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booksandteaandtears · 22 days ago

Text

Building something

Michael 'Dr. Robby' Robinavitch x f!prosecutor!reader

continuation of Teaching Hospital (was meant to be a short, but now I can't stop myself from turning it into a mini-series)

summary: something starts building between the two. quite literally. ft. chaotic mornings, highly interested colleagues, furniture and a very stubborn reader

genre: pure fluff, a few shorter snippets, an overview of them falling in love, Robby is a simp

about 2.1k words

masterlist

You hadn't expected Dr. Robby to call you literally fifteen minutes after you left the hospital, but that wasn't to say you weren't happy with it. He'd opened the bottle of wine two days later, seated on your balcony, heaps of Indian food in front of you, Elle Fitzgerald playing in the background -your choice.

He'd been a real gentleman, especially because your arm was still in the sling: pulling back your chair, cutting pieces that were too big, insisting you were not allowed to do the dishes. There were jokes and prolonged eye contact, subtle touches when reaching for the wine bottle and flirty remarks.

When he was saying goodbye on your doorstep, you promised him you'd cook next time. "Next time?" He asked. You nodded at him. "I'll pick you up when your shift ends Friday. Try not to be too late. Emphasis on try." Then you kissed him on his cheek, turned around and closed the door. Robby was stunned on the step for a minute, unaware that you were squealing on the other side of the door.

All your dates flowed easily, conversation was great, the banter even better. The second date (where he had been late, because a trauma had come in ten minutes before he was supposed to leave), had earned Robby a peck on his lips. By the third date he couldn't help himself, and pulled you against him when you tried to make it a quick kiss again. After a second he could feel you melt into his chest, hands gripping the hair in his neck. When you both came up for air he leaned his forehead against yours, noses touching. "Sorry," he whispered. "I've been wanting to do that since you came into my ER. Couldn't stop myself this time." You smile back at him, turning you lips towards his ear. "I know." You whispered. "I was trying to test when you'd finally make a move. Took you two dates longer that I thought." Upon hearing this, his hands shot towards your jaw and his lips found yours again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Dana tried to be subtle. Keyword: tried. It just did not come naturally to her. So when Robby turned up to work with a smile on his face after date three, she could not help herself. "Did you help the lady with her wine? Got your hoodie back yet? You're looking less of a sad boy every week." By some unfortunate miracle both Langdon and Abbot were near enough to hear her ask, and they abandoned whatever they were doing to join the questioning committee. "The lady? What lady?" "You gave your hoodie away? You never allow me near the thing." Robby sighed. "Thanks Dana. I'll be withdrawing your wingwoman title." He turned towards the break room, the two men stalking behind him.

"Come on, brother. You can't keep this stuff to yourself." Abbot was saying as Robby poured himself some coffee. "I can, and I will." "What can't he keep to himself?" Collins had chosen that moment to join them. Robby sighed. Timing was not on his side today. Collins grabbed the coffee from his hand and took a sip. "Is this about the patient wearing your hoodie a couple weeks ago? The one with the pretty face? How did your flirting turn out?" "Fli-flirting?" Langdon stuttered, "In the ER? With a PATIENT?" Robby sighed, again. "Yes, Langdon. Flirting. In the ER. With a patient. Did you think I had forgotten how to?" Then Robby turned out the door and fled from his residents.

Half an hour later a betting pool was started on when exactly Dr. Robby would admit he had a girlfriend. Dana's money was on four months, Jack's on five.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The morning after date four Robby had woken in your bed. He smiled to himself when he realised where he was and pulled you closer against him, breathing in your hair. There had been no awkwardness, not the night before, not that morning as you took a shower while he made breakfast. He was fascinated by your morning ritual, the speed at which you shoved eggs into your mouth, while somehow simultaneously applying mascara and reading emails. He leaned back in his chair, calmly sipping coffee. "You know, you told me you hated mornings, but now I see why. I know women can multitask, but this is too much too handle at once, for anyone." You smirked. "You caught me on a good day, Michael. If it'd been a court day there would be stacks of paper everywhere. And I would have taken an extra fifteen minutes getting dressed." It had taken you a good half an hour already today. Robby blinked and mumbled something about efficiency. When the last of breakfast had disappeared you sprinted upstairs, grabbing you bag and heels, and came charging down the stairs again. "Right," you mumbled as you sifted through your bag, "Keys, laptop, charger, phone, wallet." You wobbled on one heel as you tried to put on the other. Robby stepped in and stabilised you. "Thanks," you smiled at him. "Thanks for last night, and for breakfast. It was calm this morning because of you." Robby chuckled at you. "This was calm? I can't wait to catch you on a bad day." You pulled him towards yourself and kissed him, closer to his lips now you were on heels. "Sleep over again tonight and you might experience it tomorrow. I'll be back around 8, you up for some Chinese food tonight?" Robby smiled and kissed her again. "Text me when you leave, I'll take care of the food." With another peck she bolted out the door.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

By month three of dating you decided Robby needed some wardrobe space in your house. He'd started taking extra clothes to work so he'd have a chance to change after he'd spend the night, but you hated that. You wanted him to feel at home in your place. Robby argued that he felt quite at home, as he'd spend almost every night of the past two weeks there, but you wouldn't hear it. You had decided on it, and nothing an nobody could steer you from it now. Robby was learning to work with that stubbornness, so he'd agreed on it eventually. There was, however, the small issue of actually making space in your wardrobe. It should have been easy, having a massive walk-in, but it had been filled to the brim for years, piling over into other rooms recently.

At the moment you were both staring at the walk-in. Robby tried to keep the smirk of his face. Your eyes pinched in determination and gestured towards a cabinet at the back. "If I fit more shoes into the right side of that cabinet, I can give you a plank on the left." As you opened the right side, shoes fell out and you were nearly buried beneath them. Robby was working hard on keeping a poker-face, knowing you'd stop being stubborn when you were ready for it, but not before. He kept his distance in the doorway. After you'd opened two more cabinets and the floor was littered with clothes and shoes, he'd had enough of it. You were sat amid the chaos, feeling defeated. He shuffled in front of you, knees groaning as he sat down. His back was leaning against one of the closet doors that wasn't opened. "I think," he started carefully, "You might have a few too many clothes to be making space." You pouted at him. "How about you pick out an extra wardrobe, we put it in your spare bedroom and I take a drawer there? You can fill the rest with your overflow. Might even be able to buy that new dress you've been eyeing since we saw it in town last week." You shuffled yourself towards his laps and straddled him. "Excellent problem solving skills, Dr. Robinavitch. I can see why you're good in an ER." You laughed and kissed him, his hands finding your waist. "But you'll be the one putting that wardrobe together, cause I've got two left hands and I don't want to end up in your Pitt." "Deal." He whispered against your lips and pulled you closer towards him on his lap. The two of you stayed in that wardrobe quite some time.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

While Robby had thought a new wardrobe would mean a trip to IKEA, you had tastes that pointed you the opposite way. That was how Robby was now stood in you spare room, looking at the pieces of an antique wardrobe you had picked out. You were in court all day, and he had a day of, so he'd decided that this would be the day he'd try to build the thing. No audience when he'd inevitably end up cursing at the wardrobe. IKEA building he could do, that was as easy as following the manual, but this required actual skill in carpentry. After ten minutes of staring at the heavy wood he decided he'd need to call in back up.

Court was adjourned for fifteen minutes when you finally dared to take a peek at your phone. Your background was still a picture of a trip to the Alps a couple years back, but you were debating on changing it to the close up picture you took of you and Robby holding hands at the farmers market last weekend.

Robby: So, I'd rather not admit it, but I need to call in back up for that wardrobe of yours. You okay with me inviting a friend into your home? 😅

You: As long as you serve him the good coffee I'm all for it! 😉 Top cabinet next to the mugs.

You: And with a friend you mean Jack, right?

Robby: Yep, he's coming over in ten

You: Will said friend stay for dinner? I'd like to meet him. Planning on making pasta alla norma! 🍝

Robby: He'd be delighted 😘

And so there were three of you on the balcony that evening. Abbot had saved the day. As a reward, you had taken a nice, Italian red from your stash and were enjoying it slightly chilled. Robby had learned early on that he had nog choice in wines, not at home, nor at a restaurant. He had picked up a very sour white wine once and was banned from ever choosing wine again.

He'd been worried about you meeting his best friend, but in all honesty, not a second had been awkward between the two of you. You were in excited conversation about the workmanship that had gone into your new wardrobe, Abbot apparently got just as animated about good carpentry as you, so Robby had zoned out of the conversation a while ago. He was quite content looking at the view, hearing you and his friend go on about dovetail joints and how to best treat mahogany. At some point you stood up to get more wine, leaving Abbot and Robby.

"So," began Jack. "Why the hell have you been hiding her from us all these months?" Robby rolled his eyes. "It's been barely three months, give me a break." Jack laughed. "She's a catch, brother. And you know it. She gets it, doesn't she? Your life? How work overtakes it all some days?" Robby nodded. "It's not the same, being a prosecutor, but it's similar in some things. Work never stops, the responsibilities are massive, making mistakes hurts people. She understands the pressure, the stakes. She knows the hurt people can bring about, the terror a human being can bring onto someone else." It was Jack's turn to nod. Robby looked at his friend and smiled. "It hasn't diluted her though, that life, she's so bright and happy and sure. She's strong." "And Dana approved of her." Jack replied. Robby laughed, a genuine smile reaching his eyes. "Yes, that she did."

When Jack had left, the two of you were sat on the sofa, staring out of the balcony doors, enjoying the end of a lovely evening. You had snuggled up into Robby, head resting on his chest. He closed his eyes and kissed the top of your head. "Michael," You whispered, "I think I love you." You looked up at him. A warmth filled his heart. "I know I love you." He whispered back.

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robinavitch #dr michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dana evans #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #heather collins #the pitt imagine #the pitt fic #noah wyle #the pitt hbo #jack abbot #dr abbot #frank langdon

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cheralith · 3 months ago

Text

— compulsions.

feat. michael kaiser || wc: 9.0k cw: gn!reader, no pronouns used, non-canon au, childhood friends, dark content/dead dove do not eat: cannibal!kaiser, blood, descriptive gore, descriptions of cannibalism, body horror a/n: prequel to urges (isagi). au will still be isagi-centered, but the dumb blonde got me again and this was ofc way longer than it was suppose to be *shakes fist*

For a child so small, it was astounding how much he was able to devour in one sitting.

Half the body is gone—the corpse laid facing up, the man’s face still and permanently scarred, eyes wide open and blank and mouth unhinged slightly from shock. The lower half of his body was completely shredded apart, a disgusting pool of blood with the chunks of skin littering the floor and organs completely in disarray, freeing themselves from the compression of the inner body. The legs were nothing but bloodied bones, only the feet’s flesh remaining; half of the man’s torso was nearly obliterated, only a few chunks of spare flesh hanging onto the visible spine and pelvis.

The boy himself was nothing but bones with the sparest of skin attached to them, covering them like a cloth, but somehow, his appetite was ravenous enough to the point where had eaten nearly half of a rather stout man.

He stares up at the man in the suit, tearing apart a piece and chewing slowly on a veiny clump of red muscle that twitches in the boy’s palm. The body’s heart.

The man smiles down at him, one that the boy only returns with a blank look as he continues eating.

“You must be hungry.”

Still staring up at him, the boy stays quiet, only opening his mouth to rip off another portion of the bloody heart, tiny baby teeth ripping the meat off, and chewing it again hurriedly, as though it were to disappear. Some blood squirts from the muscle, but the red bleeds into the man’s uniform, the red disappearing into the red pants and black button up.

The man crouches down at him, eyes softening when he notices the oddly sallow cheeks of the boy, cheeks that should’ve been filled with nourishment and plumped by this age, rosy and chubby. He reaches his hand out, only for the boy to wince and put the hand not holding the heart up. The man pauses, surprised at the behavior.

Eyes closed tightly, the boy lets out a whimper from bloodied lips, a menial hand acting as a tiny shield against something. He’s protecting himself.

The man murmurs softly, in a tone that seems to be rather foreign to the boy, “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you.”

The child slowly pries open his eyes, turning his gaze back to the man, who softly smiles at him. He waits, his hand still up just in case.

Then, the man carefully puts a hand on the boy’s blonde hair (oily, he notices instantly, as though it hadn’t been washed for days). The child shuts his eyes tightly again, but feels the hand go to gently stroke his head, a touch he wasn’t used to. A touch he doesn’t know the meaning of.

The man watches as the boy opens his eyes again, astounded at the odd, but painless sensation. He gives another smile at him, eyes crinkling at the corner with a twinkle in them.

“Let’s take you home, hm?” the man says to the child, who merely blinks at him.

“His name is Michael,” you hear your father say from your place upstairs, where your parents talk amongst each other in the kitchen as you hide yourself between the bars of the upstairs railings. “Michael, this is my wife.”

You can hear the shuffle of your mother’s skirt as she crouches down. “Hello there, Michael. Welcome to our house. Have you eaten yet?” she inquiries fondly.

You don’t hear a reply, something that makes your brows furrow since that’s not polite to do so.

“Are you hungry?” your mother asks.

Again, no reply.

“Do you like any specific foods?”

“Sweetheart, how about you make him a sandwich?” your father suggests to your mother. “He had eaten earlier at the facility, but I’d hate for him to go to bed starving.”

Your mother affirms his suggestion and goes to tinker with the dishes and supplies in the kitchen. You hope she’s making one of your favorite sandwiches, the one with jam stuffed between Nutella and white bread.

“I hope you like turkey, Michael,” your mother chimes; you make a face at the food, displeased with her choice.

Michael. That’s a boy's name. You have a boy named Michael in your class, and another in the class next to you. Perhaps you have a new friend of sorts? But you only meet friends from school, not in your own home, and especially not so late at night.

Curiosity takes over you, and you carefully tiptoe down the stairs, wondering who on earth this Michael was. The kitchen’s light comes brighter and brighter into view as you inch closer, and you just about make it without being seen until you hit a certain point on the wooden planks and the wood creaks out voluminously.

You freeze, alarmed at the sound, and misstep on the last stair, gravity pulling you down with it and sending you tumbling down noisily.

The impact doesn’t hurt as much as the fright that spikes in your body, scared of getting in trouble for getting caught being awake so late in the night. Your parents rush out of the kitchen from the noise, finding you on the floor in a twisted position.

They yell out your name in worry, but you’re more concerned now with the pair of foreign blue eyes that stare at you from the entrance of the kitchen. A boy with a choppy mop of blonde hair was just barely visible to you before your father hid from view with his body, his face speckled with blue and black in some areas and donning rather ripped and worn-out clothing. You stare at him back, wondering about his presence, before your mother scoops you in her arms and takes you back upstairs at your father’s command.

Michael stays in the guest room in the basement. Your father tells you not to go down there in the meantime and to stay upstairs in your room if he’s ever on the main floor. For Michael, it’s the same instance; he’s not allowed to come upstairs if you were there and must remain in the basement. They even put a tall stair gate that properly separates the two levels of the house for extra insurance.

When you ask him why, he merely tells you “because I said so.’”

“I can’t be friends with him?” you ask him during breakfast before school, some milk from your cereal sopping your chin.

Your father tucks out a tissue from the holder, dabbing the liquid away before it can stain your new purple butterfly t-shirt. “One day, you will. Just not now, my love.”

You say nothing, a response to your father shows him that you understand. He goes to prepare another helping of raspberry toast and cereal, and you tell him you’re full.

He chuckles fondly as he plops a spoon in the bowl of cereal. “No. This is for Michael.”

“How come he gets two raspberry toasts and I only get one?” you huff when your father takes out two pieces of bread and spreads the preserve on it.

“Because you don’t eat the second one all the way through,” your father chides, “and we don’t waste food in this house. Michael needs more food than you. He’s very skinny.”

“Like a skeleton?” you ask.

Your father shakes his head in disapproval, tutting a finger. “Don’t say that, honey. That’s not nice.”

You shrug, going to munch on your singular piece of toast, your full, cherub-like cheeks puffing from the food. “I’m just asking.”

A shattering crash, a loud boyish yell, and a shriek from your mother. The combination of the sounds make you rush out of your bedroom to see what the commotion is about rather late in the night.

You make it halfway down the stairs, using the railings again as a barrier between upstairs and downstairs, trying your best to see what was happening in the living room.

Your mother clutches her palm tightly, shaking visibly as her face twists from what seems to be pain of some kind. One of the vases has been broken, its ceramic shards all over the carpet of the living room. The pasta your mother cooked last night is splattered on the carpet as well, staining it orangey-red with sauce and noodles all over.

Your father holds down a wriggling Michael in his grasp, who thrashes against his hold angrily. This is the few times that you’ve seen him in passing, always so far away from you despite being under the same roof, and you’ve never interacted with each other even once besides the singular moment of eye contact in the two months he’s lived here.

“Let me go!” he screams, pounding and scratching at your father’s arms. “I don’t want stupid spaghetti!”

“You need to eat,” your father attempts to say to him, but his words fall deaf on the boy’s ears. “You have to eat something or you’ll starve.”

“Get the fuck off of me!” he hollers, the curse word making you flinch at his ferocity. You’ve heard the word before, but your parents have forbidden you to say it, with the one time you decided to test it out to see its truth ending you with a bar of soap in your mouth. “Let go!”

“Michael, just one bite of it,” your father pleads, his grip still firm around the boy whose skinniness doesn’t match with this strength. “Just a bite of some spaghetti and you can go to bed.”

He whines and yells, shaking his head furiously.

“No! I want meat! I want meat!” he shouts.

“You can’t have meat,” your father says, which only makes the boy angrier. “That’s not allowed.”

His face is flushed with red, eyes that you thought were blue now flickered with ruby as they stare hungry daggers at your mother. You can see clearly now that his chin is glazed over with something; saliva. He’s salivating.

The boy continues to thrash, wetness spitting out in flecks. “I don’t care! I want meat! I want her meat!”

Your mother whips her head back to the boy, horrified at his words as she continues to clutch her bleeding palm. She turns her gaze to her father for a response at Michael’s words, only for him to swallow dryly and to motion for her to get out of here to tend to her wound.

“You,” she breathes to your father in a wide-eyed gaze. “You need to take him back to the facility. He can’t stay here any longer… not with (Y/N) around.”

“He’s not an animal, sweetheart—”

“He’s acting like one!” she interjects, taking account of Michael’s heavy panting and intense salivation as he fixates his gaze on her, hungry and desiring. “What if something happens to our child?!”

“He’s one, too!” your father insists, ignoring the deep scratches that Michael digs into his skin with his tiny nails. “I refuse to let them do such experiments on a mere child without me around!”

“Then do something about all of this—!” your mother exclaims, motioning a bloodied hand at Michael’s savagery in your father’s arms, gasping as he lets out an inhumane snarl at her, his teeth that shouldn’t be so menacing considering they were still so immature, baring all too harshly. “—before he hurts (Y/N)!”

You’ve been staying awake at night more often lately. The quiet ticking of your clock tends to accompany you, along with whatever sounds the quiet of the night gives out.

A car pulls into the driveway, the muffled grating of rubber against concrete passing through your window with the headlights flashing some light temporarily in your darkened bedroom. They’re back home—your father and Michael.

Michael doesn’t go to school, from what you know. At least… in the daytime. When you’re upstairs, belly full and ready to do your homework in your room, your father takes Michael to “night school”, where he does seemingly the same business you do at school, just in the evening. They’ll leave at around 8:30 pm then come back at around midnight or so.

And all the while, you lay in bed. Waiting for their return. But you don’t go outside of your bedroom to greet them, not wanting to get in trouble for breaking two rules at once, you just merely lie there in wait. For some reason, you can’t go to slumber unless you know they’re home.

You can hear them talking amongst each other, voices muffled by the platform between the floors and the thick walls, but they’re talking calmly. It took awhile to get him to speak, but Michael does answer in short responses, only answering in bare minimums, so conversations often feel one-sided.

Your mother stays away from him now, only just cooking him dinner and preparing his clothes. But she makes herself scarce ever since he sunk his teeth into the deep layers of her palm.

When you asked her about it, despite knowing the reality of the situation, her eyes momentarily widened in fear before she turned to you with a plastic smile, eyes softened in a gaze that didn’t seem like her.

“Mommy just burnt her hand on the stove, that’s all,” she said, voice a little tight.

You meet Michael for the very first time in the dead of night.

Your throat was dry and aching for water, and your mother had forgotten to prepare you some before bedtime, so you creeped downstairs in the blue hour of the night, entered the code that your father gave you for the gate on the stairs, and pattered to the kitchen.

It’s there that you see him, spotlighted by the light of the fridge. He’s peering his head into it, the door to the basement wide open, his enclosure opened. Your breath hitches when you stare at him, almost admiringly so.

For some reason, however, the boy doesn’t move. He just keeps staring into the remnants of the fridge, disinterest on his face. There are eye bags under his eyes, heavy and tinted with an exhausted purple. The bruises from his face have long faded, with some yellow specks here and there, but otherwise, he actually looks a little more human now.

You freeze in your place when you see him in full flesh for the first time without any restrictions to guard between the two of you. A silence falls on your lips, your breath hitching as to not make any sudden noises to startle him and you decide that it’s best to go back upstairs until he goes back down into the basement, but just as you’re about to move, Michael closes the door and turns back.

Then he sees you. You see him. Your eyes widen. He blinks.

It’s hard to see, given that the house was only lit by the light above the stove, but you see him there in full visibility. You’re a little taller, but you make direct eye contact with him, your eyes meeting intentful hues of blue.

You don’t know what to do. You’ve been good so far—abiding by your parents’ words and avoiding interaction with him until you were able, but now you’re face to face with him completely by accident. Will you get in trouble?

Michael suddenly takes a step forward. You instantly take a step back in fright. He furrows his brows.

“Move,” he commands, an icy stare piercing into you.

A yelp struggles itself in your throat, only coming out as a weakened mewl, and you jump out of the way.

Michael doesn’t spare you another look as he exits the kitchen and enters back into the opening of the basement, shutting the door behind him.

The lock clicks. You’re alone in the kitchen now, left alone with your thoughts and the ghost of Michael.

Your throat feels drier than ever before.

It’s been a few weeks since you met Michael face to face for the first time, and you’ve made the habit to make sure you have a full glass of water at your bedside to avoid having to creep down again and run into the stranger in your house. But you’ve forgotten to do so tonight.

You opted for just drinking the sink water from the bathroom, but the taste was different in comparison to the water machine, too tinny and metallic for your liking, an iron-like taste remaining on your tongue that you wanted to wash out.

So… making sure that you were completely alone… you walk downstairs and to the kitchen again. You sigh in relief when you peek through the hallway and find that you were alone this time in the darkness of the kitchen, the overhead stove light still on to light your way.

You watch mindlessly as your cup fills with water, not thinking much of it and turning back to go back to bed, until you gasp so hard that some water sloshes out of the cup.

Michael stands before you, idly and eerily still. The moonlight from the window haloes him and makes him look like a phantom in the night.

Did you not hear the basement door open? Or perhaps the creak of his footsteps? It doesn’t matter now, considering you and him are now once again just feet apart from one another, a distance that seems all too close for your liking.

Neither of you say anything at first. Your large eyes just stare into his dull ones, trying to question why he’s here again. Until he speaks.

“Clean that up.”

Trance breaking from his haunting figure, you gain back a sense of reality and feel the coldness of the water on your foot, grounding you back.

“Huh?” you look down and see a puddle of water. “Oh…”

“Clean it up,” he says, pointing. “Before you slip.”

Your voice catches itself in your throat. Words drown themselves in the confusion you’re faced with at the interaction, and you do nothing except for place the cup on the counter and take some paper towels, soaking it up.

Michael watches you as you quietly clean up your mess, eyes scanning your figure and its every movement. Once the floor was dry, you go back to shyly fill up your cup again from the spilt water and try to pass him to go back to the safety of your bedroom, until you hear him speak again.

“I want to go upstairs,” he says, capturing your attention again.

You turn back to him, a worried pinch in your brow.

“Dad says you can’t.”

“I don’t care,” he states and tries again. “I want to go upstairs. Take me there.”

You frown, clearly unimpressed at his bossiness. “No. I’ll get in trouble.”

His eyes narrow and you flinch.

“Take me upstairs. Now. I want to see what’s there.”

The way he says it sounds almost growly, like he was about to bite at you. You can almost see him snarl slightly when you refute his command.

But you resist anyway, knowing what’s good for you. “I said no.”

Now he’s really irritated, given by the gnashing of teeth and balled fists.

“Take me upstairs or I’ll eat you,” he threatens, his voice now filled with contempt and impatience. “I’ll eat your skin and bones. And then your brain and heart.”

And though you should be afraid of him, afraid of what this stranger in your house might do to you, your face contorts into a mild annoyance, too tired to deal with this matter. If you were somewhat more awake, you probably would’ve been frightened at his words, but the only thing on your mind is just going back to bed—a simple task for a mere nine-year-old.

“You’re weird,” you mutter and turn your back to him, retracing your steps to go back upstairs. But you hear him follow, your footsteps being echoed by his own on the floorboards. You turn back to him, sighing. “Stop following me.”

“I want to see upstairs,” he repeats again, the hardness in his eyes still there.

“...”

You remain quiet, almost feeling vexed at his resilience, but you sigh and roll your eyes. Perhaps if you just let him entertain himself just for a bit. Just for a swift moment so he can shut up and you can shoo him back into the basement. Your parents don’t have to know a thing.

You hold his stare momentarily.

“Just this once,” you state, holding a finger up to indicate your seriousness.

He doesn’t say or do anything, but seems to acknowledge your permission when you let him follow you again. The stair gate is still open, and you move aside to let him in before you close it ever so slightly, just enough that it remains open for him to go back downstairs without the code, and he trails himself up the flight of stairs behind you.

You watch him as he tinkers around with the plethora of furniture in the hallway, admiring the pictures on the wall and looking at himself in one of the mirrors. Just so he doesn’t do anything dumb.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to a narrow door.

“Broom closet,” you say simply.

He points to another door. “What’s that one?”

“Bathroom.”

“What about that one?”

“Dad’s office.”

He then points to the two large doors at one end of the hallway, opposite to your own. “What’s that one?”

You turn and look at where he’s pointing.

“Mommy and Dad’s room,” you mention nonchalantly, the way that Michael stares deeply at the two doors going unnoticed by you.

He turns back to you, eyes still a little vast. “Where’s your room?”

Your head nudges over your shoulder. “Down the hall.”

“Take me there,” he commands again. “Let me see it.”

You want to interject, saying that your room is your own, but you’re so sleepy that you’ll do anything if it means Michael goes back down to the basement and leaves you alone.

So you lead him there, letting him wander around your room and admire all the trinkets that you’ve collected. You shuffle yourself back into the comfort of your bed, thirst quenched and eyelids heavy.

“When you’re done, close my door and go back downstairs,” you mutter as you fluff your pillow, hearing him stroll around your room and toying with the things you don’t really want him to touch. “Make sure to close the gate.”

Again, he says nothing, just entertaining himself with your collectibles and toys. You lie yourself back down and shut your eyes, just wanting to rest once more, letting Michael’s quiet sounds of curiosity lull you to sleep, ceasing when you hear your door close. Relief flows within you, finally getting the chance to fully rest without keeping your toes on edge, until you feel your blanket pulling and the shuffle of your bedsheets.

You shoot up in bed, appalled at the sight that Michael is tucking himself into your bed without permission.

“Hey!” you whisper-shout and nudge him. “You can’t do that! Go away!”

“Your bed is better than mine,” he says monotonously, not caring about your concern. “I want to sleep in it.”

“I’m gonna get in trouble!” you whine and try pulling your blankets back to yourself, but he’s already tucked his body under one edge of it like a cocoon. “I don’t like sleeping with other people in my bed!”

“Then take mine then,” he remarks, his head resting on one of your spare pillows.

You grit your jaw. “No! Go back to your own!”

“Stop bothering me,” he mutters. “I want to sleep.”

“Sleep in your own bed!” you exclaim.

“I want to sleep here,” he murmurs, resting his eyes. “Just for tonight.”

You huff, complaining again, but your words fall on deaf ears when Michael doesn’t respond again, clearly taken by the Sandman when he was finally settled into the comfort of your bed. Your own sleepiness is beginning to take over you as you stare at his sleeping, calm face, feeling defeated and exhausted.

“Just for tonight,” you mutter with hushed contempt to him, despite him not being able to answer as you tuck yourself back into your sheets.

Your father had found you and Michael asleep together in your own bed to his surprise the morning after. Although he was more than delighted to see you and him being in the same vicinity without any harm being done, your mother was mortified when he excitedly broke the news to her.

“But they’re able to coexist in peace!” he had insisted.

“For now! What if something happens in the future?!” she worriedly remarked.

“We can’t keep them apart from each other for long,” your father said. “It’s not fair to either of them that they have to be restricted in the house because of each other.”

Your mother wasn’t convinced, still adamant on keeping you and Michael separated if he continued to live with your family. “You said it yourself that the child is… you know.... What will happen to (Y/N) if he gets the urge again?”

“He hasn’t had any impulses since that one time,” your father stated. “Yes, he may have had some urges here and there but the medicine seems to be working! He hasn’t had any incidents since he started taking it, hasn’t he?”

It was argument after argument with them for at least a week, but your mother eventually brought her guard down slowly and accepted the conditions of Michael slowly being introduced to you more and more under their supervision. It was mainly your father that did the talking to both of you, with your mother staying close to you and making sure Michael didn’t do anything impulsive that would harm you.

It was a slow start, just letting you and him eat dinner together when you came home from school (you find that he’s taken a liking to anything with bread). Then on the weekends, Michael was allowed to go upstairs to be around you, watching TV with you or just intently watching you as you played with your toys (he didn’t seem to be interested in them. He seemed more interested in you and what you’d do.)

Your parents were always nearby if he was around you, just in case that he was ready to gnash his teeth. But it never happened. He never did as much as salivate around you and was just another merely child around you. Another friend.

Your father was pleased at Michael’s improvement in behavior, writing them down in his notebook as he examined how he interacted with you.

“I think the newest prototype is showing the best results,” he had muttered into his phone fondly as you showed off your newest bunny plush to him. He took it by the ears suddenly, making you exclaim and telling him that holding it like that will hurt it. Michael gave you a look, telling you that it wasn’t alive to your disdain. Your father chuckled. “His temperament has been nothing but calm lately. He’s improving rapidly.”

Your mother was still ever the worrywart, always keeping a sharp eye on Michael—an attention that went very much noticed by him. She never said anything directly to him, but with her stony gaze, it was always as though she was warning him not to make a wrong move. Michael would just return it with a flair of spite in his eyes, as though he were annoyed at her attentiveness.

But regardless, you and him slowly began to intertwine your lives with each other, beginning to build a foundation in each other’s worlds. All the while not knowing truly how permanently embedded your futures will be together.

You learned the truth about him when you were twelve.

Michael has to take a pill twice a day and drink something your father gives him every morning that mildly stains his lips purple—a juice he has to drink to gain weight properly since he was malnourished as a younger child, your father says. He eats with you in the mornings now before you head to school, but he doesn’t tag along. In fact, his “night school” has moved to the mornings, but instead of coming with you like any other child, he follows your father and they go to his “school” together.

You never questioned the pills at first, thinking they were just the vitamins you were given in the morning to nourish your body. You ask your mother about it one day after school and though her face hadn’t changed, didn’t even so much as blink, her grip on the steering wheel tightens. Hard.

“It’s to regulate his blood sugar,” she says

Your mother is quite the liar and you’ve gotten used to her lies through the years, so you could detect there was a veil covering the reality of her words. But you never prodded about them more, merely because you felt like you shouldn’t.

She asks you later that day to fetch a hair tie from the bathroom upstairs so she could properly cook dinner, but when you don’t find anything in the main bathroom, you venture into your parents’ bathroom to find it.

And that’s when you see it. A sight you never expected to see in your own house.

Your father, with a long, thin, clear tube in his arm filled with red that drains from his body into a beaker, two inches worth of blood pooling inside of it. A small test tube rack holding seven tubes sits on the framing of the sink, with a small amount of a strange and viscous blue liquid sitting at the bottom of it and a couple of orange caps sitting idly next to it.

The orange caps.

The orange caps you would see in the trash can when you were throwing leftovers out in the morning.

You make yourself small, just quietly watching through the crack of the door hinges as your father finishes draining another inch of blood into the beaker, wincing in pain as he takes out the needle from his arm that connected with the now-bloody tube. He cleans himself up, bandaging the area before tending to work with the test tubes.

Your father picks up the beaker, pouring a bit of blood into each of the test tubes with the blue liquid and you watch as blue melded into red, a plum-like color rising from the mixtures. Purple.

Purple…

The drink that Michael drank in the morning along with his pills tinted his lips purple for the slight moment he was done with it, just until he licked his lips and refreshed them.

The orange caps… the purple liquid. The dots connect suddenly and you feel more than nauseated when they do. Michael wasn’t drinking juice. He was drinking your father’s blood… and whatever that blue liquid was.

You shift your body from your hiding spot and reveal yourself to your father, your eyes watery and mind racing.

“What are you doing?” you ask with a warbly voice.

Your father looks aghast at your sudden appearance, clearly stunned at the fact that he was caught in the act. He picks up on the fact that you were clearly disturbed at such a sight and knowing that Michael was drinking your father’s blood and tries to calm you down in the best way he could, though with how harsh your chest heaved and how terrified you looked, it was difficult to do so.

Your father closes the door so Michael, who was outside kicking a soccer ball, and your mother wouldn’t intervene.

The truth spills out; about who Michael was and why he was here. About the pills and the drink. About what he did and why he did it. And though your father was revealing the truth as to not hide anything more from you, it seemed like the more you found about the strange boy living under your roof, you grew more panicked.

You’ve heard about them before—cannibals. Cannibals of the world were notorious for not only their crimes, but why they did it in the first place and what led them to doing so. Everyone was susceptible to becoming one, but only when one would pass the line of sanity and insanity would be labeled as such.

They were primarily born from a fury of negative emotions would teeter them closer to crossing that border; be it a horrible burst of anger or an intense sorrow, the more a person would feel such emotions, the closer they came to bordering insanity and losing their humanity… and they closer they came to venturing out another in order to regain it back.

A person consuming another was their version of restoring their benevolence, each chunk of a person restoring what was lost in the blur of negative emotions, and with each bite they consumed, they felt just a little more human. But it came at a cost—with the more they ate, the faster they were able to lose their humanity, almost at twice the speed from pre-consumption, their emotions unstabilizing themselves once again, making the cycle repeat itself if they weren’t able to keep them in check. In order to restabilize themselves, if ever the case they did lose control again, they would seek out new prey, more prey, to gain back their semblance of being human.

The notoriety of human meat was based on two components—the flesh and the blood. The flesh of humans was unlike any other; a rich maltness with the extra additions of intense juiciness and a powerful umami flavor. A true delicacy to those who have eaten it. The foreign blood consumed was responsible for restabilizing the emotions lost from their own humanity, giving off a euphoric relief that ensured a temporary emotional stability to the consumer. Mixed with the addicting taste of the flesh and the need to regulate themselves with the blood, the combination proved to be the powerful driving force of the repeat behavior for cannibals.

It was why they were dangers to society if left alone and not properly rehabilitated. If such were left unregulated, the cycle was doomed to be repeated.

Often they were looked at with contempt and disgust—so much so that even those that committed the act even just once and restored themselves to society were almost always shunned by others, mainly due to the fear that they would become their next victim. It was rare, but there were people that looked at them with pity—like your father. A gentle, soft-spoken man filled with empathy, your father had dedicated his life’s work as a scientist to try to help those who fell victim to such, with the last few years being dedicated to working on a cure that would stop such dysregulation once and for all.

The pill that Michael took in the morning and night was one of its prototypes. The drink with your father’s blood was to primarily keep him stabilized without wanting to eat flesh and bones. The blue liquid it was mixed with was to thin the blood and reduce the full effects of it so he wouldn’t become too dependent on it. But none of that mattered compared to learning the truth about Michael and why he was here.

You had been living with a cannibal this entire time. Eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner with him, watching cartoons with him, sharing a bed with him… all the while he had the complete ability to devour you whole if his mind slipped at the slightest sense. The truth was horrifying and you wish you had never learned it, because upon doing so, you spiraled into chaos and sobbed to your father why on earth would you hide this from you, knowing that you loved Michael so dearly, it was unlike any other love you harbored for anyone else. You loved your parents, you loved your friends… but Michael was special. There was a special place in your heart for him.

A heart he could’ve gnawed away at in any given moment.

Your father tried to calm you down, telling you that Michael was just as human as you were now. That such urges from him dissipated long ago and he hadn’t gotten them since he started taking the pill and drinking his blood. That he wasn’t a danger to the world any longer because of what your father had nurtured for him.

“This isn’t fair!” you cry. “I deserved to know!”

“Yes, you did,” your father says. “But I didn’t know how to tell you without you getting scared.”

A flow of tears rapidly smear your cheeks, your emotions getting hazy. “What if something happens?! What if—what if something happens to you? O-or Mom? Or me—”

“I’d never hurt you, (Y/N),” Michael’s voice says softly from nearby.

You and your father turn over your shoulder to see Michael standing in front of the bathroom, feet shuffling. Eyes still blurry with tears, you just barely manage to make out his figure. He seems uncharacteristically meek, ashamed almost.

“Micha…” you croak out.

He slowly walks towards you, but your father abruptly stands up and creates a barrier between you and him, understanding that you and him may need some space right now. You hide behind your father, terrified of him after learning his truth. Understandably so.

But he remains his guard in place, adamant.

His gaze concentrates on you, eyes of azure piercing into you. His usual flicker of malice that he gave everyone but you and your father isn’t there, but instead replaced by a true and dedicated devotion. Dare you say you call it love, even, if cannibals were even capable of such.

Your father clears his throat. “Michael, I think it’s best if you—”

“I hate the thought of it,” he states simply, ignoring him. “In fact, I’d rather kill myself than even think of hurting you.”

His tone was just as droll as ever, but the depth of his words were clear as day. Transparent, showing off a nature of him that only you got to see, softer and milder from a boy whose words were usually as sharp as knives.

His dark, harsh words made you and your father flinch, especially considering that Michael was saying them with a completely serious face, indicating that the twelve-year-old was more than capable of doing such a task if given the chance to.

But regardless, you could still see his earnesty. Whether it was you and your immature brain or the fact that you viewed him as special, you chose to believe it. The doubts still lingered in the back of your mind, yes, but you still felt a compulsion to let him still be in your life as Michael.

You stay behind your father, just peeking your watery eyes out at him.

“Do you mean it?” you ask softly.

“That I’d kill myself?” he reiterates, making you frown.

“No,” you mutter. “... that you’d never hurt me.”

Michael stares at you before he nods.

“I’d kill every person in this world before I hurt you,” he states to your father’s concern… especially when he notices the quiet mania in the boy’s gaze. “... before I let anything hurt you.”

You and Michael were fourteen when it all happened.

He was picking you up from the bus stop that your bus dropped you off at, as his “school” ended a few hours earlier than yours did, with just a mild walk back to your house filled with conversations about your day.

It was a late fall day, the sun setting earlier in the day than it did in the summer, so the sky was starting to spill with the beginning traces of blue evening ink mixed with the remnants of daylight.

You and Michael enter your house, the lights oddly flickered off except for upstairs despite both your parents’ cars being home.

The smell was immediate, the first thing that hit you that indicated something was wrong.

An acrid scent—rotting and putrid. Tinny, the faint smell of copper ghosting around the house. Michael curses aloud, face wrinkling at the smell and saying that your mother was probably cooking up a dead body to your discontent. But you can’t help but pinch your nose either, nearly retching at the scent that flamed your nostrils.

You call out for your mother in the darkened house, wondering what on earth she could be cooking in the kitchen, but when you patter over to that area of the house where your mother was usually in during this time of day, her and her pink apron were nowhere to be found.

Michael notices that there were ingredients being prepped and that she was most likely about to cook some salmon, a knife being laid out on the counter next to a cutting board. But the vegetables and the fish are warm, as though they had been left out for a while. You tell him to check the basement as you search the first floor, a worry building inside of you at the strange emptiness.

The living room, the dining room, and the laundry room are all completely empty, except with the remnants of human life like the remote sitting in between couch cushions and the washing machine still running. You check the front door again to truly see if your parents’ cars were there, and they were; hell, even their slippers were gone indicating they were somewhere in the house that you now feel has a sinister feel to it. Something is wrong.

Michael comes back upstairs. He shakes his head when you ask him if they were there, coming up as empty-handed as you were. Your own hands grow clammy, a slight rush of heat running across your forehead. Michael takes your hand in yours, warming them up with his in a quiet attempt to soothe you.

He says that they’re probably upstairs, that there’s still that ground you have to cover. But there’s this gnawing feeling that eats at you when you gaze upon the stairs, telling you that going up there is a bad decision. You try to voice it to Michael, but he just juts a brow at your confusion, shaking it off and with his hand still in yours, you and him slowly climb up.

It’s not a rushed pace to go up the stairs you’ve travelled up and down many times. In fact, you want to go slower the more of them you climb, this resistance in your legs attempting to pull you down as a plea to not go further, for your sake. You pause on the stairs suddenly, a terror in your eyes.

Michael furrows his brows and tightens his hold. He asks you what’s wrong.

Nausea seeds itself within you. You’re left wordless, only swallowing thickly and shaking your head.

Michael turns his head towards upstairs, thinking you’ve seen something, but he sees nothing but the closed doors of the bedrooms. He pulls you stubbornly, managing to make you climb one more step.

You’re frozen in this state of fear, lip warbling at the haunting anticipation. Michael continues to pull you up, telling you to get your act together frustratingly as he heaves you up step-by-step until you and him reach the top floor.

The nausea grows worse when you make eye contact with your parents door, making Michael hiss out in pain slightly when you tighten your grip in his hand. He wants to tell you off, but you cower towards him, a glaze over your eyes. He thins his lips, letting you clutch onto his arm as you approach your parents’ closed door.

Michael suddenly stops in his tracks, just a few feet shy from the door. You turn to him.

The smell he had gotten used to during the few minutes of the search, using his shirt and the laundry detergent leftover on it to replenish his senses every once in a while, but his stomach twists as he realizes that the smell is much more strong now. The strongest it’s ever been, actually—so strong, it makes him want to hurl right then and there.

A rancid rot of something. The familiar metallic smell overwhelms him… but more in the sense of familiarity and less of disgust. He’s encountered this scent. Because Michael has smelled this before, all those years ago.

Dread pits itself in his stomach when he guesses what’s behind these closed doors. He can hear it if he listens closely.

Not wanting to wait any longer to keep himself in the dark, Michael grips the door handle of one of the doors and swings it open.

Immediately, you want to throw up and vomit. The smell from earlier is the strongest it’s ever been—a disgusting, pungent thing that even makes Michael retch once or twice in his throat.

You gather yourself up from trying not to vomit, and you regain your balance back to Michael’s side… only to see the very thing that would plague your mind for the rest of your living years.

There, in the middle of your parents’ darkened room, was the corpse of your mother, her torso nearly gone with her blood and leftover organs spilling all over the carpet. Her small intestine lays limply on the ground, unraveled, while one of her lungs half-reveals itself to you from inside her ribcage. Her face is turned towards you, a face forever ingrained in your memory as the very definition of fear itself—eyes wide open, mouth unhinged into what looked like a scream.

And hovering over her, feasting on the flesh of her body, was your father, mangled and bloody and ravenous. His face was smeared with blood, glasses speckle with ruby as his teeth sank deep into her limp arm, ripping off a tender piece of skin off so large, it revealed bone. He chews it with a heaving chest, saliva dripping from his mouth like a waterfall as he searches for more skin to feast on. An inhumane growl erupts from him as he swallows, going to bite on her arm again.

But before he can tear off another piece, you scream out loud at the ghastly sight, making your father suddenly look up and see you and Michael standing there, shock written on both of your faces. It paints his own suddenly, the animalistic-like look on his face dissipating with the exception of his reddened irises that pierce into you and Michael.

You shake violently, your vision getting hazy the more you try to analyze the scene before you. Michael himself is trying his best to understand what on earth happened—why such a mild-mannered, quiet man was able to do such a beastly thing.

Your father suddenly stands up, blood still dripping from his chin, a desperate look in his eyes.

Michael guards you behind him suddenly, reaching behind his pocket as he grits his jaw when he stares at the bloody man that reaches out for you.

“(Y/N)...” your father gasps out, throat hoarse. “I-I can explain—”

“Stay the fuck back!” Michael shouts, revealing the kitchen knife from earlier in his grasp that he points directly at the man that had been taking care of him for the past several years—though calling him a man didn’t seem all that fitting now, not with the corpse in front of him and the blood that stains his body. “Get away!”

Your father desperately turns to him, tears pricking at his eyes at the two children before him looking absolutely terrified of him. “Michael… please… I just—I don’t know what—”

A sobbed whimper rips from you, your voice lost, but Michael speaks for you. “What the fuck did you do?!”

“I don’t know…” your father gasps, blood spitting, “I’m so s-sorry… I just… we were in a fight and—” he takes another step, one that Michael and you take back.

“I said stay back!” he hollers and juts the knife at the man.

“I’m sorry,” your father wheezes, but takes a couple of more to try and reach you, his precious child, with hands that once grazed you so affectionately but are now stained with the blood of the mother you came from. He circles in on you, despairingly, calling out your name in the tenderest manner he can muster despite the red tint on his lips and teeth. “(Y/N), please f-forgive me. Forgive Papa—I didn’t mean to—”

You choke out a sob, gasping for breath, the violent tears running down your face muffling you but you shake your head desperately to not let him get any closer to you. Michael lets you hide yourself behind him, his knife still drawn and hand intertwined with yours.

Your father is now crying himself, disgusted at what he’s done to make you cry so harshly. His hands shake viciously, with their only want being to hold you in his arms like he did this morning before you left for school. If the universe could allow him one wish… just let it be that. Just let him hold his child in his arms one last time before—

Michael suddenly turns on his heel, dropping the knife and pulling you with him, abandoning your father in the bedroom upstairs. He drags you down the stairs you came from, a sense of flight overtaking his senses and letting his body float through the air to wherever he takes himself.

You and him suddenly burst out the door of the house, your father’s forlorn screams of your name echoing from behind you, his broken voice being the last sound you’d ever hear from that house that you leave behind as you and Michael sprint into the night—running and running and running. Running so far, away from the house, away from your father, away from your mother’s body, away from your old life… until your legs are so sore that they can’t function anymore.

All the while, the images play in your head, haunting you. Your mother’s ghastly face staring up at you with chunks of her body missing, your father and his bloody face, the wretched smell of the house, all of it makes you cry as Michael pulls you along. Everything hurts, from the inside out, and you’re nothing but confused and scared.

Amidst the night, you and him stop at a park that you think is miles away from your old house, only lit by a few spare lampposts. Your chest hurts, his feet ache, both of your heads spinning from exhaustion and adrenaline, and you collapse into him, your world suddenly fading black.

A sharp pain stabs you in your chest suddenly, making you gasp aloud and sit up in bed. It disappears the moment you’re conscious, but there’s this aftereffect of a sting that blooms within your chest. A clammy, shaky hand draws to your forehead that you can feel is misted with sweat and you draw a stuttering breath, trying to regain semblance of where you are in this darkened room.

There’s a dim lamp in the corner of the room, and that’s all it takes for you to understand where you are.

“Look at me.”

A voice says it from beside you and you whip your head to see blue hues looking at you with concern. Your own gaping eyes meet Michael’s tired ones, and your shoulders droop upon seeing him.

“Micha…” you rasp out, throat irritatingly dry.

Michael doesn’t say anything, just examining your shaking figure for a bit as you recompose yourself with deep breaths. This was routine to him at this point the more the date of the incident draws closer. There were moments that the one singular moment that pivoted your life entirely would haunt your dreams, making you shake and wrestle with the sheets so violently, it woke him up. He had tried to wake you up mid-nightmare before, but his words fell on deaf ears and you only responded in terrified whimpers. It wouldn’t be long before you jolted awake anyways, once the whimpering started.

A towel at the ready, he grabs it from the nightstand and presses it up to your forehead, soaking the nightsweats up and dabbing it on your open neck and chest that’s stained with tears and saliva. Your chest still heaves harshly, but your eyes don’t flicker around as much as they did mid-sleep, focusing on the blanket’s design as the towel soaks your skin.

You fist the blanket. “I had that—”

“—nightmare, I know,” he mutters, placing the towel back onto the nightstand and grabbing the glass of water to help quench your thirst. “Drink.”

Obeying his command, you recklessly lap up the water, with a bit of it trickling down your chest to his displeasure considering he just cleaned that area up.

You hold your head in your hands as he puts the cup back down on the nightstand, head spinning. Michael suddenly shuffles to you, letting you rest your head on his chest like you did at the park all those years ago, listening to his heartbeat to help calm you down.

“I still see him,” you murmur, feeling his hands run up and down your back. “My dad. I mean.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “It’s the same thing every time.”

“I’m sorry,” your eyelids heave and flutter lightly, exhausted. “You must be tired of having to deal with this.

You smile slightly at his blunt statement, eyes closing as you listen to the steady beat of a heartbeat you often were lulled to sleep by through the years.

He shrugs, clearly unbothered despite how many times he’s had to face this from you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighs. Michael’s gaze focuses on the shade of yellow the lamp is, feeling the warmth of your body against his, the silent tears that flow from you soaking his shirt. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

a/n: this was sooo self indulgent but WTV i just wanted to get it done and spit this out here.. i had more lore to him too but i didn't want him to get greedy so i stopped it here. need to fix that ending tho... lowk weak

also their relationship isnt supposed to be hinted as incestual despite the dark themes—their relationship is more akin to like eremika, where one of them was abandoned and got “adopted” by the other, but kaiser still has his last name. also bc reader’s mom didn’t rly treat him like a son and their dad treated him more like a science experiment. hope i implied that properly

oh he dies in this au btw. just so u know

#blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #michael kaiser #kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #kaiser x reader #cw ; dark content #tw ; cannibalism #✍︎ ; alice in writingland

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dexxtrosee · 2 months ago

Text

All the way down

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!reader. Nsfw-ish

He didn’t date much, back in med school.

He wasn't a complete recluse either, contrary to what everyone seems to think about him. He'd go out and join his friends at parties whenever he could, would get tipsy more often than not, black out drunk in some rare ocassions.

But sleeping around was never really his thing. Not because he didn’t get chances, because boy did he, but the few times he did indulge, it made it harder and harder to go back to his dorm and pretend like he wasn't being swallowed by loneliness.

Anyway, the point is, of course he liked a warm body to bury himself into. He liked curves and sharp edges too, liked kneading soft flesh and squeezing muscles. The slick sweat of another body against his drove him crazy, the pants and the moans and the chances he got to have a pretty thing going Robby please, please-

He just doesn't think it’s appropiate to think like that about the cardiology attending that's currently treating his worst trauma case of the week.

He can feel his entire face burst into flames whenever you're near him. The way your scrubs hug your body in the right places, the sweat that pools near your neck after running three floors all the way down because the elevator hasn't been working since monday, how your hands clench and push and pick apart every single thing that comes close to them.

God, he wishes he could be your next subject of study. Let you pick him apart piece by piece, tracing his tattoos and the scar he has on his shoulder, the one that runs down his back, the faded, pale scar that travels down his navel. He can almost see you laughing at the way he'd turn red, at how he'd so willingly become a begging mess if it meant being touched by you.

"I think he'll be fine. You want us to admit him?"

He wouldn’t have called you to help, if he had been the one to decide. He would have called Morrison, the bald guy who has at least ten years on him, or maybe Tannen, the lady who keeps flirting with him despite being married with three kids. Anyone, anyone but you.

He feels intoxicated, way past tipsy and nearing loss of conscience just by getting to smell you, feel your heat radiate into him.

"Could you?"

The tips of his ears turn bright red when he hears how wrecked his voice is. The only other person inside the room is Jesse, because thank goodness for small miracles, but he still has to clear his throat and turn away from you when he notices the predatory smile you're giving him.

You press your hand against his bicep, and he has to brace himself against the patient's bed to repress the flinch. He knows he's breathing a little faster, pupils dilated and a bit stupid from your closeness. Still, he has to try to keep some dignity here.

"For you, Robby? I can admit every single patient you throw at me."

The laugh he lets out borders on hysteric. He doesn’t know what to do, wants to hide away inside his hoodie and strip you out of your bright red scrubs at the same time. His mind is a short-circuit that doesn’t let him think straight whenever you're near.

"I-I would appreciate it if you admited him in cardio, yeah."

He pretends he doesn’t see the way Jesse rolls his eyes before getting out of the room. A man has to lie to himself sometimes, for the sake of sanity.

"Sure thing."

And just like that, you're out of the room without so much as a wave, but a new spring on your step.

Robby notices, distantly, that your smell stayed on the cotton of his sweatshirt.

And his pants feel tighter.

Well, fuck.

#still trying to figure out how to write him tbh #michael robby robinavitch x reader #micheal robinavitch x reader #michael robby robinavitch #robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x you #dr robinavitch #dr robby x reader #dr robby #the pitt fanfiction #is this anything?

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bullet-prooflove · 2 months ago

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The Rose: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @oklahomapeach @queensland-lover93

Companion piece to:

Lipstick (NSFW) - It's love at first blow job for Dr Robby.

Crisis - Robby has a bad day.

ASMR For The Soul - Robby doesn't sleep when you're not around.

Bunny - Robby discovers you've been keeping secrets.

Something To Complain About (NSFW) - You ignite the ire of Robby's neighbour with your bedroom noises.

Noise Cancelling - Robby discovers his neighbour keeps a spreadsheet of your antics.

Poolside - When Robby's had a really shitty day he always ends up whereever you are.

The Betting Pool - Robby discovers that his collegues have been taking bets on his relationship.

Fifty Shades of Robby - Robby's collegues see the truth of his relationship when they find your Instagram.

Dumb Bitch - Robby exhibits his protective side when another man steps on his territory.

Stop Compressions, Start Compressions - Robby loses everything in the aftermath of Pittfest.

24 Hours - Robby refuses to leave your side in the aftermath of the shooting.

Saftey Rail - Abbot gets real with Robby when he finds him on the roof.

Baby, It's Gonna Be Alright - Robby wonders if he's fucked things up with you for good.

Exorcism (NSFW) - Robby and you finally find a way to be honest with one another.

There’s a rose taped to Robby’s locker.

Not a real one.

But one made of tangerine coloured paper, meticulously folded through origami. His fingers trace over the delicate petals before he carefully removes it, wrapping the tape around the stem so he doesn’t tear it.

The soft scent of the ocean clings to the paper, flooding his senses. There’s a light citrus element to it that he can only attribute to the woman in his life, the one he married last year on the beach.

It’s your wedding anniversary today and he’d taken a shift because you’d been away at lifeguard camp getting those last few hours signed off so that you can become a fully qualified assessor for the city.

He opens his locker, tucking the rose inside before checking his watch and frowning. He hadn’t expected you to be back in the city until later on tonight.

“Allegra still here?” He asks Dana as he returns to The Pitt, pumping the antibacterial dispense and spreading the gel over his hands.

“In the breakroom.” Dana says distractedly as she sorts through the files in front of her “I think she has a little something for you.”

“Colour me intrigued.” Robby murmurs as he grasps the door handle. The two of you aren’t supposed to be doing gifts until tonight and he’s wondering what’s led to this impromptu visit.

When he opens the door there you are sitting at the table, looking as stunning as ever. Your time at camp has given you a pretty glow that seems to radiate from you. It has Robby’s cock stirring in his scrubs because it’s been over a week since the two of you last laid eyes on each other and his body intimately remembers the fun you got into the morning before you left.

His gaze falls to the small silver gift box with the navy blue ribbon perched on the table front of you. You smile as you push it towards him and fuck, it feels like sunlight chasing away all those dark nights without you. “Happy anniversary.”

“I thought we were doing presents later.” He says, his lips brushing over your temple before he takes up residence in the seat beside you.

“I couldn’t wait any longer.” You tell him as his fingertips tugging at the artfully crafted bow, unravelling it.

He lifts the lid on the box and his breath catches. His chest grows tight, an ache of emotion blossoming in the centre as he swallows hard against the lump in his throat. His eyes sting as he tries to blink away the salt that threatens to leak down his cheeks, his palm rubbing across his bearded jawline.

“Really?” He questions, his fingertips tracing over the tiniest set of yellow baby booties he’s ever laid eyes on. “This is really happening?”

“Yea Robby.” You say, taking his hand and pressing his palm to the space where his child resides. “You’re going to be a father.”

Love Robby? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won't be added.

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#dr robby #dr robby x reader #the pitt #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robby robinavitch #noah wyle #robby #robby x reader #dr langdon #the pitt fanfiction

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strwbyoons · 3 months ago

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DIRTY CASH

STARRING ... HAEGEUM AU!M. YOONGI X READER

WORD COUNT ... 7.5K

SUMMARY ... when survival means keeping your head down, you make the mistake of looking up.

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slowburn. enemies2lovers. gang!au implied crime. explicit language. cigarette use. alcohol use. mild physical intimidation. reader is stubborn but out of her depth. yoongi is even worse. ft jk.

playlist : dirty cash (stevie v). haegeum (agust d). blood on the dancefloor (michael jackson). god's gonna cut you down (johnny cash). blackout days (phantomgram). you should see me in a crown (billie eilish). castle (halsey). buried in water (dead man's bones). dirty harry (gorillaz).

you try your best to live check by check. you spend your days shopping for necessities at the local market, work a quick closing shift at the drycleaner's, catch the minibus home, unpack your tiny plastic bag's worth of groceries, and then have dinner—which usually consists of a cheap pack of ramyun and whatever fizzy drink was left over at the convenience store.

your nights, much less excitingly, are spent cleaning the bath house beneath your apartment.

you work alone. the bath house is old, and grimy. the kind of place people come to when they have nowhere better to go.

the walls are stained with years of steam and sweat, the grout between the tiles permanently darkened no matter how hard you scrub, and the air is heavy with the scent of damp towels and something chemical. likely whatever cheap cleaner your boss seoyun buys in bulk.

your job is simple. mop the floors. scrub the tiles. empty out the lockers. take out the trash. repeat.

you don’t think much while you work. you can’t afford to. thinking makes the nights feel longer, makes the silence settle too deep in your bones. so you move on autopilot, dragging the mop in slow, steady strokes, watching dirty water pool in the grout before it’s wiped away. you crouch down, scrubbing at a stubborn stain near the edge of the bath, fingernails scraping against the tile.

someone left behind a half-empty cigarette pack in one of the lockers. someone else forgot a wet towel, balled up and sour-smelling.

you throw it all away.

by the time you finish, your hands smell like bleach, your back aches, and your clothes cling to your skin, damp from the lingering heat. it’s late. the city outside hums with a different kind of life—motorcycles revving, laughter echoing down the alleys, glass breaking somewhere in the distance.

you lock up, head upstairs, and try not to think about doing it all again tomorrow.

seoyun herself is nice enough. you only really see her once a week, when she hands you a wad of cash and thanks you for your work. maybe every now and then when she comes in late, bringing in someone else before disappearing into her office.

at some point, you start recognizing a few of the faces. not regulars, not in the way normal bath houses have them. these men don’t come to soak in the water or unwind after a long day. they slip in at odd hours, always in pairs or small groups, always looking over their shoulders before they disappear down the hall.

you offered a wave once, just to be polite. the man had barely looked at you, but seoyun had. she pulled you aside after your shift, voice low and cold, asking if you had a death wish.

“you work here. you don’t see anyone, you don’t speak to anyone, and no one speaks to you.”

the next payday, your envelope was lighter than usual.

you learned your lesson. keep your head down. do your job. don’t ask questions.

it’s easy enough, you tell yourself. you’re not curious. you don’t care what seoyun does behind that office door or who these men are. you just need the cash, and as long as you mind your business, you’ll keep getting it.

so you mop the floors. scrub the tiles. empty the lockers. take out the trash. you get paid, and you go home, just to do it all over again.

you’re not stupid. you know what kind of city you live in. the type of people that roam the streets.

this isn’t the kind of place where people walk home alone at night without looking over their shoulder. it isn’t the kind of place where the police show up when they’re called, either.

you hear things—stories whispered between neighbors, rumors passed down the halls of your apartment building. who got jumped. who went missing. whose body got fished out of the river last week.

this city is not kind. it never has been.

so no, you don’t ask questions. you don’t stare too long at the men who slip in and out of the bathhouse, their faces half-hidden beneath hoods and cigarette smoke. you don’t wonder why seoyun has a new car every few months or why she doesn’t seem the least bit bothered when some of her guests leave blood in the water. you just clean up after them.

but there’s one.

you noticed him because he was different. because unlike the others, he walked in alone. no pair, no group, no low murmured conversation at the door. just him, stepping inside like he belongs there.

seoyun is with him, though. she holds the door open, says something you can’t hear, tilts her head just slightly in his direction.

you should’ve looked away, should’ve gone back to your mopping without a second thought. but for whatever reason, you linger just long enough to catch a glimpse of him.

he’s wearing a shirt you’re almost sure you’ve seen at the dry cleaner’s before, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. he’s not big, not particularly imposing, but there’s something about the way he moves—calculated, slow, precise—that makes your stomach tighten. a warning you don’t quite understand.

for a brief, split second, you make eye contact. no more than a flicker. but it’s enough.

you don’t know what you see in his eyes, but your grip tightens around the mop handle. you drop your gaze, focus on the streak of dirty water smeared across the tile, and pretend you never looked at all.

seoyun disappears into her office. the door shuts behind them, and you keep mopping. keep your head down.

but you see him again. and again.

at first, it’s easy to pretend it’s nothing. just another man passing through, another face you shouldn’t recognize. but he comes in more than the others, often enough that you start expecting him. never at the same time, never on a schedule, but always the same way. alone, with that quiet, deliberate ease.

it makes your skin itch.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s the way he looks without looking, like he sees everything without needing to turn his head. maybe it’s the way seoyun lets him through without a word, without a second glance, whatever business he has clearly above questioning.

whatever it is, you don’t like it.

so you start adjusting. changing your rhythm. shifting the way you clean, where you are, when you’re there.

if you know you have to mop the floors, you do it earlier, long before he might show up. if you have to take out the trash, you drag the bags out back before the bath house even closes. if you hear the front door creak open, you find somewhere else to be. out of sight, out of the way.

it’s not fear, you tell yourself. it’s just caution. just common sense.

you don’t need to be in the same space as him. you don’t need to see whatever it is he does here. and most of all, you don’t need to risk catching his eye again. one glance was already too much.

you manage to avoid him for a while. weeks, maybe. long enough that you start to think your paths won't cross again.

but then, one night, on his way out, he drops something.

you don’t notice at first, too focused on wiping down the front desk. but when the door swings shut behind him, there it is; a pack of cigarettes, scuffed at the edges, half-full.

you hesitate. you could leave it. pretend you never saw. but something about it gnaws at you, a sharp little itch between your ribs. before you can think twice, you grab it and push through the door.

he hasn’t gone far. just a few steps down the alley, hands back in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. he doesn’t turn when you call out, doesn’t even flinch, but when you catch up, he slows.

you hold out the pack. “you dropped this.”

he looks down at your outstretched hand, then at you. for a second, there's nothing. just the distant hum of the city, the faint burn of smoke in the air.

then, he exhales, shaking his head. “keep it.”

his voice is low, edged with something unreadable. before you can respond, he turns, disappearing around the corner without another word.

you stand there a moment longer, fingers tightening around the pack. then, without really knowing why, you slip it into your pocket and head back inside.

the market is crowded, voices overlapping in a steady hum, the scent of fried food and fresh produce thick in the air. you shift your basket to your other hand, adjusting the phone against your ear.

“so you’re still working there?” jungkook’s voice crackles slightly, the distance stretching the signal thin.

you glance at the vegetables in front of you, turning a tomato over in your hand. too soft. you put it back.

“yeah,” you answer. “still working there.”

he exhales, something caught between a sigh and a laugh. “you always sound like you’re about to quit.”

you don’t respond. instead, you reach for an onion, give it a quick squeeze. firm enough. it goes into your basket.

“you could come here,” jungkook continues. “i could help you out, just until you find something better.”

you switch your phone to the other ear, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “i can’t.”

“why not?”

you don’t have a real answer for that. not one that makes sense. instead, you look down at your basket—onion, one carrot, a single potato. it’s not much. maybe enough for something warm, something that doesn’t come from a packet.

your old plastic bag is tucked under your arm, creased and thin from too many uses. you’ve had it so long the logo is starting to fade, the once-bright letters cracked and peeling.

“i just can’t,” you say finally, adding a head of cabbage to the basket.

jungkook makes a noise, something skeptical, but he doesn’t push. “at least tell me you’re eating properly.”

you pick up another tomato, hesitate, then set it back down. “of course.”

“liar.”

a faint smile tugs at your lips. you don’t bother denying it.

you move to the next stall, phone still pressed to your ear, fingers grazing over vegetables you know you can’t afford in bulk.

“what about your place?” jungkook asks. “your landlord still giving you shit?”

you shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “haven’t seen him in weeks.”

which isn’t necessarily a good thing. rent is still due whether he comes knocking or not.

jungkook hums, unconvinced. you can hear movement on his end, the faint clink of a glass against a table. probably at home, probably somewhere clean and warm, not in a market where the floor is damp and the air is thick with the scent of too many bodies packed close together.

“you sure you don’t need—”

“don’t.”

you hear him sigh. it’s an old conversation, one you’ve had too many times before. he offers. you refuse.

you balance your phone between your shoulder and cheek, reaching for your plastic bag.

“just let me know if that changes,” jungkook says, softer this time. “i mean it.”

you nod, even though he still can’t see you. “i know.”

a pause. “are you safe?”

the question catches you off guard. your fingers tighten around the bag’s handles. “yeah,” you say. “i’m safe.”

you can almost hear him frowning through the phone.

“promise?”

you swallow. glance around the market, the crowded stalls, the hunched shoulders and hurried steps. somewhere, not too far, a siren wails, cutting through the noise.

“promise,” you lie.

you tip the vegetables into your bag, careful not to let the thin plastic stretch too much under their weight. the handles are already weak, the edges fraying where they’ve been knotted and unknotted too many times. one day, it’s going to give out completely.

you push the thought away and pull out your cash.

the vendor barely looks at you as they take the money, dropping your change into your palm with a muttered thanks. you count it quickly, thumb running over the rough edges of the bills. enough for a hotteok.

you glance toward the food stalls, the scent of frying batter thick in the cool air.

“you’re still there, right?” jungkook’s voice pulls you back, staticky in your ear.

“yeah,” you murmur, tucking the remaining cash into your pocket. you step away from the produce stall, weaving through the crowd toward the vendor with the griddle. “just paying.”

jungkook sighs, something slow and drawn out. “you should eat something real.”

“this is real.”

“not when it’s the only thing you’ve had all day.”

you don’t answer that.

the woman at the stall barely glances up as you approach, pressing the hotteok down against the griddle with a flat spatula. the smell is warm, familiar, syrupy-sweet as the sugar caramelizes inside the dough.

“how much?” you ask, already fishing out the bills.

the woman holds up fingers instead of speaking, and you nod, slipping the exact amount onto the counter. she hands you the pastry wrapped in thin wax paper, still hot from the griddle, grease soaking through at the edges.

you step to the side, balancing your phone between your cheek and shoulder as you blow gently on the pastry, trying not to burn your tongue.

“still there?” jungkook asks again, voice softer now.

you swallow down a too-hot bite, sugar sticking to your teeth.

“yeah,” you say. “still here.”

"what about the dry cleaner’s?" jungkook asks, his voice steady but distant over the static.

you chew the inside of your cheek, shifting your bag higher onto your arm as you step away from the food stall. the sun is setting, smearing long shadows across the pavement, tinting everything in dusky orange.

the market’s thinning out now, the hum of conversation dulling as vendors start packing up for the night.

“just finished a shift,” you say, licking sugar from your thumb. “gonna have to pick up extra, though. the ajumma that owns it is sick, and her nephew’s out of town.”

jungkook tuts under his breath. “so you’re overworking again.”

“just for a little while.”

“uh-huh. and how long is ‘a little while’?”

you exhale through your nose, not in the mood to argue. you can already hear the frustration creeping into his voice, the familiar weight of it pressing against your chest.

“until she gets better,” you say, glancing up at the sky. the last bits of sunlight are bleeding out over the buildings, the neon signs flickering on one by one. the bath house won’t be busy yet, but it will be soon.

you shift the hotteok to your other hand, biting off another piece, chewing slow. jungkook doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you know he’s not done.

“you need to take care of yourself,” he says finally, quieter this time.

you don’t have an answer for that, so you don’t give one. just swallow, adjust your grip on your bag, and start heading home.

you finish the hotteok as you walk, tearing off the last piece with your teeth, the caramelized sugar still too hot where it sticks to the roof of your mouth. you lick the grease from your fingers and ball up the wax paper, tossing it into an overflowing trash can on the way.

the usual minibus sits at the curb up ahead, its headlights dim, the driver smoking lazily by the door. you heard it changed hands recently, some back-alley deal that put it under serpent property.

you don’t get on.

even if you had the fare, you wouldn’t. too many rumors. too many things happening to people who ask the wrong questions, take the wrong ride, end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

instead, you keep walking, already feeling the ache building in the arches of your feet. it’s going to be a long way home.

“you’re quiet,” jungkook says, voice a little fuzzier now, muffled by the wind cutting through the street.

“just tired.”

he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push.

you reach into your pocket, fingers brushing against crumpled bills, old receipts, and then—thin cardboard, edges worn soft from the way you’ve been fidgeting with it.

you pull out the cigarette pack. his cigarette pack.

your other hand dips into your jacket for the lighter you bought on a whim, despite knowing better. you don’t have cigarette money. hell, you barely have grocery money. but you bought the damn lighter anyway.

you shake out a cigarette, tuck it between your lips, flick the lighter once, twice, until the flame catches.

jungkook must hear it through the phone.

“really?”

you take a slow drag, smoke curling out into the cool air, the faint burn of it settling low in your chest.

“i thought you quit.”

you exhale, watching the smoke dissipate. “yeah,” you murmur. “me too.”

the cigarette tastes cheap, bitter on the inhale, but you smoke it anyway. jungkook doesn’t say anything for a while, just listens to the sound of your breath through the phone, the occasional rustle of fabric as you switch hands, tuck the lighter back into your pocket.

you walk past shuttered storefronts, metal grates pulled down tight, neon signs flickering in and out of focus. the bathhouse isn’t far, but your apartment sits just a little higher, up the cracked concrete steps, past the flickering hallway light that never gets fixed.

“when’s your next day off?” jungkook asks, breaking the silence.

you let out a quiet laugh, short and humorless. “what’s a day off?”

“you know that’s not normal, right?”

“maybe not for you.”

you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “it’s not normal for anyone.”

you don’t argue. what’s the point? this is just how things are. rent doesn’t wait. groceries don’t pay for themselves. you work until you can’t, and then you work some more.

you take another drag, eyes drifting toward the minibus as it idles at the curb. the driver’s still there, flicking ash onto the pavement, his expression unreadable in the low light.

“you sure you’re safe?” jungkook asks again, quieter this time.

you exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night air.

“yeah,” you say, lying through your teeth. “i’m sure.”

the bus doors hiss open. a man steps off, shoulders broad, head tilted slightly downward, dark hair shadowing his face.

you recognize him before you even see his eyes, and you keep walking.

jungkook says something, but the words don’t register, drowned out by the steady click, click, click of boots against pavement behind you.

you don’t speed up. don’t look back.

you just keep moving, cigarette burning down between your fingers, pulse steady, breath even.

long way home, you remind yourself.

you keep your head down, shoulders hunched against the cold, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. the boots behind you are steady, unhurried.

long way home, long way home.

you don’t see the man until it’s too late.

broad shoulders, thick arms, the scent of something sharp and metallic clinging to his clothes. you shove past him too fast, too rough, and his shoulder knocks hard against yours.

your phone slips from your grip, clattering against the pavement.

shit.

you don’t stop.

the cigarette falls from your fingers, embers sparking against the sidewalk. you shove your hands into your pockets, chin tucked low, legs moving before you can think twice.

keep walking. don’t look back.

“hey!” the man calls, voice gruff, irritated.

you don’t stop. don’t slow down. your phone is still on the ground, screen facing up, jungkook’s voice faint through the speaker.

you don’t go back for it. you just keep walking, faster this time.

your feet move before your brain catches up.

the moment you hear the heavy thud of boots against pavement—too fast, too deliberate—you break into a run.

the city blurs around you, neon lights streaking past, the scent of fried food and car exhaust thick in the air. your breath comes fast, uneven. the plastic bag swings against your thigh, the vegetables inside bouncing against each other.

you hear him gaining.

shit. shit. shit.

you take a sharp turn into an alley, hoping to lose him in the maze of side streets, but as soon as you round the corner, you stop.

another man stands at the other end.

not the same one. taller, thinner, but the stance is the same. relaxed, arms hanging loose at his sides, but there's something calculated about it. like he's waiting.

you turn back, but it’s too late.

the first man is there now, closing the distance. not alone anymore.

dark shapes slip out from the shadows, one after another, a slow, deliberate circle forming around you. all dressed the same—dark clothes, quiet movements, faces mostly obscured by the dim light.

trapped.

your heart slams against your ribs. the plastic bag in your grip crinkles under the pressure of your fingers.

“don’t—” your voice is barely steady, your throat too tight, words tumbling out before you can think. “i don’t have anything. if it’s money, i don’t—”

a low chuckle.

“not about money,” one of them says, voice smooth, almost amused.

your stomach twists. you take a step back. your heel scrapes against the pavement, and suddenly it’s real.

you are surrounded, and there is nowhere to go.

the air is thick, pressing down on your chest.

your fingers tighten around the plastic bag, knuckles aching. the vegetables inside shift with every shaky breath you take. useless. not a weapon, not an escape. just something you were stupid enough to care about bringing home.

one of the men steps closer.

you take a step back.

another chuckle, low and lazy. someone mutters something under their breath. someone else shifts their weight, slow and deliberate. they’re in no hurry. it isn’t a question of if, just when.

then, the faint scratch of a lighter. the soft drag of a breath. a flicker of orange glow.

you don’t have to turn to know.

he’s there.

leaning against the mouth of the alley, one foot crossed over the other, cigarette dangling from his lips like he has nowhere better to be. his hands stay in his pockets.

he exhales, smoke curling through the air, eyes flicking over the scene in front of him.

"this really necessary?"

his voice is quiet, but the way the group stiffens tells you everything you need to know.

your pulse slams against your throat, and you don’t dare move.

silence stretches, thick and suffocating. the men don’t move, but you feel the shift, the way their postures tense just slightly. not fear, exactly. not yet. but hesitation.

the cigarette between his lips burns slow, smoke curling lazily into the night air. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even glance your way. just stands there, hands in his pockets, his weight still leaned easy against the brick wall like he’s got all the time in the world.

“didn’t realize we had an audience,” one of the men says, voice clipped.

he doesn’t react. just takes another slow drag, then exhales. “didn’t realize you needed a whole group to handle one person,” he says, just as even, just as slow.

someone shifts beside you. you feel it more than you see it. your fingers tighten around the plastic bag again.

one of them—the first one, the one you bumped into—lets out a short laugh, but there’s something forced in it now, something thin.

“this your business?”

he tilts his head slightly, finally flicking his eyes toward the man who spoke. "not really.” a pause. then, cool, measured, “but you know how it is.”

another beat of silence. you don’t breathe. then, just as easily as they appeared, the tension snaps.

someone clicks their tongue. another mutters something under their breath. then, one by one, they step back, peeling away from the circle, slipping back into the shadows of the alley.

the first man lingers the longest, staring him down, something unreadable in his gaze. but eventually, even he turns, and their footsteps fade.

you don’t move. don’t exhale. can't do anything but stand there.

until finally, “you can breathe now.”

your eyes snap to him.

he’s looking at you this time, head tilted slightly, cigarette still perched between his fingers, gaze unreadable.

you swallow, the plastic bag crinkling in your grip.

he doesn’t say anything else. just flicks the cigarette to the ground, snuffs it out with the toe of his shoe, and turns, like it never happened at all.

you know it’s stupid.

you know it the second your mouth opens, before the word even makes it past your lips. “hey.”

he pauses.

just barely, just for a fraction of a second. then he turns his head, the dim light catching on the sharp cut of his features.

your heart is still racing, pulse thick in your throat. your fingers ache from gripping the plastic bag too tight. you swallow. shift your weight.

“your name,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “what is it?”

his expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. the weight of it presses down on you, heavy and final.

he exhales, barely audible. “i know where you live.” your breath catches, but his gaze doesn’t waver. "stop being stupid.”

his words are clipped, sharp enough to cut, then he turns. and this time, he doesn’t pause. he just walks away.

you stand there, stomach twisting, mind spinning, watching until his figure disappears into the dark.

long way home. long way home.

you force your feet to move.

you get home later than usual, and as a consequence, you have to skip dinner in order to be somewhat on time for your shift at the bath house.

not that it matters. you weren’t all that hungry anyway.

your apartment is the same as always—too small, too cold, too quiet. the overhead light flickers when you switch it on, the bulb probably on its last leg, but you don’t have time to care. you drop the plastic bag onto the counter, the vegetables inside rolling lazily to one side. they’ll have to wait.

you change quickly, stripping off the clothes you spent the day in, replacing them with something less suffocating. your uniform is just an old t-shirt and sweatpants, clothes that have already been worn thin from too many washes, but they’re good enough for the work you do.

you check the time.

definitely too late to eat.

barely enough time to make it downstairs.

you exhale, shoving your sore feet into your shoes, grab your keys, and step back into the dimly lit hallway.

the building is silent. a few doors down, someone has their TV on, the low drone of news reports seeping through the thin walls. the stairwell smells faintly of cigarette smoke and damp concrete.

you take the stairs two at a time, moving fast, not letting your mind linger too long on what happened earlier.

the bath house is waiting. the floors need mopping. the tiles need scrubbing. the lockers need emptying.

same as always.

and if your hands shake a little as you reach for the keys, if your pulse stutters at the sound of footsteps in the alley beside the building, if the cigarette pack in your pocket feels heavier than it should, well.

that’s nobody’s problem but yours.

seoyun is waiting at the entrance when you arrive, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, a cigarette smoldering lazily between two fingers. the sight is unusual enough to make your steps falter. she’s never here when you start your shift—never at the front, never waiting.

but tonight, she is. and she’s smiling.

too wide, too friendly. the kind of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“there she is,” she says, pushing off the doorframe with an easy stretch. the cigarette dangles from her lips as she gestures for you to come in. “was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you just step inside, brushing past her. the scent of smoke clings to the warm, humid air, mixing with the ever-present tang of chlorine and damp towels.

seoyun flicks ash onto the ground, watching you with something unreadable in her expression.

“long day?” she asks, too casual.

you don’t like this. don’t like the way she’s looking at you, don’t like the way her tone is just a little too light, too knowing.

your fingers tighten around your keys as you shove them into your pocket.

“same as always,” you say.

seoyun hums, dragging another slow pull from her cigarette. “right,” she says, exhaling. the smoke curls up toward the ceiling, lazy and slow. “same as always.”

something in your stomach knots.

you force your feet to move, heading toward the supply closet, keeping your face blank, your steps steady. behind you, seoyun chuckles under her breath, amused.

you don’t ask what’s so funny. you don’t want to know. you’ve barely made it three steps when seoyun calls after you.

“oh—someone left something in the back,” she says, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of her shoe. “be a doll and grab it for me, would you?”

you pause, turning slightly. “what is it?”

seoyun waves a hand, already distracted. “just a bag. nothing heavy.”

her tone is airy, but something about the way she says it makes your skin itch. still, you nod. “sure.”

you turn back toward the hallway, but curiosity gnaws at you, the weight of the day pressing in, making you reckless. before you can stop yourself, the question slips out.

“who are you waiting for?”

seoyun doesn’t even blink. “investor.”

it comes so easily, so smoothly, that you almost believe it.

almost.

but then she shifts, adjusting the hem of her blouse, smoothing it down with practiced ease, and that’s when you know. she’s lying.

you don’t push. you just nod, keep your head down, and make your way to the back.

the hallway stretches long and dim, the overhead bulbs buzzing faintly. you reach the back door, fingers brushing against the cool metal handle. it’s unlocked, cracked open just enough to let the night seep in. you push the door open.

the duffel bag sits just outside, slumped against the frame. black, unmarked, zipper pulled shut.

you crouch down, fingers curling around the straps. the material is rough beneath your skin, edges worn from too much use. then,you lift.

too heavy.

your breath catches. too heavy.

your mind moves too fast, filling in blanks you don’t want to see. you’ve taken out the trash before. you’ve carried bags that sagged in the middle, that smelled of iron, that weren’t meant to be opened. you know what heavy means.

your grip falters. the bag slips, nearly dragging from your hands before you catch it. your pulse stutters, cold fear lacing through your ribs.

don’t ask. don’t look.

you inhale slow, steady, force your hands to hold firm. it’s just a bag. just a bag...

with effort, you lift it fully, shifting the weight onto your shoulder, muscles burning under the strain. you swallow hard and step back inside.

you barely make it two steps inside before you hear voices at the front. he’s here. you know it before you see him. the weight of the duffel bag is still solid on your shoulder, but now it feels secondary, something you can barely focus on amisdt the slow churn in your stomach.

you step back into the hallway, adjusting the strap, keeping your head down, hoping—stupidly—that you can slip past unnoticed.

of course, no such luck.

“ah, perfect timing.” seoyun. her voice rings out, light, too amused.

you glance up. and there he is.

leaning against the counter, that same easy posture, hands in his pockets, his gaze flicking up just enough to acknowledge you before shifting away again.

seoyun gestures between you both, as though presenting something far funnier than it is. “you’ve probably seen each other before,” she says, feigning innocence. “our little night shift worker here is very good at keeping her head down, but i’m sure you’ve noticed her around.”

your stomach twists.

oh, you’ve noticed each other.

you keep your expression blank, fingers tightening around the duffel strap.

he says nothing. doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge seoyun’s prodding. just exhales, gaze unreadable, and flicks his eyes back toward her instead.

which would be a relief, if it weren’t so damn frustrating. all that effort. weeks spent avoiding him at work, shifting your schedule, moving quietly enough to never share space with him longer than necessary.

and now this.

“lucky you,” seoyun muses, still grinning, watching the whole thing unfold with far too much enjoyment.

lucky. yeah, you don’t feel very lucky.

you shift the weight of the bag on your shoulder. “where do you want this?” you ask, voice clipped, pointedly ignoring everything else.

seoyun waves a hand, dismissive. “just put it in my office.”

you nod, turn on your heel, and leave. as you move past him, you swear you feel his eyes flick toward you. brief, unreadable, nothing at all.

but you don’t check to be sure.

the night drags.

you mop, same as always. push the handle forward, pull it back, watch the water smear across the tiles before it settles into the grout.

the meeting—or whatever it was—is over. seoyun left not long after, a lazy wave and a hum on her lips, disappearing back into her office.

he didn’t. he’s still here.

you don’t know when you noticed. a few minutes ago, maybe more. but the weight of his stare is impossible to ignore now, sitting heavy at the nape of your neck, settling deep in your ribs.

you keep mopping. push forward, pull back. the wet slosh of the mop head against tile fills the silence.

then, “are you dumb, suicidal, or both?”

you stop. the words land low, devoid of real curiosity. as though he’s already decided the answer and is just waiting to see if you’ll admit it.

slowly, you straighten. the mop handle stays gripped in your hands, and you turn.

he’s leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. the picture of ease, like he belongs here. like he’s got all the time in the world.

but his eyes, his eyes aren’t lazy. they’re sharp. settled on you in a way that makes your pulse jump, makes you suddenly aware of every single choice you’ve made tonight.

the duffel bag. the alley. the cigarette pack.

you swallow. shift your grip. “excuse me?”

he tilts his head, considering. “which is it?”

you blink. “what the hell are you talking about?”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “if you’re dumb, suicidal, or both.”

your fingers tighten around the mop handle. something slow claws its way up your throat. you are tired. you are sore. you are done.

and this man—who you have gone out of your way to avoid, who you didn’t ask to get involved with, who you didn’t ask anything from—is standing here asking you that? your jaw ticks.

“neither,” you say.

his brows lift slightly, the barest flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “funny,” he murmurs, low, amused. “that’s not what it looks like.”

you click your tongue, annoyed, and turn back to the mop. push forward, pull back.

if he wants to talk, let him talk. you don’t owe him anything—not a response, not an explanation, not a damn thing.

but he doesn’t stop. “why’d you walk home?”

your grip tightens. you don’t answer.

“you heard about the minibus, didn’t you?” he continues, voice even, too casual for the words coming out of his mouth. “knew it wasn’t safe, so you avoided it. smart enough for that.”

your jaw locks.

“but not smart enough to notice when a bunch of guys are clocking you from a mile away.”

the mop sloshes against the tile, bristles scraping rough. your shoulders ache from tension, from exhaustion, from everything.

“is your situational awareness always that bad, or were you just in the mood to die tonight?”

you suck in a breath, sharp and slow, force your pulse to steady.

he exhales, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts. mocking now, biting. “seriously. you have the survival instinct of an infant.”

push forward. pull back.

your knuckles are white against the mop handle, fingers aching. you are tired. you are hungry. you are angry. but most of all, you are not doing this. so you keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, and you mop.

because if you stop, if you look at him, if you give him what he wants, you’re not sure what will come out.

the mop barely moves before he does.

one step. that’s all it takes. one step forward, one hand reaching out, fingers catching under your chin before you can pull away.

your breath stalls.

his grip isn’t hard, but it’s firm, unyielding, enough to tip your face up, enough to make you meet his gaze. you don’t want to, but he leaves you no choice.

his eyes are steady, dark, unreadable. up close, the lines of his face are sharper—tired, calculating, not a single ounce of softness in them.

“one day,” he murmurs, voice low, deliberate, “you’re gonna end up just another body on the news.”

the words settle, cold and final, crawling under your skin. you don’t flinch, don’t look away. don’t give him the reaction he’s waiting for.

you don’t give him anything.

his thumb lingers against your jaw for half a second longer. then, he lets go.

the absence of his touch is immediate, leaving behind nothing but the dull, lingering pressure where his fingers had been. he steps back, like he was never there at all.

you swallow down the lump in your throat, force your fingers to unclench from the mop handle, force your feet to stay planted even when every single instinct tells you to run. but you don’t.

you stay, and you go back to mopping.

he’s still there when you leave.

you don’t know why. don’t want to know.

but when seoyun hands you your pay—wad of cash thicker than usual, edges crisp, heavier in your palm—he’s lingering by the counter, hands in his pockets, watching.

you don’t ask about the extra. seoyun doesn’t explain it. she just smiles, too sweet, too amused, blowing out a slow curl of smoke before slipping a glance toward him. “get home safe,” she says, voice teasing, a joke only she understands.

you don’t respond. just tuck the cash into your pocket, nod stiffly, and turn for the door.

he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say anything. but as you step out into the night, the weight of his gaze follows.

by the time you make it upstairs, you’re ridiculously hungry.

the kind of hunger that makes your stomach feel hollow, makes your limbs feel heavier than they should. you kick off your shoes at the door, not even bothering to turn on the overhead light, just moving on autopilot.

the plastic bag sits where you left it, slumped on the counter, vegetables still inside. you should cook something. throw something together, make use of what little you have.

but your feet ache. your back aches. your head aches. so instead, you reach inside and pull out the carrot.

it’s pathetic, really. sitting at the counter, dim glow from the streetlights filtering through the window, gnawing at a raw carrot like some starved animal.

you don’t care.

it’s food. it’s easy. it’s something.

the fridge hums as you open it, cold air curling around your skin. inside, not much. half a carton of eggs. a leftover rice container you don’t remember putting there. a can of something pushed all the way to the back.

and beer.

you hate beer.

but you need something.

you grab the half-drunk can, lukewarm now—you’d unplugged your fridge a while ago to save on electricity—condensation long gone. the tab is already pulled, so you just bring it to your lips, tipping back a shallow gulp.

it’s just as bad as you remember. bitter, stale. something that settles uncomfortably in your stomach.

you drink anyway.

the beer is awful. the carrot is dry. neither do much to fix the ache in your stomach, but you keep going anyway—small bites, slow sips, filling the silence with something, anything.

your thoughts drift, sluggish from exhaustion.

you need a new phone.

it’s the first thing that comes to mind, the most obvious. jungkook probably lost his mind when you didn’t call back. you should’ve gone back for it, but you didn’t, and now it’s gone. broken, lying face down in the street with a cracked screen and your last conversation still open.

you sigh, tapping a fingernail against the beer can. you need groceries, too. real ones. something you can actually cook with instead of whatever scraps you manage to buy in passing.

you need sleep. a real night’s sleep. one where you don’t wake up to the sound of footsteps in the hall, to the distant whine of sirens, to the feeling that you’re being watched even when you know there’s no one there.

you need a lot of things.

but mostly, you need out.

out of this routine, out of this job, out of this place.

you take another sip, let the bitterness sit on your tongue, let the thought settle.

then you shake it off.

yoongi leans against the counter, cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching as seoyun flips through a neat stack of bills.

“she’s gonna be a problem,” he says, voice even.

seoyun doesn’t look up. “she’s an employee.”

“she’s a liability.”

that makes her laugh. short, amused. “you’re dramatic.”

yoongi exhales smoke, watching the way it curls through the air before disappearing. “she’s in the middle of shit she doesn’t even realize.”

seoyun hums, fingers running over the crisp edges of the cash before tucking it into the register. “not everyone’s as paranoid as you, you know.”

yoongi doesn’t react. just taps ash from his cigarette, watching as it scatters across the counter. “she’s going to be a problem,” he repeats.

seoyun finally glances up, tilting her head in that lazy way of hers, the corner of her mouth twitching. “and what?” she muses. “it’s not like you to get distracted.”

yoongi raises a brow. nothing about this is distraction. this is inconvenience. this is an unnecessary loose end in a situation that doesn’t need one.

“nothing’s stopping this deal from pulling through,” he says, flicking the cigarette into the ashtray. the embers smolder before dying out completely. “not even a baby deer insistnent on running in front of freight trucks.”

seoyun snorts. “colorful.”

“accurate.”

her nails tap against the counter once, twice. “is the deal really that important?”

yoongi doesn’t answer immediately. just levels her with a look, slow and pointed, exhaling as he settles back against the counter.

seoyun watches him, eyes sharp. then she hums. “guess it is.”

seoyun props her elbow on the counter, chin resting against her palm as she watches him, expression unreadable.

“you really think the fangs are gonna accept your offer?”

yoongi doesn’t hesitate. “they need to.”

seoyun hums again, not quite agreement, not quite doubt. just considering. she’s always been good at that. watching, waiting, choosing the side that makes the most sense for her.

“big gamble,” she muses.

yoongi doesn’t react. just watches as she straightens, smoothing down the hem of her blouse, adjusting the cash register like she’s closing shop for the night, and not discussing the kind of business that could get them both killed.

“you’ll have the crows on your back,” she says, tilting her head slightly, watching for his reaction. “for as long as it’s convenient, anyway.”

yoongi exhales, slow. “i know.”

seoyun’s lips curl at the edges, just slightly. “then let’s hope convenience lasts.”

she taps her fingers once against the counter, then turns, already moving toward the back. already done with this conversation.

yoongi stays where he is for a moment longer, watching the cash register, the stack of bills, the empty space she left behind.

then, finally, he pushes off the counter and heads for the door.

taglist : @rpwprpwprpwprw @haru-jiminn @glossdebut @mimi1097 @angellekookie @yooniivrse

#min yoongi x y/n #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts au #bts x fem!reader #bts x reader #bts fanfction #bts fanfic #bts au fic

632 notes · View notes

ka1rin · 6 months ago

Text

“I need you, meine liebe.”

michael kaiser x fem!reader

m-dni! - mutual m*sturbation / phone s*x / uncensored words.

Michael Kaiser, your loving, caring boyfriend who feels like a dream come true. He spoils you with everything you could ever want: Birkin bags in every color, plushies so soft they feel like clouds, bouquets of your favorite flowers delivered just because, and even surprises that leave you speechless.

He knows all your favorite things , the little quirks that make you happy. He remembers how your eyes light up at limited-edition collectibles or how your heart melts at handwritten notes hidden in unexpected places.

But there’s one thing he rarely gives you, no matter how much you crave it. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t.

Kaiser is a busy man — an athlete with a demanding schedule. There are nights when he gets home so late that you’re already fast asleep, and days when he has to travel to faraway places for games. Despite this, he never fails to make you happy, even during the rough patches in your relationship.

Whether it’s a heartfelt call, thoughtful gifts, or handwritten letters, he always finds a way to remind you how much he cares. But there’s one need that can’t be fulfilled through calls, gifts, or letters alone.

While Kaiser was far away — in Japan, specifically, for a few months training for an important tournament he still found time to call you. His voice, warm and familiar, filled the lonely silence of your room as you answered, the time difference making it either early morning or late at night for one of you.

"Hey," he said, his tone soft but tinged with a certain breathiness. You could tell he was exhausted, likely from his intense games.

"Micha, why’d you call?" you asked, curious. You were certain it was late in Japan. "You must be tired from playing. I saw your game against Manshine. You were amazing, as always."

A low, tired chuckle came through the receiver. "Mhm, thank you, liebe," he replied, his voice unsteady, as though he was preoccupied with something.

"It’s late there, Micha. You should sleep," you said gently, concern softening your tone.

"Y-yeah, it is. I—" He paused, and you could hear his uneven breathing, the sound oddly labored. You frowned slightly, your thoughts running wild with worry.

And then, a strained whimper slipped from him, one that made your stomach twist in confusion.

"Micha? Are you okay?"

He groaned softly; the noise unmistakably needy. "I miss y-you so fuuucking badly," he finally confessed, his words shaky and raw.

The line went quiet for a beat, except for his faint whines and sharp intakes of breath. That’s when you realized—this wasn’t just about being tired. He was yearning for you, aching in a way that distance couldn’t ease. You could almost picture him, running a hand through his messy hair, his lips parted as he wrestled with his longing for you.

"Micha, what are you doing?" you asked, your voice now laced with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

"Thinking about you," he admitted, his tone dropping into something deeper, a little rougher. "It’s so hard not to, liebe. I need you so much right now."

That’s when it hit you — he needed you so badly, and you needed him just as much.

"P-please, keep talking, meine Liebe. I need to hear your voice sooo fucking badly," he said, his voice dripping with desperation.

A shiver ran down your spine at the raw longing in his tone. You felt the heat pooling between your thighs, and your breath hitched. You needed to be touched — so badly it almost hurt.

Your hand instinctively started to trail downward, crawling its way to your wet core, seeking the relief you craved.

"M-Micha... mhm— I miss you too, my love," you whispered, your voice trembling as your hand worked its way lower. You couldn’t help yourself, touching where you needed it most.

Through the phone, you could hear his soft, breathy moans, and it sent a jolt of heat through you. Fuck, it turned you on so badly.

"F-fuck… I wish it was your hand stroking me right now, r-rather than mine," Kaiser groaned, his voice breaking with desperation. "S-shit—"

Your breath hitched as he turned on his camera, the screen filling with the sight of his toned chest glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, his head thrown back in pure ecstasy. Oh fuck, you thought, biting your lip. He looked so unbearably hot.

The sound of his labored breathing spurred you on, and your hand moved faster, drawing louder, needier moans from your lips.

Then, with a shaky hand, Kaiser switched the camera to the back view. Your eyes widened as the screen revealed his large, throbbing cock, his hand moving up and down its length in perfect rhythm. The pretty rose tattoo on his wrist flexed with every stroke, making the sight even more intoxicating.

"M-Micha, I'm so close... Fuck!" you moan, your voice trembling as the heat in your core builds to an unbearable peak. Your body arches instinctively, each wave of pleasure pulling you closer to the edge. The tension coils tighter and tighter, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as you feel your release rapidly approaching.

"I-I'm so close too, baby-oh, shit!" he groaned, voice thick with desperation. His hand worked faster, the slick glide of his strokes emphasizing his urgency. Pre-cum glistened at his tip, dripping steadily as his cock twitched, every pulse a telltale sign of how close he was. His breathing grew ragged, each gasp and moan echoing the intensity building between you.

Then, suddenly, a wave of pleasure crashes over both of you, leaving you breathless. "Micha!" you cry out, your voice mixing with his. "Y/N-fuck!" he groans, his head tipping back as his body trembles. Your pussy clenches as your release washes over you, a creamy white liquid spilling out and dripping down.

On the screen, you see his cock twitching, thick spurts of cum spilling from his tip, coating his hand as he continues to stroke himself slowly, riding out his high.

"F-fuck... I really missed you, Micha," you murmur, your voice soft but still shaky.

"Mhm—I miss you even more, liebe," he replies, his tone low and possessive.

"'l’ll make sure to fuck you real badly when I get home. I promise" His words send another wave of heat coursing through your body, making you ache for him even more.

he better keep his promise ;)

(note: I did not proofread this)

837 notes · View notes

venmondiese · 1 year ago

Text

This party is boring... wanna leave?

✧ masterlist ✧ taglist ✧

Summary: The party you are in is boring, so you ask a cute nerd guy to leave with you... that is, until you find out this is his birthday party. Maybe a gift and a happy birthday will fix his sad evening.

✧Pairing: Michael Gavey x Fem!Reader

✧Warnings: MDNI 18+, p in v, virginity loss, oral (m receiving), overall sweet, michael being a total nerd virgin.

✧Word Count: 7.8k

✧AO3 link: here

note: so i saw this tweet in my 2020 ig histories and i said... michael gavey coded, and here we are. Here is the original tweet (wendy and joy from red velvet haha) and AGAIN this is infinite i swear i am allergic to write things under 5k

Michael couldn’t be more excited. He looks proudly at the poster indicating the date and place of his birthday.

Nothing too glamorous, he rented one of the halls for hire in Oxford, the same one that they used for the Christmas party that (to no one’s surprise) he wasn’t invited. But he intended to do something fun about it, with the pool table and maybe some game algebraic beer pong. Who knows? It was his birthday, so he did the rules.

And he had a few friends he could invite, of course, renting a whole hall seems…. exaggerated, but truly, he couldn’t get a pool table in his room. He paid for this only for the pool table. Besides, he liked his Norman no mates friends. Friends if you could call them that; they were as friend to him as Oliver Quick once was. Just that this once… he won’t get too attached.

Well, ‘friends’ would actually be mates from the chess club, so they weren’t exactly popular these days. They barely had a girl in the group, so they weren’t great with girls either. Besides, the only other girl that he knew had agoraphobia so… it wasn’t happening.

His mum made some little biscuits and cupcakes for his day, since she came to have a little celebration just for him and her in a near-by cafe at college. He could skip a few classes to be with his mum on his birthday, after all.

The night started interestingly. The space was obviously much larger than what he thought it could be, so they hung around the couch and the pool table. He felt the victory as he won two chess matches and a pool game. Maybe it was birthday luck, since everything was coming up as great.

As they talked about which opening was their favourite, Michael heard a little knock. Once he approached the crystal door, he saw Oliver with Felix by his side, with some liquor bottles.

Michael frowned a bit, as he was pretty sure he rented the room, he did it with a lot of anticipation and made sure no one else did before him. And it was crystal clear that he didn’t invite Oliver. Sure, in their friendship, he once or twice talked about doing something about his birthday, but he never invited Oliver.

“Hey Mikey” Oliver says, with an shit eating grin, and Michael has to roll his eyes, by how smug and prideful he looked. An absolute jerk, if you asked him. Oliver didn’t even wear his glasses anymore, and was all parties and relevancy thanks to Felix. “Come on”

Before Michael could stop them, Oliver passes by his side, as Felix follows him patting Michael’s shoulder with a smirk (he could swear it was in a patronising way) and people follow from behind as Oliver looks in the room for the music speaker of the rented room.

Michael walked as the crowd quickly dispersed, and he grabbed the few gifts he received, and looked at his distressed mates.

“Oliver you cannot be here, I rented the room” Michael screams as the room noise is quick to appear, so different from the silence of their small reunion.

“I saw your pamphlet” Oliver says nonchalantly as he successfully manages to get the aux cable. “Birthday, eh?” He says mockingly

“I rented it! You have to get out” He says almost screaming, as the same way he did once they met, when he asked Oliver to say a sum for him to say.

“If you can get all of us out, mate… sure” Oliver shrugs, clearly not minding.

Michael looks defeated. Even if he stands there, angry, with the few gift bags on his hands, he feels embarrassed. He wanted to do one nice thing for himself, just once. It wasn’t as cheap to rent a hall for his birthday (he couldn’t do it anywhere else, truly, but he thinks that maybe the pub would have been nice even if few of his mates didn’t drink beer)

The room fills very quickly, sitting on the couches and talking as they get vases with something to drink, or beer cans.

“Michael” two of his friends approach him, and he looks at them “We could rescue the biscuits and the cake” They say proudly as they have it in his hands.

He couldn’t fake to look at least smug, so he nods a bit numbly. “Yeah, sure.” He says a bit disoriented, looking around “The rest left?”

“This was not a party, we assumed…”

“Not really our thing. Though Tim and Steve stayed to see if they could get any girls”

Michael hums, and he doesn’t know what to exactly think, since he didn’t expect this. He was organised, he liked things to be as he already planned. It made him secure, and it was only logical. But this interruption made him anxious.

“I gotta save the pool balls” He says to his friends “They are going to fine me if I lose one of them”

“What… we do with this?” His friend asks about the food.

“Uhm… take the biscuits with you…” Michael says. “And the cake… leave it on the library next to the pool table, and hide it… please”

As he collects the pool balls, and walks upstairs to return them, he is very downhearted. He remembers the time that he invited his friends from school and only his cousins and his neighbour appeared to his party; very embarrassing and he hated celebrating his birthday with a party ever since. It was mostly his mum and granny, with his dog and cat. Nothing else, nothing too fancy.

He comes back for the cake as he tries to explain the situation to the people that manage the rented halls, there was not much for them to do, and he is suspicious that maybe Oliver or Felix paid them to keep the room. At least they promised not to charge if anything broke, and he was happy with that.

So, money wasted, party ruined and they couldn’t even sing to him happy birthday.

He walks from between the crowd as he steals a beer. Fuck it, it wasn’t eve stealing since they ruined his party. He takes a break, since he feels really discouraged. He knows his mates are not really social butterflies, but more leaning to being socially anxious. He might need to apologise, and even face the idea that they might be annoyed at him, and maybe they’ll kick him out from the chess team.

He drinks his beer, looking at how Oliver and Felix hyped the whole thing out, people sitting on the pool table… He hopes his cake is intact. He looks at his beer can as he move it a little to stir the liquid (he totally doesn’t want to look miserable AND like an imbecile)

“Hey” A voice calls him as he drinks from his beer. He has to look up to the prettiest girl that has ever approached him, probably. You wear a pink pleated mini skirt, with a short baby pink hoodie that he could see your bright pink bra underneath. God, it was a lot of pink in one person.

You look at him as he blinks a bit, and you look at him with an alluring smile as if waiting for him to say something, and once he doesn’t, you continue.

“This party is kinda boring” you start saying, with a soft smile and a bright in your eyes as you look at him, doing all your best efforts to flirt with him “Do you wanna leave together?”

Michael blinks a bit as he looks at you, trying to process the words in his head but he fails. “Uh… this is my birthday party” he admits embarrassed and awkwardly, as he looks away to not face the shame, and he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Oh” you say looking at him, your smile fading a bit, a bit worried about your comment. “Oh, I’m sorry” you say, grabbing his forearm. “Didn’t mean to be rude”

“No problem” he says, looking at how your hand rests on his forearm, almost caressing it slowly.

“I suppose you didn’t invite all these people, did you? It was kind of a last minute call” you say looking at him, actually interested in him. “You seem pretty out of place for that”

“No… It was for me and my mates”

“Ohh…” You say looking around, and you feel a bit of pity, which he doesn’t want nor needs. “Well, I would have brought a gift.” You say, trying to cheer him up “What is your name?”

Did they send you to make fun of him? Must be.

“Michael Gavey” He says, and he refuses to look at you, not to give you or them the satisfaction.

“Michael” you repeat, and you tell him your name too. “You are cute” you add.

He blushes and looks at you as if you just insulted him, his eyes open and he frowns a bit. He turns his head away in shame.

“Thank you” he murmurs, not sure of what to think.

“So… your birthday is today.” You say tapping your thighs a bit. “How… randomly, I didn’t know”

“I like my birthday” He murmurs, drinking his beer hesitantly “Tis’ the day of Pi”

“Day of Pie?” You ask frowning, your arms in your back as you lean in the wall.

“Of Pi” he repeats “Like the pi from maths”

“Ohh, the circle thing” You say nodding and smiling, as you now understand. “Why is it the day of pi..? Ohh, it is because today it’s fourteen of March”

“Yeah” He says, as he looks at his shoes a bit embarrassed. He usually would think you were stupid, who the fuck confuses Pi with Pie? But you were the only one caring enough.

“You seem to like maths, like your.. Your shirt” you say pointing it out at his maths pun, and he becomes aware that he has been, in fact, wearing that shirt all the time.

Fuck, did he really fought with Oliver and with the rental people with a Math pun shirt? No wonder no one took him seriously.

“Ah, yeah…” He says awkwardly. You were very much engaging in the conversation, scooping on his interests little by little.

“Do you know that I am flirting with you, right?” You say looking at him in the eyes and he looks from his shoes to your face, a bit surprised and panicked.

“Ehm… me? What for?”

“Because you are cute, like I said” you repeat “And it is your birthday”

“You don’t have to pity me because of that…”

“I am not pitying you. It is not why I like you. Come on, do you think I am pretty at least?” You ask as you change your body weight from one foot to the other while looking at him with the most alluring smile he has ever seen.

God, the question sounds stupid, because you are not only pretty, but you are the hottest girl ever, looking at him as he freezes in place. Your eyes could trap him, as enchanting as they were, and your diminutive clothing was driving him insane.

“Eh… yes” he murmurs. “Very pretty…”

He seems perplexed about the straightforwardness of this whole thing, and he is very confused. Where has this night taken him?

“I meant what I said. The party… is meh. You and I could leave together, if you want”

He blinks, as his tongue wets his lips as he suddenly feels frozen in place. His eyes look at your expression as if you were joking, and he is unsure what to think.

“Uh… well, I have to get my cake, really, m-my mates saved it on the back of the library in hopes nobody would find it..:” He starts saying, not really sure why he is telling you this.

“Okay, we’ll search it” you say without any problem about it. “I could sing happy birthday to you and you can blow the candles”

That’s how you are now following him like a puppy, as he takes out the cake from behind some decorations that weren't hiding the cake very well, but it is mostly intact.

You two walk together, to leave and Michael thinks that never felt so ashamed. He felt like doing the shame walk, as he passed through the people with a fucking birthday cake and a pretty girl following him.

“Let’s go to your dorm!” You tell him with a happy smile, your hand on his shoulder as you lean closer to tell him that as you both walk together.

He is confused how you’ll give him a gift if they weren’t in your room, but he accepts, as his dorm isn’t actually so far away from the rented halls, so he guides you upstairs, and upstairs, at the point where he hears you whine because of your heels.

You look a bit amazed as he enters his dorm, leaving the cake on his desk and moving to turn on the bedside lamp. He looks around, and you are taking off your heels and being just in socks. He blinks as he looks at you. Doing that means she’s comfortable here, he thinks.

“Ah, eh…. Have a seat in the…” You sit on the edge of his bed, next to his pillows and he blinks. He wanted to say ‘in the desk chair’ but he guessed it was too late.

“Your bed is comfortable” You say smiling as you pat your right side for him to sit by your side. “Come, sit!”

Michael blinks. He dries his sweat palm by rubbing his hands on his thighs a bit awkwardly, as he takes a seat on the edge of his bed by your side. Your legs were tucked under your body, already comfortable, while he is rigid and tense, all awkwardness in comparison.

“And your mates are still at the party?” You ask looking at him, batting your eyelashes at him with a sweet smile as you lean your body weight to your hand, right beside him.

“Uhm… eh, well, they told me they left, so it was a bit rushed… I don’t know, I could call them if you.. Want to sing to me happy birthday and that…” he says a bit hesitant, and he is a bit unsure of his words when you chuckle a bit, if you knew a secret “B-Because we couldn’t… I mean we didn’t have the time for that, and my mum bought that cake because it is my favourite..:” he rambles as his cheeks are pink with embarrassment.

You were divine. In more than one way, you were the prettiest girl that he had ever talked to. And you were also the first girl in his dorm. And this close to him. And the first one to be interested in him.

“Ah, of course… I bet it is tasty, it is sweet that your mum bought it for your party” You say smiling, as you look at him “Well, I don’t think we should call them here”

“Uh… Why not? We aren’t many, we are just seven, and with you we would be a pair number, so we could play a chess match since we are a pair. If you don’t know I could teach you” He offers. God, why did he accept this? Because you were pretty and all smiles with him, but he didn’t know what women like you liked…

“It’s not that, Mikey” you say softly, looking at him with an alluring smile, leaning slightly closer to him, which is dangerous, because it is the moment he has to decide if to look at your face or your tits. “It is because I wanna give you a gift”

Michael blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah… It would be awkward if they were here”

His mind is numb, and he looks at you a bit confused “... Because they already gave me a gift?”

You have to suppress a laugh, as you shake your head and look down a bit. He takes the opportunity to look at your tits briefly.

“No…” You say again, with that damn tone that he can’t decipher. “You are not really good at hints, are you?”

He stays silent, looking at you as he tries to get it. “Eh… no, but I am really good at maths…”

You chuckle a bit, as you look at his face with a look he (again) cannot decipher.

“Of course you are” you say sitting slightly closer, and he stays still as he looks at you and your tits coming closer to him “Your birthday it is in the day of Pi” you made sure to say the last word correctly, emphasising on it, and he nods a bit.

“Yeah…” he murmurs looking at you as he licks his lips, and his glasses slide ever so slightly on his nose as he has to look down at your face

“I wanna give you a gift…” you repeat, and it is now that he feels your hand slide to his thigh and closer to his crotch. And his breath freezes on his throat as he feels your hand move slowly to rub his dick from above his clothes, and the traitor practically gets hard instantly at something that isn't his own hand.

Michael practically freezes at your touch, as your hand slowly rubs his jeans where his erection was forming. Your eyes look at him as you smile, god, you were so provocative it made his brain go off. He couldn't take his eyes out of your face as he opened his mouth to pant a bit, a bit unsure of if to stop this or make it keep going. It is not like he doesn’t want to do… this, but a little part of him still thinks you are just mocking him and probably there were popular jerks waiting outside to make fun of him for falling for someone so out of his league.

But you were so pretty, lookin at him with tender eyes. As he seems so hesitant about it all. It wasn’t like he didn’t want this, but he just… wasn’t sure what to do, because this was confusing all his thoughts. How could he even impress you?

It is you who leans to capture his lips. On yours with a kiss, slow and calm, since he was so inexperienced. It was his first kiss, as a girl rubs his cock. He surely was dreaming.

“Do you want it?”

He blinks confused, his lips briefly open and all flustered as your hands keep on hardening his cock. “Um… yes” He swallows hard as his eyes are closed due to how good (and strange) it feels. To have a girl doing this with him.

“You’ve done this before?” You ask looking at his eyes, and his glasses are sliding on his nose and he doesn’ even notice, and your hand pat his cock which makes him whimper a bit.

“Eh… yes, but with myself. I mean, b-by myself, like with my hand, that is…”

You giggle at his naiveness, and you add “I meant if you have ever had sex”

Michael looks at you surprised, and he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose again. You were so direct, and this was unlike anything that had happened in his life. You confused him, with your plays and teases, he was more simple, and more straightforward. “No…” He whispers in reply, breathing a little heavily now as you squeeze him through his pants.

Your smile is confusing, since he doesn’t know what it means. Well, he doesn’t get the clue to. Most things you do anyways. “It is your birthday” you repeat “My treat, I’ll make you feel so good, Mikey”

He looks down at his pants as you unbuckle his belt. There was something about you, so seductive and sensual as you did all torturously slow. You weren’t rushed, and even did it for his sake, as he looked so frozen by it all.

You turn your head to look up to him as you also zip down his pants. He tried to think about anything else, because he felt on fire.

“Can you take these off?” You ask him kindly, and he looks. Briefly confused. “I really wanna suck you off”

Oh god. He almost cums on his pants. Oh god. He repeats on his mind as he moves a bit to take off his pants, at least to his knees. Oh god, oh god. His mind tried to remain sane, he tried to think about some maths, the comfort of simple logic tries to centre himself.

You look pleasantly surprised by his size, and you hummed in delight and he saw how you bite your lower lip. His cocks spring free, fully hard and the precum leaking out from the tip. He looked nervously at you, as his cock practically begged your attention and affections, and he could feel a turmoil form on his stomach as he pleaded with his eyes for you to do something about it.

“So big…” you praise him with a smirk, and he looks away in shame as he blushes. It was a good thing, he thinks, but he cannot help but feel hesitant.

You gently grab the base as your left hand rests on his left thigh, helping you as you lean down to capture the tip on your mouth, and he leans slightly back as if trying to squirm away. He looks at you, overwhelmed at the warm and moist sensation around his cock, ever so slightly, but so intense at the same time. He pants as if he just ran a marathon, looking down at you as his balls tighten and feel so ready to cum. But he forces himself not to.

“Oh… A-Ah, fuck…” he says as you take his dick out of your mouth to lick it, from his balls to his tip. God, no one really prepares you to know how easy it is to cum when a girl sucks you off.

He tries to think of equations, some diagrams or anything, anything to not cum so fast. You have his cock again in your mouth, sucking on his tip and your tongue moves to tease him as well. He was going insane.

He looks at you, with your bright eyes full of delight and mischief looking up back at him, as his cock was deeper and deeper on your throat, making its way through your warm mouth.

And you didn’t seem to mind how the drool was spilling out from your mouth, wettening your chin and how you gagged slightly the more deep you swallowed him. He was amazed, truly, looking down at you as you sucked him off.

It was different from how he imagined. He thought that at his first time, he would lead the way, he would be confident (because he knew about porn and how these things worked) and he would be dominant enough. Yet now, he feels unsure, trembling as his balls shaked in need to release, because you were amazing and so hot.

Maybe he didn’t know a thing about this all. He thinks, as his shoulders tense from how good the head of his cock feels in your warm throat. It sends shivers on his spine and he has to whimper pathetically.

“You are so perfect…, I swear” He mumbles without breath, whimpering pathetically. You would have giggled, because he didn’t need to swear, but he was cute to do so.

You move your hand to take the hair out of his face, and you grab his right hand, and he doesnt get at first what you mean, until you let his hand on your hair, it is when he understands that you want him to guide you and move his hips.

His own hips hesitate at the beginning , strange at how he is supposed to move without looking ridiculous or being uncomfortable. Instead, he takes your hair carefully, with both hands as he leaves a deep breath out.

His little whimpers are amazing, and so hot, you love to hear it. It was almost quiet, very low, but it was a delight to hear how he whimpers as his cock twitches in your mouth.

He moves your hair up and down on his body, fucking your face slowly. He didn’t want to be reckless, and when you needed to, he allowed you to have air from time to time.

His balls were on fire, and his dick was so hard and it felt so good as you deepthroated him that he was at the verge of cumming.

“I’m… oh, I'm going to cum, m’sorry…” he whimpers, moving your head onto his cock more harshly, but still careful not to make a mess and make you choke on his cock. He would feel bad if he hurt you like that, especially when you do him a favour.

His hips hesitate as he starts cumming, and he releases your head because he guesses it could be overwhelming. But you do not back away, rather swallow all of his spending in your mouth, savouring it delighted as you looked up to him, and he opened his mouth in awe.

You were his wettest dream come true.

What are the chances, the possibility that a pretty girl like you, just looked at him and decided to do this? To give him the best head ever? To help him lose his virginity, thinking he is worth the chance when you are out of his league?

He is a man of mathematics and logic. And even being good at probability, he knew the chances were almost zero. Almost.

And you looked so brightly at him as you cleaned some of his cum dripping down from your chin and licking it, not to waste a bit.

“It… it was good?”

“Yeah” you say without a breath, as you smile. “I love your dick, it is so… amazing” He can almost cum again when he sees you lick your lips.

“Oh.” He says a bit flustered, his mind almost numb from his orgasm. “T-Thank you…”

It is your smile who makes him smile a bit, awkwardly and with his cheeks red. He cannot believe this is luck. He is dumb struck, looking at your lovely face with still red cheeks and a wide smile. And you just sucked him off.

He is guilty, and he looks down at your tits for a brief moment, but looks quickly at your face, as if ashamed of doing that. But you still have that alluring smile, looking at him. He still doesn’t get what it means, but he goes along with the flow.

“You wanna see my tits?” You ask with a sweet tone, as if it was the normalest question ever. You have seen his eyes drop to your breasts and then to your face, it was cute.

Oh my god. He will likely cum immediately at the sight. He knows it, and his cheeks are red as he thinks of your question.

“Yeah, please…” He asks without breath, as he accommodates in bed trying for his cock not to give him away.

“I would have worn something way cuter if I knew this was going to happen” You explain taking out your jacket, and to his no-surprise, you didn’t wear a shirt underneath, just the bright pink bra that poked out of your jacket.

“You look beautiful” he murmurs looking at your still clothed breasts, and he then looks up to your face. “You… If this is your less fancy outfit, then god damn me”

You giggle at his words, he surely was odd from all the guys you knew. Perhaps his lack of experience, perhaps his nerdy personality. You don’t know, but you find yourself wanting to do all filthy and kinky things with this nerdy man.

You take off your bra, with quickness, as he looks at you completely mesmerised by your nakedness in front of him. He blinks at your perky nipples completely to his sight, and his mind just goes off. He is pretty sure that if you asked him what 1 plus 1 was, he’d say a pair of fine tits.

“You can touch me, Mikey” you say with a teasing tone, that makes him look at your expression for a brief moment. “Like you can grope my tits and all…”

The boldness of her offer makes him salivate, he is sure, and the desire within him is just intense and he knows he has to. His left hand reaches out cautiously and grasps your right breast.

Your soft sigh is enough for him to do it slightly more confidently, but still not too harsh. He doesn’t actually know how hard it hurts if someone gropes too aggressively, and so he prefers to be gentle with you, because you deserve all of it.

“Here. Give me your other hand” You say, and before you can extend your hand to grab his, his right hand goes to your other breasts, as if he was waiting for it.

Your breath hitches before you giggle a bit, as he doesn’t understand you. His face is red, from embarrassment, from touching a girl, a very much real girl that desires him too, and from awkwardness in him.

“I meant, give me your hand” You say taking his right hand from your breast and he doesn’t wanna let go, but he does anyway. “I wanna… Mm. I wanna to show you something”

Again with coded words, he was unaware of its meaning. But he waited for you to tell him, as you looked at him with a smile as you waited for him to say it.

“Oh, uh…” Michael mutters as his brain finally took notice it was his turn to say something. “Eh… okay? Show me…” he says unsure what to say.

You guide his left hand down, under your skirt. He just noticed that you had not taken off your skirt yet, as he was still clothed and with his pants down. But he didn’t mind it so much as you pressed his hand against your clothed pussy.

“You.. Y-You are really wet” he says slightly amazed, and you nod with a smile as he just leaves his hand there, a bit amazed as his fingers do the slightest move to spread the wetness on his fingers. You hum in delight as you feel how bold he might be becoming.

“Yeah, I am” you nod to him with a smile, and he looks at you flustered, as he leaves an awkward chuckle. “And your cock is hard again”

He looked down at his dick, and in fact, he was getting hard again. He looked back at you, and he smiled a bit embarrassed. You were also smiling, and that was the only clue he got to know that you were having the time of your life.

“It’s because you are so hot…” he says in a weak attempt to justify himself. “and so pretty”

You laugh, as you kneel slightly to take off your skirt and kick it somewhere in his bedroom. You were only wearing your panties now, and he felt like a salivating dog wagging his tail at the sight. God he was pathetic.

He looked at you, and before he could try to do anything, you say.

“It will be better if you sit properly in the bed, not the edge. So you can lean back in the pillows”

He has no idea why he should lean back in the pillows, but again, he is not the one doing demands in this. In his eyes, you are doing him a favour, this was his wettest dream, and you surely got nothing from it.

He takes off his pants and he crawls to sit in the bed, his back against the pillows (he used at least three, he found it more comfortable) and so he watched at you with a smile, as you kneel up again, now to take off your panties.

“I swear that if i knew, I would have worn a prettier pair of underwear” you start teasingly, as you move your hands to the sides of your panties to take them off.

Oh god, he thinks once again, as the image of a naked woman is enough to send him into numbness again. He was just gaining confidence to take some part in this, but he was just so inexperienced, he had to decide on either cum desperately or trying to last longer, and he didn’t know that the last took all of his brain energy.

“Here” You say, grabbing his hand and leaving your panties in his hand. He looks at you, and you add “Another gift. You can keep it”

He looks at you, slightly amazed by it. He holds your panties in his hand, and he can feel the wetness of it, knowing that you were (and are) so wet right now drives him insane. He looks at you and he blinks a bit surprised, and honestly, much more aroused.

“Thank you..” he says as he appreciates this odd gift. He has no idea what use it may have apart from the sentimental one, but maybe it is like his own trophy?

You get comfortable, still kneeling on the bed, you crawl to be atop of his lap. Each knee on the side of his thighs, and he has to look up to see you. Maybe his favourite part about this is how your tits are in front of his face. He loves it.

“Your hand” She asks, and when she extends her hand he is clever enough not to make the same mistake twice. He passes her his hand, and she guides it to her pussy once again.

Now he knows. Why men went to war for women. Why Troy was destroyed, for stealing one woman. Why men went insane for the touch of a woman. He gets it now.

Your pussy drips wet as he touches it; bare and warm. He is surprised, in all honesty, as his fingers are rigidly moving forward and back. It is not rough; but it is rigid enough to let know his inexperience in the matter.

“I wanna make you feel good” He says looking at you, almost begging for you to teach him how. He wants to know the secrets that could have you squirm and moan crazily over him, as he was over you.

“This is about you” You say, your hands moving to the edge of his shirt, to take it off from him. He helps you in it, and he leaves a breath as now both of you were naked in front of each other.

Your soft hand caresses his chest. He is no muscular guy; yet you caress him so tenderly that he has to look at you with that puppy look. He really wants to make you feel good.

“Tell me what to do.” He asks again, he looks pathetically needy to you; eager to make you cum on his fingers, and eager to learn how to please you. His fingers linger hesitantly around your pussy, and he does his best guiding himself from little experience and instinct.

You smirk as you bite your lower lip as you let a little whimper out. He was cute and hot, more than most guys you knew from before. Maybe getting with the nerd was a fantastic idea.

“I want you to fuck me” You say instead, smiling at him “I want your cock, not your fingers- for now. Besides, this is about you. You are the birthday boy”

As your hips lower on his lap, he takes off his fingers and looks at you sitting above his cock. You grind slightly as he opens his mouth agape slightly, the mere thought of fucking you has him all excited, and aroused.

“I do wanna.. Do that” Michael says with a longing smile, as you nod to him. The feeling of your pussy rubbing against his own dick. He can’t take it anymore, he longs for you too much.

He is clumsy as he moves his hips, the head of his cock passing eagerly through your folds in search of your entrance, and he looks up at you as you moan at the feeling. He got something right.

His puppy eyes catch your attention as his tip presses on your centre, and you look down at him a bit breathlessly. “You can’t cum so fast, Mikey. I want you to enjoy it” He nods when you tell him that, and he leaves a shaky breath at the feeling.

“I… I’ll try…” He says looking at you, trying his best to hold back. But your body is too tempting for him. He is going to pass out, surely.

You move to search for something in your clothes, and you take a condom from somewhere. He isn’t too sure. He is looking at the ceiling waiting for you as he thinks on some hard equation from class, and he tries for the burning turmoil on his belly, full of lust and desire to calm down even a bit. He wants to have you moaning on his cock so hard, he will need strength.

Your movement is fluid when you put the condom on his length, and he is sure you have done this so many times. On other occasions, he’ll think something witty about it, but now he is rather intimidated. How is he supposed to compete with your experiences?

You move your hips slightly, as you start to sit down on his cock from one move. Slow and soft, he is sure you make sure it isn’t so intense for him, as your walls have a tight grip on his hard cock, and the feeling of finally being inside of a woman is incredibly intimate. His cock pulsates on your insides, and he has to look down, enjoying the sight of his thick cock stretching your pussy.

“Fuck…” You say breathlessly as you throw your head back, moaning in delight as you move your hips slightly.

“You’re so warm… and thigh..” he pants, his hands go to your hips as you ride him.

“It feels nice?”

“More than that” He says looking up to you, and he whimpers as you move your hips.

“I’ll let you get used to it.” You tell him softly “I think it could be a bit overwhelming, I guess”

“Yeah. A bit” he says with an awkward smile which makes you smile too, and you grab his cheeks as you lean a bit to kiss him softly.

His enthusiasm is endearing, as he tries to passionately kiss you, but you are sticking with the slowness of it all. He whimpers a bit on your mouth as he can feel how your cunt tightens around him.

Once you are apart, his glasses are again slowly sliding down on the bridge of his nose and you bite your lower lip as you hold a moan. God, what a hot nerd you are fucking.

“You are so amazing” He murmurs, looking up to you “And you feel so good…”

“Uh huh…” You hum as you whimper a bit, and so does he.

“And I have… I have never done this before…” He mutters looking at where your pussy swallows his dick.

“I know” You say, giving him a peck. “But you make me so aroused, so hot…”

Michael blinks a bit confused, but he gains slight confidence in this. He nods at you and he lets his hands fall by the side of your legs, and he can only focus on the way that you ride him. You squeeze him, in all the way he can think of. Your cunt is squeezing his shaft. Your knees are squeezing his legs. All of your existence squeezes him, and he loves the feeling.

He looks up at your face, you are moaning openly and you have your eyes closed as your hands rest on his biceps, helping you bounce on his cock. You look amazing.

And your tits, God, your tits. Bouncing on his face as you ride him, all perky and perfect for him, and the sight of your tits make him leak more precum in the condom, as he tilts his hips slightly up so he gets deeper in the warmth of your cunt.

He stays looking at you, while his balls are tightening at how wet your pussy is. He is mesmerised by you, he cannot even find himself letting any sound out of his mouth. He is almost numb, looking at you as he makes you moan like this.

He is making you moan desperately as you ride him. He is the one responsible to see how aroused he truly has you. You lean your body closer to his chest, moaning as you ride him, and he bites his lip desperate to cum.

His own hips rut back to yours, thrusting clumsily as you sink down on his cock. Your pussy clenches around his cock, and he’s fully engrossed in the sensation.

Michael wants to cum so bad. He doesn’t think he has ever been in such a need to cum.It’s all his foggy mind can think of, cumming and you. And cumming in you, those two subjects interrelationate.

“Tell me” He pleads, which makes you look at him again “Please, tell me how to make you cum”

His puppy eyes, how his glasses are slightly off on him, makes you moan almost on his face.

“Your hand” You say, and he got the clue now. He is a quick learner, and instead of letting you hold his hand, he moves it down to your pussy.

You moan at the feeling of his hesitant hand there, and he laughs a bit breathlessly, growing slightly bolder and he loves how desperate you seem. “Teach me”

“Fine, fine, wait..” You say stopping your movements, as reluctant you both may be to that.

You lean slightly back, your hand goes to grab his knee to help you not fall. He can see more of your pussy like that, and you sigh as if trying to think clearly.

“Here” You say, grabbing his wrist and moving it slightly up. He has no idea what you mean, but he is learning, so he follows your lead. “This is my clit, so you rub it… Not harshly, not too aggressive. It can be intense, but… you have to do it gently. Firm, but gently”

He has no idea how to do both, but he’ll try. Before he can start, you grab his wrist again, and he is confused. What else is there that you take so long to say?!

You take his hand up, and your mouth is quick to engulf his index and middle finger inside, wettening them with your own saliva before letting them go; not without leaving a provocative lick beforehand.

“Now” You say with a slight smile “Just gently.” You repeat, and he nods.

He is so going to cum just from seeing you lick his fingers so lustfully.

Michael tries his best, he does. His fingers find the little thing, so small, and he is unsure what response something so tiny could do. But anyways, he does as told. His fingers hesitate before rubbing slightly there, left to right at the beginning, and then up and down.

“F-Fuck!” You say almost closing your legs around his hand and dick, but you force yourself to remain open. Your other hand goes to hold you onto the mattress of the bed, so you don’t fall. You are leaning backwards now, and he can see your body in all it’s glory.

It does have an amazing effect, he realises, as he rubs circles on your clit and you moan even higher, your legs tremble as you force them open, and you start lowering on his cock again. Unlike the last time, you don’t take the time to make sure his cock enters and comes out fully, but you just grind against it, and when you move up and down, it is barely just in the base of his cock. But the tip? It never leaves your wetness.

He wishes he could see the bump of his cock on your belly. He looks at your abdomen, and he can practically imagine how the shape of his cock would poke out from your abdomen.

“I want to cum” He says, panting as his brain is overwhelmed. He is overdoing things, he tries to rationalise this, but between rubbing your clit, your cunt wrapping around his cock and his moans leaving his mouth, he feels like he will pass out any moment now.

“M-Me too” You whine, desperate as your hips rut more desperate on his cock, and that turns him even more.

He has made a girl desperate for him. And he’ll make a girl cum on his cock.

Michael makes sure to rub your clit in a delicious manner. Or what he guesses is a delicious manner. And since you almost sob your moans, he’d say he is doing a fucking amazing job.

“FUCK” He says as he feels your cunt squeeze him so much, that his mind practically goes blank “I-I’m cumming” He barely gets the words out as he feels himself spent on the condom inside.

He moans, loudly, it could be embarrassing if it wasn’t so pleasurable, and he has to throw his head back from the pleasure on how his shoulders tense up.

You grab his wrist, and he gets the clue that he has to keep his touch on your clit. Your cheeks are red from stimulation, and as he pants and whimpers from his orgasm, as he rubs your clit. It doesn’t take long, as you practically cum all over his cock, milking his dick and making sure his balls go empty.

Even if he orgasmed first, your peak leaves him dry, and spent in more than one way. He doesn’t think he will ever hear a girl moan so loud and pleased as you when you cum thanks to him.

When you fall to his side, he takes off the condom, leaving it on his bedside table. He looks at you, panting hard on his side, and he feels the same, as he looks at you, still mesmerised by you.

He searches for your hand, awkwardly, and he moves you slightly closer to him.

You both remain breathlessly, pants as you two face the ceiling.

“So” You start saying, and he turns his head to yours, and you have another of your mischievous, alluring smiles on your face. “Have you blown the candles?”

#michael gavey x reader #michael gavey smut #michael gavey saltburn #saltburn #saltburn fanfiction #ewan nation #michael gavey x you #michael gavey x fem!reader #smut #ewanverse #ewan mitchell #saltburn au

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peepshow321 · 17 days ago

Text

TaskRaccoon Premium: Epilogue

Brother's Keeper

First chapter

Previous chapter

Months passed. The crew hit a local dive bar after a particularly gruelling shift. The sun had been blaring and the guys were all tired, their clothes caked in dust and bodies aching. Miguel brought beers over from the bar, and offered to get the next round as well. He had a lot of goodwill to share - the boss was happy with how he was working, and happy that he had bought José on board on the team. Even with his... "extra-curriculars", José was the hardest working man on the crew, didn't demand much in pay, and he kept morale up across the team in his own special way. And as far as the boss was concerned, it was Miguel who had brought him along, and Miguel who benefitted with a promotion to crew leader. That meant respect, it meant a bit more cash, it meant a bit less time tiring under the heat. It also meant, he had come to learn, that he had to be the one to buy the first few rounds of drinks to keep the guys happy.

Paying for the beers, Miguel chuckled to himself. Being this happy about a promotion as a construction worker, it was something that Miguel - in his former life as Michael - would never have imagined. That life now felt so faint, so unappealing. His new life felt so grounded, it felt so real.

He brought the beers to the table. "Yo, where's my brother at?" he asked. One of the newer guys on the crew laughed, "he's out back with Tommy. They're, erm, taking care of business."

Miguel held his hand up and passed him a beer. "Say no more. If it helps Tommy unwind after that shift, let me bro have his fun." Miguel laughed as he walked off to the bathroom. José insatiable horniness, that hadn't been something he'd expected. In fact, the idea that José was now some amalgamation of the people he had been before, that he had adopted traits from each of them into one perfect whole, had been a surprise as well.

Miguel went into the booth, locked it and sat down and pulled a phone out of his pocket. Josh's phone. The phone Josh thought had been destroyed.

The screen was cracked and there was a dent in the side, but otherwise - it was working fine. Miguel pulled up Josh's TaskRaccoon app and checked the current task was still ongoing. A task that had been set by Miguel himself.

He sighed, still feeling shame and a bit of guilt for what he had done. The truth was, when José had left the apartment that day Miguel thought it wouldn't affect him. But meeting José, the app making him his brother, had a surprisingly lingering effect. Miguel himself was only just getting used to having a new life, a life cut off from his old family and friends. So he was surprised when, despite only meeting José for 30 minutes, he wanted him back.

So when he got the call from the hospital that some unidentified college-aged kid was in hospital and that they had pulled Miguel's number off the phone, a phone that the staff then gave to Miguel for safe-keeping, he didn't hesitate. Even though Miguel didn't immediately recognise the kid unconscious in the hospital bed - the blonde hair, the twinky face, the hairless but buff build - he knew instinctively that it was Josh.

Josh clearly hadn't managed to get home, not yet, and he winded up in some other body. But Miguel - maybe selfishly - wanted José back, not Josh. He wanted a brother. So he set up a new task on his own device - I want a brother, someone I can live and work with - and then used Josh's phone to accept it.

The change was instantaneous, but not in the way Miguel had been expecting. Miguel - perhaps underestimating the app - had expected Josh to morph straight back into the José he had met: the young, bright, handsome, lean younger brother and pool cleaner. So Miguel was shocked when Josh grew and grew out in size and bulk without growing in height, when Josh was swiftly covered by a blanket of dark hair, by the thick beard, by the facial features morphing subtly, by the thick veneer of sweat over the body and finally by the fact that he aged up, looking closer and closer to Miguel in age. Miguel had experienced his own changes some time ago, but seeing it happen in real-life in front of his eyes was a completely different experience.

Lying on the bed was a behemoth, far exceeding the width of the hospital bed and with a gown that struggled to hold together his bulging muscles. Miguel - with a tinge of brotherly competitiveness - noted that Josh was now even bulkier than he was.

He had been even more surprised when Josh woke and at the thick guttural voice that only spoke Spanish, the fact that he seemed to struggle to hold a complex conversation, and the fact that he gaped at pretty much everyone who walked in and did a terrible job of hiding his clear erection.

And then, Miguel lied, telling Josh that Josh's phone was lost, and that he was stuck like this. Miguel knew it wasn't right, especially after he had lost his own life, but at the end of the day, he told himself that Josh was happy. Sure, he was dumb as rocks now, but he was a hunk, a beast in the gym, and had a solid job. And, most of all, Miguel felt like he had some semblance of a family back.

And so, Miguel had made his mind up. There was no use telling Josh the truth. He was happy like this, right?

Miguel sat up, washed his hands, and promptly threw Josh's phone in the bin. He didn't need it any more, he wasn't going to change anything else.

He re-entered the bar, and caught Jose's eye. José was laughing, a beer in one hand and Tommy's ass in his other. No doubt José would soon run off, with Tommy, other crew member, someone else from the bar. But he'd still be up at the crack of dawn the next morning to join Miguel at work. Miguel laughed - his brother could be a menace, but he was family. And that was all that mattered.

The End (for now...)

***

Thank you everyone for reading along and for your messages and encouragement. I've loved revisiting and updating this story and hope you have to. And maybe it isn't the end of the misadventures of TaskRaccoon...

#mywork #race change #mental change #dumber #male transformation #male tf

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onlyquinns · 1 month ago

Note

that photo of kess, his veiny hands... the tattoo... i fear I'm going feral. can i possibly request one where kess goes absolutely crazy when reader surprises him with a small tattoo of his name and/or number where only he can see it.... so.... smutty pls if youre up for it. And maybe a little extra, when he turns up to practice the guys tease him cause his back is totally scratched up from the night before. thanks darling!!!

okay need to be sedated now, that photo has me going mad.

he sees it by accident. you’d honestly forgot you had it, barely able to see it yourself. you’d gotten his initials number tattooed on your hip—just above the bone—weeks ago, a little surprise you wanted to show him for finishing his first season with a completely new nhl team. obviously, you’d forgotten to show him.

michael’s watching you in your little bikini, wiggling to get comfy in the sun lounger, and that’s when he sees it. at first, it just looks like a smudge of black in your skin—but after squinting past the sunlight, he makes out a little mk7 in a dainty font. he immediately abandons his spot by the sliding glass door, his beer can forgotten by the grill as he walks over.

before you can even take your sunglasses off, michael settles over you, bracketing thick thighs over your hips. “when did you get it?” he asks, watching with blown pupils as you scrunch your brows like you don’t know what he’s talking about.

and you don’t.

“get what?” you ask, setting your book down on the hot concrete under you. you pull your shades off and set them on top of your book, michael’s large body blocking the sun from even touching you.

michael rolls his eyes, playing mean and it makes your cheeks warm even more in the summer heat. his hand cups your hip, right over your tattoo, and it clicks. he pinches and prods the skin there, and you whine.

“when did you get this?” he asks, lightly pinching the little tattoo to emphasize its existence. you look up at him and get lost in his face, his eyes dark and half lidded. “c’mon, baby, answer the question,” he growls, pressing his hips down into you so you can feel the hand outline of him through your bikini. hi hand trails over the waistline, pulling it back and snapping it against your skin.

you swallow, mind suddenly hazy and pupils blown just as big as michael’s. “a few days ago,” you murmur, “do you… do you like it?”

michael laughs, the sound so deep and throaty that it has you involuntarily squeezing your thighs together, slick pooling uncomfortably in between your legs. “you’ve no idea,” he whispers.

you’re unable to respond, words stolen from your mouth as you feel michael’s long fingers pull your bottoms to the side. he eyes you hungrily as his fingers make contact with your clit, drawing a loud squeak from you.

“why didn’t you tell me you got it?” he asks, fingers dipping lower between your legs and collecting your wetness on his fingers. he looks at you like he’s disappointed.

“i forgot,” you mumble. “you got so caught up with other hockey stuff—like… like the usa hockey thing.” you chew on your bottom lip and michael chuckles, as if to say that isn’t a good excuse. “i promise to tell you next time,” you say softly, peering up at him with big doe eyes. the look catches him off guard, sending impossibly more blood to his dick, but he shakes his head when he suddenly feels you grind down on his fingers.

michael pulls his hand away, pulling his large hand from your core to rest on your inner thigh, thumb pulling your pussy open for him to look at. “next time, huh?” he says, eyes only on your cunt and how it drools for him.

you nod, hair rubbing against the sun lounger’s rough cushioning. “y’know…” you start with uncertainty. “when we get married… i think it’d be cute to get your initial on my hand.”

michael groans at your words, “you’re killing me here,” he says lowly. he thumbs at your clit, drawing tight circles around it as he shimmies his swim trunks down.

michael pumps his hand over his dick, eyes flickering up to look at your face, a dark chuckle leaving his lips at the sight of you staring at his cock.

“my girl just like it when people know she’s mine?” he asks, drawing the thick head of his dick through your slick folds.

you nod, “mhm, only yours, mikey,” you say, watching where his dick slides through your folds.

michael grins, smug and cocky, and lines himself up with your entrance. his thumb doesn’t stray from rubbing circles against your clit as he sinks in, your body sucking him in. he couldn’t care any fucking less about being caught; in fact, he wouldn’t mind at all—just another little thing to add to the tattoo of his initials and number that prove you’re his. only his.

you moan as michael thrusts into you, taking his hand away from your clit and gripping your hips. he tilts your hips upward, angling your body just right so that he slams into that spongy spot inside of you over and over. you cry out and wrap your arms around him, freshly manicured nails digging into his back. michael moans, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your freshly done acrylics dragging down his back. he knows you’re going to leave a mark, judging by the sharp sting your fingers leave in their wake, but the idea excites him beyond belief.

“fuck,” he groans, hips stuttering for a second as your ankles lock behind his back. “gonna make sure everyone knows i’m yours, yeah? leaving marks all over my back. fuck.”

you barely register his words, too dumb on the feeling of his cock pumping in and out of you. your body trembles in michael’s hold, your climax building to a peak. michael moans as your cunt flutters around him, squeezing and sucking him in as he tries to keep his rhythm.

“‘m gonna cum!” you cry, legs tight around his waist and hands gripping into his shoulders.

the sight of you him—all messy with sex hair and flushed cheeks—has michael drooling. “okay, okay—“ he presses one large palm over your lower stomach, adding more pressure to the push and pull of his dick inside you. you whine loudly with tears forming at the corner of your eyes, body trembling as you hold back on your release until michael gives you the go ahead.

“m-michael!” you whimper, eyes bleary and bottom lip pulled tight between your teeth. the sun lounger feels wet underneath you. “please—please lemme cum! wanna cum!”

michael grins down at you and nods, “okay, baby, cum for me,” he says, voice smug. “c’mon, pretty girl, make a mess on my dick—know you want to.”

you moan and finally allow yourself your climax, the tightly coiled cord in your lower stomach snapping and sending you spiraling. your body trembles as you pant, quick puffs of air leaving your glossed lips. michael smirks, fucking you through your orgasm and him to completion. he holds your hips tight, pressing deep into you and shooting hot ropes of cum into your aching cunt. you whine at the sensation, pulling michael so he smothers you with his body, and pressing your nose into his neck.

michael smooths his hands up from your hips and holds you close to him, feeling the quick rise and fall of your chest. you murmur incoherently into his sweat-damp skin and michael grins to himself.

“don’t think you’re off the hook now,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m not done with you yet, and that tattoo—“ he gives a quick, sharp slap to your hip, “—makes you mine.”

and later that day, when michael finds himself back at the delta center, his teammates whistle and whoop at the sight of his back—all marked up with thin, red lines and a new piece of saniderm on his hip, your initial inked into his smooth skin right where his are on you.

#val’s reqs 🧃#nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl players #michael kesselring smut #michael kesselring x you #michael kesselring blurb #michael kesselring imagine #michael kesselring #michael kesselring x reader

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dokoni-mo · 2 months ago

Text

Waiting Drives You Crazy || Springtrap x GN! Reader

summary: you reunite after 30 years

SFW // angsty fluff

word count: 3252

warnings: swearing, canon-typical violence, mental health issues including but not limited to anxiety, depression, and thoughts of unaliving, springtrap is smelly af, established relationship, angst, fluff, will is just a bad person lmao

masterlist

a/n: wow my first fic in more than a year,, i really hope that I've still got it!! This story doesn't really connect to crave toooooo muchhh?? but i've still tagged my normal list for crave anyway!! pls lmk if i missed you or you don't want to be tagged in stuff like this! also, this is based off one of my fav fnaf vhs series!! i'll link it here! enjoy!

When they called you saying that they had found William, you spilt your coffee mug all over the kitchen floor.

"What?" Was the only thing that managed to slip past your trembling lips, breathless as if you had been kicked in the chest full-force. And that's what it felt like, honestly, hearing William's name again. Nobody ever talked about him anymore. After what had happened, all that came up about him after his disappearance, it was taboo to even mention him in passing. Let sleeping dogs lie, they said. Leave the demon to his demons.

But a part of you always wondered.

"Yes, you heard me correct." The agent reassured you, and you could hear how he tapped his pen against his notepad on the other end of the line. "We found him, er, we found William. The DNA samples we collected all matched the ones we had on our database. And Michael gave a positive ID."

You fell silent again, your blood feeling as if it were ice in your veins. The room was fuzzy, with a ringing in your ears that you couldn't pinpoint when it began. You stood motionless for a moment before your legs gave out from under you. Your body stumbled to the side, making you fall against your kitchen counter with an oof.

"(Y/N)?" The agent's voice asked, a note of concern in his otherwise flat, professional tone, "Are you alright? Are you still there?"

You took a few deep breaths to steady yourself, nodding even though the man on the other line couldn't see.

"Y-Yes, yes, I am." You confirmed, gripping on to your phone tighter. In order to make sure you wouldn't stumble again, you slid down your wooden cabinets to sit on the floor, not caring about your shattered coffee mug and the pool of steaming coffee next to you. "Sorry, I just... I..."

"No worries," the agent replied, seeming to understand you despite not saying a word, "I get that this is a lot to take in. Just, take a few deep breaths, yeah?"

You take his advice and take in a few deep breaths, the quiet moment allowing you to feel just how fast your heart was racing in your chest. You swallowed thickly after composing yourself, hugging your knees close to your chest.

"I-I just... Is he okay? Is Michael okay?"

"Oh, yeah, Michael is fine. William, however..."

The man trailed off, an awkward silence hanging over the air between the two of you. Your impatience got the better of you, and you were the first to speak up.

"What? What's wrong with him?"

Silence again, only broken up by a sigh and the faint sounds of whispers to a colleague you didn't make an effort to discern. You were about to ask the same thing again, only firmer, when the agent finally spoke again, calm enough to make you slightly annoyed.

"We think it might be best for you to come and see for yourself. William's situation is... quite complex. And we're it would do him some good to see you again."

The annoyance you felt slowly faded away into the ether at the offer, your lips parting in surprise.

Come and see for yourself.

Could it really be that easy? Thirty years you spent wondering what happened to William. Searching for any little piece of evidence that might have pointed to where he would have gone. All those nights of tossing and turning, rereading the newspaper articles over and over, booking therapy appointments just to cancel the night before, just to be handed a reunion on a silver platter? If it weren't for the ceramic shard digging in to your heel, you would have thought you were dreaming.

"Uh- O-Of course we understand if you would prefer not to--"

"No. Sorry, n-no, no..." You rasped, only just then realizing that you hadn't said anything, "No, I want to. I definitely want to. I just thought... It's been so long..."

"We understand. We thought so as well, but... I-It'll be easier to explain when you get here. We could have a car come and get you as soon as tomorrow afternoon, if that works for you?"

You stood up from your seat on the floor, carrying your phone over to look out the window. You could see the sun setting overtop of the buildings surrounding your shitty little apartment complex. Your left hand absent-mindedly fidgeted by your side, touching the ring on your finger and twirling it over and over again on the digit.

"Yeah, that's fine." You replied, knowing full well you had work in the morning. To hell with it. Fuck it.

This was far more important.

~~~

Nearly the entire ride to the facility was spent by you fidgeting in the back seat of the van with not a word spoken to the driver. You couldn't find a position to where you could sit comfortably, making you shift around every so often. Looking out the window to the drab, grey sky that stretched out in front of you, you tried to distract yourself to no avail. Your thoughts constantly drifted back to William, thousands of thoughts drifting through your mind.

Where the hell had he been the last thirty years? How was he even still alive? Why didn't he ever try to contact you? What exactly did these people mean when telling you it would be easier to explain in person? And most importantly, what the hell were you even going to say to him?

You didn't know. But you needed to try. Hopefully you could wing it as you go.

Eventually, after passing by some rather sketchy looking buildings on the highway, you scooted forward in your seat to talk to the driver, leaning against the passenger seat as you looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

"Hey," you said, "How much further are we out?"

"Just around five minutes." The driver replied, "Just gotta take the exit and we're there."

The driver put the blinker on and merged out of the highway, taking the exit ramp down closer to some of the buildings. He drove for a few more minutes before pulling in to the parking lot of one of the shorter buildings, a few security guards around the perimeter. The two of you drove up to what appeared to be the front door, where two men in suits were waiting outside for you once you parked.

The driver walked around to the opposite side of the car to open the door for you, letting you walk the short distance up to the door. The two men standing there looked at you as you approached, one of them reaching out to shake your hand. This one had glasses with salt-and-pepper hair, the other one with brown hair and deep wrinkles.

"(Y/N), yes?" The agent shaking your hand greeted, offering you a small, almost sympathetic smile, "We're glad you could make it out. I'm agent Carter, the one you spoke with on the phone. This is my colleague agent Smith."

You glanced to agent Smith, who only gave you a little nod before you looked back to agent Carter. It was clear who was the more friendly of the two.

"I see. Nice to meet you too." You replied, shifting your bag on your shoulder somewhat awkwardly. "Thank you both for inviting me here. It's... This is an opportunity I didn't think I'd ever get."

"Oh, it's no trouble--"

"Let's just get down to business, yes?" Agent Smith interjected with a sigh lacing his voice, turning and walking off in to the facility. Agent Carter followed behind him quickly, and held the door open for you as you followed. You walked behind the two men as they led you deeper into the building, seeing the different people in business-casual attire milling about the area.

"We found Mr. Afton a few weeks ago, but it's only now that we have seen any signs of life from him." The brown haired agent told you, making you pause and raise a brow.

"Signs of... life?" You questioned, earning a sideways glance from both agents.

"You'll see for yourself in due time." Smith replied before ducking inside of a room, Carter holding the door for you again as you stepped inside.

You took a moment to stand in the doorway and take in what you saw inside of the room, your breath catching in your throat. A plethora of large, flat TV screens lined the far wall, some displaying images of bare rooms, and others just showing static. There was a microphone on the desk lining the same wall, along with some computer monitors, keyboards, notebooks, abandoned cups of coffee and three different swivel chairs. Even though none of these were threatening by themselves, the combination of all of them made you shift in your stance and clear your throat.

"Wh... So, where is he?" You asked as you looked to Agent Carter for some answers, who just gave you a small smile.

"He's just behind this door." Smith replied as he gestured over his shoulder, nodding in the same direction. Looking behind him, you saw a reinforced door with barred, reinforced windows and several different locking mechanisms. Your brow furrowed in confusion and you opened your mouth to question it, but Agent Carter had interrupted you before any words could come out. He walked up to you and pressed something long and metal in to your hands, only adding to your confusion.

"We require that you to take this in with you." He said, his eyes flashing with hint of sympathy as you turned the object over in your hands; a shocking prod. "It's for your own protection in the event we can't get the door open in time."

"Wh-What?" You questioned as your eyes widened, turning the shock prod over in your hands again. "Are you serious? Will wouldn't."

"You have one hour to be with him. After that you'll have to sign a form and undergo a medical examination." Smith interrupted, placing a hand on your shoulder and practically pulling you over to the reinforced door.

You tried to protest, but he either didn't hear you or didn't care as he undid the locks to the door. The agent opened the door the bare minimum amount required to get you through the threshold before practically shoving you inside, nearly knocking you off your balance. You clutched on to the shock prod tighter as you flinched at the sound of the heavy door shutting behind you then the clicking of several locks closing shut. You stood in silence for a moment before the lights flickered on in the room, your eyes stinging as they adjusted to the harsh, cool-toned lighting.

Inside of the room was a metal table with two chairs, with scratches, marks, and mystery stains lining every surface. Scanning over the room, your eyes eventually landed on something in the corner, slumped over and sitting on the ground. It took you a moment to decipher what it was, earning a gasp from you when you eventually did. It was the spring-bonnie suit William used to wear, all those years ago. You could recognize that yellow fur and rabbit ears anywhere. Although, it was clear that time had not been kind to old bonnie, his fur matted and full of holes and stains, with obvious chunks missing, not to mention the horrible smell.

You stared at the yellow rabbit for a long moment before your grip on the shock prod tightened again, your brow furrowing. You felt frustration and anger rise inside your chest, feeling the heat in your cheeks. You were promised to see William. And this was all you got? A rotting costume?

"Is this some sort of sick joke?" You sneered as you looked around the room again, your eyes eventually landing on the security camera hanging from the ceiling. You glared in to it before turning and pounding on the iron door, your frustration only growing with each loud bang.

"Are you two serious?! What is this?! Get me out of here! Hello?? HELLO--"

"B... Bun... ny... Bun-ny..."

You freeze, your face growing pale and your motions falling away to a halt. You feel a chill run down your whole body, as if a ghost had passed through you and stole your soul.

No... it wasn't. It couldn't be. It was impossible...

But who else had ever called you bunny before?

Slowly, you turn around, your hands shaking and your bottom lip trembling. Your wide eyes take in the sight before you, sending another chill down your body. Spring bonnie, who was originally sitting down, was now upright, hunched over and twitching every so often in a manner that made your body ache. Two white, glowing eyes were staring right at you, almost as wide as your own. You could feel your body tremble with fear, but your mind felt oddly blank, as if trying to catch up with reality.

It couldn't be. I just couldn't--

"W... Will?" You heard yourself say before you could register it in your mind, your body acting on pure instinct alone.

The decrepit Spring Bonnie seemed to twitch again at this, the rusty joints creaking and popping in an unnatural manner. The animatronic takes a heavy, labored step closer to you making you flinch.

"B-Bun-ny... m-my... bunny..." Spring Bonnie's voice spoke to you again, sounding as if his throat were full of wires and metal. He takes another painful-looking step towards you, and you flinch again, your back pressing against the metal door as the shock prod dropped out of your hand and clattered to the floor. The animatronic seems to take note of this and stops his approach, an almost pained, heartbroken look flashing in his mechanical eyes.

"D-Don't be... scared." Spring Bonnie tells you, even as you felt your lungs rapidly rise and fall in your chest. "It's me... (Y/N). I-It's me..." I would... never... hurt you."

You heard a ringing in your ears as you listened to the animatronic... William's words. No, there was no denying it anymore. You knew in your heart that this was William. Those glowing, robotic eyes; you could still see the remnants of the man you loved behind him. The grey eyes that you used to love with all your heart.

Tears stung in the rims of your eyes as you stared ahead at William, the cold air of the room stinging inside your chest. A pained look flashed in your eyes, and you started to shake your head.

"N-No... i-it... That's not..." You choked out as you felt hot tears slip down your cheeks and dribble down your chin. "How, I... I-I don't understand--"

William shushes you before you could get out any more words, to the best of his ability, at least. He takes a few more labored steps closer to you until he's within arms length, the smell of rot and mold filling your lungs. You ignore it, however, glued in place as you watch his... hand? paw? Reach up to you. A metal finger lifts to your face, and wipes a tear from your cheek with a shocking amount of gentleness.

"You're... s-still as... stunning... as I... remember." William rasped, making your lips part as a warmth flooded your chest. Even now, all these years later, he still remembered you? Made you swoon? It was all you ever hoped for.

You took in a deep breath and let it slip from your lips, feeling how they curved up into the slightest of smiles. You reached up to your face and wiped your eyes as best you could, taking a moment to look William's new body up and down before meeting his gaze again.

"You thought about me?" You asked in a rasp of a voice, feeling the rotted furry palm of William's drop from your face and scrape down your arm.

"C-Constantly." He replied, and you swore you saw the rabbit ears on the top of his head perk up.

Your small smile lingered for a moment as you stared into William's glowing eyes, your gaze eventually trailing down his body once more. You could see the mold and rot on the tattered fur, along with remnants of what was probably blood and other gore you didn't want to think too much about. The more you looked, the more your smile faded, until it was just a frown.

"I just..." You began, shaking your head in disbelief. "I just have so many questions. How are you even alive? What happened to you?"

William's shoulders squared in response to your interrogation, a deep rumbling emanating through his voice box. He looked off to the side, deep in thought and pausing for a long moment, as if the memory was far in the depths of the remnants of his mind. After a beat, I looked back up into your eyes, and you felt his paw grab on to your hand.

"It is... a long... story." He rasped, tugging on your hand as he turned. He took a few heavily labored steps back to the corner of the room, and you followed after him. Slowly, he moved his giant body so that he could sit back on the floor, lifting up his arm for you to join him by his side. You looked at the obvious signs of decay where you were supposed to rest yourself, and pulled your jacket tighter around your body. You knew Will probably wanted some human contact and connection with you after so long, but you really didn't want it to end with having to go to the ER for a tetanus shot.

You knelt down before moving to sit next to William, feeling his heavy, robotic arm wrap around your shoulders. He pulled you in as close as you could go to him and let out a sound akin to a purr, his other paw moving to rest on your knee.

"I-I never meant... to leave you... bunny." William wheezed, his glowing eyes never leaving your face. "I was... chased. Trapped."

"Chased by who?"

The golden rabbit man paused, as if to search for what to say.

"Spirits... after me. Th-They wanted... revenge."

"Spirits? Revenge? Revenge for wha--"

"I-I was... terrified. So I... hid. In the suit. My sweat... made the... sp-springlocks... go off. I-I died slowly... painfully. But... came back later. S-Stuck in pain for... thirty years..."

Your eyes softened as you listened to William's story, feeling an ache in your chest. You couldn't imagine just how scared he must have been; scared, alone, and in pain for thirty years. It sounded like absolute hell. Worse than hell, even. It sounded like agony for him to even talk, let alone just exist inside of the Spring Bonnie suit for so long. Your eyes stung with tears again as you placed your hand over his, careful to avoid any sharp pieces of metal or wires.

"Oh, Will... I'm so sorry. That sounds... Just horrible."

You sniffled back your tears before lifting your hand to his rotted cheek, gently cupping it where you knew it would be safe. He immediately let out another purr, leaning in to your touch as his eyes turned half-lidded.

"Are you in pain right now?" You asked, bracing yourself for the answer.

"Y-Yes..." He responds, closing his eyes for a moment before gazing back at your face.

"B-But having you... makes... the pain... bearable."

~~~

tags: @guinea-pig16 @the-official-memester @randomwriteralan @mrsrogerwaters @laylaaftonshit @cherry-slushee @insert-memical-username @mrssafton @horrorking2000 @artist-anon08 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @jamiethenerdymonster @kimyona-san @purplewolfcoffee @violetlmfaoo @reapersimps @wawuwe @lovinglenore @zoey5252 @000-mika @strawberrysandhim @sopiasleeps @mxstly-melancholy @kinniewhre @myglife @coffeeforthecatgod69 @glitched-out-dusk @bagelbxtch @confiscated-peaches-main @itswolfie @zenhatescats1 @sat10 @dfghfjfjfjfjfj @strawberry-gothic

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#william afton x reader #william afton #springtrap x y/n #springtrap x reader #springtrap x you #william afton x you #steve raglan #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you #fnaf x y/n #fnaf x you #fnaf x reader #fnaf fanfic

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asxgard · 3 months ago

Text

Companionship | pt. 2

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You and Michael have some late night phone calls. He struggles to open up.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: wow! Y’all are really so nice omg, I really appreciate all of you who took the time to like, comment or reblog. I also appreciate all you silent readers too! I’m genuinely surprised with how much traffic part 1 got, so thank you all so much! Contemplating adding this to my AO3 account from the perspective of a f!oc, but still undecided (I prefer to keep my reader works strictly for tumblr, idk why). This is definitely going to be multiple parts (my rough outline currently has ten chapters whoops).

I don’t know much about sugar babies aside from what I’ve read, so I took some liberties with my guesstimates.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: age gap, slowburn, foul language, allusion to a panic attack, work stress, Robby trying to avoid his feelings/anxiety, my basic understanding of accounting, angst

not beta read

“You’re lucky. Someone only looking for companionship is a small pool of men. Not as lucrative as a traditional sugar baby, but if that’s more your speed, maybe reach out to some more.”

Your smile twisted, “I’m already uncomfortable with just one. Thinking about adding more makes me feel icky.”

Erin rolled her eyes, “Why? They know what they signed up for. If they wanted fidelity, then they should get a girlfriend.”

“I’m telling you, I could hook you up with a shift or two a week at the bar. I make great tips.” Marsi said, her eyes not flickering from her laptop.

You frowned. “I already gave him my number. My Google Voice number, but yeah.”

“That’s my girl!” Erin praised with a laugh.

You wondered if it was a mistake. He had not reached out since you had sent the number on the app, nearly four days prior. Perhaps he was having second thoughts. Anxiety filled your chest at the thought of having to go through the whole process again.

Or just drop it and take Marsi up on her offer.

—

Your night passed slowly, studying with your friends until dinner time, when they left. You kept your focus on the Excel spreadsheet in front of you, checking over your homework with careful eyes. Numbers were easy, they did not hold the complexities of human beings—

Your phone buzzed on the table, immediately pulling you away from your work.

You have any time to talk?

It was an unknown number. You watched as the three dots appeared immediately after, though it wasn’t hard to guess who it was.

This is Michael by the way.

So formal, you found yourself thinking with a small smile, quickly adding him to your contacts.

I have time.

It only took a few more moments before your phone started ringing. Anxiety thrummed through your system, heart beating like a drum against your ribcage. You took a long breath through your nose before answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” He answered awkwardly.

“How are you?” You asked out of habit.

There were several moments of silence. “I want to say I’m okay.”

“But you’re not?”

“But I’m not.” Came his quiet reply.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Another measured silence. “No. Yes? I don’t know.”

You hummed. “I understand your hesitation, we don’t know each other. But isn’t that the whole point? I’m unconnected to your life and you basically have anonymity. I won’t pry, so we can talk about something else, if you’d like.”

He was silent for a long time. You checked the call to make sure it hadn’t dropped. The seconds ticked away on the call, so he was still there. You waited.

“Just a…rough day.” He said, his tone sounding stressed. “I think I’d rather talk about your day right now.”

“My day?” You questioned, surprised.

He only hummed in response.

“Do you want the play-by-play or the cliff-notes?”

Michael exhaled a ghost of a laugh, “Give me all of it.”

You cleared your throat, “So my alarm went off at 5:20, no! 5:25, and then I got out of bed—”

He laughed, bringing a smile to your lips.

“I have early classes on Thursdays, so I was up earlier than I usually like to be…”

“Night owl?”

“Guilty.” You smiled. “But it was my forensic accounting class, which I’ve been enjoying, so I wasn’t too upset getting out of bed. Add in my morning coffee, and I was a pretty happy camper.” You paused, but he was quiet on the other end. “I had taxation today too, and despite the fact I love the numbers, learning tax law just isn’t my favorite thing.”

“Why do you like it? Accounting?”

“Oh, um,” you paused, deliberating. “I like turning unreadable stuff into a well-crafted report, turn a mess into an easy to read story of a company’s financial history. Plus, numbers are a lot less complicated than human beings.”

There was his quiet laugh again. “Yeah, I can see how that can be true.”

“As a doctor, I can imagine you would.” You were smiling.

“I’ve seen…a lot of complicated people.”

You waited a few moments, but he didn’t elaborate. People were the primary reason you had left the medical field early on in your college career — while you enjoyed being helpful, people could be too overwhelming.

“And my shift today was good, busy and boring, but easy enough.”

As you went on about your day as a payroll clerk (though vague about the company details), Michael was quiet. It was clear he needed the distraction from whatever his day had been. You explained your studying routine with your friends and your love of baking. You got the occasional hum of acknowledgment, but it was clear he just wanted to listen to you talk. You moved from topic-to-topic without complaint, pausing occasionally to make sure he did not want to comment, or change the subject.

It was late when you realized the time: 11:08.

“Michael? I’m sure I could keep going, but I’m not sure you want to hear my opinions on office politics.” Your tone was jesting.

Still no response. Furrowing your brows, you listened silently to the other end.

Small puffs of air, slow and steady, in and out. In. Out. He had fallen asleep.

Your first instinct was to be offended — no telling how long since he had drifted off or how long you had rambled to no one. But then you relaxed. He had clearly needed the distraction from what was going through his head when he first called, enough to quiet his brain. Or perhaps he was just that exhausted. Either way, you did not take it personally, you would have likely been up this late anyways.

You ended the call at two hours and seventeen minutes.

—

Are you available at 9?

You checked your phone when you moved into the living room, dinner cooking in the oven, finding a text from Michael. Per your agreement, you usually talked about once a week. He usually gave late notice, though it usually reflected how bad his day had gotten. Your last talk, however, had only been three days prior.

In addition to the one only days ago, you had talked two additional times since your first, typically at night, where you did most of the talking. You almost found your talks therapeutic; plus you were getting paid to just talk. Though, you wished he talked more — part of you felt like you were taking advantage of the situation and he was barely getting anything out of it.

He had already put money on the prepaid Visa card you had picked up after your first phone conversation. Michael thought the card would be more discreet and confidential than Venmo. The $400 dollars you had agreed on for the month had done wonders with relieving the pressure on making your rent payment.

Erin had encouraged you to set up an online wishlist as well, adding things periodically in case he wanted to buy something extra for you. “As a tip,” Erin had told you, a wide smirk on her face. That same day, Erin had coincidentally brought her new Valentino canvas bag that you were sure cost more than your rent payment. You held off on the wishlist, but you kept a few things in your notes app. Just in case.

You sent him a confirmation that you were fine with nine. He must work late hours. He had said he was a doctor, but you wondered in what specialty or where, but you had never broached the topic. You both valued your privacy when it came to your arrangement, not wanting to muddy the waters.

Surprisingly, he did not call at nine. He was usually pretty punctual when it came to a time he asked for. You waited patiently for several minutes before moving to start some hot water for tea, looking out the window at the rain. You figured to give him a bit of extra time before turning in.

At 9:24, your phone rang. Part of you nearly picked it up on the first ring, but you gave it a few moments before picking up. When you answered, he spoke first.

“Please just talk. About anything.” He sounded out of breath, talking quickly. His tone sounded more stressed than you had heard before.

“Are you alright?” Was your first instinct instead of doing as he asked, standing from your chair at the dining table, mug of tea forgotten.

“Fuck. No, I’m not. Please just talk to me. Your day. Your job. The fucking traffic this morning. Anything,” Your name was so quiet on his tongue, you nearly missed it.

It sounded like a plea.

You swallowed, pulse quickening, before running with it, “This asshole actually cut me off this morning, which considering his bumper stickers, wasn’t all that surprising. No blinker, nothing. I swear, sometimes the subway is less stressful, though I hate the morning crowds.”

Suddenly realizing talking about stressful things might not be the best way to calm him down, you pivoted, pacing across your apartment. Deciding quickly on something boring to most, you began to explain your most recent accounting assignment. How you came up with the financial analysis from the numbers your professor had given, to the tax implications of several of the (fake) business’s decisions. You explained it as best you could in layman's terms, trying not to make the math too complicated, before walking him through your report and your thoughts about how to help the business improve.

You paused long enough to hear his breathing, not quite as ragged but still loud and quick. “I don’t need you to respond, but think of five things you can see.”

Oh this was cliche, but you did not dwell on it.

After a few moments, “Okay, four things you can touch.” You paused, finding four things of your own to ensure he had time. “Now three things you can hear.”

“You.” He croaked, much quieter than he had been. “I can hear you.”

“That’s good. Now two more things.”

“…the rain. The cars outside.”

“Good,” you breathed out. “Two things you can smell?”

He didn’t answer, though his breathing had slowed tremendously from when you had first answered his call. It felt relieving, and you finally made your way to sit on the couch.

“Last is one thing you can taste.”

He let out a long deep breath, but kept whatever it had been to himself.

“Are you okay?” You asked again after a few moments.

“No.” He said. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

You nearly huffed, but the annoyance was fleeting. You smiled, “I can tell you more about accounting, but most people find it incredibly boring.”

“You seem to really enjoy accounting. Though, I can’t imagine being cooped up in an office all day.”

“Well I wasn’t quite cut out for psychiatry, and I’ve always enjoyed a good spreadsheet.”

“Psychiatry?” He sounded surprised. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“What does that mean?”

“You would’ve been good at it.”

Oh?

“Thank you.” You whispered. “Um, can I interest you in what my professor assigned today or how my manager nearly fucked up payroll this week?”

He cleared his throat, “I’ll take ‘how my manager nearly fucked up today’ for $200, Alex.”

Your lips quirked back up at the Jeopardy reference, trying to shake off the feeling his praise had given you. With a long sigh, you rubbed your fingers along your hairline.

“He messed up the new employee’s tax deductions by misclassifying his title. When he backtracked to fix it, he cleared out the entire category — thankfully I caught it when I was putting my own numbers in for the small team I oversee.” You told him, looking at your nails. “Led to quite a frustrating day.”

Despite the fact that it had led to quite a hectic start to your workday, adding several tasks that interrupted you workflow, you felt mildly pathetic knowing his day had clearly been so much worse. You tried not to compare, your days had just as much value as his, but it was still a creeping feeling in your gut.

You continued on after a beat of silence on his end. Fixing the problem hadn’t necessarily been the issue — it was redoing every employee's numbers that led to your annoyance. That, and the lack of accountability from your manager.

Time ticked on, Michael only adding in his thoughts here and there, mostly staying quiet.

He coughed awkwardly during a lull in your conversation, “Uh, thank you for tonight.”

Beginning to feel your exhaustion, you smiled tiredly. “No thanks necessary.”

“Goodnight,” there was your name again.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

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