#Hook’s Position is Tracked in Real-Time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joosthead · 5 months ago

Text

skin || j.k. x f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ joost wants to make a song.

₊˚⊹⋆ for @spentandpent’s contest 😅🩷 (2 months late)

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not dutch

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 10.3k

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (established relationship, consensual audio recording during sex, f!receiving oral, mirror, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, squirting, vibrator, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv, slight breeding kink, creampie), kind of really porny i can't lie. pwp. crying both out of (momentary) sadness and because cumming 🩷 reader🤝being total crybabies🤝juno

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “skin” by mac miller, “p power” by gunna

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: vibrator. go big or go home right 🩷 as always @howisjoostfanfictionforfree my partner in filth 🩷 @spentandpent for infecting me w the overstim brainworms 🩷 and lovely @xiaoflan for listening to me complain about this fic ! 😆🩷 i love and appreciate you all 🩷 the art for the header is by one of my amazing best friends <3

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

“Are you ready, mijn schat?” Joost asks in a soft voice, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you.

“Ready as I'll ever be, Joosti.”

One of his nicest microphones is set up on your bedside table, wires crossing every which way, his laptop on the ground and hooked up to it.

This was an idea that came about spontaneously, as most things regarding Joost come about; on the train home together, sharing his wired earphones with each other and listening to your playlist of liked songs when Skin by Mac Miller came on. His ears perked up and his eyes brightened at the first few seconds, and you knew you were in for it.

There’s a woman in the first few seconds—she sounds like she’s having a positively great time, mewling softly, panting in a way that sounds almost like you when Joost is fucking you good. This was on your playlist?!?! You couldn’t fathom a situation where you’d listen to this in public, but here you were, hearing it all as you watched Joost and his mouth drop open a bit.

Your cheeks warmed and he poked you in the side—“Oh my god,” he said, taking your hand and shaking it. “You know what this means, right?” You shook your head no though you knew the answer—”Our turn!!!!!” He said it so loud that an old lady beside you gave him a dirty look, and he just smiled at her. “Can we? Can we?”

“Joost.”

“I just want to hear what it’s like—if I made a song and your beautiful voice was in the background like this or you were my little producer tag.”

“Very creative,” you laughed, sarcastic. Secretly…you two aren’t exactly public about your relationship. He would post about your anniversaries, your birthday, Valentine’s Day, your vacations; they know you exist, and that he has a long-term girlfriend, but you were so private you were almost elusive. “You want my moan in the back of your song?”

Something so…obvious under his belt. Something so loud. It was unlike you, and you knew it would never be released, at least not in the raw form he’d likely want it to be in, but it was still something. Something that made your stomach turn in that way that felt good and not scary, even with how rarely you were in the public eye.

You existed in the backgrounds of Joost, Appie, Alanis, Stuntje’s Instagram stories; you existed as a tag of a username, a pixelated and blurred out face in Joost’s photo dumps to protect your privacy. You exist out of the spotlight, in the background, not as the beat of his song, but you figure—it is only a matter of time until you join him in the sun.

“Who better than you? I want you everywhere, schat. Your moan will become my trademark,” he reasons, and as always—master of persuasion, at least with you. “One time. And it’ll just be between us, okay? Or mostly for me, I love hearing you.”

You decided in a quick second that you’d do it—all Joost has ever done is protect you, and even with your easily overthinking mind, this sounds fun as all hell to the little devil in your mind that wants everyone to know that he’s yours, you're his. No one else’s. Being possessive doesn’t come naturally in any other part of your life other than Joost.

“Okay,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder, holding his hand in yours. “Let’s do it, Joosti.”

“Wahhh—I love you!!!” Joost exclaimed, pressing a kiss to your forehead and going back to happily looking out the window.

“Mijn meisje,” he says softly, and it makes your stomach turn, the smooth glide of his voice as you lie back onto your pillows. You imagine how it’ll sound in the mp3 file. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, shaking your head. “We would’ve had sex anyway—why not make something of it?”

“It’s a big deal to me.”

You nod, “I can imagine.” Joost fiddles with a dial on the side of the microphone, presses a button somewhere else, tidies the wires. “What do you think it’ll sound like?”

Joost snickers a little to himself before starting— “Agh! Joost! Fuck me harder!” he whines, high pitched and teasing. “Urgh, Joosti, you’re so huge inside of me!”

“I do not fucking sound like that,” you laugh, slapping him on the shoulder to his barking laughter. “Schat, you’re so tight, I think I’ll cum in three seconds!”

“Hey!” Joost says, laughing as he leans to you for a kiss. “Okay, it might be the truth but I think it’ll sound good. As long as it’s you, we should win a Dutch Grammy for this.”

Outside the window, it’s rainy; the roof is pelted with the droplets of water of an autumn in Amsterdam, loud and incessant and comforting. Your room in this old house is humid with the moisture, but you’re sure it’s mostly just the two of you and your warmth making it feel so stuffy.

“We haven’t even made it yet and you want a Grammy?”

“Why not? I know we’ll get one, don't doubt us,” he grins, slinking off the bed and crouching in front of his computer. Joost’s customary wired earphones are plugged into it and he places a bud in his ear. “Mic check, 1, 2, 3,” he says, Joost Klein style, the sound waves appearing on the screen. “This issssss me and my baby’s recording session number one—“

“Number 1? The only one, Joost.”

“Okay, okay. Recording 1 of 1. Our ears only.” Pausing a little, Joost gets that expression on his face that lets you know he’s about to say something strange and he does: “Do you think we can make ASMR mouth sounds from this? Dutch kissing ASMR or something?”

“I think we can make more than mouth sounds when it comes down to it.”

Joost laughs, lifting his computer and placing it on the corner of the table behind the mic; gets up close to it, whispering and tapping on the wood of your bedside table like the people in the ASMR videos you both watch at his behest before bed, “Explain to them what we are going to do, schat,” you laugh and he shushes you, “This is very serious work, we have to be quiet, shhhh.”

“Uhm…” you say quietly, stifling back a snicker as you get close to the mic from the side. “We’re going to record us fucking—“

“Bad word, schat,” Joost whispers, shaking his head at you disappointedly, “Think about the advertisers.”

Tapping on the metal body of the microphone, you roll your eyes and start again, “We’re going to have s-word—“

“That’s better.”

“And record the sound from it so Joosti can put it in a song,” you whisper and he nods, mouthing, “Good job!” and giving a thumbs up before he brushes aside your hair to put the other half of his wired earphones in your ear.

Immediately, you’re met with the sounds of your shared soft breathing and Joost’s hollow tippy taps on the base of the mic. When he goes quiet, the pitter patter of the raindrops upon your roof are loud enough to hear clearly. “I turned up the sensitivity so we don’t have to move it around while we’re recording,” he says, and you nod.

“I can hear that.” Every single sound and movement you make for the coming hours will be captured on this little waveform. Your voice echoes back to you in your ears, and you scrunch up your face. “I hate my voice.”

“I love your voice, mijn schat,” he says, getting on the bed in front of you. “Sounds even better when you’re saying my name.” Smiling at him, you settle back against your pillows in your prettiest pajama set, a camisole and a pair of loose shorts, both printed with small blue flowers all over. Joost takes the ribbed fabric of your shorts between his fingers, tickling your thigh, “This one is my favorite one.”

“Every one is your favorite one,” you counter as you open your legs for Joost to sit between.

“As long as you are wearing it, schat—of course,” Joost says, sighing wistfully as he takes the earphones out from both your ears and drapes them on the nightstand. “Are you sure you don’t want to film? You’re so pretty.”

You roll your eyes as he laughs—it was definitely a topic of conversation after the fact, recording video of it like you have a few times before, just isolating the sound after. You argued that the sound from a real microphone would be better, and he argued, “Why not both?”

You shut it down, telling him that your room would just become your own personal porn studio if he did both and would never go back to normal, and he died of laughter as the old lady on the train gave you a shocked look and moved away.

No filming. At least not today.

“Do you want your song, or do you want a video?”

“That is an extremely hard decision, baby.”

“Make it before I make it for you.”

“I want my song,” Joost says, simply and finally, and you nod.

“You’ll get your song.”

Joost lies down on top of you and the weight is comfortable as he holds himself up with one hand and cups your face in the other.

He hasn’t shaved in a few days, his stubble scratchy against your chin as he comes forward and kisses you, soft lips against yours, his body warm and heavy and already grinding his crotch against your center as he slides his hand up your side, bringing up the hem of your camisole.

You’re hyperfocusing on all the sounds; you’re both quieter than normal, just the smack of your lips against each others, the licking of his tongue into your mouth; the sound of fabric against fabric as he grinds his hips into yours and groans, half-hard already; the shifting of Joost lifting your tank top and exposing your tits to his dilating blue eyes, getting back up off you on his knees.

Joost runs his knuckles down the curve of your breast and over to the other, making your nipples pebble in the already cooling air, your muscles jumping and leaping with how sensitive you are. “How cute,” he murmurs, and your cheeks burn. There’s something different about him today—if you think about it, if you were a music artist and your girlfriend let you record audio of how good the sex is, you’d be cocky too.

The confidence looks good on him, a small smirk on his lips as you gaze up at him through your eyelashes and take off your shirt completely, tossing it to the side and lying back again.

Joost tugs on your shorts and you shimmy them down as he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, the sensation tying a knot in your stomach with want for him. “Why aren’t you taking off your clothes?” you ask, tilting your head to the side as he lies atop you again.

“Just want to try something,” he says, placing a kiss between your breasts before he moves over to your nipple, taking it in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

Grazing it lightly with his teeth, you let out a small hiss at the sensation before he closes his lips around it and sucks; your mouth drops open watching him as he does it, intent and content with his place on you. You just got him back after a month and a half away in Berlin working on music nonstop—you have an inkling that you both feel like this is where he belongs.

For a while, you both lie there as he mindlessly suckles at your tits, as you play with his hair and pretend like there isn’t a pool in your panties waiting to be addressed further than this—you don’t want to rush him. “Art can’t be rushed,” or whatever he says when he’s too busy editing visuals or tweaking his tracks in progress.

Stifling back a sigh, you tug at the short hair on the nape of his neck, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak of your nipple. A tiny little mewl lets itself out of your mouth as he laps at it. Pulling back with a pop, nipping at the skin next to it—“Dude…” he starts. “You’re being… so quiet. Is someone a little shy, schat?” Joost grins, kissing you.

You furrow your brows. You are but you’re not going to get called out by the most outgoing person you know like this. “No, I’m not.”

“I think you are, you haven’t said a word.”

“I’m not,” you insist, smiling once you realize that you have the perfect comeback. “You’re just not doing enough to make me say anything.”

Joost’s entire face changes, falling completely flat with his eyes narrowed at you and you grin. “Oh, I haven’t done enough? Is that what you said, lieverd?”

“I don’t wanna say it’s not enough. But definitely not enough to give you your Dutch Grammy award-winning sound bite. The pace you're moving, we’ll get a participation trophy at best.”

“I’m not doing enough—I am lying on your tummy letting you berate me while I suck your boobs, don’t think I forgot about the last month!!!” he exclaims, voice rough and accusatory and silly, smile so wide as he jabs his finger in your face. “Don’t think I forgot!!!”

“You’re still on that?” you laugh, squishing his cheeks, getting his hair out of his eyes.

“Duh,” he grumbles. “It’s half the reason why I wanted to do this.”

“Forgive me, then.”

There’s been no time for you to call or Facetime him in this past month; only texting and one-sided voice messages from Joost pleading for you to send him a voice memo back but you’ve refused, either willingly or unwillingly. You’ve been so tired, your voice and energy all going to talking to clients and people in real life that you just couldn’t muster the strength to send him back any after a long day—Joost couldn’t call for long either, too occupied with the final touches on the album.

He asked you one night, sleepy voice rasping about how he just wanted to hear you, and he sounded so hot—you texted back that you couldn’t sound sexy and all he said was that he didn’t care if you sounded sexy. He just wanted you.

Still, you couldn’t let it happen.

Joost whined all the way up until his train home got to the station; all the way home in the car as you drove him and asked about his work; all the way up to now, pouting with his prickly chin on your bare chest and his arms wrapped around your waist.

“If that isn’t enough, how far can I go to get my audio clip, then?” Joost asks.

The both of you are competitive as can be with each other.

So long ago, you bet him he couldn’t make you cum just from internal stimulation alone—he proved you wrong and then some. He bet you last year (and every year before that you’ve been together) that he could last all of November not cumming—you manage to prove him wrong anywhere from 2-5 days before his birthday on the 10th. Everything is a competition, everything is a game for you two, that’s what makes the relationship so fun.

If you give Joost an inch, he’ll take a mile, and you know that better than anyone.

“As far as you think it takes, Joosti.”

Wordlessly, he gets up off from you and sits on the side of the bed facing the wall, in front of the mirror that’s there now—obtained at a swap meet somewhere in the city and hauled back by you both; standing against your wall, the top rounded in an arch, used mostly for outfit checks and Joost to try on a million different clothing pieces before he decides on things he wears all the time.

“Sit between my legs, baby.”

“Why should I do that for you?”

“Because I want you to do it for me,” he says, looking back at you and patting his lap. “Here. Sit down or none of this will happen.”

Usually, Joost is never so commanding—he’d rather ask you, sweetly and nicely to please do something for him. There isn’t a demanding bone in his body. And yet…

You take the seat between his legs and look at yourself as he hooks his fingers in the white and lacy waistband of your panties and pulls them down your thighs, down your calves. His lips ghost over the nape of your neck as he watches you in the mirror—Joost is always intense, always strong-willed, but it’s as if he’s come back a changed man.

“I want you to watch me do enough.”

He hooks his hand under your right knee; you let him bring your leg up and drape it over his, spread wider than you’re used to. The same is done to the other leg; if you tried to close them, you’d be unable to.

“I’ll get those sounds out of you if it kills me, lieverd.”

The cotton of his shorts, Tears as always; your shared necklaces resting on the chest hair that pokes out of the neckline of his wifebeater—they rub against your backside as you adjust your position on him, Joost’s warm and clothed body making your naked skin feel piping hot.

He places his hands on your inner thighs, squeezing lightly. There is the feel; of his rough fingertips gliding against your silky skin, dancing across the jumpy nerves of the junction between your leg and the beginnings of the most sensitive parts of you.

“Do you know how hard it was for me not to hear your voice for so long, lieverd?”

With his gentle hands, Joost spreads you open, exposing the most private part of you to both of your eyes, his chin hooked on your shoulder and looking down directly at it. You almost shrink into yourself, bringing you closer to his chest against your back, rising and falling steadily. In contrast, your breathing is so erratic, you feel as if your lungs might tire.

The microphone will pick up your labored breathing, as much as you’re trying not to make a single sound; the mirror reflects your furrowed brow back at you as he dips his fingers inside, light and gentle, bringing the wetness back up to circle your clit slowly.

“Mooi,” Joost murmurs, gazing intensely down at your form in his hands, putty in and between his fingers. “Look at you, hm?”

You’ve done this so many times—watched as he’s fucked you, in the mirror or when you watch your bodies meeting, over and over again when he fucks into you, cock reaching your deepest parts. But today is something different, you can’t tell why, but it brings hot heat to your chest and cheeks, to see it so clearly.

You can’t deny it—it’s you in that mirror, it’s you with your legs spread for him, it’s you.

It’s Joost behind you, a mess of blonde hair, no glasses on today, his rough chin against your shoulder as he pets you slowly. 1982 exposing you, 1983 doing the rest of the work.

“Als een mooie bloem, mijn lief,” he murmurs, two fingers spreading your lips, another rubbing your clit so gingerly you want to swear at him to go faster, harder, but you know he’ll just do the opposite of your wishes in this mood he’s in.

“A flower?” you breathe out, and Joost smiles at you in the reflection. Still though, you know your words aren’t what he wants at the moment.

“Pretty flower,” he says, and the smile is gone.

The sound—the sound of his fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit, the wetness from your pussy all he needs to do so, not spit or lube or anything else. Just the slickness of the back and forth of his hands on you.

The rain beats down on your roof, louder now, the backdrop for those filthy sounds coming from you. “You’re still so quiet, I think the mic will capture the rain more than you,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing and nipping at it. ”The quieter you are, the longer we have to do this.”

“Is that really an issue?” you say, labored through the consistent circles of your clit. You turn away, looking at the side of his face—“Ah, my god,” you whisper, moaning softly as he brings his hand up to your nipple, rolling it between his fingers and kneading your breast.

“Not really, but I question how much you can take.”

“I can take a lot, you know that.”

“If you can take a lot—why are you looking away?”

He moves your chin gently so you're looking at yourself in the mirror again, and he’s looking at you so intently, pupils so blown out you'd almost think his irises were black. You look down at your pussy to avoid how burning his gaze is; watch as he pets at your entrance, and slides his two middle fingers inside, the stretch warm and all you’ve needed the past several minutes.

Still you hold it back, chomping down on your bottom lip not to let any sound close to a real moan out—you’ve made the rules for yourself: not loud enough to be usable, the least amount of sounds possible, and the biggest one, proving to be the hardest as he continues…don’t say “Joost.”

When Joost starts curling his fingers inside of you, pace slow as ever and he grinds the heel of his hand against your clit—you have to stifle a whimper, both at the sound, and the appearance of it, his fingers disappeared inside of you. “You’re really going to do this, lieverd?”

“I never said I’d make getting your song easy.”

“I like a challenge.” Joost gives you a kiss to your temple and you smile even as he ceases his fingers moving. “That's why you’re my girlfriend.”

“Hey,” you giggle, and then stop giggling when he moves his fingers faster and it makes a truly blushworthy squelching noise come from inside you. He does it again—why would he stop, seeing the way your face screws up in pleasure in the mirror at the pads of his fingers on your g-spot?

For some reason, you expected him to be nice about it, let you have a little break—but two can play this game, you know that well.

Your wetness is louder than even the rain, his rhythm making the sound almost incessant. “Do you think we could make that the beat?” he thinks out loud and you give him a bewildered expression.

“You…no. One day I’ll understand your thought processes.”

“What do you mean? You already do.”

You never realized how loud it could be to do any of this. Can people hear you so clearly all the time? Your neighbours, your roommates, strangers.

The countless times you’ve fucked in backstage dressing rooms, club bathrooms, the backyard—this is what it sounds like? There is no mistaking it. On the audio recording, it’ll be even clearer. Your voice, high pitched and breathy. Joost’s voice, deep and low and rumbling against your neck.

“How many people do you think, schat? How many have heard us?…I think they would like it, how it sounds when I’m inside you.” You shake your head, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tension in your chest rising at the same time at his words.

“You're so wet, my baby, and this is only the beginning—what about when you cum? How loud do you think you are then? What will my fans think when they hear this, hm?”

“Jo—mmm, fuck,” you sigh, stopping yourself from saying his name.

This shame and arousal growing inside of you—they’re like two sides of the same coin for you, and they accompany that tightening in your stomach, so close to cumming. The impish and petulant devil on your shoulder tells you not to do it so quickly, not to let Joost get what he wants after you agreed so eagerly to this entire thing.

You screw your face up, thinking of… paperwork and saying bye to Joost at the airport and sad kittens in animal shelters—you have never actively avoided an orgasm in your life, but this is working quite well, and it seems to be obvious.

“Schat, are you serious right now?” You open your eyes to see yourself and Joost behind you, his lips a straight line, no amusement to be found on his normally jovial face. “What are you doing?”

“Being a challenge, I thought you knew,” you say, voice more wavering than strong—your eyebrows furrow, a sheen of sweat on your forehead as Joost continues crooking his fingers right into your g-spot. Almost immediately, you lose your focus on keeping your climax away, melting into the pleasure of his thick fingers fucking you open.

“Say my name, baby, that’s all I want from you.”

“No,” you say softly, turning your head and resting it back on his shoulder—he knows what you want, and he can’t resist you. “Please?”

Joost looks at you, blue eyes so warm you almost think he’ll give you what you’re asking—a kiss, his lips on yours, but he only gets so close that your noses brush, that all you can do is breathe into his mouth and hope he gets closer.

You try to adjust yourself, but he holds you in place with his forearms, still thrusting his fingers inside of you, your face contorting in pleasure with every single move he makes closer and closer to your face, tipping you right over the edge, right where your climax is and then—

Nothing.

As quickly as he moved them, Joost takes his fingers out of you, resting them wet on your thigh as you tense with what you thought was going to be an orgasm, a tidal wave of bliss flowing through you. In reality, the waves subside quicker than usual without him fucking you through it, and the sensation is ruined—almost completely.

Pathetically, you let out a whimper, can’t even let out the moan or the gasp of his name he wants so badly, that’s how miserable it feels. Joost’s never done that with you before—he’s always gotten you to the peak and rode down with you through it, kissing and licking and petting you through it and even past that point, mischievous and pushing your buttons when you swear at him to give you a break from all the bliss.

“Joost,” you pout, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? You weren’t doing what I wanted, schat, why should you get a good one out of that?” Joost scoffs, and though he doesn’t seem too serious, breathing heavily against your back with you, you can’t help but feel like you did something so wrong. “You’re playing too much.”

It makes sense now—he asked you for one thing—one thing.

Wasn’t much to ask, either. Microphone and equipment straight from his yet to be unpacked suitcase. Joost’s one reprieve from album mode until he’d take the train back for him and Tantu to do a final once over on every single track. This stage in the process takes weeks, sometimes even months—pushing too many buttons on the control panel, their soundboards and computers and plans all prodded and poked and pushed to the limit until the project is the amalgamation of their creative vision and perfection.

This time, you pushed too many buttons; through all of this, you’ve forgotten that Joost has been at home less than 24 hours, that the train ride from Berlin to Amsterdam was 6 hours long with no stops, no wi-fi, no you to soothe his worries, only album preparations far past his self-imposed deadlines and his own thoughts.

You’re both workaholics—it’s why you get along so well, but it means that you know better than anyone that the last thing you’d want to be after so long is annoyed, and annoyed on purpose at that.

When he’s as petulant as you’ve been so far, you know that you can get annoyed as well, asking him to just—stop. And he does, but you couldn’t do that for him. Joost has gotten frustrated with you before, sure, it happens enough that you’re not so affected by it anymore.

But he’s never been so frustrated before that he’s ruined your orgasm. For some reason, the expression on Joost’s face, the heat of the moment, the dull pulse between your legs at both your immense need for him and the emptiness you feel at such a clipped climax has you emotional and overanalyzing the last half hour, every bratty quip of yours, every response from him.

“I’m really sorry, I know you had a long few days, I shouldn’t have—” Water lines your eyes, and you try to blink it away when you ask in a weak voice, “Are you mad at me?” You feel terrible. Embarrassed.

Joost meets your eyes in the mirror, eyes widening in surprise at your emotions strung so tight; you break, a tear running down your cheek which you quickly wipe away because you feel like you're making a big deal out of things and it’s just—aghhh!!!!

“No, my baby, of course not,” he smiles, face sympathetic, lips pouting at his baby being so emotional. Such a reaction would usually make you roll your eyes at him, but he’s so sweet, you have to nuzzle closer to him. “Come here,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and letting you curl up in his lap. “You’re so cute, mijn schat,” he coos, giving you a wet kiss on the cheek as he hugs you tight.

Joost is so kind to you, it makes you feel a bit silly—not in a bad way, just one where you’d never think you’d be sitting on his lap, naked, being comforted about having your orgasm ruined by him. Almost five years of this kindness, you’re not sure you’ll ever be used to it.

“I just got a little frustrated that’s all, none of it was serious, okay? I thought it would be a little fun for us to try something new like that, but I should’ve talked about it with you before—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, wiping your eyes a little. “Just don’t look so serious next time, I really thought you were angry.”

“I got too in the moment, I guess.” Joost moves your hair aside and kisses you on the lips, tender and sweet. “I’ll make up for it, I promise you.”

With that, you nod, letting him kiss you, letting him suck your lower lip in his mouth and then lick into yours, touch so devastatingly slow it almost makes you whine again with anticipation. Joost places a gentle hand over your throat, giving it a small squeeze, and he laughs when you moan, quiet and stifled into his mouth at the pressure. “You know, you’re very pretty when you’re desperate,” he says softly when he pulls away, and your cheeks burn.

“I could say the same about you, Joosti.” He noses at the side of your face, and you melt at the feeling of his skin on yours. “Am I not pretty all the time?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t start, schatje. Gorgeous, beautiful angel—is that what you want me to say? Lie down and hold your legs back.”

Quickly, you get off of him and lie back down on the bed on your mountain of pillows, and he takes his place sitting between your legs, wet fingers running through your folds as he takes a look at you, all of you. “Aren’t you pretty?”

He takes your left hand, kisses your palm then your fingers, then he places it firmly on the back of your left knee. He does the same for your right side, then lies in between your open legs, staring, examining. One finger down your slit, collecting your wetness on the tip—Joost leaves a bite on the meat of your ass, trailing kisses all the way until he kisses over your entrance, over your clit.

You breathe heavily with anticipation, but still, you find it in you to tease. “Doing a lot of silent things for an audio recording, Joosti.”

“Not silent—all of it is important, every second.” He shakes his head to

“Defeats the whole purpose of the audio? Doesn't it?” You smile, flexing your ankles, feeling your muscles stretch as Joost teases your clit with his index finger, makes you open your legs wider. “The whole point is to record how good you make me feel, right?”

“You want to be silent so badly for me, you want to play around so much—why are you calling me out for it? That I want us to have fun?” Joost rolls his eyes, but then smiles at you, trying to soothe the burn. “I like when you play,” he murmurs, then spits on your pussy, making you full body shiver when you do. “Play even more, let’s make this recording go hours.”

“And I’ll cum all I want?”

“Careful what you wish for.” Joost rubs the spit over your bud, spreading you with two fingers and petting at it with another. “Als een prinses, schatje. Spoiled.”

“Spoiled,” you mock, and he shakes his head at you, grinning.

You probably shouldn’t rile Joost up so much—it’s too late for you to save yourself when he dives in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The spit and silky softness of his tongue make you keen, how good it feels to have him on you, his lips sucking so much, so good, so wet.

The slide of Joost’s finger inside of you surprises you, how gently he pets against your spot internally as he laps at your pussy; you sigh, having to close your mouth on purpose to not make any sound. He sucks your clit between his lips, tightening, loosening, several seconds passing as he continues the pattern, making you groan with the feeling of him eating you out so well. It’s too much; you cry out when it hits what feels like 10 minutes with his tongue on you, but is really only 20 seconds at most.

Too much, so good—bucking your hips up, you squirm, futile against his strong hands holding you down by the backs of your knees folded almost to your chest as he drinks you in, the wet sound of his mouth smacking against you so humiliatingly wonderful you could cry. How are you supposed to stay silent now?

“I’ll never get enough of this, lieverd,” he says before diving back in, lips wrapped around your clit as you moan out at the suction, whining as you hold onto his arms for support, because pushing against him is no use—either way, who are you kidding? The last thing you want is for him to stop, especially after that first “orgasm”. Completely breathless, you stop trying, tired hips back on the damp bed sheets.

“Good girl, baby,” Joost praises at your defeat, your finally being subdued. The nickname makes you shudder, arousal pooling deep in your stomach, and you squeeze at his arms for some sort of comfort in response.

Joost nips at the thin and sensitive skin of your inner thigh and it makes you yelp, then he comes back and licks through you again, fucking his tongue inside of you.

There’s no sense of organization or pattern anymore with what he’s trying to do—he’s lost it. He’s lost it.

Your climax hits you like a freight train, your stomach and thigh muscles spasming, any control you had—lost. “Mmmf…fuck!” you exclaim, throwing your head back on your pillows as Joost keeps sucking your clit through your orgasm, white on the edges of your vision at how intense he’s doing it. “Ugh… shit!” you cry, panting out when he keeps going.

“It’s only a matter of time until you give me what I want, schatje,” he says in a quiet, sing-song voice, then attaches himself back to you. Your clit is practically numb with pleasure now, and yet, the waves are rolling through you, erratic and wonderfully uncomfortable.

You laugh out, tears at the edges of your eyes at how intense your nerves feel, how fried they are—“Joost, enough!” and he lets up off you. He sits back up and pouts at you, lips and cheeks wet with your arousal.

“‘Jooooooost!!!’” He laments, cursing at the sky in jest, and you laugh at how dramatic he is. “The line is ‘Joost!!’ Lieverd! Joost!!!” he says his own name in a weird, breathy moan that you’re half sure really will make it to a final draft of a song of his.

Holding yourself up, legs open and so wet between them, you purse your lips for a kiss, which Joost gives you. “You said we can make the recording go hours—I’m sure I’ll say it one of these times.”

“Okay, I’m glad I say the recording can go long—I will need a minute.” As Joost pulls back, you tilt your head to the side; he sounds… strange. Embarrassed, almost, and his cheeks are pink, and he can’t look you in the eye anymore, completely different from your ravenous and intimidating boyfriend from 45 minutes ago. “I think I came in my pants.”

“You’re kidding,” you scoff, throwing your head back and laughing.

Joost gets back up off the bed, stands. “Do I look like I'm kidding?” he says, pointing down to the wet spot on his crotch—he must’ve ground against the bed too much, how cute.

“You haven’t done that since we started dating,” you laugh, watching as he strips off his shorts and his underwear looks just as bad.

“Well, I did it again. Your fault. This sucks.” Joost shimmies down his boxers, picking them up and throwing them in the hamper; it hangs on the rim, he’s already soft, and he looks at you so dejectedly, then at the ground. You start to say ‘aww’ —he’s so cute and pathetic this way, but he wags a finger at you, saying, “Do not say ‘aww’ at my dick, you’re annoying,” and it makes you laugh harder until he’s laughing too, climbing on the bed and kissing you sweetly, pulling back only to take off his shirt and then immediately come back to you.

Laying atop you, he wraps his lips around your nipple, pulling at it gently with his teeth as you wince in the pain and the pleasure. Joost lays his tongue flat against it, laps at it, switches to the other one.

“I just love you,” he sighs, latching onto you again immediately after, and it makes you smile—insatiable, truly.

A few moments of this—letting Joost lave over your skin, the stiff peaks of your breasts, sucking hickeys into the meat of them—and he’s ready to sit back against the headboard together.

Your legs are open and his hand is between them in an instant, running his fingers along your skin. It feels strangely electric…not his fingers on you, but his arm against yours, the side of his sweat-sheened body against your hip, what it feels like to see “Thanks for today” on his collarbone and your name and lipstick mark tattooed on the other side of his neck forever.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Joost’s voice—“Why aren’t you saying my name, hm?” he says, gazing at your lips, his nose brushing against yours. You press a chaste kiss to his chin as he circles your clit, spreading your wetness around with his fingers. “It’s mean. It is sinister, what you’re doing.”

“You’re gonna have to work for it, I’m serious.”

“I will work overtime, I’ll be just like you,” he smirks, and shuts you up when he attaches his lips to yours, slips his middle fingers inside of you, grinds the heel of his hand on your clit as you gasp into his mouth, let him move down and suck at your jaw, your pulse point.

The concentration it takes not to lose it makes your eyebrows knit together. He murmurs, “Do you hear that, my love? Do you hear how wet I make you?” says it into your open and mewling mouth, the sound of it all—the squelch of your wetness at the behest of his fingers fucking your pussy. You’re beholden to him, and he enjoys it so much. The person you are at work and in life; normally so collected, preferring the comfortable quiet of your life together, now so bold to let him do this.

“Wat een mooi geluid, mijn meisje. You have me under your spell—what will happen when everyone hears this? Your siren song, hm? Is that what you want? Everyone to know how good I make you feel?”

The surprise on everyone’s faces that you could sound like this, all because of Joost—goofy, grinning, laughing Joost. Serious as ever about coaxing these sounds out of you as he kisses you slowly, tongue so languid on yours, tempting you, seducing you into giving him what he wants.

You’re almost delirious, the bubbling of laughter rising in your body as you grip onto his arm, so big, three of Joost’s thick fingers nestled inside of you and curling against your spot, stroking it with no abandon. You’re stretched thin around him, squirming and twitching with the rising peak coming to a head in your body.

He doesn’t even thrust his middle fingers in and out of you; only keeps them there, deep and to the knuckle inside of your pussy as he curls his fingers inside of you again and again, petting and petting and petting at the most sensitive part inside of you. At the same time, he circles your clit with his thumb—you could almost pass out with how good it feels, how hot you are in this room, rain beating on your roof, his mouth on yours and receiving every single moan and breath you put out.

The only thing absent is a crackling fire and a bottle of wine to fit the mood, but you can’t really complain.

“Happy?” he asks, smiling.

“Joost,” you choke out, eyebrows furrowing as you gaze at him, then close your eyes, touching your forehead to his, clutching his bicep, the challenge to yourself not to say his name all but forgotten.

“Yeah, baby?” Joost grins—in the pursuit of his craft, your boyfriend has turned evil.

“I feel like…” you start, face screwed in pleasure, words stolen from you by his curling fingers, confused at this feeling inside of you you’ve never felt before. “I just feel…”

“What is it, baby?” Joost teases, fucking into you, devilish. “Can you tell me? Can you use your words, like I’ve been asking you to?”

“I’m gonna…”

Burning hot and building up and up and up inside of you, in your stomach, in your chest, your tired thighs tensing the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens and tightens until it snaps, hard and fast; you don’t even realize the curses and almost chanting of his name tumbling out of your mouth as you look down and see—

Clear liquid runs down from your pussy, down your ass as you groan out, a punched out moan tumbling from your lips. The wet squelch around his still moving fingers even louder now—oh my god? There’s wetness beneath you now, a small laugh of disbelief coming from Joost as you gush all over his fingers and hand and writhe with your powerful climax, the bed under you wet, the comforter wet, everything wet, and all because of Joost.

You whine and he nods, smiling at you. “Schatje…I didn’t think it would work…”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing and half embarrassed at the mess you’ve made, panting and completely out of breath. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?! Mijn schat, that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, I think.” He takes his fingers out of you with a sound that makes you cringe, and holds his hand in the air, fingertips dripping with your wetness, shiny and slick. You had no idea you could even do that, let alone feel whatever white hot pleasure was ripping through you while you did, and you laugh at his amazement with your hands over your mouth.

“We’ll have to change the sheets again,” you pout once you realize—you just changed them yesterday before he got here, and the other set of sheets is dirty. Ughhhhh.

“I’ll wash the other sheets—I would change them a million times over if it meant you doing that again.”

“We’ll run out of sheets before that happens, Joost.” He hates changing the sheets, but he’s so desperate for it, obviously.

“I’ll make new ones,” Joost says proudly, then kisses you. “Please don’t worry about the bed. I’ll take care of it, and to be honest, I would like you to mess it up even more.” Kiss on your lips. Your worries have melted away with it. “You were so good to me, yet I still didn’t get my song. Tell me, why is that, mijn schat? You want me to torture you for longer?” he says softly, kissing you on the lips.

“It’s not torture,” you breathe out and Joost laughs. “I said your name, what more do you want from me?”

“It’s not torture? Is that right?” he asks, and you nod, coming up to kiss him again, “I want to be inside you, lieverd, that’s what I want.”

Only now do you notice that he’s hard again—the same hand he used to finger you wrapped around his cock, your wetness his lubrication alongside the precum drooling from his tip. “That’s what you’ll get, then,” you say, sweet and smiling and so ready for it even after Joost has had his way with you for what feels like hours now.

It’s your wetness that’s darkened Joost’s arm hair and the hair on his stomach; your wetness facilitating his sharp sighs as he pleasures himself to the sight of you, the thought of you, the sound of you.

Beaming, Joost turns away to the side. “If it isn’t obvious to you, the audience,” he says into the microphone in a silly voice. “This is the first time I’ve made her squirt, and she still wants me so bad!! What the fuck!! I am sooo so lucky!!! What amazing sight, wow. Shoutout lieverd, for real!!” Your laugh is sure to be captured in the background, your small “Shoutout Joosti!” too. Joost turns back to you—”My one in a trillion, baby,” a kiss to your lips, your body being laid on the damp sheets again and your legs opening in response.

“mijn_schatje_loml_voor_altijd_TANTUPLSDONOTLISTEN.mp3” has been running for 1 hour, 33 minutes, 8 seconds, 3 milliseconds—feels like so much longer. Joost lies between your legs again on his stomach, his cheek on your thigh, his calves in the air swinging and happy and him batting his eyelashes at you “innocently.” “Dickhead,” you laugh, knowing he wants to put his tongue on you again, and he laughs too.

“Your favourite one, though, right?”

“Yes, my favourite one.” You roll your eyes at his giggles but smile nonetheless at him. “I want you inside me, Joosti, don’t make me wait, please.”

Joost holds up a finger—“One criticism—”

“Already?!” you exclaim. “What is it?”

Joost gets up off of you and goes to the dresser to the side of your bed. You tilt your head in confusion—there isn’t much in there he could need for the rest of this, but he seems to be determined. “I think it’s the cutest thing when you call me Joosti and I never want you to stop doing that,” he starts, rummaging through the drawer. “But I think for the sake of the song, or your part in it, it would be better if you just said ‘Joost.’ Can you do that?”

“I can do that, Joost,” you tease, your perfectionist musician of a boyfriend coming out in full force.

“Good, good, schat. Now can you say it while I’m using this on you?”

Joost turns around holding…Ole Reliable, the name you both call a taupe vibrating wand that was your best friend before you two started dating, is your best friend when he’s gone for longer than a month or two and your fingers aren’t enough when you two are FaceTiming…to Joost’s absolute displeasure. When he’s home, it hides in your underwear drawer—but trust, he knows where it is.

“Be serious, Joost,” you laugh in disbelief. There’s no way that Ole Reliable will be part of this with how much lighthearted vitriol Joost has treated it in the past, calling it his “mortal enemy,” his “biggest competition.” This isn’t real.

“It takes you like, 3 hours to cum after I’ve made you cum so many times, this will help,” he shrugs, and he’s right. You’re so overstimulated at this point that he’d have to fuck you for longer to get you over the edge, but the vibrator is a bit overkill—it’s powerful, and you’ve made your own legs shake with it countless times, with or without Joost.

“I think I’ll end up…squirting—ew, I hate that word—even more if you use it.”

“It’s not so bad of a word, mijn schat. And either way—bed is already dirty. Why not go all out so we don’t have to clean up again?”

Joost makes a good point, and you know he’ll want to see more of your newfound ability later on—minimizing the cleanup later sounds good, so you lie back, open your legs, run your fingers through your wet folds as his eyes widen at your eagerness. “Let’s go all out,” you giggle and he flops on top of you, exclaiming, “Yayyyyy!!!”

It’s slow, the way he hooks your legs over his thighs, long presses the button of the vibrator, presses it again once so it turns on completely, and then recoils in surprise when he presses the largest button again and again. “Whaaattt the fuck, I didn’t know there were so many patterns in it. That is crazy. You use this?! What is ‘thumping feature.’ There are so many buttons. What…” Joost looks at it in wonder, the vibrations sure to be going through his entire forearm—that thing is strong, and you know it.

“There are only 2 buttons, Joost.”

“That is a lot to me.”

Cycling it back to the lowest, most tame setting, he places the head on your clit, gentle; you hiss at the waves coming through you, even at the lowest rate it could possibly go. “Do you like that, baby?” he asks, voice low, other hand coming down to slip a finger in your pussy. “You look like you love it.”

Nodding, Joost takes your hand and wraps it around the handle of the wand, and you hold it against yourself as he jerks his cock between your legs, enveloping the warm head of it in your entrance. It slips in so nice—you’ve been ready for it for hours now, you'd be surprised if it didn’t just slide in. Your eyes roll back, the back of your head hitting the wire frame of your bed, the vibrations coursing through you and his big cock parting your slit.

“Oh, fuckkk, schat,” Joost moans as he sinks into your soaking wet pussy. “So fucking wet, baby, you feel so good.”

Breathless, you nod, as Joost glides right in; he’s thick, but you're so wet. Three orgasms and counting for you, it’s so easy now. Angling the vibrator, you move it so you can see it all—how messy it is when he pulls his hips back to adjust how he’s thrusting into you, his pubes and happy trail wet with your juices, the hair on his thighs wet as well. What a mess you’ve made.

“Oh my god—“ he says, rolling his neck back in pleasure once he finally bottoms out inside of you, the wand pressed against his pelvis just as much as it’s pressed against yours. Joost bites his lip, shaking his head. Not so much of a mortal enemy, after all, is it? “How do I compete with this thing…”

“This thing could never be you, Joost,” you breathe, and it’s true. So tired, so happy, you’re a little emotional about it for some reason.

How he holds you so warm and safe and tight, always, never a question on if he wants and loves you—he always does and always will. In bed together like this, sheltered from the rain in your home together, your cats scratching at the door and a whole life ahead of you; on the train giggling with each other about the middle-aged and elderly side-eyeing his barking and boisterous laughter; in club bathrooms and snow covered curbs and swimming pools in your backyard and the couch downstairs.

The rest of the world should be envious about what you have, who you hold. Joost, this house, that audio recording, and you, forever.

“Hehe!” Joost leans over to the microphone and gloats into it, “Me—1! Vibrator—zeroooo! Hahahahah!”

You laugh—and this, forever. You could never trade this in.

Pulling Joost in, you kiss him sweet and slow, little thrusts of him inside of you as he moans into your mouth incessantly, every breath of his a whimper, it must feel so good—buried balls deep in your pussy, vibrator against your clit and pressed against the few centimeters of shaft that can’t fit in you when he begins thrusting inside of you sloppily, the hollow clap of his hips against you filthy as you moan out his name against the humming backdrop of the toy you're using together.

Every nerve in your body winds itself tight around the coil in your stomach as he fucks into you, a smooth and steady rhythm that makes you lose yourself, trying to wrap yourself around him, wanting to devour him whole, wanting to make it so it’s just you and him and no one else in the world, no one outside these walls, no one else. With Joost breathing into your mouth, his sweaty bangs tickling your forehead, the taste of his tongue on yours—there might as well be no one on this earth except you and him.

“I can't do it, Joost, it’s too much,” you whine as he keeps driving into you—god, you want it so badly, but three and a half orgasms later and you’re entirely spent, letting him do all the work as you moan loudly, no control over yourself or your body. The vibrator is pressed flush against your clit and gets you to the precipice faster than you’d like right now.

“You can do it, baby,” he coos, and you know there’s no way to get out of this. Either way, you wouldn’t want to, legs wrapped around him, the buzzing of the vibrator such music to your ears, the feeling of his cock driving into you and Joost, a warm and heavy and perfect weight atop you. As you claw at his shoulders, his back, he holds you open with his strong hands, your squirming no match for his strength with every deep seat of his cock inside of you. “I know you can, you can do it.”

When he says it, you believe it; you have to bite and suck at his neck in order to focus on keeping it together long enough for him to cum, apologizing to Lola in your head at your treatment of her, how she’ll be blooming purple and red by the time the sun rises tomorrow. Joost ruts into you, pressing the vibrator hard to your clit and it’s so…it’s so much, the mattress squeaks with how spirited his hips are against you, loud slaps of skin against skin and your name, his name, intertwined on this wavelength, on this track for everyone to hear.

“Joost…fuck, Joost!” you cry out again and again, tears coming to your eyes with how hard and fast your orgasm rips through you, repeating Joost’s name like a prayer, an oath, gushing around him and too fucked out to kiss back properly when he licks into your mouth, grounding you back to this bed even as you sob out in pleasure, fat tears rolling down your cheeks at how amazing he’s making you feel. “I love you,” you breathe, blissed and fucked out tears streaming down your cheeks at how good it feels, all open and airy.

“Why are you all sappy, baby? ‘Cause I’m fucking you so well?” Joost teases, pressing wet kisses to your tear stained cheeks, your mouth bitten red with his nips, his kisses all throughout this.

“Yes, I love you, Joost,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him closer even if it means the vibrator gets pushed even harder against your aching clit.

He laughs, continuing his feverish thrusting as he finally gives you the kiss you want. “I love you too, mijn hart.”

You don’t notice him fumbling around on the side table as he kisses you, bringing the wired earphone from the nightstand back to your ear, your eyes widening in surprise.

“Do you hear that, mijn schat?” The feedback, his voice, doubled and almost echoing as you hear it in real life and it plays out in your ears, delayed. You have to try and dampen the rest of your senses to focus on what you’re hearing. The slopping of his hips against your ass, the low pitched vibrations of the wand, his voice.

Joost’s voice that distracts you until you’re snapped out of it by him pulling out, stroking his cock and panting heavily, cheeks and chest and neck pink with exertion, skin shining with sweat. “What are you doing?” you mumble.

“You’ve already done so much, schat,” Joost breathes, and you shake your head, looking up at him through wet eyelashes.

“Finish what we started, I want it all.”

Obediently, Joost nods, inching himself back inside you again; it sounds so wet in your ears, the microphone capturing every gritty detail, every squelch of yours and his.

“Schat, I wanna…fuck, I wanna cum inside you so bad,” he whines, erratic thrusting with every word, losing it again, losing the practiced, methodical musician that you know so well. Even with his whining, his voice is deep, needy, chanting your name like you moaned his. “Wanna…fuck, I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I want everyone to hear it, see it, know you’re mine…mine, mine, mine…”

“Yeah, baby?” you smile, his cheek laid against your tits as he grinds against you, then goes back for long, deep strokes inside of you. Joost groans so loud against your skin, spit and sweat on the softness of your breasts; so overwhelmed, he takes your nipple in his mouth and sucks, nipping at you through his own orgasm, stuttering his hips into your pussy.

Warm ribbons of Joost’s cum paint your insides and fill you up so well, your moans finally joining his as he comes down from his high, moaning and sobbing out your name, lieverd, schat, collapsing on your chest and heaving for his breath again as you catch yours once more, satisfied with your recording together.

“That a good enough song for you, Joost?” you smile, eyes already closing with the bliss of such a good recording session together.

“Dutch Grammy worthy, mijn meisje,” Joost breathes, and you laugh as he reaches to the side and shuts his laptop, ending your recording. “How about another recording session later?”

—

A month later and you’re carrying a paper bag of takeout from a few blocks down, earphones blasting a new demo from Joost and Tantu, using the spare key under Tantu’s doormat to get into his apartment from the cold. You set down the bag on the counter of his tiny kitchen, place the key back under the doormat, get three bowls together to split the takeout between, get utensils and glasses of water and what have you before you enter the bedroom studio.

The takeout fights you tooth and nail; cheap food spilling everywhere, oil and sauce and vegetables on the counter and the rims of the bowls that you have to wipe up with the one (1. ONE!) paper towel left on the roll in the kitchen. Is this what happens when Ruby isn’t in town and they’re in album mode? You figure it must.

You manage to wrestle it all together precariously, using every square centimeter of the one paper towel you have in your arsenal before picking up all three bowls—two of them nestled in your left arm, one of them held in your right hand.

The door to the bedroom is closed shut—your arms are full, and you spend a few moments fussing about how to get in without having to go back into the kitchen and set down the food, but you hear Tantu and Joost’s muffled voices through the door.

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have skipped ahead—“

“You should've never played it, Tantu!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have kept it on your desktop for anyone to see! With my name on it!”

You tilt your head in confusion, and then knock on the door with your foot; in an instant, Tantu opens it for you, and you hear, loud and clear: “I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I w—” before Joost slams the laptop shut and says, “Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

2 fics in a few weeks!! lfg!!! i hope you enjoyed!! <3 thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) they keep me writing!! askbox anon on hereeee - juno

#joost klein smut #joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost smut #joost x you #joost fanfiction #joost klein fanfiction #joost fanfic #joost klein x you #juno's fics #juno’s writing #juno’s smut #normal au

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thealtoduck · 2 months ago

Text

Siren sounds (Part 2: The Final)

Peter Parker x Male Black Cat!Reader

Warnings: Slight angst, eventual Smut, dialouge heavy, happy ending, bottom!Reader, top!Peter, anal sex, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, missionary position…

Male Black Cat!Reader: Masterlist

Summary: A couple weeks after you and Peter’s identities were revealed to each other, you and him are once more made to face each other…

——

As you went to school the next couple of weeks everything felt awkward. It felt like everyone was staring at you, which usually wasn’t out of the ordinary, considering you’re the most popular guy in school. But now they were looking at the bruise on your face.

When your friends asked you about it you just said you’d gotten into a fight with a guy at a party.

Seeing Peter in class and in the hallways was the worst part. You looked away every time you passed by each other. One person who noticed this was none other than Flash Thompson who approached you once school had ended.

”Hey Y/n” he said leaning against the locker beside yours. You had no patience for him today ”What?” you asked directly. ”What’s going on between you and Parker?” he asked sneakily. ”It’s none of your business, Flash” you told him.

But Flash could tell something was up and then asked quietly ”If things are over between you and him then finally you might be able to make some time for me” he suggested with a smirk. ”No” you answered quickly.

”Why not?” he asked.

”Cause you piss me off” you said getting fed up with him. You slammed your locker shut but Flash continued following you like a stray dog.

——

The students weren’t the only ones who noticed your bruise. Some teacher had reported it to the principal, who made you have a meeting with him. Asking if you had any ”problems” at home or with any of your classmates.

You told him the same lie you’d told everyone else. He didn’t question you any further about it but said that ”If” something happened to you there are people who can help. Though you doubted there was anything they could do about your quite specific situation.

Most people usually didn’t get punched in face aftaer a fight with a superhero/their hook-up-buddy after they found out you were the cities most talented cat burgular.

Speaking off you were still unsure what to make of the whole Peter is Spider-Man thing, was Peter, Spider-Man or was Spider-Man, Peter?… Was Peter even his real name?… What should you even call him in your head Spider-Peter, Peter-Man, Parker-Spider…

You gave up.

A couple of weeks later, when your face was fully healed, one of your friends invited you to his end of the year party. Honestly you weren’t really in a mood for partying but you’d blown off your friends for a couple weeks now and maybe a good bender would be just the thing to get you back on track and get Peter out of your head.

——

Peter’s pov…

——

The week after Peter found out that Y/n was Black Cat felt like hell. Going to school knowing he’d have to face Y/n was a nightmare, especially to have to see the bruise he gave him. Peter still felt guilty about it, even though Y/n did stabbed him in response, but at least Peter healed quicky.

The worst part about it was that a couple other students picked up on his and Y/n’s sudden distance from each other. Coupled with the noticable mark on your face was a really bad look.

No one had approached him about it but he could tell some were looking at him as he walked down the hallway.

A couple of days into the week as he walked down the hallway. Y/n started walking closely next to him. ”What are you doing?” Peter asked suspiously. Y/n have him a annoyed look and said ”You know what assumption people are making of us, I’m just making sure it dosen’t get out of hand, okay?”.

While the two were currently at odds he appreciated that the y/c/h haired boy didn’t leave him hanging. So the two wordlessly made their way to the class they shared.

Y/n was right. Being seen together put as they walked to their shared classes made people stop looking. Though the two still weren’t talking after that.

Ned and MJ questioned their sudden coldness towards each other Peter was unsure if should tell them you were the Black Cat and just settled on that the two them had just had an arguement. Plus if Y/n in any way found out he’d told anyone his indentity he’d might actually murder him.

A couple weeks later while Peter was preparing to go home, Ned came running up to him excitedly. ”Caleb Johnson just invited us to his party next week” Ned told him. Caleb Johnson was one of Y/n’s friends.

”I don’t know, Ned, not really feeling it” Peter said trying to get out of it, knowing Y/n likely also be there but Ned just stared at him in disbelief and said ”Peter, did you not hear me CALEB JOHNSON, his parties are legendary, we need to show up to show him that we’re cool”.

”Ned, you should go, but I’m telling you, I’m not going to the party”

——

Next week…

Peter was going to the party.

Not out of free will but Ned wouldn’t stop bugging him about it, saying if they went and Caleb Johnson thought they were cool then everyone else would think so too. As the two of them were dropped off by Ned’s mom, they could already hear the pounding of loud music coming from a brighly lit house.

The two walked closer to the door. ”Do you think we knock?” Ned asked. ”I don’t think anyone would be able to hear it” Peter said realistically. Peter was about to reach for the door handle as the door slammed open and a drunk couple stumbled outside, talking about going to a fast food place.

The two boys entered and saw the crowd of people inside. The two met up with MJ and they all got drinks. Soon both MJ and Ned had disappeared in the crowd of people, leaving a very awkward and lonely Peter to find a way to entertain himself.

He wandered around until he layed he finally stopped in his tracks. He saw Y/n sitting on the couch in the living room with some of his friends, looking just as bored as Peter himself felt. Soon Y/n turned and met his eyes.

The two were frozen in place. Both’s eyes communicating, neither of them really wanted to be there. They were both still upset about the whole thing between them. Y/n broke the eye contact, stood up, disappeared for a moment then he came back into view making his way through the party crowd.

Peter was transfixed as Y/n moved towards him, colored lights flashing around him, reminding him of the party where you first became close.

But Y/n just passed by Peter, but as he did he slid something into his hand. Peter opened his closed hand to find a scrunced up paper, he opened it and there was text written on the paper…

”Meet me where we first met at midnight”

Peter thought back, Y/n had been in the most of the same classes as him for most of high school, but he had no idea what the exact pin-point moment they’d met. Then Peter realized Y/n meant where they’d met as Spider-Man and Black Cat.

——

Your pov…

——

Midnight…

You stood waiting on top of the jewelry store as you heard the familiar ”twhip”s of Spider-Man’s webshooters coming closer. Spider-Man then landed in front of you. You made eye contact both wearing your masks.

”Why did you want to meet me here?” Peter asked a tension to his voice.

You shrugged and answered truthfully ”Neither of us wanted to be at that party, so I thought… let’s leave and do something we’d rather do instead”.

”What do you mean by ’rather do instead’?” Peter asked, he was in no mood for your antics.

”End this, we can’t go on living like this, we need to settle whatever we have going on now so we can both just move on” you told him seriously. ”And how do we do that?” Peter asked, you gave him a dry smirk. ”Yeah… that’s the part I’ve been trying to figure out while waiting for you… I have no idea” you told him honestly.

You both went quiet waiting for the other to say something. You ended up speaking first…

”I hated you for a while you know, after you stopped me from being able to get the blueprints and files I needed to break my mom out, I hated Spider-Man for it… Ironic that you were also my comfort after that without masks” you told him.

You then added ”And in the end you probably saved me from making things worse for my mom and me from making a mistake that might’ve gotten me arrested”.

”When I found out you were the Black Cat, I felt stupid. Because when I was jealous of you being with other people, we ended up hooking up in our costumes, but then you ended up having been the same person the whole time and I thought all this time you had just been you playing with my emotions” Peter confessed.

You thought back on all the times you and Peter had hooked up, your unofficial ”friends with benefits” status and never making it clear what you were to each other. And your time as the Black Cat where you had him chase you just for the fun of it, pushed him off buildings and made him fall in dumpsters in alleyways…

Maybe you had played with him, without really thinking about it.

”You said you loved me, when we found out about each other” you reminded him.

”Yeah…” Peter said a hint of pain in his voice.

You sighed deeply and said ”I’m sorry, Peter”, making the eyes on Peter’s mask widen in confusion. ”I’ve never been good enough for you, all this time you’ve always been there for me, supporting me, loving me. And all this time all I’ve ever done is cause you pain” you told him tears stinging in your eyes.

”You deserve better, someone who can treat you how you deserve to be treated. Because you’re the most amazing, kindhearted person I know” you said wiping away your tears. You walked closer to Peter who frozen on the spot in a stunned silence.

You lifted his mask to over his mouth and said ”This is for the best, goodbye Peter” and gave him a kiss on the cheek. You had made up your mind you needed to stay away from him, for his sake.

You then turned and ran, shooting of your grappling hook to another building. ”Y/n, wait!” Peter yelled behind you. But you swung away from the building. You heard the sound of his webslingers behind you.

You ran across rooftops but could hear him following you. ”Y/n, please!” Peter voice came from behind you. ”Why won’t you just let me do one good thing for you!” you yelled back tears still falling down your cheeks. And as you leapt the gap between two buildings, Peter tackled you mid-air as his arms wrapped around your waist.

You rolled together in a struggle over the next rooftop and Peter finally managed to pin you down. He ripped off his own mask looking down at you, his brown eyes filled with heavy emotions. He then said ”We always done things your way, on your terms, you run and I chase you cause it’s my duty, this time we’ll do it my way, let’s just talk”

”Peter, I-” you started. But Peter cut you off and said ”Let me speak, please”. You went silent. ”You say you’ve never been good for me but you have, with you I discovered sides of myself I didn’t know I had, you excite me and get me to try new things, with you everyday feels like an adventure Y/n”

”And even though you don’t always see it yourself, you’re exceptional. I could never find someone else in the world like you” Peter said before concluding ”And I’m not letting you run away just because you didn’t say you loved me back, I still want you in my life”.

You were stunned by Peter what Peter said, how highly he thought of you. It was time you told him your truth back.

”But I do love you Peter, you’re the most important person in my life… It’s just-… It’s my kind of love… that’s why I can’t keep-” But before you could give Peter another reason to why you weren’t good enough for him, he cut you off as he pressed his lips to yours.

His warm lips meeting yours was the best feeling in the world and you couldn’t help yourself but kiss him back. You laid on the rooftop trapped in your embrace for several minutes.

Suddenly a cold gust of wind brought you both out of current bliss. ”We should go inside” Peter said and you quickly added a ”Yeah”. Peter took you back to his apartment. May was out of town which would give the two of you some privacy.

You both climbed into Peter’s room through his window. As you climbed in he started rumaging through his closet to get you a change of clothes from your Black Cat suit. He handed you a hoodie with a dumb science pun on it and some sweatpants. He picked something out for himself too.

——

(Smut begins here)

You pulled the zipper and started pushing the tight suit down your body. As you got it down to your underwear you looked over at Peter who’s suit was laying pooled on the floor and Peter was only in a set of boxers. He looked back at you as something hit both of you.

You dropped the change of clothes Peter had given you to the floor and the two of pulled each other into a deep passionate kiss, your bodies pressing together, your skin on his and his on yours feeling like the softest silk.

He frantically pushed your suit and underwear futher down until you were stood naked infront of him. All Peter could do was let out a silent ”Wow” he’d seen you naked before but tonight was different as if cupid had pierced his heart with an arrow.

Peter got down on his knees in front of you, wanting to do nothing more but to pleasure you. He took your hard big cock in his hand rubbing it softly. Peter then took the tip into his mouth playing with it with his tongue. You gasped at the amazing feeling.

Peter accepted more of your length into his mouth. ”Fuck Peter” you swore, the warm wet feeling of Peter’s mouth around your cock feeling amazing. Peter put his hands on the globes of your ass squeezing them as he sucked your cock.

Peter then took a web shooter off his suit, attaching it to his hand and used it to web a bottle of lube and pull it to himself. He spread lube on his fingers, He pulled you ass cheeks apart and started playing with your hole.

Peter fingering you open and sucking you off felt amazing, you could cum on the spot but you needed to wait. You put a hand under Peter’s chin tilting his head up towards you. ”Don’t make me cum just yet” Peter you told him.

Peter took your dick out of his mouth and stood up and guided you towards his bed, letting you lay down on your back. Peter climbed on top of you between your legs, putting his fingers back in your tight hole. Peter finger fucking you as you made out until you told him ”I’m ready”.

Peter lubed his cock and lined himself up with your hole. He carefully inserted himself and you felt as if electricity shot through your body, Peter’s fat cock filling you up was the most amazing feeling in the world. ”Peter, you feel so good” you groaned.

Peter moaned as he sheathed his cock in the warmth and comfortable tightness of your hole. Soon Peter started moving slowly in and out of you. You gasped as Peter’s sizeable cock pistoned into your heat.

”God, you’re perfect” Peter said, your ass clenching perfectly around his cock, massaging it with every time he rolled his hips to push into you. Peter fucked deeply into you making you see stars and making you blurt out ”Fuck- I love you Peter”.

Peter paused the rolling of his hips and gazed into your eyes with a smile spreading on his face. ”I love you too” he said and started kissing your neck as he continued fucking you. You grasped on to the sheets of Peter’s bed, feeling only ecstasy from Peter’s cock inside you.

The pace of Peter’s thrusts increased, getting more powerful and reaching deeper in to you. Peter’s cock hitting against your prostate making you a loud moaning mess beneath him. Yelling out from being overcome with pleasure.

The bed beneath you started rocking back and forward as Peter passionately plowed himself into your now streched out gaping hole. ”That feeling good?” Peter asked you through his heavy panting as rolled his hips at a quick pace.

In response you only moaned loudly, holding onto and squeezing Peter’s pecs, which he took as a sign that he was doing a good job. As you made out you both felt that you were both getting close to your orgasms.

”I’m gonna cum, Peter-”

”Me- too”

You both communicated from the choir of moans and panting filling the room along with the sound of his powerful thrusts against you. Your naked bodies now glistening with sweat from your intimacy.

Peter started jerking you off to help you reach your high, and with one last thrust against your prostate you lost control and your cock started shooting ropes of cum uncontrollably, staining yourself and Peter’s abs with your load.

The sight of you covered in your own cum was enough for Peter’s thrusts to go erratic. He thrusted like it was the last time, he’d ever get to experience the feeling of your hole that felt like it was perfectly molded for his cock. He never wanted your bodies to be untangled from each other.

And with a last powerful roll och his hips, his thick cock buried deep inside you as he unloaded his seed in your ass. His cock flooding your insides with his cum. You both panted heavily as you held each other close.

Peter carefully pulled out of you, making his big load seep out of you. Peter stood up from bed and went to the bathroom and got a towel, using it to clean you up. He then helped you into the clothes he had lended you before.

(End of Smut)

——

As you were both changed you layed down in his bed, you held each other close that night as you fell asleep.

The next morning you awoke still in each others arms. ”Of all the things I’ve ever stolen, you’re worth more than any of it” you told Peter. And he smiled and hugged you tightly as you both got up and decided you’d go to a café for breakfast.

As you walked together hand in hand along the maze of tall buildings, you felt at peace and happy. But suddenly Peter stopped in his tracks in the middle of the sidewalk.

”I just remembered something” Peter said and you looked at him a curious glint in your eyes.

”When we were at the museum there was something I wanted to ask you” Peter told you.

”What?” you asked.

”Will you be my boyfriend?”

You felt your cheeks heating up. It was such a simple question yet it managed to give you butterflies in a way you never truly felt before. Peter just smiled at you, as he waited for your answer giving you whatever time you needed to think.

”Yes” you answered and the two of you hugged and gave each other a kiss on the lips.

And as you walked hand in hand with your boyfriend you felt the spirit of the Black Cat go into hibernation inside you. You didn’t need Spider-Man to chase you for a thrill. You didn’t need anything else, no jewelry, art or money was worth anything anymore.

Because right now you were holding your whole world in your hand.

The End.

#peter parker x male reader #peter parker x male reader smut #peter parker x male!reader #peter parker x male black cat reader #spider man x male reader #spiderman x male reader #mcu x male reader #avengers x male reader #avengers x male!reader #x male!reader #male reader #x male reader #male reader smut #x male reader smut #x male!reader smut #smut fic #marvel x male reader #male black cat reader #peter parker x male reader angst

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bonny-kookoo · 2 years ago

Text

Jungkook

𝙁𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙇𝙞𝙣𝙚 | 🔞 Main Work

He's one of the best, no race too tough to handle, every track a new challenge he takes on- especially when it's you who's waiting at the finish line for him.

Tags/Warnings: Racer!Jungkook, established relationship, romance, suggestive themes, heavy flirting, adult content, mentions of online hate, only minor angst, they're a power couple, this MC is now my spirit animal, smut

Length: ~5k words

There is no taglist for this fic.

-> Masterlist

A/N: I know nothing about actual car racing. Pls don't take it too seriously, thanks haha 💗

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"But be real here-" A fellow driver asks, sitting down at the side now to pick up a water bottle. "-I always wondered, are you like, actually a couple?" He asks, taking a sip of his water, replenishing what he's sweat out during the training session with Jungkook and the other drivers.

Jungkook sighs to himself, before he gets into a sitting position, tapping the timer on his phone to a stop. He gets these questions a lot- whether or not you're in if for the right reasons, how good your pussy must be to have him put up with your annoying attitude all the time, or how someone like him isn't hooking up with models and actresses left and right. He's not sure why it's such an outrageous thing apparently to have a stable relationship, but somehow, if he just went by what magazines and online gossip-blogs report, it's apparently absolutely unthinkable to be in a normal loving relationship in his position.

But he is. And he intends to keep it that way for as long as you'll have him.

He loves you, dearly so. Your 'bad habits' and flaws are just as endearing to him as the rest of you, mainly because you were also there when he was just starting out, bank account almost always empty at every end of the month, rent barely being paid. You stayed even when he was at his lowest, you cheered him on when he won his first major race, and you consistently keep supporting him at every event you can. And to him, you're prettier than any model he could ever come across anyways.

"We're an actual couple indeed." Jungkook affirms, locking his phone before he screws open a plastic bottle of water himself.

"But like, isn't it a bit disappointing sometimes?" Jake asks him. "Like, I heard you never go to afterparties, and if you do it's always with her. You could have anyone, man." He laughs.

"You'll get there too, maybe." Jungkook chuckles simply, when the door opens, and familiar jingles of jewelry make him smile to turn around- and there you are, meeting his eyes with a smile, as he instantly moves to stand up.

"I bought you all your favorite snacks, and there's like, one of those electrolyte drinks there too." You say after pecking his lips with your strawberry flavored lipbalm, putting the white plastic bag into his hands. "You're not overdoing it, right?" You ask, and he grins, shaking his head.

"I'm almost finished anyways. You wanna wait up here? We can go back to the hotel together then." He asks you, gently pulling your hair out of your long earrings where some of it had gotten tangled. You let him, and wait for him to lean back as a sign that he's finished, before you answer.

"If it's not too much of a bother? There's already a bunch of paparazzi outside, I think someone might've leaked your location online.." You tell him, and he grows serious at that.

"Then you'll wait. I don't want you going back to the hotel alone if they're outside." He tells you now, not giving you another option. He remembers the last time you almost got mobbed at the airport, simply because you flew out the country a day after he did- and of course it created rumors and the wildest theories as to why that might've been the case. It's what happens to him constantly due to his status as the 'hottest race driver of his generation'.

One magazine reported that you apparently have been spotted fighting by someone at a restaurant, and that that could explain why you had sunglasses on during the airport walk- because you two probably broke up, and your eyes must've been swollen from crying. In reality, you always wore shades or shielded your eyes, because you're sensitive to the camera lights and the masses of people make you anxious, so you always try and blur them out somewhat.

Another online forum speculated that you two definitely broke up, and that it was long coming, because the hate must've gotten to you finally. That there's just no way you both could've ever worked out, and that it was just pushed by your parents so you'd have the most comfortable life imaginable. Your father allegedly introduced you to Jungkook at a press conference, which made Jungkook laugh.

True, your parents know each other- but only because you're a couple, and obviously became closer over the years of dating. It didn't make sense that you both just became a couple so you'd have it easy, when he's mentioned multiple times that you both have been dating for way longer than the span of his career.

And then, that one gossip site that pushed the narrative that he cheated on you at the last afterparty. That there's images from the event where he can be seen with a woman with long dark hair that's definitely not you, and that you most likely found out and kicked him out- and just flew out to start a new life in a different country.

That one made him angry.

The woman he'd been seen with was Mingyu's mother- his best friend whom he'd helped out the burning wreck of his car after he'd crashed into the side barriers. She'd simply been there to thank him, and he'd hugged her just as a way of reassuring her that he'd always be there for any of his teammates, no matter what. And that specific website constantly stirred up cheating allegations- either at him, or you, it didn't matter. Clearly edited photos, alleged video evidence that didn't even show you both at all, it was stupid, really.

He's lucky that you don't instantly believe anything you see. Up until now, you always confronted him first if there was anything you were concerned about. And you trusted him, just as much as he trusted you.

Finishing up his workout, he takes the towel you offer with a thanks, deciding to ignore Jake's stares at your tits for now, since it doesn't appear to bother you at all. And honestly, he can understand. They do look great.

And they feel even better- but that's only for him to know.

The moment you both exit the gym they're all there- and he instantly moves you slightly behind him to properly shield you from anyone trying to reach out to you, which has happened often enough before to make him now hyperaware of it. But you somehow make it into the car waiting to take him back to the hotel without anything happening- though the questions hurled at you both from every side do annoy him to high heavens.

Jungkook are you still together?

Jungkook did you both talk things out?

Jungkook did you really cheat on her?

Jungkook-

"Jungkook." You ask him, and he moves his head to you now. "I asked you if we wanted to take a bath at the hotel? The tub is huge!" You beam at him, and at the sight of you all genuinely happy and carefree, he smiles, nodding, before he takes your hand to hold.

As long as you're still there, everything's fine.

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"Oh god-" You breath out, hand in his hair while he's gripping your thighs over his shoulders to keep them open.

Your panties are still hanging from one of your ankles, toes curled as he licks and swallows over your core, orgasm rapidly approaching you as he places a teasing kiss to your sensitive pearl. He moves around with ease, slips out of his pants rather quickly before he pushes your legs towards you once more, aligning himself with your entrance after lubing himself up shamelessly with your arousal he's gathered with his hand.

He doesn't need to rid you of any clothes- he's done that already.

You always joke that the secret to your happy relationship is back-breaking sex and good cooking- but sometimes, you actually believe it.

It's his main way of relieving stress- he's told you as much before. And he also enjoys the more romantic and sensual aspects of it, the closeness to you, and the knowledge that it's something special just between the two of you. It's always a little playful, unserious, light and relaxing, especially afterwards- the shared afterglow you both experience always something special where you both reconnect and bond once more. It's like you grow closer every time you're together like this.

Even though, according to him, that's impossible.

"Gonna.. wanna take you to the movies..!" He grits out, leaning back while while he holds your legs by the backs of your knees, thrusting his hips steadily into you. "Ah, fuck.."

"Can I- can I choose?" you giggle in pleasure, hands over your head grabbing the pillows while he watches your chest swing in the rhythm of his pace.

"Hm, I don't know.." He mumbles, leaning over you now after letting go of your legs to peck your cheek. "What do you wanna watch?" He wonders, before mouthing at your neck.

"Right now?" You hum dreamily, closing your eyes at the sensations of it all. "Wanna watch you." You say, and he chuckles against your skin, hands next to your head steadying him as he slows down a bit to a more sensual rhythm, though he presses himself deeper at the same time, making you arch your back as your legs hook together over his back.

"You're so cute." He teases, one of his hands moving to run over your chest, playfully smacking one of them once to earn a squeak from you- and laughter from him.

"Kook-!" You whine, and he mimics your tone a little, before his hand moves over your body between your legs where you're currently connected, fingers toying around with you. "Yes-!" You beg, thighs pressing together against his body, before you reach your high, muscles twitching from the feeling, while he becomes a bit more erratic now with your core clenching around his length.

He cums a little afterwards, pulling out before he spills his seed over your lower abdomen, the sight always doing something to him.

"You know, I really wanna go to that premiere that I was invited to with you." He says after taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair, getting up after leaning over you to peck your lips twice- because once is never really enough for him.

"Heh, you know I'll always be at your side if you want me there." You sing-song, stretching your limbs while he turns on the water in the bathtub, door open to be able to hear you. "So, if you wanna take me, of course I'll be your arm-candy!" You chirp, and he smiles as he returns with some babywipes in his hands to wipe down your skin.

"I always want you at my side." He tells you gently, careful with the rather cold wipes on your skin. "And I'm glad you're still willing to put up with me and this whole thing." He shrugs, throwing the tissues away in the trashcan.

"Why wouldn't I?" You wonder up at him as he hooks his hands underneath your back and legs to carry you into the bathroom of the hotel room you're staying at, to help you into the tub.

"Why would you?" He sighs, getting into the tub as well, unscrewing the small bottle of soap offered by the hotel to pour it into the water. "I sometimes really wonder how.. strong you must be to just constantly put up with all the things said about you and me." He says, pulling you closer to him as the bubbles form with the water pouring in. "…I was really scared, you know." He mumbles onto your skin before he kisses your shoulder.

"Of what?" You ask, unsure.

"When the rumor spread of me cheating. I always.. get worried you might become doubtful of me when things like these are said." He admits to you, before you turn around in his arms, his hands immediately on your hips.

"I'm not worried though." You simply tell him, running your hands through his hair before they settle around his neck. "I trust you." You shrug, and he moves his hands up to hold your cheeks, pulling you closer to kiss you until you giggle, pushing against his pecks to get him away. "Kook no-" You laugh, but he whines.

"But I want to love my girlfriend!" He complains.

"You just did!" You argue back, and he plays with his lip rings for a second.

"But you deserve more." He purrs, trying a little more.

"And my pussy needs a break!" You respond back, making him laugh. This is why he loves you so much- why he loves your relationship so much. Living with you is easy, it's relaxing, it's light and it takes his mind off of all the worries he has.

Because when he's with you, it's like none of it matters. He can just fall into your arms and trust you to catch him every single time.

And you do. Just like right now, as you kiss him until the water cools down, and the bubbles are all gone.

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Something he's never really told you is the amount of people trying to get to you- through him of all people.

Mainly because everyone still somewhat believes the most common rumor that you're just a sugar baby kind of situation- that you're up for anyone, as long as the numbers fit your standards. It's infuriating really, makes his blood boil because what else does he have to do to make people take you both seriously? It's not even just the fact that they apparently don't take him seriously as your partner- but that they really think you'd be someone to use others for money, just because you're not the quiet sweet person in the background who they can bully around.

But he has a plan. Foolproof, really, and he's wanted to do that this year anyways.

"I need my good-luck-kiss.." He teases, keeping you close to him.

"Well if we had enough time I'd give you the whole good-luck-menu, but you gotta go get ready now." You giggle while he bites at your neck.

"Not yet.." He complains, already in his overalls, helmet on the bench close by. You're hiding behind a corner like schoolkids attempting not to get caught skipping class, and he admits that you both do this a lot. He just can't get enough, and today especially, he just wants to make sure the cameras can see his marks on you, and know that they're his. "Will you watch the race?" He asks, and you giggle.

"Of course. I always do." You promise, and he grins, before he pecks your lips one last time, finally getting ready.

You're standing in the VIP spots, watching closely how he starts the race, seemingly a bit behind. But he's pushy, he always is, competitiveness not letting him lose without a fight. And fighting he does, quickly catching up as he squeezes past several other competitors, making your pulse rise quite a bit. Truth be told, you always worry- especially after his friend's last accident that you witnessed that day. The race had been interrupted because of it, and had been decided to be re-started at a later date once Mingyu had fully recovered.

He only sustained minor injuries, cracked a rib and a minor concussion, but nothing else. But the sight of the car will stay in your head for quite a while.

You have nightmares, sometimes. Of Jungkook being in a wreck like that, flames swallowing his broken body whole, and you can't do anything to save him. That's most likely the biggest reason you're always a little on edge whenever he drives. You know he's a good driver, of course he is- but still. You can't help but worry.

Not that you'll ever tell him. He doesn't need about something stupid like that.

It's not even half an hour in, and a black flag is waved at a blue car lagging behind. There's smoke coming from the back wheels- so he's asked to leave the tracks and drive into his pit box, which he promptly does to get his vehicle inspected. It seems to be a more serious issue however- because the announcer suddenly explains that the racer named Jake Pitcher won't return to the tracks.

Time passes by, and the race goes on without much interruption. Everyone follows the rules, flags are waved left and right to navigate things happening, and your eyes occasionally lose sight of the mainly red and black hyundai Jungkook is driving, though you always find him again at the very top, leading the race. It's after the second pit stop that a driver in a sky-blue Toyota is becoming visibly more aggressive, especially towards Jungkook.

It's alright to be a bit pushy, you've learned that that's the norm- but this guy is putting other drivers in danger with just how close he's pressing himself against Jungkook's back and another's side.

But this is the sport. It's an aggressive one, and the rules about how to race are pretty grey.

Someone crashes, a yellow and green racecar you've seen earlier. The vehicle spins on the ground in donuts a few times before it comes to a stop on the grass, and the team is visibly running around to sort things out. It's announced that the driver is awake and alert, and doesn't seem injured- and the car is towed safely away, one lane closed until everything is cleared once more, caution in place for now causing everyone to slow down a little until the track is cleared again.

Jungkook had crashed before. Multiple times, even. He's cracked ribs, bruised his body, broken bones. Never anything too serious- but enough to remind you every time how dangerous his career is. You hate that side of it, and sometimes you really wish he would just call it quits- but you also understand that he's passionate about this, that this is his dream.

You'll always remember his worst crash- the way his car had flown through the air rolling around like it was nothing but a toy, front wheels almost pulled off entirely- and your fear inside your bones as it took him ages it felt like to climb out of the wreck, surprisingly unscathed, only bruised badly in some spots.

He was on a stretcher that day, a safety precaution even though he turned out mostly fine. You remember not even having the energy to scold him in hospital, crying at his side for hours it felt like until he'd managed to calm you down enough, his laugh teasing as he'd helped you wipe off your ruined makeup before going back to the hotel later to sleep- your body even clingier than ever before.

It's his fourth pit stop. Things are looking good- this time the car seems to be holding up a lot better than last time when he only made the third place, and the commenters seem to recognize that too. Jungkook is the only one bringing a car of his type on the track after all- it's basically the talk of town every time he participates. He went from being a joke to a true competitor nowadays- finally being taken seriously on the tracks, and you know Jungkook relishes in the feeling of it.

He loves to win, after all. Even if it's just the respect of others.

Suddenly, something happens in the front. The toyota pushes too hard, too far to the side, and it breaks the current leader completely into the barriers as the car loses control, dragging several cars with him- And as your eyes search for the familiar red and black car with white font written all over it, you find it.

There's a lot of smoke, several cars unable to continue, a driver exits his own on the grassy spot in the middle, throwing his helmet in frustration. Jungkook's car is scratched, badly, a slight crack in front, but he's still driving- seemingly having escaped with nothing but some minor damage. He's slowed down just like everyone else now, entire track under major caution as the damage to a lot of other car's is being inspected, several people now left out with their cars damaged too hard to compete any longer.

Jungkook seems just a bit out of breath from the shock from what you can see on the screens, now in the pit box where tape is placed over a break in the front over the scratches, car being refueled and inspected just to make sure. He gives a thumbs up when asked if he's alright- a nod given to other questions. According to a commenter, he's asking for any serious injuries in other drivers- but there are none, so he's reassured that everyone's alright and up walking around.

Caution is lifted, green flag waved. The fight is back on, speed increasing as they once more go back full force, pushing and mixing up the order in which they're making their way towards the finish line.

It's the last stretch now, and things are getting clearly heated on the tracks. From clear pushing to forceful passing, scratches and bumps can probably be found on every car after this race is done. There's a fight happening now, and Jungkook is not backing down from anyone- now doubling down, and pressing himself towards the front. He's not as impolite as some other drivers further back, but he still bites, clearly so- currently passing another car, the white flag waved as he presses himself against his competitor.

One round left.

You can practically feel the tension now, pulse racing just as quickly as his car drives as he pushes himself further and further up front. He's in second place. That's most likely the spot he'll make.

Or?

It's almost in the last second it seems like when he manages to outrun the Chevrolet he's been pushing against next to- the black and white checkered flag waved, Jungkook's name being called as everyone cheers.

He made it. His team cheers- but you're frozen in time.

Because this is also a win for you, every singe time. Your prize is the fact that he's unscathed, that he's okay, that nothing happened. Fireworks light up the sky, when suddenly, he turns the car, covers the track in white smoke from his wheels, a full on spin one of his by now signature winning gestures.

His team runs towards him, pulls down the window gate to congratulate him as he climbs out, pulling his gloves off before he takes off his helmet and climbs on the roof of his car, clearly excited over the win. The interview is easy, as he answers questions thanks his team, before he becomes nervous, visibly, shaking his hands a little. "You still seem rather emotional from the race!" The interviewer jokes, and Jungkook nods, before he runs a hand over his face, bracing himself it seems like.

"Yeah that too, but uh- I made myself a little challenge too, you know?" He laughs. "I promised myself if I won this race, I'd.. do something I've been chickening out of for quite a while now." He explains, and you become a bit nervous now, unsure what he's trying to say. You're making your way down now to where his team is too, now closer and in sight as Jungkook grins to himself.. almost shy?

A member of his crew gives him something, and you become suspicious when he walks towards you now, because that stupid grin he has on his face just spells trouble in bold capital letters.

"You put up with so much shit, you know?" Jungkook tells you over the sound of people cheering and the commentator telling the crowd what's happening- everyone now curious. "You really do- and I don't think there's anyone out here in this world that can really love me like you do." He offers, and you laugh to yourself. "Don't laugh! I'm serious!" He complains, making some crewmembers laugh. "Either way, I might've won the race, but do you know what prize I'd really like instead?" He wonders, before he moves to drop to one knee.

"You, as my wife." He tells you, slightly dirty black box containing a ring.

And suddenly, the world seems to quiet down entirely as you nod, watching in fascination as he puts the ring on your finger in front of thousands.

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"Jungkook you're speeding!" You whine as he laughs in the driver's seat, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the weather.

"Babe I'm actually way below the limit, what're you talking about?" He chuckles, always a little amused by the irony of your fear of him driving- him, a professional racecar driver. "It's an RV, not a racecar. Relax a bit." He says, taking your hand to kiss the back of it before he continues to hold it.

He's taking some time off- spending a vacation in europe with you, having rented an RV for some quality camping that he's always wanted to do with you. Now that his relationship status had been officially upgraded so to speak, rumors have died down- the thrill seemingly left now that he's made it more than clear that he's taking it seriously with you, even though he always has.

"Still, can't you drive a bit slower?" You worry, and he shakes his head.

"No can do darling. But we only have half an hour to go anyways, so we're almost there." He tells you.

"Half an hour can feel like a lifetime though.." You pout quietly, and at that, he runs his thumb over the back of your hand.

"Were you scared when they all crashed?" He asks, and you nod.

"I searched for your car right away. You can't believe how I felt when I saw you come through that cloud of smoke and car-parts almost unharmed." You whine. "I hate that I'm always so scared. I don't want you to feel bad when you drive-" You worry, and he laughs.

"You're not making me feel bad, don't worry." He shakes his head. "I can understand how hard that must be to watch though. Just like I said, I'll never understand how you put up with me and my shit." He offers, and you shrug.

"I don't know either." You huff. "You constantly bully me." You complain.

"I don't bully you!" Jungkook argues scandalized.

"You constantly make fun of my height, and you laugh when I'm scared, and you slap my ass in front of everyone no matter who!" You say, and he shrugs.

"It's a nice ass, what can I say?" He defends himself, making you glare at him. "Hey come on, you can't possibly blame me, you slap my ass too!" He argues back to you.

"That's cause you deserve it!" You respond.

"And you don't?" He wonders.

"Absolutely not. I'm an angel!" You state, and he laughs theatrically.

"You might get down on your knees regularly but you're not a saint-" He jokes, making you roll your eyes. "-see? And a brat too.!" He teases.

"Yeah well if you're not nice to me I won't suck your dick for the entire trip." You threaten. "Not even once." You state, making him pout playfully.

"Not even the tip?"

"Won't even touch your balls." You respond, and he whines.

"Oh no! Anything but that!" He complains, finally driving towards the entrance of the camping spot. "What do I have to do to gain back the sacred touch of my soon-to-be-wife?" He asks, having parked the RV now, and taken off his glasses.

"..you can start by giving her a nice kiss." You tell him. "But a good one. With feelings and all- the whole menu." You demand, and at that he leans over the middle, careful not to touch anything and cause an accident, pulling you closer by your neck.

"Well-" He smiles warmly at you. "-that's easy."

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"So how have you always dealt with all the hate and rumors about you both? That must've been pressuring!" A paparazzi asks you as you stand right next to your by now husband, who's just made the second place in his latest race.

"Oh, I just look at him naked to remind myself why it's all worth it in the end!" You beam happily at them, Jungkook laughing loudly next to him.

Yeah- you're really one of a kind.

And he doesn't mind spending the rest of his life with you.

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#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagine #bts smut #bts jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #bts jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook fanfic

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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 4 months ago

Text

The little things

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Masterlist

My headcanons about the Lads boys. I will keep updating this if I find things to add. Suggestions are welcome! Last update: 04-02-2025

Ever so slightly nsfw, so don't read if ur under 18.

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Zayne

Secretly tracks your period and changes your diet with your cycle to make sure you suffer as little as possible. (But does let you indulge in chocolate on your period even though it might worsen the cramps.)

Does not care for your pranks but appreciates you feeling comfortable enough to prank him.

Enjoys foreplay almost more than the actual act. He likes to watch you climb onto his lap, likes feeling you touch any part of uncovered skin, likes kissing you until you can't breathe anymore.

Has extras of almost all the products you use stashed. This includes shower gel, makeup, perfume, and sometimes snacks but those run out quite quickly.

Reads a lot of romance books in his free time.

Really, really, really likes your hands. Will spend hours studying your fingers, massaging your palm, kissing your knuckles. Never gets bored of it.

Will (and has, but only for a minute to drive the point home) tie you to the bed if you refuse to rest while sick.

Loves blow drying your hair after you shower.

Likes matching his tie or watch or whatever accessory he wears to whatever you are wearing.

Doesn't really do PDA but has his hand on the small of your back whenever you are walking around. Sometimes, when he's feeling bold, he'll hook his pinky onto yours as his way of hand holding.

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Xavier

Pretends to take cover when he sees you almost sneezing.

Likes doing your laundry. To him, it is a very small way to show you he cares. Leaves everything folded and sorted in piles of shirts, dresses, pants, etc, on your bed for you to put away. (Every once in a while a pair of panties will go missing though.)

Will try to absolutely smother himself between your thighs. Has asked you to squeeze his head like a watermelon on more than one occasion.

Favorite sleeping position is on top of you while you're reading on the couch with his head on your chest and your hand scratching his head.

Is actually a pretty ok cook. He just like watching you cook so sometimes he burns things on purpose. Just to convince you to cook for him. (How else would he have survived for so long?)

Needs to always have his hands on you in one way or another. If it's inappropriate to hold your hand, he'll grab the hem of your shirt or something.

Scowls at any men trying to talk to you.

Loves listening to you yapp. It's soothing to him, but he'll never fall asleep during it. He's always an active listener. Unless he asks you to tell him gossip until he falls asleep.

Leaves marks during any makeout session or sex, whispers "Mine" against your skin after every mark.

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Rafayel

Takes note of your morning ritual and "secretly" helps you when you have a bad morning by handing you your toothbrush, having your breakfast ready for you, or getting you a glass of water before you can even think about taking your meds.

Likes to paint your back when you lay naked on the bed. Sometimes it's something truly impressive, other times he does silly doodles.

Sometimes accidentally gets annoyed for real when he pretends to because he gets into it too much.

Is a munch. Like, you cannot get him to stop until he's had his fill. Besides your safeword, there is absolutely no way to keep him from ravishing you.

Is completely enamored with lipstick kisses. Loves the way they look on his skin and even more on yours. Has put on lipstick for that reason more than once. Sometimes takes pictures of his work after with your consent and has used them as references for paintings.

Will take any chance given to him to stare at your boobs or touch your boobs. At this point, you can't really care anymore. It's just part of your day.

Likes when you allow him to pick your outfits. He always wants his muse to look their best.

Loves helping you put your makeup on. Is watching YouTube tutorials to get better at it. Wants to be your personal MUA.

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Sylus

Likes working out, but likes it even more if you're watching. You don't have to join. It just boosts his confidence to see you salivating over him while pretending to be busy on your phone.

Adores having you on top in any situation. Sitting on his lap, cuddling, sex. He just enjoys watching you on top of him.

Is secretly a great mixologist and absolutely loves making drinks for you. Will make syrups and juices from scratch. Bonus points if you don't drink alcohol because now he has a new way to impress you. (Cause most alcohol free "liquors" are absolutely shit.)

Absolutely loves marking you in places no one can see when you're wearing clothes. He likes the privacy and possessive nature of it. Knowing that you are completely his while no one else knows.

Makes sure you are holding him properly when riding on the back of his motorcycle. Enjoys it when you let your hands roam over his body while he drives.

Has been taking note of your opinions on his clothes, his furniture, the food he makes, and makes changes to assure your comfort without making you feel like you're asking too much of him.

Gets on his knees to help you put your shoes on. Loves it when you put your hand on his shoulder to keep balanced.

When you can't reach something, he will move behind you, press his body against yours (sometimes even grind against you), put his hand on your hip, and reach out to grab it for you.

Always smells clean for some reason. Even after a gunfight, a fistfight, a boxing match. Never the faintest smell of sweat on him.

Lets you do anything on your own, but is always close enough to step in if you ever need help.

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Caleb

Absolutely despises milk. Isn't lactose intolerant, just does not like it at all.

Told you he can't always wear his chain because of certain missions but in reality the chain sometimes itches and he just needs a break. Will wear it while he sleeps though.

Power bottom.

Will never agree with you on where to eat. Does always end up taking you to a place you will like.

Has a weird obsession with your shoulders. Tries to always be touching them. Either by putting his head on your shoulder, his arm around you, kissing them. Whatever he has to do to get close to your shoulders.

Cringes at his own words very often and secretly wishes he could be as carefree with you as he was before the accident.

Would cover your neck in hickeys because he likes showing off that you are his.

Needs to be holding you when he sleeps because he's always scared he'll lose you again.

Rests his hand on your thigh under the table and squeezes when someone else tries to get your attention.

Dominates conversations but always listens to you when you speak.

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yuwuta · 8 months ago

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MORE KNIGHT YUTA PLEASE I BEG OF YOU!!

yes ofc. he’s obedient, but still sly...... to me, knight yuuta will do as you say, but he will also act before you speak if he thinks that’s what’s right to protect you...... it’s like..... he thinks he’s the only person who can protect you, and you’re the only person who can protect him from himself........ anyway, enjoy this teehee cw mentions of murder (what else is new)

Yuuta sighs when he sees your silhouette in the moonlight, peering over the grand balcony. The heavy fabric of your dress resists rustles in the shallow winds of the evening; it tells Yuuta that you have not gone to bed, that he did not wake you, that you waited for him, that you anticipated him.

From his position below, standing center in the courtyard, you appear something like a goddess, but he knows better than to compare to something so fickle. Gods are fable and you are truth, you are real.

“Princess, you should be asleep. Might I help you to bed?” Yuuta offers, voice loud enough for you hear him one story higher, but quiet enough not to rouse the other knights on watch for the night.

Yuuta watches intently as you shake you head, trails the smooth movement of your fingers grazing across the stone ribboning of the railing. You stop at the center, resting your clothed forearms against cold stone, wrists and hands hanging over the edge, and the lightest hum escaping from your lips, “If I were to fall, would you catch me, Yuuta?”

Yuuta nods, without hesitation, “Yes, princess.”

His eyes remained glued to you, carefully tracking your movements as you slowly sway to your left, delicate footsteps carrying you to the top of the stairway. Yuuta’s body turns with yours, standing at the base of the stairs, awaiting your arrival.

Your careful to lift up the skirt of your dress with one hand, press your palm to the railing for support with the other, tilt your head down enough so that Yuuta can see your face in the moonlight, “And if I were to ask you to escort me to the kitchen, would you?”

One, two, three steps, and you pause. Yuuta answers, “Yes, princess.”

A hum, another step, then three, then four, then another question, “And if I said I craved fresh berries, and asked you to gather and wash and prepare them for me, would you?”

“Yes, princess.”

You continue at a slow pace, three steps, another question, three more, and Yuuta answers; always yes, always willing. You stop, three steps before the end of the stairs, and yet it only makes you a head taller than your knight. You drop your dress, take the smallest step forward, but not down, before you pose your next question.

“And if I asked you to return to your quarters and not kill Lord Hajime tonight, would you?”

This time, Yuuta cannot meet your eyes, head turning down, gaze set on the cold floor of the courtyard.

“Would you not do what is asked of you, Yuuta?”

He hears your voice first, then feels the warm touch of your fingers when you reach out to comb through his hair. Your fingernails scratch against his scalp, tugging with gentle vigor until you’ve forced his head up, until you’ve forced his gaze; and then, slowly, you bring your other hand to join its companion, and you have him between the palm of your hands. You always do.

He holds his tongue, still; he wouldn’t dare say no to you, even if he thinks it.

“Or do you only do as you please?” you tilt his head between your hands, “You would lie to me, wouldn’t you? You’ve done it before.”

“Only for your protection,” Yuuta says, pleading, “I promise.”

You hum, warm fingers brushing against his cold skin in the night. You look daunting, beautiful.

“I might not be as conniving as my guards, nor as divisive as my cabinet, but I am still the princess, and you still serve me,” your words are calm, steady, eerie; Yuuta shudders into your touch when you trail you left hand down, pointer finger tracing along the frame of his face before hooking under his chin, forcing further accession between you and him, “Do you no longer wish to please me, Yuuta?”

Yuuta sighs, raising his hand to wrap around your wrist, the cold metal of his armor whistling with his movement. With worried words and weary expression he asks: “Would Lord Hajime please you, princess?”

He watches as your face falls, eyes sad and lips solemn, moving your hands down his face to swipe your thumbs against his temples. Yuuta lets go of your wrist, but he remains pliant in your hold, obedient under your touch, grateful when you shake your head.

“Then why can’t I kill him?” Yuuta questions, earnest and upset.

“Oh, Yuuta,” you muse, brushing away a fallen eyelash before bringing his head to your chest and cradling it between soft palms and soft cloth, “My Yuuta,” your words are spoken against the top of his head and the warmth radiates down the rest of his body.

“Lord Hajime will be dealt with accordingly. This is not how I wish to resolve things,” you assure him; Yuuta doesn’t like your solution, but you are his princess, so he will listen, he will stand and be warm against you, “And you are obvious. Another murder would only raise suspicion.”

“They do not know it was me.”

You chuckle, only lightly, and Yuuta can feel it against your chest, “But now I know.”

Yuuta looks up, chin resting against your chest, his hands reaching up, resting greedily against your waist. Your palms find purchase against his cheeks again, and his eyes flutter closed for a moment, sinking into his dream.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, blinks up at you. “I will accept whatever punishment you see fit.”

This time, you tilt your head, allowing the moonlight to strike his face. Yuuta glows in anticipation, awaits your word. A moment, and then a hum.

“I’m sure you will,” you tell him, before removing your hands from his face. Yuuta whimpers, pout growing deeper when you turn around in his hold, your back to him as you begin to ascend the stairs.

Again, he waits, hands falling to your side as he eyes your silhouette. He counts ten steps before you turn your head over your shoulder, “Come. That’s an order.”

Yuuta dips his head down, clasps his hand behind his back before he begins to follow you up the stairs, “Yes, of course, princess.”

#anonymous #my apologies i meant to answer this ask..... a long time ago LOLOLOLLLLL #yuuta my beloved............. its like #yeah he'd plan a coup behind your back but its only because he thinks you deserve to be queen #and you might not like his methods but theyre effective... and isnt it his sole duty to do whats best for you?#like you can own his body and soul but his mind is for the both of you he'll do the thinking bc he loves u so much #yuuta x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jjk smut #knight au

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vampykween · 2 years ago

Text

like that

cw: simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader, nsfw mdni! cocky simon, thigh riding, creampie, simon calls you love and baby. let me know if i missed anything! word count: 541

dedicating this to my love @ghosts-cyphera enjoy babe!

you couldn't stop the slew of moans falling from your lips as you ground down onto simon's hard, muscular thigh. your head was buried in his neck, inhaling his musk while your hands held onto his shoulders as if they were your life force. you're not sure how long you've been like this, but you had awoken from your nap earlier feeling insatiable and all but jumped your boyfriend's bones the moment he crossed the threshold of your shared tiny apartment.

simon's large hands were splayed across your hips guiding your movements along, "c'mon love, all this time and you still haven't cum, am i not good enough for you anymore?" you let out a whine in protest at his remark, you know he's just egging you on. he wants to hear you beg for his cock, but you're not ready to give in yet. simon 's just as needy as you are, although he'd never admit it. he flips you onto your back on the couch and hastily shoves his pants down and frees his cock.

he leans down to kiss you then grabs your chin, "was real cute watching you, but i can do much better, ain't that right, love?" you nod your head fervently, pleasure starting to cloud your mind. simon tsks at you and you know he needs to hear you say it. sometimes you really do hate feeding into his ego, but right now you have a one-track mind and want nothing more than for him to fuck you.

"si, c'mon, fuck me already, i need you so badly."

simon wants to tease you even further, have you beg until you can't possibly come up with any coherent thoughts, but truthfully he can't wait much longer either, cock hard and throbbing after watching you rut against his leg for so long. he's honestly not sure how long he'll last once he's inside you. he lines himself up with your soaked cunt and he can't help but tease you a little, he slides the tip of his cock through your velvety folds. you whine frustratedly and hook one of your legs around him, urging him to enter you because you're positive you'll combust if he doesn't fuck you this instant.

"god, you're such a greedy girl. you'll take whatever i give you when i want to give it to you." he contradicts his words immediately though, as he finally slides into you, your pussy gripping him nicely, and he groans. "fuck, i'll never get tired of this you feel heavenly baby."

simon fucks you with so much fervor, you're momentarily worried about the structural integrity of your couch. the thought is fleeting though, as you begin to feel your orgasm crest. simon leans down and growls in your ear, "im so fucking close love, but ladies first yeah. c'mon, give it to me," he thumbs at your clit furiously until your back is arching and you're calling out his name. simon follows close behind with a stutter of his hips and a guttural groan of your name. you feel the warmth of his release spilling out of you as he pulls out, and any other time you'd be blushing, but you're too blissed out to even care.

#simon ghost riley smut #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #vampykween #mic writes

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meiguicha · 1 year ago

Text

Kept Dove - Purgatorio

Yan!Sunday x Reader

Even if a bird with clipped wings can only fly so far, it is a freedom nonetheless

TW: pseudo-incest, suicidal behaviour, stalking, general manipulative and toxic behaviour

//Characters may be OOC, please go easy on my glass heart. Spoilers for the 2.0 story quest but also I may not remember things correctly so- Not at all accurate to future patches/lore. Excerpts from the Song of Songs.

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes

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Through veiled curtains and under warm lights, you tug your socks up with a careful hand, your eyes tracking the movement through the large mirror across you. The soft sheer fabric ascends your leg, trailing up and up until it reaches exactly above your knee. Just the slightest askew, you check once more, turning your leg and watching how the edge on your inner leg dips down, sneaking your finger under the garter to readjust its height. When deemed satisfactory, you reach for your sock garters, clipping the metal fasteners onto the ends as the upper ends hang limply by the side of your leg. You do the same meticulous routine for your right leg, putting your legs together to ensure that they are perfectly even.

Hung on a hanger was a blouse, with no evidence of wrinkles or lint. Gingerly, you slip it off and let the cool fabric caress your bare skin, once again peering into the mirror to straighten the ends only to carefully push every little fabric-covered button through equally miniscule openings. It hugs your form perfectly when finished, tailor made to adhere to your body like a second skin, with bishop sleeves to be held together with custom cufflinks. You do so, deft fingers piercing the fabric with the golden optics before clipping the ends of the shirt with the once hanging garters.

Your skirt comes next, prudent and pure. You step into it and bend ever so slightly, bringing it up to your waist to fasten the button that would keep it closed. It is only now that you pad across soft carpet towards your lineup of shoes, from sensible flats to respectable high heels, of shined leather to patent, fit for any occasion. You hook the backs of a pair of heels with your fingers, making your way back to your vanity to slip them on. It is now that you turn your attention to the perfumes decorating the front of the gilded mirror, each of them gifts handpicked by your siblings, bottles easily distinguished by your sister’s fondness for winsome designs and your brother’s partiality for elegance. You uncap a lacquered white glass bottle, the airy and floral aroma that comes from the nozzle is one of their favourites.

There is a light knock at your door, a gentle rap of knuckles against hardwood. It is merely a courtesy, he has no real need to announce his presence when you have long known he would come. Your eyes do not even have to glance at the ticking clock, the knowledge of the minute hand’s exact position of twenty minutes to eight a matter you have grown familiar with over the years.

“Come in.”

Familiar, practised steps barely sound through your room, a few strides until a silhouette appears behind you. Letting out a soft breath, your eyelids flutter close as you turn your head away from the mirror. “I’m afraid you have little to help with today.”

“I merely wanted to check on you,” Your brother’s voice is delicate, even in your mind there is a kindness to his lilting rise.

A sigh escapes your lips. ‘Check on you’ can mean all matters of things, whether it truly does entail merely checking on you is a test only known to him. Your eyes open upon the slightest hint of movement, watching through the mirror as gloved hands pull your hair back, reaching for a tie to bundle it up into a half-bun. The action in itself is practised and skilled, moreso a reminder of how many times he has performed such on the women of his life, it sends an inexplicable grief aching in your heart.

He lowers himself to your level, and as the warm lights cast an intimate gleam upon his features, you get the day’s first look of your brother. Golden eyes softened in gentle fondness, or perhaps some amalgamation of it, cool steel locks lay in perfect formation as his soft wings unfurl to reveal his stately countenance. There is a soft smile pulled across his lips, yet for some reason you must wonder why that tightness in your chest exists so.

“Happy?” You manage to croak out, still fraught with his full attention on you.

Sunday tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, clearly admiring his work as he hums, “Very much so, you look quite comely like this.”

You glance at yourself in the very mirror that has aided your preparation, the small wings at the back of your ears hang downward in some odd shame, the sharp tips of your halo glinting with a keen shine. The dark wings flutter lightly, and that recurring shame seems to bubble back to the top of your mind everytime you are reminded of their existence. A corvid among songbird and dove, a stain in their otherwise blemishless perfection. A pathetic excuse for a halovian, you had little sway, little influence, little image. Your very existence was a means to uphold their depiction.

You were just the child taken pity upon, the mutt picked up from the side of the road to house and feed. Thus, you are an extension of them, whatever you do, however you look, it all went back to them. You sometimes wonder whether they know how much you pale in comparison to their light.

All too quick to shove such a treacherous thought to the back of your head, it would be a cold day in hell before someone pries that thought from your brain. He casts you an inquisitive gaze, one you wave off with your ascent from the chair. Your steps, three steps slower, accompany his longer strides, padding out from soft carpet to thudding wood.

Leaving the mansion is always some arduous task, and you suppose that there is no one to blame but your brother for all the fuss that needs to be sorted out. Twisting hallways, confounding rooms, even the little sandpit of the Golden Hour, it made it so that leaving required his notice, lest you end up arbitrarily lost. Of course, this also meant that you were severely limited in the times you got to leave the mansion, since he always had so much to attend to in the day. And it is not like you refuse to learn, but rather that you cannot learn its ways that you remain unaware. Furthermore, it is exactly because that he does so much that you find it hard to even bring up your grievances about such a matter, how could you? So even if you yearn to see the world far beyond what he has allowed you to see, you very often keep your mouth shut and play at content.

As you emerge from those familiar depths, a wing raises itself to shield your eyes from the sudden influx of bright lights. Penacony, the city of dreams they call it, but to you, it has been nothing more than an incandescent lie. Why else would your sister leave?

It is then you see her, with her flowing light blue hair and her familiar visage. Her attire remains the same as all the advertisements you see with her face plastered on them, her halo tilted to the right and the gems under her left eye in flawless position. Yet, in your heart, your most sincerest of affections borne from years of companionship, you know that it is not her. There is nothing that would infer this thought, the locum in front of you a perfect copy in all matters, but you cannot help but deny the image in front of you.

Turning to Sunday, a slip of your true thoughts revealed through the furrow of your brow, “Who is this?”

“A fool, nothing more,” He spares you a glance, but says nothing else.

“Will she listen?”

It is only then you manage to meet his gaze, not a second more and not a second less, his voice is placid, revealing nothing even now, “You trust me, no?”

“Of course, but I just worry…” Your plea seems to go unheard, and you wonder whether you were even meant to come along if it meant you would only receive this kind of treatment.

“Shall we depart?” He offers to the ‘Robin’ in front of you, dignified courtesy and trained care. You remain behind, watching on. His voice rings in your head, the only part of him you get, “Fret not, dear sister, all will be well.”

In your heart, something twinges with an acrid twist. Though this ‘Robin’ is clearly some cheat, he still treats her the same, still has that leak of affection. You have always known that he never took to you the same way she did, he could try to play at siblingly affection, could try to interact with you the same way he did her, but you knew that he never meant it. The daily check-ups, the gifts, the occasional contact, it all means nothing to him, and in the end, is that not what he does best? Lying with a sweet smile on his face, tempting you with a delusion all the while he wishes for nothing but your descent. The only one he could never perform such deeds to was his own sister.

Yet even in front of a fool, with the face of your sister, you could feel no hatred towards her. Because she has never done anything to warrant such, not when this dream of theirs is one you have done everything to uphold, not when she might have been the only light in your life. So even if what stands before you is a fake, even if you do not know what your brother has planned, you will keep your mouth and play at content.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

In the end, he had never even told you where the day’s itinerary would take you, so when you had found yourself in reality’s Reverie Hotel and met with an interesting situation, you had much to restrain from expressing. A group of four people you have never truly seen before and a man from the IPC, seemingly engaged in a difficult matter. They do not seem to notice your approaching footfalls, neither does Alley.

“Alley, just a moment,” Sunday speaks up, gentle yet assertive

“The Family cannot allow guests to enter a dream while bearing burdens.”

The crowd, now aware of your presence, shifts their attention. The grey-haired youth catches your attention, so clearly out of place yet seemingly intertwined, you can only ponder why. Still, it is not as if their gazes remain on you, rather it would be more accurate to say that they were never on you in the first place, positively enraptured by the natural radiance

“Speak of the devil, look who's here! It's Sunday, the most handsome man in Penacony! Along with the singer renowned across the universe: Robin!” The blond, who you vaguely recognise as hailing from the IPC introduces the two of them with a flair, clearly playing up the flattery.

‘Robin’ turns to face him, an amused smile playing at her lips as her eyes crinkle in mirth, “He said you were the most dashing person in Penacony, how interesting.”

An older man and a red-haired woman stand before you, their expressions shifting to alert, yet they are paid no mind.

“I’ve kept you waiting, Mr. Aventurine. This way please, let us speak in private,” Your brother offers, a request that is taken with a courteous quirk of the blond’s lips.

Your ‘sister’ instead takes charge of caring for the rest of the guests, “Astral Express guests, please come this way and rest your feet.”

It is by now that you have completely mentally checked out of the situation, your presence clearly not noticed nor ignored. Though you yearned to return and perhaps sleep the rest of the day away, your feet automatically flanked the guests of the Astral Express so as to guide them, your eyes following after the grey-haired youth who seemed to yearn to run after Aventurine. Oddly, they do not do so, obediently following after the pink-haired woman.

You keep your posture perfect and your expression pleasant, not quite hearing but watching, eyes tracking lips so as to turn your perceived attention to whomever was speaking at present. Your ‘sister’ still enraptures, no matter the truth of her nature. Your ears pick up the vague mention of an apology, her hand held to her chest in polite regret. It is only when the redhead’s lips, a woman you believe is called Himeko, move in a manner that seems to be directed to you that you tune back in, a pleasant smile still painted as you meet her gaze.

“And who’s this? I don’t suppose we’ve met before, have we? Ms..?” She offers, playing at cordiality though it is clear she may be a little on guard.

Your lips move to answer far faster than your mind, practically instinctual. The response you get is kindly, one you are not sure is genuine but it makes your head rush.

The older man, Welt, calls your name, a sound that feels like it should belong on his tongue. There is a familiarity to it, the kind you would hear from an older relative. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of them start with their pleasantries, and for some odd reason, your chest tightens with a yearning. You had watched them band together earlier, seen the way they interacted with one another and even through your haze, could all but feel the amity between them. These were people who were bound together by chance, people who have simply decided to become this family and not only played the roles, but might as well be actual family.

“Thank you, it's a pleasure to meet all of you as well.”

‘Robin’ seems to fade into the background, a sight you are not used to, but this fool’s interest in you is not a matter you are too worried about. Rather, the new-found attention you found yourself under was now almost overwhelming, too much yet not entirely unwelcome.

“If we’re not overstepping, may I ask how you’re affiliated with Mr. Sunday and Ms. Robin?” Himeko’s voice is sweet in your ears, a soothing sound.

“They’re my siblings, my older brother and younger sister to be exact.”

The pink-haired youth you believe is called March 13th, is almost all too excited at that answer, yet it dies to wonder, “That’s cool! But why haven’t we heard about you before?”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m merely not as noteworthy as them….” Your play at humility is almost entirely accepted, a notion you are at least glad for. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice your brother’s approach, a signal to return back into the background. With a hand to your chest, you bid your exit, “If you’ll excuse me.”

It is another haze that clouds over you when your brother arrives to slot himself into the conversation, one that once again seems to block out the words spoken.

“I apologise for taking up everyone's precious time, and we shan't keep you any longer. If you need anything else while in Penacony, The Family stands ready to serve,” He hums, genteel and ever flawless.

‘Robin’ follows suit, her hand to her chest as she continues the courtesy, “May your dreams be beautiful and pleasant.”

Your eyes fall upon the Astral Express, and though your heart knows what can only be imagined can never be brought to reality, you could not help but wish that you had never been brought in to your siblings. Perhaps in another life, perhaps in a dream far more beautiful and pleasant than this one.

“May your dreams be beautiful and pleasant.”

You were tired, so very tired. If Penacony truly was the world of dreams, yours must be some sick joke for your life to turn out this way. Given this glimpse of what could have been, how could you even bear to keep living in this illusion?

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

The marble railing is cold against your bare feet, one wrong step and you’ll be sent careening off the side of the building, falling into a never-ending abyss. In the distance, playing on the record player, was the vague lilt of your sister’s voice. You could barely hear it through the wind, yet the very fact that she was there, truly or not, was more than enough. You have all but memorised her every song, humming along as though she was with you.

In a thin nightgown, you have long been free from the confines of your strict dress, hair let loose and face bare. Any matter that once adorned your form has been stripped, left exactly where they belonged in your room as your legs danced along to the melody. Chasse, a whisk and a natural turn, your arms wrapped around some imaginary partner, it all came to you without little thought, merely letting the music guide your form. You have never danced before, never thought yourself fit to, only read about the basics in a book a time forgotten, but you think you enjoy it. Perhaps in your next life you will be a dancer, no matter the fame, it would be something you could do without fear of tarnishing another’s image.

Caught in your reverie, you are scarce to hear the knock on your door, the heave of heavy wood and the quick steps to the open balcony. Through the flowing curtains and under the starry night, your brother still looked nothing more than empyrean, regardless of the unnerved furrow of his brow and the dilation of his pupils. You do not stop from your actions, continuing to let your body move along the wind.

“What are you doing?” He manages to utter, not as gentle yet cautious.

Humming, you return his question with another, “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Your dearest brother, the man who allows himself only the most minute interaction with you, the man who would not even meet your eyes beyond the confines of your home, though his words sounded as though they came from a more composed man, the slight tremble to his voice told you more than enough.

“Dear sister, you won’t die even if you take such drastic actions.”

“You’re right, but at the very least I’d be soporose, no?”

There is a pained edge to his voice, visage finally broken out of that placid facade, “I don’t enjoy these words you’re saying.”

“When have you ever?” You laugh, eyes crinkled in levity as a smile pulled across your lips. Bare feet halt from their untethered sway, leaning to meet your brother’s gaze. Your words crawl out from your throat, hoarse from use yet elated nonetheless, “I’m sure that if I were to even look into that head of yours, those few thoughts you dedicate to me would be nothing but pure odium.”

Perhaps you would have been less inclined to disparage your brother once upon a time, more desirous of his attention for once, yet it is now you could care less. His focus means nothing to you now, not when he could not even bother to do so when it mattered most. Even if he threw himself at your feet and begged you to come down, you find it hard to believe you would listen in this state.

Sunday’s voice is soft, yet simultaneously it is the loudest you have ever heard it, “You seem so convinced that I do not care for you, have you ever read beyond what your eyes tell?”

“Would you let me?” The air in your lungs feels faint, turning your voice breathy as tears strangely dew at your lower lashes.

Would he even let you witness such? Let himself become vulnerable and open his tempestuous mind for you to pick and pry? You do not even believe he has allowed any other to come so close. Yet perhaps this is what you need to quell that storm in your chest, the last nail in your coffin, your last reason confirmed.

He nods.

Through dark veils and cloudy bubbles, you see it. The truth of his neglect, the reality behind his constant avoidance, his performed favouritism, all of it some cruel and horrific attempt to distance himself from emotions deemed iniquitous. All those times the clock would read seven forty, all those times you believed him to arrive on some schedule, that damned bird had been in your room all the while. Tucked away in some corner too high for you to notice, it stood watch at all hours of the day, keenly broadcasting your most natural state to him as if it were nothing more than the daily news.

What a monster love can be, its dark shadow following you everywhere, in your most private and public moments, you have never been alone. Longing to embrace, alabaster hands ghosting over skin and breath fanning across bare chest, desiring to possess, to keep that object of yearning within a gilded cage and to tuck the key away. Twisting yet ever rigid, covetous and desirous, it is no wonder that your very existence should always be tied to him. There is no you without Sunday, no crow without dove, for what is a pious man without his conflict of sin?

“I love you,” He pleads, finally raw and true, finally directed to you. His face twisted in pure desperation as he approaches you, with his arms outstretched as though to compel you from your perch, your brother practically begs, “So please, stay with me.”

Beneath your gaze, beneath you, he is but a wretched thing. You never thought him stupid, yet for him to think that this was enough to wipe the slate anew, you must have overestimated him.

You bark out a harsh bite of laughter, void of mirth and filled with scorn, “Do you expect me to just forgive you just like that? A measly ‘I love you’ and years of indifference can just be forgotten?”

“Sunday, you’re nothing but the last etching on my grave.”

Your feet leave the cold marble, tipping off into the unknown abyss below as a breeze flies through your wings.

Your sister’s face flashes before you as your eyes flutter shut, her soft smile the one thing keeping your head clear and your limbs limp. You hear her sing, even past the rushing wind. Your dear sister, the one person who had been keeping you looking forward to another day, her crooning voice that played from the record player in your room, it is now you hear her clearer than ever.

A bird that has never flown can only fall when thrown down, wings unable to catch the wind and soar from its cage, yet it is because it has never flown that this feeling is still a kind of freedom. And as your skin pebbles from the chill and your hair flows along your descent, you have never felt any freer, even if it is only for a brief moment.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Through lace curtains and under warm light, a hand caresses your leg as it tugs white socks ever higher. Soft fabric clinging to your skin as he raises it to your thigh, far too intimate, far too familiar. He does the same for the other leg, knelt at your feet with his head bowed, the socks are nothing but perfectly aligned as per his preference. The garters hung around your waist, silken material his own hands placed upon you, he grasps the clips as he attaches it to the socks, ensuring he does not blemish your skin beneath.

Your arm raises when he brings the blouse, silky and smooth. Sunday lets the cool fabric kiss your arms as he buttons each clasp, meticulously pushing them through each miniscule opening. Another piece he had ensured would fit you without fault, it followed the natural lines of your form without fail. He smooths the shoulders down and presses a kiss to the top of your head, moving to pin the sleeves with optic shaped cufflinks. Coaxing you from your seat, he has you step into your skirt, brought up to your waist and clasped neatly. Your shoes, perfectly shined heels tailor made for only you, are slipped on and buckled. Even the sweet florals of your perfume, another white lacquered glass bottle he gifted all those years ago, is applied by his hand.

His dear sister, someone he has tried so hard to keep at an arm’s length, someone he has done nothing but debase in that torturous head of his, now stands before him, obedient and adoring. Far too tempting to keep away, his arms move to embrace you, resting at your waist.

Instinctively, your arms raise to wrap around his neck, weight leaning against his hands as he bows his head to press a kiss against your lips. You accept him languidly, your eyes fluttering close as he brings your bodies to but a fingertip’s distance. It almost seems meant to be, how they move against each other in a rhythm known only to the two of you.

“I love you,” He murmurs against your lips, the words leaving him so naturally that if one were to tell him that he could finally utter these heavy words to you, that him of the past would have merely waved it off. “More than you could ever know.”

“.....love…”

“..you….”

Your wings flutter shyly around your two faces, as though to hide away from the rest of the world, even your halo trembles ever so slightly, an endearing act as you try your best to convey your affection to him. Still, that does not discourage you from attempting to cling onto him.

He smiles, pressing another, more chaste, kiss to your lips to tide you over. Recovery has been hard for you but he finds he quite enjoys having you so feeble for him. Barely able to even form full sentences through telepathy, it meant that he would be able to hear your sweet voice much more often. You were no songstress, but it is your humming that truly provides him with succour. Furthermore, having you so dependent, so keen for his help, it only serves to soften his heart.

To reintroduce you to the rest of Penacony not as his sister, but as his dearest lover has been easy, and he can only thank his foresight for keeping your very existence so negligible. You would finally get what you have always yearned for, no matter what lies you told yourself, his full and utter adoration, demonstrable and undisguised. Lest you try to leave him once more. So he will keep you in this cage with him, care for you and love you so that beyond reasonable doubt, you shall have no desire to spread your wings once more.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #sunday x reader #yandere honkai star rail #yandere sunday #hsr sunday #yandere #yandere x reader

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moutheyes · 2 months ago

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gelboys cinematography go brrr: episode 7 (final)

well, folks, we made it, and so did the gelboys. I have so much I want to say about this show outside of the cinematography, which was fairly straightforward in the final episode, but as always there are plenty of cool details to point out.

in general, though, there were much fewer long takes in this episode compared to the more single-character–focus episodes, more use of cuts instead of pans/tilts to mark POV changes, and more tracking shots, all of which helped accelerate the action and pacing. part of it is because real space took center stage, which feels like a deliberate response to the end of episode 6; although the zoom summit was a real climax point, the show still required a resolution anchored in reality, with all four characters taking part. anyway, if the episode felt jam-packed to you, there were definite reasons for it rooted in the way it was shot and edited.

(if you want to feel absolutely mind-blasted, I recommend watching the zoom summit scene and the random dance confrontation scenes back to back. going from the static qualities of one to the frenetic execution of the other is a trip.)

backs to the camera

this show doesn't show us characters' backs that often (the most notable instance before this was baabin turning his back on fourmod in episode 5), so the frequency of these shots in this episode stood out to me.

each of these instances involved someone trying to hide away or deny their true desires, so it's not surprising that baabin was sorta the main culprit on this front. (fourmod definitely wasn't entirely off the hook, though.)

the optical illusion kiss

this made me feel so insane—baabin was positioned behind bua in the perspective of this scene but the framing was so exact in these shots that their lips were "touching" even before they started fooling around. [dragging my hands down my face]

stripping the walls of baabin's heart

the beauty of this show's visual motifs—nail art, stickers, and other accessories—is that they are extremely impermanent, so they provide an easy visual language for characters trying to effect change in their own lives, i.e. exert control over some external part of their self-expression, in lieu of mastering their own emotions. fourmod scraping the stickers off his guitar, for instance, or chipping his nails off whenever they remind him too strongly of chian—once before the busking performance, and again in episode 7 after his bout of paranoia outside chian's uni.

but baabin went to even more extremes as he desperately tried to cling onto the dregs of his feelings for fourmod. in episode 6 he hid his toenails under two pairs of socks, but that didn't work, and after rejecting bua a second time the task became even more overwhelming. so the sight of the ticket stub reminded him not only of his failed confession to fourmod the night of the blackpink concert but of his initial connection to bua—not only their shared fandom, but also the chain of events that led to this point. and because his entire room is a shrine to blackpink and lisa, it in turn became an inescapable reminder of his feelings for bua.

this scene wasn't just a redecoration—this was an attempt to strip himself of his own identity. at the end, we see him lying in a colorless, featureless room, framed off-kilter and deeply unhappy.

who has the upper hand?

this scene played with levels in a pretty direct way. fourmod, still trying valiantly to keep chian at bay, occupied the higher ground until giving in to chian's request to borrow money, descending to chian's level before retreating back up the stairs. but after chian managed to wheedle fourmod's number, he regained both the upper hand (so to speak) and high ground, leaving fourmod standing in place, physically and emotionally.

squaring the triangle

I was so excited to see these shots towards the end, because they were the only ones missing from our collection of triangles. :')

the other two configurations dominated the storyline, of course:

chian-fourmod-bua (many times, all iterations)

chian-baabin-fourmod (many times, all iterations)

in comparison, there's no romantic tension in the above frames, but there is a sense of of unfulfillment—in fourmod's gaze turned away from what he doesn't have, in chian's wry smile in the face of realized love, in the unfinished business that bua and baabin remind them both of.

miscellaneous cool shots

the pleasantly jarring transition from extreme landscape framing in real space to extreme portrait framing on a phone:

baabin approaching bua in real space, as shown through the phone screen:

the heart sticker on the mirror positioned perfectly on a heartbroken boy's face, and the maybe-not-so-subliminal messaging of "hey weirdos" as bua tried to change his features to what he thought baabin wanted:

another mirror moment here, it could have been another "baabin turns his back on the camera" shot as well but NO. WE SEE HOW YOU REALLY FEEL NOW.

this shot in particular filled me with terror, I think for a couple of reasons. first, cmiiw but we hadn't seen this exterior or this type of stark green neon lighting before. this show deliberately made every single setting feel familiar and lived-in, so to throw the audience something new this late, and to have baabin stand in front of it like he was about to enter the jaws of hell, was a strong artistic choice in a pivotal moment.

not cinematography but I have nowhere else to put it lol. just wanted to point out this bit of foreshadowing:

oh, fourmod, if only you knew. baabin's little shrug after, too—diabolical in its subtlety.

OK I WILL STOP HERE. I still have a lot—a scary lot, actually—to say about the sheer amount of cyclical callbacks in the final episode, but that has to be a separate post. but I gotta recover from a hectic weekend and also the emotional wreckage of this show. :')

#gelboys #gelboys the series #gelboys cinematography #yes i was a film major #no more gelboys...hello darkness my old friend #when will another show invigorate me the way this did #boss kuno you will always be famous

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theteasnake · 6 months ago

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I'm once again talking about Danny Johnson because fucking brain rot.

But also character analysis because that's how I show love to my favorite (comfort) characters. 🩵

I swear I'm not trying to flood the Danny tag.

I've seen a lot of characterization of Danny, ranging from abusive and manipulative to a man whore who's a perv.

And I'd like to throw in: just a very tired dude who happens to be mentally unwell.

The only thing keeping this guy from offing himself is his hobbies, which just so happens to be creating stories and murdering. Like, if things went differently and he didn't turn to murder, he'd probably just end up a horror writer (good ending).

Other than stories/killing, he has adrenaline, but those almost always end in a crash. And at some point, he's gotta settle down for bed.

He's never made any meaningful connections to anyone outside of his dad, and even then, it seemed very... unpleasant and complicated. Even he can't tell if he has positive or negative feelings for his dad.

Even if he interacts with other people, he's still isolated because they don't know the real him. He's people-pleasing to the max because his livelihood and survival depends on how likable he is, because why would such a nice and young man commit all these murders all over the country? The same can be said about him and his dad, he had to be what his dad wanted him to be. It's not said if his dad was physically abusive, but military dads who came back from war tend to have a track record of being unkind to their sons.

I don't think he's ever felt a moment of relaxation or peace. He constantly has to watch others and keep a distance, and even when he's alone at home, all he does is sit and stare over his work. He has no sense of identity outside of his murders and stories.

I also saw that the developers called him narcissistic, mainly as an insult, and I don't know much about NPD (I've seen others say he has symptoms and most likely has it), so I can't comment on that. But I don't think the insult is even justified, he's not using others for his own needs, he keeps others at arms length because as soon as someone gets too close, he's done for. He also doesn't seem to be too showy with his work outside of his Ghostface persona, it's even said that he's only written some of the articles on GF (meaning his job in Roseville).

I doubt he's even been in a genuine romantic relationship. He's probably entertained the idea just to keep face or to blend in more because it would be weird for a young guy to not be looking for a girl to settle down with.

Not to mention the exhaustion from getting up early, working a 9-5, then staying up late to stalk/kill, then having to constantly play a character and following a script almost 24/7, while being on alert nearly his whole life. Then then suddenly being thrown into a slower pace environment where he doesn't have to worry about dying or being caught or having to pretend.

I could only imagine the whiplash he had.

Not to mention being labeled the Entity's (basically the god of this realm) golden child and favorite. I wouldn't be surprised if that title also adds stress/pressure.

Sure, he probably enjoyed it for the first hundred or so trials. But eventually everything starts being the same, and it's always the same people each time, and he's only allowed to do so many things in the trials, it eventually gets boring.

He went from taking his time to learn his prey, planning out an extravagant kill to rushing everything and doing things on a whim or following the same script over and over again (check gens, expose people, chase them, hook them, rinse, and repeat).

And we don't know how trials actually work in universe, we don't know if they canonically get breaks or even if the killers get breaks, or if they actually have places to stay in in-between trials, or if they're just overworked with trials back to back to back. We don't know if he is even given a chance to explore things and himself in the realm because he sure as hell never got one in his world.

Tattoos and piercings? Couldn't get them, those are identifiers and he'd stick out, plus it would leave a trail (idk in the 90s, but I had to give up ID to get my tattoo, and certain piercings need ID as well). He would constantly have to change his hairstyle and hair color, along with using makeup to make himself look different (that scar on his forehead is an identifier). He'd be forced to wear clothes that would match his current character's taste, never his own because that would be too consistent. He'd have to change up his way of talking (adding accents, switching up his vocabulary to match the locals, maybe even changing how his voice sounds). Constantly talking about topics he barely knows about because people around him enjoy it, pretending to be in the know to stay in the crowd. The only thing that he knows he enjoys is horror, but even then it doesn't scare him anymore and he only longs for the days when it did (and also probably rock considering his terror radius has some rock elements)

Who is he really? Who knows because he sure as hell doesn't. Maybe even that goofy side is just another facade to make others like him more.

I know a lot of his personality is hidden and not shown because it's supposed to be "it could be anyone" type of thing, but also, that could just play into the fact that he's technically a "nobody". Forever changing and blending in. I doubt even his Ghostface persona is the real him, it's probably just another character in his stories.

#dbd #dead by daylight #danny jed olsen johnson #dbd ghostface #dbd danny johnson #character analysis #he's so babygirl #there could be so much symbolism #and I love symbolism

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plotsignificanthaircut555 · 8 days ago

Text

Mean (Kishibe x Reader)

NASTY SMUT, MDNI, 18+ ONLY

Warnings: BDSM scene please take that seriously if that is not something you are into, see you next time. Slapping, spitting, restraints, TRAMPLING, heels, impact play of multiple forms, puppy play, degradation, name calling, biting, finger sucking, panty sucking, blindfolds, discussions of loss, grief, blood, poor self image. Not safe nor sane but Consensual!

Kishibe craves your cruelty. He needs you to be mean, to hurt him, to treat him the way he knows he deserves. Because what else could a man like him ever deserve?

Kishibe needed you. He needed you when he woke up this morning. When he looked at himself in the shower and saw his bruises had faded to nothing. He paged you as soon as he got into work. The direct one way line, the pager number that was only for you. Kishibe needed you. And he needed you to be mean. Really fucking mean. That’s why he came to you again and again. He trusted you, well—enough, at least with his body, his most expendable resource. It barely belonged to him anymore. It may as well have been as much property of Public Safety as the knives in his holsters, or the uniform he wore. He came to you when he needed to remind himself that the sensations still belonged to him. That he hadn’t become ash, urn entombed government property just yet. Week after week he walked to your place, although office was likely a more correct term for it. He didn’t know where you lived, he didn’t even know your real name. But he knew the walk there, the flickering neon sign above your building, the deep purple lacquered door. He entered the space, the heavy smell of incense and perfume filled his nose, softened his muscles, wiped his mind clear.

“Welcome back, old dog.” Your voice filled the space, despite its softness.

It brought chills to his neck, he had to duck under the door frame and hadn’t quite brought his head back up to look at you. He felt the crack on his cheek from the back of your hand before he caught a glimpse of your face.

“Can’t believe you would show your face back here again.” You spat at him, wet saliva hitting the buzzing reddened skin of his cheek.

He nodded, already feeling his breathing getting slower, harder, wetter. He could feel himself slipping away already.

“Take your shoes and coat off, where the fuck do you think you are? Tracking mud and shit and blood onto my floor.” You hissed again, taking a seat in the upholstered wingback armchair you favored.

Kishibe removed his jacket and hung it near the door, in the hook you kept open for him. He made sure to keep his eyes on the floor as he moved.

“Shoes, too.” he heard the crackle of a freshly lit cigarette and felt his back tense with remembrance, he hurried off his shoes, setting them neatly by your door.

“Stay down.” You instructed, your voice holding smoke.

Kishibe froze in his crouched position, keeping his eyes locked on the pairs of shoes by the door. Your heels clicked toward him, devastatingly needle thin stilettos, black as oil, red bottoms pristine. These heels had never seen a sidewalk or city street, they were solely relegated to inside the walls of your office. The clicks stopped next to him, he could see the immaculate shine of the pointed toe, overhead lantern light warping in their reflection, making oblong amber blooms.

“Hand.”

He hesitated.

“Kishibe put your goddamn hand on the floor.” Your voice was stern, unwavering, and positively filled with hate, “I won't ask again.”

The use of his name made him crumble, he put his left hand on the cool wood floor, spreading his fingers wide. You pressed the front sole of your shoe onto the back of his hand, not yet using the heel. Rolling his knuckles into the floor, feeling each bone in his hand individually, feeling the ligaments shift between bones and skin, the pressure of your foot growing harder. Kishibe clenched his jaw and tried not to let his eyes close, knowing what would come if they fluttered shut. But your pressure, rolling ligaments across the metacarpal muscles, made him hiss, and his eyes squeeze tight. It was precisely then that you drove the point of your heel into the groove of the back of his hand, between his middle and ring fingers. His eyes shot open, looking at the point driving into his skin, threatening to break the skin, break through the fine sinews of muscle, the fragile bones of his hand. He hissed as you stepped harder, his hand strained under your foot, fingers flexing off the floor, begging for mercy. But still you pressed harder, letting your weight drive the spike further into the gaps between his bones, waiting for him to yelp. But he did not, he knew better. He groaned and hissed and writhed, but took it. He gasped when you pulled off, the indention already abbrased and blooming red underneath his fine skin.

You drug your heel down his long middle finger, feeling every groove and valley of the winkles of the skin that encased his fingers. Kishibe turned his face up to you, eyes trailing up your smooth, long legs, he just barely saw the hem of your skirt when he was slapped again, his face recoiling back down to the floor.

“Don’t fucking look at me.” You pressed your heel into the back of his hand once again, right in the center, sharp and precise.

This did make him grunt, not quite a yelp yet, but the surprise and the combined fury of your hand and foot at once making his mouth water and his vision go white. The harder you pressed, the more he was brought onto the floor, his knees slid out from under him, his chest and stomach meeting the floor along with his forehead. He pressed into the wood, as though it would take him and suck him into itself, alleviating the deliciously hot pain searing into his hand. It only made you press further, watching him writhe beneath you. You let up slightly, listening to him draw in a shaky breath. You moved your foot off of him, studying his body now prone on your floor. You caught him then, pressing his hips hard into the floor, trying to find some kind of friction, some kind of press to relieve the erection you knew had been awakened just from his walk over, and grew harder with every step you took. Your silence and lack of movement tipped him off right away, his hips stalled, and he squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating what would come next. But instead of moving right away, you let him sit in anticipation, taking a long, thoughtful drag of your cigarette, watching him fight to keep still. But the ache, the discomfort, was too much, you saw his hips shift again. Full, hard cock begging to be freed from between hard body and harder wood. You crouched next to him.

“You wanna fuck the floor?” You blew smoke out into his face, filling the gap between his neck and floor, he stayed still as he could, eyes fixed on the floor, following your instruction not to look directly at you.

He shook his head.

“Out loud, pleeeeease,” You hissed out the last word, “I can’t hear you when you mumble like that.”

“No.”

“No, what?” You leaned close to his ear, the black piercings mirroring your own face, stretched out and distorted, back to you.

“No, I don’t want to fuck the floor.” He spoke through gritted teeth, both palms on the floor sweating, making it harder to keep a steady grip.

“Hmmm.” You thought for a moment, taking another drag.

You leaned in to him, using your cigarette free hand to guide his chin to face you, “I don’t believe you. And since you want it so bad that you can’t even help yourself, I think I’ll let you. Just this once.”

Kishibe cringed at the humiliating thought, “…please don't make me..”

“Fuck the floor Kishibe. Now.” You stood up.

Kishibe groaned at not being able to see you anymore, he should have looked harder, but he was too distracted, he didn’t appreciate what he had when he had it. He never did. That’s why he was so unhappy in the first place, he could never appreciate a good thing in the moment, only wishing for it to come back after it had been stolen from him.

“Now.” You commanded again, clicking your heel hard on the ground, “while I'm still feeling nice.”

Kishibe steadied his grip on the floor, pushing down the rising feelings inside of him, and pressed his hips into the floor of your entryway. It was a sweet shame, digging his covered cock into the hardwood again and again. Grinding himself against it, wishing it was your pussy instead. Praying that if he did well enough you might let him inside. So he fucked himself into your floor, listening to that nasty voice in his head that reminded him how badly he wanted this. How sick he was for needing this. How far gone he really must be if he craved this treatment over and over again.

You watched him pump his hips into the floor, groaning when his cock would snag or press too hard.

He really could be so sensitive.

“You like that?” You mocked him with a little laugh, inhaling your cigarette’s offerings once more.

“Yes.” He couldn’t help the moan that colored his words.

You only smiled because you knew he couldn’t see you, furrowed brow and tight shut eyes, “say thank you.”

“Thank you.” He nodded, pushing his hips harder, breathless and desperate.

You circled around to his head, listening to the sweet sounds of exertion and humiliation filling your space. He began to fuck faster, his hips moving in a semi circle slide that let him drag the length of his cock along the floor, rather than have it mashed into the hard surface over and over. You slid the point of your toe against where his forehead met the floor, and he lifted his face to you. Eyes big, mouth open and wet and panting.

“Open your mouth,” You pressed into his bottom lip, moving your shoe into his mouth.

He was quick to slide his tongue across the patent leather of the front of your shoe. His dark eyes rolled back, you watched him lick your shoe, his fat tongue flopping out but careful not to touch your skin, staying against the sole and the toe of the heel. You hummed, you had trained him so well. Or you thought you had, until his hips stalled. He let himself become distracted. Too busy tasting your shoe, inching too close to the skin of your foot for your liking.

That wouldn’t do.

You pulled your foot back quickly, letting the heel drag on the floor loudly, letting him know that you caught him.

“No, please, I'm sorry. I’m sorry.” He sputtered out, trying to resume his grinding to show you how good he could be.

You step hard on his hip, killing his momentum, keeping him from moving further.

“Uh-uh.” You pressed harder, letting your full weight press on his lower back, “I gave you an order. And you couldn’t even do that.”

He winced as you stepped up and onto his back, letting your heels drive into his pressure points.

“What kind of soldier can’t take orders? Huh?” you shifted your weight, letting your right foot press harder.

“Agh!”, he cried out, no longer holding his voice behind clenched teeth.

“What kind of dog,” You squatted down over him, moving your center of gravity closer to your feet, to his aching, pin struck back, “doesn't obey its master, huh?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll be good.” Kishibe’s hands were balled fists by his head, the muscles in his back were straining against your weight, making you shift and sway.

He’s begging now, a pathetic, stomach churning sound. You stand, making him wince and whimper again as you step off and back onto the floor. He pants under you for a moment, trying to savor the sweet relief of relentless pressure giving way to trembling, buzzing skin now.

You watch him for a moment, enjoying the sight of a killer of his stature whimpering at your feet, “Stand up, old dog.”

He’s quick to his feet, his inhuman recovery assisting him even now. For the first time since his arrival tonight his full height is on display for you. He really does tower over you, all 195 cm or so giving him a clean head and shoulders above you. But still he cowards before you, keeping his dark eyes turned down, along with his face. There is no killer’s confidence to be seen here, there is only a man. A very damaged man who needs you. He needs your help. He needs to be put in his place by someone, that’s why he comes to you. You hold all the power here, he needs that.

He needs to have someone treat him like every bit of the disgusting dog he is and always has been. He has given everything to killing devils; his body, his youth, his life, innumerable years, all his friendships began and ended within the parameters of devil hunting. There is nothing more to him than that. And that is nothing to hold dear. It's only pain, it's only hurt, it's only blood on his hands and dead friends and loneliness. And rot, then endless, unending rot of his soul and his self.

You studied him as he stood before you, deep, humid breaths leaving his wet, defiled mouth. Your cigarette was far past its end, far past the point of hissing on the filter, fully extinguished. You flicked it at him, it fell at his feet, and you moved back to your chair, crossing your legs in front of him.

“Take your shirt off.” You cocked your head at him, resting it on your fist.

Kishibe undoes his tie, dropping it beside his feet. He begins buttoning his shirt, pain shaking fingers scrambling, rushing down the column of buttons.

“Take a breath.” You ordered.

He does, deep, trying to keep his head on straight.

“Now go.”

He resumes his unbuttoning, hands sturdier, moving one button at a time. He reveals his chest to you slowly, scarred and flushed. You were familiar with the map of his body, the visible muscles that age did not seem to yet touch. The carved abs, the v of his hips, the decades cultivated pectorals. You enjoyed his hard, weathered body. He really was beautiful; the soft, dark hair under his navel leading into his pants, the one nipple ring a memory from another time, the scars on his sides from swipes that just barely reached, and the ones that made it much deeper. You enjoyed inspecting him, and the way he shifted under your gaze. For a man as beautiful as him to be this cautious being admired was curious to you. His shirt joined his tie beside his feet.

“Turn.” you drew out another cigarette and lit it.

He turned for you, letting you look him up and down. Facing away from you, he felt the heat rise in his face. Even in the dim light of your office, and with a body like his, he still felt uncomfortable being studied so closely. You approached him from behind, he heard you click against the floor, and felt you inch toward him. He could feel the heat of your body, the energy radiating off you, the sultry sweet smell of your skin, the sickly stuffy smoke cloud that followed.

“You think you deserve to still be here?” he felt your breath on his neck and shivered.

“Answer me.” You barked at him.

“No.” he answered, turning his face to try and see you.

“Then what the fuck are you still doing standing?” You hit the back of his knee making him kneel, knees thunking to the harder wood in a horrible sound.

The pain shoots up to his hips, but he swallows the agonized groan. The momentum makes his head fall back, finally able to see you fully. You were so beautiful, so vicious, looking at him with so much disgust, so much sickening pity and disgust. He felt his cock twitch at your distain. His mouth fell open, only desire pulling his jaw downward. You grabbed it, holding it hard in your hand.

“You want a kiss?” You cocked your head once more.

He nodded, lips starting to quiver.

You slapped him hard once again, not letting him recoil, catching his cheeks again.

“You think I want to kiss you?” You leaned in to him, keeping his eyes locked on yours, he could see the rotating firelight behind them.

Kishibe’s brows furrowed, he didn’t have an answer. You pressed your body against him, moving a hand down his bare chest, enjoying the peaks and valleys of his chest and stomach. You reach the waistline of his pants, not touching the prominent bulge in the front, but gripping him by the belt. You let him rest his head against your breasts, allowing him to indulge for just a moment. You leaned down to his ear, letting your tongue slide across the shell. He moaned at the feeling, wanting to grip you tighter, wanting to pull you closer, wanting to move you onto your back and take you right there on the floor, to have you entirely at his mercy. His body begs for you. But his mouth stays quiet.

“You think I want your old cock anywhere near me?” You hissed right in his ear between nasty, wet licks.

Kishibe whimpered, his face scrunching in shame and pleasure at once, “..no.”

“That’s right.” You spit on his cheek, “I don’t need your dirty fucking cock. You’re so used up and desperate for it, you’ll come all the way here just to pay someone to touch your nasty shriveled dick.”

Kishibe watches as you move around him to the front, keeling to face him. He feels your saliva drip down his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

“You were made to be used. But you’re not even good for that anymore, are you, huh?”

Kishibe nodded, shying away from your look. He didn’t see when you reeled back and slapped him once again.

“Fucking, answer me.”

“No!” Kishibe stayed turned to the side where your slap had directed his face.

“That’s right, Kishibe. Nobody wants you. These girls you go after, you think they want an old man like you?”

“No.” Kishibe shakes his head, you were giving him exactly what he needed, what he knew.

You grabbed the back of his neck, tilting it back, “No. That’s right. You’re only good enough to take my spit.”

Pulling his head back, his mouth falls open, tongue falling out, reaching for you. You gathered spit in your mouth and shot it right onto his tongue. He draws it into his mouth, savoring the smoke latent flavor, letting the tobacco sting on his tongue. It burned at the taste, his cheek burned from the slap, his hand still stung, echoed in his throbbing back, his knees were growing pained. Every inch of him hummed and simmered with your abuse, your pain. His cock was weeping, precum seeping into the fabric of his pants. His mind felt fuzzy, the whole evening making him feel lost, the room around him dissolving. Every hit reminded him where he was, what he was, and exactly where he deserved to be.

You sucked in more smoke watching him shiver at your taste, his body starting to sway. You brought the cigarette to his lips, making him take a reluctant drag, the smoke covering your taste he had worked so hard for. He whined, his eyes downturned as they met yours, showing you how sad he was to lose it, but he accepted, taking a large puff, mourning the spit he swallowed and the taste that left him.

“Kishibe.” You pulled him from his dizzy, pleasure and pain filled mind, “Kishibe.”

“Mhm.” He made eye contact with you, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears.

“More?” You put a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady.

Kishibe caught his breath, despite its shaking. He looked at you, your neutral face, not gentle but not chiding either. He looked at the shape of your lips, the lipstick atop it, the way your eyes studied him. He nodded.

“Yes?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Yes.” Kishibe nodded.

“Okay.” You nodded, releasing his shoulder, letting him hold himself up again, “Then get on your back.”

Kishibe feels his body electrify, this was what he had been waiting for. He slides his legs forward, laying his back against the floor. He felt something round and metal clunk against the back of his head. He forgot. He slid his body down, eyes tracking you as you moved to the chest of drawers along the opposite side of the room. He watched your body. Its smooth and confident movements, nothing unnecessary and so enticing, hypnotizing him. When you pulled forth the thick leather bands, buckles on either loop he put his hands up, on either side of the floor secured metal ring that sat above him. You turned back to him, grinning wickedly.

“Eager today. You must have done something very bad.” You straddled his lap, just above his hips, above his groaning, aching dick. Sitting prettily on his lower stomach, your skirt hiking up further on your thighs, showing him the soft, plushy flesh of your hips and thighs, not enough to see the cleft of your pussy, the sacred meeting place of your long, torturous legs. But he could feel her warmth, the damp heat that transferred onto his skin.

Kishibe nodded, not shy about how badly he wanted you. He loved you. Closest he had come to loving anything, probably. And he knew you liked it when he showed you how much he wanted you. How good he could be, only for you.

You leaned over his body, not caring about how lucky he was to have your breasts so near to his face. On other occasions you would have made him close his eyes, or blindfolded him, to limit his indulgence, but hell, you could throw your dog a bone now and again. Tits in his face, you looped his wrists into their leather straps, tightening them until you saw the skin pinch and heard him hiss. Bone aside, a tight leash makes for less accidents. The o-ring slotted perfectly into the shackle on your floor, sturdy and unmoving, it was attached to the foundation, even a man as superhumanly strong as Kishibe couldn’t pry up the floor. You had learned this was the only form of restraint that would work on him. After the first session where he ripped two different hooks from your ceiling, you had it installed, all under his billing, obviously. And he looked better on the floor, anyway.

“Pull.” You finished your binding.

He pulled his arms hard, veins emerging from his arms, biceps rounding and straining. Not even a creek. Perfect. Kishibe couldn’t even contain his delight, a sick smile cracking across his face, his scar creating a second, sidelong smile. You let your hands slide down his arms, feeling the skin, the muscle, the joints, the bones, the soft hair of his forearms, the coarser collections under his armpits, feeling your way down to his chest. His breath hitched, his hips jolted upward, but your body above them, pushed him back down.

“So sensitive.” You rolled your eyes at the way his long lashes fluttered as you touched him, at how his nipples perked up as your hands grew close, at the gooseflesh your fingers left in their wake, “So desperate for someone to touch you.”

He nods along with your mocking.

You lean closer forward, letting your hair fall against his face, your chest press against his, letting your body weight press him further and further against the floor, still not letting your hips slip down to meet his.

“You just want someone to touch you, you don’t even care if they're using you.” You let your lips fall towards his, inching closer.

Kishibe’s eyes scan over every inch of your face, praying that this is the time that you won't pull away, “No, I don’t.”

“No.” You shook your head, mirroring him, “you don’t care.”

“No.” he repeats.

You let your lips just barely brush his as you speak, “You’re pathetic.” and pull away just as his chin inches upward to try and close the gap.

He cruses in frustration, an angry, heated cry that makes his voice break. You watch, face unmoving as his arms try to pull at the restraint, almost out of his control, tugging hard, making the skin of his wrists pinch and pull as he does. Your face is stone, unfettered and unfazed by his upset, he so desperately wants to reach for you, to touch you, to kiss you, to be kissed by you, so much time has passed in anticipation he feels dizzy again. He’s been denied too many times. He feels delirious. He feels drunk. He feels high. He feels sick. He needs relief.

“Fuck!” He tried the restraints again, knowing they are immovable, “Yes, fuck, yes, I’m pathetic, I’m sick, I need you to use me. Use me, please, please, fucking use me, please.”

Another hard crack on his scarred cheek shuts his babbling, pleading mouth. You grip his face hard in your fingers.

“You wanna be used?” You bark at him.

Kishibe stays silent, delirium has spread to his brain, no longer to think about anything except your fingers pinching his face. His eyes roll back at the harsh touch, his hips buck up once more, rocking your forward this time. You may have really broken him this time.

“Huh?” You snap again, jerking his face closer to yours, his upper back coming off the floor, arms bending unnaturally behind his head.

“Yes!” Kishibe’s voice may have found him, but his mind, his ego were long gone, “Yes, fuck, please use me. I’m pathetic and disgusting please. Fuck me, baby please. Fuck me, mommy, please.”

Oooooooh, yes. The magic word.

So beautiful in your ears, you nearly cum right then and there, right onto his stomach. Sick fuck would probably love that too. He may even cry in joy, or in envy. His sputtering, breaking voice, begging you, pleading with you to use him. Use him solely for your pleasure, and he can lap at whatever remains. Begging for his mommy to help him. Oh, how perfect.

“Shut the fuck up!” You shout at him, letting his head fall hard back onto the floor, the crack it makes against the wood is no concern of either of you.

You move off his lap, and his begging starts again, even more pathetic somehow. As though he had some untapped miserable pleading reserves locked away that even he didn’t know he could access.

“Please! Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry mommy, I’ll be good. I won't argue anymore, I’m sorry, Please touch me, Please. I’m a dirty dog that doesn't deserve your touch, I know. Please, Please. Pl-” The least please falls from him unfinished as he feels a single tear starting to sting the outside of his eye.

You watch his heaving chest, tension taut stomach buckle at the revelation that he had begun to cry. Crying did not happen easily for Kishibe. It usually took a lot longer than this, and a lot meaner treatment, sometimes hours worth of degradation. Poor bastard must have really had a hell of a day.

Writhing against his restrained arms, he whimpers in defeat, resigning himself to the idea that this very well may be one of those sessions. The sessions where you bring him to an agonizing edge without any release. You round his body to his legs, finding his belt and undoing it. He pants as the tight leather is removed from his hips, even the only mental relief, is still enough to make him moan. You weren’t shy with your nails on his hips, letting them dig angry red lines into his skin as you removed his belt and undo his pants just enough to reveal his wet, buldged underwear.

“Such a fucking mess.” You hiss at him, shaking your head disapprovingly, hoping it will cover the way your mouth waters already, “fucking filithy.”

You don't even get his pants all the way off before you stand over him again. Letting his cock flop out from the zipper of his pants, not caring if the metal teeth bite at his hard, desperate shaft. This would be the quick, desperate, only for your pleasure fuck that he needed. You reach under your skirt and pull your panties off, sliding them down your legs, the black lace bunching as you did so. Kishibe can't stop watching, mouth drooling, getting whiplash from being stripped and now trying his hardest to see even a glimpse of your perfect pussy.

“Yes, use me.--agh fuck-- Use me. Use me. Ple--” You shove your panties into his mouth shutting him up.

“I’m so fucking tired of hearing you talk.” You straddle his stomach again, letting the wetness from your pussy only be felt by the hair on his lower stomach.

He keens back, the sudden drop of your body on him and your hand pushing lace further into his mouth sending him reeling. He can taste your wetness, the way it's collected in the fabric, sunk in and saturated into the dripping lace and cotton. His tongue works over every inch, trying to suck out every last drop of your pussy slick that he can.

Grinding against his body, you let your clit drag along his happy trail, you can feel the heat of his cock against your ass, making sure to remind you that it is ready and waiting for you. Begging, more like. The sweet sting of his hair against you, prickling at your most sensitive organ, the organ of your body used solely for pleasure, its only purpose to feed you, make you feel good. Just like the man under you. Serving no purpose other than to make you cum. You cock your head down at him, watching him struggle to keep his eyes from closing, hard arms struggle against their binds, gasping breaths leave his mouth through flimsy, wet fabric as you inch closer and closer to his quivering pelvis. Without warning, without prep, without fear, you mount him, letting his desperate, already leaking cock inside of you. You feel him slide through your muscles, slip into the tight rings that you know are so covetous.

You don’t penetratively fuck all of your clientele, but Kishibe, oh Kishibe, you can’t deny him anything. He’s too raw, too honest, too damaged. You know it cliche, to want to fix a man who is broken beyond all reason to repair. But you can’t help yourself. Feeling him fill you completely, and then some, his long, thick, angry cock pushing into the deepest, most untapped parts of your body. Short of killing you with his own hands, you two could never be closer. You wondered how the devils and men he killed felt in that final moment. If they could ever comprehend the reality that laid before you now. The man who destroyed their lives writhing beneath a woman like you, begging for comfort, begging for pleasure, begging to be useful.

You sank your hips down completely to meet his, your ass clapping down onto his still clothed legs. Both of you couldn’t help but keen back. The perfect meeting of two. Wet and whole and succulent and slippery and snug and dangerous. The breath in the room was recycled, hot and humid and laced with smoke and spit. You would need a respirator to take a clean breath in a room like this. One rife with sex and thick with yearning as this. When your hips pull away and meet again you both reel back in its decadence, feeling the weight of your previous dance pull you further together. Despite your best efforts to remain detached, you can’t help but paw at his chest, digging not your nails but your fingertips in, feeling his skin, his muscles, his bone, his heart underneath, as though you could pull it outward to feast upon if you wanted. You wonder if he would let you devour him. Only until you remember that he would. He would let you in a moment, in a second, were you to ask him.

You raise your hips again, feeling him exit you to the edge of the head of his cock, before sliding back down, your hands at his chest giving you the leverage to rise and fall completely. WIth this new found leverage you can set a perfect, nasty pace. Driving yourself up and down on him again and again, a brutal, lip gnawing, back arching pace. You are using him, just as he begged so prettily for. Using him for your own pleasure, using him to reach the high you deserved. Putting so much work into his own release, which you recognize was the reason he came back to you, you still deserved your own victory for your efforts.

“Agh--yes, fuck, baby, uhhh” Kishibe couldn’t stop his messy mouth, begging you for kindness, begging you for softness only to be met with your fingers shoving your panties further into his mouth, muffling his pleas.

“Shut up shutupshutup.” You hissed through clenched teeth, moving your hips faster and faster, pushing your fingers in further to his mouth, relishing the feeling of the lace between his tongue and your fingers.

Kishibe’s eyes rolled back, the whites showing themselves to you before they closed completely, resigning himself to the hardwood with a sturdy clunk of his skull. Drooly mouth and flushing chest, helpless beneath you with his arm stuck behind him. His hips can only thrust upward, hoping to meet your messy, sloppy thrusts back down upon him. Rarely does he match your rhythm, his thrusts erratic and unsynced to your own. A reminder that as good as it feels to be joined together, you are not some kind of divine set of missing pieces. You are not destined, nor ordained together, you are simply joined together in circumstance, that any divinity or godliness would abhor. You are doing nothing for the believers of fate or soul mates. Neither one of you would ever be anyone’s soulmate, nor would you find your missing piece in the arms of another. You were both missing things too large, too hearty to be completed simply by the union with another. It wasn’t that simple. Life wasn’t that simple. Nothing was. But you both knew that.

And riding him now, you didn’t know a thing. Except the sweet sting of him stretching you open, the harsh push of his cock head at your g spot, the hissing, nasty roughness of your clit against the tuft of pubic hair at the base of his pelvis. You could only watch the show he was putting on for you, writhing body, sweating face, struggling arms and hands clasping around nothing, wishing they could pull your hips against his, pull you closer, have you tighter, feeling you everywhere. You pulled your top off, letting your pressed, heightened, pushed up tits fall free in his face. Letting them flop openly up and down as you rode him. He let out a disgruntled, restricted noise of yearning. The crack of his throat letting you know just how badly he wanted to feel the bouncy fat of your tits in his palms, against his face, along his tongue.

“You wanna feel, Old dog? Huh” You teased him, feeling yourself up, cupping your tits, pinching your nipples in front of him.

Muffled by your panties in his mouth, grinding his teeth hard enough to rip the flimsy fabric you could barely make out the “mhm” but you could see the feverish, delirious nod.

“Yeah, baby?” You pressed forward, letting your freed chest hang in front of him, putting one hand behind his head.

He spit your panties to the side, tongue reaching for your sweat, soft skin.

You slotted two fingers into his mouth instead, which he was quick to curl his tongue around.

“You’re so fucking dirty.” You reminded him, stealing back your spit soaked fingers and using them to circle your hungry, aching clit.

“I--I I’m gonna..” Kishibe couldn’t take the sight of you, bare before him, touching yourself on top of his cock.

You slapped him hard once more, spit and slick soaked fingers leaving his cheek sticky, “Not yet, don’t you dare cum.” You moved your hips harder, faster, nastier, dirtier.

Of course your hard treatment spills him over completely, filling you, painting your walls white. Spurt after spurt of hot, thick, pent up cum into you. You can feel him twitching inside of you, and even if you couldn’t you can see the way the veins in his neck make themselves known, emerging one after the other in his strain. The way his mouth falls open, into a full capital O, against his wishes, against his better judgement, against his knowledge of what will come after. He simply can't help himself. You’re too tight, too wet, too hot around him. He needs to fill you, he needs to spill himself free. The hour of torment leading up to this moment, the slaps, the floor, the abuse, the disgust, the way you had worked him up so much before even laying your hands on him. He needed you before he even got to the door. He needed you before he even knew you. He needed you before he even knew what he was missing.

“Oh, kishibe…”You shook your head, slowing your hips only slightly, just enough to let him catch his breath.

“I’m sorry, i’m sorry ---agh, i--”Kishibe’s head rocked back, still against the floor, barely able to find new ground to traverse behind him.

But only to just catch his breath, because you sped up once again, not caring for his overstimulation as he panted and pleaded. His chest grew red, the drool from before dried and migrated to his tear ducts, starting to well at your devious, devastating hips. You weren’t done yet, you dropped down on him again and again, circling your clit with a renewed fervor, desperate to join him. Kishibe couldn’t form words anymore, barely able to keep his eyes open, the sight of you too much when combined with the feeling of your trembling walls closing around his cock. The white circle of creamy, hot cum on his cock that peeked back at him every time you rose your hips before slotting them back down. He thought he might die. And of all the devils that had threatened his life thus far, you didn’t scare him in the slightest. He knew death at your touch would be right, maybe just even.

“You think you can cum in me without my say so? Huh?” You smacked one of his thighs hard, making his drooping eyes snap open.

Before he could speak again you pulled off him, sliding your cum leaking, oozing push across his bare chest.

“Huh?” You shouted again.

He shook his head, not willing to risk the words that would only anger you further.

“That’s right. And sense you made the mess. You’ll clean it up.”

That was the last thing he heard before you straddled his face, plopping right down onto his mouth. The positioning wasn’t graceful by any means, your knees were pressing his arms further against the floor hard, painfully so. But his tongue went to work anyway, burrowing itself into your hole, pulling out the globs of sticky spent that he had left there so carelessly. So selfishly. He couldn’t breathe, nose and mouth both covered completely by your pleasure swollen lips. He didn’t deserve to still draw breath.

Your hands pulled at his hair, the natural silver and the bleached strands cording through your fingers, exposing the darkened roots. The dark underneath him. You tugged harder, wanting to guide his hungry tongue up to your clit. But the bastard was too focused on your previous instruction, sucking his load out of you like he could render you completely untouched once more if he just worked hard enough. Realizing your tugging was useless, you rocked your hips against him, feeling the hard bridge of his nose grind against your clit, all while he licked at every inch of your vulva, from cleft of pussy lip down to the tight rim of your asshole. Finally, finally, you were feeling the build to the climax you had worked so hard for. You gasped up into the humid air, your back curving, pushing against his tongue harder. You can just barely hear him groaning underneath you, between hungry slurps.

The moans grow faster, louder, higher, you can’t stop the way your hips ride his face, you can only tug for support at his hair, and hold yourself upright as you finally tip over into your orgasm.

He feels it too, the quivering of your pussy against his tongue, the way your hips can’t move anymore, your thighs shaking against his arms. Even with his ears covered, he can hear the sweet break of your moans, the delicious honey dipped sounds of you in ecstasy. He feels his chest warm with pride, his body relax, his sensitive, over used, abused cock even twitches with interest.

Kishibe still slides his tongue gently under you, cleaning your release in real time. Every swipe of his hot tongue makes your body twitch. The glimmering euphoria falling blissfully away. Letting the dimly lit room around come back into your purview. You cast a look down to the man below you, and see his droopy, exhausted eyes. You stand slowly, Kishibe takes his first full breath in dangerously long, letting his lungs fill completely. Already mourning the loss of your weight above him. He licks his lips clean, letting his eyes close, righting his mind, and letting himself lay in his own bliss for a moment. It’s over, he knows that, so like the last, perfectly constructed bite of any meal, he savours fully.

You stepped away from him, studying his breaths, watching as his lungs and stomach expanded completely without hindrance. He was fine. The bruises would heal in a few days, there would be no lasting damage. He really wanted it harder and harder each time, you were starting to worry it would take a toll on him eventually. You don’t want to truncate his already stolen life. No matter how badly he may want you to. You pull on a robe, soft satin that cools your fevered skin, letting out a sigh at the feeling of your muscles relaxing and growing sore from your exertions. You turn back to Kishibe on the floor, he has not moved, still in his closed-eye bliss, savoring the end of your session. You kneel next to him, sliding your kinds, kindly this time, up his arms and undoing his binds. He moans a bit at your touch, he really is so sensitive. Your fingers are soft over the indentions in his wrists, massaging the angry, reddened skin. He opens his eyes now, starting to sit up and you help him, offering support that is more energetic than it is physical, moving on hand down his back, feeling where your heels had pressed in hard, still not bounced back to smoothness completely. He breathes heavily, the move to sitting making his head spin slightly.

You hold his neck, not pressing hard to guide him, but holding firm to support him were he to topple forward or back.

“Kishibe.” You pose softly.

He hums in response, moving to tuck his flaccid cock back into his pants.

“You’re okay? Does it hurt too much anywhere?”

Kishibe lets out a sigh before looking at you. His wall hasn’t completely gone up yet, his black eyes have not yet become still and unmoving, they are instead unending and fluid, as though they could draw you in further and further, in perpetuity into the universe.

“No, baby. I’m okay.” He gives a small smile, or at least one edge of his mouth does.

“Okay.” You nod, giving a soft smile back, and stand to retrieve the water glasses.

“Got anything stronger?” He raises his eyebrows a bit, but accepts.

“I’ll fill your flask, but drink that first.” You sip your own, happy to see his personality is unbruised.

He sips, watching you as you dig in his coat pocket and find the silver flask he always carries. You look so much softer when you aren’t working on him. You cheeks fuller, your figure plusher, like he could rest on any part of your body and sleep sounder than he had in decades. He wondered what your bed felt like, if it smelled like your perfume, or if it had a scent completely unknown to him, its own atmosphere untouched by clientele, completely your own.

“So, long day today?” You asked, filling his flask with the bottle of whiskey you kept on hand for sessions, but was exclusively reserved for your current company.

Kishibes soothed his thumb over each wrist, sipping the water down again, and hummed in affirmation again.

“Lotta devils, not a lot of hunters, same old story.” He shrugged.

You nodded, you would never know all of the complexities of his work, but you knew enough to count yourself lucky for that. You didn’t want to know the horrors of the place you called home, as long as you knew he was out there watching your block, you considered yourself safe enough. You screwed on the top of the flask, tipping it once to make sure it was sealed. And you poured two glasses over ice, the flask would be for his trip home. You brought it to him, alongside a warm, wet towel. He accepted the drink gratefully, swallowing the last drops of his water before indulging.

“Want me to, or you want to?” You offered him the rag.

“You.” Kishibe put his hand around yours and pressed the rag to his chest, your hand in between.

Your hands together cleaned any lingering bits of filth from his chest, his stomach, his hips, his face. You worked carefully over his cheeks, it’s long scar getting reverent attention. Kishibe let you wash his face yourself, but watched you closely. Feeling his breath return, the aches setting in to his muscles, his joints, his jaw had started to ache, his back would need some time to heal. You ran the damp cloth of his bottom lip, seeing where he had bitten it raw, giving a tender dab of warm water.

“I’m sure the whiskey will keep it clean, huh?” You hoped he would laugh.

He didn’t but he smiled. Kishibe was more focused on how your eyes had changed. Full and big and soft and wet, the sharp analytical gaze that you kept during your session had faded completely. You really were so beautiful. He touched your wrist softly, stilling your hand on his cheek. Your lips part briefly, two sets of eyes meeting. THe collar of your robe has slipped from your shoulder, his chest was still bare. Your hand with the rag falls off his face, landing between your bodies. Kishibe’s other hand cups your soft cheek, running his thumb on the plump skin under your eye.

“May I?” He asks, a secret.

You nod just barely, not wanting to break the line of gaze between you. He leans in, letting his hand round your face to the back of your neck and pull you to meet him. Kishibe kisses you, soft at first. Just lips touching, then pressing enough to feel the teeth held behind. Your hands find his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him, he moves you to the side, one hand holding your back, the other keeping your head in place for him to kiss you again, this time daring to open his mouth, wet tongue sliding against yours, waiting for your say so to progress. You give it, opening your mouth and letting him inside. Your tongues move together, old lovers desperate to meet one another once more. He holds you close against his body, you keep your hands on his shoulders, his neck, wanting to keep him here with you as long as you can. He moves you back to your original seated position, letting his lips break from yours with a soft peck.

You feel butterflies looking at him afterward, even now his kisses still surprise you. How tender he can be, how passionate he is. Kishibe really is unpredictable, you can never quite place what he is thinking. But when he kisses you, you at least know how he feels about you. He kisses you like he loves you, and for that one moment he may. You may love him right back.

“Kishibe, do you want to st---?” You hadn’t thought about the words before you spoke them.

“Same appointment next week?” He interrupts you, his wall has gone back up, you lost him.

You knew better than to ask for more. You were a professional, and you wouldn't lose out on one of your best customers just because of the occasional incredible kiss. This was enough. Having him here, giving him the release and the security he needed, only for an hour or two at a time was enough.

“Of course. Next week, same rate. Page me if you need anything specific.” You nodded.

Kishibe kissed the side of your head, “Sure. Thank you.”

He stood, finding his shirt on the floor and began to dress himself. You sipped your own drink, watching him.

Wow can you believe it, I wrote ANOTHER fic about a big bad killer begin a little freak who wants to be slapped around and dominated. I wont rest until ever brutal anime old man is made into a sniveling, weak bitch. I hope y'all liked this nasty little treat! Back on my kishsibe bullshit. Enjoy, Love Y'all, keep it freaky. --Doodle

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justsomerandomfanfic · 1 year ago

Text

Birthday Surprise - Steve Raglan/William Afton X GN Reader

Title: Birthday Surprise

Steve Raglan/William Afton X GN Reader

Additional Characters: William's ex-wife (Mentioned), Vanessa (Mentioned), and Reader's friends/family/father (Mentioned)

WC: 1,988

Warnings: Mentions of the Reader having a rough/bad day at work, it's the Reader's birthday, friends to lovers?, small reference, very brief mentions of Reader's father's death, banter, cursing, slight/brief suggestiveness, mini angst, and fluff

Turning off the engine, you sighed, immediately shutting your eyes, the back of your head softly hitting the headrest behind you; the only thing keeping you awake was the sound of that one new pop song that was overplayed and that you couldn’t seem to get out of your head.

Today had been a stressful day. Though it was a pretty normal day at work, with what seemed to be an overabundance of customers, none of your coworkers remembered that it was your birthday. But then again, even though you had known them all for a long while at this point, none of them remembered. But you should've known. They didn't remember the previous birthday either. No matter how many times they gave you awkward grins and equally fake apologies, they never seemed to remember the birthdays to come. Along with that, none of your actual real-life friends had called you or messaged you at all, either.

You sighed once more, feeling completely drained, you opened your eyes before grabbing your bag and jacket from the passenger seat. Heading to your front door, you jiggled your key into the lock, twisting the handle, and pushing the door open. You followed your usual routine, tossing your keys in the small clay dish on the door-side table. Toeing off your boots and hanging your jacket, you hung your bag on the hook on the wall. You yawned, covering your mouth with your hand and squinting your eyes as you slid out of the entranceway and into the living room where you stopped dead in your tracks.

There, sitting on your couch, was your longtime friend, William. He was lent back, arms crossed with the TV remote in one of his hands. Glancing up at you, he settled his eyes back on the television screen; he seemed to have been watching some vampire soap opera before he began flipping the channels. You were a bit frozen, the shock of seeing him dwindling; though you could not get over him. His presence still made your heart skip a beat.

You had known William for a long time. Ever since high school. You had been his friend, growing up with him, seeing him get married, and have a kid, before you moved away. It was hard to see the man you had loved fall in love with another, but that was not the main reason you moved away. Three years after college, you had been offered a position in your dream job, in a different state. You accepted and went on your way. You had only moved back seven months ago. Moving into your father's house that he had left in his will after he had passed. You didn't forget about William per se, he just wasn't at the forefront of your mind as frequently anymore, until you moved back.

And though, from the outside, William seemed to not even be bothered by your arrival, internally, he was beginning to feel his heart pound threateningly against his ribcage. Scanning his eyes across the TV screen, he let himself gaze back upon you; pausing his channel shuffling. You still stood, frozen in the entranceway of your living room. It was only fair for you to continue to stare at him with that shocked expression on your face; he hadn't even called or messaged you in any way that he would be stopping by. And though as he stared at you, with your hair all a mess and your form obviously exhausted from a hard day's work, you still looked beautiful.

"Not that I'm not surprised to see you," You began, clearing your throat lightly as you wandered further into your living room, "Uh, but how did you get in?" You asked, giving him a small glance before grabbing the small, forest-green watering can from the top of a small shelf beside the TV stand; pouring the leftover water onto the potted philodendron that sat near the back window near your father's piano.

William only observed you, eyes unblinking and unwavering as he followed your movements as you fed your plant; his head tilting slightly as he did so. "I have the spare... Remember?" He said simply, raising the hand that wasn't holding the TV remote to press the bridge of his gold-rimmed Aviator glasses up the slope of his nose. "I would think you would remember giving me one." He said almost nonchalantly, sighing as he spoke.

"Long day." You spoke, moving to water your Pothos plant that rested sweetly on the windowsill.

William hummed simply, dropping his gaze from you briefly to glance at the TV screen, "Tired?"

You paused briefly at the word 'tired' before blinking, unfreezing, “Tired..?” You repeated, trailing off, as you placed your watering can down on the kitchen counter beside the sink. "I’m not tired…" You cleared your throat, taking a moment before turning around to face him. You wanted to tell him that everything was fine, but you knew that you couldn’t fool him. Rubbing the back of your neck, your body began to warm, if not from how awkward the conversation had become, but possibly from how intensely William was looking - or staring - at you.

You wished that you were used to it. But that was just William. That was just kind of his thing. You had come to understand that he just overanalyzed everything, the gears in his head turning constantly. He really took the time to think before speaking. His intense staring was one of the most prominent examples of this. He only hummed in response as he continued to watch you. His dark brown eyes glimmered in the soft light of your living room and TV as his mouth remained sealed shut. It was a look that you knew well, but you didn't think too much about it.

"Of course..." He answered, though he trailed off, not saying much more. He didn’t believe you.

And before another awkward silence could wash over the both of you, you spoke, "So, uh, why are you here?" You then asked, hoping that he'd give you a straight answer, but also hoping in the back of your mind, that for some miracle, he remembered your birthday. However, that chance was slim. It had been a couple of weeks since you had last spoken to each other.

"I wanted to stop by." He answered after a slight moment, watching as you sat down in your armchair across from him, nearest to the fireplace.

At his response, you frowned, "Well, I wish I would've known that you were stopping by... I would've called off work or at least made dinner." Breathing out deeply from out of your nose, you quickly glanced off to the side, becoming slightly irritated. "God knows that staying home today would've made my life a hell of a lot easier." You muttered out, mostly to yourself as you rubbed your temple with your pointer and middle finger.

Leaning forward, William placed the remote down on the couch cushion beside him, his brown eyes remaining on your figure, "Why do you say that?" He asked, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers interlacing as he placed his chin on top of them.

At that question, you froze momentarily, glancing up at him. If he wasn’t a career counselor, you bet he would’ve been a great therapist or something. And though you were holding back from speaking your true thoughts and feelings mostly, your mouth opened and the words seemed to pour out of you like a waterfall. You didn't know if it was because of your rough day and the need to vent, or if it was because of his presence that you were so desperate to speak aloud. You didn’t want to bombard William with your life’s troubles. But the waterfall began to, well,.. Fall.

"Nothing," You rose from your seat, beginning to pace the small room, "Just work. I mean, none of my coworkers remembered it was my birthday, not even any of my friends back in my old town where I moved after college remembered. I mean, I get it. But it still upsets me. I mean, I just- even just a simple ‘happy birthday’ would’ve been more than enough. I don’t need some extravagant party or gifts.” You huffed, finishing your rant as you crossed your arms. “Not even my family, Will. They didn't call, text, or anything. Not one damn thing."

"Today's your birthday?" William asked, making your heart plummet as your shoulders dropped.

"Yeah..." You muttered, a bit disheartened that not even William remembered your birthday. You paused your pacing, "It is... But it doesn't matter." Sighing deeply, you pressed your hands against your cheeks, shutting your eyes; overwhelmed. You didn't fully expect William to remember your birthday. You thought he would have forgotten it, honestly. But, it never hurt to think that maybe, just maybe he'd remember… Right? You shook your head, rubbing your temples once more as you tried to dispel the thoughts swirling around your head. You couldn't keep dwelling on these feelings. These feelings for William. The fact that you were still crushing on him after all these years, despite everything. It was ridiculous. And it was hopeless. Taking a deep breath, you pulled your lips into a tight frown, opening your eyes as you exhaled softly through your nose. “You were right though…” You breathed out, rubbing your cheek, frustrated. “I am tired.”

Standing, William silently grabbed his tan overcoat from the back of your couch, unknown to you as you began muttering quietly to yourself about dinner possibilities; whether or not you would trouble yourself with making chicken or just a sandwich. Walking over to you, the words quickly died on your tongue as you felt William's calloused hands cup your cheeks softly, lifting them so you had to meet his eye. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched him, his gaze focused solely on your face. In the split second that your eyes met his, his lips came crashing down upon yours. Blinking rapidly, your brain began to register what he was doing, the feeling of his lips on yours. Your eyes fluttered shut as your hands came up to grab ahold of the lapels of his overcoat.

The kiss was deep, instantly making your skin burn and your heart race as his lips moved against yours hungrily - yet slow - passionate; his fingers digging themselves into your lower jaw, pulling you closer to him, deepening the kiss. The feeling of his lips against yours was so intoxicating. You could taste the remnants of coffee lingering between the two of you, mixed with the faint scent of his cologne that seemed to engulf you. The feeling of his strong body pressing against yours caused your stomach to lurch and your heart rate to spike; your breathing grew labored as he broke the kiss, his lips just grazing against yours before his hands left you entirely.

You blinked, dazed and confused as you wobbled slightly from where you stood. Brushing your fingertips against your warm, wet lips, you let out the deepest breath you had ever taken just as your ears picked up the front door shutting. A smile tugged at your lips, quickly overtaking your features as you collapsed in your armchair. You weren’t sure that you had ever been kissed quite like that before. And you weren’t sure if you wanted to be kissed by anyone else again. The butterflies in your stomach were already dancing wildly. Though you were unsure of what that kiss meant - what yours and William’s relationship now meant, that was future you’s issue to figure out. Overall, you were certain that there wasn't a single cell in your entire being that hadn't been affected by the experience.

This was definitely a happy birthday indeed, and quite possibly the best present you had ever received.

---

Main Masterlist | FNAF Masterlist

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peachesvanilla · 2 years ago

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Dancing with a stranger

description: A red string binds soulmates together, it never breaks or cut or dies down. In a world of pure love and hookups, what if your soulmate turns out to be the person you least expected? What if that person is your professor? Amidst desperation and constant reminder of the red string tying them together, will it get its happy ending or ends up in chaos or worst, with a hook up.

pairings: Baekhyun x reader (a surprise pairing if there's gonna be another part)

genres: angst, soulmate au, professor!Baekhyun, student!reader, age gap

warnings: unedited

taglist: @archernarbeta

part-1

I thought pain was getting scolded by my parents till high school, getting low grades till now. Failing in classes, falling behind everyone is the worst thing one can imagine, no, I can imagine. Never once have I thought that waking up one day to find out I won’t ever get my happy ending will feel like the world crashing.

If soulmates aren’t bound to be one then why are they soulmates? Why will there be a red string attached like a dreaded reminder?

Ten year old me dreamt of holding hands with my soulmate after reading the fairy tale and walking into the happy ending just like the two soulmates in the story. Red string wrapping around us, air filled with magic, happiness and love.

Fifteen year old me dreamt of crashing into him and falling into his arms like my parents. Maybe seal the divine meeting with a kiss. Perfect meet. One for the books.

But as imaginative and hopeful one can be, life always throws you off track. Before him every pain I went through falls short. It ain’t even a single scratch compared to getting ignored by him.

“Aren’t you coming to class?” Hyejin asks once again, concern written all over her face. “I know what you are going through but,” she holds my arm, “you can’t abandon everything. You need to pass his course to get into another semester.”

I break away from her touch, sucking in a deep breath. “Yeah. I’ll come.” My voice breaks no matter how hard I try to act strong. It doesn’t matter anymore. He doesn’t care and now I don’t either. Going to the class must get easier now since a month has passed. I can sit in the class, look at him and not feel like dying. I haven’t known him for twenty one years and I can live without him for another forty.

Hyejin perks up from getting a positive response. “Really? For real you are going to come into the class with me?” She holds my hand again, a bounce in her legs. “Thank god, I am so worried seeing you pine on him for weeks. I am happy you are getting back on track.”

I nod and she continues giving pep talk. “He ain’t that..” she trails off scratching her temple, “hotshot for you to waste your time on?”

I snort, who is she kidding? There must be millions of girls ready to give up their soulmates if they can be with him. Even if it’s for only a single day. The girls in his cabin in the pretence of doubts but to just gawk at him some more.

I flip onto my stomach away from Hyejin, blinking my tears away. The red string glows up the brightest it has ever been. I hate you.

—

Fellow students standing outside the classroom gasps beside me, cupping their mouths and eyes shining brighter than the sun. I follow their gaze only to end up shattering all the courage I piled up. Mr.Byun is walking down the hallway, streaks of midday sunlight falling on him through the windows bringing out his fierce features more. Sharp eyes trained straight on the classroom, hair perfectly styled yet his authoritative steps makes a strand fall out onto his forehead.

Hyejin groans and I look down at my shoes, dirt at the edges. We are different. Different age, different world and different perspectives. I can’t do this. I need to go.

Mr.Byun walks past us before I can slip away and reminds us, “class is starting.”

I turn around and leave. Not today. Some other day I’ll be indifferent to everything about him.

The red string around my little finger glows brighter, the string stretching more and more as the distance between us grows further.

I read about the reason behind the sudden glow on the internet after yesterday’s sudden glow. It happens when the other person is thinking about you, not just a mere thought but borderline obsessed.

I stop in my tracks, staring at it. Why? Why does he think about me when he doesn't even pay attention? It’s the second time. If only I can cut it off or tear it off or make it disappear then the pain will be less. There won’t be any hopes rising. His existence won’t hurt as much.

—

“You can’t mop around your entire life!” Hyejin slams my room door open. It hits my wall, rattling the photo frames hung on it. “Do you think you are the only one going through it? Getting rejected by the soulmate is so common that the government had to set up campaigns and promote the benefits of being with soulmates.”

I flip over to my right side covering my duvet till my head. I can’t have another day spent listening to her giving a lecture. I already had enough from my parents.

“God! I can’t with you.” She huffs, dragging my duvet away. “Wake up for fuck’s sake.”

“Language!” My mother screams from the living room.

She bites on her tongue before dropping on top of me. I groan under her weight. “You should consider yourself lucky, what if you went into the relationship and broke it off because he can’t understand your jokes due to the age difference. Who wants an old man anyway?”

“Get off.” I shove her to the side and bury myself deeper into the duvet. “We are destined to be, Hyejin. Do you know what that means? Even if he doesn’t know current trends, he will understand what I am feeling, what I am saying and what I,” I sit up, the duvet falling off my head. “am going through. The pain, the heartbreak, everything, everything. I know he knows what I am feeling now and what I want,” I raise my little finger, “because this doesn’t stop glowing.”

Hyejin's face softens, holding my hand she strokes my palm tenderly. “But baby, I heard it goes two ways. You are thinking about him too aren't you? That might be—”

“No.” I shake her hand off me, “you don’t understand. It's not one way. I know he wants to be with me. If not why would he be waiting till now? He could have hooked up with someone, anyone. He can have girls with a snap of his fingers. But he didn’t.”

Hyejin flinches, averting her eyes away from me. “About that,” she sucks in a deep breath, “this isn’t confirmed but some student claimed that she saw Mr.Byun kissing some woman last saturday.”

“W-wha..” My lips quiver, tears falling down in an endless stream blurring my vision. “I-I do-don’t.. what?”

She holds my palm pressing it firmly. “And,” her eyes soften as she says, “he wants you to meet him tomorrow.”

It’s too much. Everything is hitting me at once. Finding him, rejection, kissing another girl, wanting to meet. What is he really thinking? I close my eyes, sucking in a long breath. Is there any hope? I don’t think there will be any left. What if he meets me tomorrow and finds me attractive even a little, causing him to change his mind? But he is kissing someone else. That isn’t confirmed yet.

I clutch my head, too many thoughts, and yet can’t come to one conclusion. Is he, is he playing with me? What if the rumour is true? It hasn’t been that long and yet he is looking for hookups? Does age play that important role? It’s not like I’m an underage girl.

“You need not have to go.” Hyejin breaks in my train wreck of thoughts, saving me. “You can skip and just bear with him for two more months and we will be done with the semester.”

“I need to think about it.”

“You don’t have to push yourself.” She pats my hair down. “Just move on from him and,” she points her thumb at my computer, “stop searching for soulmate reconciliation stories. Everyone’s different.”

I nod not really listening to her. Should I meet him or not?

—

I pace around the hallway, biting my nails while sneaking anxious glances at the closed cabin door. The cabin area is eerily silent today, amplifying the sound of my heart beat. What if he changed he is not there or worse what if he is occupied with some other girl.

The door to his cabin opens up with a squeak, startling me out of my anxieties. “Come in.” Mr. Byun leaves the door open, not before his eyes run all over my face. Did his eyes turn droopier than they have already been.

He sits on the edge of the table, clasping his hands on his lap. His shoulders sagged, a small smile on his pink lips and bags under his eyes. His entire room smells of a mix of vanilla and something stronger than the delicate vanilla.

“Have a seat.” He pushes the chair beside his legs, patiently waiting for me.

I settle down on the chair, waiting for him to speak. Please be good news. Tell me you are going to be my man. Please. Please, I beg fate with my entire heart in utter desperation.

Mr.Byun gives a painful half smile like he heard my prayers. “How are you doing?”

The unimpressed thin line of his lips, his jumpy attention from me to the door leaves me with scenarios bugging my mind. Why is he constantly looking at the door? Does he want me to leave already? Or is he scared someone might walk in?

The thought alone leaves a sour taste in my mouth, my chest feels stuffy and my heart doesn’t slow down for a second. I clutch the chair handle in hopes of some support will help me in staying still and not lose my sight and ball up.

Mr.Byun frowns at my hand holding the handle, he chews on his lower lip. “Are you okay?”

“Why did you want to meet me, Mr.Byun?” I level my voice, straightening up and faking my confidence. I can’t let him see more of my pathetic state than I already displayed the last few days.

He blinks in surprise, opens his mouth and closes a few times. He sighs, his shoulders slouching and addresses the main reason he called me in for. “I felt like a jerk after treating you harshly when I.. when we…” his eyes fall on his pinky finger, the red string comes to life, to the other end wrapped around mine, “found out.”

His voice falls to a whisper like sharing a secret even the walls shouldn’t hear. My heart tears a little on the edges.

“Only then?” I raise my chin, looking straight in his eyes. “What about now?”

He averts his attention to the wall behind me. “You need to understand me too, kiddo. We are like years apart,” he flails his hands around lost in explanation, “I wasn’t expecting this, more like, you to be my partner.”

My heart tears more and more with every word leaving his mouth.

He gasps realising his true feelings slipped out. “I-I.. didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just read somewhere that fate pairs people who complement each other.”

He slides down from the table, his thigh brushes my arm in the process. My heart tingles at the touch, a wave of calmness spreads across me, my shivering hands pause. I close my eyes feeling the peace even for a second.

I opened my eyes, surprised to see him standing close to me, staring at my hand. He shifts from one leg to another, cupping his mouth with one hand and holding his waist in another. Did he feel the same too?

Will he feel a little different about me now?

Mr.Byun walks away from me, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair. “We don’t complement each other.”

I stare at his back, the tips of his hair poking his neck, the hints of broad shoulders when he flexes his hand, the perfectly tailored suit to his body proportions. No matter how I look at him, he is the one filling every check of the person I imagined my soulmate to be.

“We don’t.” I lied.

He doesn’t say anything and just stands near the door of his cabin. I dip my head, a few tears fall onto my lap. This is the end, isn’t it? He wants to have the last talk and end everything.

“We can’t be together,” his voice is barely a whisper. “We are standing on opposite sides, kiddo, we can’t ever cross our paths.” He turns to me, leaning on the door. “This isn’t meant to be. We aren’t meant to be.”

I nod.

“I hope you find someone with whom you can live happily, without any constraints.” Please stop talking. “You can find love outside too. There are so many who did.”

“That’s for me to decide, Mr.Byun.” I draw the line.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rubs his nape, “yeah. I… wish you happiness. And please attend the classes and submit assignments. Extra credit assignments won’t be of any help anymore considering your score now.”

I nod.

“Do you have anything to say?”

I stared at the side of his neck which became visible from his movements. “Cover your hickeys.”

I pick my bag and march to the door. He gulps. “Move.” I ordered. He does. “Asshole.” Tears cascaded down my cheeks and didn't stop till I reached home.

That night I decided to erase the line I have drawn around me. I sent a text to my friend.

Wanna go clubbing?

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