which catapulted your hobby of messing with these guys because they become so nervous around you it’s funny.

“Did we enter the wrong building? Did he catch us tailing him and left through the back door?!”

You doubt Jake’s presumptions, and you’re correct to doubt him because right at that moment, Heeseung finally shows his stupid fucking face.

Not only does he show his stupid fucking face— he shows his stupid fucking face on the mini stage in the other corner of the cafe with a freaking guitar. What? So he’s not an underground fighter? Heeseung leans into the mic and a singular “ah,” resounds from the speakers mounted on the walls, muting down the muffled sound of the rain outside in that single instant.

When Heeseung starts to play the instrument followed by the sound of his voice, the rain is forgotten entirely.

This is a surprise. This is unexpected.

“This is disappointing,” says Jay, and you snap your head at him with eyes wide in alarm and disbelief because what does he mean disappointing? Disappointing where? You’ve been living with an angel all this time and you didn’t know?

“Yeah, it’d be cooler if he was in a fight club,” Jake adds, as if their friend isn’t putting the Billboard’s Hot 100 to shame right now. What kind of bullshit are they saying?

“Did you guys know he could sing like that?”

The three look at you, even Soobin, and respond with a yes, a nod, a hum. Your mouth gapes. But you don’t get why you’re surprised when these guys have known each other for years prior to you barging in unannounced— so, of course they know, of course you don’t, and in the midst of all this, your thoughts are interrupted by the sharp screech from the speakers, because Heeseung has stopped singing, and is instead now looking at your table, looking more alarmed than you.

You’re pretty sure your eyes met before he decided to bolt out of the cafe.

“Oh, he’s getting off stage. Maybe he’s going to greet u— why is he skipping our table? Why is he running outside? Hyung, wait!”

None of you end up chasing after him because it’s still pouring outside, and you can already predict what the aftermath of this is going to be. Thus concludes your mission of finding out whether or not Heeseung is secretly an underground fighter or a stripper, with the answer amounting to neither because Heeseung is a performer during The Lounge’s open mic nights, and you don’t get why he’s been acting so secretive about it all this time.

Heeseung wakes up feeling like shit. And not the regular kind of shit. He feels like Satan just chewed him up, only to spit him back out— slobber and the inferno’s of hell included because he’s sweating through his shirt, his blanket feels like a prison, but if he kicks it of, he gets attacked by cold flashes, so he’s in a sticky and uncomfortable limbo between overheating and freezing to fucking death.

His throat is dry. The only thing that escapes his throat is a guttural and inhuman rasp. He wouldn’t be this sick if he didn’t run out in the rain last night.

Rather, he wouldn’t have ran out if you weren’t there last night.

Heeseung rolls to his side with a groan of pain and anguish, muffled against the pillow as a different kind of fevered heat washes over his face. Seriously. Why the fuck were you there last night? He could give less than two shits if his roommates find out that he sings Taylor Swift every weekend at The Lounge, but you— you’re a different story. Because he knows you’re gonna use this information against him somehow, just like how you like to fuck around with his friends.

Too much. Heeseung has always thought you were a bit too much for him. The time you chased Beomgyu around the house in the dress(?) Jay made is the only evidence he needs to affirm that.

Then again, maybe he shouldn’t have bolted out like that immediately after meeting your eyes. You already suspect that you gross him out (which, by the way, couldn’t be more wrong) for always running away from the threat of skin-to-skin contact with you. Why was it raining when it’s still summer, anyway? It’s like that night was a curse made especially for him.

He curls up further into a ball, hoping you just forget about it all and don’t question him about it.

Yet the very opposite happens because what interrupts his spiraling thoughts is the sound of your voice— already threatening a wave of torment.

“Oh, god. You’re in a worse state than I thought.”

Heeseung regrets springing up from his bed because his head immediately gets slammed by the recoil of a headache. “Why...why are you here?” he barely scratches out. You’re by the doorframe, arms crossed and eyes laced with pity. He didn’t even hear the door opening.

“Jake told me about your illness,” you say, walking over to the side of his bed and Heeseung flinches back the moment you set yourself down on the mattress. “He said you have a chronic case of bitchless syndrome.

He looks at you. Your face is dead serious. Heeseung feels a drop of sweat trickling down his neck, then you break into that devious smile of yours and laugh out a grin.

“Kidding. Jake would never say that. He told me you were sick and needed someone to nurse you up, so here I am.”

Holy shit. Heeseung lets out a breath, nearly teetering off his bed to maintain a comfortable enough distance from your overwhelming presence. “Why—” some throat phlegm cuts him off. He lets out a violent cough before reclaiming his voice. “Why you? I—I mean, why did Jake ask you?”

“Ouch?” you remark. “No one else is around. Jake’s out hiking, apparently. Sunghoon’s covering someone’s shift. Beomgyu’s obviously still at his parents. Jay says he’s out on a mission, and Soobin left the house with a giant backpack. I was too afraid to ask. Anyway, I know my very physical presence disgusts you, but deal with it for now, you goober. You look like hell.”

“That’s— that’s not—” You take this opportunity to pull his sweaty blanket off in one swift movement. “That’s not it! You don’t— don’t disgust me, I’m just— you know—”

“I know, I just wanted to fuck with you.”

You’re grinning. You haphazardly fold the sheet before throwing it down to the foot of the bed, sitting over it. Heeseung feels the blood drain from his face— “Anyway, sit up and let me feel you up,” —only for the blood to shoot right back up and nearly knocks him out unconscious. “Feel your temperature up, perv. I’m not taking advantage of a sick man. C’mere, let me see how sick you are.”

Heeseung, however, still has enough marbles to quickly evade your incoming hand. He swerves to the right. You blink at him, arm reaching out to thin air, before trying again, only for Heeseung to swat your hand away with gritted teeth and fearing for his life. “S—sorry,” he chokes out. He sees the glint in your eyes. Crap. He shouldn’t have done that.

“For fuck’s sake, just let me check your temperature— Heeseung! What the hell?!”

“Just—just leave me alone!”

Earlier, Heeseung thought he was about to die. He didn’t think he had enough strength to fight for his life as he squirms underneath you on the bed, driven solely by the desire to protect his fucking pride because there’s no way in hell he’s letting you touch him when he’s all gross and sweaty and gross from the fever. There’s no way in hell he’s letting that happen.

“What are you—”

He yanks out his blanket from underneath you, causing you to roll of his bed and he throws the sheet over his red, hot, and burning face because holy fuck. Holy shit. That was a close call.

When he peeks out from the blanket, Heeseung instantaneously feels a threat to his life.

You’re glaring at him. You look like you want to skin him alive and he gulps and nudges himself away, ass nearly falling off the bed when you get up from the floor and dust yourself off. “Okay,” you huff. “Fine. Have it your way. Die from a heatstroke, or whatever the fuck. I’ll be downstairs if you need me, and if you do, I’m expecting you to get down on your knees and beg because every time you’ve swatted my hand away was an additional jab at my pride.”

Okay, damn. You leave his room, not without slamming his door close to emphasize your anger, and on top of feeling like absolute crap, Heeseung now also feels guilty as hell.

“Fuck,” he rasps out. It’s not like he’s doing it out of malice, or hate, or because he thinks you’re a germ that he cannot touch, like you always accuse him with. Heeseung still remembers how his whole no touching quirk started: sixteen years-old, when Heeseung finally mustered the courage to hold his first girlfriend’s hand, only for her to laugh and joke and pull away while saying, “ew, gross. Your hand is all sweaty.”

Twenty-two year old Heeseung has been traumatized to this very day.

Especially now when he’s all disgusting and icky and very much ew and gross because of his fever. Stupid, he knows, but the last thing he’d want to see is a disgusted grimace from your face the moment the back of your hand presses against his damp and sticky, sickness-induced forehead. However, it seems like he’s been inflicting to you the very injury he’s been trying to protect himself by constantly avoiding the threat of contact of your skin against his.

Stupid. It’s really stupid.

But he can’t avoid dehydration by simply ignoring the dryness of his mouth. With much struggle, Heeseung forces himself out of the bed, despairing the amount of stairs he has to climb down— and the suggestion of calling for you help does tease his brain for a split second, but decides against it with a shake of his head as he continues the awful trip to the living room, body weighing thirty times heavier, and skull feeling like it’s about to crack itself open.

The problem is, his skull does almost end up getting cracked open. Because as he’s finally nearing the bottom floor, he misses a step, causing him to hit the ground with a harsh thud.

“Ugh,” he grunts, pushing himself with his forearms, but he stops, nearly face planting into the floor once more because you’re there, you’re walking up to him, looking down at him, and holding a cold and refreshing glass of water above his head like some sort of fucked up display of powerplay against a sick and thirsty man.

“Need any help?” you hum.

“I’m fine,” Heeseung tries once more to get up only to feel the nausea rise up to his head, and he stops, pauses, and decides that the floor is more comfortable after all. He looks up at you. “Can I...can I get a sip from your glass?”

There’s a glint in your eyes. You crouch down. “Sorry, what was that?”

Are you enjoying this? Do you like watching him in pain? (Likely answer is yes because you yourself have admitted that you enjoy their suffering and torment). “Water,” he rasps out. “Can I drink some of your water?”

“This?” You swirl the glass in your hand, ice clacking against the crystal, before taking a long, tortuous sip on the straw (why does it have a straw?) Heeseung swallows down his spit. “Say please,” you say with a smile. Heeseung chokes on said fucking spit and hacks out a cough because you’re fucking insane.

He feels his face grow hotter. And it’s definitely not just from the fever.

“P—please, give me some of your water.”

You don’t prolong his agony any further and hand him over the glass.

“Need any help getting up?” you ask as you watch him agonizingly sit up against the bottom steps and toss down the water into his throat in one shot as if it was at a company dinner. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and feels your disappointed stare pricking his conscience. “I can’t help you unless you ask me to, Heeseung.”

He frowns, deflating. “But I’m all gross and sweaty.”

The last thing he expects you to do is to roll your eyes at him and stand up with an arm stretched out.

And the next thing he knows is that you’re lugging him over to the couch, an arm around his waist, his around your shoulder, and you set him down the cushions with a grunt. “Jeez, I’m not made for manhandling men,” you say, very dubiously. “Lie down.” And when he doesn’t lie down, wide-eyed and unresponsive, you poke his forehead and he tips back, falling into the couch.

What…what is going on...

“You know, I’m very tempted to ask you to take your shirt off just to laugh at your reaction, but you actually look like you’re about to die, so I decided against it. Aren’t I sweet?”

You’re back with a basin and some towels (when did you disappear?) and Heeseung’s brain starts malfunctioning, growing dizzier and dizzier by the second when you touch his jaw, damp towel wiping off the sweat coating his face and neck and he feels his throat tightening. “Christ. I think your temp is over forty degrees, my guy,” you say, squeezing the towel over the basin. “Hello? Heeseung? What the hell, did you catch Sunghoon’s disease? Are you unable to talk to me now, too?”

“It’s—it’s not that,” he chokes out. He’s about to justify himself, but you press your palm against his forehead, cutting off all the oxygen pipes leading up to his brain, and he feels like passing the fuck out.

Shit. Shit. Holy shit.

“Ah,” you say. “You’re not running away.”

He’s not. He’s not running away. But he feels a different sort of problem coming up.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

You blink at him. This doesn’t help his case at all.

“Wow, this is an upgrade,” you say from the other side of the bathroom door while Heeseung pukes his guts out into the toilet. Heavy metal playing from his phone is trying to block the noises out. He’s heaving over the bowl and wants to kill himself from embarrassment. “Now my very presence makes you vomit. I’m sorry for everything so far.”

There’s a flush. The music stops. Heeseung cracks the door open and you pass him a glass of water without some bedroom-esque powerplay this time. “Seriously, why did you run off into the rain last night? Look where it got you.” It’s a shocker that you haven’t told him he’s gross yet. You’re standing there in front of the bathroom and in front of the mess of his post-vomit presence, and all you’re doing is looking at him in worry.

“I wasn’t expecting you guys to be there,” he says, still sounding like death, and you take the now empty glass from him and head over to the kitchen, pointing at his makeshift deathbed on the couch.

“I wasn’t expecting you to give Mariah Carey a run for her money, either.” After you place the glass into the sink, you’re back to the living room. He’s down on the sofa, eyelids heavy, unable to say or do anything when you push back his hair to place a damp towel on his forehead. “Like damn, I knew you guys have known each other for a while now, but I totally felt like an outsider when I was the only one surprised to hear you sing.”

You’re not making fun of him. You don’t make a comment about how sticky his skin feels or how gross his sweat-drenched shirt is.

“I like your voice. Too bad it sounds like shit right now, but you should let me hear you again once you feel better.” The doorbell rings. “Oh, right, I ordered some porridge. You can feed yourself, right? Hold on, let me get it.”

He hears your footsteps padding across the floor, unable to find the strength to open his eyes as the coolness of the cloth seeps into his forehead. Heeseung has always thought you were a bit too much— case in point, everything that just happened and all the other times you’ve teased, tormented, and actively tortured to the point of tears all the inhabitants of this god forsaken house.

Yet it is also your excessive nature that has let Sunghoon speak more than five words around you, that has stopped Beomgyu from hermitting in his room twenty-four-seven, that has helped Soobin and Jay in two very important instances this summer, and has allowed Jake to offer you a spot in their lives after leaving that room on the third floor empty for a good two years.

“Fuck, I can’t believe they left me behind with a sick man when I can barely even take care of myself.”

You’re back. He opens his eyes and tries to lift himself up but his body is way too heavy. “Uh,” he says. “Can you…please…open the container for me?” He doesn’t miss your amused fucking grin when he mumbles out the please.

“Ah. Open up.”

Heeseung has always felt you were too much. Maybe it’s his fever talking, maybe it’s not, but maybe too much exactly what he needs right now.

HOME FOR THE BITCHLESS. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

#lee heeseung x reader #heeseung x reader #enhypen x reader #enha x reader #tomorrow x together x reader #txt x reader #heeseung x you #txt scenarios #enhypen scenarios #choi soobin x reader #choi beomgyu x reader #park sunghoon x reader #sim jaeyun x reader

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mournings-stars · 1 year ago

Note

so lute and velvette… opinions on what they would like to receive as gifts? 👀

OHHH OK i got carried away and did how theyd react to gifts but trust i followed the prompt at first

so lute doesn’t like gifts (this is a lie). if you get her anything she’ll just throw it away (she will treasure that shit til the day she dies). just dont get her a work-related gift and she’ll love it forever

velvette on the other hand loves gifts — she expects them and you know it’d be a death wish to get her anything related to her work — even if its shallow, she’d rather have that because something work related feels undermining

say you get lute flowers? she’ll appreciate them in private because no one ever gets her anything, and she doesn’t know when she’ll get a spontaneous “they made me think of you” gift again

get velvette flowers? that woman is expecting flowers with every gift you give her because flowers can’t be a gift again silly, now they’re just common courtesy

but don’t worry, velvette is gushing about you all over social media because you meet her expectations so well — she posts things like “never settle for less” and its more and more every time

lute is discreet about her fawning. rather than broadcasting her appreciation, she’ll find herself staring at the flowers she’s been keeping healthy with fresh trims and water whenever it was needed and thinking she should probably do something to show her gratitude — so that you weren’t just giving her something unwarranted ofc. not because she wanted you to start giving each other gifts

of course that would be exactly what happens

i don’t think velvette would put too much effort into getting you a gift, like shes not thinking about what you might like in return or anything, but if she sees something you’ll like?? (and she knows what you like) best believe she’s getting that no mater the price

and vel is not the type to take off price tags. not because she wants you to feel bad about her spending so much money, but because she wants you and everyone else to know that she’s going to do everything possible to keep you happy, so that price tag going on her story with a casual “anything for my baby”, is 1000% percent a threat to the world

i have half a mind to think she makes sure to buy you the most obscenely expensive things when you’re not there to object and tells you it was final sale, but “it’s okay, love, we’ll go and get you something else, yeah?” and thats how she gets you because she knows you love her gifts, and she will be getting you more

with lute, you’d definitely be the one buying things on a whim. however, she would make you return things that were too pricey, only to find something she’d want to get you — conveniently she’d forget to check the tag, or she’ll talk to the shop owner until she got the price down

“what about this?” she’d ask when she saw something she wanted to get you, and you’d have to ask her whether it was for you her her. she’d lie, obviously, and end up finding a way to give it to you in the future

lute would also tell you not to get her anything then be walking with adam down the promenade and tell you to “catch” as she tossed you something she got for you

and that girl is 100% watching to see you fawn over it, smiling when she sees how excited you are only to be pulled out of it by you coming back to give her something in return because you just knew if she told you not to get anything, that meant she got you something. like it’s basically a competition at this point and she counts that as a loss — and lute does not lose

velvette, on the other hand? not a competition; she’s winning either way. she has a partner who gets her gifts that meet her expectations, and she has a partner she can give gifts that meet her expectations

but lute’s competitiveness about gifts is hot so who’s really winning…

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin lute #hazbin hotel heaven #hazbin velvette #lute hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lute #lute x reader #lute #hazbin hotel velvette #velvette x reader #velvette hazbin hotel #hazbin headcanons #hazbin x reader #lute headcanons #velvette headcanons #hazbin

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tartquez · 2 months ago

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have a good flight <3 ! not much of a prompt but would love anything more on ballet rosquez if you feel inspired !

Thank you!! Landed all in one piece 💞

Please enjoy a little continuation of the retired ballet dancers au that has been on my mind lately!

In the corner of the studio, Luca bounces on the balls of his feet, testing his ankles. Bez has a scrunchie between his teeth, gathering up his curls into a fluffy ponytail on the top of his head. They freeze once their gazes land on Marc.

The comfortable hum of chatter dissipates.

Pecco is sitting off on his own, airpods in, methodically working his way through a routine of stretches. One of his legs is hugged to his chest, pointy chin resting on his knee, hair swept off of his forehead with two battered old hair clips. He looks up when Marc enters and his eyes widen.

Valentino clears his throat. Marc had received a similar reception when they’d run into Mig and Franky signing in at the reception. Mig’s jaw had dropped open and Franky, attempting to be discreet, had to elbow him.

“Welcome to my humble studio,” Valentino jokes lightly as he shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it in the corner he dumped his bag in.

Marc hums faintly, eyes darting around the room.

It was deliberate, Vale’s decision to introduce Marc to this group of dancers from his company.

Pecco is still stealing curious little glances at them, has plucked the airpods out of his ears and fumbles to stuff them back in the case. A few months ago Valentino had played them all him and Marc’s first run of Swan Lake. It didn’t escape his notice the way Pecco had stared longingly at the screen long after he and Marc had taken their bows.

It’s a uniquely cruel cross for him to bear, Valentino thinks privately. The tragedy and complexity to Pecco’s performances reflects the complex relationship Pecco has with himself, how lost he feels inside his own head at times, and yet — Valentino can’t help thinking, if he could just get out of his head a little, Valentino thinks Pecco might just become an excellent principal of the company.

Pecco’s hands twist anxiously in his lap, movements as fragile as a translucent flower petal, painfully expressive even when he doesn’t realise it.

Valentino exchanges a look with Alex as the other man settles down behind the piano. Alex’s lips press together, his eyes flick to Marc and he sighs. He produces a binder from his backpack and long pale fingers rifle through the pages of his sheet music. Truthfully, they don’t really need a studio pianist today, Alex knows this. Today all Valentino will do is take the dancers through some stretches, with Marc’s assistance if he’s amenable, and they’ll practice some of the more challenging sections of the final pieces but the full dress rehearsals start next week so he doesn’t want to overwork them anyway. He doesn’t think he’d have gotten Marc through the doors if Alex wasn’t present though. He must realise it too, barely put up any resistance when Valentino asked him to come in as well under some flimsy guide of familiarising himself with the studio and dancers.

Marc’s expression is carefully blank as his gaze sweeps over the studio. His posture is still perfect, he straightens up and pushes his shoulders back ever so slightly, and Valentino allows himself a small sad smile.

He knows what Marc is seeing.

Floor to ceiling mirrors, polished hardwood floors, a glossy black piano. A long barre stretching along the length of the far wall, he’d had it custom made to his specifications.

The one detail he fought Uccio tooth and nail for, is the skylight carved into the center of the ceiling. Uccio called him insane when he insisted on it during the initial discussions with the architect, but Valentino wouldn’t budge. He’s spent most of his life in dance studios. Rehearsed so many times he’s passed out, falling asleep long after every one else turned in for the night and woken up by the cleaners the next morning. Vale has lived most of his life in mirrored rooms completely closed off from the outside world. That’s not what he wanted for his studio.

If he’d had his way, they would be practicing in a tempered glass green house in the middle of a field. Uccio had to draw the line somewhere, Valentino concedes.

Marc stands directly under the skylight, a shaft of bright warm sunlight streams in through the glass dome and encircles him, evokes a golden spotlight.

Valentino ducks his head, eyes stinging all of a sudden. He clears his throat, “what do you think?”

Marc stares up at the sky, right arm unconsciously cradled to his chest even after all these years, his mouth opens and closes before curving into a wry smile, “it’s very you.”

Bez bristles, misunderstanding, moves to interject but Luca rolls his eyes and yanks him back by the strap of his leotard.

Valentino glances over at Pecco. Expectant. Pecco frowns before understanding dawns and he scrambles to his feet. When he approaches Marc, it’s tentatively. The sight they make, Pecco, head inclined uncertainly, and Marc, his spine straight, resolute in a way Pecco will never be — a perfect Odette and Odile, Valentino muses.

“Marc,” Pecco extends a hand which Marc stares at before shaking, “Pecco,” he introduced himself.

“Hello,” Marc blinks in recognition, “Vale has mentioned you,” he notes dryly but offers no further explanation.

Pecco swallows. He continues, haltingly, “I, ah, I am working on a piece from Coppelia,” a challenge Valentino personally set him. Pecco knows how to make an audience weep, now Vale wants him to make them laugh. “Vale showed us a recording of your Coppelia in Nanterre back in 2014,” a deep steadying breath, “would you be willing to watch my routine and offer me some feedback?”

Marc studies Pecco. Valentino remembers poring over old tapes of Fonteyn and Nureyev in Valentino’s apartment. How freely and happily Marc would share his opinions. Cheeks pink and eyes glittering as he gesticulated, words running together in his rush to get them out, the clear thrill he took in simply having an opinion and relentlessly arguing it.

The silence lengthens. Pecco, to Valentino’s surprise, does not wilt.

Eventually, “I am very particular,” Marc warns.

Bez scowls and Luca slaps him on the arm.

Pecco wrinkles his nose, straightens up, elegant pale shoulders pushed back. His hands unconsciously fall into first position, feet shifting and arranging themselves into position as well.

“I am too,” Pecco informs Marc.

Valentino had been watching Alex during this exchange, he sees the way Alex’s hand trembles, where it is poised above the sheet music. Valentino’s turns in time to catch the tail end of Marc’s answering grin, sharp and uncompromising.

#ballet au #SO SO SO ROUGH but i love this little world so much #it’s sad and painful but they’re both trying to fix things !!!!

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sunarots · 7 months ago

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BETTER THAN REVENGE! ━━━ tooru oikawa & rintarou suna

20. a broken man ♡

You feel a finger tap your shoulder, taking your attention away from Rin and Atsumu. Rin's hand remains on your knee, squeezing it softly as a warning to you before you could turn around. Taking in a deep breath, you look back to face Oikawa. "Yes?"

He looks between the three of you and hums. "Could I talk to you? In private?"

You purse your lips, leaning in closer to Rin before shaking your head. "Whatever you can say to me, you can say in front of them," you respond, resting one hand upon Rin's and using the other to tuck your hair behind your ears.

Oikawa clears his throat, scratches the back of his neck. He looks around him, trying to decide whether or not to follow through. After a quick breath in, he breathes out a curse before saying, "Okay. Um, I was just wondering... Did I ruin you?"

A part of you wants to laugh in his face at the question. Ruined you. Ruined. You twist the expensive ring on your middle finger, consider the ¥600,000 necklace hanging around your neck. Running your tongue across the front of your teeth, careful to avoid wiping off the ¥26,000 Chanel lipstick you're wearing, you cock your head to the side. "Ruin me?"

Oikawa nods his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Yeah. I did a lot of awful things to you and I wanted to make sure I didn't destroy you."

This time, you do laugh. Not a small, discreet chuckle. No, a loud and hysterical laugh that has people looking at you. You don't try to cover your mouth with your hand, instead turning to look back at Rin and Atsumu. They both shared your amusement, though Atsumu was trying a lot harder than you both to hide it.

When you look back at Oikawa, his eyes are still on you. He's frowning, jaw clenched so hard you're surprised he's not broken any teeth. He glances around himself before straightening up his posture.

"You want an honest answer?" You wait for his nod before continuing, "No. You didn't ruin me. Look at me. I'm in a happy relationship, a healthy one. I have a successful career. In fact, a lot of our songs were taken from the things you did to me. So, no. You didn't ruin me. You helped make me." You smile up at him. "I'm here because of you."

Oikawa stays in place for a moment, taking in everything you've just said to him. He doesn't speak, because no words can come to the front of his mind. His mind draws blank on everything that doesn't involve you. Every memory of every shitty thing he's done to you comes rushing out. Every time he ignored your texts, looked at another person, flirted with people other than you. Replays of the lies, the slanders, the degrading prompts he's thrown at you loop through his entire consciousness. There's a second he thinks he may send himself into a coma, but something takes control of him.

His body turns away from you, from everyone. He walks through the door and down the corridor to the left, and locks him in the bathroom. Oikawa flicks some water on his face, makeup staying in place despite his best efforts to ruin it. He scrubs at it, smears it everywhere. He grabs the paper towels, wiping violently at his face until it's red and raw. It takes all his effort to not try to punch the mirror right now.

Instead, he takes a leisurely stroll back towards set. He refuses to let you get in his head. No, it's time he takes control back in his life. You shouldn't be the one to make this decisions about him and Emiko. Not when you're happily with Suna. You are just so full of yourself, but not anymore. Not now.

Oikawa opens the door to set, somehow keeping himself calm and collected despite the rage in his chest. He scans the room and spots you talking to-

Emiko.

She tucks her hair behind her ears, looks down sheepishly, and says something quietly into your ear. You lean back, eyes grow wide, and Oikawa tries to figure out what happened. What did you say? You're corrupting her. He can't have this. No. Not again.

"What are talking about?" It comes out as desperate as he felt, his voice not received the memo of calm and collected. "What lies are you spouting to her now?"

You can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth at the sight in front of you. It's happened. The day you dreamed of has finally come. Oikawa Tooru has broken. And it's all because of you. You lean back, wrap an arm around Rin's neck and smile at Oikawa.

"Emiko's just asked us to perform our new album at the cast and crew party. And the songs we write for the show. We're the entertainment for the first few hours, then it's up to whoever. Obviously, we're playing on a talk show earlier that day so we may run late. But don't worry, you won't miss us. They'll be playing it here live."

Despite how he looms over you in your seat, you're the one to be peering down your nose at him. The smile grows wider, fingers running through Rin's hair. Rin smiles, turns to look at the couple. "You guys won't be disappointed."

masterlist. previous | next

summary. as a world-famous singer, everyone knows everything about all of your relationships. namely, your renowned on-again/off-again relationship with one tooru oikawa. it’s hard not to when every song you write is about him. but no one truly knows all of the gory details of all your dirty breakups, except from the two of you. and after announcing in a drunken red-carpet interview that you never want to see his face again, everyone starts desperately searching for the truth behind your twisted relationship. and just when you think you can escape these rumours, in comes a job opportunity your band can’t turn down.

taglist (open!). @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @iaminyourfloors @rrosiitas @v3nusplanetofluv @draculauracullen @lollbecca @honeytwo @wakashudou @tojirin @makki0s @alexithemiyatic @aboutkiyoomi @hermaeusmorax @theepitomeofswag @qyoongi @esunarint @frootloopscos @kimigiri09 @sweetlyvibe @hhoneyhan @jlly1 @nizaii @mdmraz @gigiiiiislife

#BETTER THAN REVENGE!#haikyuu smau #hq smau #oikawa tooru #oikawa tooru smau #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru x you #oikawa tooru x y/n #oikawa tooru x f!reader #oikawa tooru x female reader #suna rintarou #suna rintarou smau #suna rintarou x reader #suna rintarou x you #suna rintarou x y/n #suna rintarou x f!reader #suna rintarou x female reader

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thequietkid-moonie · 1 month ago

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Lipstick kisses

[ HEADCANONS ] [ Marin, Mitsuru ]

[ My Dress-Up Darling ] [ Persona 3 ]

Cutie cutie prompt ~ I dont remember how did I even get this idea but I don't regret it, it ended up being a cute silly little prompt that i love <3

i think leaving kisses mark with lipstick is pretty cute!

Marin Kitawaga

Marin always tries to respect your bounduries and make sure that her love is corresponded before becoming the affection and clingy girlfriend she is, since it actually take some time before Marin even realice the feelings she has for you is almost as if she is trying to make it up for all the time lost when trying to understand her own feelings

Marin is incredibly affectionate with actions and words, is just the way she is and she want you to never forget how loved you actually are, although, the last thing she wants is to make you uncomfortable so she tries to keep her clingliness to a level you can tolerante and accept (as much as it would make her sad to don't be able to cuddle you all day)

Although, nothing will stop Marin to have kisses, even if she has to steal them! In your cheeks, in your lips, in your forehead, even in your nose and over your eyes, she just love you too much and loves the feeling to be close enough to be able to kiss you

The first time Marin leave a kiss mark over your face thanks to her lipstick was a complete accident, she just wanted a kiss but actually she didn't realiced that she left a mark (its probably that it was while she was cosplaying so it was a quick good-luck kiss), so while you nor her notice the mark kiss she left you it would stay like that until any of your friends point it out

It was until someone pointed it out that Marin noticed and fell absolutely in love with it, the mark of her lips cutely lingering your beautiful face (and probably you blushing from embarrassment or shyness) it was something Marin has fall in love with, she wants to see that same view over and over again

She tries to kiss all your face right there to leave more marks but is more likely that her plan failed (even if not she will just love it even more), in any case she will purpousely be wearing lipstick more often, soft or bright colors, she want try more and always uses the excuse that she has to leave the mark on you to make sure is a color she likes, she will try over and over again leave mark of her lipstick kisses to the point that she isn't even discreet anymore or you simply can see throught her excuses

She promise to do it only in private if it makes you feel too embarrassed but sometimes she just forget and kiss you out of nowhere in public accidently leaving a mark or her kiss

Mitsuru Kirijo

Romance for Mitsuru is dificult, not only she doesn't have previous experience with being in love but also she is so used to formalities and what was expected of her because of her family that she just doesn't know what to do when she is in love

Even so, when she start a relationship she is between the duality of being sure of her feelings and being incredibly embarrassed of them, Mitsuru took time to think about her feelings and make sure to clearly known what she feels before even thinking on confesing so when you two finally are together she is sure that she wants it and even has some determination to try to have the iniciative of a few things, still that doesn't take away how flustered and embarrassed Mitsuru actually feels by this whole situation

Mitsuru goes at her rythm when being in a relasionship but still tries to keep showing her love, even so she prefers to keep most things in private. It took a while for Mitsuru to get used to the affection so getting to the point of kissing you it will take a while, and if her kiss end up leaving a mark on your skin thanks to her lipstick she will feel even more embarrassed (specially at the first kisses)

Kisses are mainly reserved for when you two are alone so is more likely that she will notice when she leave you a kiss mark before anyone else can see it, but if it happens that non of you notice and one of your friends point it out Mitsuru feels her heart stop for a second, internally panicing while trying to don't giving herself away, even if you try to come up with a excuse or the other person doesn't insist on wanting to know who was it she will still be panic on the inside

Mitsuru will be so embarrassed by it that she will feel quite hesitant to kiss you again, it will take her a while to calm down and still she will always make sure to don't leave a kiss mark on your skin after giving you a kiss

Overtime and with some reasurance Mitsuru will finally be able to calm down and even will grow to find it quite cute, for her is just a bit funny how she can leave a kiss mark thanks to her lipstick and will end up doing it on purpose without even noticing it, she just thinks you look a bit cute (specially if it is something that flustered you), however she always erase the mark from your skin before anyone else can see it, still feeling embarrassed by it even with the rest of her friends, besides, she feels like it is an intimate and wholesome thing between you two and want to keep it that way

#my dress up darling #my dress up darling x reader #marin kitagawa #marin kitagawa x reader #marin x reader #persona 3 #persona x reader #persona 3 x reader #mitsuru kirijo #mitsuru kirijo x reader #mitsuru x reader #x reader #x gn reader #anime x reader #manga x reader #video games x reader

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finniestoncrane · 2 months ago

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if you're still doing the nsfw emoji thing, could i please get ✊, 😸, and 🍷 for sniper....i'm fixated so bad on him rn 🙁 please and thank you :3

✊ masturbation headcanon

he jerks that thing so hard that his van is SHAKING. he thinks he's being discreet, sneaking off to his own private space, and even if he keeps his whimpers down so low, and mutters his dirty talk in whispers, he is grasping his poor cock and shaking it with such vigor that everyone knows exactly what's going on in there...

😺 how they eat the pussy

his fingers are the key here actually. long, strong digits to spread you apart so he can get his tongue in deep. fingertips tight, pinching you so that when his tongue flits over you, his lips close around you, the sensitive little bud is overstimulated enough to have you trembling against him

🍷 tipsy sex headcanon

three beers in and he's all over you, sloppy style. his kisses are wet and clumsy, they're missing your lips, your cheeks, hitting your ear and your collar bone instead. and he's not much more accurate when he's trying to get it in, but when he does??? it's not going to take many of his hard, wet pumps to have you closing in on your orgasm. and it's helped along by looking up at him, lopsided, wonky smile, eyes half-lidded, glasses askew, hand trying to hold on his hat. impossible to hold back, really!!

send me a nsfw headcanon prompt

#friends being friends #anon #ask meme #tf2 sniper #finnie writes #finnie hc

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caesariawritesstuff · 11 months ago

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for the follower event ! prompt: discreet sexual tension 4 and/or 9 with detective reader and scarecrow (or eddie if you’d like). i was so excited to see you update cat & mouse, it’s definitely one of my favorite fics ever. keep it up and congrats!! <3

Learning to Share

Summary: Edward and Jonathan have come to an arrangement...one that involves sharing you.

Content Warning: P in V sex, MFM threesome, sexual punishment, begging, jealousy, masturbation, fingering, spanking, discussions about fear. Slight continuation of Damaged Goods.

Word Count: 15.7k

A/N: @a1atheias also requested the “i want you” “then take me” prompt with reader and scarecrow ☺️. This fic got so out of hand and I'm so sorry it's so long!!!! I had an idea and RAN with it. I really hope you enjoy and hope this doesn't suck lmao. Also special thanks to @jkcreation for helping me a bit to figure out how I wanted this to go. Fic is not canon to the official Cat&Mouse!Verse.

Being involved in law enforcement in Gotham ends in several days: death, burn out, turning to drugs and alcohol, being involved in some twisted experiment, or quitting the force entirely seemed to be the usual ways out – so when a member of the GCPD officially made it to retirement after a long, lustrous career – it was something of a celebration.

With a heavy sigh, you looked up at the Cyrus Pinkney Institute for National History and frowned, disdain clear your eyes. Bright lights surrounded the stone building, bathing it in a yellow glow. All around you, Gothamites came and went, laughing and chatting, dates on their arms. Right about now, you’d much rather be in the bubble bath, face mask on and a good book in hand, but alas, being invited to the retirement party of Sergeant Groszek felt a bit like a summons. There would be quite a large number of officers and detectives there, and you did not want to give off the wrong impression and come off as rude – so that was how you found yourself now, wearing an emerald green dress that reached just shy of your fingertips, hugging your curves in all the right places; the balloon sleeves were tight around the wrist and airy around your arms, hanging off your shoulders, revealing your smooth skin. Across the neckline, it dipped low to reveal a tasteful amount of cleavage – one appropriate for an outing like this. Your gaze slid to the left, where Edward tightly had one arm wrapped around your waist, wearing an identical, green-colored suit that complimented your own dress well. He looked quite handsome in his green suit, the material sleek, and his grip tightened around your waist, fingers digging in. You had assured Edward he didn’t have to come with you to this little event, but he insisted. Quite a bit more than usual, but you shrugged away the thought.

Sighing, you looked at him and said, “We don’t have to stay long. Just enough for me to mingle, drop off this card, and then we can get out of here.”

Edward quirked a brow at you, a slow smirk creeping along the edge of his lips. “Don’t worry, detective, I’m sure I can keep myself occupied while you mingle with these simpletons.”

You smirked back, shaking your head, but walked in tandem with him up the stony steps and into the museum, a spring air gusting across your exposed skin. There were signs posted about with arrows leading you towards the private room where the retirement party was being held, and you and Edward followed them with ease, passing by a myriad of exhibits within glass cases. But as you came to the doorway, you sucked in a breath, silently prepping yourself for the onslaught of small talk you were sure you’d be dragged into. This really was the last place you wanted to be. Narrowing your eyes, you looked around at all of the party goers, already chatting up a storm and congratulating Sergeant Groszek on his achievements over his long career. Along the back wall was a display of food catered in: meat and cheese and fruit platters, chips, small finger foods and sandwiches, and a large custom cake. But your eyes instead caught on the bubbly wine being laid out by a caterer – and a sigh of relief escaped your lips. Well, at least there was something you could look forward to here.

You wandered over, slipping out of Edward’s grasp, and snatched up a glass of wine, bringing it to your lips and sipping slowly. When you pulled the glass away, a smudge of bright lipstick stained the rim. Everyone around you was already engaged in hearty conversation, dressed in suits and ties, women in gorgeous dresses. You glanced down at your own, a small smile curving at the edge of your mouth; Edward had handpicked it just for you, just for this occasion. He’d chosen it with quite great care, you’d noticed, and that simple fact made your heart flutter thunderously in your chest, a warmth pool deep in your stomach. Your thoughts were already straying to what it would be like for him to peel it off you when you got home.

“Give me a moment, will you?” Edward asked, his breath at your ear, tickling your skin. You nodded, watching him slip away, somewhere down the hall where the bathrooms were located.

You turned away, gripping the stem of your glass tightly, and wandered over to one of the shadowy corners away from prying eyes. Ever since you started dating Edward, fitting in with your coworkers had become more difficult. Not like you’d ever fully fit in with them in the first place. Frowning, you took an even deeper sip, draining almost half the glass in the process.

“Careful, detective,” a deep, gravelly voice said from beside you, getting your attention. “This is a party, not a brewhouse, correct?”

You lowered your glass just in time to see Jonathan Crane walk up beside you. Your mouth fell open slightly in surprise; you had not expected to find him here, out and about and surrounded by actual people and not vials of chemicals, especially after the…little incident down in the forensics lab at the GCPD a few weeks ago. An incident that had not only left you slightly shaken, irritated, and annoyed – but also turned on. More than you cared to admit. But ever since that moment, you hadn’t been blind to the way Crane watched you with a slow intention, a careful gaze whenever he did manage to come up from the lab. He only ever exchanged a few words for you, but you could feel the tension between you two, crackling like lightning just under the surface. You were not entirely sure what it was about him that drew you to him, but something did, something you were so desperately trying to fight down and not make known.

You studied him closely, taking in his brown suit and tan colored tie, but your eyes lingered for a little too long on his reconstructed face, and the delicate lines etched into his skin, remnants of multiple surgeries he’d been through. But your gaze met his for a slight moment, and you turned away, taking another sip, as if to prove a point.

“Aren’t parties to be enjoyed, Dr. Crane?” you asked, keeping your voice level.

“Parties such as this bore me,” he said.

You smirked, looking down for just a moment. “Yeah, I don’t exactly enjoy parties like this either,” you mumbled. But when you looked up, you scanned the sea of faces for Edward, but found no sign of him. Where is he when I need him? you wondered.

“Why is that?” he asked after a beat.

You scoffed under your breath, once more taking another sip of your drink. “I guess you could say they bore me, too,” you finally answered. At least coming here with Edward was one thing – if only he would turn back up again. Your gaze searched for him once more, but when you saw no sign of him, your heart sunk, a strange aching in your stomach.

“Something bothering you, detective?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you said, quickly, not wanting to show him an ounce of your discomfort. You certainly didn’t want a man like him getting under your skin. Again.

“Your body language betrays you,” he said. “Are you afraid of something?”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Afraid my boyfriend is getting himself into trouble. You know how Edward is.”

“I walked past him moments ago,” Crane said. “He’s involved in quite the conversation with the Commissioner and the Mayor. Perhaps it will be a while. Why don’t you sit and enjoy yourself for the time being?”

You hesitated, your grip on your wine stem tightening, but you studied him carefully, before your gaze strayed back to the other side of the room. Well…you supposed he was right. Standing here rocking back and forth on your heels wasn’t going to do you any good. It would only serve to make you grow more agitated. Taking another sip of your wine, you sighed, but walked past Crane, searching for an empty seat – and you spotted a small table off to the right, hidden away in a shadowy corner. You quickly sat down and crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in your seat. But to your surprise, Crane followed you and sat at the seat opposite of you. You frowned, your heart leaping into your throat. You immediately looked away, even though you felt his eyes burning holes in your skin.

“Can I help you, Dr. Crane?” you asked after a long moment of silence.

“I’d like to continue our discussion from a few weeks ago,” he said. “I believe it was left…quite unfinished.”

“Ah,” you said, twirling your glass between your fingertips. “Another therapy session.” You leaned back, meeting his gaze, not wanting to back down from his questions. Not this time – you would not give him the satisfaction.

“All right,” you said. “Ask me whatever you want. I’m an open book.”

A low rumble emanated from deep within his throat. “Be careful what you wish for, detective. You seem to have forgotten who you’re talking to.”

You smirked. “Try me,” you said. You had been through enough as is over the last few months – some big scary words from Jonathan Crane couldn’t possibly be any harm, now could they? Especially when you already knew his own game, his own obsession with fear – you simply had to keep from falling into his trap, and everything would be fine. If you could handle Edward, then surely you could handle Crane.

“Very well,” he said. “Does it frighten you? Belonging to a man like Edward?”

“No,” you answered, even though that was a bold-faced lie. Being with Edward did frighten you, but you could not allow Crane to know that.

He raised one brow, an impassive look on his face. “Really? Even after all he’s put you through? Even after every single way he’s made you suffer?”

You paused, letting his words sink in – because you couldn’t deny that you had been through a lot with Edward. A lot. And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, there was still that tiny bundle of fear knotted deep in your belly, threatening to rise to the surface. Frowning, you sipped your drink slowly, not breaking eye contact with Crane. His gaze remained just as fixated on you, not giving an ounce of his attention anywhere else.

You lowered your drink back to your lap and said, “Surely it must not bother you to watch people suffer. I’m sure you get off on that sort of thing.”

His head cocked slightly to the side. “Rather crude choice of words, detective.”

“Well, am I wrong? I mean…you put people in horrible, fear-toxin induced experiments for what? For fun? You must find some kind of pleasure in that,” you said.

“I find fear fascinating. It controls every aspect of your life. Every thought, every move you make, every decision,” he said. “You came to this party because you feared what your coworkers would think if you did not show up. You came dressed like…that because you feared making the wrong impression. You drink because you’re afraid if you don’t loosen up, you will not be able to enjoy yourself. Do I need to go on?”

You shifted slightly in your seat, holding back the frustrated scream threatening to tear from your throat, biting down on your tongue. You weren’t sure what, exactly, it was that allowed him to so easily pick you apart and claw your fears from in the inside out – but you knew that every single damn word out of his mouth was true.

But you would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

Instead, you set your drink on the table and leaned forward slightly, resting your chin between two fingers. “And what if I said you were wrong? That I’m not afraid?”

“Then I would call you a liar,” he replied.

“And what are you afraid of, Dr. Crane?” you asked, a bite in your voice now.

“I fear nothing,” he said. “I have mastered my fears long ago. You, however, wear them on your sleeve for the whole world to see.”

You were quiet for a moment, considering his words. You had not realized just how much, perhaps, you did show off your emotions. Leaning back a little further in your seat, you studied him, carefully choosing your next words, refusing to let him get under your skin. You leaned forward a little more, not breaking eye contact.

“Let me ask you this, then,” you said. “Why are you so interested in my fears? There are plenty of other people at this party you could be bothering. So why me?”

“Curiosity,” he answered. “Fear is my specialty. My life’s work. I have spent years studying what makes people afraid, what their darkest fears contain. And you…you exude fear. It’s practically radiating off of you, like a flame in the darkness.”

You held your tongue, trying so very hard to give him an ounce of what you were feeling right now – that his words were cutting deep into you, making a bubbling hot anger burrow under your skin. Instead, you took another sip of your drink, draining the glass.

You met his eyes again. “And what do you think my fears are, Dr. Crane?”

“You’re afraid of being vulnerable,” he answered. “Of being exposed. Of losing control of the carefully crafted image you have built for yourself.” He paused, his head cocking slightly to the side. “And most of all, detective, I think you’re afraid of me.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, at that one notion – and the awful, horrible truth was that he was right. Edward had done many terrible things, but he’d never bathed Gotham completely in a cloud of fear toxin or driven people to madness, or been the man to unmask Batman and cause so much death and destruction like Crane had. Crane was…different.

And he terrified you.

“Did I strike a nerve?” he asked when you said nothing, his eyes slowly scanning every inch of your face. “Your silence speaks volumes. You present yourself to the world as though you are unbothered, but deep down, you fear how people perceive you. And most of all, you’re afraid of what I’m capable of. You’re afraid of what I might do to you?”

“And what might you to do to me, Dr. Crane?” you asked, your voice low. And in that moment – there was nothing and nobody else in the room. It was just you and him, alone, the air sucked from your lungs, a strange bundle of warmth melding together with the fear in your stomach, shooting all the way down to your clit. The sounds of the party drifted into nothing but faded whispers, long forgotten.

“There are many things I could do to you, detective,” he said, his eyes never once breaking from yours, his voice low. “Things that would have you trembling in fear, quaking underneath the effects of my toxin, begging for mercy. Would you like me to tell you some of the things I could do to you?”

“Very well,” you said – because you refused to budge. You refused to show weakness, especially to someone like him. He could try all he wanted, but he would not frighten you, make you run screaming like a child in the night.

“Seeing is much more effective than hearing, now isn’t it?” he asked.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your eyes finally pulling away to glance down at his hand – as if steadying yourself for the moment he had a vial of his toxin at the ready – but his hands were completely empty. Your gaze shifted back to him again, and underneath the table, your legs began to tremble out of your control. Fear was a cold knot in your stomach, turning your blood to ice, causing a clamminess to crawl across your skin.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, his gaze lowering slightly. “Is it fear, or something else?”

“I’m just cold,” you said quickly, attempting to brush him off.

“Is that so?” he asked, one of his brows raised in clear disregard for what you said. “Your body is showing signs of clear distress. Dilated pupils. Flushed skin. Or is it not distress you’re feeling, detective, but something…else?”

Shit. How was he so capable of reading you so easily? You narrowed your eyes, anger rushing hot through every limb, spreading like wildfire through your veins – but beyond that, there was a spark of something rippling just under the surface, something dark and wicked stirring to life in your heart, reawakening your darkest fantasies.

“Something akin to arousal?” he continued.

You sucked in a sharp breath, swallowing the lump in your throat. “That’s a ridiculous insinuation,” you murmured, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue.

“Fear and arousal often go hand in hand,” he said, his voice low, smooth.

“Or, perhaps, you’re completely misreading my physiological responses,” you said.

“Ah, yes,” he said, almost with a bored sigh. “And what, pray tell, do you think is causing this…physiological response of yours?”

“Adrenaline,” you answered, quickly. “It makes your heart beat faster. Makes you shake, makes your pupils dilate. That sort of thing.”

“But that’s not what this is, is it, detective?” he asked, raising his brows. “You’re not in any danger. You’re not preparing to flee. No, this is something much more…intimate.”

There was something in the way the word intimate rolled off his tongue, so full of dark possession, that your insides squirmed, that excitement rushed through your veins, molding together with a hot anger burning brightly inside of you.

“I doubt you’re one to talk about the specifics of intimacy, Crane,” you said, finally.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward, burning that flame even brighter inside of you, causing it to stir to life. The way he was looking at you – studying you – as if you were a lab rat, made your skin crawl. But it wasn’t just the way his cold, calculating gaze studied you, it was the way his words dug into your skin, picking you apart piece by never-ending piece. And here you were, finding yourself sucked into his words, into his every display of intelligent superiority, in a way that was not boastful or full of ego – the complete opposite of Edward.

Edward. Shit. Where even was he? You suddenly backed away, looking around the room once more, searching for him – but still, you saw no sign of him. No green suit stood out amongst the sea of black and blues and browns. And instead of going off to find him, you were sitting here in your own little bubble with Jonathan Crane, feeling a pulsing in your clit, a dampening between your thighs – because he was right. So fucking right.

You were completely fucking aroused.

And you were done with this conversation.

Scowling, you quickly stood up. “Thank you for this enlightening conversation, Dr. Crane. But I’m going to find my boyfriend now,” you said. Turning on your heels, you stormed across the room and searched for any sign of Edward, but there was still none.

Groaning under your breath, you made your way back over to the drink table and snatched up another glass of wine, sipping slowly, trying to clear your mind and body of all thoughts of Jonathan Crane. Bastard, you thought. How dare he put you in such a compromising position, make you feel so vulnerable, as if you were on display for the world to see? You took another sip of your drink, relishing in the taste, when you suddenly felt a presence behind you – a different one, an unfamiliar one, and you glanced over your shoulder to find Crane standing behind you, just inches away. Nerves trickled up your spine and you shuddered, that delicious heat once more pooling in your belly at his proximity, at the smell of his cologne, at his cruel gaze, which was once more fixated on you.

Suddenly, you felt his hands on your hips: a soft, featherlight touch, but enough to make the breath catch in your throat, a small gasp escape your lips – especially when you felt him brush against your backside.

His lips were suddenly at your ear, “Come with me.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, and for the first time, you saw the very delicate hint of a smile curved at the edge of his lips. Barely there, but noticeable enough – and there was something in his gaze that made warmth pool in your belly, made your heart thump so quickly you could hardly stand it.

Follow me, his cruel gaze said. But it was not a suggestion. It was a command.

Hesitantly, you set your drink back down, searching the crowd once more for Edward, but you could not find him. You were growing angrier by the second, a hot prickling underneath your skin like you were being stabbed by a hundred knives. Following Crane was a stupid idea, but you needed to put an end to this…whatever this strange attraction was, and you did not want to make a scene here, in front of all of these people. They already thought badly enough of you as is.

Jonathan slipped through the crowd, disappearing out of your view, but you weaved through the sea of people to follow him, coming to one of the quiet halls of the museum. He was already ahead of you, leading the way, and you scowled, stomping after him, fire burning in your veins, turning your blood to molten liquid. He wandered down one corridor, disappearing around one corner, and you quickened your steps – but just as you came around, his hand was suddenly on your wrist, the other at your throat, pushing you gently against the wall. You gasped, a wave of fear washing over you as he pressed you against the glass of an exhibit.

“Ssh,” he said quietly, deep in his voice. “You don’t want the others to hear us, now do you?” His cold, blue eyes studied your face with a strange intensity.

“What game are you playing at, Crane?” you hissed. “If Edward finds out about this—”

“Edward already knows about this,” he said, cutting you off.

You blinked, surprised, taken aback by his words. You sucked in a slow, steadied breath, trying desperately to control your breathing, your heartrate, your fear. “What?”

“I have asked for his permission,” he said lowly, his breath tickling at your skin.

“To do what?” you whispered, terror clawing up your throat.

“To share you,” he answered without hesitation.

If this was any other man, you might have laughed. Might have believed this was some sort of sick joke – but this was no ordinary man. It was Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, and he was not a joking man. Every inch of his expression was passive. Emotionless. Serious.

He was utterly, utterly serious.

“Edward would never share me,” you whispered, feeling hot defiance rise in your belly.

“Perhaps not with any of the other denizens of Gotham,” he said. “But with me…I’m a different matter entirely.”

You couldn’t help it – your jaw dropped open as confusion and terror and all clawed at you at once, digging into your insides, causing that horrible warmth to pool in your stomach, to travel its way down to your aching clit. Being pinned against the wall like this – trapped – it sent you spiraling, in that way that flared to life your darkest desires, fanning the flames of pleasure and excitement and wanton need.

“You don’t believe me?” Jonathan said after a moment. “Perhaps you should ask Edward yourself.” His fingers finally loosened from around your neck, the digits sliding off delicately, taking his time as he let you go. He took one step back and gestured to a private, out of the way office, far from the festivities taking place.

You hesitated, curling your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palms. You had every reason to smack him right then and there – but you would not allow him to see your fear, to see how frightened you truly were. If this was true…you wanted to hear it straight from Edward’s own mouth. Turning on your heels, you stormed into the office – and sure enough, you found Edward sitting in the chair, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other in a lazy-like position – the very epitome of a man with too big of an ego. And the boyfriend you kind of wanted to knock over the head right about now.

You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest. “Edward,” you said, a bite in your voice. “Is what he says true?”

A hazy look filled his eyes, and he smirked. “Yes, detective. Crane is telling the truth. We have…come to an arrangement.”

“What kind of arrangement?” you asked carefully. As the words slipped from your mouth, you glanced back to find that Jonathan had shut and locked the door behind him. Another bolt of fear and excitement rushed through you as a thousand questions rang through your mind. This couldn’t possibly be going where you thought it was going, could it?

“One that involves you, my dear,” Edward replied. “You see, Crane here has taken quite an interest in you. He finds you…how should I put it, fascinating? You know Crane, always needing to study everything around him.” He waved his hand, scoffing under his breath.

“I’m not something to be studied,” you said, angrily.

“Come now, detective,” Jonathan said, stepping forward until he was standing side-by-side with you, his arms crossed behind his back. His gaze roved carefully over you, inch by inch, making your skin crawl with a delicious heat.

“Edward is right. I find you quite fascinating,” he continued, taking a step closer to you. One of his hands snaked out, grasping your chin between two fingers. “There’s something about you that has Edward so trapped under your spell. You have a power over him, a power I can’t explain. And I need to know why. I need to understand it…to taste it. To taste you.”

You shuddered against his touch, the urge to step back all consuming, but when your gaze slid to Edward – it was as if he pinned you there completely, not daring you to budge an inch. As if he wanted you there, in Crane’s grasp, in this very moment, at their mercy. Jonathan’s grip tightened on your chin, forcing you to look back at him.

“You’re not something to be studied, detective,” Crane said. “You’re something to be enjoyed. And Edward here has finally learned to share.”

His words were like lightning through you, sparking to life a powerful heat in your belly, an aching, a desperate need to be consumed. But no words would come out of your mouth, and you stood there in silent horror and awe, completely unable to process what was happening in this moment. You could not believe their boldness – to think how easily they lured you away to have this discussion, to be used as if you were some kind of plaything.

Your gaze flicked to Edward again. You should be enraged. Insulted. But instead, you’re standing here, your mind completely blank of what to do or even say – the only coherent thought you can even come up with is the very real realization that your clit is throbbing, aching, at the very thought of being taken by these two men – these two very dangerous men – and used in whatever way they desire. The very idea that they both were fascinated with you left a fire burning in your belly, stirring awake those dark desires in your heart.

“Is this true, Edward?” you finally managed to ask.

He nodded, slowly. “Admittedly, I would prefer not to share you, but…” He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. “Crane can be quite persuasive, and I find myself curious to see what the Master of Fear is capable of doing to you. Can he touch you the way I do? Make you cum the way I do? Make you scream his name the way I make you scream mine?”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you shivered at his words – because you can’t help but he just as curious, too. Your gaze strayed back to Crane once more, finding him continuing to study you with a close eye, a curious gaze, as if wondering the same thing Edward was.

You shook your head, scoffing under your breath. “And how long have you been having this discussion behind my back?”

“Long enough,” Crane answered. His grip never lessened on your throat.

Long enough. His words echoed on a loop in your mind. You did not appreciate being spoken about behind your back – and as outraged as you should have been, you could not help but feel just a bit drawn to this situation entirely, to the possibilities that could arise from such an…arrangement. But you were supposed to be with Edward. He was your boyfriend. Something about doing this did not feel right; it felt like a betrayal, in a way. Your gaze flickered back to him, studying his face, but you had come to know Edward well enough that he was completely and utterly serious.

“What if I say no?” you asked.

“If you were going to say no, you would have walked out of this room already, detective,” Crane said. “You would not have followed me into a dark, secluded hallway. You would not have followed me into this room. You would not be here now, allowing me to touch you.” As if to prove his point, his fingers slid down your throat in a smooth motion, once more grasping the question mark pendant draped around your neck. He stroked it with his thumb, but once he let it go, he reached out with two fingers, placing them onto your pulse point.

“Racing heart,” he murmured. “You’re not afraid of us, are you, detective?”

“No,” you said, perhaps a little too quickly. Your fears about being around Edward had faded away into whispers long ago. But…

“Or,” Jonathan continued. “Are you afraid of me?”

The breath caught in your throat, your pulse quickening. Because, the truth was right there, staring you right in the face: you were afraid of Jonathan Crane. He terrified you, caused horror to race through you like lightning, to bundle up in a cold knot in your stomach. Finally, you took a step back, needing a moment to distance yourself. You crossed your arms over yourself, shaking your head as another low scoff escaped your mouth. This was an absurd proposition. Asinine. What they were asking…what Edward was asking…

You spun around on your heels, walking away from Jonathan and over to the desk, wearing Edward remained, still watching you carefully. You opened your mouth to say something – anything – any kind of insult or rage-filled words. But nothing came out. Because as angry as you were, you still felt it: the strange, magnetic pull to both of these dangerous men. And as afraid as you were, your own curiosity could not be ignored.

“What are you afraid of, detective?” Jonathan asked, his cool voice filling the quiet room. “Being shunned? Made to feel like our plaything? Losing your precious paramour in the process as another man claims you for himself?”

“Another man,” you said silently, glancing over your shoulder. “Meaning you.”

Jonathan only answered with a sly smile curving at the edge of his lips.

“I know this is quite a lot to ask of you so suddenly,” Edward said, his voice gentle. “But I assure you, detective, nothing will change between us.”

So suddenly, you wanted to say, but held your tongue – as a slow realization washed over you. Over the last few weeks, your sexual tension around Jonathan had been growing more than you realized – perhaps because they’d been planning this moment for some time. The looks Jonathan had given you over the last few weeks, the words he’d spoken – it had all been a part of their plan, and you’d been blind to see it. You glared down at Edward, anger rushing hot through your veins like a wildfire.

Footsteps behind you got your attention, and before you could react, Jonathan was suddenly behind you. You felt his breath on your neck, before one of his hand snaked around your shoulder, once more grabbing at your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. Another bolt of worry shot through every limb – but what was worse was the heat that traveled all the way down to your groin, aching, dampening arousal between your thighs.

“I can see it in your eyes, detective,” Jonathan said. “You want this as much as we do. You need this. To be wanted. Needed. Craved.” His breath tickled at your skin, each word out of his mouth making chills run up and down your spine.

Because the goddamn truth was that he was right.

All your life, you’d dreamed of being desired, wanted, needed. Feared being unloved, used, cast aside as nothing. And now, to have two dangerous men wanting you, so much that they were willing to share you…it caused a ripple of delicious heat to pool in your core. It stirred to life all of this wicked desires in your heart, driving you to the brink of madness. And the worst part was that Jonathan Crane had you completely and utterly figured out. It was like he could see straight down into your soul, finding your fears with just one look, and whisper them in your ear, revealing them to you in all their frightening glory.

Angrily, you scowled, yanking your chin from his grasp once more, crossing your arms over yourself. As much as they wanted you to play this game with them, you would not give in so easily – not without understanding the terms of this…arrangement. Slowly, you turned back around, glancing at both of them; they stood there with hungry looks in their eyes, as if waiting for your next move, the next words out of your mouth. You wandered back over to the desk and hoisted yourself onto it, crossing one leg over the other, placing your hands behind you to keep yourself propped up. Jonathan regarded you with a raised brow, as if interested in your next move. Good, you thought. If they could play this game, you could play it, too.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Edward sit up a little straighter from his spot at the desk. You glanced at him, then back at Jonathan; both their eyes were narrowed, full of curiosity, mirroring the same expression of patience and hungry interest.

“Well,” you finally said after a long moment. “What exactly are the terms of this arrangement you two made behind my back?”

Edward pushed back from the desk, quickly standing as he said, “The terms are simple, my dear. I am so generously sharing you with Crane – with your approval, of course. He must ask for my permission if he would like to have you for an evening.”

He took a step closer, reaching forward, capturing your chin between his fingers, running his thumb along your bottom lip in a way that made heat pool in your core. “And you, my dear, are not allowed to play favorites. We both shall have equal access to you – at all times. Whenever we want. How we want. Wherever we want.”

You sucked in a slow, controlled breath, letting his words wash over you as that delicious heat throbbed between your legs. The very idea of being taken by these two men – one who had a hold on your heart, the other you still weren’t sure yet – but the very idea excited you.

And angered you.

You narrowed your eyes, meeting Edward’s gaze. “I’m not a toy to be passed around,” you said, a bite in your voice now.

“Of course not,” Edward said, his thumb now slowly stroking right below your bottom lip with care. “This is an arrangement that will benefit all of us. “Our curiosities will be satisfied, and you shall be quite satisfied, detective.” He smirked, that tricky glint in his eyes gleaming.

You looked away again, your gaze straying somewhere far across the other side of the room. A thousand words hung on your lips, but you could not seem to get them out. You had so many questions, but your mind was drawing a blank, too wrapped up in your own terror and excitement and desire. To be so…needed. Wanted. Desired. By these two men…it alighted a fire within you, awakening so many dark desires in your heart, bringing to life a darkness that resided in the very depths of your soul. You shivered against Edward’s touch, trembling, fear and desire pooling in your stomach, melding together as one.

“Is it fear or desire that makes you tremble so?” Jonathan asked, stepping forward.

“Both,” you answered, because that was the honest truth.

They exchanged a look, and Edward’s hand slipped from your chin. He finally took a step back, disappearing into the dark shadows of the office to lean against the wall and cross his arms, making room for Jonathan to step in front of you now. He studied you with a careful eye, his gaze roaming every inch of your skin.

“Dilated pupils. Flushed skin,” he said quietly, as if more to himself, but his gaze dropped to your chest, pausing there for a moment; you glanced down, realizing that your nipples had hardened, slightly poking through the fabric of your dress.

Jonathan glanced back at you. “Signs of your arousal are clearly evident.”

Your gaze slid from Jonathan back to Edward, who was watching the entire interaction silently, his head cocked slightly to the side. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the blood rushing through your ears, the warmth between your legs – Jonathan was clearly right. You were aroused. You were terrified.

And you were also completely at their mercy.

Your gaze shifted back to Jonathan. “And what exactly do you want out of this, Crane?”

He took another slow, calculated step forward until he was but millimeters from you. Slowly, his hand reached out once more to capture your chin between two fingers, slightly lifting your face to look directly into your eyes.

“I want you,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “But I will not unless you give me permission. Such brutalities are far beneath me. I will only touch you if you say so.”

He was but millimeters away from you, and you hesitated, a sharp breath leaving your lips. You glanced over Jonathan’s shoulder once more, searching for Edward, and he gave you a slow nod. Giving his permission. But if you went down this route, you knew the utter truth: there would be no going back. There would be no way to forget this happened. Edward already had his claws in you, and if you allowed Crane to do the same…there would be no changing that. You would be theirs – both of theirs – completely.

And, perhaps, the truth was that you wanted to be.

You glanced back at Jonathan. “Then take me,” you whispered.

That was all he needed. In an instant, his lips were on yours, crushing, bruising. One of his hands grabbed your hip, fingers digging into your flesh. His other hand snaked up, threading itself in your hair, tugging lightly. His kisses were not gentle – they were rough, possessive, his tongue invading your mouth with almost a brutal possessiveness. You gasped lightly, your tongue meeting his, sending a shiver down your spine. Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly as his mouth moved from your lips, across your jaw, down your neck. His lips were rough from scarring, and he smelled of a strange mixture of musk and woods, the scent invading your nose. His teeth nipped at your neck, his tongue snaking out to massage each small bite, as if soothing your flesh. Slowly, testing, you spread your legs slightly, allowing him to nestle himself in between them – and you could already feel the hardness of his own arousal suddenly pressing against your core. You leaned into him, arching your back, a soft moan escaping your lips as his mouth and teeth found that sensitive spot on your neck – the one that made you crumble beneath him. You shuddered against him, his body hard and lean – leaner than Edward’s, and you found yourself comparing the way Jonathan kissed you to the way Edward did.

A low rumble escaped Jonathan’s mouth, and his onslaught of kisses continued, working their way across the delicate flesh of your collarbone. He brushed your necklace aside and let his tongue drag across your skin, causing a shudder to pass through you. His tongue was warm, wet, sending a delicious heat rippling across every inch of your body, shooting pleasure all the way down to your clit. You gasped as he brought his lips up the other side of your jaw, as if to savor the other side of your face, his teeth nipping once more at your skin.

Opening your eyes slightly, you found Edward continuing to watch with a strange curiosity in his gaze, his eyes narrowed and focused on the scene at hand. At watching another man touch you, have his way with you – sending another tremble through you, bundling fear deep in your core, tightening in your stomach.

Just then, Jonathan’s hand gripped your chin once more, forcing you to look back at him, his eyes cold and calculating. “Don’t look at him, pet,” he said quietly. “Focus on me. Or are you afraid of what he might be thinking?”

The sharp intake of breath made you tremble again, and you licked your lips before saying, “Yes…I’m afraid.”

“No need to be afraid,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Fear is good. It reminds you of the dangers that surround you. After all, you’re here with us, aren’t you? You have every right to be afraid.”

You were quiet for a beat – because you were afraid of where this would lead, what would come of it, what Edward would think to watch as you were ravished by another man. But your own curiosity, your own pull towards Jonathan, was too much to bear, too confusing, further drawing you into that darkest part of yourself that you did not want to admit to.

His grip on your chin tightened. “Fear governs everything you do,” he continued. “And it also gives way to more…primal desires, detective. Desires you try to deny yourself. Desires you do not want to admit to, that frighten you. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” you whispered, knowing every word out of his mouth was right.

His cold eyes narrowed, and he backed away slightly, studying you carefully. His cold, cruel gaze was enough to cause your trembling body to tremble even more, to cause panic swelling in your stomach. A part of you desperately wanted to bolt out of this room, to flee, but you were glued to the spot – your desire too great to ignore. You fought the urge to look over at Edward again, despite how great your curiosity was, and kept your eyes fixated on Jonathan instead, watching as his hand snaked up to stroke at your face, in a motion that could be disguised for gentle, but you saw it for what it was: complete control. His hand brushed across your cheek – before suddenly gripping into your hair once more, tangling in your strands, his nails digging slightly into your scalp in that painful, pleasurable sort of way. A soft gasp escaped your lips as his roughness, and you trembled against him.

His eyes roved over you carefully, as if taking every inch of you in, as if trying to figure out what to do with you next. You couldn’t help but wonder how experienced he was, how many men or women he’d been with, what kind of things he was into. You smirked, a heat of desire pulsing in your belly at the way he looked at you with such primal intention.

“Undress,” he finally said, a low command, leaving no room for arguing.

You blinked, a bit taken aback, but your gaze slid to the door. “What if someone—”

“It’s been taken care of,” Edward spoke up. “No need to worry, my dear. No one will be coming into this room to disturb us.”

Your gaze flickered back to Jonathan. His expression was emotionless, unyielding, not giving away anything to what he might be thinking. He was completely and utterly controlled. Fear knotted in your stomach, but with trembling hands, you slipped out of your dress. The cool air brushed across your naked skin, your nipples growing hard; you shimmied out of the dress and let it pool at the bottom of the desk, leaving you in nothing but a lacy green thong that you’d specifically picked out for Edward. The heavy swell of your breasts were revealed for both men to see, and Jonathan’s eyes immediately dropped to your pert, pink nipples. You squeezed your thighs together, feeling the dampness of your own arousal between your legs. Every part of you was on high alert, on edge, teetering over the precipice of fear and terror. You had never done this before – never had sex while another man watched, especially if that other man was your own boyfriend, and you were in a room with two of Gotham’s most dangerous men, but that was beside the point.

Slowly, Jonathan reached out, testing the weight of your left breast in his hand, his thumb stroking over the nipple gently. You sucked in a soft breath at the small jolt of pleasure that radiated through your breast. His hands were rough, calloused, and he pinched your nipple between two fingers, earning another gasp from you. You trembled at his touch, at the fire his fingers left in their wake across your skin. His eyes were narrowed, studying your reaction, and you titled your head back slightly, arching your back so he had better access to your breasts. He cupped the other breast in his hand, needing and palming at it, his touch growing rougher and more needy by the second. A low whine left your lips, and you closed your eyes, relaxing into his touch – but just as you did, you felt his hand at your throat again.

“Eyes on me, pet,” he said, and your eyes snapped open, another jolt of fear radiating throughout your body. You met his gaze again, studying the emotionless expression on his face, as his fingers trailed downward, carefully grazing down your stomach to the hem of your thong.

He glanced at you again, then back down, before slowly lowering to his knees. Your breath caught in your throat, and you shuddered as his gaze never left yours. Your breaths were shallow, uncertain, nerves and fear writhing in your belly like a parasite. Slowly, he leaned in, snaking his tongue out to delicately brush across your inner thigh – only inches away from where you most wanted him to be. His tongue ran lines down your inner thigh, tracing in circular patterns, before reaching back up to the bend of your leg – and then, suddenly, he bit down.

You gasped at the sudden pain, jolting slightly, trembling in both pain and pleasure at the sharpness of his teeth. But as quickly as the bite came, so did his tongue once more, swirling around the bite as if to soothe it. You glanced at Edward once more, finding him still standing there, watching with a curious, lustful gaze in his eye. You glanced down at his groin, noticing the hardness of his own erection in the confines of his trousers, and your insides warmed at the idea of him being turned on by this entire interaction – even if there was a lingering jealousy in his gaze. You smirked slyly, spreading your legs a little further for Jonathan to have access to. He glanced up at you from in between your legs, before rising back up. The look in his eyes was full of a cold, cruelness to them, not a hint of warmth in his cloudy gaze – and just that look made you tremble more, made the hairs on the back of your neck rise on end. You were sure if he could devour you whole, he would.

Suddenly, his hand shot out once more, and his hands tangled in your hair once again, fingers digging tightly in. “Show me how you pleasure yourself, detective.”

His words took you aback, but your mouth fell open slightly in surprise. You hesitated, but slowly reached in between your legs. Pushing your thong aside slightly, you dove two fingers into your own wetness. With your other hand, you used one finger to swirl around your clit in slow, meticulous motions, causing a bolt of pleasure to shudder through you. It surged through your thighs, down to the tips of your toes, across every inch of your skin, and your mouth dropped open silently as you continued to fuck yourself with your own fingers. He watched silently, before he leaned forward, his lips at your ear.

“Does it frighten you, detective? To have two men watch you while you pleasure yourself?” he whispered lowly. “To see you completely unraveled, vulnerable, at our mercy?”

You shuddered at his words, trying to fight the fear coursing through your veins. Trying to keep some shred of dignity you still had left. As if in answer, your gaze flickered past Jonathan and over to Edward, who still remained bathed in the shadows, watching with strange look in his eyes.

“Don’t look at him,” Jonathan barked out, his voice low and cruel. “Focus on me, pet.”

Your eyes snapped back to him, and a low gasp escaped your lips as ripples of pleasure bundled underneath your skin. Every inch of you was on fire, your brain going fuzzy from the pleasure of your own fingers working their magic against you in just the way you liked. You could feel yourself builder higher and higher towards a release – and having two men watch you made it all the more sweeter.

Jonathan reached forward, snaking his hand through your hair once more, tightening his fingers at your scalp. You gasped as he pulled onto the strands, tilting your head back slightly, his cold gaze never leaving yours for an instant.

“Is it the thrill of being watched that makes you tremble like this?” he asked lowly, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. “Or the danger?”

The only answer you gave was a soft gasp. Heat flushed across your skin. Here you were: propped up on this desk, your legs spread wide, revealing the most vulnerable part of yourself for both men to see. Wetness coated your fingers, and you pumped two fingers in and out of yourself, gasping in tandem at the way your other finger swirled around your clit. Pleasure bundled in your stomach, tightening in your abdomen, knots of pure ecstasy rising higher and higher with each stroke, each thrust, each motion.

Jonathan studied you carefully, his eyes roving over every inch of your body, pausing to watch you fuck yourself. He showed no signs of emotion across his face, and you couldn’t even tell if he was enjoying watching this. Your fingers began to slow slightly, wondering if he was growing bored with this, but his cold voice filled the room once more.

“Does it scare you, detective?” he asked, leaning forward, his lips just brushing the shell of your ear. “To be so completely at the mercy of two men who are watching you right now?”

His words sent another rippled of fear down your spine. It tightened in your stomach, molding together with your pleasure, causing your heart to beat like a wild animal against your ribcage. Sweat beaded on your brow as your entire body flushed from head to toe, sending a shiver across your skin. Your breath quickened at his question, your fingers slowing their movements as you considered his question—

“I did not say you could stop,” Jonathan said, his voice a low command.

The words out of his mouth made you pause for a millisecond, before you resumed the work of your fingers: pumping in and out of yourself, swirling your finger around your clit. You leaned back a little more against the table, but his fingers in your hair did not let up, only tightened harder, sending a small ripple of pain across your skull. You were completely at his mercy, just his words enough to edge you closer to the brink. Your fear melding together with the pleasure in a strange kind of concoction – somehow enhancing your pleasure in a way you’d never experienced before. You snuck another glance at Edward, and he stood back, his eyes narrowed, and lips pressed into a thin line. But that look – of knowing your own boyfriend was watching another man do this to you, it sparked another bolt of fear down your spine, and yet at the very same time, it turned on you to heights you’d never experienced before. Jonathan’s hands released from around your hair, and he stepped back slightly, just enough to take in the full sight of you in your needy, wanton mess.

“Find your release, detective,” he said. “But keep your eyes on me as you do.”

You nodded, barely, breathless as your eyes found his cold, cruel gaze once more. He was staring at you as if you were a bug under his feet, something to be squashed entirely. Fear knotted in your belly, creeping up your spine – but you continued to fuck yourself with your fingers, quickening your pace as your climax teetered right on the edge – and suddenly, the little bundle of pleasure grew higher and higher – before exploding throughout your body. You gasped, crying out as wave after wave of indescribable pleasure coursed through your body. Your legs and hips bucked as you continued to work your fingers against yourself, chasing the rest of your high. But as the sensations trickled away, you finally removed your hands and relaxed against the desk, sucking in slow, deep breaths. Every inch of your skin was on fire, and a flush crept across your skin. You raised your eyes to him, looking back and forth between the two men, feeling completely exposed and raw and vulnerable. You’d never…touched yourself in front of two men before, not like this. Not when there were two pairs of eyes to look at you.

“Very good, detective,” Jonathan said quietly, but his voice held no ounce of praise. Just that patented cold, calculating nature to it. “Now. On your knees.”

You sat up a bit, sucking in a breath, a funny feeling at what he wanted next arising within you. You fought against looking at Edward once more, despite your every instinct screaming to, and slowly, you pushed yourself off the desk and lowered to your knees in front of Jonathan. Your knees knocked together, your entire body trembling. It wasn’t like you’d ever given a man a blowjob before – but something about this…about giving it to a man like Jonathan while Edward watched…it was frightening. Terrifying.

And exhilarating, all at the same time.

Jonathan was quiet as he reached down, undoing the buckle of his belt. With only a few smooth moves of his deft fingers, he slipped his cock from his pants: engorged, glistening with precum at the tip. Your eyes widened at the sight. He wasn’t quite as long as Edward, but he was a bit girthier, and thin, throbbing veins ran along his shaft. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, your body prickling with heat as you gazed up at him.

“Open your mouth,” he said, another command. “And let me in.”

Your mouth opened slightly, a moment of hesitation, before you opened your jaw a little wider. His tip approached you carefully, before his cockhead slid into your mouth. Inch by inch, he slid himself inside of you. You wrapped your mouth around him, breathing through your nose as you massaged the underside of his member with your tongue. One of his hands came to tighten itself in your hair again, his nails digging into your scalp. He tasted of salt and sweat and skin, a brown patch of curls poking through the confines of his pants. He filled your mouth completely, and he slid in and out of you with careful strokes.

“Detective,” he said, almost a groan. “I believe you know what to do, yes?”

You nodded, gazing up at him while he remained in your mouth. Using your other hand, you wrapped it around his shaft, pumping slowly in combination with your mouth and tongue. A low groan escaped his lips as you worked against his length, taking him deeper and deeper into your mouth until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged slightly at the intrusion, but breathed through your nose. Soft groans escaped his lips, and when you looked up again, you found his head tilted back slightly, still gazing down at you, watching your every move. You moaned softly around his member, taking him all the way in, over and over again. His fingers tightened in your hair as a low, guttural groan escaped his lips, and you smirked, watching him come undone. It was quite a sight to behold: the Master of Fear with his head titled back, losing himself to the pleasure you offered. You moaned against his length again, taking him deeper, faster, and he slowly bucked his hips into your mouth in tandem slowly and meticulously, every movement of his precise and controlled. Your core warmed, arousal dampening in between your legs, and your gaze flickered to Edward, still standing in the shadows with a narrowed, lustful gaze. Warm pleasure pooled in your core, and you fought the urge to reach down and touch yourself again, too busy giving Jonathan the pleasure he so craved at this very moment.

Just as you began to quicken your pace, he suddenly pulled back, slipping himself from your mouth. You glanced up at him, a bit surprised at how he’d pulled away, and a bout of disappointment rippled through you. His member was coated in your saliva, glistening in the light. You sat back on your knees, his taste lingering on your tongue.

Jonathan reached down, placing a hand across the top of your head, trailing his fingers down your cheek and to your chin, where he lifted your head up slightly. “That pretty mouth of yours has certainly had a bit of practice, now hasn’t it?” He glanced at Edward for a moment.

Edward’s smirk grew, his lustful gaze twinkling. “Jealous, Crane?”

A bolt of pleasure knotted in your stomach again, and a sense of pride swelled inside of you, as if happy to be pleasing Edward by doing this – even if this was sucking off another dangerous man, one who made you tremble with fear. You weren’t sure what Crane was going to do next, but that fear further increased inside of you, balling into a cold, hard knot at the center of your ribcage. But more than that, you feared how Edward was thinking, feeling, if he was going to lash out in a jealous rage and take you for his own.

“Look at me,” Jonathan said again, forcing your eyes back to him. His head cocked slightly to the side, as if studying you with cruel intention. “Do you fear what he might be thinking? That you’re here, servicing me instead? Or…do you wish it was him in my place?”

You can’t help how much your trembling, a cold chill brushing across your naked flesh. Your teeth are practically chattering with the fear – and you can’t even bring yourself to answer him, to make your terror known. But you can see it in his eyes: how much he’s enjoying your fear, your terror, and you can’t pull your eyes away.

His grip tightened on your chin. “Answer me,” he said.

“I…” you struggled to find the words. “I…I’m afraid of what he’s thinking. I’m afraid he’s going to look at me like…” You paused, the words stilling in your mouth, heavy on your tongue. Like I’m nothing but his plaything. Like a whore. Like a toy to be passed around.

Jonathan quirked a brow, seeming to understand what you were going to say. But his hand finally dropped from your chin, and he took a step back, tucking himself into his pants. “Like what?” he asked, a cruel smirk twitching at the edge of his lips.

Great. He was going to make you say it. Of course he was.

“Like I’m a whore,” you whispered. “Like I’ll be…tainted after this. Like he won’t want me anymore.” The words tumbled out of you, and it took you a moment to realize you were shaking, your fears bundling deep in your stomach, spreading a coldness through your limbs.

“Tainted?” Jonathan asked, his head tilting slightly to the side. “My dear, you were tainted by Nigma the very moment you let his cock enter you. The moment you spread your legs for him, every inch of you was poisoned by his narcissist, egotistical nature.”

Edward scoffed under his breath, a sound of disgust. “I’m sure that speech will really get her going, Crane,” he said.

Jonathan glanced back at Edward. “Why don’t we see, hmm?” His gaze shifted back to you once more. “Back on the desk, pet. And remove that silly little thing.” He nodded to your thong, now soaked through.

Nodding, you stood and slowly slipped out of the thong, stepping out of it one leg at a time. You let it fall onto the floor atop your dress, heat burning your cheeks, spreading through every inch of your flesh. Your skin was on fire with desire and terror and everything in between. You hoisted yourself back onto the desk, using your arms to prop yourself up behind you.

Jonathan met your gaze once more. “Spread your legs.”

His command was not gentle. There was no warmth to his voice, no seduction, just a pure, calculated coldness. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you listened, spreading your thighs apart, revealing your most intimate spot. His gaze rove over your naked body, before landing on your womanhood. He took a step closer, resting one hand on your thigh, his fingers digging in. With the other hand, he tentatively reached forward, stroking at your wet folds with a curious carefulness. You sucked in a breath, preparing yourself for what he might do next; he brushed aside your folds, toying with them, before he slid two fingers into you. A soft breath escaped your lips as his long digits filled you, and slowly, he pulled them back – and then inserted them again, repeating the motion over and over again in a slow manner.

“So wet,” he mumbled, as if he was making an observation and you were an experiment. He continued the slow motions of his fingers, in and out, in and out, and you tilted your head back slightly, soft gasps escaping your lips.

“Touch yourself, detective,” he said, his voice once more a command. “I want to see you find your release on my fingers.”

You didn’t hesitate – you were too caught up in this, in the heat and desire, to argue. Your finger immediately found your clit, and you began stroking yourself in the motion you enjoyed. As you did, his fingers began to pump out of you harder, faster, at a furious pace, fucking you. You gasped at the sensation of his fingers and you stroking your clit – together in tandem, slowly bundling pleasure in your core. Sweat beaded down your brow and soft gasps and moans escaped your lips out of your control. You titled your head back, not daring to shut your eyes, fearing Jonathan would simply command you to keep them open. But as he fucked you with his fingers, your legs began to tremble and shake, your whole body tightening with the pleasure he gave you. Your gasps grew louder as you felt that pleasure building inside of you, rocking your core, igniting a fire in your belly. God, you were close – so fucking close – and just as you swirled your finger around your clit again – that band inside you snapped, releasing a wave of ecstasy across your skin. A loud cry escaped your lips, and Jonathan’s fingers only continued to work their magic inside of you. Your fingernails dug into the table as you bucked your hips into his hand, chasing the finality of your orgasm.

As the last of your climax washed over you, you slowly removed your hand, resting it atop the desk, panting as his fingers came to a slow, before he removed them entirely. Jonathan brought his two fingers up, studying the wet sheen coating his fingers, before he opened his mouth – and he licked his fingers clean. The motion made your insides clench and tighten with another bolt of heat, watching with desire as he licked himself of your juices. Your mouth fell open slightly, and your skin prickled with a delicious desire, a desperation to continue this. His eyes never broke from yours as he licked each digit clean, his eyes roaming over you. You couldn’t help but steal a glance over at Edward, who continued to watch with that lustful, jealous gaze burning in his blue eyes. The room was so quiet, all you could hear was the thundering of your heart beating like a rabid animal against your breastbone.

Edward took a step forward, a scoff escaping his lips. “Making her work for it, Crane? The least you could is use your own mouth. Here, why don’t I show you, since you can’t even make her cum properly.”

The breath caught in your throat as you glanced between both men, a bundle of heat stirring within your core. Jonathan glanced at Edward, his eyes cold and narrowed, but he stepped aside and said, “Be my guest, Edward.”

Smirking, Edward approached you, wandering over as he studied you, his eyes roving over every inch of your body. His gaze was full of desire, and you noted the obvious erection pressing against the confines of his pants.

“Edward,” you whispered, but he cupped your face in between your hands as he shushed you, pressing his lips to yours. His kiss was passionate, greedy, as if a clear display of his ownership over you. Like even though he had agreed to share you tonight, you still belonged completely to him.

As he pulled away, his hands dropped down to your thighs, gripping them tightly as he pulled them apart eagerly and lowered to his knees. In an instant, his mouth was on your clit, sucking gently, and you gasped, shuddering at the sensation of his tongue and mouth working against your overly sensitive clit. With two fingers, he inserted them into you, curving them, until he found your G-spot, stroking against the sensitive spot. A low whine escaped your lips as you tilted your head back, practically melting against his mouth, losing yourself to the pleasure he offered. Stars danced in your vision, and your entire body trembled with need and heat – but you were so preoccupied, lost in the feel of Edward’s tongue lapping against your clit, that you didn’t realize Jonathan walked around the side of the desk, coming up behind you.

You felt his breath suddenly at your neck, and he brushed your hair aside, exposing the left side of your neck. Jonathan’s lips were at your ear, his voice a cruel, cold whisper, “Do you fear being at our mercy, detective?” he asked.

As he spoke, his fingers pinched at your nipples, tugging lightly on the swollen bud. You gasped, jerking slightly into Edward’s mouth, but his grip on your thighs tightened, digging his fingers in as he continued to work you with his mouth and tongue. Jonathan rolled the soft bud of your nipple between two fingers, playing with it, twisting lightly. Another soft gasp escaped your lips as your head fell back further, resting against his shoulder.

“Knowing that you’re completely powerless to stop us?” he continued, his breath tickling your skin. “Powerless to the way your body responds to us?”

A low whine escaped your lips. Your brain was a fog of complete pleasure, all thoughts vanished somewhere far away, where you may never find them again. Edward’s fingers moved at a furious pace inside of you as his tongue continued to lick at your clit in slow, meticulous strokes. Pleasure bundled in your core, spreading a wildfire across your skin. You couldn’t form any words, any thought, any care other than drowning in the way Edward fucked you with his tongue while Jonathan played with your breasts, toying at your nipples, his breath hot in your eat. His other hand grabbed at your chin, his fingers trailing upwards towards your mouth.

“Open,” he said, a sharp command.

You obeyed instantly, opening your mouth, and he stuck his first two fingers inside. You could taste your own wetness on his fingers, sweet.

“Suck,” he said.

You closed your lips around his fingers, swirling your tongue along the long, dexterous digits, continuing to taste your own juices on his fingers. His other hand continued to palm at your breast, twisting your nipples in a painful, yet pleasurable way that made you gasp around his fingers. Suddenly, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, his hand resting once more around your throat, and he squeezed lightly. A bolt of fear ran down your spine, melding together with the pleasure growing and bundling like a tightening rubber band in your core, threatening to snap, to make you come undone for a third time.

Jonathan looked into your eyes; his own were dark and clouded, filled with that same cold cruelty, as if you were nothing but his own toy to play with. His grip on your throat tightened, and the pleasure in your clit only surged higher. With one hand, you reached forward, gripping your hand tightly into Edward’s hair, urging him to continue as you arched your back, beckoning your soaking cunt further into his mouth. He continued, eagerly sucking on your clit now, and you felt that little bundle of pleasure grow – before it burst completely.

A low cry escaped your lips as your whole body wracked against his mouth, hot-white ecstasy surging through your entire body. You cursed under your breath as your body shook and writhed, your orgasm washing over you, making your toes curl. You tugged at Edward’s hair, whispering his name, losing yourself as you relaxed against Jonathan’s chest, crying out. But just as quickly as it came, the pleasure began to wane. Edward pulled away after a moment, gazing up at you, his lips coated in your wetness. He smirked as he stood up, looking rather pleased with himself.

His eyes flickered to Jonathan. “See, Crane? I didn’t hear her crying out your name.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you swallowed, trying to gain your composure. Heat bundled in your womanhood, a pleasurable sensation tingling at your clit; your whole body felt spent and worn, and sweat beaded down your forehead, between the valley of your breasts.

Jonathan made a sound of amusement. “No need to compete, Edward. I’m sure your little toy has enjoyed both of us. Isn’t that right, pet?” He squeezed at your throat again.

Your eyes snapped open, and you looked between them, unable to find the words as you continued to try and catch your breath.

“Well?” Jonathan asked, raising a brow, an expectant look on his face.

“Yes,” you whispered, struggling to find your voice.

“But who did you enjoy more?” Edward asked, raising his own brows. You could see the look in his eyes – the desperation for your approval, for you to choose him.

Well, you had to admit, there was something more pleasurable about him using his tongue instead of making you do it yourself. His question caught you off guard, but you couldn’t help the sly smile that curved at the corners of your mouth. Meeting his eyes, you said, “You, Edward. I enjoyed you more.”

“Ha! Take that, Crane!” Edward cried, smiling triumphantly.

A laugh threatened to bubble up out of your chest, but you swallowed it down. Jonathan made a sound, almost of disapproval, and his fingers only dug further into your throat, making you squirm. It was a little painful, just enough to cause you to tremble in fear, but not enough to frighten you completely. You just felt the tips of his nails grazing against your soft skin, threatening to scrape against your flesh.

Jonathan’s mouth was suddenly at your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. “Such a naughty pet, playing us against each other…is that anyway to behave?”

You pursed your lips. A thousand words hung on your tongue, but you couldn’t help yourself – you were in too deep, too far gone with pleasure and lust and desire to think about anything else other than what was happening right now, in this very room, with these two men. They offered you something you’d never been given before: pleasure and attention like you’d never had, never seen, as they worshipped you like you were something to be cherished.

But you couldn’t help the bratty remark that left your lips, “It is when you two decided to go behind my back and make this little arrangement,” you said, quietly, voice barely a breath.

That made a low chuckle rumble from Edward’s throat. “Fair enough. But now I believe you’re just being a naughty little tease, aren’t you, detective?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your smirk growing. You couldn’t help it – the very idea of being here with both of these dangerous men, who both wanted you…it was terrifying and exciting all the same, and a part of you wanted to see just how much you could push their buttons.

It was Jonathan’s turn to let out a sound of amusement, as his lips reached the shell of your ear once more, his tongue snaking out to brush across your ear, making you tremble as he said, “On the couch now, pet.”

Your gaze flickered to the other side of the room, where there was a small couch resting in the corner. Edward took a step back, helping you to your trembling feet, as you wandered over to the couch. You felt the dampness between your thighs, and your breasts hung with a heavy swell, your whole body flushed, nipples pert and pink.

“Sit,” Jonathan said. Another sharp command.

You nodded, turning back to face them, and you sunk onto the couch. Just as you did, Jonathan walked forward; he got down onto his knees and grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide, once more revealing your wet cunt to him. You gasped slightly as his nails dug into your flesh, and he glanced up at you.

“Now, pet,” he said. “I want you to stay focused. No getting distracted now.”

As he spoke, you watched Edward unzip his own trousers, pulling his own engorged, swollen cock from his pants. Your breath hitched in your throat as another wave of desire passed over you, making you shudder. Edward took a step closer, holding his shaft in hand, as he gave himself a few slow, measured strokes. But before you could say anything, Jonathan’s mouth was suddenly at your clit now, sucking the swollen, over sensitive bud.

“Fuck,” you cursed out, jolting back, but his hands dug further into your thighs to keep you still. He glanced up at you, his eyes cold and cruel, the warning within them clear.

Your gaze shifted back to Edward again; his cock was swollen, precum dripping from the red tip. You immediately opened your mouth, greedy, and grabbed onto his shaft, taking his head into your mouth. You licked at his head while swallowing him as deep as you could go – but at the same time, Jonathan continued to lap at your clit like a starved animal, greedy and sloppy, his tongue working overtime. Small bursts of pleasure bundled in your core, alighting a fire in your belly, and your already sensitive clit was at it’s peak. Edward tasted of salt and skin, and you groaned as Jonathan sucked on your clit. A soft curse escaped Edward’s lips as he titled his head back, one of his hands tangling itself in your hair, pulling tight on the strands.

You pulled back for air, a low curse escaping your own lips, “Fuck…”

Just as you stopped, so did Jonathan. He pulled back slightly, glancing up at you, one brow raised in curiosity. “I believe I didn’t tell you to stop, yes?”

“I—” But before you could get a word out, one of his hands came up and smacked at your clit. You yelped in pain and pleasure, too overstimulated to think straight.

“Continue,” Jonathan said. There was no warmth in his voice.

With just that one command, his mouth latched onto your clit again, and you took Edward back into your mouth. You worked him with your tongue and hand, groaning and moaning around his cock in tandem with the way Jonathan sucked and tongued at your clit. Heat ignited inside of you, burning like a wildfire in your belly, spreading through your every vein and muscle, clouding your every thought. Jonathan’s fingers entered you slowly, pumping in an out of you slowly, fucking you, and you pulled back for air again, gasping, a low moan escaping your lips – but once more, he smacked at your clit, and you cried out. An embarrassed flush crept along your skin and up your throat, burning your cheeks.

“She likes it when you smack her ass,” Edward said, rolling his eyes at Jonathan. Smirking, he grabbed onto you, guiding you onto your hands and knees. You held your breath as you braced yourself against the couch, and for a moment, all you felt was air – before Edward’s hand came down in a swift smack on your left ass check. You cried out, gasping, as the sound of skin on skin echoed throughout the room.

A ripple of delicious heat bundled in your core, and you held back your smile. There was something so naughty about being punished like this – being punished between them. Jonathan gripped your chin, turning your head slightly, and you realized he’d pulled his own cock from the confines of his pants, stroking himself now. You greedily took him into your mouth next, tasting the familiarity of skin and salt and sweat. Edward’s lips and fingers found themselves once more at your dripping hole, lapping at your clit, fucking you with his fingers. Another low groan escaped your lips as you felt Edward’s fingers curl inside of you, finding every delicious spot of pleasure that made you moan against Crane’s cock. Jonathan stared down at you, showing no sign of emotion on his face as you took him as deep as you could, almost gagging in the process. As you pulled back for air, you gasped, trying to fill your deprived lungs of oxygen – but the hesitation was enough, and you felt a second swift smack to your ass.

“Ah!” you cried out, shuddering at the pain radiating through your ass cheek. You let out a soft whine, before your mouth found Jonathan’s cock once more. This time, he began thrusting his hips slightly, using your mouth as if it was his own personal fuck toy.

You groaned around his cock again, tightening your hands into the couch, as Edward sucked on your swollen, sensitive bud, furiously pumping his fingers in and out of you. But just as you felt that bundle of pleasure building inside of you, Jonathan pulled back, his cock glistening with your saliva. At the same time, Edward paused his own movements, one of his hands gently gliding over the smooth slope of your ass in a comforting, soothing motion. You sucked in air, nerves tightening in your belly, wondering just what they had in store next. Edward slipped away from you, rising to his own feet, his swollen cock hanging in front of him. You watched as Jonathan reached into his suit coat and pulled out a condom from his pocket. He quickly ripped the foil, and rolled the condom onto his cock, until it was at the base of his shaft, where a soft patch of brown curls was. When he looked back at you, you averted your gaze, almost shyly, knowing what was coming next. Jonathan walked over to the couch, positioning himself behind you, one knee resting on the couch while his other leg steadied himself. He rested one hand on your hip, gently trailing along the curve of your ass, before he gripped tightly, nails digging in. You hissed between your teeth, a soft moan of pleasure escaping your lips as the pain made way for pleasure and heat. And that’s when you felt it – the head of his cock pushing into you, slowly, as he teased himself against your folds.

“Beg, detective,” he said, another order. Another cruel command. “Beg for it, pet.”

You were trembling now, bracing yourself, fingers digging into the couch cushions. You felt his body hovering over yours, warmth radiating off his skin, his breath heavy and ragged. You could just feel all the raw, primal energy coiled tightly inside of him, waiting to be unleashed upon you. There was no room for refusal in his authoritative, animalistic tone, as if he was barely containing himself any longer. Fear erupted in your core, causing goosebumps to rise on your flesh and a chill to creep up the back of your neck. There was something about the change of tone in his voice, how low it had dropped, that made your insides coil with terror. You glanced up to find Edward taking his place at your front, his cock just at your mouth, awaiting you to take him back in and suck him off.

Jonathan teased the tip of his cock at your entrance again. “Come now, pet,” he said, almost a cruel purr. “You want this, don’t you? To be needed and craved and wanted by both of us at the same time?”

“….yes,” you whispered, almost choking out the word. “Please, please fuck me…”

“Say my name,” Jonathan said, his lips at your ear, body hovering over yours.

“Jonathan,” you whispered. “Jonathan please…” You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling his fingers digging tightly into your hips.

“Not that name,” he hissed, tightening his grip.

You paused, feeling the breath knock from your lungs as you realized exactly what he wanted. Slowly, you peeled your eyes open, and you whispered that name he was so desperate to hear, “Please…Scarecrow, please…”

With just that one word, a deep sound of satisfaction rumbled out of his mouth – and he thrust into you. You gasped, crying out at how easily he filled you, how full he made you feel.

You felt his mouth at your ear as he whispered, “Good girl.” A sigh of pleasure escaped your lips, trembling, as his hands roamed over you, before he grabbed onto your hips again. He pulled out slowly – almost completely – before slamming back into you again. You cried out at the thickness of him, at how he took you with an unrestrained desire. He slammed into you again and again, and you glanced up to find Edward watching, holding his cock in his hand; his gaze dropped to you, and you opened your mouth, allowing him to push his cock into your mouth. You relaxed your jaw, allowing him to buck his hips into your mouth as Jonathan fucked you from behind. Your mind went completely blank as you were fucked relentlessly – you could think of nothing but their mouths and tongues and hands and cocks – completely filling you with pleasure, making you see stars. Edward bucked his hips into your mouth, and you breathed through your nose, trying to control your breathing. Low grunts escaped Jonathan’s lips as he slammed his hips into you, rutting into you with the desperation of a man chasing his own release. With each thrust, he filled you completely, slamming right into that spot inside of you. The sound of skin on skin echoed throughout the room, melding together with each gasp and grunt and groan. The sounds of pleasure out of their mouths was like music to your ears, filling you with your own satisfied pleasure at knowing you were the cause of their undoing’s, that you had turned these men into such messes. You were the very reason they were here, wanting you, needing you, craving you, desiring you – and in that moment, you never wanted it to end. The couch creaked with each movement, each thrust, and you felt Jonathan’s balls slapping against your ass while Edward’s slapped against your face. They both grabbed at you, pawing at you with almost a primal need, as if they couldn’t get enough of you – as if their own obsessions with you were growing more dangerous, more unbridled, more desperate.

And somehow, someway, you began to feel it in return. A desperation for both of them, to be at their mercy, to be used like their own plaything and toy. You gasped around Edward’s cock again as Jonathan continued to fuck you, his hips bucking into you, and you felt yourself spiraling out of your own control, out of whatever shred of sanity you had left. Jonathan hissed between his teeth, slowing his thrusts, now taking you deeper, pushing himself all the way inside of you. Edward pulled out of your mouth enough for you to get air, sucking in a deep breath, and you hung your head; it was taking every ounce of your control to keep yourself propped up on your hands and knees, to keep yourself from falling into a heap of pleasure and exhaustion. The room was thick with hot tension and desire, a heavy heat radiating across every inch of your sweat, flushed skin. It was as if their silent agreement extended into each other, as if they were one mind, using you in tandem, taking what they wanted from you.

Edward shoved his cock into your mouth again, and you swallowed with greedily, sucking him off, licking your tongue up and down his shaft. He bucked his hips into your mouth and grabbed onto your breasts, fondling them, pinching and pulling at your nipples. You felt his thrusts suddenly become more sloppy, more desperate, and you felt his cock twitch in your mouth as he came – spilling his seed down your throat. A loud groan escaped his lips as he tilted his head back, his eyes fluttering closed. You swallowed his cum, feeling some of it dribble down your mouth as the rutting of his hips stilled as deep into your mouth as he could go. The bitter taste of his seed filled your mouth, and you swallowed as much of him as you could before he pulled out. His cock was covered in a mix of his own release and your saliva, and he sat back, gasping, trying to gain his composure, a sheen coating across his forehead.

It took you a moment to realize Jonathan had paused his thrusting, as if to allow Edward to finish, before he resumed. One of his hands tangled itself in your hair, pulling your head back, his teeth nipping at your ear as he hissed, “Does it frighten you, detective? To be taken by the Scarecrow?”

His words made you tremble, and a low gasp escaped your lips. His words were possessive and dark, like he was staking a claim over you, letting you know that you were his just as much as you were Edward’s. You couldn’t form a coherent thought or sentence, too caught up in the way his cock continued to buck in and out of your dripping, wet cunt.

“Or does it excite you?” he continued. “Knowing you belong to both of us?”

In response, all you could give was a low whine, a gasp, and you squeezed your eyes shut. His words made you tremble, made your skin prickle with delicious heat. His words seemed to wrap around you, blanketing you in the fear and realization of what you were doing – and who you were doing it with – but at this moment, you didn’t even care.

“Answer me, pet,” he purred.

“Yes!” you gasped out, cursing under your breath once more as he pounded into you with a relentless frenzy. “Yes – fuck…please…”

“Good girl,” he whispered again. His hand loosened from your hair, traveling down to the base of your neck, where he gripped tightly. With a careful grip, he forced your head down, burying your face into the couch cushion. You gasped, gazing up at Edward as he watched, his cock now softening and hanging limp. You gritted your teeth, and with one final thrust, Jonathan groaned low and deep in his throat as he shoved himself as far into you as he could go. You felt his cock twitch, and warmth fill the end of the condom inside of you. You collapsed onto the couch, utterly spent, unable to move. Slowly, you felt Jonathan slip himself out of you, leaving you feeling empty.

“Such a good girl, detective,” Edward murmured. “Taking us both so well.” There was thick, dark satisfaction laced in his voice.

His words made your heart flutter with pride, as if you’d done something so good and well for them, satisfied them both, alighting a desperation inside of you that you didn’t even know you wanted. You laid there for a moment, trying to adjust to the afterglow and the mix of pleasure and pain swirling inside of you, trying to regain some sanity over the moment. You felt Jonathan shift behind you, and when you glanced back, he stood up. The condom was filled at the tip with white cum, and he wandered away, off towards a garbage can on the other side of the room. A quiet stillness filled the room, but the air was still heavy with tension.

“Are you all right?” Edward asked as Crane cleaned himself up.

“I’m…okay,” you whispered, trying to regain your composure. With Edward’s help, you lifted yourself up. Every part of your body was spent and sweaty, and you maneuvered yourself into a sitting position. You still tasted Edward’s cum on your tongue.

The moment almost didn’t feel real now that it was over. There was a strange absence inside of you now as you tried to register what you’d done, and the new dynamics between the three of you now. Slowly, you ran a hand through your hair, smoothing out the tangles. An embarrassed flush crept along your skin, and you looked down at your shaky, trembling legs. There was a part of you that was absolutely excited over what just happened – and just as equally terrified by the encounter, too.

A moment later, you finally lifted your eyes to see that both Edward and Jonathan had tucked their cocks back into their pants. You found Jonathan reaching down to gather up your thong and dress, and he approached you, holding them out for you. You mumbled a quick thank you, before Edward helped you to your feet, giving you the space to shimmy back into your clothes. As you did, you felt both their eyes on you, and you couldn’t help but notice the little bruises and teeth marks in your skin at their touches. A rumble of satisfaction erupted deep in your core, and you couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across your lips.

“Well,” you said, once you were dressed. “So…that happened.”

Edward chuckled deep in his throat. “Yes, detective, it did. Now, perhaps we should get you home, yes?”

You shot him a look, but nodded. You were desperate for a shower to wash off the sweat, but your gaze flickered back to Jonathan for a quick moment. He straightened out his suit coat and adjusted his tie, appearing as if this entire interaction had never happened at all.

“Until next time, detective,” Jonathan said, his voice dark and possessive. He turned on his heels and opened the door of the office, stepping back out into the hall.

You followed after him, but before you could step forward, Edward’s hand gripped your arm tight, his fingers digging into your skin. He lowered his mouth to your ear and whispered, “Just because I’ve agreed to share you with Crane doesn’t make you any less mine, do you understand?”

“Yes,” you murmured, a tingle creeping up your spine.

“Good,” he replied. Then he let you go and gave your ass a gentle smack. You shot him a look, smirking, but stepped into the hall. Edward followed you and shut the office door behind him. Quietly, the three of you walked back down the hall, an odd tenseness filling the air between the three of you, too many unspoken words dangling in the air.

But as you came back towards the party, you noticed Commissioner Cash peek his head out, searching both ways down the hall before his eyes landed on you. “Detective,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I was wondering where you’d run off to. These two aren’t giving you any trouble, are they?” He glanced between Edward and Jonathan with suspicion in his eyes.

You smiled. “Not at all, Commissioner. Not at all.”

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