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hazelfoureyes · 2 months

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The Big Part

Alastor x Virgin FemReader smut

You were dead, it was time to divest yourself of your virginity. When you ask Alastor, he takes to the task immediately. Unfortunately, he seems to enjoy surprising you.

warnings/promises: Alastor x Reader smut, Alastor dislikes getting naked, virginity does not rock, possessive Alastor, head pats, reader is an adult she’s just a nervous idiot bad at words

Horny little deer cult: @frompeach , @chirimeimei , @poppingaround , @polytheatrix , @itsmskeisha , @stygianoir , @celestial-vomit , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @amurtan

minors dni, this isn’t educational in the slightest and is just straight smut

It made sense, at the time. You didn’t want a relationship and you didn’t want to meet a stranger you couldn’t trust, that left very few people to ask. Husk would say no, and probably stop serving you drinks. Angel would most likely agree, but you were a little intimidated by his experience. That left Alastor. While you hadn’t spent much time together, your interactions were always cordial. And plus, this was hell. Isn’t this kind of situation a sinners dream come true?

For most, maybe. But you didn’t know Alastor. Not yet, not really. Everything he did had some ulterior motive. Perhaps nothing he had ever done was simply selfless. If Alastor wasn’t gaining something, Alastor wasn’t interested.

You caught him in the hallway one evening after redemption-oriented activities, deciding to get the moment over with as quickly as possible.

“It’s a favor, little… odd. But you’re the only person I have to ask.” Your eyes darted around his face, down the hall, up the walls, anywhere really but his eyes.

“I’m all ears!” Alastor tapped the microphone to the ground with a satisfying ‘thud’.

Oh— you had rehearsed this but you hadn’t prepared to be staring at that large, toothy grin. It wasn’t unsettling, it was just distracting. Would he be smiling the entire time he… ya know.

“I am,” you steepled your hands, pointing them at him, “a virgin.” You paused, hoping maybe he’d just infer the rest and you could stop talking.

His face was motionless save his eyelids rising up.

“And I don’t want to be. Anymore.” Your lips pursed together. C’mon, Alastor. Figure it out.

Alastor nodded.

You dragged your fingers down your face, “Would you help me with that?”

His head cocked to the side like a golden retriever being handed a book on ancient Egypt. Very nice offer but what exactly do I do with it?

“Help how, precisely?” He finally spoke, tone unchanged from any normal topic of discussion. Alastor watched your face scrunch up, mouth moving around words you abandoned half way through. You weren’t saying anything, just making panicked sounds. “I find annunciation most helpful when wanting to be understood, dear.”

You wanted to somersault out the nearest window. “Alastor will you take my virginity?”

“Take it where?”

You groaned, he laughed, “Just kidding, my dear! All in good fun. So, to be clear, you would like your first sexual experience to be with me?” He pointed the microphone from you to him.

You nodded, “Yes, please.”

His smile seemed to strain. Staring down at you, he tried to understand what your motivation was for this. But as he looked into your big, concerningly innocent eyes, he realized there was none. You really, simply, want him to be the first.

Ooh, as he thought it, he felt his pulse quicken in his lap. The first. A spot no one else could take. For the rest of your afterlife, he would always be the one who was first in you. A delicious thought. He could work with that.

“Are you free now?” He leaned down to your level.

“Oh. I wasn’t-,”

“Expecting immediacy? Perfect, the element of surprise has never failed me before.” His hand wrapped around your waist and drew you in to his chest, there was a rush of cold air over your skin before you felt yourself falling back.

It was soft, the room was dark, save for a small floor lamp in the corner. Your room, you realized.

“I didn’t know you knew my room number.”

“It’s my job to know everything about the hotel.” He said, tossing your shoes behind him. Was this happening now? Right now?

“I can do it, it’s, it’s fine.” You sat up and began undoing your pants. Alastor just standing there, watching. Smiling. Fuck, was it going to be this awkward the entire time? Should you say something? Touch him? You were lifting the hem of your shirt when you realized he was still fully dressed. “Are you going to take off your clothes?”

“Why would I do that?” Head lolled to the side.

You stopped mid-way through unhooking your bra, “Alastor you do know I was asking you to fuck me, right?”

He nodded. Maybe this was a mistake.

After taking off your bra, and finally your panties, you crawled to the top of your bed and drew your knees to your chest. Your feet hid your sex from view. Heart racing, but it wasn’t excitement, as you had anticipated. It was nerves. Would it hurt? Would you make a stupid face? What if he didn’t like the sounds you made? What if you regretted it after?

Alastor got on the bed on his knees, undoing his belt buckle but not his pants. The way he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat. You suddenly remembered he was called the ‘cannibal deer’ as you saw something akin to hunger in his eyes.

“What experience do you have?” His voice was suddenly low, deeper than before. This wasn’t the pun loving radio man you saw prodding the staff.

“I dated. Before. Kissing, um, I don’t know the bases. Groping?” You grimaced, it sounded so formal.

“Have you ever,” he began to slink toward you on his hands and knees, red eyes glowing in the dim light of your room, “been entered?”

Your cheeks burned, your head suddenly swayed as if it was half full of water and someone tipped you over. “Just myself, my,” you lifted your hand.

“Show me.”

All the air left the room, sucked out of your lungs and into his grin.

Uncrossing your feet, you tried to open your thighs without seperating your knees. It didn’t work, but you still managed to get a hand between your legs and to your entrance. You could have cried, you were soaking wet to an embarrassing degree. Your eyes return to Alastor, his gaze never leaving you. Even as you slipped a finger, then two, into yourself. You thought for sure he would want to watch your hands playing with your wet pussy but no, his eyes stayed on your face. Somehow, that was worse.

A shaky sigh escaped, your eyes closing as you tried to focus on relaxing around your digits.

Your head smacked against the headboard when you felt a third finger enter. Not yours. Your eyes flew back open to see him now directly in front of you.

“Two won’t do, dear.” He spun his finger around, pulling slightly at the thin skin of your entrance. “Unless you’d prefer this to hurt?”

You shook your head no, still stinging from the impact you had made. “May I?” His hand took your wrist and removing your fingers. Swiping your wetness from your ass to your clit, he coated his claw-like digits and pushed three back in. They were longer than yours, sharper. You could feel he moved gently, in and out. Your head was heavy, breath short and fast.

He laughed, bringing your consciousness fully back into the room, “Already wanting to change your mind?”

You shook your head side to side, still too embarrassed to speak, and took a grounding breath to help your body accept his fingers. He took his time, sliding in and out of you. His fingers picking up the slick and letting it lubricate your lips. It was so slow, the only pleasure for you was knowing it wasn’t your hand doing it.

But then his stretching of your hole stopped, and he grabbed both of your knees from underneath and pulled you down toward him. Now on your back, legs up and in his hands, you heard his belt slide through the loopholes, his zipper drop. You wanted to look, but you also absolutely did not want to look.

Your knees came together when you felt something hot and round at your entrance. “Ah-ah,” He opened them immediately. He reached for one of your hands, and brought it down to his cock. It was so hard under your fingers, but gave a little when you squeezed. It made him hiss.

“You tell me when to stop, little doe.” He pressed into your opening, pulled back. Pressed in, just barely making it past your lips, pulled back. He kept this pressing and pulling, head making slightly more leeway every time. Your fingers were holding right behind the tip.

“How about this, dear. I’ll just get the head in for now. Manageable!”

“Just— just get the big part in first?” You asked, the pressure at your entrance building with every shallow thrust.

He laughed, nodding as he held both of your knees further apart. When he attempted to get past the curve of his cock’s head, your hands flew down to press against his thigh, pushing back with the intrusion. Alastor stilled, sighed, and pressed his head fully in with a determined thrust. Instinctively, your feet came to his chest and tried to push away from him. It felt like you were being torn down the middle, your body forced apart at your most sensitive junction. He held you still now by the ankles, legs splayed in the air.

It burned where your walls were pushed aside. Stinging where the skin tore slightly just beneath your hole, unable to stretch.

“Breath, sweetheart.” He set your ankles down. “Does it hurt?”

You nodded.

“I’ll stay here for a bit,” he settled on his legs, looking down at where he was connected to you. Your pink little pussy looking positively overwhelmed by his cock. No one has ever been here before, and he could feel it. Your walls were pressing so hard against him his shaft was slightly curved from the force pushing his head out. You still had so much to take, there was so much more of you for him to explore. You tried to calm your breathing but your heart was racking against your sternum.

Hand reaching down again, you let your fingers count little paces from his core to yours. You knew the hardest part was over, but that didn’t bring much comfort as you felt how far you still had to go.

Alastor let his eyes wander away from your not-so-virgin cunt to your face. Your expression was twisted, not pained but clearly uncomfortable.

“How does it feel?” He asked, gesturing to your lap with a nod of his head.

“Full, so full.”

His cackle disheartened you, “Darling I am no where done filling you up.”

You clenched when he said it, earning a small groan from him. You were already too tight, when you spasmed on him it was nearly painful. There was more to do yet, more of you to claim as his. Just the tip of his cock was simply not enough.

His hips started moving again, the folds of his head pulling at the skin of your entrance but not actually crossing the barrier. He was gently rocking, barely making friction between you two. Your hand clawed at his knee, breath hitching. You let an airy moan slip, his head no longer an intrusion but something hot and melty barely rubbing your walls. It started to feel almost good.

Alastor’s cock was throbbing, his shaft touch-starved and desperate for the heat of your cunt. Your face was relaxing now, eyes blinking around new sensations. He wanted to see you experience more, more firsts and frighteningly foreign pleasures. He wanted to see you scared of how good he could make you feel. Alastor wanted you to never feel whole again without him buried balls deep in you.

“Can you take more?” His voice was like gravel, a radio static crackling in.

You met his eyes, glowing still in the dim light, wide and nearly frenzied in their dilation. His smile was practically beaming down at you.

“I don’t know.” You were scared to move forward, even though you wanted more.

“I don’t like liars.” A pop of electricity arcing at the end of his words. You pulled a pillow over your face, trying to hide from the reaction you knew he’d have as his voice made you tighten around him. “Your body says otherwise,” he hissed.

You wanted to say ‘yes’, if this could feel good then how great would all of him feel? But you were scared to vocalize it. Scared to make it start. Alastor lifted the pillow, “I need to see you, dear.” He set it beside his leg, “Do you remember what I said earlier?”

Brow furrowed, you shook your head. His grin widened to his ears as his hands slid down your thighs to your hips and he sank his cock to the hilt.

The element of surprise definitely made the nerves of saying ‘yes’ dissipate, but you were now choking on your breath, hands gripping at the blankets beneath you. Was this normal? Was he too far inside you? You felt nauseous, your guts prodded by Alastor’s member.

“How does it feel now?” He watched your eyes scanning the ceiling for an answer. You felt sure there was no way his head could leave you ever again. It was so snuggly fit in you, you feared you’d be pulled inside out. “Words, dear.”

You sat up on your elbows, sweating from the nerves of it all. “Like there’s a big stick stuck in me.”

“Accurate!” He laughed, and began pulling out. You whined, head dropping back. Almost taking himself out completely, he paused before thrusting back in. The head of his cock dragged against your walls, you could feel him with such detail. Every inch of him leaving impressions behind. Alastor could feel it too, how your soft warmth moved out of his way with every push. How pliable your womb was to his intrusions.

More. You could take more, he was positive of it.

Slowly, your moans began to get louder as the pressure faded into pleasure. Every time he bottomed out, you jumped. Every time he pulled out, you wanted to chase after him with your hips.

Watching your face soften, eyes now watery, Alastor was sure you were relaxed enough. He grabbed the pillow beside him, lifting your ass and sliding it under the small of your back. You didn’t ask, just waited to see what the point was. Dissatisfied, he grabbed another and added it under you.

Your hips were up, ass hanging over the ledge the pillows made, back bent upward. When he began to thrust again, you whinced feeling a new part of you widen for him. “Can you see me?” You looked at him when he said it, but he grabbed your hand and placed it beneath your belly button. When he pushed back in, you could feel his cock beneath your hand. Moving it, you watched your stomach bulge slightly when he was completely sheathed in you.

“Oh fuck-,” your head fell back into the bed, it was too much to feel let alone to watch, “Too deep.”

He hummed an acknowledgement, picking up his pace. “Let me see how you cum.”

Your face was hot, reluctantly bringing your hand to your clit and rubbing.

No, this wasn’t a mistake at all. If anything you regretted not asking sooner.

His thrusts now brought lightning to your core, your finger quickening in speed with the realization of just how good he could feel.

Studying your face still, he adjusted his angle until he saw the muscles in your neck tighten. He knew he found your g-spot, your moans dipping into cries.

“I can’t—,” You couldn’t get over the hump, knowing he was watching you, waiting for you.

“You can”, the lights flickered, his eyes now black with small red pupils illuminating your naked body, “and you will, my dear.” One of his hands stopped pressing finger sized bruises into your hips to instead push your own finger aside. The wide pad of his thumb took over and began thrumming you fast and hard.

That familiar build up of pleasure was stronger than you’d ever felt it, and when it finally snapped your muscles from your thighs to your toes cramped. How long had you been tensing?

You practically sobbed into the crook of your arm, Alastor’s hips slowing but still carrying you through your orgasm. They moved slower and slower, until stopping entirely. His head popped out of you, leaving you feeling hollow. Cold.

Eyes wet and blurry, you looked up at him, “Aren’t you going to finish?”

“If we do everything now, what ‘first’ will we have for tomorrow night? And the night after that?” He smiled, member already hidden away and pants buttoned. Your thighs twitched. “Same time tomorrow, little doe?”

You covered your face with both hands, and nodded.

His big hand came to your head and patted you gently, “Good girl.”

I hope you liked it 🥺 I don’t feel as confident about this one. Fun fact, my first time involved bondage. Very on brand, huh? 💖

༻Masterlist༺

Gonna start calling his dick ‘the element of surprise’. You look tired today! What happened? Oh the element of surprise kept me up all night.

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ryukatters · 5 months

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Thinking about Satoru not letting you leave through the door without kissing him, insisting that you pay the “boyfriend tax.”

You’re late.

Like really, really late.

You’ve decided to pin the blame on your sweet (but annoying) boyfriend who thought it’d be a great idea to turn off all of your morning alarms while you were fast asleep. When you jolted awake, asking what time it was, you were shut down by a heavy arm pinned across your chest, accompanied by a pout that begged you for ‘5 more minutes’ of cuddles. Three times.

Unlike him, you can’t afford to be late— lest you want to be fired. You ignore any and all bargains to quit your job, busying yourself by getting ready for the day as quickly as possible.

You’re practically throwing yourself at your front door before you’re being dragged back by an arm around your waist. You let out a yelp as you’re spun around to face the perpetrator. Satoru merely laughs as you click your teeth in annoyance.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He asks, the grip on your waist tightening as you try to wriggle out of his grasp conspicuously.

“Don’t think so,” you answer hurriedly, trying your best to pry your boyfriend’s hands off of you. “I gotta go, ‘Toru. ‘m already late.”

“Ah-ah,” he tuts, the hands that were innocently on your waist now resting on your ass. “Need to pay your taxes before you leave.” He punctuates his sentence with a rather harsh (albeit playful) slap to your ass.

You roll your eyes, reaching up on your tippy toes, waiting for Satoru to close the distance between you. He takes a different approach all together and lifts you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist.

It’s only then that Satoru brings his lips to meet yours— a medley of sweet kisses followed by more sensual ones that should be considered way too inappropriate to be sharing first thing in the morning.

You pull away first, tapping his shoulder to signal him to do the same. He chases your lips subconsciously as you move back, breaths intermingling.

“Have I paid back all my dues yet?” You ask with a teasing smile.

Satoru returns the smile tenfold. “Nah,” he laughs, setting you back down before he’s helping you put your shoes on. “Don’t think you’ll ever be out of debt, honestly. But it’ll do, for now.”

He charges you one last ‘boyfriend tax’ before letting you walk out the door.

#this is so bad but dkdkekdbne #he’s so annoying #kat’s writing #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo fluff #satoru gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff

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qlossytbh · 12 days

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Ok hear me out, what about a Spencer Reid one shot where the f!reader gets turned on by seeing him with the fbi best and begs him to f*ck her with it on bending her on the desk.

𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭 - 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐛𝐚𝐮!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 reader see’s Spencer in his FBI vest and suddenly begins to grow needy

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 +18 minors dni, established relationship, smut, softdom!spencer (kinda?), sub!reader (kinda?), pinv, praising, praise kink, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), mentions of taking birth control tho

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 2.4k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 JANFKWKKF LOOK AT HIM IM DROOLING this is my first time writing posting smut so whatever, at the end i kind of just gave up cus i wanted to post smt but i hope it’s good enough😭

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You ran your hands through your hair, sighing heavily as your mind fogged up. You flipped through a few files, rubbing your temples and rolling your shoulders back in an attempt to alleviate the unwelcomed stress and tension of the long hours of work. That and the unsettling anxiety of Spencer's case.

You knew today's mission was risky and you couldn't assist the job since you were given strict instructions by your doctor to avoid doing any heavy movement for a bit due to spraining your ankle a few weeks ago on the job. So for now, you were stuck with paperwork and not be able to check if your boyfriend was okay while chasing killers around.

You were not coping well to say the least. It was way past your job hours, and Spencer promised to pick you up by your office, so with only a few people left at headquarters, you were growing nervous with possibilities as to why he wasn't showing up. You stood up from your chair, wincing as your back had been in the same position for over three hours. You bit your nails in contemplation, before deciding on seeking out any information on the status of the team.

However, as you were halfway towards the door, the knob to your office twisted and in walked Morgan with Spencer trailing not far behind him. You let out a deep breath of relief you didn't even know you were holding, panic quickly vanishing, seeing him alive and well and—

—And wearing that goddamn vest again.

You had seen him with it on a few weeks ago and truthfully, it made your head spin. How it snugged his frame perfectly, accentuating his shoulder blades as he stood tall behind Morgan. He was wearing a light blue dressshirt below it and his sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms in a way that left you spinning feverishly. His hair was slightly untamed, brown curls flowing across the bottom of his neck and forehead messily.

Your mouth opened slightly, words vanishing deep within your throat. You looked up, finally bringing yourself to clear your throat.

You walked over to the two of them, patting Morgan on the shoulder and pushing past him towards Spencer. You open your arms and you quickly fell into his, feeling as if a sudden pressure of air was alleviated from your body.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as his found their way around your waist. You breathed in the familiar smell of him, nuzzling your head deep into his neck as his arms tightened forcefully around you.

"Why the hell did you two take so long?" You pushed Spencer away, holding your hand on the firm surface of his chest that was decorated with that stupid FBI vest and scolding the two men with a glare.

The both of them shared a nervous look before Morgan took the fault, admitting lamely. "Flat tire on the way back..”

You groaned, huffing loudly as you pinched the skin between your eyebrows. Of all the reasons, that could've been the stupidest stress factor you've ever had to deal with when it came to these two.

"You could've called me and let me know—" You said, directing your piercing gaze towards Spencer. He realized that not only anger was stretched across your features, but also concern, which is when he felt truly bad for making you worry. But in an attempt to prevent you from getting mad at him, Spencer's hands snaked down swiftly, squeezing at your hips.

"We should've," He pressed a kiss to your temple. "We're sorry."

You rolled your eyes, grumbling lowly "You better be."

Derek clasped his hands together and lowered his shoulder. "Well, that's my cue before hot mama gets all riled up with me too.”

Spencer threw his hair back with a soft groan since he had told Derek not to call you that. You stifled a laugh while Spencer followed Derek's movements towards the door. "I told you not to—"

Morgan had already walked past the two of you, slamming the door to your office and cutting Spencer off. "—call her that."

Spencer glared at the door, hands still on your hips, unconsciously hooking them into the belt loops of your pants. You took a moment to admire him and the way his jaw was clenched, enhancing the sharp shape of it. Your eyes trailed across the bridge of his nose, to the soft narrow of his light eyes, all the way to the barely present purse of his lips. You felt a familiar heat pool in the bottom of your stomach.

It was the stupid vest. Ever since you saw him in it the first time it was impossible to control yourself and to detain yourself from ogling at him.

You reached up, gripping his chin steadily and directing his face towards your own. He followed, allowing you to guide him back to you and did not complain when you pushed your lips onto his own, humming in content.

He sank into your body, pulling you in by the hoops of your pants so that he could feel your body flush against his. As your hands moved down towards his torso, gripping at the sides of his vest firmly, his hands came up to cup your cheeks. He pulled away, hovering over your lips and speaking to you between kisses. "I missed you.."

He pulled away entirely, smiling at you. All you could focus on was how fucking good he looked. Your hands began to tremble with the desperate, almost incontrollable need to pull him in and feel him.

"So did I.." You leaned in, pecking the corner of his lips and then trailing kisses all the way from his cheek, to his jaw, and finally burying your face into his neck, softly nipping at all the familiar places you knew could have him undone in seconds. His hands gave your hips a warning squeeze, which you aimlessly ignored.

"Spence," You mumbled, pulling away and looking up at him.

"Hmm?" He hummed absentmindedly, dazed enough to only focusing on your lips.

"You're wearing that vest," You continued, almost in a warning, hovering over his lips and pecking them softly. He pulled back, furrowing his brows with confusion. When he noticed the familiar darkness in your eyes, realization finally dawned over him.

"Yeah, we needed to wear it for our case today.." He explained as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, voice dropping a sudden octave. He kissed your forehead with a sneaky smile, running his hands slowly and dangerously up and down your sides. You huffed almost inaudibly, feeling yourself grow incredibly frustrated with the man in front of you.

"You're teasing,"

"Am I?" The sound of his voice shot across your spine, causing nothing but heat to pool between your thighs. He placed a firm kiss to your jaw before turning to the door and snapping the lock of it shut. The blinds to your office had been closed beforehand, so now it was just you and Spencer in a dangerously enclosed area with him wearing his aggravatingly stupid vest.

He inched closer to you before swiftly pulling you in by your hips and placing his lips firmly onto yours. Your arms fell over his shoulders as you arched into him, desperately needing absolutely no possible space between your bodies.

With a few staggered steps, your lower back finally hit your desk without breaking your now heated kiss. Spencers lips moved across yours, pushing and inching for more as your hands pulled and grabbed at any part of him, silently begging for more. You could barely think as your pulse was throbbing inside your head and your legs were turning into putty.

Your hand reached behind you, slapping all of the desks contents onto the floor as Spencer lifted you onto the desk. You grabbed his shirts collar and pulled him closer, biting at his lower lip and earning a muffled groan which only caused the list settling at the bottom of your stomach to worsen.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, hooking his lower back with your ankles and pushing his lower half into your own. You could feel how hard he had grown which may or may not have caused you to roughly roll your hips against him, begging for the smallest bit of friction to the relieve the growing pressure. He shuddered, holding your hips still with a firm grip as if the smallest amount of friction would accidentally tip him over edge.

Your lips still fought relentlessly as both of you began to grow restless. Spencer pulled away from you, reaching his hands between you to unbuckle your dark brown dress pants as you planted kisses on his neck that left his breathing uneven and ragged.

He pulled back just enough to reach for the buckle of his vest but you were quick to grip his wrist, lips hovering over his as you breathed. "Don't—"

His body twitched, mind spinning at the sound of the slightest desperation in your voice. The subtle whine in your voice was nearly enough to send him spiraling, already feeling himself going feral.

"Don't take it off.." You reached down, undoing his belt as his mouth attacked your neck, leaving you panting breathlessly and shaking uncontrollably.

“Please,” You swallowed down every moan that itched to leave your body, opting for soft whines, fearing someone might hear, despite the thick walls that surrounded your office. The sweet sounds only drove Spencer to grow more desperate for you.

You and Spencer had been dating for a while, so he knew you were taking birth control and he had been tested a while back.

You hopped off the desk and pulled down at your pants and panties, while Spencer followed suit. There was a mutual hurried pace, both of your movements being hasty and messy, desperately trying to just feel each other. He kissed you feverishly before whispering over your lips.

"Turn around…” He said, delicately guiding your hips around so that the front of your body was facing the desk. You put up no fight, surrendering pathetically as his words worsened the pool that was already gathered between your legs.

His hands remained firmly on your waist, guiding you down so that your chest would lay flat against your desk. Spencer could feel his pulse throbbing and his fingers were beginning to dig too harshly into your hip.

He trailed his fingers across your spine and you squirmed with frustration underneath his grip “Spence, please..”

Your body trembled with anticipation as you ached to feel him inside you. He gave your hips a reassuring squeeze. “So needy..”

He aligned himself, twitching at the feeling of your dripping cunt. As if loosing all control, Spencer pushed himself into you with no warning whatsoever, causing you to clamp your eyes shut as your body shuddered with a wave of pleasure. Your teeth clamped down onto your bicep in order to prevent you from letting out any sounds you’d regret making.

"Fuck—" Spencer groaned, taking a second or two to adjust himself to the newfound tightness. Your body felt ethereal to him, it always had. He pushed your blouse up even more, allowing his hand to travel along your back and grip and squeeze anywhere he could as he began thrusting into you.

You squirmed underneath him, feeling your body shudder with pleasure as he drilled in and out of you. Spencer bent over you, pushing your hair slightly to the side while still maintaining his rhythm and whispering sweetly into your ear. "You look so pretty,"

"—And you feel so good," He planted a soft kiss behind your ear and as he pulled back, his hands tangled into your hair, nagging at it delicately. You let out a soft whine, and each noise you began to make was only a reason for Spencer to move deeper and harder into you.

"Oh—fuck," You moaned into your arm, feeling as the knot in your stomach was starting to tighten.

"My sweet girl," Spencer breathlessly muttered as he pulled at your hair. Your jaw slacked as, moaning repeatedly onto the desk. "That's it—"

Spencer worked with your body so delicately yet with such roughness that you found yourself practically melting beneath him. You had to stop yourself from screaming as Spencer suddenly hit your sweet spot and became closer to falling over the edge with you. With every movement and sound your body made, he found himself growing tighter and more relentless. His rhythm never faltered as he began to chase his climax alongside you.

"G-God Spence, do that again—" Your voice came out in a whine as you pushed your ass deeper against him, arching your back into him. "Shit—"

"Like that?" He asked, voice breathy and low. With every word, every breath, and every noise you made, Spencer felt himself grow tighter as he chased his high. "T-tell me how good this feels..."

"I'm gonna fucking—" You stifled a groan as Spencer relentlessly slammed into you a final time.

Your body shuddered in one final release, moaning desperately as Spencer twitched over you. He pulled you up by the hair, allowing himself to kiss and nip at your neck as both of you chased the remaining of your high. Your body shook underneath his as he covered your mouth, muffling any of your final sounds.

Once his pacing slowed down, he steadied himself against your body, needing to catch his breath. You hissed as he pulled out, not used to the sudden emptiness. As your breathings interlaced, he finally turned you around in his arms. He looked at your flushed face sweetly before pushing the hairs that had matted down onto your forehead with sweat backwards and kissing the tip of your nose.

You gave him a dopey smile, feeling drunk with the ecstasy. You leaned into his familiar touch with a smile and whispered. "You should wear that vest more often."

2K notes · View notes

rafesmuse · 6 months

Text

after dark — r.c.

pairing: ghostface!rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: smut 18+, unprotected sex, dubcon, violence, blood, murder, knife play, mask kink, hair pulling, spanking, cursing, toxic, controlling, manipulative and possessive behaviour, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, creampie, degradation, face slapping, dacryphilia, breeding kink

word count: 4.5k

summary: the bloodlust killer that has been terrorising the town could be closer to you than you might think.

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“Rafe?” you called out to your boyfriend who was attentively watching the TV from beside you on the couch, a deep sense of unease and concern in your voice. “Yeah, baby?” he replied, his eyes still glued to the screen as his warm hand moved to your thigh, giving it a squeeze to let you know that he was listening. “I’m… I’m scared” you murmured with your brows knitted, referring to the news report about a killer being on the loose, terrorising the entire town for weeks now. They played footage taken from a Ring doorbell camera that showed him wearing a black and white mask, identical to the one from the Scream movies to hide his identity, along with a full black outfit.

So far, there has been an estimated five victims, all of them male. Men between the ages of nineteen and twenty-six who are university students were the killer's primary target, it seemed. You were familiar with all of them— you had worked on group projects with a number of these people and even tutored two of them, helping them with subjects that you excelled at to earn some extra cash. To sum up, you saw all of the murdered male students regularly. Fear prickled over your skin as the reporter revealed more shocking details about the murders.

Rafe turned to face you, an empathetic smile swept across his handsome face as he moved closer to you, the palm of his warm hand resting on your cheek as he looked at you with his sparkling blue eyes. “Don’t be scared baby. You know I’ll take care of you, alright? I won’t ever let anything happen to my sweet girl” You fidgeted with your hands and looked down, letting his words sink in. Rafe always took care of you, ensuring that you were happy and healthy— he’d do anything for you. For the first time ever, though, you were unsure if Rafe could truly protect you from a bloodlust killer who has murdered men even bigger, stronger and more athletic than Rafe.

He looked off into the distance, thinking deeply as he released a hesitating breath, “Look, why don’t you stay with me here? Hmm? It’s too dangerous out there for a pretty girl like you. You’ll be safe here, I promise” you met his eyes again and nodded, feeling relieved that you can be with him every minute of the day.

Every minute of the day, that is, unless you were in class, because school life didn’t pause. Why it didn’t was a mystery to you, but the police stated that they had everything under control, which you found hard to believe. It made you feel anxious to be distanced from Rafe during those times. You not only feared for yourself, but for him as well. It became impossible to concentrate in class. Knowing that anyone could become the next victim sent your mind into overdrive. No one was safe.

You took your phone out of your pocket and opened iMessage, scrolling through your conversations before tapping your and Rafe’s. You occasionally glanced up quickly to make sure the teacher wasn't watching you before typing a message.

You: I miss you so much :( Are you okay?

Rafe 💞: Miss you more, my pretty girl. I’m alright, just hanging out with Top.

His words still made you blush, your cheeks heating up as a tiny smile formed on your face before you quickly looked up, checking if anyone saw you texting. The teacher is lost in her own world, going over theories while you see several other students on their phones as well, evidently bored by the contents of the class. You returned your focus to your phone and started typing a new message.

You: Be careful, okay? I’m scared…

Rafe 💞: Baby, I won’t let anything happen to you, got it? You know I have your location on my phone. I will keep an eye on you. Buy yourself some pretty lingerie and I will help you relax when you get home ;)

Rafe Cameron transferred $500 to your bank account.

Your eyes grew wide before you let out a chuckle at how easily he gives you money when you don’t even need it. You hastily typed a ‘thank you’ message and slipped your phone back into your pocket with a giddy smile on your face before the teacher could notice you.

When class finally ended for the day, you felt a wave of relief, especially since John B, one of your friends, offered to walk you home—well, to Rafe's house. You and John B used to be closer, hanging out multiple times a week, but Rafe’s possessive and jealous nature doesn’t allow you to anymore. Even though you don’t hang out with him now, he still checks in on you from time to time, showing you that he still cares about you, which you appreciate a lot. When you first started dating, John B openly expressed his dislike for Rafe. Despite your numerous attempts to convince him that Rafe genuinely does take great care of you, John B couldn’t be convinced. Their animosity towards one another runs too deep.

The two of you were walking side to side as you approached Rafe's street, wandering by large villas with breathtaking front gardens. John B didn't appear in the least bit afraid or worried and you couldn’t understand why. Everyone, including yourself, was terrified, not daring to go outside unless needed. You eyed him with confusion as you were thinking it over, which he seemed to catch on right away. “What? Do I have something on my face?” he asked, a smile appearing on his face as he continued walking. “Are you not scared, John B?” You asked with curiosity. A small chuckle left his mouth before he shook his head, “Scared? Have you seen him? He wears a silly costume from some dumb movie.” It went silent for a while as you were at a loss for words, wondering how someone could not be afraid of a murderer.

John B soon ended the silence before you could go further into the topic, “Hey, remember when we rehearsed for that play? And we had to dance together and you-“ he laughs while holding his stomach, pausing for a moment to collect himself before continuing, “and you fell and ripped your clothes?” You felt your face heat up and an embarrassed smile crossed your lips before you hit him in the arm. Those were the memories you did not want to relive, embarrassing yourself in front of numerous students and staff members. “Oh stop it! First of all, it wasn’t even that funny and secondly, completely your fault, by the way” You responded, defending yourself but unable to hide your laughter.

“It went like this” John B said before he lifted you up and spun you around, causing you to scream and laugh hysterically. “Stop! I-“ you tried to yell at him but you were laughing too hard, your abdominal muscles hurting. You two giggled as he gently set you back down on the ground before you turned your gaze towards Rafe’s house and your face dropped instantly. Rafe was waiting for you, leaning against the doorframe and standing with his arms crossed, a stern expression on his face as he looked at you both.

You swallowed and gathered yourself quickly before putting on a forced smile and turning to face John B. But John B was staring back at Rafe with an equally as intimidating look on his face, so much so that he stopped noticing you. “Thank you for taking me home. I appreciate it” you said, attempting to defuse the tension before moving slowly in Rafe's direction— but both their eyes didn’t leave each other for a second. Every muscle in your body tightened and the tension in the air was apparent.

You walked up to Rafe, ascending the stairs to his enormous home's front door. “H-hi baby, missed you” you spoke as you drew nearer to him, a whiff of his signature cologne filling your nose. You looked back at John B and saw him heading to his own home, thankfully. Rafe rolled his eyes before he turned around and made his way inside the house. As you nervously followed him and silently shut the door behind you, your brows pinched in concern.

“Baby?” you whispered, trailing after Rafe into the house as you watched his back, his muscles prominent through the tight shirt he was wearing. “Are you angry at me?” You asked in a low voice, worried about the answer. He turned around and came up to you, his large hands cupping your face as he stared directly into your eyes. “I could never be angry at you, sweet girl. You’re my everything. Don’t ever forget that, alright?” he said before you nodded, a wave of relief instantly washing over you. He kissed you on the forehead and you closed your eyes to take in the moment, feeling lucky to have such a caring and sweet boyfriend, you thought. But then the night fell.

“Fuck! No, no, no!” A terrible nightmare about the killer had you breathing heavily when you woke up in the middle of the night. You immediately sat up straight, your chest heaving up and down as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes. “Rafe?” You called out, desperate for his comfort and affection.

After a short while, there was still no response. Still feeling a little disoriented, your brows knitted as you attempted to sort through your thoughts. But something felt off. You extended your arm around the bed but there was nothing but pillows next to you. This is when you started to feel a little panicked and horrible thoughts pierced your mind like needles jabbing at your skin. “Rafe?!” you called out again in fear, a little louder this time with still no response. You hastily turned on the light, a perplexed frown appearing on your face. The bed was empty. Rafe was usually a very deep sleeper so waking up in the middle of the night wasn’t anything like him. You pushed the blanket off of yourself and stood up, turning off the light again before carefully leaving the room to investigate the situation.

The only sound you could hear as you wandered around his house was the clock ticking as you made your way to the stairs, slowly walking down. His enormous house was terrifying at night, your trembling, sweaty hand gripping the railing tightly. You gasped at hearing heavy footsteps coming from the kitchen downstairs. Tears started forming in your eyes, afraid that anything had happened to Rafe. Scenarios played in your head of the killer entering the house and taking Rafe, torturing him or even worse, murdering him.

When you got to the bottom of the stairs, you took your time making your way to the kitchen while holding your breath. The footsteps became louder now as you approached the person. You were so scared and worried about what you might find behind the wall that tears were streaming down your face. You approached the kitchen cautiously and peeked inside. It took you a few blinks to get used to the darkness, but you exhaled deeply in relief when you saw Rafe in the kitchen, unharmed. Thank god. You reasoned that he must have gotten hungry or wanted to grab a glass of water. You hurried into the kitchen to hug him tight and take him back into bed immediately.

“Rafe? Baby? I saw you weren’t in bed so I-“ you began, feeling relieved to see your boyfriend standing in front of you before your jaw fell as you stood there, unblinking, trying to process what you were seeing. “Rafe…” You gulped and stared in horror, taking in the black and white mask he was holding in addition to the fresh blood on his body. You blinked a few times, thinking you must be still in a dream, but that wasn’t the case— Rafe was still standing in front of you, equally as shocked before he slowly approached you.

“I can explain” He whispered softly, wary of what to say. His expression showed panic as he hurriedly placed the mask down on the table. “Okay, okay, it’s all good. We got this” he mumbled to himself as he rubbed his temples, letting out a frustrating moan. Fear coursed through your body as you stood there motionless and terrified. “Baby, listen, alright? Sometimes-“ he began, pacing around the kitchen at this point, “Sometimes things just gotta happen. We don’t always have a choice, got that? And- and, I just gotta protect you- gotta protect you from all those bad men who wanna take you away.” Your legs felt weak and all kinds of emotions shot through your body. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t do anything. Your breathing quickened as Rafe continued his ramblings. “I just- I just can’t let that happen, alright? You’re my sweet and innocent girl. I can’t let anyone take you from me, never.”

Your trembling hand moved to your mouth and your eyes grew wide when it finally clicked whose blood it was on Rafe. “Rafe? Is that…” you gulped, secretly hoping you were wrong. “Is that John B’s blood?” he turned around quickly and locked eyes with you. “Baby, you know I didn’t have a choice, okay? I had to do it. I need to protect you, protect you from all the evil in this world” He said, trying his best to convince you. You blinked a few times, tears streaming down your face as you tried to comprehend what had just happened. Everything was difficult for you, your head hurting. But you loved Rafe. He was everything to you. He took care of you. He looked after you. In the end, he was the one who was always there for you no matter what. You needed him. You wiped the tears from your face using your shirt's sleeve and glanced back at him, nodding. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and you could see the relief immediately wash over him.

“But…“ Your heart was pounding out of your chest and your mind was racing with a gazillion thoughts. “But what if anyone saw you?” Taking the mask off the table, Rafe covered his head with it. “That’s what this is for” he said, his voice muffled by the mask. You looked him up and down, examining every inch of him, from the ghostface mask to his blood-covered body, the muscles emphasised by his tight outfit. Fuck. You felt something happening inside of you. It wasn't worry or fear— it was something else. Rafe’s masked head tilted as he stared at you, trying to read your expression.

“Wait a minute…” he began, moving closer, “I know that look” Rafe chuckled and he approached you slowly as you took a step back with each step he took forward before your lower back hit the kitchen counter. His face came closer to yours as your breath hitched. He reached over to the kitchen counter beside you, grabbing the knife from next to you and putting it under your chin to lift your head up. “You dirty fucking slut. I see what’s happening here” His face drew nearer, whispering into your ear, “you’re turned on by this.”

“W-What?” you said, trying to sound confused but you couldn’t deny it, you knew he was right. The pointy end of the knife slightly dug into your skin. Instead of feeling scared, you could feel your core aching for him. “Don’t act stupid. God, you’re even more fucked up in that little head of yours than I thought” Rafe chuckled before he took the knife from under your chin and slipped both hands under your ass, hauling you up quickly and tossing you over his shoulder with ease while holding the knife in his hand. You let out a small squeal before he walked you both towards the bedroom.

“Tonight, I’m gonna have to show you who the fuck you belong to.” Rafe stated in a low voice through his mask, causing you to feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. You felt ashamed, as well as a horrible person. Your skin was stained with blood at this point— John B’s blood. But as much as he was your friend, Rafe was your boyfriend, your caregiver, your everything. And you started to think that maybe… maybe he was right. Maybe you need someone to protect you, to keep the bad men away. Maybe Rafe saw something in John B that you didn’t— in the end, you knew Rafe only ever wanted the best for you. You both loved each other forever and always, and apparently, that went as far as killing for you.

Rafe threw you onto the bed after pushing open the door to his bedroom and shutting it behind him. You slightly bounced on the bed before you turned around, resting on your elbows as you looked at him with big, innocent eyes. He stood in front of you, his arms folded and the moonlight seeping through the cracks of the blinds, illuminating your boyfriend’s menacing demeanour— the blood-stained black and white mask, a knife gripped in his right hand, and the slightly torn black outfit, indicating that John B tried to fight for his life. The only features of your boyfriend’s face visible were his blue eyes, gazing directly at you.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and listen to me, alright?” he said, with a harsh and intimidating tone. You nodded as you swallowed, anticipation raging through your body. He slightly tilted his masked head, thinking about what he was going do with you till an idea struck. He approached you slowly, footsteps heavy due to his boots. His right hand played with the knife, showing that he had plans with it. He leaned over you when he was close enough, then slid the knife under your shirt. Gazing at him with wide eyes, you gasped as he quickly tore apart your clothes, leaving you only in your bra and underwear.

“Prettiest fucking girl I have ever seen. Fuck, I am so lucky.” He now placed the knife under the straps of your bra and sliced it open, then he did the same to your underwear and tossed it aside. You let out a small whine, and he turned to face you immediately. “That… that was my favourite set” You sulked as you gazed at the shredded lingerie set lying on the floor. Rafe simply chuckled before he gripped your face forcefully, turning you to look at him. “Don’t be fucking dumb, you know I can buy you every single lingerie set that you want in the whole fucking world.”

Before you could say anything else, he grabbed your body and turned you around, placing you on your hands and knees with your ass facing him. You were soaking at this point, your wetness dripping onto the mattress. You suddenly felt the cold knife against your core, gathering the wetness as you shivered and tried to remain motionless. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re dripping. You could’ve just told me you had some fucked up kink for killers, you know. Would’ve made it a lot easier for me” Rafe taunted, and you just knew he was smirking under that mask.

“Grip the sheets baby, maybe even bite them if you need to. Dunno how high your pain tolerance is.” he said, causing you to worry for a moment as your hands clutched the sheets under you. “But I guess we’re about to find out.” He slapped your ass swiftly before you felt the sharp knife against the skin of your ass, digging into the flesh. Your eyes closed and your teeth clenched together as you hissed at the sensation.

“R… A…” he began, as he carved his name into your skin. “It- it hurts” you cried out as you gripped the sheets. “Nuh-uh, not done yet. F…” he continued, unaffected by your whines and pleads. “E…” When he was done, he stood back to admire his work of art. “All done. Looks pretty good if I say so myself.” he said with a satisfied tone. Your eyes began to well up with tears as a result of the stinging in your skin. “All fucking mine.” He said before throwing the knife on the ground.

“On your knees in front of me. Now” he ordered, and you didn’t waste a second before you were sitting on your knees on the ground, gazing up at him through your eyelashes. His gloved hand brushed over your face before gripping your chin, “You are nothing but my dirty whore. Got that? My property. And I will kill anyone that gets in the way.” You nodded, feeling desperate for him. He undressed himself, leaving him completely naked except for the mask on his face. You observed him— the muscles on his toned body, the blood splatters, his hard cock leaking precum. You needed him.

“Make yourself useful for once” he growled, before slapping your cheek and causing you to hiss. “Suck.” was all he said as he grabbed a handful of your hair and pulled you towards him. You started by swirling your tongue over the tip and around the length of his shaft, causing him to throw his head back and grunt. He became impatient quickly, as he pushed your head further down, his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Juuust like that, princess, doing so good for me.”You were momentarily taken aback by his sweet words, but you weren’t unfamiliar with his mood swings. You knew what to do to get him to praise you— being a good girl and doing what he says, at all times. You never wanted to disagree with Rafe or reject him. You'd go to any lengths for him.

“Holy fuck” he growled as you continued bobbing your head, saliva running down your face. He had a strong grip on your hair as he fucked your face while you held on to his thighs. He let out a grunt before shoving you off him right before he could cum, sending you stumbling backwards a little. He gestured with his head for you to get back on the bed as he grabbed the knife from the ground. You hurriedly returned to the bed and waited for him on your hands and knees before he positioned himself behind you. He then slapped your ass, making you cry out as the cuts from earlier made it sting even more.

“Aww, does that hurt, princess?” he asked, running a hand over the spot he had just slapped as you nodded, trying to hold back the tears that were starting to well up in your eyes. “But my girl can handle that, right?” he said as he teased your core with his fingers. “My girl can handle anything, as long as she got me.” he unexpectedly slipped a finger into you, causing you to moan out at the feeling. He moved in and out before adding another one, pushing his fingers knuckles deep into you. You arched your back as he curled his fingers and moved them against your g-sport skilfully. Rafe was amazing at fingering, making you squirt and cum countless times. But he quickly pulled out before you could even feel your release nearing, causing you to whine. “I know baby, I know. But I need you to cum around my cock, alright?”

He grabbed your hips and positioned himself at your entrance before he pushed into you in one quick thrust without any warning. You gasped as he buried himself into you balls deep. “Always so fucking tight. Fuuuck” Rafe groaned as he watched his cock disappear into your body. He wasted no time by thrusting in and out of you right away as he stretched you out completely. You felt a hint of pain but it was soon overpowered by pleasure. He set a steady and rough rhythm, massaging your walls perfectly.

“You’re gonna be mine forever, got that? No one will ever get to touch you.” he said as he gripped a handful of your hair and yanked your head towards him. He took the knife from beside him, but you were too cock-drunk to even notice it while your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You unexpectedly felt the icy blade against your throat, causing you to gasp. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.” he whispered into your ear, his voice muffled because of the mask as he continued his brutal thrusts along with the sharp knife against your throat. You felt your release building as your wetness trickled down the sides of your thigh. His cock felt so deep inside of you, hitting your g-spot repeatedly.

“Gonna cum so fucking deep inside of you, sweet girl, you’re gonna be leaking my cum for days.” he growled with one hand firmly gripping your hip and the other holding the knife. “Even better if a baby starts growing in that pretty body of yours, so I can fully claim you as mine.” His words made you even more aroused and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to your release. “I’m c-close” was all you could manage to say as you heard him groan from under the mask.

“Cum for me. Cum all over my cock like the dirty slut you are” his words were enough to push you over the edge as your orgasm washed over you, causing you to see stars and your body to shake. You cried out with your mouth agape as you clenched around his cock. “Good fucking girl”

You could feel his hips stagger and lose rhythm, knowing he was close as well. One last powerful thrust and you could feel his warm cum painting your walls, milking every last drop of his seed inside of you. The grip on your hips tightened, nails digging into your skin as he rode out his high. “Fuck, fuck, fuck” he cursed while panting. You collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. You attempted to get up but rafe quickly stopped you, gazing at you through the mask.

“Oh, we’re not done yet.” he chuckled, before flipping you onto your back and caging you between his arms, “Round two, princess.”

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5K notes · View notes

nanaslutt · 6 months

Note

hear me out.. gojo w a mommy kink

oh em gee nonnie………

i wasn’t sure if you wanted sub or dom gojo but i hope you like what i cooked up :p

pls enjoy<3

contains: fem reader, mommy kink, use of ‘mama’, ‘mama’s’ as well, unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it), coming inside, bully!gojo, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, rough sex, a liiiiitle cervix fucking, squirting, stomach bulge briefly mentioned, begging, whiney!gojo

MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

it honestly started as a joke, maybe less of a joke and more of him testing the waters per say, “yes mommy” he chirped, humor and teasing laced in his tone when you asked him to take out the trash one afternoon

when you didn’t protest against the name, not giving him a usual snarky remark, he turned around to look at you, not expecting to see your blushing face, fidgeting from where you stood in the kitchen, looking embarrassed at the nickname he called you,

unbeknownst to you while you stared at your feet, a smile full of mischievousness was creeping onto gojo’s face, lightbulbs going off in his head

ohhh this is fucking perfect, he thought

he never knew how to bring up that he wanted to try this with you, it’s not like you would’ve taken him seriously anyways, he can picture how the conversation would go vividly in his mind,

but gojo was more than slightly to blame for the frequency in which you dismissed him. satoru was incapable of being serious to save his life

all thanks to his little ‘joke’ you were now currently in this predicament:

gojo’s massive palm shoving the side of your face into the mattress, tears and spit smeared on the sheets below you, other hand braced on your lower back, pushing you into the meanest arch as he fucks right into your gspot,

“you like that mommy?” he cooed, “like when i fuck your pussy like this? huh?” he teased lightly, laughing at the loud whimpers getting knocked out of your lungs each time his hips pulled his thick cock out of you only to bully his angry tip back right into your walls, rubbing you just right,

he was giving you the meanest backshots, feeling even more aroused than normal from not having to hold back this side of him anymore, “asked you a question mama’s,” he repeated, emphasizing his need for your response with a mean thrust,

“y-yeah f-feel ‘s good toru,” you moan out between his deep thrusts, “squeezin me so good mommy, fuuuuck.” he laughs when he feels your cunt start to pulse around him for the fourth time that night, “you gonna cum? you- o-oh fuuck.” words getting cut off at the intense feeling of your cunt gushing your squirt out around him,

“haaaaa, didn’t even warn me that time mama.” he grit his teeth, fucking you through your orgasm with newfound vigor, hand coming down to rub quickly back and forth against you clit, making your juices spray all over the bed underneath you,

“toruuuu, ‘m sensitive g-give me a second p-please.” you manage to stutter out, crying out when he doesn’t let up his assault on your overstimulated cunt, “nooo,” he moans pouting his lip down at you before smiling, “don’t think i wanna,” he finishes, leaning over you, moving his big hand off the side of your face and onto the bed next you you for leverage, other hand coming up to go grip your jaw and smash your lips into his,

he hums against your open mouth as you protest his malicious thrusts, fucking you like he’s trying to poke a hole through your guts. the new angle pushing his impossibly big cock ever deeper, kissing your cervix in painfully pleasurable thrusts,

“feel good mommy? huhhh?” he breathlessly whispers into your mouth, doing most of the work in kissing you as you were too fucked out to put in any effort. his tongue slipping into your mouth, sucking your lip into his and biting it between his teeth as he groans, “you feel me in ur stomach mommy?” he questions with a grin when he sees your shaky hand slide under your body to press against the bulge in your tummy,

“s fucking deep ‘toru p-please,” you begged, not really understanding yourself what you were asking for, but he just nods and hums agreements into your mouth, “m gonna cum inside you now.” he babbles against you lips, losing his sensibility bit by bit the longer he’s inside of you, butterflies flying around in his stomach when he feels your soft pussy clench around him tightly every time he uses the nickname, glad you’re getting off on it as much as he is,

“tell me you need it mommy, tell me- fuck- tell me you want me to fill this p-pretty pussy, need you to say it,” he’s gaping into your drooling mouth. your eyes having trouble staying forward in your eye sockets with how much pleasure you were getting from this,

“give it to me t-toru please, give it to me.” you somehow got out, barely coherent to someone if they were a foot away, luckily for gojo he was pressed against your face, whimpering ‘uhhuh?’’s repeatedly into your mouth, “cum inside mommy,” you slurred out, feeling his sloppy thrusts speed up,

loud echos of your wet cunt filling the room as he stills inside of you, whining and groaning out profanities hearing you call yourself by the nickname he was so insistent on, hips stilling deep inside you, cock feeling like it was inside your womb as he humps his sensitive dick against your ass,

“o-ohmygodd f-fuck meeee.” his whiney voice cries, rotating his hips in circles and simultaneously massaging your gspot while he lets the last spurts of his cum shoot deep inside you,

pushing his torso off of your back and leaning back while he pulls his still hard cock out, seed spilling down the back of your thighs as he spreads you pussy with his thumb to get a better view of it drip out, “fuck mama,” he laughed, biting his lip at the mess he made out of you, “gotta hear you call urself mommy again,” he smirks, pushing his sensitive dick back inside you, making you both gasp, “made me cum so fucking hard.” tipping his head back, breathing heavily as he steadies both his hands on your hips,

“not letting you leave till you have me shooting blanks inside this pussy,” he giggles into the air, you had no idea what you were in for.

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dabisbratz · 3 months

Text

𝑀𝐸𝑅𝐼𝒩𝒢𝒰𝐸 𝒟𝒪𝐿𝐿 — kento nanami x male!reader

himbo!reader , farmer!au , strangers/friends/lovers , meet - cute , inaccurate farming techniques , lawyer!nanami , slow burn , depictions of injury ( minor burns ) , check - ins , dumbification , vaguely implied age gap (~5 years) , hand kink , inexperienced reader , light feminization , blowjobs , anal , mating press , fingering , hand-holding , praise , degradation , slut - calling , dirty talk , spit / drool , under-negotiated kink , aftercare

w.c; ~ 13.8k

sonny says. . . naaamiiii !!! {cry} {cry} mbaby :c can ybelieve s’is mfirst nami fic ?!?! just tbe clear, the reader’s size or height isn’t explicitly stated, but he’s vaguely hinted toward bein/appearin physical stronger than nanami.

‘ Next stop: Sekichiku ’

When he wakes up, Kento expects sunlight peeking through greenery— warm, yellow rays of light that dance and flicker across his eyelids. Warm, yellow beams that caress his cheek like the knuckles of someone tender, the palms of someone sweeter. It’ll overwhelm him at first, so bright and unapologetic as his eyes adjust and focus, but he’ll quickly crash, pupils constricting as the disturbance dwindles. And, suddenly, the star’s saturation will be comforting. It’ll be like a second. Just slower paced, peaceful. He expects the rustle of leaves, connected to strong branches and even stronger roots that dig into deep, rich soil. He expects to roll over in his temporary bed, breathing gently beneath shade, shielding his eyes from the welcoming invasion and blanketing him in a seamless flow of cool air.

When he wakes, Kento expects to hear the chirping of birds. It’s never quite enough to hear them in Tokyo. The strum of wind as it tickles his nose and pushes him forward. The swaying of grass— the smell is still so freshly imprinted in his brain, as it makes his head swim while crystal drops glide across its surface — a coarse underfoot of greenery that prickles the souls of his feet.

Tranquility by his side, urging him to get out of bed, chirping in an excited voice as it tugs on his wrist. He expects solitude, rolling its tangerine eyes and tapping its foot impatiently, “This is the break you’ve waited twenty-seven years for.”

But, instead, he finds himself clutching his chest, his heart beating with an unfamiliar pace that isn’t so calm. His body feels cold, like he’s been submerged in the deepest part of the ocean, unrelenting and ruthless as wave after wave crashes into his ribcage. The static in his ears grows louder and louder, ready to combust and burst his eardrums. Instead of the rustle of leaves, the cruel hustle and bustle of city life storms forward against his chest, shoving him back and forth. Back and forth, to and fro, against his body as his knuckles turn white and his vision starts to spot. Back and forth, as he comes undone.

It’s been so long, he’s not quite sure just how to unwind.

He starts off slow, swallowing air in desperate heaps until his legs relax, spreading toward the cushion arms of his faux-velvet chair. Then he flexes his fingers, draws them into tight fists and releases the digits until the shaking has stopped. Sips his complimentary white-wine with newfound steadiness, and tries not to choke when the intercoms ring,

‘Now approaching: Sekichiku.’

It’s a quaint little village, your district, where everyone knows everyone and the news is always, no matter where you are, city-wide. Stone-clad pavement and moss decalled windows, there’s a small blanket of achroous fog further north of town square. Yet, despite that, there’s an ever growing city of greenery and agriculture. With a small population and himself being the only passenger to unload at the station, it seems to be a lot busier than he’d originally thought. Street-food stalls and vendors, selling freshly baked goods and syrupy, savory sweets. It’s not like Tokyo, no, there’s no rush. No pushing or shoving, no overcrowded lines, no smells of smoke and burnt coal.

In fact, the air is rather crisp— the further his legs take him, the more apparent. No longer are his lungs breathing in the stench of sickness or body odors, no longer is he pushing past the fortunate, just to shove the unfortunate. And, admittedly, it’s a bit of a culture shock— but it’s not unwelcome. Regardless, Kento keeps his suitcase close, pushes it forward, sidestepping polite smiles and local shop owners.

He basks in it. The genuine nature to it all, the healthy glow of the atmosphere despite the steam, the fog, the chill to the air. He considers this a luxury— the closest to a vacation he’ll get, even if he’s technically ‘on the clock.’ Still— he soaks in the sights of hugging trees, of mossy roads and cobblestone streets. The colorful banners that jump with life, the lanterns and yellow-lighting that illuminates the day— he’s sure at night they’re even more wondrous. And, oh, the smells. Not at all like tokyo— there isn’t an overwhelming mixture of perfumes and colognes, no fast-food chains competing through aromatic smells, no heavy scents of tobacco littering the air. It's crisp, it’s ripe.

He almost takes no offense to the collision against his side— nor the screeching sound of surfaces grinding against each other, nor the loud and abrasive cry of the man bumping into him, accompanied by the crack of an apple’s core against the ground.

“Woah,” Warm breaths pan down the base of his neck, even warmer hands wrapping around his bicep with strength Nanami is sure shouldn’t be normal for a typical, everyday civilian. He involuntarily grunts, a deep sound that rumbles in his throat and earns an eager, yet apologetic chuckle. “You alright? Y’almost went flyin’!”

His brows furrow quizzically at that. First— he’s certain it’s the latter who nearly lost an arm and a leg with his tumble. Second, he hadn’t expected such a youthful, bouncy voice from the very stature shadowing acast him. Not even a bit, it doesn’t match the muscle straining through thermal clothing at all, let alone the sheer square feet of area being taken up by one person. Blocking his vision almost completely, standing straight— at an angle— that blocks a stall for fresh produce and flaky, steaming bread. The goods speak for themselves, crusted over in golden brown mountains and cloud-like, moist cross-sections.

Swallowing, Kento nods, eyeing the poorly drawn sign for fresh bread. Drawn in sharpie, the prices are written in big, bold, red letters. Endearing, almost, the curve and loop of each letter and number— the lines of each to-scale doodle of bread. Nothing like Tokyo, not nearly as artificial, not perfectly clean-cut. Not so cookie-cutter. There’s some personality in it, as juvenile as it may be. And it’s a shame, really, how promising the stand looks. Apples that shine a golden shade of red, bread that’s glazed in a sweet, sticky layer of yellow molasses and savory honey. And though he’d love to indulge, Kento has yet to label himself as the type. “Great, thank you.” Is all he says, pulling his suitcase along the perimeter of the stand.

Some other time, then.

The days are long as they are hard. The sun has yet to fully set, and still, the Earth pulls and pulls to weigh it down onto your shoulders. The sky is painted in hues of orange and purple, strokes of tangerine and lavender roaming past your bird's eye view. Your back pops as you stretch, arms tensing against the woven basket of leftover harvest, shiny red fruits aligned with the horizon and reaching toward the tiny glimpse of departing stars.

Where blossoms grow from tiny seeds, and orchids dance in gentle breeze— beds upon beds of farmland and agriculture drape the outskirts of the farmstead. Though the weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up its seasonal chill, and the clouds have begun to dissipate into the sky. . . The well-received proof of your hard work is still something to behold.

“—ome any minute, now,” You’ve heard it all before, your mother gossiping to her farmer-wife friends as she nurses sweet teas and tangerine tiramisu under her calloused, warm hands. You’d been a mere two steps away from where she sits at the open-island kitchen, shoes tipped in the illuminated speckle of celadon clearing just adjacent to the sliding, front, cedarwood door. “Said so, at least. Did you hear. . . ” Windchimes sing in welcome, soft and mellow as the door opens and shuts behind you, socked feet slipping from boots to warm, fuzzy slippers.

“M’back, Mama,” You mumble, half-humming along to the tune of muffled windchimes the further you walk, arms hoisting the overflowing basket up to your chest. A sweet sigh, then pitter-patter of fleece against parquetry, and the discovery of a sweet, cherry-red ladybug walking along your knuckles, leads to the basket securely placed on a free countertop. There’s a quirk of her brow, something of a gentle question— more of a suggestion— not completely committed to keeping two conversations at once. How’d it go?

“No luck sellin’ today,” your voice buds, small and soft as your eyes trail the curves of a particularly large waste of an apple. An evident pout on your lips, then a quiet huff of air.

Farming has been your whole life, really. It’s what you’re best at, good at. Ever since you were young, barely tall enough to push away tall-grass— barely strong enough to pull out weeds, you knew it was yours. Something special, gravel crumbling and breaking beneath heavy, solid boots and rubber tires. The remnants of small, flying rocks, pelting into each other and leaving behind white, gray smoke as your tractor comes to a slow, gradual halt.

“But I met someone new!” That peaks her attention, nothing short of a gasp coming from a pair of lips—identical to your own— and here come the questions. Was he blond? Oh, I knew it! Did he buy anything? Well, why not? Was he tall? Thought so. . . How about handsome? Come on, now. .

“He was . . hmm, pretty.” Is how you’d like to put it, raising a finger to the air in finality. Truth be told you don’t remember much about his appearance— it was more so his demeanor. He’d bumped into you— you think— and yet, there was something so smooth about him. Not even his slicked hair, wavy at the end and curved just right to frame his face and bleed into the bristles of his blond undercut. He’d carried on like it was nothing, still polite, even admired your handiwork on your stall’s banner. A sweet thing of a stranger.

“You’re so easily impressed,” The smile dusting your lips curls into a wee, nasty little frown. That’s just not true. “A good thing, too, you’ll have to like our new neighbor.”

Her voice melting through one ear and out the other like freshly harvested honey has your throat tied into a thick knot, stuck right at the base of your neck and only growing in size. Hands thrumming against the granite countertop, your body leans inward.

“Neighbor?”

“Mm,” She hums, landline trapped between her ear and sweater-clad shoulder. You’re not entirely sure if it’s toward you or her friend, either way, her conversation stays ambiguous. “I heard he’s some fancy lawyer. You think he’s defendin’ the Hasaba girls from last year?”

That’s something to think about. Two little girls who’d been found locked away by some sort of— police officer, was he? Perhaps something more authoritative, and taken into his personal care. You wouldn’t be surprised if it became legalized— you’d only met that man (Suguru Geto, was it?) in passing, but his stature seemed dead-set on protecting those girls.

There’s a muffled gasp on the other line, crackly with static as a finger twirls around the phone’s coiled, mint wire. The rest of the conversation goes unheard, slippered feet carrying you to the large, alcove window that displays just enough equal farmland and neighborhood housing. And, sure enough, as if on cue, it’s not hard to make out the lines and shadows of the ‘ fancy ’ lawyer, his fluid silhouette effortlessly carrying luggage and— what looks to be— a box of books. Documents, perhaps.

“You didn’t— how come you didn’t say nothin’ ?!” Your excitement has you toppling over, limbs every which way as your face presses into the glass window. When you’re stuck in a place where everyone knows everyone, there’s something exhilarating about having a new neighbor. And he knows nothing.

There’s a quiet mumble that roughly translates to: ‘You didn’t ask.’, but it’s filtered out by the sound of your full-footed stomps. You opt to keep your slippers, racing toward the neglected basket, mind completely set. “I’ll be back, Ma!”

The path along your house isn’t dangerous, but it is harsh on bare feet— inured by heavy boots and pick-up trucks.. Still, it goes completely ignored as you carry the heaviest basket of goods you own, anxiety twisting and turning in your stomach— bunny hops into your chest and stomps and stomps and stomps. You’ve carried yourself past the intersection of the cobblestone path, a lot more smooth the closer it gets to the large, usually untouched, rental home. The lights are off— save for the dim, yellow glow of a small porch lamp resting above an unsullied, sleek and wooden rocking-chair. When there’s no one to inhabit the home, it’s always been comforting to look at— but now? .

Cold would be one way to put it. Your feet are cold, your arms are cold, your hands are cold, and you’re stood at his front door— frozen. Scared is another.

Even so, you’ve always been told you’re the ‘bravest boy’ in your whole district. Cry-baby habits and all.

The door opens before you can knock, and all you can register is brown. Brown wallpaper— the beige type, just barely meeting the requirement. Patterned with old, vintage looking floral prints. Brown, sleek wood of a bannister— steps that lead down into the living room, but are visible from the front door. Brown eyes, such a specific shade. When exposed to the light they almost look gray— green?— but as he stands before you, there’s nothing but molten chocolate and burnt honey-candy. A brown leather belt, securing crisp slacks and an equally crisp button up. You expect to see brown loafers, but—

Fuzzy slippers, brown and soft and cute. Little black buttons for eyes, and two floppy, fluffy ears— reminiscent of a bunny.

“Oh. . . Can I help you?” You’ve heard it before, his voice, but it’s even more striking than ever. It’s easy to forget the voice of someone you’d just met, but there’s something so. . distinct about it. He’s got a slight accent, too, something Tokyo-adjacent— you’ve always wanted to visit for longer than the feeble four hours of a busy work-trip.

“Mhm!” Pretty lips spread to their best grin, pulling at your cheeks until the babyfat wells up. “Well, no— um, actually. .” Brown eyes are expectant, but calm and patient as they watch you fumble over your words. Your fingers tremor as the basket is thrusted forward, heat blooming in your cheeks. “These— This is for you!”

“Ah. . .” Pink lips part, cupid’s bow prominent. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of his front door closing with a slight click— right in your face. For a moment all you can do is stare, eyes boring into the dark, chestnut wood of the rustic front door. Staring until it’s gone blurry, eyes bubbling with fresh, unshed tears. And, nearly spilling over like an overflowing faucet, they gather before you can blink them away— fat and thick and embarrassing.

“Um. . I like your sli—slippers.” Fully aware you’re speaking to an unmoving door, you can’t behind yourself to walk back the moss-decalled path home. It’s not so cold anymore, your bones having rung out in the, metaphorical, hot sun until they’ve dried completely and— now it’s warm. Warmth in your nose, stinging as you sniffle and bite down a hiccup.

“Sorry for the wait,” Mahogany shifts, offset by a deep rumble of a voice, smooth like velvet in comparison to the sharp, slow creak of door hinges, “Here.”

Dam rebuilt almost immediately, your body straightens. Him again, this time his eyes trained on what he holds in his hand. Brown and gold like sweet honey and, by God, it’s the most crisp set of yen you’ve ever held in your life. His fingers dance with fluidity you’ve never seen before, counting through each slip until he’s deemed an amount satisfactory— there’s a slight patch of hair on each of his knuckles, an array of veins that cascade into his forearm. His fingertips look a bit rough, but his nails are glossy and clipped. Even his cuticles are pushed back, just enough to look healthy and natural.

“Oh! I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know it’s rude to tip, so I left the exact change,” You blink. Once, twice— again, lips parted like a fish, fresh out of water. Then he’s hoisting the basket from your trembling hands, eyes downcast. “Next time, don’t give out things you worked for, for free,” Right where his eyes dip, his monolid, there’s a small mole— cute and circular, and had you not been studying the curves of his face you wouldn’t have noticed it. “You should wear a coat, too.” And, like a schoolboy, you can’t help the flurry of butterflies catching flight in your stomach.

“Yes, Sir,” Pearly whites biting at the fleshy, pink insides of your cheek have your lips puckered, pensive and sweet as you clutch the money to your chest. “Sorry about earlier— um, if it’s okay, I could help with your boxes?”

He leans forward, careful enough to keep the respective bubble of space between the two of your bodies, glancing at heavy, book-piled boxes labeled ‘N.K.’ The woven basket creaks under the weight of his chest, but it stays in one place nonetheless. “That?” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine, just mail. Must’ve arrived before I did.”

It’s a bit awkward, really. Anticipation nips at your fingertips— you’ve never really had to work so hard to continue a conversation. You’ve never had to think about it either, if the words were coming out correct, if anyone was comfortable with your presence.

“Oh,” You breathe, subconsciously leaning closer. Perhaps it’s a miracle he hasn’t actually shut the door in your face, and— right. Your hands move to wipe away any streaks from your cheeks, a small sniffle ringing in the air. “Sorry f’I bothered you. I live, um, closest to the windmill. Yknow, just up the path from here. . . ?”

You haven’t known him for long, but you just can’t consider him comparable. Maybe it’s your heart speed-running past any other rational thought, maybe it’s the blooming heat in your chest, maybe it’s the shiver of winter trailing down your spine. You find yourself desperately hanging onto his every breath, only ever beaming when he shakes his head.

“Kento Nanami,” Tense shoulders relax with a deep inhale, the sweet smell of chocolate stuffed bread filling his nostrils. All that trepidation washes away, hushed under the breeze of Kento’s slow breaths. “Did you make these yourself?”

The door creaks, quiet and welcoming as Nanami extends an arm, stepping aside. Once his eyes finally settle on you they harden, just for a moment, as if he’s finally noticed the pull of your eyes— the crystalline seam tightlined around your waterline, the bright red strain of veins peeking behind your lids. Still, he says nothing, until you’ve introduce yourself with watery tremors.

“It’s cold, and you came all this way without a jacket?” Your eyes trace the vapor floating into the air as he sighs, irises dancing along the edge of your bare forearms. “Come in.”

Your muscles straighten up under his gaze, rippling until rigid as you eagerly nod, “Y’don’t think we could share some of that bread, d’you?”

The best time to farm, you’ve learned, is just after sunrise. The sun rests her head on grassy hills, still groggy and not quite awake yet, herself. But you are, suited up in your boots and overalls, not a single lantern in hand. That’s the first plus, natural lighting of the rising sun. The sweet, dim bath of light that paints the path from your home to your plantation in molten gold.

Then there’s Kento. You’d think he never sleeps, but you’ve seen it. Ritualistic, in a way. For the last two weeks, you’ve watched him go about his day. See, the window of your bedroom leads straight into his study, where he prefers a dimly lit lamp over the bright fluorescents. It’s almost hard to tell when he comes and goes, seeing as whenever you look, there he is. Sat in a swiveling chair and hunched over his desk, writing something in a notepad and skimming through— what looks to be— more documents on his computer.

You can only tell he’s going to bed once there’s a sigh, a pinch to the bridge of his nose before smoothing out his eyebrows, then the discarding of silver-frame, rectangular reading glasses. The lamp stays on, as if he knows he’ll be back in less than seven sleeping hours— which you think, for him, translates to roughly thirty minutes.

And, though he can’t see you, you always make an extra effort to wave up at his study, just before starting up your tractor.

You never expected him to wave back. You never expect his eyes to trail from your face to your supplies. And you, most certainly, never expect him to join you. Two thermal mugs in hand as he makes it over the small hill from his home to your own, past the thorn bushes and vacant tangerine trees. Hot chocolate— piping and rich, it coats your tongue in its sweetness and splashes against your lips with comforting warmth.

“Mm!” You hum, blowing through the small gap between the thermos and its sealed lid. You’d assumed your scarf, wrapped snug around your neck, would do the trick— keep you warm enough — but this seems to actually hit the spot. Sticky accents from remnants of unmelted marshmallows, its fluff clings to the corner of your lips. And Kento, nursing his own mug— though it contains tea— looks up to watch you grin, shards of tiny sugar crystals clinging to your pouty bottom lip.

“Hold still,” all but purring, his thumb swipes at your lip, wipes away the stickiness until they’ve parted— breathless. His eyebrows furrow with concentration, as if it’s a practiced habit, absentmindedly licking his thumb clean with one smooth, quick dart of his tongue.

“Sweet.”

Your breath circulates into the air, a swirl of white that dispels almost immediately. Your thoughts are cut short, breath stuck in your throat, eyes wide and glazed over with astonishment. “It’s— huh?”

“Sweet,” he chimes, lips curling around each letter. He’s beside himself, nearly forgetting who he is until the clear of his throat and a resigned grumble. “I can’t fathom how you manage to drink. . . radioactive waste from a cup.”

His humor is dry— something you have to think over for a moment before smiling against the lid of your cup. Kento notes how you smile— with your whole body— eyes closed tight and teeth on display, shoulders bunched and your stride much more bouncy. He tries not to smile when you giggle, hiding the lower half of your face behind the piping mug as your shoulders brush against his own. With each step the closer you get— to both the blond and your truck.

“It’s good,” Your voice lifts at the end of the statement, feigning offense as you lick your lips. Soft tongue against soft lips, Nanami partly wonders if you naturally taste as sweet as your preference for drinks. “M’not bein’ mean about yours!”

“I'm not being mean,” He corrects, a silent apology laced in his tone— just in case — and your knowing gaze lifts from his cup to his eyes, blazing bright and beautiful. He basks in your attention for a moment, like the gentle rays of a sun-swept island. Had this really been a vacation— no carry-on cases— he would’ve considered booking a flight to Malaysia.

First, he’s buckling you into your seat— it seems you’d forgotten, then he’s reminding you to put on your gloves, despite having bare hands of his own.

“You do this for a living,” is his justification, though you deemed it more a reason for him to wear the protective gear. “You wear them.”

And, now, he’s listening intently as you explain the mild inconvenience that is the technicalities that come with farming. He learns of your affinity to animals. Your slight, biased preference for gardening. The way your nose wrinkles when you think too hard, and the way you often forget what you were saying as you say it.

Though the scenery outside the passenger seat window is beautiful— valleys of faded green and brown, a light fog dusting the air. The symphony of crickets and cicadas, and of course, the sunset making its round up the horizon, teetering along the age of the Earth as it paints each and every blade of grass in its light.

He helps you out of the car as if you haven’t done it yourself a million times, careful not to spill your drink in his other hand. He’s awfully tender, too, his thumb absentmindedly circling the glove-clad skin of your knuckles as your hand squeezes his own. The door slams shut, and he doesn’t miss your expression twist as you whisper a small ‘oops, sorry!’ to your precious truck before unloading supplies.

Kento can’t name a thing— he’s out of his depths, here, but he helps anyway. He carries it down the never-ending row of cabbage and radish, watches his step despite nearly dismantling at least three dozen budding vegetables simultaneously. And you don’t yell at him once, instead offering words of sweet encouragement until you’ve found the place to start, dropping your assortment of tools and buckets.

“M’kay, ‘Nami,” He watches you drop to a crouch, warmth blooming in the apples of his cheeks. It’s not just the suggestive position, nor the way your pretty eyes look up at him from there— but it’s how sweet you say his name. . going as far as to give him a nickname, too.

Still, it manifests through the twitch of his eye, which you don’t catch onto, as he kneels alongside you.

“‘Nami—”

“No. It’s pronounced Nanami.” He interjects, his grip tight along the base of unsavory, frostbitten weeds— at least, that’s what he sees you doing anyway. Almost too tight, heavy and thick hands flexing, you can see the bend of his knuckles as his fingers dig into the roots.

“Na,”And, the smell of dirt, it’s so strong, the earthy undertones invade your nostrils and have no intent on stopping. . . “—na,” Raw, natural. His palms press in at the sides, thumbs stroking at the soil as he feels around for growing stems. For a moment it’s silent, save for the crackling radio beside you. Your pretty lips part, and sweetly, you’ve sounded out his name. “—mi.”

A puff of air leaves his lips, a scoff of a chuckle, and he’s giving a slight nod, quietly whispering the syllables of your name in acknowledgment. “Mhm?”

He doesn’t miss the way your lips split into a wide grin, weeds absentmindedly disregarded for a moment as you giggle, “I already knew that— I just said it!”

“Mm,” He agrees, though he’s not entirely sure you did. Then his heavy fingers tap your wrist— gentle, barely even a tap, but it gets you back on track— picking up the dead weeds. Kento watches, your hands gingerly plucking them free from the root, mastered and effortless.

Your fingertips dig into the soil, palms sticky and damp, littered with defrosting grass along each ridge and defining line. There’s so much care in your fingertips, and with every successful pull your eyes ignite. Like a cute, overgrown puppy. “Good. You’re a smart boy.”

“Y’think m’smart?” And, though your shoulders bunch up— a bit more bashful, you’re shaking your head. “I mean— I knew that already, too,” and it washes away as fast as it arrives, replaced with genuine exuberance. “I tell m’self everyday!”

The blond catches it anyway, gaze unwavering, even as your own struggles to keep contact. Nanami’s eyes are remarkably intimidating despite belonging to someone who’s positioned so utterly relaxed. . Crouching just as you are, but with smooth shoulders and lax biceps. Still, they’re visible through the silk fabric of his button-up, but he seems used to it. Tufts of blonde hair, slightly unruly and disheveled— swept back with gel, yet still set off in a flurry of gold by the back of his head, as if he’d rolled around in bed and decided to lounge about instead of retouching it.

Cozy.

“I do,” The sun dawns down through thick, gray clouds, framing his bronze locks— and with his lips slightly parted and his skin picking up a peachy glow, he looks almost seraphic. “What were you saying?”

“Um,” You pause to rethink through the last hour, warmth blowing past your cheeks as a particularly nippy gust of wind rushes by. “. . We sell ‘em, the weeds! That won’t be for a few days, sometimes we keep ‘em for cookin’, but . . . these aren’t any good.”

“Too many?” He asks, as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s learned in his vacation here, by far, despite having learned that just a few days ago.

“Too many!” Pretty lips part into a wide grin, and perhaps that’s the conclusion to Kento’s sightseeing.

౨ৎ

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to.

With your black on black attire— a large, knitted sweater, a black bomber atop it, dark jeans to match, a hand-woven gray scarf wrapped around your neck, and white sneakers that carry a cream-colored accent in its threading— it’s hard to keep his mouth shut.

“Where are we going?” Is his first question— but there’s so much more he means to ask. Since when do you dress so nicely? Do your parents know you spent extra farm money on those shoes? Is it bad to feel the urge to hold you closer, just so no one gets any ideas?

Nonetheless, checking the silver-plated Rolex along his wrist with the slight tussle of his lapel-collared trench coat, just before popping open the passenger’s seat of your truck, he ignores the growing thought.

“You’re always locked up in your house,” Twisting your keychain covered keys into the ignition, the truck starts up with a gradual rumble. You’ve figured something was wrong with the oil for quite some time now, but it’s never been enough to start any problems. “Don’t y’wanna have fun?”

That doesn’t entirely answer his question, nor does it ease his mind— a vacation this is, yes. But it’s also paid, and he’s technically on the clock whilst being here. Still, he nods just once, the clench of his jaw apparent in the faint valleys of muscle just below his ear. Though, he supposes he could say the same about you. Every day you wake up, harvest, water crops, feed your animals, clean out troths and shovel up feces. He’s not even entirely sure if that’s your idea of fun— but he hopes not.

Kento doesn’t expect you to be such a great driver. Smooth turns and a gentle ride— even with cobblestone streets and gravel trails. You get carried away when you talk, too, hands moving about and your gaze trailing to his eyes every few seconds. He has to remind you— “Don’t take your hands off the wheel,” “Don’t look at me, look at the road,” — but Kento would be lying if he said it weren’t endearing.

It’s almost like you can barely function without basking in his presence.

“If it were warmer,” You swallow, finally stopping to catch your breath after the last fifteen minutes of rambling. The car slows down to a halt, an overhead traffic-light flashing a bright, crisp shade of red. “We could’ve went apple-pickin’ . . . or even oranges!”

You take the time to fully face him, eyes trailing up his dark trousers and gray turtleneck— it bunches at his chest, and you’re sure without his trench coat it’d be just as strained around his biceps.

“What do you do when it’s cold?” He muses, ducking his head to watch the passing of trees and inner city shops.

“Hm?” You hum, but before he can repeat the question you beat him to it. “Uh, we have this lake— it’s the first to freeze over when it’s cold. . ” So quaint, his eyes gloss over pedestrians as they live amongst themselves. Walking their dogs, sharing a drink at an outdoor bar, couples huddled close together for warmth. The sidewalks are clean and clear, there’s a polite, happy bounce to everyone’s step. Fairy lights blink in every other window, casting a sweet, bright hue along the streets below it. Kento understands it all, despite it being much more. . comfortable. . than Sendai. “And, when it’s completely frozen, we skate on it!”

It feels like home. A gentler, cozier version of it.

“I’m sorry—” The blond clears his throat as he turns to actually look at you, having fully processed your words. “Skating?”

“Are y’scared?” Nanami tries to ignore the burning of his throat when you laugh at his silence— a pretty, featherlight thing of a giggle that only progressively makes it harder for him to catch his breath.

“No,” He grumbles. He’s actually done it before— his younger, studying ‘coworkers’ had a knack for dragging him around outside of work hours— and he wasn’t free from it, even in winter. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobora, perhaps the three only people who could have him willingly risking a fractured disc.

“Don’t be scared, ‘Nami!” The car turns into a short trail, decalled in various signs and brightly colored symbols. “I can help you, m‘kay?”

Four people.

He nods anyway, save you the meltdown, and lets you drag him out the car once you’ve found a good place to park. He’d think it was illegal had there not been a sign for it, let alone communal skates in varying sizes. They’re in good condition, too. A small wooden bench— decorated with moss along its sides, he brushed his fingertips against it by accident— keeps him steady, but when he looks over to you, you’re already walking around with untied skates.

“Come here,” He beckons, voice soft and fond as he quirks a finger in your direction. He watches you fumble, nearly tripping over your own legs as opposed to your laces, but you make it over to him anyway, thigh against thigh. You brace yourself when he pulls your legs over his lap, shifts in his seat and tightens them just enough— “It’s not hurting you, is it?”— to fit comfortably.

“Thank you, ‘Nami,” He can hear the sincerity in your voice— as if he’d saved your life. Your breath pans across his face, warm and minty as you shake your head, “Doesn’t hurt. . .”

He offers a gentle pat to your knees once you’re fully set, softly dropping them back down as he leans to tie his own. It’s a quick process— not as tedious as the knotted up, tattered ones back home— a much more nice change of pace.

The ice, though, is considerably worse. He surmises it’s because it’s relatively untouched— if the whole village of Sekichiku had done two laps over it still wouldn’t have been enough to leave a noticeable dent in the ice— so his skates have nowhere to grip. You, though. . .

You’re much more graceful on ice than on land. A slow turn here, a quick twirl there, you could skate laps around him if you so choose. But you don’t, instead holding onto his wrists as he stiffly skates forward. Kento’s nose is nipped with pink, matching the particular shade of his lips as they part in concentration. The shade dispels down his cheeks, and you’ve never seen his face so. . . soft.

“Say, ‘Nami?” You huff, holding his wrists as you move in a slow, clockwise circle, turning you both. “When’re you leavin’?”

The truth bubbles in his throat, tougher to swallow than he’d originally thought it’d be. He clears his throat, avoids the question, and instead of freeing his wrists altogether, he holds your hand. You’re pouting when you slowly swivel to his side, his heart somersaulting almost painfully at the cute, wee frown to your lips. “Hey,” you whine, caught off guard but still pleasantly surprised, squeezing your palms against his own. “What’re you doin’?”

You’ve always been undeniably sweet. Kento thinks back to your basket of goods. The sweet, savory, aromatic flavors of bread, meats, cheeses, chocolates. How you have it to him so sweetly, no questions asked. There’s no ulterior motive to your demeanor, either. It’s peculiar to have someone so. . dependable. Someone to easily lean on, someone so— hospitable.

You’re perfect.

“I've never—“ He pauses, watching smoke dispel form your lips. An intimate position, he’s in— close enough to hear your breaths, holding on tight enough to feel your pulse through your fingertips. “Noone has ever done this for me. Thank you.”

“What, take you skatin’?”

“Support me unconditionally.” He pulls away before you can say anything in response, relishing in the thought of your pulse speeding against his knuckles as he stiffly skates back toward regular land.

The ride home is smooth, but quiet. And once you get there, hunger overrides your hospitality.

You like Kento’s rental— its kitchen is spacious and just big enough to support the mess of pots and pans that come with baking. It’s warm and inviting, the stove works great and the oven even better. Its heat burns a little brighter, but nothing you can’t handle.

Pain au chocolat — chocolatine — and meringue cookies; they’re a pain in Kento’s ass. Not even something he’d try to attempt without you there— he’s happy to watch you whisk away and laugh at his disgruntled faces. A “taste-tester”, you’d called him, scooping one sugary accessory after another onto the pad of your fingertip and asking him to try.

You weren’t lying. You really do know how to bake— flour dusted skin and all. Twisting raw dough into pretty sculptures of bows and braids, scored surfaces of x’s and o’s, light layers of warm butter that seep into soft, risen dough. And when it bakes, oh, how sweet the smell of aromatic bread is to Nanami’s stomach.

Studying the contours of a pretty face— baby fat rounding your cheeks as they pool into a sweet smile, pearly whites displayed brighter than the moonlight leaking through the floral curtains. Your laughter is wholehearted, hands gripping the hem of Nanami’s fleece shirt, body tipping toward his chest as your giggles dispel into the warm, brown-sugar baked air. For a moment he mentally swoons, something of a comforting coo, eyelids heavy and blanketed with the same baking powder littering your handsome face. He relishes the warmth, which leaves just as fast as it arrives, and suddenly you’re reaching into the oven without your cute, fluffy puppy-patterned mittens protecting your hands.

“Wait,” His tone is harsher than intended, solid and thick, and you— the sweet, softheaded boy that you are, don’t entirely deserve the worried look on your face that melts into sharp, hot pain.

“Ouch!” Your elbow smacks into Nanami’s calf as you flinch, fingertips raw and numb— still pulsing from the fresh burn. The man crouches down, knee to ceramic, palm to your warm shoulder, and suddenly your wide eyes are glittering and gleaming. Had the smile from your face not been growing, he’d have been appalled. “‘Nami, did you see that?!”

“Silly boy,” He sucks his teeth, pulling your clasped hands from your chest. Gingerly, he plucks out each finger one by one, runs the pad of his thumb along the burn sites. “You have to be more gentle with yourself.”

And, as if he’d declared to destroy your favorite equipment, your shoulders deflate. Hazel watches as tears well in your eyes in real time— with award winning speed, really— glassy and wet and oh, you’re so cute. It was just a small reminder, nothing too harsh— it could barely be considered scolding. Yet here you are, sniffling and averting your gaze. Eyes glossed over while your fingers instinctively curl over his own for comfort. Then a small, petulant, “M’sorry, ‘Nami.”

“None of that,” Soothing, it's gentle and soft as his thumb travels along the numb pads of your fingertips. And though it was already a faint sensation, you can tell his touches are deliberately featherlight and calculated, cautious. “Nothing to cry about.”

“I’m not crying,” You grumble, though his ears register the sound as a wet sniffle as you rub at your cheek with the back of your free hand. “I don’t do that.”

“Of course not,” The breathy lilt tongue voice gives it all away, a tiny smile dotting the man’s lips. They’re entirely too enticing, a sweet shade of pink that dispels into the milky tan of his skin. Sheen and glazed with what could be spit, your lips part to mirror the same smile. Though yours is larger, his isn’t any less exuberant— luring you in one centimeter at a time until, inevitably, his breath ghosts along the expanse of your jaw— you can almost taste him.

His voice breaks through the thickened silence, “But it’s okay if you do.”

The next two hours should go by just fine.

౨ৎ

“What does ‘default-judgment’ mean?”

Floorboards creak beneath Kento’s feet, dimly lit ambient lighting placed around the office keeps it lit just enough to see ever so clearly— a small lamp angled above an open file, then the remaining trickle of light cascading over photos. Labeled, dated, clipped, and shipped to his front door just a couple weeks ago. Soon to be released, relinquished, deadlined.

His hair drips with cold water, tiny drops dripping down to the floor while others slither down his neck, and pool where his back dips, just slightly. He doesn’t tense when he sees you— his muscles remain just as relaxed as they were in the shower— and his eyes barely widen past the tired, lidded expression that paints his face every night, before he gets his studying done. But you—

You’re the opposite. Your shoulders raise to your ears, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare at the towel wrapped around his thick, slightly hairy forearm— it’s navy blue, with a brown, horizontal stripe across its fabric, and embroidered letters you can’t quite make out. An intelligible sound, then an unexplainable expression, and— there you are, tripping over your own tongue as your hands shoot to cover your eyes. Only unclothed from the waist up, Kento can’t help the amusement blooming in his chest.

“It’s a deduction based on a defendant’s failure to answer. . or appear, in some cases, to a lawsuit or court.” Nanami’s eyes trace the part of your lips behind your palm as your brain processes (though, he doesn’t think that’d be the correct word for it) his words. They purse, quickly, tight lined, until parting again— once more, with less confidence. With each step he takes (long strides that make him appear as if he’s almost floating) he grows closer, strands of freshly washed angel hair sticking to his forehead.

“. S. . ure!” You smile and nod in faux understanding, fingers curling toward the dip of your hairline, eyes peeking through cracked fingers. From there, beneath your palms, an uncomfortable warmth blossoms from your throat up, settling in your cheeks and sprinkling across your nose— sweltering and tingly.

Kento tuts, a soft noise, and you watch as he inhales a deep breath, pine eyes perusing through the space between your fingers for eye contact. “. . . Don’t worry about all that.” And, as if he can feel the high voltages slamming against your heart, his tongue darts out to moisturize his lips, and his eyes fall to your chest. He sits aslant to you, legs spread wide with the occasional sway of his knee— but nothing too sudden. You’re made all too aware of his half-naked proximity, purportedly close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating through the room— to smell the sweet undertones of vanilla, musk, and earl gray tea residing in his skin. In a low rumble he speaks, pulling lotion free from the drawer to your left. “Silver lining is: I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Even as he leans forward, closer and closer, he doesn’t cage you in— even if your chest aches at the loss.

Your heart demands the conversation die after that. Beating so rapidly you assume it’s stopped, silence freezes the air as your hands slowly drop to your lap. Lips pulled with woe, darling eyes low and sodden in an instant. Shoulders dropped just enough to sound a sharp creak in the swiveling chair you’re sat in, your lashes clump with fresh, unshed tears. And, in a lapse moment of murkiness, Kento’s lips twitch into a frown of their own.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, as if afraid your response will confirm it— he’s what’s wrong. His choice of words— wrong. Thin brows furrowed, the dip of his chin has his lips ghosting your cheek.

“. . . Nothin’.” It’s worse. He’d expected tears— maybe even an exchange of fiery words— but instead you’ve shut down, hands balled up in the fabric of your flowy pants, denim bunched up and draped over your thighs. Completely silent, staring at nothing and everything— all in between— all at once.

“Nothing?” He echoes, a silent suggestion for more. The rumble in your ear is almost too much, for a moment you assume you’d conjured it up with your imagination. Too close, too bare, too blunt, too warm— too fleeting.

“Mhm,” When your gaze meets, his heart plummets to his stomach. “Nothin’.” Words rush to his tongue before they can catch up to his brain, and. . you look so . . sad. He’s never seen you so defected— nor had he thought the concept of giving up existed for you. So headstrong, determined to make things work, gears always shifting into overdrive when you can’t make something out. You’ve gone as far as to create your own definition— this isn’t you.

“It’s. . . inevitable,” Kento’s voice softens, dropping to a quiet whisper between just the two of you. “But not for a while,” Then shifts his weight back, pulling away as he speaks in some sick sort of oxymoron, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will.” Grumbling, you’ve always been an open-book.

“Not forever.”

“. . . Ever,” You grunt, choosing to ignore the stern quirk of his thin brow. You’re a bit of a brat— Kento sees that now— behind the pouty lips and soft eyes, behind the large smiles and intimidating prowess. “When are you goin’?”

Nanami treads carefully, fingers wrapped around the closed bottle of lotion. With a snap it clicks open, and a generous amount is pumped into his palms. The smell is neutral and muted, but clean and fresh.

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to. An unexplainable feeling, adjacent to panic, rises in his stomach as he lies, “Six weeks, at least.”

“Nami…” Ignoring the deadline he’d just given you, you ask, “D’you like your job?”

You watch his posture relax, as if the previous conversation was just as emotionally taxing as it was for you, for him. He sighs, pauses to think for a mere second, then shrugs. “I like its structure.”

“Oh.”

“I like helping people, too.” He adds, much more sincere. Your eyes trail the lotion as it’s rubbed into his biceps, his shoulders, his forearms. His fingers flex and muscles ripple, skin bouncing beneath his fingertips, and light traces of hair at his knuckles raising.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on his veiny hands. You suppose, in a way, your jobs are similar. You, too, help people out— you provide fresh food and crops, you herd cattle and brush the hair of healthy horses. A very hands-on job— it’s rewarding. “Me too. I— I like helping too. And. . .”

His fingers twitch, almost as if they can feel your gaze, but Kento makes no effort to move them.

Six weeks. Time is fleeting.

“I—” With trembling hands you lean forward, clasping Kento’s smooth knuckles against your palm. He’s just as warm as he looks, skin soft and sheen. His fingers flicker in your hold, straining as they tense— silently, asking, ‘what?’ as an increasingly overwhelming urge to keep Kento close washes over you.

It’s moments like these you’d wish you were better with words. To weave them together into something pretty, like a basket made for carrying fresh harvest. To pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Some that sound soulful and genuine, yet effortless and forthwith at the same time.

Moments like these, where your breath is stuck in your throat and with every rise and fall of his chest you think you’ve lost some more— he’s taken it all from you— you wish you knew just what to say, to do, to bring that air back.

To have him melt at your words the way you do at his actions, to have him feel the same exact thing when your heart clenches in your chest like a rag that’s been wrung out to dry. Without trying, without straining. You wish you were smarter— better at this, as you lean so far from the chair it begins to squeak in protest.

You’re sure there’s better people in Tokyo. With better educational backgrounds, with cleaner jobs. People who have it all together, who have different skills and assets— who don’t stick to one thing simply because they have a natural born talent for it. People who are prettier, more handsome— perhaps more his type. People who have aligning career goals and paths— more accomplishments.

Sweeter, kinder. With softer hands and an easier understanding of city life.

People who are better with words. Who can weave them together into something pretty, like a closed case with no loose ends or dead leads. Who can pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Who can make their confessions sound soulful and genuine, effortless and forthwith at the same time. All within the heart of Tokyo.

People who aren’t you.

Nanami stands, shuffling over to fix the documents you’d ruined— of course you did— but his face hasn’t changed from his usual tight-lipped expression. Sometimes it’s hard to read him, and it’s times like these you really wish you could.

“I like you,‘Nami.” You whisper to yourself, quietly pouring your heart out with each spoken letter.

And, with a snap, your world goes crumbling down. Increasingly silent, the world stops as you hit the floor and Kento’s chest stills— the soft, quiet beat of his breaths gone quiet, as if it were a mere memory to begin with. The backing of his swiveling chair falls with you, right to the floor, clattering much louder than the sound of your tense body, and—

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I think you have the wrong idea.” His voice is strained. Uncomfortable.

You’ve never felt more humiliated.

౨ৎ

Despite your humiliating attempt to hold onto it, time flies by. Locked away in your room— your only source of comfort being an occasional knock on the door from your mother and the weight of your blanket as it remains overhead. You’ve counted the seconds— tripped over your thoughts after reaching 1,633– started over again. You’ve listened to the pitter-patter of rain against your windowsill, peeked out from your cocoon to bet on a race between the raindrops.

You’ve thought about Kento, of course. So much it plagued you, made your chest uncomfortably tight— until all you could do was let out a humiliated groan all over again. It’s a timeless cycle, and yet, it grows closer to his leaving date.

You haven’t spared a glance toward the actual outside, even when your window overlooks his own study. You’re sure everything’s out of sorts now— weeds overtaking the farm, plants dried out or overwatered, any blooming vegetation snipped at the bud before it could bloom. Tough luck, they’ll get over it.

And, God, has your family tried. Through gentle words and offers of food, through soft praises that fell on deaf ears. Through frustration, too, anger laced in the sweetest yell of ‘where’d my smart boy go?’

Your eyelids feel heavy and thick. No longer swollen with tears or bloodshot with dejection— just heavy, simply tired. Sleep is all you’ve done these days, yet it feels like your body can’t get enough. Fifteen hours a day leave you straining for more, three hours a day leave you exhausted. You can barely remember when you last left your bed— for the bathroom, never for a drink— and even when your frown deepens as you think about it, you can’t bring yourself to fix it.

You can’t bring yourself to fix anything as of late, if it can even be fixed.

You were stupid for thinking he’d feel the same, anyway. A man like ‘Nami— a man like Nanami— so smart and so distinguished. So. . opposite of you, to think you’d fall anywhere near the same line as him. . is laughable, really. Even more so when you consider his upbringing. He doesn’t mention it much, and you try not to pry, but you consider his lifestyle quite traditional and cookie-cutter. You hadn’t even asked if he liked men.

“I think you have the wrong idea.”

His rejection physically pains you, a quiet sniffle and suppressed whine straining your vocal cords. Your nails dig into the fleshy, cushiony part of your palm. You can hear the pitch of his voice — rumbling and deep, you hear the shakiness of his breath—so deeply uncomfortable, cold with disgust. “I think you have the wrong idea.”

A knock to your door startles you awake, eyes wide open as your cocooned body flops around in bed. Still, you barely make an effort to respond, dry lips parting to form a garbled groan.

“Your. . . friend was at the door,” It’s your mother’s voice, but softer and pleading. For a moment your heart twists, eyebrows pinched as you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth— you can’t remember the last time you’d seen her face without slamming a door in it. “Looked tired, so I gave him some coffee. . .”

A bitter, disconcerting ‘so?’ nearly leaves your mouth— something so unlike your usual self, it makes you want to borrow deeper into your sheets and never leave. Shame. She doesn’t expect you to crack the door open. You shake your head, even if she can’t see you, only breaking your stubborn resolve when knocks once more, and slowly, you scuttle around the mess of your bedroom to unlock the door. Your eyes carry dark circles and heavy bags as your gaze pierces straight through her. Then, a shaky breath and barely audible whisper, “. . . S’it Nanami?”

Her aged smile is soft and thoughtful as she leans into the doorframe— something you haven’t seen in a while, and your eyes prickle with warm tears once more. “Between you ‘n me, you’re in much better shape.”

Cracking a smile nearly takes all your energy from you.

You don’t bother changing from your pajamas— they’ve always been so baggy to support the muscle you’ve grown over years of lifting heavy produce and working with truckloads— and now you’re grateful for it. Something to hide behind if you need it, and your fingers subconsciously curl into the fabric of your long sleeves for comfort. Once you get downstairs the two of you depart, and a gentle rub to your shoulder blades is all your mother offers before finding solitude on her own, just a few rooms away if you need her.

And— she was wrong. Of course, he looks tired. You can see it in his shoulders— they’re all wound up and tense, like they’d been when you first met. Sure, his jaw is tightened and you can hear the grind of his teeth against one another despite keeping your distance— but he still seems put together, albeit lacking his usual combover or corporate style of clothing.

It hurts to know he does well without you, as selfish as it may sound.

“Hi,” You mumble, rubbing at your face with the palm of your hand. Your voice crackles with disuse, rumbling and garbled in your throat. “Nanami. .”

“Hi,” He echoes, your name heavy on his tongue as he stands, leveling out the shared eye contact. Just Nanami. For a moment he’s at a loss for words— and it’s odd, typically he has an answer for everything. You remember asking why he’d buckle your seatbelt before his own, and his answer was always the same. You remember asking why he likes what he does— and they’d all circle back to enjoying the small things in life. His Kento’s lips part, taken aback by the loss of his nickname, but they close into a tight line with registration. Perhaps you’re just. . too much.

“I lied to you,” He begins, and your heart leaps to your throat. He clasps his hands together, resting soundly by his thighs as his head tilts downward, a silent plea. “And, for that . . . I’m sorry,” Kento releases a breath, hands coming undone to swipe away stray, gold strands of hair. “Don’t feel obliged to accept, I just— I like y— I want to show you something.”

It’s odd. The look on your face makes him want to scoop you up, to cradle you in his arms and hold you tight. And yet, he can see the cogs turning in your brain, the gradual loss of your frown and faux steel in your eyes as you shrug— he can’t even distinguish if you’re being reluctant or stubborn. Nonetheless, Kento smoothens the fabric of his coat, and makes a small, polite gesture to the door.

“Okay.” Your fist rubs sleep from your eyes, steps heavy and dragging along the floor as you slide your feet into brown bunny slippers— the same ones he’d worn when you officially met.

Stepping into the cold, crisp winter air, you both ignore the tremor to your bottom lip, “What were you gonna. . ?”

Not at all hard to spot, set alight by the glow or orange lanterns, it’s your farm. Oh, it’s much prettier than you could’ve ever imagined it. So clean, with pristine rows and neat placements of fresh soils. You can actually walk through it, as opposed to tip-toeing around like you used to. The air is crisp and fresh, just like you’d remembered it— but it feels better than before. And, dotting the horizon, fireflies dance into the night sky and blend into the twinkling stars. You don’t remember the last time you’d seen them— vision occupied by tall grass or obstructed by rusty tools. You could almost cry. Your breath catches in your throat, a gentle breeze brushing along your forehead and digging into the fabric of your clothes— yet you feel light and warm.

He did all this for you?

“Are you cold?” You blink hard, vision blurred with tears as Kento’s hand grasps your shoulder. “You’re shivering.” He’s quick to shrug off his coat, barely even flinching when the fabric dips into fresh mud, and loops it around your form with steady hands.

“M’okay. .” He frowns, barely visible, and the slight protests of being strong enough to tough it out die on your tongue. But it’s true, you don’t feel cold— not internally, at least. You feel light yet heavy, warm and airy. Heat pokes at your skin, ignites in the apples of your cheeks and trails down your throat. “. . . Thank you, ‘Nami. . . For everythin’.”

‘Why're you saying it like that?’ He wants to ask. As if it’s some sort of sick, roundabout way of saying goodbye. His movement stutters, lips curled into a small ‘o’ before reverting back to its usual, thin line; and he speaks, “I don’t just like you.”

Your fist tightens in his coat, fabric twisting to accommodate your grip.

“I. . admire you. Your strength, your weakness. Your baking. . Your smile, too,” He sighs, quiet and cautious. “Your laugh. I regret not telling you before. At first, I thought you were impulsive, and somehow abrasive, bu—”

You’ve never been one to hide from your feelings— you laugh when you’re happy, scowl when you’re angry, mope when you’re sad. So it’s no surprise to feel you smile; wide and unapologetic. It’s no surprise to feel the tremble of your fingers as they release his coat and land on his biceps. To feel the slow, shaking breath of air he releases at your silence— hearing his own slight sniffle at the nippy, cold breeze. You’re nervous, lips twitching as his chin dips, bashful as his lips intertwine with your own.

A kiss.

"’Nami," Laughing into his mouth, it meets the sound of your lips continuously meeting in breathless, heavy harmony. His lips are plush, soft and sweet, hungry and hasty, everything and nothing and all things in between. “I like you. I like you, I like you, I like you.”

You feel it now— the warmth enveloping his chest, the hard hammering of his heart against his ribcage. "Shit," He whispers, incredulous, and before slowly pulling away, cradles your handsome face between his calloused “I like you too.”

౨ৎ

Kento owns silk pillows. You can tell they’re imported from home— as they disturb the uniform colors of the crisp, cream comforter set blanketing his bed. It’s the first thing you notice, head sinking into the fabric as your eyes flutter closed, thoughts and breaths stolen with each wet, heavy kiss being pressed against your lips. His breath is hot and heavy, small groans and grunts leaving his parted lips, and— he tastes of chocolate.

“Kenny—” You gasp, but the sound of his name on your lips only eggs him on. Hot heat blooms in your stomach, tingling down to your tummy, so deep, something you’ve never really felt before. It tingles, almost, right through your thighs and straight to your cock, plumping up with each passing second. And his hands, god, are so quick and skilled— shedding you of your clothing as if he’s done it a million times before.

“Kenny,” You repeat, much whinier than before, tiny sounds leaving your lips as you squirm in his hold. “Mm, wait,” and his response is barely committal, a low hum that melts into a breathy sigh as your bare skin is exposed and your leaking cock springs free against your tummy. He coos, peeling the sticky fabric of your underwear free. Cute.

“Use your words,” Kento mumbles against your skin, running his hands along the silky smooth skin of the back of your thighs. “I know you can, you’re a smart boy.” You squirm with every touch, plush skin bouncy as you press your thighs together, cock sliding by your navel. And, even when you hide, he can see the precum smearing against your stomach, the tightening of your balls, and, now, your exposed hole winking back at him.

Fuck.

“Mm, don’t look,” You’ve barely convinced yourself, a choked out moan leaving your lips as his big, warm hand wraps around your cock and pumps. “That’s— oh, embarrassin’!” Slow, at first, trailing up the sensitive shaft and rubbing circles into the overly-sensitive head. Until his hand is slick with precum and his own spit, until your thighs are convulsing and you’re close to covering yourself in your own cum. Until you’re sobbing, pulling at his wrist with weak, clammy hands.

“I know, sugar. I know,” And the stifled cry you've been hearing belongs to you. “Feels good, hm?” His free hand grazes down your waist, thumbing at the dip between your hip and your thigh, then cupping the soft, plush skin of your pecs. “Feels better than your own hand, doesn’t it?” Kneading until your nipples harden against his palm, soft skin swelling around his fingers. And, oh, how pretty you are when you cry, overstimulated tears rolling down your cheeks and incoherent babbles leaving your swollen lips.

“Uh— huh, yeah,” Is barely breathed out, and Kento watches pre leak over his knuckles. Creamy and thick, sticky and sweet as your hips rock back and forth, to and fro. You just can’t help yourself, greedy boy, fucking into his fist like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt and— oh.

It is.

“Messy boy,” He huffs, pressing his forehead against your own— damp and sticky. Your hand, preoccupied with fisting his sheets, is grabbed, and all you can feel is slick, hot heat. “Fuck your fist for me.”

“Wh- Huh?” It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to your hands, wrapped tightly around your cock as your hips buck— whines high and loud in your throat, keening like a puppy. It’s not at all paced, not like Kento, just pure desperation and need as your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your skull. Warmth rises in your face as your legs instinctively part, tingles spreading through your body and needy moans filling the air. Wet and sloppy, your hand is slick and soaked.

He travels lower, lips trailing down your throat, your collarbones— pausing at your chest. He watches the rise and fall, the slight bounce of your pecs as you pant like a dog. Pretty buds hard and sensitive, a gentle suckle is enough to make you arch from the sheets and keen.

“Good boy, that’s it,” You have the urge to get on your knees, to present all your holes to him, to spread yourself open with your fingers- fucking them in and out, in and out, just for Kento. It’s all too much, thinking of what’s next, what’s happening now, what’ll happen later.

Nanami lifts his shirt over his chest, the fabric bunching under your armpits as he keeps it pinned between his teeth, and you have no other choice but to flutter your lashes, watching as his pants are loosened and his cock springs free. Big. Thick and long— and, it seems his tan has traveled to his cock, too. Blushing at the tip, the sweet color of mocha, it disappears the further you look down. Curved, too, slightly past his belly-button and heavy against his navel. It's humiliating, the way your mouth waters almost immediately.

It’d feel so good weighing down on your tongue, fucking your throat fast and rough, making you gag and sputter— choking on your own tears and groans.

“Wanna. . I want. . .” You squirm where you lay, whining high in your throat as you find nowhere to hide— nothing to put your face against, nowhere to bury the drunk, hazy expression on your face.

“Want what?” He murmurs, pretty eyes trailing along the curves of your face before he places a sweet, soft kiss along the edge of your jaw. You take the grip on your waist as a slight indication— Kento’s patience is slowly waning.

“V’never. .” Your lips part into a gasp, eyes fluttering closed as his large hands travel along the expanse of your chest. “I wanna. . . feel you in my throat.”

The smart man he is, Nanami, never misses a beat. Pink lips splitting into a small smile, his thumb rubs circles against your skin. Still, you can feel the throb and twitch of his cock against your thigh, hard and almost leaking. “That’s ambitious, sugar.”

You don’t register scrambling up by your elbows, nor the amount of time it takes for your fingers to fail at wrapping around his cock. Your thoughts are muffled and hazy until a quiet chuckle sounds above you— rumbly and deep, and— ah, Kento’s hand is guiding your head back as he pulls your hands free. You’re panting for it now, mouth dropped open as the slurp and slick noise of his cock tapping against your tongue drops straight to your stomach. You could cum from this alone, without even a single glance toward the ache between your thighs.

"M'gonna be so good, promise, know I can do it! Want it, Sir," A clear habit of rambling when you’re nervous, a soothing coo leaves Kento’s throat. His tip smears along your pillowy lips, sticky and salty as pre paints your chin.

“Shit,” He groans under his breath, fisting his cock to ease the ache in his balls. “Slow. I don’t want to hurt you. Gentle, remember?”

You don’t. You can barely think, let alone recall something from another day. But you nod anyway, eyes glued to his cock as it bobs to and fro— pretty and weeping. You bet it’ll feel so heavy, weighing down on your tongue and nearly crushing your throat as you gag around it. He’ll taste good, too, salty and sweet as he buries his cock down your throat. With your nose pressed into the blond of his pubes, and his balls slick against your chin as they tighten and clench.

Yeah, you want him to cum on your face.

With a whiny nod you take his tip into your mouth, pink tongue over your teeth. In your head, it’s much easier— you can sink down to the base no problem— but in practice. . . You sputter and gurgle, leaning into the gentle touch caressing your cheek as your tongue traces the pulsing, thick vein cascading down his shaft. Through your pathetic whimpers and whines he mumbles— but it falls on deaf ears.

You stick out your tongue, cute and pink, latches onto your bottom lip, slicking his slit as he blinks down at you, pupils blown and wide as he praises you, voice smooth and buttery.

Through your own jittery, inexperienced suckling, his tip is smeared along your lips, slowly tracing your cupid's bow and bottom lip until a thin layer of pre has them glazed over and sticky. Your lips part, carrying a thin trail of creamy pre between them, as his dick slides in and out your hot, wet mouth. Spreading heavy along your tongue, swallowing around the head as his thighs tense, muscles flexing and rippling as they strain to keep still.

“‘Nami’s dick is heavy, sweetheart,” He’s gasping before you can fully take in the stretch of his cock, hips twisting as his eyes flutter closed. It’s been a while, you can tell, with the way his balls are clenched tight, his hand morphed into a fist— careful not to grip your hair. Your spit bubbles and pools around his cock, slick and wet, sliding between the seams of your lips and dripping down your throat, down your sternum, down his thighs. “And you’re taking it so well.”

Running your tongue along his big, veiny cock, his head falls forward— adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out a pleased moan. His cock fills your empty mouth, stuffing it full like a pre-lubed fleshlight, his balls slapping against your chin in sticky, wet plaps. Collecting drool, it froths between your lips and his cock, bubbly and white until your noises are sloppy and loud. “That’s it, good boy, take this load down your pretty little throat. . .”

Gasping on his cock, Kento’s hand holds you close, until you’re buried against his pubes, until your throat is squeezing and contracting and wrapped plush around the thick shaft of his dick. You can feel it, each and every twitch and throb, each hit, sticky rope that paints your mouth as he cums down your throat, ropes shooting down your tongue and sticking to the roof of your mouth. You’ve done so good, such a good boy, marked for Sir, offering a few hollow sucks to his spasming cock before he pulls you off.

You’d rather he paint your face, but you trust him, swallowing the bitter, salty cream as he whispers gentle praises.

“You’re perfect,” Kento mumbles through heavy gasps, rubbing away the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. Such a sweet, pliant boy, leaning into his touch as he gently pushes you back down, off your knees.

Now he’s got you folded, knees bent back in such a slutty, shameless display. The blond squeezes at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around his beading, shiny slit, then slowly back down to the thick, veiny shaft. Yeah, that’s good, how it slips and slides with rhythmatic pumps. You’d like to imagine that’s how it’ll be when his cock is inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open, sliding against your velvety walls until he fills you up with his hot, sticky cum.

“Spit,” he says, gentle at first, but hardening as your poor, pitiful attempt at spitting down your own cock turns into gurgles of drool and incoherent moans. He grips your jaw, angling it just right— till you’re resting back on your elbows and have enough space to land a warm, wet glob right down the slit. “Good boy. Look at me, pretty. Like this.”

You watch as he spits down onto his own cock, runny and wet, which stands as a reminder of its own. His fist is so big, but it’s not nearly enough to swallow his cock down. You watch it pop free from his tight grip, loud squelches with each and every movement. Every time he throbs, pulses, shifts— you hear it all.

“That’s it, atta boy, my good little cocksleeve,” You— it must be you, there’s no one else he’s speaking to. Still, with your hand squeezing your throbbing shaft there’s not much you can say, airy little moans and sweet, high gasps leaving your pouty lips as you buck— up, up, up. A thin trail of drool slips down your chin, warm and wet and— oh, that’s nice— trailing down your cock. “That’s it, stick your tongue out.”

You really do play the part, tongue on display as you fuck your fist silly, bumping slits with the blond. Soft and sticky, loud and wet squelching until his own large, warm palm envelops both your cocks, bumping and grinding and sliding so messy. You nearly burst into hysterics when the warmth is gone, and Nanami’s gaze tears away from the pre oozing between your shafts. “Ask Sir for more, angel.”

“Mm, waitwaitwait, don’t— don’t stop,” You keen, stumbling over your tongue. Your brows pinch, eyes glazed over with unshed tears. “Kenny— Sir, please.”

“Good boy,” All but purring, his hands roam along the plush, round mounds of your ass. “Yeah,” His dick slips between the slick skin of your perineum, dragging along the sensitive skin— the head of his cock catching on your rim when his thrusts turn too eager. “You’re a good boy, asking like that.”

“You like grinding on Sir's cock don’t you? Getting me all wet. . .” Just as warm and wet as he’d thought, cooped up in his office and fucking into his fist, lube gushes and trickles out with every deliberate, shallow rut forward. Your balls bounce and twitch, slick and shiny with a mixture of pre. Your moans, so pretty, high and nasally— incoherent and blabbering. The slurp of his cock goes straight to your balls, tightening as you whine like a bitch for it. And his grip, once gentle and steady, leads down to your ass, keeping it spread as he slides the big head of his cock along your pretty little rim, again, and again, and again. It’s more menuevering than bouncing, through your fucked out haze you try to think; you want him to ruin you.

A knot tightens in your tummy, tingling in your balls as your thighs tighten and your legs tremble— fuck, you’re cumming, hard and all at once, it catches you off guard and a choked squeal is knocked from your throat, rope after rope spraying along your own chest.

“I—” You sob, cock convulsing against your tummy as Kento groans. “I didn’t mean to— didn’t know, m’sor—”

He hushes you, a low growl in his throat as his eyes roam up your tummy, past your hard nipples and land on the splatter of cum collecting between the plush hills of your pecs. “S’okay, it just felt too good, mhm? I bet your pussy feels so good, baby— perfect, pretty little pussy swallowing up my cock.”

You don’t expect him to say that— that’s the last thing you expect, eyes rolling back in your skull as you moan, wholehearted and slutty. With the wet squeeze of lube along your bottom half, slicker and sloppier than ever before, your hole winks back at him. Your perfect, pretty little pussy. “That okay, sweetheart? Can Sir pound this hole till it aches for him?”

Your response is barely coherent, garbled sounds and babbling that roughly translates to ‘please’ as thick fingers prod at your tight, puckered hole. Your loud moans are hushed as Kento leans down, close to your ear. His fingers slide against your entrance, sticky lube sliding along with them and connecting to your puffy rim. They feel so big, so long and thick when he taps them against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your rim. “Gonna get you ready for Sir’s dick, gonna finger that cunt nice and slow, get that sweet boy-hole stretched out.”

“Kenny,” You hiccup, uncontrollable tears streaming down your face as you reach forward to press his fingers closer, a tiny gasp leaving your lips as your entrance is breached. You don’t miss the groan you earn in return, deep and shaky as the man takes the opportunity to slip his fingers right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering ‘cunt’ that sucks the digits deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Can take it, pound it, Sir.”

“Look at me, watch me, sugar. Watch Sir fuck this little hole full.” You squeeze your eyes shut for as long as the reluctant, bratty little part of your brain lets you before staring down into hazel. Until his fingers have you seeing stars and rocking back into them like a cock hungry slut, you’ve never felt more full until his cock kisses your insides, leaving you sloppy and open and full.

Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the wet squelch and slap of skin against skin, his cock sliding in and out your puffy hole as lube gushes out around his dick in white ringlets. Like you’ve creamed on his cock, he can see it slip back inside with each thrust. Your knees over his shoulders, Kento hauls your body up, and with a tiny, wee and pathetic ‘ah!’ you follow suit, your cute little hole clenching and fluttering around his thick, leaking cock.

“Give me a little more, just a little more of this pussy,” You can’t contain the squeals and squeaks that leave your mouth when the blond pistons his hips, a bruising grip on your waist that only gets harder as he grinds his cock down into you. He’s filling you up so good, his balls slapping against your ass with each rushed, rough thrust that has your mind scrambled just as much as your guts. You can’t take it, hands scrambling to grab at something, anything that’ll keep you from screaming.

Pounding into you, your head falls back as you take it, nice and slow, stretching you out— fast and rough, steady and patient— Kento groans above you, bullying his cock inside, grinding while your hips squirm. Mouth open with an unending stream of moans, he breaks you in, turns you into his good boy— his perfect fleshlight. Wet little hole clenching and spasming, his weight pins you down as your greedy hole milks him for all he’s worth.

“Cummin’, Nami, s’too much— M’can’t—” Whining and crying, his touches go right to your head as much as they do your puffy hole."Kenny," you whine, long and pitiful, a pout of a noise that hits him right where you want it to, just as his cock does inside of you. You whine again when your rocking turns into frantic overstimulated grinding, reveling in the stretch of his cock and the rub of your prostate. He groans, thick and gravelly, hands coming up to squeeze at your chest.

“I’ve got you, c’mere, hold Sir’s hand,” He chokes out, feeling it too. The tightening of his balls, the way his dick aches and pulses inside you, the way his cum is starting to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are hard and deep, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. “So good for me,” You never want it to stop, not the pump of his cock, not the drag of his tip against your entrance, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move. Your grip on his knuckles is tight, nails digging into the skin of his hands. “That’s it, such a pretty boy, cumming on my cock.”

A searing knot of pressure grows in your stomach, filling as you bear down on his cock and sob on your whimpers. For a minute you think you’re going to pass out, everything going dark as you spurt all over yourself, globs of cum spraying hard onto your chin and splashing back on the blond. He makes you ride it out, offering hard, shallow thrusts to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, and places a few sweet, tender kisses to your sweaty jaw.

౨ৎ

You wake with a small moan, limbs racked in small aches as your body melts into silk sheets. It smells like him: warm, cozy, and comforting, like a hug. Grateful for the dim, ambient lighting of his bedroom, your eyelids flutter open slowly, and there’s not much to adjust to. You’re clean— its the first thing you notice, a faint scent of soap lingering on your skin as your aching body scrambles for Kento’s warmth.

“I’m here,” He says behind you, hairs on your neck standing straight as you blink at him. Carrying a glass of ice water and a plate of meringue cookies— whisked perfectly. Cute, cloud-like spirals that sit on a porcelain plate— the same ones he watched you make, a smile pulls at your cheeks. “Hungry?” The muscles of your biceps flex as you push yourself up, body subconsciously leaning toward the blond until he’s sat next to you, his touches gentle and fleeting.

He feeds you a cookie, watches your teeth sink into the sweet, then wipes away the remnants of sugar from your lips. So tender, your heart flutters when he takes a bite after you— an indirect kiss.

He swallows, throat bobbing, lashes batting against his high cheekbones, before parting his lips, “I was thinking of extending my stay.”

The room feels ten times brighter, ten times louder, and yet, your heartbeat overpowers it all.

“I like you,” The words tumble from your mouth, almost as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour taking you apart and building you back up. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. “I more-than-like you, Kenny.”

And, without missing a beat, Kento answers truthfully this time.

“I love you too.”

2K notes · View notes

cherry-leclerc · 2 months

Text

pride ☆ mv1

genre: smut, established relationship, stubborn!max, jealous!max, humor, fluff

word count: 3k

After his DNF, Max finds himself losing his temper when you keep insisting that it was his fault. Due to both ends, you find yourself in a constant battle on who can admit defeat first.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+... gym sex - that's all teheee

req!...super fun to write, thank u, anon for the idea !!

He never liked to be pointed out as the one who did something wrong on track. Then again, he rarely ever made those types of mistakes. Max got along with everyone on the grid, but he was there to win. And he certainly did not need his girlfriend reminding him that he’s human, just like the rest of the drivers.

“Just admit it already, you fucked up this time. You cut him off.”

A DNF was as bad as it could get, his mood quickly deteriorated as he bangs his helmet against the wall. If you weren’t used to his dark behavior, then you would have definitely worried. Instead, you tap your foot impatiently with a deep sigh, eyes rolling with strong annoyance. You didn’t like to see him like this, but it drove you crazy that he could never own up to his wrongdoings.

The Dutch harshly rips off his balaclava, dirty blond hair sticking against his angry face, normally baby blue eyes switching to a devilish color. “You’re such a…” A deep growl. “He cut me off, and that’s what got us both out of the race. What a fucking dick.”

Your brow raises up, pointing at him with accusement. “My thoughts exactly.” Turning on your heel, you spin around and walk out of his driver's room, leaving him to sulk like a manchild. Stupid, Lando.

As soon as the race ends, you sheepishly make your way to the young Brit. “Is he mad?” he asks. You shrug as if you care about what your boyfriend is feeling at this very moment. Max wasn’t the kind to get mad, he got furious.

“He’ll get over it. Though I do suggest you run the opposite way if you spot him.” He laughs, eyes crinkling with agreement. After apologizing on behalf of the grumpy Dutchman, you hurry off to find him. Propped up against the door frame, you nervously play with the hem of your dress as you inch your way closer. You can practically see the color red blooming out of him as he smiles bitterly.

“And where were you?” His voice expands softly, it makes your stomach churn, but you put on a brave face nonetheless, refusing to give in to his ego. It doesn’t matter. He chuckles, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, head shaking in disapproval. “Aren’t I the one you should be consoling? I don’t see why you had to go see him.”

Your eyebrows narrow down sharply. “Max, you’re being a fucking baby, you caused the crash! Lando was just unlucky and I went to let him know, is that so wrong?”

The Dutch fumes, jaw clenching. “You can go see him, I don’t give a fuck, but stop saying it was my fault. He closed in on me.” You scoff, arms crossed. “This is pure bullshit.”

“Whatever, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m glad you’re alright,” you sourly say, pushing past him to go and retrieve your things, getting ready to leave back to the hotel. His nose twitches, following after you. Neither of you utter a single word, simply packing and strolling out the door. As soon as the media gets involved and Lando walks by with a shy smile and wave, he instinctively grabs your hand, leading you through the tight crowd with a bright smile, despite his crash.

Setting aside your differences, you’re grateful for his sweet gesture, even if it laces with a bit of possessiveness. The drive is tense, only the sound of the blinker being heard. You try adding some music, but as soon as he turns off the radio, you turn to him, hair slapping your flushed face. “Why did you do that?” Your hand slides back up, turning it on. He repeats his same actions, leaving you to burn lasers to the side of his head.

“Your music is complete shit.” Surprised by his cold tone, your right eye twitches like a crazy person before turning your attention back towards the road. He feels bad. He’s not mad at you, not even at his friend. But he wasn’t the biggest fan of letting his team down, and much less, owning up to it.

Pushing the door open, you march in, making your way to the bathroom, ready to shower off the irritation. Max trails after you without a second thought, then you slam the door right on his face. He blinks. He can hear you turning the water on, stripping down. “You’re taking a shower by yourself this time, you dickhead.”

The next few races run smoother as he finishes in first place for most of them. All of them, actually. But his wins aren’t worth it in the end. Not with your rigid congratulations, forced kisses as you wait for him along with a puddle of photographers. It shouldn’t strike him as strange; you were still upset. For a second, he considers putting his pride aside and try to fix things, make amends, but when you mumble next to him, he quickly throws that out the window.

“Baby finally got fed his bottle.”

All his pent up emotions came rushing back as you wear an innocent smile. With a sullen glare, he walks out, leaving you to gloat. Two can play that game.

Here’s the thing with yours and Max's relationship; it was amazing. A fucking dream. You loved each other like crazy, but when you both get into an argument, it can drag out for the longest time. Your friends had pointed it out countless times, accusing you two for being freakishly stubborn. Oftentimes, he’d be the first to give up and apologize, and sometimes it was you. Only this time, it looked like a long haul.

It was a weird dynamic. He still kissed you goodbye, reminded you how much he loved you. You still attended his races, glowed with sincere happiness for every podium of his, but apart from that, you two still held on to your end of the rope. And it’s been so long. One month? Maybe two?

“Four fucking months,” Max grunts, large hands fixing his drinking straw that connects to his suit. The Dutch is clearly frustrated, Checo could tell as he warily eyes his teammate. The Mexican driver poured out an amused chuckle. Max curls a dark brow. “What?”

Checo halts. “Nothing, man. You’re just being so…how do I put this nicely?” He clicks his fingers enthusiastically. “You’re acting like a douchebag. Puras pendejadas, lo que estás haciendo.” The blue eyed boy shakes his head.

“I don’t know what you mean by that.” He walks away.

“It means you’re doing stupid shit for absolutely no reason. Take it from me, I’m married! I know what I’m talking about, and as your elder, I suggest apologizing. It’ll fix everything, trust me.” But Max only ignores him, already climbing into his car. As much as he would love to try and make things right with the woman he adores like a complete idiot, there’s always something that ruins it. Whether it’s you witty reminders, or your cruel ignorance.

Though, he feels like he’s going crazy. He can feel his hands itch as they beg to hug you the way they were used to. Or to kiss your plump lips, slightly red from your constant nibbles. You can feel his eyes on you as you cut up a group of vegetables, getting things ready for dinner. Like a tease, you bend down to pick up the bag of carrots that had just fallen. You giggle. “Whoops.”

Abruptly, he stands up. “I’m going to get in a small workout before we eat.” That’s all. Left there with your jaw on the floor, you slam the knife against the cutting board.

You missed him. You’d be insane not to. You missed cuddling with him after a long day. You missed the way he would cradle your face to kiss you eagerly after every win. Now it’s almost as if you’re a couple of strangers with the way he keeps a careful distance. And if he wasn’t going to fix things, then you would force him to.

He hears you before he actually sees you. Not a single word escapes past your lips as you skip closer. His molars grind together when he notices your tiny skirt, paired with a tank top. Perky tits salute him as he holds back a groan. Smiling sweetly, you start to stretch. “Thought I’d join you. Didn’t want to eat without you.”

His heart squeezes, ghostly nodding. Adjusting himself on the bench, he starts his set of overhead presses. Loopy eyes circle his glistening muscles as he pants tiredly, shaky breaths bouncing off of him. You have to physically stop yourself from drooling an entire ocean.

The blue eyed boy leads an impressive set, a thin layer of sweat coating him like a blanket. One you would gladly roll around in. Pursing your lips, your limbs feel extremely weak all of a sudden and decide to settle with laying down and bringing your legs up, skirt sliding down, exposing your soft skin.

“So tight,” you whine when you reach up, muscles tied up in an uncomfortable spot. Intrigued, your boyfriend takes a peek and instantly curses, large hands gripping against the metal bar. He gulps. “Maxie, can you push my legs back for me?”

His breath hitches. “No. I’m sure you can do that yourself.”

Sitting up straight, you squint your beady eyes at him as he distracts himself by adding more weight to his set. You click your tongue, a menacing grin tugging at your pink lips. “Messed up, baby, you are messed up.”

Max curses himself for falling in love with someone as beautiful as you. It seriously messed him up a concerning amount. Suddenly there was no more cold demeanor when it came to you. That simply just belonged to the rest because you were everything to him.

“First, you’re too much of a pussy to admit your mistakes and now you’re too scared to get near me?” You scoff. “It’s all starting to add up.”

Except at this very moment.

“And what exactly is that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Kneeling down onto the black mat, you stretch your arms out against it, and lay your back flat. You hum. “Oh.” You arch your back, ass angling upwards where his eyes quickly trace to. You smirk. “Nothing.”

If he weren’t so impressed by your bratty act, he would have definitely walked out on you. But you just looked so pretty, rosy, and you were glistening. He wonders what else there was on top of that. The Dutch moves on to a bench press. Huffing, he grits his teeth as he extends his arm before puffing and bringing them back down.

The 26 year old, despite your attempts, was as focused as he could possibly be. The adrenaline was lingering in his entire system as he kept his eyes trained upward. Chest locking tightly, muscles contracting. And then he hears it. Your tiny moans, soft whimpers.

The loud sound of him dropping the weight makes you jump up a bit before looking up. He finds you in your first position you had started with when you first stepped foot into the home gym. He can feel his cock press harshly against his white shorts. “Why are you…” He trails off when your mouth drops open, brows scrunching together. Your thighs beg to be kissed. Slippery arms tug your legs closer to you as you giggle.

“My legs are too tight.” His chest tightens. “Help me get more flexible?” you press innocently as you signal for him to push your legs. “Please, Maxie.”

Sighing, he nods. As soon as he steps close to you, he can feel your pouring lust, fuck me eyes staring back up at his frame. Grabbing the heels of your feet, he pushes back as you groan. “Oh shit.” You laugh, chest vibrating against the mat. “I really needed the extra push.”

He grimaces. A silence lingers between you two before you wiggle your left foot against his palm. He raises a confused brow. I’m going to tuck it to my chest. Just hold the right one. Doing as instructed, you sigh in relief, lashes fluttering. He holds back a much needed grunt. “You’re telling me you couldn’t do this yourself?”

You nip the air. “We’re not all professional athletes, Max. I needed you.”

You can see how hard your implication is hitting him as his gaze darkens. And just as he’s about to reach out for you, you wiggle your brows. Next leg. Snapping out of trance, he eyes the way your skirt rides down your skin. In a swift movement, he lets go and takes a staggered step back. You grin. What’s wrong?

“You’re crazy.”

Standing up, you place both hands on your waist. “Why?”

Max doesn’t even recall when he pins you against the wall, your hair flying from the impactful blow, and yet, you’re smirking. Kissing you harshly, you groan, leaning against your tippy toes as you struggle to breath. He seems to be lost in your lips as he cradles your face, teeth clashing against yours at the filthy action. “You’re so beautiful,” he pants, blues staring back. “So fucking beautiful.”

Whimpering, you reach back out for him, plump lips attacking his thick neck as he sighs. The purple bruises were definitely something he would hound you on tomorrow, but for now that was the least of his worries. Admiring the colorful spot, you lick it slowly. He shudders.

“I can suck something else, you know?”

You almost don’t recognize his growl, for you haven’t heard it in so long, that it catches you by surprise as he spins you around, bending you over the nearest counter, where his wall of protein stands. He hitches your skirt up as you gasp when his fingers slide inside of you. The way he stretches you out makes you see stars as you struggle to keep upward.

“Wore this just for me, right? You knew it would drive me crazy?” His long fingers curl at the perfect angle as you nod. Yes, yes. I wore it just for you. I knew you’d like it. You squeal when he lifts you up, tits pressing against the cold marble, legs dangling like a doll. His doll. He watches the way you swallow his digits. “I fucking love it, baby…”

Then, he’s down on his knees as he wraps his lips around your clit. Moaning loudly, you press your cheek against the cool tiles, saliva dripping out of your mouth at the sensation. In your fucked up state, you still reach out for him as he grabs your hand. “You taste so sweet,” he hums. You’re close to crying when he pulls away, but calm down when he thrusts into you.

The Dutch throws his head back as soon as your velvety walls wrap around his cock, the way you swallow him whole. Makes him hate himself for holding onto his pride for so long. For keeping you away. His heart races when you prop yourself on your elbows as stare back at him with tired, lustful eyes. He grins, slapping your ass as you yelp. You ass tilts up as he watches you struggle to keep up.

Warm hands come up to keep you close to him as you bite down on your lip. “You’re a fucking brat, but God, I hate it because you were right. I pushed him off. I did, I did, I did…” His dirty hair sticks against his face as you bounce forward with every pound. “But he was making you laugh - smile - and I just couldn’t handle that.”

Your heart stops. This was news to you because there was no way the Max you knew so well would break his winning streak all due to a friendly encounter. He pecks your bare shoulder. “I don’t think you understand how much I love you.”

“Then show me.”

WIth that, he holds onto your hips with more grip as his tip brushes repeatedly against your g-spot. You’re a mess, but he’s loving every second of it. As soon as he wraps a large hand around your breast, you’re gone, spluttering white all around him as he follows. With a croaky groan, he slips out as you fall back to your original spot. He chuckles. He fixes your skirt before helping you sit up to face him. Your eyes crinkle.

“You love me,” you say in a sing-song voice as you poke his dimple. I thought I made that clear. You scrunch your nose, pecking his face all over with sloppy kisses. He playfully winces, but accepts nonetheless. “You love me, love me. Why would you ever worry about me and Lando? You know he’s just a friend.”

His smile drops as it's replaced with a scowl. “I wasn’t worried, per se. I don’t like someone else making you laugh. That’s my job.”

Your brows arch. “What are you suggesting? That I just keep mute for the rest of my days, unless I’m with you?”

Max shrugs. “Sounds like a solid plan.”

You smack his chest as he throws his head back with laughter. “No. Not a solid anything. Max, I love you.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“Okay,” you confirm, fixing your posture, lips pursing. “But please never do that again, that’s just plain out dangerous and crazy. A big no-no, Emilian.” He glares and your lips wobble childishly. “You love wins, and I love celebrating them with you. It just works.”

“You know what doesn’t work?” he retorts as he hugs you. You hum, comfortable against his warmness. “Not talking to me for four months, what were you thinking?” You push him away abruptly. We spoke! “But we didn’t fuck, and that’s the same thing.”

Crossing your arms, you roll your eyes as he stares back in awe. “If you keep this up then I’m going to crank it up to eight,” you threaten.

The Dutch nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck before you cave in. “Let’s not do that. You’d be breaking my heart.”

taglist: @myownwritings @d3kstar @crucifiedbitch

*note: i've only tagged those who asked to be included in general. i've kept that apart from the method acting series taglist!! lmk in which you would like to be, just in case!

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fangswbenefits · 10 months

Text

Obsession

Summary: Miguel tries to convince himself that his obsession with you was justified, but fails miserably as you spend the night over.

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. Miguel POV. Obsessed and jealous Miguel. Inexperienced reader. Breeding kink. Sexual tension and frustration. Reader has nipple piercings.

Previous parts: 1 & 2 (you may enjoy this one separately, but might miss out on some context)

Miguel tried to convince himself that adding a mic to your digital suit was purely for safety purposes.

He really did try.

But he couldn’t keep from listening in when you first wore it on your way to the spider cafeteria.

He had just briefed a squad and was monitoring Nueva York through a multitude of hovering screens, as he stood on his platform.

Tapping quickly on the flickering surface, he was able to zoom in on you through the ceiling cameras.

You looked absolutely breathtaking.

The suit fit you like a glove and left little to the imagination. He was proud of his work. You deserved wearing something of his for everyone to see.

He saw you approaching a nearby table, taking a seat. In front of you were Jessica Drew and Peter B. Parker with Mayday who greeted you with warm smiles.

The sound of your voice echoed through the walls around him, as you extended your arms.

“Mayday! Baby! It’s so good to see you!”

The little girl broke into a giggle and began wriggling forward on Peter’s lap to reach you.

You promptly took her in your arms. “Did you miss me? Did you?” your voice was slight high-pitched and you wiggled your fingers, tickling her. “Oh, I have a present for her.”

“Really? That’s so nice of you,” Peter beamed.

“I don’t have it here, but I think she’ll love it,” you said, patting Mayday’s back lightly, earning a genuine hug from her.

Miguel felt his heart clench violently.

You were a natural with kids.

You were just too good to be true and he felt his hands clench tightly.

Would he ever be able to have you? To make you yearn for him? To breed you? To have children with you?

“Wait, is that a… digital suit?” Jessica’s voice cracked through the mic.

You had your back turned to him, so he couldn’t see your face, but he felt the warmth in your voice as you spoke, “It sure is!”

He groaned lowly.

There you were… his sweet girl.

“Who gave it to you?”

“Miguel,” you said with that tenderness he had grown to adore.

He could easily get addicted to you saying his name, and he could only hope that, one day, he might hear it a much more compelling setting.

“Miguel… O’Hara?”

You nodded.

From the screen he could see her exchanging looks with Peter.

“It looks really cool!” Peter smiled enthusiastically, inspecting your sleeves. “Wish he’d offer me one, too.”

Jessica chuckled. “Well, I’ve been here with him for months and he’s never given me one.”

Jessica…

It was to be expected. She was no fool. He had scouted her precisely because she was anything but that.

You had been recruited only three weeks ago, but the hold you had on him was tight. He had never felt this way before with someone else.

You straightened in your seat, as Mayday nibbled on your thumb. “Wait… do you think I should give it back?”

Miguel felt his heart jumpstart and panic build inside him.

“No — no! Jessica,” Perer shot her a glare who merely shrugged, before offering you a kind smile. “It looks great on you. Did you pick the colours?”

“Yes! I’m really happy with the final result,” you said, helping Mayday sit at the edge of the table, as you secured her with both hands. “It was his way of showing gratitute.”

Jessica snapped her fingers after taking a sip of her drink. “You’re helping him out with the portals, right?”

“We’re working on portal stabilisation and reduced motion sickness,” you said and he could almost taste the pride and passion in your voice. “We’re making some progress.”

Miguel had gotten used to the random erections you’d awake from him throughout the day. But this one felt particularly painful.

You were so smart and so devoted. He couldn’t even take credit for the progress, because it was mostly just you.

His sweet and clever girl.

He glanced down at the outline of his strained cock, clicking his tongue.

By the time his eyes settled on the monitor, Jessica had walked away momentarily and he saw Peter lean in.

“Hey… are you and Miguel… a thing?”

Miguel froze.

Mayday proceeded to wrap tiny fingers around some of his locks, tugging lightly.

He wish he could have seen your reaction.

“Oh! No! No… we’re just friends,” you quickly said, waving your hands rapidly. “He’s like a mentor to me, really.”

Anger flared inside him. A friend? A mentor? He knew deep down this made absolute sense, but it still made him seething with rage.

Peter didn’t seem all that convinced, but nodded. “Just wondering. He’s not usually this… kind?”

Miguel felt his fangs threaten to emerge as he gritted his teeth.

There had been nothing kind about him building you a suit. He hadn’t done it out of the goodness of his heart.

He wanted to claim you and this had been the easiest and safest way for now.

“Well, I know he’s a grumpy,” you chuckled with a shrug, as you patted Mayday on the back. “Maybe he’s changing?”

You wouldn’t want him to change. Not really. The level of devotion he had for you was unmatched and nothing you could ever have from someone else.

“Maybe you’re a good influence on him?” Peter concluded, tapping his chin. “As a friend, of course.”

“Peter….” he growled lowly.

“As a friend,” you nodded. “Besides, there’s…” but your voice trailed off.

His erection nearly immediately deflated as dread took over.

There’s what?

He turned up the mic’s volume, but winced instead, as you banged on the table.

You cleared your throat. “Well, gotta go! I have work to do.”

Peter took Mayday back into his lap and chuckled. “Don’t forget her present!”

“I won’t! Wish me luck, though,” you said, crossing your fingers as you started to walk away. “I really need these chips to stop blowing and melting on me!”

“Good luck! Say bye bye, Mayday,” Peter waved his hand, which the little girl promptly mimicked with a giggle.

“Bye, baby!” you beamed.

Miguel had had enough.

He switched off your mic with a tap on his watch.

He really had tried to convince himself that his obsession for you was justified. That is was rooted in more than lust and desire, but he wasn’t so sure anymore.

After you moved to Nueva York, he had you working closely to him on portal stabilisation.

But what had started out as something innocent, soon shifted into something else entirely.

Your company brought him peace and quiet, and ticket his brain just the right way to keep him motivated.

Until it didn’t.

Until you became his torment.

He had let you in his life in the hopes that you let him in yours.

The first time you gave him a boner was when he walked in on you in the lab, wearing nothing but a tank top and a pencil pressed firmly in between your lips, as you moved from screen to screen to check on the update progress.

The worst part? You didn’t even notice how utterly delicious you looked and how he could easily bend you over and take you right there.

No.

You just offered him a sweet smile.

One he hadn’t recovered from ever since.

“Miguel?”

He jolted as the voice snapped him from his torturous thoughts. “What?”

Lyla hovered nearby, eyeing him closely. “Fangs out,” she wiggled her index finger disapprovingly. “Pavitr and Hobie are waiting for you.”

His fangs retracted slowly as he tried to gain his composure back. “Why?”

“Mission?” she quirked an eyebrow.

Right.

“Now?”

“You’re already late.”

He growled, tapping on a few screens hurriedly.

“Oh, and Miguel?”

“What?”

The hologram popped near the screen to his left. “You might want to be more subtle when using her in-suit mic.”

He gave her narrow side-glace. “What do you mean?”

“Just saying,” she said, adjusting her heart-shapped glasses. “You’re not the only tech savvy spider here.”

The door to his apartment swung open at once, and he stepped inside ready to decompress from the tiresome mission.

He had made plans with some of your audio recordings and his hand, hoping that would be enough to easy the pent-up tension that had been looming over year throughout the way.

It was a less than ideal situation, but would have to do for now.

That was until he noticed his living room was lit.

Pacing rapidly he was met with you.

In the middle of a pile of papers and electronic components scattered around the floor, he saw you sitting cross-legged with a pencil danging from your lips, his digital suit clinging tightly to your body.

“What are you doing here?”

Your bead snapped in his direction and the pencil tumbled to the floor. “Miguel! Lyla let me in.”

He was rooted in place.

Had it been someone else, he would have flung them through the window with no warning.

But you weren’t just someone.

And Lyla wouldn’t have let someone else enter his apartment, either.

“It’s quite late,” he said, pacing carefully toward you as not to step on anything. “You could have called me.”

You waved a hand dismissively and held a circular metallic object in the other. “Catch!”

Before he could say anything back, you had tossed it in his direction, which he quickly grabbed in between his fingers.

“Found what was wrong with it,” you smiled proudly. “It was stupid of me, really. There wasn’t any thermal paste in it. That’s why it kept blowing up.”

Miguel stared at the chip in his hand and blinked a few times.

“I assumed you were using it from the start,” he said, inspecting the cross section.

You rose to your feet in an instant and joined his site, excitement spilling from you. “These ion batteries should not require thermal paste — not for this amount of energy, at least. But yeah… my bad,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck.

Miguel locked eyes with yours and felt a familiar tingle in his body.

Fuck.

You were just so ridiculously attractive, and he wish he could hear you ramble about tech and science for hours.

“This is really, really good news,” he said genuinely, handing the chip back to you.

He squeezed your arm lightly as encouragement, knowing fully well he should be rewarding you in other ways.

His sweet girl…

You darted back to the floor, gathering some papers. “Sorry for the mess. I just had to figure this out and couldn’t sleep.”

A scientist at heart, you were.

Blood began to rush to his groin in no time. It couldn’t be helped. His body had been so on edge to finally fuck you, that it was in this permanent state of arousal around you.

“It’s fine. I still have those moments,” he said softly, crouching to help you out. “Sometimes I can’t sleep, and I have to do something else.”

“Like what?”

“I either go to the lab, or…” I jerk off to the thought of being buried deep inside you, he wanted to say.

You eyed him expectantly, biting your lip lightly, further hardening his cock.

“Well, it’s a bit late,” Miguel eventually said, standing tall. “Maybe you should get back to your apartment?”

He hated himself for even suggesting such option, but he didn’t want to push his luck. You being here would be fuel enough for the rest of the night as he fucked his hand.

“Oh, you just got back from a mission,” you fought back a yawn, tossing your backpack over your shoulder. “I’ll just leave.”

Miguel nodded, but was crumbling inside.

Your face lit up again. “But this was great, right?”

Please stay.

“You did great,” he said with a short smile. “Go get some rest.”

Please…

You made your way down the hall and waved at him. “See you in the morning, Miguel.”

He should have let you go.

But something took over him, before he could fight it back.

“Actually, you could stay. It’s nearly four in the morning,” he tried to sound as casual as possible, but the excitement was hard to contain. “And we have to head back to the lab early.”

You turned around and he stopped breathing.

Too much?

Then he the backpack slide down your arm, hittingbthe floor with a thud. “Oh, thank you! I really didn’t feel like swinging back to my apartment,” you voice held pure gratitude and he felt his ego soar. “Only… I don’t have any clothes.”

He shook his head as realisation hit him. “Right. Wait here.”

“Okay~”

Bolting into his room, he went through his closet, fetching a shirt and a robe.

But before heading out, he decided to change into some sweatpants and a shirt himself.

His erection welcomed the looser material, and he’d be able to better conceal it from you.

Taking a final look at his cock, Miguel decided to give it a few pumps as if trying to calm it down.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

He couldn’t believe his sweet girl would be so close to him in his clothes and apartment.

And bed.

As he exited the room and handed the clothes to you, he cleared his throat. “You can take my bed.”

You looked up at him. “Oh… no, Miguel. You just came back from a mission.”

“I’m not that tired. Just take it.”

Please.

“Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

Anything that was his was yours. He would give it all to you.

“Be right back,” you said, before disappearing into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

He immediately sighed in relief, adjusting his cock, feeling the first beads of precum spill from the tip.

How was he to survive this?

Not long after, you emerged again.

He glanced over at the length of you, taking in the sight of his shirt and robe on you. Your legs were still covered with the digital suit, but you looked absolutely ready to be devoured.

But he couldn’t do it.

Not yet.

His cock twitched in his pants, yearning to be inside you.

Then something else caught his attention when his moved up your body.

It couldn’t be…

Two symmetrical protuberances poked through the fabric of your shirt — his shirt.

“Are those…” his voice faltered momentarily, not trusting his own eyes.

You followd his line of sight and giggled. “Oh! Yeah. Got them pierced way back. Wanted to defy my dad and got them out of spite,” you went on, adjusting the fabric of the shirt under the robe. “But eventually kept them. They look cute.”

Cute?

Miguel was at a loss for words.

Your voice mixed with your carefree posture sent jolts directly into his cock.

“I…” he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I didn’t notice them before,” he said, feeling his mouth run dry.

“I was wearing a bra,” you replied with a shrug and a tender smile.

This was almost comically painful.

You were the closest thing he had ever known to innocence as of late. Yet here you stood, wearing just his shirt, no bra, and with your pierced nipples poking through his shirt.

But none of that seemed to matter to you.

You were completely oblivious of how painfully hard he was for you.

“Did it hurt?”

“Terribly,” you said, still glacing down at your breasts and hardened nipples. “But I think it’s worth it.”

The adorable way in which you said it was almost driving him insane.

Just how innocent could one person be…

Before he could even process his thoughts, he spoke, “Can I…”

Your eyes met his and Miguel feared he had now fucked it up for good.

Brilliant, Miguel…

“Oh, you mean… you want to see them?”

Should he back down and just deny his intentions?

“You’ve never seen nipple piercings before?”

He shook his head.

Just as he was about to tell you to forget it, you lifted his shirt, revealing your breasts to him.

He nearly exploded right there and then.

“Oh, please!” she giggled. “We’re people of science, and you haven’t seen this before. Science is all about curiosity and discovery.”

Miguel, however, wasn’t listening to any of that and felt as though he was hypnotised. He could tear his eyes away from your perky nipples and the metal rods that went through them, a tiny spider danging from each of them.

He wasn’t sure when or how he had got so close to you, but he lifted his hand to touch one.

His cock twitched violently and he felt his mind hazy with lust.

“They’re cool, right?” you beamed, allowing him to swipe the pad of his thumb across the tiny spider.

“Yeah.”

Really ‘cool’.

More precum dripped from his tip and had to fight back his fangs from slipping out.

He wanted to bend over and dart his tongue out to play with them. He wanted to tug on them and wanted you to arch your back with a soft moan.

You pulled down the shirt again and he flinched his hand back instantly, swallowing hard.

“So… if — when you have a baby and want to breastfeed… will there be an issue?”

Of course his need to breed you had to surface at the worst possible time.

But he had to know. He needed to know if that would be a nuisance. He couldn’t take any risks and he wanted you completely ready to carry his children.

You shrugged, adjusting the robe around you. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead when I got them, but I suppose I just have to take them out.”

He nodded, taking a few steps back.

You stretched out with a yawn. “Mind if I go to sleep now?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

You were about to whirl on your feet, but decided against it. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in Spanish?”

That caught him off guard and his eyes widened. “Gracias.”

Then you gave him the sweetest smile. “Gracias, Miguel.

He could cum just from this alone.

How he would teach you the filthiest things in Spanish… how he would whisper them in your ear, knowing fully well you couldn’t understand a word…

You then slipped into his room and closed the door.

He ran both hands through his hair, wanting to let out a scream.

The things he wanted to do to you…

The things you deserved done to you…

He brought one hand down to tug at his waistband, revealing his soaked cock.

Then he bit the back of his other hand.

Hard.

He didn’t even care if he drew blood.

He couldn’t take this anymore.

Engulfed with overwhelming frustration, he pressed his forehead against the tall window that overlooked Nueva York.

He had to calm down, or else he’d have to synthesise a serum to lower his levels of testosterone…

He had to find a way to stop.

As minutes ticked by, he decided to check your bio readings on his watch. Your heart rate had lowered significantly, indicating him you were now asleep.

The predator in him took control again and he paced towards his bedroom, opening the door just enough to check on you.

Fast asleep.

He walked in with careful steps, finally taking in the sight of you on his bed.

The floor-to-ceiling windows allowed for the faintest moonlight to be cast on you.

He felt his heart was about to implode as he drew near, slowly sitting by the edge of the mattress.

You lay on your back, breathing evenly and covered up to your waist with a blanket.

Miguel took a deep and shaky breath.

You smelled of him and his bedsheets smelled of you.

Such a powerful and dangerous combination, that he almost considered gripping his cock.

Bur decided against it.

Instead, he say there, staring at you, absorbing every single detail of your body.

His hand twitched as an itch took over it.

An itch he had to scratch.

He reached out to graze the back of one finger along your forearm, feeling your warmth coating his skin.

His sweet girl…

His imagination ran wild and he had hoped he could have fucked you to sleep, not sliding out of you, making sure you’d take his seed.

Pain swallowed him whole as despair settled.

What if he never managed to make you his?

What if you decided you wanted nothing more than a friendship?

How could he cope?

Suddenly, you flinched and rolled to your side and heaved a deep sigh. “Oh, Tom…”

Miguel was left petrified and his blood ran cold.

Who the fuck was Tom?

Part 4

Masterlist

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara #miguel ohara x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 #miguel o’hara x fem!reader

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nanivinsmoke · 1 month

Text

Aphrodisiac

i’ve scrapped this one shot so many times, I almost gave up on it. hope my sukuna lovers will enjoy this one.

human!Sukuna x F!Reader

summary: when you accidentally eat an aphrodisiac, your boyfriend teaches you the consequences of it.

warnings : oh where do i start? multiple orgasms, squirting, oral (f! receiving), rough sex, cream pies and body painting (?) and more.

“sukuna!” you called out while walking into the living room, hoping to find him there. his back was turned towards you, a pair of headphones propped on his head while he had a book in his hand. you stepped in front of him, causing him to finally look up at you. he pulled his headphones down and looked at you, wondering why you were in front of him with that expression on your face.

“i accidentally ate on of your gummies….and my body feels so….hot—and my um…” you begun, feeling nervous to tell him what else was wrong with you. he was now intrigued, wondering which of his gummies did you consume. “spit it out already” he spoke like he was already bored with you. “my clit is throbbing so much and look at my fucking panties they’re soaked!” a sigh escapes your lips when your panties ride on your clit as you pulled it up a tad to show him your slick.

whatever you ate had you in heat. your nipples were sensitive and if you walked a certain way an orgasm would’ve erupted through you. his crimson eyes trailed over you body before looking at you with a smirk on his face. he knew exactly what you ate and plan formulated in his mind. he tossed his stuff to the side and grabbed you by the hips, pulling you closer to him. the way his fingertips pressed into your hips made your clit throb even more, your body was totally sensitive.

you let out a breathy moan when he pulled your soaked panties down, your cunt at eye level with him. sukuna tapped your plush thigh as he laid back, guiding you to his face. when you sat down, a loud moan escaped your lips and an orgasm pushed through you. he didn’t even have to tease your clit; the heat from his mouth alone was needed for you to cum. his eyes shot open and his eyebrow rose, he couldn’t believe that you came that fast.

your sudden climax only fueled him more. his tongue swirled and sucked on your sensitive clit, making it pulsate even harder than before. he lapped up your juices like it was the last thing he would ever taste, causing you to grind your lower half on his face. his nose was pushed deeper into your cunt, stimulating your clit as he tongue fucked your aching hole. “cumming so hard for you kuna~” you said in a breathy whisper, gripping the couch’s brown arm rest as the ball in the pit of your stomach exploded.

he let your ride out your orgasm before moving you aside, sitting up afterwards. his mouth was covered with your juices making you blush at the sight. your eyes traveled down to the tent in his pants, mouth watering at the sight, palming it and watching it jump as you went. “are you going to continue teasing or are you going to free it?” his bluntness aroused you and you quickly unzipped his pants and freed his boner from his pants.

before you could even lean down to suck it, he stopped you telling you to get on your hands and knees instead. the sight of your dripping cunt being slightly covered by your fat ass made his balls swell. sukuna wasted no time and prodded his deep pink mushroom tip at your entrance, groaning at the ocean you formed in between your legs.

he entered you with no problem, your walls immediately clinging and constricting around him which made it harder for him to not burst inside of you. with a slight head turn, you glimpsed at him, “please fuck me hard kuna~”. usually you’re not able to take him when he’s fucking you deep and hard, but tonight you wanted to be fucked into the couch. a smirk etched on his face and he plunged deeper into your cunt with one stroke, a yelp escaping yours lips.

the embarrassing, yet sexy sound of air being pushed out of your cunt echoed throughout the living room as your cunt was being filled by his cock. your ass bounced against his pelvis each time he pounded into you. slutty mewls and dripplets of drool slipped from your plump lips the more he fucked your cunt sloppy.

it almost felt like you were dying and being brought back to life whenever he slammed himself deeper into you. his dick throbbed inside of you, he couldn’t stop himself from cumming either. your pussy was way too fucking good, his thick load shot out in ropes and the heat from of it made your pussy spasm; causing your third orgasm for the night.

he was breathless once he pulled out of you, sitting against the soft couch behind him. while the warm fluid pooled out of you, that overwhelming feeling soared through you again. you needed more, the strong effects of the aphrodisiac controlled you. you took him by surprise when you climbed on top of his lap, hovering over his cock before pushing it back inside of you.

“so fucking tight— mhm you’re clinging to me” he growled into your ear as your gummy walls confined to him, the fat of your ass clapping each time you reached the skin of his thighs. he loved the slutty expression that was plastered over your face, drunk off his cock as you made it yours.

the more you bounced, the more his dick became coated with your cream making it a bright shade of white. his big hands gripped the fat of your ass, the fluffyness of it melting in between his fingers as he helped bring you up and down on his cock. the feeling of his tip brushing against your sensitive spot sent flutters to your pussy and he could feel you cum again. his voice was raspy as he talked you through your orgasm.

sukuna could barely help himself when he pushed you on your back, holding your legs back with your ankles nearly touching your ears; his dick pushing inside of you once more. he ignored the sensitivity he felt and immediately began to split your pussy in half. your eyes rolled back deep into your head, showing off the whitest part of them. his name spitting off your tongue the more he fucked you silly.

you couldn’t take it anymore, you was sure he was going to break your pussy the way he was fucking you. your manicured nails scratched at his forearms; leaving welps and red markings over them. “this pussy is so fucking wet. this my pussy?” he knew you could barely answer him, your mind far away from words. instead you frantically nodded your head while taking his dick the best way you can.

the feelings of your pussy clenching around him made him go faster and caused your final orgasm to approach quicker. you didn’t warn him as a stream of clear liquid shot out of you and drenched his cock; some of it hitting his chest. he smiled seeing you squirt all over him, his climax following right after yours. “cumming loads in that pussy, yeah~?” with a few more hard and powerful strokes he began to empty the last of his balls out inside of you, before pulling out to paint the rest over your breasts.

you had learned your lesson and promised to never touch his things….sike.

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ccsainzleclerc5516 · 2 months

Text

Possessive

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x reader (y/n)

Warnings: smut, smut and pure smut!

Y/N's pov

"Come here." Carlos says through gritted teeth tightly clenching his jaw as he pulled me inside his driver's room.

"Carlos loosen your grip, you're hurting me." I resent, but he quickly cuts me off by cupping my cheeks and hungrily pressing his lips on mine.

"You're driving me insane." He says leaving passionate kisses against my neck. "I saw how others were looking at you and I can not take it." I moan quietly as he tightly grabs my waist and presses me against him.

"Feel this?" He says sliding my hand down his body and pressing it on his rock hard crotch. "It's just for you. You make me so fucking hard. I can't stand anybody looking at you and thinking they can have you the way I can." He quickly moves his hands up squeezing my boobs and sucking on the skin just below my collarbones making sure to leave marks.

"Mhm, does it make you angry that maybe someone else wants to fuck me? That someone else is thinking about what I taste like?"I look up at him with an innocent look and doe eyes while stroking him through his suit. My words arouse his possessive side even more, they make him go feral and as a punishment for me saying them a hard and harsh slap lands across my butt making me wince.

"You're lucky I didn't pull up your already too short dress and fucked you in front of them. And believe me, I barely refrained myself from doing so." He grips my hair and forcefully pushes his tongue inside my mouth.

"And by the way, about that dress, I have no fucking idea how I let you out of the house wearing that in the first place, but as soon as we get home, I'm going to rip it apart." As rough as he can be, I fucking love this side of him. When he's hungry for me, when he wants me so much that he can't hold back, I love it when he bursts with jealousy when someone looks at me. His possessiveness can be too much at times, but it has me weak and makes my legs shake in a matter of seconds.

His hand finds its way to my panties taking the thin damp material between his fingers and pulling it up. I whimper squinting my eyes as my folds suck them in adding pressure to my already throbbing clit.

"Carlos..ahh, fuck.."

"Oh, you like that? So fucking wet for me, I bet I could make you cum just by doing this, yeah?" He smirks attaching his lips to my neck. "If I wasn't this hard, I'd leave you dripping like this for not behaving right."

"Carlos, please.." The ache between my legs intensifies, I almost forget we're in his driver's room and that anybody could knock on the door and hear me panting and whimpering beneath him.

"You don't have to beg baby, I'm gonna fuck you either way even though you didn't deserve it." He pulls his suit down along with his boxers freeing his erection that sprung off hitting his lower stomach. After all this time we've been together, his size never fails to amaze me again and again. I wrap my tiny hand around his shaft stroking him a few times up and down feeling the precum already slowly leaking from his red tip.

"You're gonna be a good girl now and let me fuck you, yeah?" I eagerly nod my head desperately waiting for him to push himself into me. Fulfilling my wish, he glides his cock over my folds tapping my clit with his tip a few times before he positions his cock at my center.

"You ready hermosa? You ready to take my cock?" He hisses as he enters me without giving me time to adjust to him but aggressively starts thrusting into me. His hand lifts up my left leg making me wrap it around his waist and my back hit the wall with his every thrust.

"Oh fuck, baby, you're so big, fuck.." I whine knowing how much he likes to be praised for his size. He has been jealous from the first day we started dating, but deep down he always knew that he's the best I ever had in every way there is.

"Yeah? Can you feel me here, in your stomach? Feel how hard I am inside of you. Only this cock is yours, you know that right?" He groans into my ear. "C'mon baby, let everyone know who gets to fill you up every day, let them hear who you belong to." I cover my mouth to stop myself from screaming as I feel myself getting close.

"I'm all yours, only yours." I pant as he kisses me tugging on my bottom lip.

"That's right baby. Taking me so well and deep like always. Are you close? You gonna cream around me?"

"Yes,-uh, yess.." I arch my back against the wall as I reach my climax making a hot mess on him. Clenching around his cock my legs start to tremble by overwhelming feeling of pleasure.

"Oh fuckk..." Seeing me shiver and fall apart in his strong arms does something to him, his thrust become sloppy and soon he spills his cum inside of me pushing himself as deep as he can go.

I put my hands on his cheeks and he leans in for a now slow tender and loving kiss moving my hair out of my face. "You did so good hermosa. Te amo." He says exhaling in short breaths.

"I love you." I smile leaning my forehead against his chest still trying to regain strength in my legs. He hisses at the sight of his cum dripping down my thighs as he pulls his cock out of me.

"Now you're gonna go with me to my garage. Don't you dare move out of there until the race is over and I come back."

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tender-rosiey · 10 months

Text

off-guard — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: what happens when the trio follow their teacher once again? will they end in another maid cafe or find some very worthy tea? 👀

“okay, this is the plan: we will follow gojo-sensei to see just what the hell is up with that guy.”

megumi sighs, “last time we did that—the results weren’t exactly ‘pleasing’, itadori.”

yuuji huffs, “I beg to differ!”

“paintbrush is moving! I repeat! paintbrush is moving!” they hear nobara say through the walkie talkie.

yuji and megumi look at each other before nodding and stealthy following their teacher. each one is wearing his respective disguise of wigs and huge glasses.

meanwhile nobara, with a disguise of her own, is following gojo closely, who seems to be going into a certain café. she grumbles before whisper-yelling into the walkie-talkie, “where are you guys?!”

“we’re here, calm down!” megumi huffs.

itadori nods, “yeah! we’re going to get our cover blown like this.”

the three glare at each other before focusing once again on the moving paintbrush. the moment he opens the door, they notice his gaze searching for someone specific.

nobara covers her mouth so she doesn’t audibly gasp. does he perhaps have a lover? if so then she shall welcome the tea with open arms.

nobara, itadori, and megumi are lined outside the window of the café which makes them, undoubtedly, look suspicious. so, to save grace, megumi drags them inside into a table far from gojo who seems to have sat alone.

there is a hint of melancholy yet excitement in his eyes. each of the three prop up the menus to conceal their faces further.

nobara eyes gojo before speaking up, “who do you think he is waiting for?”

“maybe a lover?”

“or a friend,” megumi mumbles, but he rules out that possibility quickly. gojo looks nervous or at least as nervous as he could.

there is the light tapping of his feet and the way his eyes snap to the door every time the bell rings only for his eyes to brim with disappointment when it isn’t the person he is waiting for.

barely a minute passes by, but nobara and yuuji are getting impatient and nobara snaps—as quietly as she can— “where is that person?!”

“just when are they going to arrive?!” itadori joins in.

megumi sighs in the background, “we’ve been here for 2 minutes guys, please.”

their wait ends fairly quickly when they hear the excited gasp of their teacher, who stands up abruptly before eagerly waving at someone, “y/n! sweets! I am here!”

they look towards the door at the same time and they are met with a sight to be seen.

you, someone that was so pretty that yuuji passed out, are waving back at satoru before skipping over to him.

he wastes no time in wrapping his arms around you and peppering your face with kisses, “you look as pretty as ever!”

“and you’re as flirty as ever, satoru,” you pet his hair softly, “how have you been?”

he sighs, happily, before responding, “I’ve been fine, but I feel even better after I saw you,” he slowly pulls back so he can pull your chair out, “have a seat, m’lady,” he winks, “we have a date to go through.”

you roll your eyes before sitting, “isn’t chivalry dead, satoru?”

“then I must be a ghost,” he hums before sitting down as well.

“I would believe that, honestly,” you chuckle at his offended face before pointing at the top of his head, “you have the white hair and everything.”

the two of you soon get lost in your bickering and conversation. meanwhile, megumi is smacking the shit out of itadori so he wakes up and nobara is gaping at how pretty you look, “how is she even real?!”

megumi spares poor itadori, who finally woke up, before looking nobara, “I really don’t know why she would settle down for someone like him.”

itadori nods, “literally, out of everyone.”

but nobara sighs with a smile which gets the two boys’ attention.

she looks up at her teacher conversing with you, “but they look pretty in love; I mean look at the way they’re looking at each other.”

the boys turn their heads to look at the both you and they have to admit: nobara’s right. both of your eyes speak a magnitude of feelings and all of them are as gentle as a cloud.

it seems that you’re both so preoccupied by the other that you forgot everyone around you.

there is also the way gojo is holding your hand and rubbing circles on it as you talk. he is smiling so contently and so quietly like the only thing he wants to hear is you.

no wonder he didn’t notice them. he is so absorbed in you.

and the way the feeling is mutual just makes them feel very happy for their teacher even if he is annoying as hell sometimes. it’s nice how the both of you are so openly infatuated with the other.

megumi stands up before pulling itadori by the scruff, “let’s go, they need some privacy.”

Itadori struggles as he is dragged away, “why am I always treated like this?! what about nobara?!”

nobara glares at itadori before megumi stops to look at her.

she raises her fists, “don’t you even dare—“

a loud screech is heard from her as megumi drags her and itadori back to jujutsu high. a lot of passersby are staring, but megumi has seen way too much in his life to care at this point.

on the other hand, satoru is sipping his drink as you watch the kids getting dragged away, “these are your students?”

he nods excitedly before grinning, “yup! so, what do you think about them?”

“they certainly take after you,” you snicker and he narrows his eyes at you, leaning forward so his face is directly in front of your own.

“and what’s that supposed to mean?”

you shrug pushing him away with your index finger to his forehead, “it means whatever you think it means; you’re a smart guy.”

he tilts his head, a smirk instantly plastered on his face, “oh, two can play this game.”

meanwhile, in jujutsu high, the first years are sitting in their beloved classroom.

itadori pulls out the camera, “I got pictures!”

nobara snatches it, “great job itadori!” and megumi gives the boy a small thumbs up.

they browse through the many pictures he had taken and the one that catches their attention the most is a photo of you two smiling at each other, so lost in the other’s eyes, so in love.

but nobara quickly gets over it and continues browsing through the photos.

“itadori, did you get the picture?” nobara whispers to itadori and he nods eagerly.

she takes a hold of the new obtained treasure, a photo of gojo beaming without being a smug bastard, and smirks, “we’re going to get so rich after we sell this.”

“I also got this,” megumi says as he shows off a photo of gojo, somehow, getting attacked by a squirrel with you trying to help him despite laughing your ass off.

nobara gasps, “when did you even get this?!”

“a couple of moments after we left? squirrels hate him for some reason.”

nobara cackles, an evil glint in her eyes, “blackmail, baby!”

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do not copy or plagiarize or I will send the trio after you

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urhoneycombwitch · 4 months

Text

I know what they call you.

🍯 honey flavour: You’re a little lost in your head. Eddie wants to find you.

🐝 the bees: Eddie x shy!Reader, best friends Steve + Robin

wc: 11k

cw: alcohol/weed used as a social crutch, R is hassled by a guy at a party (but her boys back her up), brief vomit mention, implied bad home life for R, light SH by way of tight grip, PTSD, R has breasts+V, praise kink, oral (R receiving), one (1) spank, multiple orgasms (R), soft dom!eddie, overstim, coming in pants (E)

foreword: The healing properties of good head <333 Anyways I labeled this R “shy” but she’s more… introverted? Reserved? this one goes out to the weird and off-putting girlies who have a lot to say but are kinda quiet instead. Timeline may be a bit wibbly but designed it to be early 4th-season era, with R (early 20s) having played an undetermined part in the various Upside Down battles from seasons previous.

Loosely based on this anon every1 say thank you anon!

___

It’s spring break, 1986, and you’re cursing the name of your so-called “best friend” Robin Buckley.

You didn’t even want to go to this stupid kegger in the first place, arguing with her the whole ride over from Steve’s backseat.

“Don’t you think it’s totally lame that you’re basically being chaperoned by two gap-year losers?” you’d said, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the console, seatbelt pulling taut across your Rolling Stones tee. “You’re a big girl, Robin, you don’t need Steve and me to babysit you anymore.”

Robin began protesting but Steve interrupted, tapping at your forearms without looking away from the road- “Sit back, wouldja, that’s not safe. And for the record, it’d only be lame if we were, like, thirty and still going to high school kickbacks. Gap-year drinking parties are a rite of passage.”

You’d sat back against your seat with a huff, arms crossed, unconvinced until Robin turned those big pleading eyes your way over the back of her seat. “You wanna talk about lame? Lame is me getting anywhere within a 60-foot radius of Vickie. I am totally hopeless around that absolute beauty.”

She’d twisted in her seat and reached for your hand, and you gave it to her grudgingly (the two of you ignoring another of Steve’s gripe about vehicular safety) as she said, “You’re like, the best wingwoman I’ve ever met. Please come to the party and help me avoid the natural disaster that is me running my mouth.”

Robin wasn’t just being generous- you were a killer third wheel. Especially when alcohol was involved: the walls that you naturally upheld around your introverted demeanor by day turned liquid as whiskey by night, often scoring you major cool points with your friends for things you barely remembered doing the day after.

So you’d relented, and in turn resolved to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible (in the name of Robin’s aid, of course), but turns out your best friend didn’t even need your help in the first place; within 5 minutes of setting foot in the crammed house party Robin won a spot right next to Vickie on the living room couch, starry-eyed gaze saved only for the redhead that bore no room for your intervention.

Three shots ago, the situation would have struck you as funny, but it’s been a lonely time (what with Steve abandoning you, too, in favor of chatting up some college blonde); drifting from packed room to packed room, sneakers sticking to the floorboards, winding through throngs of sweaty dancing students just to keep on top of your alcohol consumption.

Kind of like hunting in the wild, you muse, leaned against a wall with red solo cup in hand. Flirt with Amy Thacker and her low-cut blouse to access the watering hole (Mystery Punch, green both in color and flavor); let Lenny Baker put his paws on your waist to gain entry to the standing liquor cabinet. The stuff of nature docs.

If this dimly-lit Hawkins party is the savanna, then you are the antelope- grazing on snacks, never staying in one spot for too long, minding your own business and staying way the hell away from the lion’s den (the group of jocks in Hawkins Tigers polos).

Unfortunately, you push off the wall in search of a refill at the same time Lenny Baker decides to sidle up to you, nearly knocking the cup from your grasp when he bends his thick head to shout in your ear above the music.

“Great party, right?” His arms are crossed above his tank of a chest, blocking you from a smooth exit via the kitchen archway.

“If you’re into drunk teens, I guess,” you say back, pointedly, licking a stripe up your wrist from where the punch had sloshed onto your bare arm.

When you look back up Lenny’s still standing there, watching you with a hungry edge that’s starting to make your well-honed antelope-sense tingle. As you not-so-subtly cast your glance around for Steve, Lenny leans in again, close enough to give you a sour whiff of his breath. “I’m legal, if that’s what’s got your panties in a twist. And what’s wrong with having some fun?”

“I’m not into having fun with douchebags who ‘roid away their remaining brain cells to bully my friends,” you retort, flatly. You doubt this guy knows you’re connected to the Hellfire group (de facto sitter, second only to Steve), but the insult seems to land anyways.

Lenny scoffs, going for a low blow to offset the sting of his bruised ego- “If you’re trying to play the part of slut, you were doing a way better job earlier.”

What the meathead hasn’t picked up on yet is your absolute lack of care about him- or anyone else at this stupid fucking party, for that matter. Besides Robin and Steve, obviously, but they’re equally indisposed at the moment. You’re feeling bold enough that you could play dirty: throw the dregs of your drink in his face, make a real scene- but the shots from earlier are hitting you sideways and you’re not entirely confident in your ability to multitask.

So instead, with a wink, you tell him, “At least this slut knows when to quit,” and turn on your heel, abandoning the kitchen escape route for a closer door that leads to the back porch.

You suck in lungfuls of cool night air, trying to clear the fuzz of booze from your vision. When you don’t hear any angry footsteps following in your wake, you sink against the wooden bannister and tip back the last of your drink in one swallow. Maybe Steve doubled back to the car…?

With your empty cup left neatly on the railing, you set off down the couple of steps that separate you from the grass, except the toe of your shoe catches on a hidden groove in the wood, and nothing is within reach to grab onto as you trip and begin to fall.

The stumble should have ended with you facedown in the dirt, but something- someone- solid breaks your downward path, catching the upper half of your body in a sturdy hold even as your legs twist around themselves.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, I gotcha. You okay?”

The voice is instantly familiar, one that you’ve heard ringing out from underneath the drama room door on countless occasions as you’ve waited on your various child wards to wrap up their D&D sessions.

Eddie Munson is holding you in his leather-clad arms, larger than life with that big cloud of hair and doe-eyed gaze matching yours. He helps you stand, properly, dropping his hands once you’re stabilized and taking the warmth of his palms with him.

“You okay?” he asks again, tilting his head, looking at you with fresh concern from under that mop of bangs. “Looks like you had a lot to drink.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you drawl, bravado flooding back in. “Am I really gonna get a fucking lecture on drinking from my local drug dealer?”

Instead of rising to the bait or bristling at your tone, Eddie grins- delighted, wolfish- before letting out a low whistle. “Who coulda guessed: resident Shy Girl has a mouth on her.”

You twist said mouth into your own smile, one that you hope is coy and charming and not dorkily lopsided (because you stopped being able to feel your face after that last drink), and coo, “You thinkin’ about my mouth, Munson?”

He laughs- a full, vibrant sound that lights up the night. There’s a flutter in your ribcage, knocking up a frenzy at the noise, like it wants to get out and at him, but you tamp it down and play it cool.

“You’ve only seen me in the cold, unforgiving light of day,” you continue, as Eddie rifles through his pockets, surfacing with a pack of cigs, eye contact yet to be broken. “My nighttime alter ego is a real riot, all liquored up.”

“Well, I happen to think you’re a riot in the sober light of day, too.” Eddie shrugs a shoulder as he flips the lid of the cigarette box.

You’re unsure if he’s messing with you- he’s gotta be, right? The only meaningful interaction you two have had in the past handful of years has been through the courtesy of the children in your respective care- a few surface-level conversations during carpool pickup, some flirting on his end that you’ve always been too skittish to return.

Well, until now, you guess. Maybe this is a good thing, him seeing you like this- it’ll either scare him away, or you’ll finally make good on the quiet crush you’ve been harboring.

You’re about to speak again when the porch door opens with a bang; you and Eddie swivel at the same time to see Lenny clomping noisily towards the steps, voice booming out over the thrum of bass back inside- “This freak bothering you?”

You look between the metalhead and the jock, eyes wide and mocking as you call back, “No, but you’re starting to!”

“Jesus, talk about poking the bear,” you hear Eddie mutter behind you, but your focus is taken up by the fact that Lenny is tromping down the steps and reaching out to grab your upper arm, his cold and clammy palm taking up a sizeable amount of space.

You can feel that rage, simmering and easily accessed, start to crawl over your skin. You stand your ground in the face of someone much larger than you, sneakers planted firmly, chin tilted in defiance- I’ve killed monsters in alternate dimensions, asswipe. You might’ve scared me back in high school but now I dare you to fuck with me.

Before Eddie can jump to your defense, you’re already going in for the bite, voice dripping with derisiveness. “So glad your right hand found its way off your dick for a change, Len. How about you do me one better and take it far, far away from here?”

Lenny’s face is almost purple with anger as his grip tightens, and you feel Eddie moving in at your back- to do what exactly, hard to say, ‘cuz Lenny’s got about 60 pounds on the lanky DM- but just as fast as the tension has ramped up, it gets diffused with the arrival of one Steve Harrington from around the corner of the house.

He cuts a smooth path through the grass to your other side, Robin’s sweater slung over one arm, twirling his car keys in neat loops around his finger, boasting a casual demeanor that doesn’t match up with the steely look he’s giving Lenny. “You heard the girl, Baker. Time to am-scray.”

Whether it’s the rumors of Steve’s nail bat or the manic look in your eyes or the fact that he’s outnumbered, Lenny’s got plenty of reason now to drop your arm.

Which he does, spitting one last “bitch” at you before hulking off into the night.

The anger in you recedes like a wave. You breathe out a dry laugh, then turn back to the boys, clasping your hands over your heart with faux-dopeyness. “My heroes. How will I ever repay you?”

“Shutting up, for a change, would be a great start,” Steve grouses over the sound of Eddie’s cackles.

“Holy shit. Can’t believe your girl’s feistiness almost landed me in the hospital.” Eddie shakes his head, plucking a cigarette out and sticking it between his plush lips.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve says, even as you wind your arms around his chest from behind, tucking your chin over his shoulder. “She is, unfortunately, my problem.”

“I love when you two talk about me like I’m not here.” You simper at Eddie from your draped position.

He’s watching you with a fondness that feels overly familiar, through the haze of smoke streaming from his nostrils as you pat the chest beneath your hands- “Don’t worry about ol’ Stevie boy. He’s turned into quite the good guard dog after the whole Russian mall takeover last year.”

“Aaaaand that’s enough talking from you,” Steve says firmly, twisting out of your arms and putting his own around your waist. “Say goodbye to your new buddy, we’ve got a Robin to collect.”

As Steve steers you towards the direction of his car you wave at Eddie, a motion that he returns, his rings glinting in the porch light.

“Christ, you really are somethin’ else with some drinks in you,'' Steve fusses, helping you into the backseat, hand shooting up to block the door frame before your head can collide with the metal. “Did you seriously have to bring up the Russians?”

“He probably thought it was a joke, Steve,” you say, exasperated and fighting the twisted middle seatbelt with uncoordinated hands. “You know… those things that you tell people when you wanna get in their pants?”

The crack was aimed at Steve’s recent string of strike-outs in the dating department, but he throws it back at you. “You’re trying to get in Eddie Munson’s pants?”

“No,” you sputter, indignant and feeling suddenly too hot.

Steve knocks your still-struggling hands from the belt, clicking you in himself, before pointing an accusatory finger in your face. “Stay here while I get Robin, and no throwing up in the Beemer.”

He shuts the door, Robin’s sweatshirt hanging from one shoulder while he stalks back into the house.

You let your head fall back against the seat and close your eyes, bright cherry embers of cigarettes between lush-lipped curves dancing behind the dark of your lids.

___

You manage to avoid throwing up in the BMW, saving the worst of it for the downstairs toilet of the Harrington house after Steve drags you and Robin indoors. Once your body is purged of the spirits, you collapse into your usual side of the guest bed, sweaty and exhausted, murmuring an apology to Robin who squeaks at the rocking movement of the mattress. In a few minutes, you’re lulled to sleep by the gentle snores of your best friend.

The morning sun is a very rude awakening, Robin apparently having forgotten to close the blinds before leaving with Steve for their shifts at Family Video. There’s a full glass of water on the bedside table and a few loose Tylenol tablets, the word “DRINK” sprawled on a sticky note in Steve’s handwriting.

You wince, down the meds along with half the water, and start the search for your sneakers.

When you’d signed up to protect a bunch of teens at the end of the world awhile back, it had seemed like a one-time gig. But now, here you were a few years later, loading yourself into your curb-parked junker to willingly cart around the same kids.

While wearing yesterday’s clothes. Even with the sprays of cologne that you’d stolen from Steve’s dresser, you’re pretty sure you’ll be fooling no one.

Evidenced by your first stop in east Hawkins for Dustin Henderson, who clambers into the front seat with a scathing appraisal. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, shifting the gear to drive and grimacing at the subsequent squeal of metal that pierces into your left temple. “Learn from my mistakes as a washed-up twenty-something and cool it on the teen drinking, all right?”

“Washed up though you may be,” Dustin intones sagely, digging through his backpack and producing two brown-paper bundles, “you are now one Claudia Henderson Breakfast Sandwich Deluxe richer.”

You take the proffered sandwich gratefully, steering with one hand to peel back the oil-stained paper from the still-warm bread. “God. Is your mom looking to adopt?”

“She’s kind of got the perfect child already, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground for ya,” Dustin says around a mouthful of cheese and egg.

The solid breakfast helps your stomach ease back into a place of normality, but with your next stop adding two more kids to the mix, the rowdy bickering that follows puts that Tylenol to work.

“You’re an idiot,” Max is saying to Lucas over the sound of his indignation in the back seat. “You seriously think Indiana Jones would win against Supergirl? She can shapeshift, and she has heat vision.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s really hard to see a whip coming.” Lucas is stretching the limits of his seatbelt in his earnestness to get his girlfriend on his side.

It doesn’t work- Max rolls her eyes and taps at your shoulder. “Help me out here. His logic is totally shit, right?”

Making a turn onto the main road, you nod your assent without looking back. “I think you should listen to your very smart girlfriend, Lucas.”

Max makes a triumphant “hah”, and Dustin adds fuel to the argument’s fire when he drags in some other comic book character that you’ve never heard of.

You hazard a glance in your rear-view mirror at Max, who’s too busy dishing out an enthusiastic rebuttal to notice. Her auburn braids swing with the movement of the car, and you wonder if they were done by her mother before work or if Max had to rely on her own hair expertise again.

You’ve got a real soft spot for Max, always have. While you both have plenty of cause to bond over shitty home lives, it’s also Max’s brash and defiant attitude that drew you to her. She’s got the bravery you can only hope for, something that you are sure to tell her frequently, even though the compliment is hard for her to take.

You score a parking spot that’s right in front of the arcade, calling after the kids already scrambling out of your car that you want to leave at noon, sharp. They all give some form of distracted acknowledgement before disappearing into the building, so you figure the earliest you'll be getting out of here is noon-thirty.

Not like you have much to do today, anyways, besides bother Steve and Robin at work- since the arcade is conveniently located right next to Family Video, it’s a perfect excuse to wait out the kids’ spring break activities in the company of your nearest and dearest.

You’re cutting a swift track up the sidewalk when you nearly collide with Eddie Munson, for the second time in less than 24 hours.

“Hey!” He beams at you, a wide, easy thing that fits on his face so well, like it was made to be there, boyish dimples digging in. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to smile back but probably landing somewhere in the grimace region as memories of last night float to the forefront of your mind. Small talk. You can do it. Say something. “Um. Were you getting a movie?”

“Nah.” Eddie shakes his head, hooks a thumb at the Family Video doors behind himself. “Keith’s one of my regulars. That guy might actually smoke more weed than me.”

You hum mildly to show you’re still paying attention but really you’re looking at Eddie’s hair, dark curls that shift with each of his movements. His hair isn’t black, like you’ve been led to believe this whole time- with the morning light shining through, highlighting the halo frizz around the edges, it’s actually a deep, chocolatey brown.

Similar to his eyes. Which are trained on you. Because you haven’t talked in a weird amount of time and are now just openly ogling his hair.

Before you can open your mouth to apologize Eddie asks, “You wanna smoke?”

You nod, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, and then stretch on your tiptoes to peer around Eddie’s frame at the Family Video sign. “Yeah, but we gotta be fast unless you want the Wonder Twins joining us.”

His grin slips into a smirk, and he winks before taking your hand in his. “A quickie, then.”

That fluttering thing in your ribs is back. The metal of Eddie’s rings are cool against your palm as he leads you around the side of the building, dropping your hand once you both are leaned up against the red brick.

Trying not to outright stare again, you watch from the fringes of your vision as Eddie lights up and breathes a cloud of smoke into the air. His nails are painted black- they weren’t last night. An image of him- hunched over a kitchen table, tongue sticking out of those pillowy lips in concentration, a nail polish brush held in his long fingers- flits across your mind.

Eddie holds the cigarette out, filter-side towards you, and you shake your head lightly. “No thanks. I don’t actually smoke, I just wanted to talk to you.”

Eddie glows. Before he gets the wrong idea you start explaining, arms crossing tight over your chest in unconscious defense- “I wanted to talk about last night. And say I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”

“Badass? Charming? Hot?” Eddie fills in when you trail off, taking in another deep drag of smoke.

Christ. You feel heat rushing from head to toe as you ward off his flattery, nails nipping into your upper arms. “I was gonna say… talkative? I guess? I’m normally not one to pick fights, but Lenny was being a dick and I don’t like the way he treats the kids, or you, for that matter, and I was drunk and mouthy but that’s not an excuse to drag you into it and I’m sorry-”

“Hey, hey.” Eddie’s tone is soothing, low, cutting smoothly into your feverish confession. He reaches out and strokes the back of his knuckle across your hand, tiny half-moons from your nails leaving their impression as you soften your grasp on yourself.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you can’t look anywhere but at your sneakers planted in the gravel as he says, “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. I’m a big boy, I can handle myself when it comes to dickwads like Lenny Baker. And I would say that rescuing fair maidens is part of my job description, but…”

Eddie stubs the half-smoked cigarette out against the brick, flicks it to the ground, and waits until you look up at him again before saying “You don’t seem like you’re in need of any saving.”

That flutter, again, as you hold his eye contact for as long as you can stand it.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “There she is.”

Mortified, you resist the urge to scream into your hands as you push off from the brick, instead squeezing them into fists at your sides. “Oh-kay. Well. I better head inside or Robin will send out the search party for me.”

Eddie lets you walk past him, but just before you turn the corner he says, “I’m across from the Mayfields in Forest Hills if you ever want some company. Or some good weed.”

Footfalls from his thick-heeled boots recede into the distance, and you take a minute to calm your breathing before pushing your way through the doors of Family Video.

Steve’s stocking a shelf of New Releases at the front of the store, vest-clad torso faced away as the bell above the door signals your entrance. On autopilot he monologues, “Welcome to Family Video, let us know how we can be of service.”

“Aw, I miss the days when you were forced to say Ahoy, mateys!” You tease, Steve turning to give you an irritated frown as you prop your hip against the register counter.

Robin clacks away on the computer, hitting the Enter key a little harder than necessary as she says, “You’re about one mall fire and a bajillion NDA’s too late to ever hear that shit again.”

Keith must be lurking around in the back office, ‘cuz the three of you only refer to last year’s cataclysmic series of events as a “mall fire” when you’re talking in code.

Or if you’re trying to be funny. But based on the dark circles under Robin’s eyes and the harried way Steve’s shoving a hand through his hair as he drifts towards the counter, you surmise that the three of you are very much on the same page this morning with regards to humor and hijinks.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be this hungover,” Robin groans, sinking her hand into a torn-open Skittles bag and popping a handful into her mouth. “Sugar is supposed to help, right?”

You snort, fiddling with a stack of paper brochures as Steve leans against the counter.

“Had any more run-ins with the town riffraff?” He asks, feigning casual, honey-colored eyes roaming around the shop.

“I’m visiting you, aren’t I?” You shoot back, unreasonably defensive.

“Another point for the pretty lady, and Harrington strikes a zero,” Robin totals in her best sports broadcasting voice. “What the hell are you talking about, Steve?”

“Drinky McGee over here was spilling her guts last night to none other than Edward Munson,” Steve replies, looking satisfied when Robin’s eyes bug dramatically.

“Eddie?” Robin hops off the stool, sliding her hands from the other side of the counter to stop your own from ripping the brochures to shreds. “And what, pray tell, were you spilling about with Eddie Muson?”

“Nothing.” You pull your hands from Robin’s, rolling your eyes as if the stakes are low, when in fact the stakes are as tall as the Empire State Building. You can practically hear the wind whistling from this height. “I wasn’t… we barely talked. He was backing me up when some jock started messing with me. That’s all.”

Robin whirls on Steve with animosity- “You left her alone long enough for some meathead to get involved? Jesus, Steve, the hell is wrong with you?”

“Like you shacking up with Vickie after two Tears for Fears tracks is any more responsible!” Steve snaps.

Having spent enough time with both your friends to know their propensity towards petty arguments, you slap a hand against the counter to derail. “Hey! Both of you knock it off. It’s fine, I’m fine, we survived yet another night out on the town unscathed. Let’s just… drop it.”

Steve looks properly chastised, but Robin gets a glint in her eye that confirms she’s not thrown off the scent so easily.

“You know what they call him, right?” she asks you, lowering her raspy voice even further.

“Eddie The Freak Munson,” Steve supplies, but shrinks noticeably when Robin gives him a withering look. “...not that, then?”

“Of course you, Steve The Hair Harrington, would only know him by that name.” Robin shakes her head, disapproving, before turning back to you with a wicked grin. “Word on the street holds Eddie The Munch Munson in very high regard.”

Steve scoffs at this, but you blink, uncomprehending. “Munch, like… he eats a lot of food?”

You feel very suddenly and violently ganged up on when Steve and Robin give you mirrored quizzical looks.

“No, babe,” Robin says, slowly. “Munch as in he eats pussy.”

“Jesus christ.” Heat courses through you as you scan the empty store, even as Steve chuckles and says, “You really are a prude.”

A skittle sails airborne into the side of his temple and he flinches, Robin coming to your aid. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Steven.”

“I’m so not a prude.” You’re quick to jump to your own defense. “I just… didn’t know what that meant.”

You’d had a boyfriend for 6 months your sophomore year of high school, Ben- nice enough guy, but you’d mostly dated as an excuse to get all your firsts out of the way. Some laid-back hookups have occurred since then- it’s not like you’ve been chaste all these years, for fuck’s sake.

But you certainly wouldn’t give any of those boys a prize-winning nickname for their ability to eat you out.

“It’s all baseless gossip, right?” Steve grabs a nearby wheeled cart and pushes it to the New Releases, resuming his shelf stocking. “I mean, what the hell else are small-townies good for other than trading lies like baseball cards.”

“I dunno,” Robin says, thoughtfully, sucking at her front teeth. “If the token lesbian is hearing about it, then he’s gotta be some sort of sex god.”

Steve’s making a snarky comeback, but you can’t hear him over the whistling in your ears.

You stare blankly out at the parking lot, one hand absently crunching at a brochure, trying really hard to think of anything but those plush lips and all the places you want them.

____

Ever since the events of last year ripped a hole in your found family’s world, you make it a weekly habit to visit Max.

You’re always armed with some excuse- made too much pasta, please take it off my hands and put this tupperware in your fridge; I was on my way to the thrift store and thought I’d stop by, wanna come with and help me pick out some new jeans?- so that it’s harder for Max to deny your company. Slowly, over the last handful of months, by way of secondhand book offerings and slices of leftover pizza, Max has let her guard down enough to let you in.

Even on days like today, when her demeanor suggests active disdain (calling you “mom” with a caustic bite when you ask after her last meal, rolling her eyes when she finds you doing the leftover sink dishes), you don’t take it personal. Her coldness towards little acts of kindness is due to the shitty way other people have failed her. And plus, you’ve put in enough effort to be able to see the warm side of Max Mayfield.

Like now, for instance- she’s giving you a bone-crushing hug on your way out, freshly-braided hair pressed tight to your sternum as you hug her back and sway in the doorway. The hug is quick and fierce, over in seconds as she slips back into practiced indifference

“Stay out of trouble this week and I’ll buy you a pony,” you joke as she pulls away, and the smile that she cracks makes it all worth it.

“Make it a racehorse and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she says, giving you a small wave before closing her front door.

You walk down the dirt path to your parked car, keys in hand. Tonight’s schedule is that of a responsible, sensible young adult- the classified ads on your desk at home need trawling through, and a laundry pile the size of Hoosier Hill waits expectantly on your floor.

But there’s this crawling under your skin, a feeling that tends to flare up every so often, a craving for some sort of release gnawing at the edges. Usually the cure is sad music and masturbation, or some of Steve’s parents’ wine and a cheesy romcom.

Or weed. That tends to work, too.

You’re shoving your keys into the pocket of your denim jacket and walking across the way to Eddie’s trailer before you lose your nerve, scuffing your sneakers against his porch while you knock.

He looks surprised to see you, dark brows raised, leaning into the palm he’s got on the doorframe- “Oh shit. Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, tracking one foot up the back of your calf, feeling timid under his gaze. “Do you… can I buy some weed?”

When he nods, you duck under his arm and drop to one knee on the carpeted floor to untie your laces.

“Shit, sweetheart, don’t go to all that trouble.” He lets the door close, enveloping you both in the moody lighting of his trailer. There’s a radio playing the local rock station dimly from one of the bedrooms, and as you toe off your shoes you notice a gleaming black guitar leaned upright against the couch.

“Do you play?” You drift over on sock feet to gently brush across the strings, a faint and discordant noise rising and fading underneath your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice comes from just over your shoulder as he watches your gentle fingers on his prized possession. “I’m in a band, actually. You should come see us play sometime.”

“That’s cool,” you say earnestly. “I remember when you got in trouble for that talent show performance- your band was totally swindled out of first place, if you ask me.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you hazard a look at him over your shoulder and find him staring at you again, something you’re still not used to, giggling out a little “What?” as his eyes stay on your face.

“You’re pretty, that’s all.” The Dio logo on the front of his tee ripples when he shrugs a shoulder. As if he knew it would embarrass you, he leaves no room for your disagreement, turning away into the kitchen, stretching tall for the metal lunchbox on the top of his fridge.

His shirt lifts with the stretch, a flash of stomach lined with a trail of dark hair that makes you swallow back the gathering saliva in your mouth.

“So, weed,” he’s saying as he pops the lid on the box, shaking out a small bag of fuzzy-looking green clumps. “I can set you up with a couple of days’ worth, if you want.”

“That sounds good,” you reply, mustering courage to drift to Eddie’s side, pretending to assess the baggie he’s holding, committing to memory the way his long fingers deftly pluck apart bud from stem. “That way I can come back and buy more.”

His fingers pause, halfway to the metal grinder nestled in the lunchbox as he says, “You know, you don’t need to use weed as an excuse to come see me. I think we’ve already established I like lookin’ at ya, so you’d be doing me a favor if you came by more. Just to hang out.”

This offer sits between you as he grinds the weed down, then tips a stripe of it neatly across some rolling paper. His dexterous fingers pinch and tuck until a joint takes shape, a small strip of the paper poking out.

He holds it to your lips, brown eyes shimmering with warmth as he waits.

A Stevie Nicks song starts up on the radio, muffled by the trailer walls but crooning through all the same. This close to Eddie for the first time, you can smell him- balmy and spicy, like bergamot and Irish Spring.

You lean into the joint, licking across the paper in one unbroken motion. Your tongue catches on Eddie’s thumb when you pull away, and there’s a salt-warm taste that settles in your mouth.

“Good girl,” he says, in that low-toned voice, and you have to fight to keep your thighs from pressing together in your jeans.

“Wanna smoke here?” Eddie smooths the spit-damp end of the joint down, giving the end a twist. “Good way to test out the merchandise. First one’s free.”

You shake your head as he extends the joint- “I’m definitely paying you, Eddie. And no, I can’t smoke here.” With you being the unspoken addition to that sentence.

“Aw, shucks, sweetheart,” he drawls, devilish grin creeping back in, “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

His brows shoot up again, then waggle, obscenely. “Afraid I’m gonna be too tempting to resist once you’re in the clutches of the Green Dragon?”

Something like that, you think, wryly, but that fluttering is back and you really want to shut it up, so against your sensible, better judgment, you take the joint from Eddie’s hand.

“Got a light?”

You haven’t smoked in over a month, and with your tolerance so low two hits is all it takes to get you sprawled out on the living room floor, arms akimbo like you’re making a carpet snow angel.

Eddie’s a bit more restless in his high, plucking melodious and listless tunes from the couch with his guitar, one foot propped on the coffee table near your head.

Feeling loose-limbed and confident, you stare unabashed up at Eddie. He’d put his hair into a low bun, earlier, and there are a few dark tendrils swinging free around his neck with the rocking movements of his body to the music.

He hits a snag, string buzzing out a dissonant noise. “Can’t focus with you lookin’ at me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, except you’re not at all. “Now you know how I feel all the time.”

He sticks his tongue out at you, your girlish tittering in answer; you pat the carpet beside your hip. “Come lay with me.”

His body responds easily to your request; Eddie props the guitar back up against the couch and stretches out next to you with a sigh, a wave of that smokey sweet smell coming with him.

Under your weed-filtered view, the popcorn ceiling above you is moving, whorling and undulating in the muted light. You’re feeling gutsy and sure of yourself as you ask aloud, “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

Your head turns so you can meet Eddie’s eyes, which are dancing across your face- cheek to lips to nose back up to eyes- and he doesn’t make a joke, this time, his words coming with weighty seriousness.

“Yeah, I do. I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Always?” Your echo is a soft and seeking thing.

“Yeah, always,” he confirms, simply, as if it’s a fact of life. “Woulda made a move sooner, but you always seemed so…”

“Unapproachable? Aloof? Bitchy?” You fill the gap in his speech with adjectives that have been used to characterize you in the past- usually by boys in the heat of an argument over inconsequential things that have been lost to time, only the labels sticking around.

Eddie gives you a reproachful look. “No. I was gonna say, you seemed like you were always in your own world.”

This throws you for a loop. Neck on a swivel, you look back up at the ceiling as Eddie continues.

“I wanted to get to know you more, but I’ll be the first to admit I was intimidated by you. I mean, you’re way out of my league-” Eddie ignores the sardonic snort you give to this- “-and I just assumed asking you out would've ended with an epic crash and burn.”

The ceiling stops swaying, and you swivel back to hold Eddie’s eyes again, the weed making honesty easy. “I always kinda thought you were beautiful, too.”

Awash with the bravery that only comes from being in an altered state, you keep the momentum that’s aided by Eddie’s soft smile and push up on your elbows.

“I know what they call you.”

Eddie blinks up at you, then slowly, slowly, pushes himself up onto his elbows too. “Yeah?”

It’s a taunt, a dare, an I bet you won’t.

Shows how much he knows. When you’re drunk or stoned, he’d be hard pressed to find a bet you can’t win.

You say it, unwavering. “Eddie The Munch Munson.”

His lips fall open, leaning in towards you as if drawn by a magnet, and you think he’s gonna kiss you until he falls back against the carpet, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Shit. Fuck. We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” You’re a little taken aback, ‘cuz while it’s not an outright rejection, Eddie’s upping the drama, hands pressed into the sockets of his eyes, groaning as he tips into your side.

With his forehead pressed into the curve of your shoulder, he says softly, “I think we’re both a little too stoned to be thinking clearly. And I really, really want you to think clearly when it comes to this.”

“Comes to what?” You’re egging him on now, trailing your fingers up his bicep, coy and angelic.

He rolls away from you, making a pained noise with his face smushed into the carpet before pushing himself off the ground. “You know what, princess. New topic, for the love of god. You hungry?”

You are, actually, and when he extends his hand to help you up, you take it.

Eddie whips up a box of mac and cheese while you sit on a counter nearby, conversation engaging and fluid as he cooks.

Between interjections of ‘scuse me, angel, gotta get into this cabinet and can you take over stirring for a sec? you answer all his questions. You tell him your favorite bands, the states you’d visited on a road trip when you were six, even giving him the whole “my mom’s a nice enough person but we don’t get along” spiel that you don’t usually get to until a third date.

If that’s even what this is. He’s scooping steaming noodles into two bowls, passing you one, leaning up against the counter closest to the one you’re sat on. Your knee rubs against his ribcage as you eat.

In between chews, he lets you ask about himself- his favorite bands, the states he’s never been but wants to travel to someday, the highlights of his golden years with his mom that he misses every day.

There’s a quiet lull, after your bowls are scraped clean and set aside. He helps you off the counter and tells you to pick out a movie; you load The Black Cauldron into the VCR and settle into the couch cushion.

Eddie puts an arm around you, lets you play with his hands for the bulk of the film, running your nails methodically across his palms.

By the last act of the movie, you can feel your high beginning to fade, taking your courage with it; when the credits roll, you’re ready to call it quits and sleep off the hangover in your own bed.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Eddie asks, following after you as you tug your sneakers back on in the hall.

“Yeah, Eddie, I’ll be good. Thanks for the weed,” you say, pulling your jacket tight around your frame. “And for the- for everything.”

The smile appears again; the one that cuts deep dimples into his cheeks as he watches you step onto his porch.

When he says your name, you turn, keys in hand- “Yeah?”

Leaning into the doorframe like he had earlier, he cants his head, streetlight a warm glow across his cheeks. “You wanna know where I got my nickname, you come back in a few days. Sleep on it tonight.” And then he closes the door.

___

So, technically, he told you to come back in a few days, and showing up less than 24 hours later has to hint at being some sort of desperate.

Which, fuck it, you kinda are, at this point. Frankly it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long what with the whole being plagued with visions of Eddie Munson’s hands and lips and hair and that stupid fucking nickname every waking and dreaming hour you’ve spent apart.

While you can appreciate the honorable nature of Eddie asking you to make a clear-headed decision, you’re wishing for a hundred things to take the edge off as you change out of the PJ’s you’ve been moping in all day.

Black tights stretch over your calves as you think of the whiskey you mom keeps hidden in the downstairs cabinet; denim miniskirt smoothed over your hips as you long for a deep hit of weed; hands shakily plucking your black tanktop into place as the urge to be anything but sober gets swallowed down.

You make the ten minute drive to Forest Hills in silence (relative to the weird engine noises your hunk of metal car decides to make), wracking your brain for silver-tongued excuses but instead drawing blank after blank.

By the time you’re rolling to a stop in front of Eddie’s trailer, you still have no idea what you’re gonna say to him- only that something needs to be said. Max is at the Sinclair’s for the night, one less person to worry about witnessing you slamming your car door shut and walking right up to Eddie on his front steps.

He’s wearing a pair of overalls, grease-stained, shirtless underneath- the tail end of a larger ink piece peeking out against his ribs. There’s a lone bike tire on the ground, held steady by the spokes his boot rests on as he wrenches the middle hub, biceps rippling and flexing with each movement.

Certainly a sight that would have stopped you in your tracks, on any other day. But you’re determined to have it out with the returning wingbeat behind your navel, planting your Converse in the gravel just before the first step that Eddie’s sat on.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see you this time, instead giving you a lazy smile on a half-tilt, wiping the tire oil from his hands onto the front of his overalls.

“What brings a fair maiden such as yourself to this ugly neck of the woods?” Eddie leans the tire up against the steps and rises to greet you.

You’re gonna lose what little nerve you have left if he touches you so you act quick, speaking as you cross your arms- “I need to tell you a few things.”

That stops him up short, just a few feet away as he inclines his head, hair loose around his bare shoulders. “I’m nothin’ but ears.”

A wet, rattling breath catches in your chest. You give a cursory scan around to confirm that the rest of the trailer park citizens are indoors, soft lights from rows of windows luminous against the darkening twilight sky.

“I have a… a thing,” you start, unsure of where to begin, really wishing you’d come up with a polished script on the ride over instead of being forced to flounder through for the right dialogue. “It started last year. With the mall fire?”

When Eddie nods his understanding, you continue, in short starts and bursts, like you’re fighting with the words before they come out.

“Something… happened. To Robin, and Steve, and to- to me. It was really bad, for awhile, and then it got better, but I’m still…” your hands squeeze tight into the flesh of your upper arms, nails stinging. “I’m fucked up from it. And the only way I can talk about it is if I’m fucked up, too. S’why I can only hold a conversation when I’m drunk or flirt while I’m high, like there’s this bad thing inside of me that I can’t look at when I’m sober-”

There’s a frantic edge that’s slipped in to your voice and Eddie steps towards you, as if to soothe, but you’re not ready to give in yet so you take a step back, choking out the last few words- “I just- I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t, not yet, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

From somewhere in the forest behind, a bright chorus of crickets swells as you fix your focus on the ground, as Eddie’s boots crunch forward on the gravel, toe-to-toe with your sneakers.

He moves carefully, as if worried that you’ll spook- lightly brushing his fingers across yours, drawing your awareness to the fact that your nails are dangerously close to drawing blood, a sigh as you release.

“Thank you for telling me.” Unlike your own voice, his is low and sure as his thumbs brush against the red half-moons in your arms. “You’re really brave, you know that?”

He doesn’t leave room for you to dispute this, instead tracing the underside of your jaw with his knuckle, forcing you to hold his gaze, those deep brown eyes soft with empathy as he says, “I don’t have any expectations of you, ‘kay? I’ll be all ears when you need me to be, but you don’t have to spill all your secrets every time you come around. You wanna just watch shitty cartoons and keep my couch warm, that’s fine by me. Nothin’ else needs to happen.”

And it’s his acknowledgement of your admission, his softhearted way of letting you know that nothing needs to happen, that makes you brave.

Brave enough to tilt your chin into the lift of his finger as you say, “I didn’t just come here to apologize.”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob against the taut vein in his neck as he swallows, hard.

“Yeah?”

When you nod, Eddie blows out a breath and turns on his heel, motioning you to follow him up the stairs.

Your eagerness is obvious as you scramble up the steps after him, heart starting to thrum in tandem with the flutters as he shuts his front door behind the both of you.

“Take your shoes off,” is all he says, in a low, strained voice, before turning into the kitchen.

Obedient, you drop to one knee and jerk apart your sneaker laces with trembling hands.

Now on nyloned feet, you step onto the linoleum tile of Eddie’s kitchen. He’s faced away from you at the sink, taut lines of his shoulders rising and falling as he washes his hands.

“You’re sober?” He asks, still at the sink, drying his hands on a patterned teatowel.

When you realize he can’t see your nod, you speak- “Yes. Yeah. As a judge.”

A soft exhale through his nose, amused, as he finally turns to face you. Eddie’s eyes do that hypnotizing dance- skipping from your chin to your eyes to your lips back up again- and you let him, feeling exposed to the point of nakedness with the intensity of his focus.

“I want to hear you say it.”

The sentence winds through the air, joins the wings in your stomach, sits low in your belly as you shift your weight from side to side, a gentle rock to ease your flayed-alive nerves.

You say it. “I want your mouth.”

Eddie takes a step closer, nearly toe-to-toe with you again. Over the familiar layer of bergamot and fresh hand soap he smells like the outdoors, and faintly of mechanic oil, hearty and wild.

“Where?” It’s a single word, but with so much weight- suggestive, a taunt, an offer.

You breathe him in, eyes fluttering closed, ‘cuz brave as you’ve been it’s still hard to say some things while looking at him. “Want your mouth… on me.”

He crowds into your space, one hand gliding smoothly to set against your waist, the other fitted against your neck, tapping a thumb to your lips.

You part them, passive and wanting, but he doesn’t press his finger to the pad of your tongue like you’d hoped. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke to the corner of your mouth to make room for his own.

“Where?” he asks again, this time into your mouth. You can feel the tip of his nose graze yours, pinpricks of his hair tickling your cheeks.

“Please,” is all you manage this time, awash with heat when you feel his smile form.

“S’okay, sweetheart. I’ll work you up to it.” It’s a touch condescending, skirting that fine line between tease and mean, the same tone of voice that has your thighs pressing together.

And then, he gives you what you asked for. His plush lips- the ones that you’ve been fantasizing about for what feels like eons- are pressing against yours.

It’s a kiss that starts chaste, tender, but soon devolves into a heady, fevered thing when you push your tongue past the seam of his lips. He melts into you, using the hand he has on your face to keep you steady as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, grazing his teeth into the plush of it before going back to twining his tongue with yours.

There’s an audible wet click as he pulls away, both of your chests heaving in the quiet that follows; Eddie rests his forehead against yours briefly to catch his breath, and then he’s tugging you down the hall and into his room.

It’s pleasantly messy and lived-in, posters and photographs taking up most of the walls, guitar cables snaking and criss-crossing atop his dresser. You take a seat on the bed, hands tightening into the flannel duvet while Eddie begins to undo the buttons of his overall straps.

Wholly fascinated, you watch as he pushes the thick material from his body and kicks it to the side, leaving him in just his guitar pick necklace and a simple pair of black boxers. Now on full display, you drink in the sight of the most skin you’ve ever seen of his- tattoos at his chest and arms dark against the rest of him, pale and gleaming softly in the yellow light of the bedside lamp.

You’re trying to figure out if the larger piece on his ribs is a dragon or some other mythological creature when he moves in to sit next to you, his kisses erasing all thoughts.

Eddie’s making these throaty little noises as you kiss; his hands track lines from your hips to your sides to your shoulders, your chest unconsciously pressing into his touch.

When his thumb catches on the outline of your beaded nipple through your shirt, he hisses lightly, drawing back to look at you again- “Is this okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with that, tsking as he swipes with his thumb again, watching closely as you react silently to the touch.

“Hard to tell when you’re enjoying yourself if you’re quiet as a churchmouse,” Eddie says, in a tone that’s reminiscent of training a pet. “You gonna let me hear you?”

Your teeth catch on your lower lip as he thumbs across your nipple again, shockwaves coursing into goosebumps as you choke out, “I’m not s-so good at that. Not without- fuck- weed..”

Eddie huffs a laugh, a little derisive but you figure he’s probably got the right, seeing as how you’re this worked up and he’s barely touched you.

“You’re plenty good at this sober, sweetheart. Want me to prove it?”

His hand falls from your breast, extricates one of yours from the covers, and slides it up the meat of his thigh- then to the front of his boxers.

The first noise you make for him is a small gasp, one that matches his own as you cup your palm over the thick jut of his hard cock.

“Told you,” he says, sounding strung-out, his hand still closed around your wrist, “You’re doin’ just fine at working me up.”

You wrap your fingers around the bulge as best you can with the fabric of his boxers separating skin from skin, gaining confidence to explore as his grip on your wrist loosens. The black ink at his ribs expands and shrinks with the bellows of his breath, jolting and stuttering with each stroke of your hand.

Just as he’s drawing in a breath to speak, tightening his hold around your wrist in warning, you still your movements. Delicately, slowly, you slide out of his grasp and take his wrist in your hand, placing his palm on your own thigh.

The whole “reciprocating pleasure with sound” is still a hard one to give in to; maybe you can compensate for your hesitancy by showing instead of telling. You guide his hand up, into your skirt, parting your thighs until his fingers find the wetness soaking through both your panties and tights.

“Fucking… jesus.” Eddie moves with the fluid surety that you lack, middle finger running up the seam of your clothed pussy, your hips jerking reflexively when he catches against your clit. “This all for me, princess?”

In answer, you lean to bury your face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He lets you, taking the opportunity to hook your leg over his thigh, spreading you out as much as your fitted denim skirt will allow.

You pant into the column of his throat as he strokes you through the light layers, the fabrics grinding friction into your clit caught under his fingertip. He rests his chin on the crown of your head, cooing praises that have your stomach muscles tensing.

“That’s it, good girl, such a good girl for me.”

Your clit is throbbing now as he rubs you in small, quick circles, and you’re so close to falling over the edge that you have to pull his hand away.

Eddie picks up on your unspoken plea; he tugs the skirt down your hips then tosses it blindly over his shoulder, reaching for the edge of your tights. He slips them down your thighs, your calves, peeling them off you with reverence. When all that’s left is your best pair of satin panties, he maneuvers you up against the headboard and stretches himself flat on his stomach, nose pressing into your core.

That heat has come back, flashing through you with a vengeance as Eddie mouths at your pussy through the satin, sloppily but with purpose enough to have your cunt clenching around nothing.

You stay up on your elbows, watching that mane of dark hair bracketed by your thighs, but when Eddie pulls your underwear down and off your ankle your weight falls back against the mattress.

The flat of his tongue licks a wide stripe from your weeping hole up to spread the wetness around your clit. When he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth, your head presses back into the covers, hands grappling above you for something to anchor your grasp.

When Eddie flicks the point of his tongue against that bright spot of nerves your hands find a pillow to grip, and when he moans into your pussy the vibrations have you instinctively pulling the pillow against your face, teeth biting into the fluff, masking the whine that would have been loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You think you might be able to get away with this setup (what with Eddie seemingly focused on making you explode into a million little pieces) but there’s a sharp smack before the outer skin of your thigh is burning, white-hot from the kiss of his rings.

Eddie’s mouth leaves you only for the time it takes for him to rip the pillow from your grasp and scold, “Uh uh, none of that, c’mon,” and then he’s back at your clit, suckling with renewed vengeance.

There are little stars bursting at the edges of your vision, your hands shooting down to grip at Eddie’s hair when he pistons the point of his tongue against you again. Your hips are subtly bucking into his mouth, shaking thighs involuntarily closing around his ears. Normally you’d be concerned about Eddie’s air intake but going off the moans he’s burying in your pussy, you’d hazard a guess that he’s really into it.

As if in confirmation, he pulls off your clit with a wet pop, laving his tongue up the junction where thigh meets pelvis, voice sounding wrecked- “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Fuck, you got me so hard. Gonna blow a load in my boxers like a teenager, y’taste so good. Gonna let me hear you? Hm? Wanna hear you.”

You’re dizzy with want as you prop yourself on your elbows again, mouth falling open as Eddie sinks two of his fingers up to the ringed knuckle inside your velvet walls.

His other hand comes to rest on the soft curve of your stomach, pinning you in place, before he looks up at you, black pupils nearly eclipsing the chocolate brown.

“What do you want?” he asks again, patiently, as if he doesn’t have two fingers nestled inside your cunt.

Your efforts to grind into him are stopped with his firm hold on your middle, and he tuts at you again- but instead of a reprimand, he seems to soften a bit.

“C’mon, angel,” Eddie says, with such tenderness that makes tears prick at the corner of your eyes. He presses his lips to the inside of your thigh before encouraging, “Lemme hear you say it, and I’ll make it so good for you. Promise.”

“Want you to make me come. Please.” Your voice is unsteady, but it’s audible enough.

Eddie rewards you by sinking his fingers further, to the hilt, heel of his palm catching against your clit. When you let out a warbling moan, he nods- “That’s it,”- before setting a steady rhythm for fucking his fingers up into you.

“Fuck, Eddie- fu-uck…” you’re trying, really trying to stay in the moment and not get caught up in the noises you’re making- for him.

When Eddie reattaches his mouth to your throbbing clit and angles his fingers to hit into that soft, spongy spot with each thrust, you feel waves of pleasure start to wash through you. There’s just time for a choked “Shit, Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum,” before you’re spasming around his fingers.

Somehow, you manage to stay on your elbows, bracing your body through the convulsive shocks, white-hot stars joining the wingbeat rhythm as Eddie takes you apart with his mouth and fingers.

He moans, long and low, fucking you through it and then some- your orgasm has been completely wrung out when you push at his forehead, whimpering at the overstimulation.

“No, baby, one more, please. Gimme one more,” Eddie lifts his head to plead with you, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead- and then he’s back between your legs.

It’s this moment that makes you retrospective. Sex with boys, in the past, has always been a quick means to an end: a few minutes of foreplay, tamping down your own pleasure for the sake of blowing off some steam.

But now, pleasure was being given to you in spades by Eddie Munson, and you wanted to give it back to him.

You come on his tongue and fingers, again, stomach tightening beneath his warm palm, and this time you really loose the sounds caught in your chest: a strangled mix of your bliss-soaked whines with his name, Eddie Eddie Eddie.

You feel the bed frame jolt below you both as Eddie’s hips thrust into the mattress in a frenzied tempo.

“Fuck me.” He pulls away, finally, panting into the side of your knee. He rests his head against your leg, lips tinged pink and shining wet, gazing at you with lust-blown eyes. “You are so fucking hot. Holy shit.”

Bashful as your peak wears off, you pull him forward so you don’t have to look at him when you whisper, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, princess,” he says, slumping against your chest and into your arms. “That’s going straight to my long-term spank bank. Number one. For sure.”

You slap playfully at his shoulder, and he rises on his elbows to kiss you- once on the lips, twice on the cheek- warm palms on the outside of your shoulders.

“Are you… d’you need any help?” you ask, reaching to tuck his hair behind his ears, feeling the crush of insecurity leech in. “I dunno if you even- I mean, did you…”

From all the physical activity, your breasts are half-spilled out of your bra, and Eddie bends to kiss at the tops of them, affectionately, shaking his head as he goes. “There is no world in which I would’ve lasted, just now. Very noble of you to assume, though.”

He grins at your giggle, then says- “I dunno about you, but I need some new underwear. Wanna borrow a pair of my boxers? Bet you’d look cute.”

________

Later, when you’re both cleaned up, dressed, and full from a pizza delivery, Eddie invites you outside for a smoke.

You sit with him on the porch couch, legs slung over his, a big flannel blanket shared over both your laps while he smokes with the hand that isn’t on your thigh.

There’s a crunching of wheels on gravel, and Max Mayfield’s bike lamp cuts through the dark.

“Hey, Heavy Metal,” she calls out, undoing her bike helmet and leaning her bike into its kickstand. “Are you done fixing up Lucas’s tires or do I have to keep hauling my ass all the way across town to see him?”

“I’ll have it done tomorrow, Red,” Eddie calls back, giving her a salute.

Halfway to her door, she remarks, “You two are gross, by the way,”

You cross your arms in the sweatshirt Eddie loaned you, slipping into irksome older sister mode easily. “So how’d it go with your boyfriend, tonight, Maxine?”

She flips you both off, but you catch the smile on her face before the front door bangs shut behind her.

Eddie chuckles, smoothing his palm up your thigh, then takes another drag. “You gotta come night smoke with me more often, angel. The streetlights suit you.”

“Gonna get me hooked on nicotine, too?” Your sock foot pokes him in the ribs and he tuts, snapping it up in his free hand and digging his thumb into the arch of your sole.

“Fuck no, your teeth are too pretty to ruin. Want you to come keep me company while I destroy my lungs.”

Another cloud of smoke lifts dreamily around Eddie’s face. His thumb is working wonders on the tense muscle of your foot as you tip your head to rest on the back of the couch. With the nearby streetlamp, his profile is cast in a warm glow; you do a dance of your own, eyes taking in the strong slope of his nose, tracking down to his lips, back up to the wild curls at his temple.

Eddie feels you staring, turns to fix you with a quit it look that you can’t help but laugh at- “What, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to stare?”

“That’s right,” he confirms, leaning forward to set his cig in an ashtray, bullying his way into your space, rings cold under your chin when he tilts your face towards his- “Gotta pay the piper for that obvious violation, sweetheart. Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

This time, when the flutter within you kicks up, you have a place for it to go- melting softly into Eddie’s lips.

___________________

I wrote the last third of this while blasted please don’t judge too harshly lmao

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x shy! reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things fic #eddie munson fic #robin buckley #steve harrington #mdni

2K notes · View notes

aemondsbabe · 3 months

Text

Stick it Out to the End

summary: michael is desperate to get into oxford's prestigious bullingdon club; unfortunately for him, they command him to do the impossible to gain admittance

pairing: michael gavey x bimbo!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, bimbo reader, mentions of hazing but nothing horrible/extreme, virgin!michael, breast/nipple play, praise kink, piv sex, protected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), oral sex (f receiving), consensual filming, dirty talk, cursing, what i hope is saltburn-esque humor, mild size kink, mild angst but happy ending, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 12.7k

a/n: images in the header are for aesthetic purposes only & are not used to describe the reader! she's back and she's long as hell but what else is new!!! this is my first time writing bimbo!reader and while she wasn't super bimbo-y, it was fun getting my feet wet! hope y'all enjoy!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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Michael

Michael couldn’t help but feel his heart speed up in his chest as he wound through the quiet corridors clutching tightly to the cryptic note he’d found stuffed in his pigeonhole that morning – just a page torn out of a standard notebook covered hastily written red ink; wholly un-intimidating as far as cryptic notes were concerned. Really, he was surprised to see they didn’t put more effort in; with as secretive and imperious as this little club was, he had been expecting some sort of extravagant stationary, perhaps even some gold embossing.

Coming to a stop in front of an unassuming janitor’s closet door, he narrows his eyes behind the gold frames of his glasses, staring at the door with a nearly accusatorial expression. Michael swivels his head once more, his brows furrowed as he checks and re-checks every door in the vicinity before turning back to the one he stands before. Scoffing, he unfolds the note with a little irritated sigh and quickly scans the page again, mouthing the words to himself for the millionth time that day.

The riddle had been easy enough to figure out, some trivial little lines about dead men walking, the mob, finding God, and looking to one’s heart pointed right toward some hush hush basement beneath the Merton College Chapel. That, and it didn’t take a genius to see that each line consisted of a specific number of words, pointing him right to the very door he stood in front of now – 129.

Fucking amateurs, he’d thought after cracking the code in under half an hour. But that was earlier. And now, as he stares at the stupid dull grey janitor’s closet door in front of him, Michael can’t stop the little tendrils of doubt from creeping into his periphery. He’s sure this is the right door and positive this is the right place and yet… janitor’s closet. He checks his watch, 11:50 PM on the dot, and glances up and down the dark, shadowy corridors once more, half expecting one of the twatty rich assholes to jump out and start snickering at him, making fun of him for thinking that a no one like him would’ve ever received an invite to a club like this.

Shaking his head, he reaches for the doorknob anyway, he’s come this far so he may as well. He freezes a little when it actually turns and his blue eyes go wide when he pushes the door open, shivering a little as he’s met with a wall of cool, dank air – eau de basement, just as he’d expected. A little actually impressed sigh passes his lips when he pokes his head in, an apprehensive smile blooming on his lips as he takes in the eerie red lighting spilling up the stairwell from the God-knows-what downstairs.

He winces as the door squeaks when he tugs it open but he doesn’t stop, emboldened now as he knows he had been right once again. He takes the stairs quickly, probably too quickly given that he hasn’t a fucking clue what or who could be down here, but before he can dwell on the idea too much, he’s faced with another corridor. This one, unlike the ones upstairs, is narrow and brick-lined and leads in only one direction, straight to another closed door at the other end.

Michael squints against the bright red light coming from a spotlight that had been haphazardly set up on the stone floor and walks down the hallway, his steps speeding up as he hears the janitor’s door above him open and close once more. His breath hitches a little as he opens the second door and quickly steps inside, like ripping off a band-aid.

He freezes once more when a strong hand latches onto his shoulder and quickly jerks him further into the room, making him yelp as he stumbles, trying to keep pace with whoever the hell is leading him.

“What the –”

Before he has time to so much as blink, his back thuds against a brick wall and finally he looks up, the vicious scowl he’d prepared morphing into a look of disturbed confusion as he eyes a row of other students, about fifteen and all men from the looks of it, dawned with black –

Oh, Christ, are those ski masks? He thinks as he eyes them up and down, How fucking banal… at least it’s not hooded cloaks. He nearly rolls his eyes as he scans the rest of the room, taking in the dim lighting interspersed with blues and greens from more of those stupid party boy spotlights. Glancing to the side, he sees another boy in his year, some guy he only knew from a few classes and passing glances in the hallways, but even still he’s comforted to not be alone down here, no matter how cliché this whole affair seemed.

His blue eyes snap forward as the door, the only door, to the room is opened once more and some other poor sap is hastily dragged across the room, only to be smacked on the wall to his left. Again, it’s just some other boy Michael knows from classes, though he doesn’t know why he expects any different – it’s not as if he knows many people outside of the forced proximity of a lecture hall. Which was really his only reason for putting up with this bother, for seeking it out in the first place; a quick flash of him placing a tightly folded up sticky note with his name and pigeonhole number in an old, beaten up copy of King Lear in the library played in his mind – the price he seemed to pay for loneliness.

Distantly, the bells of the chapel began to chime, signaling the hour. Once, twice, and eventually twelve times – midnight. Time to start the show, Michael surmises.

“Welcome, initiates,” one of the hooded men says in a tone that makes Michael glare judgmentally, his voice pitched down like some idiotic knock-off Darth Vader. He steps forward from the row they stand in and holds his arms out open at his sides, “Consider this your first foray into the Bullingdon Club.”

Again, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold in a scoff. This was all just so… juvenile? He was beginning to sincerely doubt that this was the über clandestine club that granted its members all sorts of connections to various businesses, societies, and insider information that even the richest of the rich couldn’t buy.

Unfortunately, his face seemed to betray more of his emotions than he intended and the masked boy steps forward once more, his dark eyes zeroing in on Michael.

“You,” he says gruffly, pointing a finger in his direction, “Something you wanna say, initiate?”

Out of habit, he pushed his glasses up on his nose before he spoke, perhaps foolishly bold given the situation.

“Doesn’t this all seem a bit much for three people?” He scoffs, shaking his head slightly, “I mean, masks, really?”

The hooded boy stops for a second and studies Michael closely, one hand on his hip, “What’s wrong with the masks?”

“Well, what’s the point? There’s, what, fifteen or sixteen of you? And three of us?” He asks, glancing around the room, which he now realized very clearly used to be some run-of-the-mill storage room, probably forgotten about by now.

The boy laughs sarcastically and shrugs his shoulders a bit, his voice back to its natural pitch, “It wouldn’t really be a secret thing if we just invited half the student body, mate.”

Michael supposes his reasoning is sound and says as much with a little hum and nod of his head, eyebrows raising dismissively.

“Anything else?” The masked boy asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The masks don’t really disguise you lot that well,” he observes, pointing at one of the other boys standing in the row, “That’s Harry from Multivariable Calculus.”

“Shit…” Harry mutters under his breath, the sound carrying through the concrete room. A few of the other boys in the row lean over and place comforting hands on his shoulders and murmur words of encouragement, much to Michael’s dismay.

“Why’re you here, initiate?” The lead boy asks, turning back to Michael.

“Dunno,” he shrugs again, pushing his glasses up his nose, “Friends, I guess.”

A couple of the boys in the row make little noises, mutters of empathy that make the blond’s eyebrows furrow together in confusion as he glances up and down the line.

“And this was your first thought? A secret society?” Harry from Multivariable Calculus asks with a little laugh, “Not like… chess or something?”

“Don’t really like chess…” Michael says with a little shrug. Apparently a good enough answer for Harry, who makes a little noise of understanding and nods his head.

After another moment, the lead boy clears his throat, which shuts up the rest. “Anyway,” he says, his voice falsely low once more. “Each of you will be given a task…,” his dark eyes glance between Michael and the other two boys as he paces in front of them, “Perfectly customized to challenge you, to push you to your absolute limits.”

The masked boy pauses his little speech and gestures back to three of the other boys standing in the row behind him who then step forward and walk over to the dank brick wall that Michael and the other two boys stand against. He studies the boy that walks towards him carefully, his eyes narrowing in suspicion when he notices how much shorter he appears to be.

Finally, the boy comes to stand before him and presents a plain white envelope, though Michael’s lips spread into a hateful smirk when he sees an all too familiar pair of old, beat up trainers on the boy’s feet.

“Oliver?!” He hisses meanly, shock lacing his voice as he jerks back the hand he had reached out for the envelope, wincing as his elbow collides with the cool wall behind him. He glances around the room, noting the few pairs of eyes that were on him, before fixing his gaze on the boy before him once more with a harsh glare, “You’re in Bullingdon?”

The boy in front of him hesitates for a second, cutting a sideways glance toward a taller boy that was busy presenting an envelope to the boy to Michael’s left, before he sighs and looks back at him, blue eyes peeking out of the holes in his ski mask. “Yeah,” he huffs, shrugging his shoulders defensively, “How’d you know it was me, then?”

“You look like a goddamn twelve year old!” Michael jeers, his voice low and vicious as his hands curl into fists at his sides, “How’d you manage to get into this club anyway?” He questions, seething, “They only let you in if you have the money or the marks and I know for a fucking fact you don’t have either.”

Oliver sighs again and rolls his eyes, which makes him see red and grit his teeth, although he doesn’t miss how the shorter boy’s eyes cut to the side again quickly. He opens his mouth, but before he can get a word in edgewise, the blond cuts him off with a little mocking laugh.

“Don’t tell me that’s fucking Catton,” Michael groans lowly with a shake of his head, breathing heavily as he feels the same sense of anger and betrayal he’d felt all those months ago well up in him once more, transporting him right back to the stupid damn pub, “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me, is this shite little club only full of cunts?”

“Look, I’m –”

Oliver starts to speak again, only to be cut off when the head boy traipses over to where they are, coming to stand ominously behind him with his arms clasped behind his back. His dark eyes dart between the two boys before he speaks.

“Problem over here, lads?”

“No,” Oliver answers quickly, staring warily up at Michael as he practically shoves the envelope into his arms, “Just complete the task, initiate. You have thirty-six hours.”

Before Michael can blink, Oliver turns his back and stalks back over to the other boys, taking his place in the row once more. The head boy looks Michael up and down appraisingly before nodding to the letter in his hands with a sly smirk.

“I can’t wait to see how you fare with that one, Gavey,” he says, his voice low and threatening, as if he’s in on the most delicious joke, “Remember, thirty-six hours, initiate.” He chuckles softly and departs, returning to stand in the center of the room.

Everyone stands still for a moment, Michael and the other two boys to his left and right holding their respective envelopes nervously, unsure if they were supposed to open them now or not. Thankfully, the head boy clears his throat, commanding all eyes to him once again.

“Initiates,” he says slowly, his voice no doubt already hoarse from this little farce, “Failure to complete your tasks will result in a permanent ban from Bullingdon; no second chances. We expect results as well as proof of those results,” his dark eyes scan over the three boys once more, one corner of his mouth turned up into a mean smirk, “We’ll be seeing you back in this location Sunday at noon. Your thirty-six hours begin now… have fun.” He finishes with a taunting laugh before turning and exiting from the room, the old door creaking as he pulls it open before disappearing into the faint red glow of the hallway, followed by the rest of the fifteen boys in an orderly line.

As soon as the old door closes, the sound of paper tearing echoes around the dimly lit basement as Michael and the other two boys hastily tear open their envelopes. Pulling out a little slip of paper, his eyes go wide as a wave of dread washes over him. His eyes scan over the paper again and again as he nervously shoves his glasses back up his nose once more, silently willing the chicken-scratch words on the paper to somehow change, to give him some other command.

His heart is pumping so loudly in his ears that he misses it when one of the other boys tries getting his attention, his head snapping up suddenly as a hand waves in front of it.

“Oi!”

“W-What?”

“What did they give you?” The boy asks, nodding at the scrap of paper in Michael’s hand.

He clears his throat and tries his best to come off as casual, though he hardly cares with the way thoughts begin racing through his mind. “Oh, um,” he starts, glancing down to read over the paper once more, “I just uh, have to sleep with someone is all.”

The other two boys gape at him for a moment before groaning frustratedly. The one that had first spoken to him holds his paper out and smacks it disdainfully with the back of his hand.

“What the hell?” He asks gruffly, glancing between his paper and Michael, “Why’s yours so bloody easy?”

“For real,” sighs the second boy, rubbing the back of his head, “Ours are damn near impossible. They must already be decided on you to go so soft. How am I meant to steal the fucking Selden Map from Bodleian?” He laments, brows furrowed as he stares down at the paper in his hands.

“Yeah, and I have to transfer ten thousand pounds out of the chancellor’s bank account and into mine!” The first boy sighs, shaking his head, “At least your mum’s head of conservatorship here, you can at least get within a stone’s throw of the map. I have to commit fucking wire fraud!”

The two boys grumble for another moment as Michael silently descends into a tailspin, his blue eyes unfocused as he stares at one of the dingy brick walls of the basement, trying desperately to formulate a plan, any plan. He merely glances up as the other to head for the door, spitballing ideas for each of their tasks.

“Isn’t your dad the president of Julius Baer? Can’t you just get him to pull strings?”

“Oh, yeah, fantastic idea! I’ll just ring him and ask the old man to commit a felony! What could possibly go wrong there?”

Michael tries to tune out their bickering as the three of them ascend the staircase and trail out into the hallway of Merton College Chapel once more; the two other boys don’t pay him any mind as they continue whispering amongst themselves, their voices trailing quietly down the hallway as he leans with his back against the cool metal of the janitor’s closet door.

Sighing, he reads over the directive again, his blue eyes catching on the sharply scrawled letters of a very familiar name, one that makes his cheeks flush and his heart race. He swallows nervously, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

How could they know to do this? He wonders sheepishly. It’s not like he’d mentioned her to anyone; hell, he’d never even said so much as three words to her! No, his pathetic little crush was entirely in his mind.

Too much of a coward to even say hi, he bemoans, trying to stave off the sense of shame he felt as he considered how many times he’d finished with her name on his lips, her pretty face and soft curves and sweet smell and little girly outfits whirling around his head since he’d spotted her on the first fucking day; he’d pined ever since and she didn’t even know he existed! How could she?

This is fucking impossible, he thinks miserably, wishing that he had any other task. He’d rather steal the Queen’s own goddamn family jewels than this. He glances at his watch once more and groans when he sees it’s almost already two in the morning; pushing himself up off the door, he hangs his head as he scurries back to his dorm room, thoughts spiraling as he plots.

You

A laugh bubbles up past your lips as you sway your hips, your whole body vibrating as “Umbrella” blasts through the speakers while you dance with your friends, partying to celebrate the end of term.

“You can run into my arms, it’s okay, don't be alarmed!” You sing happily, yours and your friends voices mingling together with another peal of laughter; you take another sip of your drink as you move along with the beat of the song, savoring the fizzy strawberry daiquiri as you begin to feel a bit warm from the little rush of alcohol, already on your third drink of the night.

You smile proudly as you spot Felix in the crowd, his hazel eyes already fixed on you, or well, fixated on your chest. His attention makes you preen and you bite your lower lip, the sickly sweet taste of your cherry lip gloss filling your mouth as you purposefully bounce up and down on the balls of your feet.

The thin straps of your pastel pink dress hold on for dear life as your chest heaves enticingly, and you giggle when you see those hazel eyes widen just a bit, no doubt tracing over the glittering chain of your necklace, following down to where it settles, a little sparkly pink diamond nestling temptingly at your cleavage. You teasingly wink, blushing a little when you get a wink back, and go back to dancing with your friends, knowing from experience that Felix preferred to approach rather than be approached.

You dance with your friends for a few more moments, grinding up against any warm body you can find as a raunchier song begins pumping through the speakers, before you feel eyes on you yet again. Smiling at the attention, you glance around again, the low, colorful lighting of the pub making it hard to tell exactly which direction your admirer’s coming from.

Your eyes flit over a few familiar faces, you can’t help but sigh in relief when you notice that Oliver’s eyes are thankfully planted firmly on someone that is not you, though a confused little crease forms between your brows when you realize that Felix’s aren’t either. Turning your head, you sway along to the music still as you look around quickly, your feet beginning to ache finally from the precious little satin Chanel heels buckled around your ankles.

Your eyes finally lock onto an unexpected gaze, a fresh wash of pink coloring your cheeks as blue eyes glance shyly away from you. A little giggle titters past your lips as you lean over to one of your friends, patting her shoulder to get her attention.

“You know who that blond guy is? With the glasses?” You call over the music, nodding over in your admirer’s direction as he stands awkwardly back against the wall by the entrance, clutching a still-foamy pint.

She glances over before turning back to you with a little shrug. “Michael something, I think!” She says, her breath warm as she leans in closer so you can hear her, “I thought Oliver knew him!”

Your eyes immediately find the brunette, predictably following Felix around like a lost little puppy, before you look back over at Michael. You can’t help but feel a bit bad when you see him quickly look away from your direction again before staring intently into his pint glass, one hand shoved in the pocket of his khaki pants.

“I’m gonna take a breather for a second!” You yell over the loud music, leaning in close and cupping a hand over her ear.

“Aw, babe, come on!” She pouts playfully, tilting her head at you, “Stay longer!”

You shake your head with another little laugh and gesture at your feet, “These are sooo cute but they’re killing me!” You laugh, finishing off the last sip of your drink, “I’ll be over by the notice board!” You tell her, blowing a kiss as you walk away from the dance floor of the small, cramped pub.

Finally, you reach the little area by the front door and lean back against the wall, taking in a much-needed deep breath as you pull your little tube of lip gloss out of your bra and carefully reapply some more, smirking when you glance over out of the corner of your eye and see a certain blond boy already shyly eyeing you.

Rubbing your lips together with a little pouty pop, you tuck your gloss back in your bra once more before slowly approaching Michael, prettily manicured hands clasped behind your back to help shamelessly push your chest out more. His wide eyed stare makes you giggle and blush as you study him, eyes flitting appreciatively up and down his lithe frame; so much potential hidden away under a little button down and khakis.��

“Haven’t seen you here before,” you tease, smirking when he blushes and all but chokes on his beer, coughing for a few seconds before finally speaking.

“I… Me?” He asks awkwardly, glancing around for seemingly anyone else you could be talking to.

Lucky for him, you find his awkwardness endearing. Truthfully, you had for months, never missing the way his eyes always happened upon you in a crowd. There was something impressive about the boy, something that had made your mind drift to him on more than one occasion, even if you were already under someone else.

“Of course you, silly,” you laugh softly, leaning against the wall next to him and tilting your head curiously, “You’re Michael, right?”

His eyes go wide again and nods wordlessly before finding his voice. “Yeah, Michael,” he says with a reserved little smile, “Gavey! Michael Gavey…” He adds awkwardly, cheeks flushing even more when you giggle, seemingly charmed by his inability to string two words together. He nods as you introduce yourself.

“I know,” he says before blinking, eyes going wide behind his gold framed glasses as he awkwardly glances away, “I just… I mean I’ve heard your name before, that’s all.”

“That’s all, huh?” You echo with a flirty little giggle, twirling a lock of hair around your finger as you let the moment linger, just wanting to push him a little. “What’re you reading?” You ask curiously, cocking your head to the side a little.

“Maths,” he nods quickly before looking down into his pint glass once more as if fizzling beer is the most interesting thing in the world, “I don’t really like it all that much, though… I mostly only picked it because I’m good at it.”

“Ooh,” you coo softly, nodding along with his words as you watch him carefully, “You must be wicked smart, I can’t do maths to save my life.” You comment with a little giggle, biting your lip when he seems to perk up at that comment and looks up at you with a little grin.

“I can do it in my head,” he says lowly, an unexpectedly cocky edge to his voice that has your heart picking up in your chest, “Ask me a sum,” he says, a challenging glimmer in his eyes.

You hum softly, biting your lip as you think for a second, “Uhm, seventy-two plus a hundred and thirteen?”

“One eighty-five,” he chuckles after no more than a second before scoffing a little, “Come on, give me one that’s hard, love.”

Love? The little pet name makes you raise an eyebrow before you laugh softly. “What do you mean a hard one?” You giggle, shaking your head, “That one was hard!”

“That was hard for you?” He teases, making your cheeks tingle as a pink flush settles over your skin, “What’re you reading, then?”

“Art history!” You chirp proudly, chuckling nervously when you see him roll his eyes a bit, “What? Something wrong with that?”

He shakes his head dismissively, quickly polishing off the last of his pint before setting the empty class on a table and turning back to you, pushing his glasses up his nose with a grin, “Ask me another one, then. Biggest numbers you can think of.”

You don’t know why, but something about his little challenge has you blushing again, like he’s testing you somehow. But still, you take a moment to think of some numbers, biting your lip and quirking your eyes up toward the ceiling.

“Six hundred thirty-two times… eight hundred ninety-one,” you hum, cocking your head to the side as you watch him closely. His eyes seem to glaze over, only for a second, before once again he’s spouting off numbers like a calculator.

“Five hundred sixty-three thousand, one hundred and twelve.”

Your eyebrows raise at that as you gawk at him. “Wow…,” you breathe after a moment, blinking as you stare up at him, “You’re, like, super smart, then?”

“Suppose so,” he says, smiling shyly again as he tucks both hands into the pockets of his khaki pants.

You study him for a moment as the conversation lulls, finding something endlessly fascinating about the boy; the way he could swing from being so cocky and self assured to shy and awkward makes your stomach do summersaults. Turning your head, you spot your group of friends still dancing and you look back at Michael with a little sigh as another upbeat song blasts loudly through the pub.

“D’you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smirking when he looks up at you shyly.

“W-What?”

“My dorm’s only, like, a minute from here,” you flirt, sweet and enticing as you make him blush somehow more, “We could go somewhere more… quiet?”

He stares at you for a moment, shocked that you’re asking him of all people to come back to yours before he nods and nervously runs a hand through his wheat colored hair, unsuccessfully trying to act casual. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that.”

“Yay!” You giggle happily, flirtatiously grabbing one of his hands as you saunter past him, heading for the exit, “C’mon, it’s like a five minute walk!” He nods wordlessly and you can’t help but smirk as he follows you like a lost little puppy.

True to your word, it’s only a few minutes later when you and Michael reach your dorm room, after you’d stopped for a minute at the entrance to your hall to chat with Farleigh, who seemed very interested in the nerdy boy following at your heels. You just couldn’t wipe the smirk off your face as you and Michael left him standing at the doors, mouth open and a wicked little gleam in his eyes; no doubt, he’d immediately scurried off to the King’s Arms.

The door to your room opens with a tiny squeak, blasted old building, and you all but prance inside, turning back to the blond boy still lingering in the doorway with a smile.

“Am I going to have to invite you in like a vampire?” You joke with a little laugh as you bend down to quickly undo the buckles of your heels, letting out a relieved sigh when you finally step out of them, leaving you in frilly white ankle socks.

Michael finally steps into your room with a huffed laugh and quickly kicks off his shoes, you smirk when you see his Star Wars themed socks. “‘M no vampire, love,” he quips, gold framed eyes darting around your room as he looks over every detail. You grin at the little blush on his cheeks and perch on the edge of your bed to watch him, head tilted ever so slightly.

“It’s, uh, it’s cute in here,” he observes, his voice a low hum as he takes in your frilly, lacy curtains, plush white rug, and equally girlish floral bedding, all encased in the faint pink glow of the heart-shaped fairy lights strung up around the room, “Just like how I imagined…” He breathes, so lowly you doubt he meant to say that bit aloud.

“Like you imagined?” You echo with a little giggle, quickly reapplying your lip gloss before setting the little tube on the corner of your desk.

“I just… I – It’s just very… you, is all I meant,” he stutters, running a hand through his hair awkwardly, the apples of his cheeks flushed a dark pink.

His awkwardness is so endearing, you can’t help but grin. The more time you spend with him, the more interesting he seems to become; this bumbling, nervous boy is so different from the one you’ve seen on campus so many times. On campus, he’s comfortable, quiet still, but with a definite air of confidence – clearly in his element as he prowls through bookshelves in the library or explains some complex math formula in the quad.

“So, you think about me often, then?” Your voice stays sweet, innocent almost, though you can’t help but tease him; he’s so pretty when he blushes.

“No!” He answers quickly, whipping his head toward you from where he’d been studying the various pictures tacked up on the walls, everything from boy band posters to stills from Clueless and Legally Blonde. “I mean, yes, sometimes, I…,” he fumbles again and pushes his glasses up his sharp nose, “I think about you a normal amount.” He says finally, glancing at you quickly before looking away.

You hum softly and stand before walking toward him with a kind smile, though you don’t miss the way he keeps glancing down at your cleavage, or the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he swallows nervously.

“A normal amount?”

“Mhm,” he nods, gaze unsure as you come to stand in front of him, teeth biting into your plush lower lip as you twirl a piece of hair through your fingers, “As much as I think of anyone else.”

“So…,” you breathe, drawing out the word as you reach up and fiddle with the collar of his button down shirt, the turquoise gingham a bright blue blip among all the blush tones of your room, “Every time I’ve caught you looking at my tits in the library or in the quad or in the hallways… that was just a normal amount?”

You giggle as his eyes go wide, his lips opening and closing like a fish out of water. Deciding to take mercy on him, you run a finger down his chest, playfully fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.

“Relax, I’m not mad,” you shake your head, smiling when the tension in his shoulders visibly eases, “Why wouldn’t I want a cutie like you staring?”

His lips part at that as he sucks in a little breath, blue eyes widening behind his glasses. “You think I’m… cute?” He asks breathlessly, heart pounding under your fingertip.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip once more as you nod, cocking your head to the side just slightly as you peer up at him. “‘Course I do, honey, what’s not to like?”

Again, he gawks at you, blinking in shock and swallowing nervously.

“I –”

“I do have one question though…,” you tease, pouting a bit as you slowly and carefully undo the very top button on his shirt, relishing the way his breath hitches in his throat.

“Y-Yeah?” His voice breaks, making you giggle while he blushes somehow deeper.

“Mhm,” you nod, undoing the second button and pausing when you find a splash of hair across his chest, the same shiny wheat color as the hair on his head, causing a familiar knot to begin twisting itself up in your belly, “Why were you at the end of term party?”

He blinks for a second, evidently taken off guard. “I… W-Was it invite only?”

His question nearly makes you snort and you shake your head, the corners of your lips twitching as you try not to laugh. “No, sweetie,” you peer up at him through your lashes as you rest your hand against his bare chest, smirking ever so slightly when he shivers, “I just meant, I haven’t seen you at parties before… doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”

“I, well,” he stammers, the bottoms of his glasses fogging up from the heat radiating off his cheeks, “I just –”

“It’s for that club, yeah?” You ask finally, giggling at the shocked expression on his face.

“How do –”

“You lot are not nearly as sneaky as you think,” you laugh cheekily, bouncing excitedly on the balls of your feet, “Plus, I heard Felix and Oliver whispering about something to do with tasks a few weeks ago… and boys are very bad at keeping secrets once you get their cocks out.” You add with a little giggle, taking Michael’s hand once more and dragging him over to your plush bed. You sit him on the edge before all but climbing in his lap, smiling cheekily as you straddle his thighs, your knees digging into your soft bedding.

“So,” you start, holding onto his shoulders to balance yourself and smiling a little when he finally touches you, lightly resting his hands on your hips, “What’s your task, hm? I heard they made them, like, particularly brutal this year.”

“I don’t think I should say,” Michael murmurs with a little shake of his head, making you pout.

“Oh, come on!” You bounce on his lap a little, not missing the way his eyes seem to be drawn to your breasts like magnets, “I want to help! Is it something at the King’s Arms?”

“N-No, I really don’t think –”

“I know they keep the important rugby trophies there,” you think aloud, still playing dumb, just wanting him to say it, “Is that it? D’you have to steal one? One of the boys that works there owes me, I could get him to let you in after hours…” You prattle on, speaking faster and faster as Michael shakes his head beneath you.

Finally, he seems to reach a breaking point and his grip on your hips tightens. “I have to fuck you!” He blurts out before sighing.

“Oh, really?”

“I… I have to fuck you –”

“Mhm?”

“And prove I did somehow.”

“How interesting!”

He narrows his eyes at that and peers up at you suspiciously, studying you carefully. You can’t help but giggle, loving the way you feel when his eyes are on you, and you smirk when he finally blinks in realization.

“You… you knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

A sly smile spreads across your lips as you nod, squirming excitedly on his lap. “Like I said,” you chuckle with a little shrug, “Not. Sneaky!” You tease, punctuating each word with a little boop to the tip of his nose, unable to resist.

He stays silent for a moment, gazing up at you with a strange mixture of awe and unease before he finally speaks through a deep sigh. “So, I suppose this is the part where you tell me to leave?”

Well, that comment throws you off. You cock your head to the side, confused, as your eyebrows furrow together. “Why would I ask you to leave?”

He sighs again and grits his teeth, looking dejectedly at the floor. “Come on, love,” he mutters, looking anywhere but you, “I-It’s not like you’d ever want to –”

“Ever want to what?” You ask with a frown, gently grabbing at his chin and tilting his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze, “You think I don’t wanna fuck you, honey?”

“Well, I –”

“Michael,” you say pointedly, raising your brows as you smirk slightly, staring deeply into his blue eyes, “I’m the one that came onto you, yeah?”

“I… I suppose.”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding your head as you run your fingers through his short hair, not missing the little sigh that leaves his lips when you push yourself closer to him, your chest pressing tightly against his, “And while I’m not thrilled at our first time being for some stupid little task –”

“It’s,” he cuts you off shyly, shaking his head ever so slightly, “It’s – I’ve never…” He stammers, nervously gripping at your waist once more.

You can’t help but smile softly, so charmed by him over and over. You nod your head knowingly, raising your brows just a bit. “I know, honey,” you whisper reassuringly, “We don’t have to, I’ll let you take a pair of my panties or whatever else, but we don’t need to do anything.”

He sighs up at you again, so taken with you he feels like he could scream, and shakes his head more, grabbing at your hips tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “N-No, I… I want to,” he nods, swallowing anxiously, “I do, I just… don’t really know what I’m doing.”

You nod again, listening carefully as he speaks. “So, is it all new or…?”

He shakes his head and smiles a little, shyly, though the sight of it still makes that knot in your belly tighten further, making you blush on his lap while butterflies swirl around inside you. “I’ve kissed before,” he says lowly, chuckling awkwardly as he seems to get bolder, causing you to shudder when he lightly rubs his hands over your waist and hips, “And done… hand stuff.”

You giggle at his boyish explanation and bite your lip when you smile at him, wiggling in his lap as a heat begins to settle at the apex of your thighs. “Can I kiss you, honey?”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat again, making you want so badly to press soft, glossy kisses to it, but you resist, determined to make this good for him.

“Yeah,” he nods eagerly, blue eyes fixated on your lips.

You smile softly before leaning in and finally pressing your lips against his, both of you sighing at once. One of his hands stays at your hip while the other comes to rest in the small of your back, pressing you more tightly to him as your lips move together, his motions surprisingly fluid and practiced.

You make a small noise in the back of your throat when you feel his tongue licking at your bottom lip, and eagerly allow him access with a little sigh. Your fingers busy themselves with unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, making him shudder beneath you when you skim your hands over his bare chest and stomach as his tongue flows with your own, the bitter, coffee-ish flavor of the pint he’d had earlier still on his tongue.

Impatient, you pull back long enough to look at him for reassurance, smiling when you earn a little nod. You kiss him once more before tugging his shirt off, flushing when he groans lowly as you trail kisses down over his jaw and neck before swiping your tongue greedily over his Adam’s apple, making his breath hitch.

“F-Fuck,” he sighs brokenly, bolding tracing over your thigh until his fingers are tucked up under the silky, baby pink material of your dress. His touches make you shiver as goosebumps bloom over your skin, making you whine against the pale column of his throat, “Can I?” He breathes, fingers toying with a strap of your dress while the others slowly inched the bottom of it up higher and higher.

“God, please,” you mewl, nodding against his throat, your head on his shoulder. He shudders at the feel of your breath on his neck and nods once before tugging at the bottom of your dress. You sit up to help him, whining when you feel his hard length pressing against your thin, lacy underwear, “You don’t need to ask, Michael. Want you to take me however you want.” You whisper as he tugs your dress over your head, blue eyes meeting yours for a second as he nods before they skim lower, widening as he takes you in on his lap wearing only a bra and panties.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, making you giggle shyly as you lean in and softly kiss over his cheeks, “You have…you’re – you’re perfect,” he sighs, brazenly cupping your breasts, skimming his thumbs over your nipples through the thin pink fabric of your bra and smiling proudly when he feels them harden at his touch, “You’re perfect, but these are… holy shit.” He repeats, his voice breathy and mesmerized as he takes in your chest for another moment while you softly card your fingers through his golden hair.

You gasp through a little giggle when you feel his length twitch, even through his trousers, and wiggle on his lap, blushing when the movement earns you a broken groan. “Yeah?” You whisper cheekily, watching as he marvels at your chest for a second longer before quickly unclasping your bra and shrugging out of it, tossing it down onto the floor with his shirt and your dress, “What about now?” You tease, proudly arching your back as you bite your lip.

He groans again, louder than he has all evening, and instantly ducks his head down. The feel of his soft lips wrapping eagerly around one of your nipples makes you cry out, gasping sharply as he sucks at the sensitive bud before he runs his tongue over it. You cradle the back of his head in your hands, fingers lightly pulling at the short strands of hair, as he switches from one breast to the other, kneading whichever one is free with his hand.

Needing something, anything, you finally pull him off of your chest after a few moments, laughing when he all but whines, and smiling even more when you take in his disheveled appearance – blond hair sticking up at odd angles from where you’d run your fingers through it, cheeks flushed as his glasses sit crooked on his nose, and his blue eyes staring up at you hungrily.

You shift back on his thighs just enough to snake a hand between the two of you and he gasps when you cup the bulge pressing against the zipper of his khakis. “You want me to suck your cock?” You ask cheekily, lightly squeezing at his length.

He surprises you by shaking his head no,gulping slightly with an awkward laugh before answering. “I do, I really fucking do, love,” he breathes, kneading at your breasts as he stares up at you sheepishly, “B-But I really want to last and if you… if you suck it, I –”

“Okay, okay,” you stop him with a kiss, “We’ll table it for next time.”

“N-Next time?” He questions, fighting to keep his eyes open as you press kisses against his neck once more. You nod against his shoulder and press kisses up to just beneath his ear.

“I’m not letting you go that easy, honey,” you whisper, chuckling when he shivers. You spend another moment softly kissing and biting at his neck before speaking again, “Have you ever eaten anyone out?” You question, pulling back to look at him.

He shakes his head, his eyes flicking between both of yours as he looks up at you. “No.” He answers simply, his voice hardly a whisper.

You can’t help but smirk coyly and cock your head to the side, running a finger through the little patch of hair on his chest just to see him shudder. “You wanna try it?”

He nods eagerly and surprises you once again by quickly swinging you around, maneuvering you until your head rests on the pillows of your bed. You squeal at the movement, laughing with him as he settles over you, his narrow hips slotting easily between your thighs as you silently marvel at his unexpected strength, the shock of it going right between your legs.

“You want me to lick your pussy?” He asks lowly, grinning when he sees your eyes widen ever so slightly.

“You’re quite something, huh?” You breathe, still gazing up at him in surprise.

“Observant,” he shrugs, smirking as he sits up, kneeling between your legs, “You aren’t the only one who is, love.” He teases, quickly undoing his belt and trousers and groaning as he pushes them down his thighs, stopping at his knees.

Your eyes go wide at the size of his length, it’s clearly very impressive and it’s not even out of his plaid boxers yet. That smirk stays plastered on his face as he leans back down to hover over you, hastily removing his glasses and sitting them on your desk before sloppily kissing you for a moment, surprising you yet again by trailing wet kisses down your neck.

“Michael…” You sigh dreamily, arching your back toward him when he starts kissing over your chest. He groans from deep in his chest, mouth pressed against the fat of your breast.

“Fucking hell,” he curses, teasing your nipple again with the tip of his tongue, “Say it again, love.”

His simple command sends shivers down your spine and you mewl, squirming underneath him, “M-Michael!” You moan again, fumbling over your words as he sucks at your breast again before he lifts his head.

“Good girl,” he purrs with a sly, easy smirk that makes your heart jump, a soft sigh tumbling past your lips. He shifts further down the bed, kissing down over your ribs and stomach, his confidence seemingly growing every time he presses his lips against your skin; the thought makes your head spin.

Finally, he hooks his fingers into the lacy sides of your panties, and his eyes peer up at you as he tugs them down over your hips before flinging them onto the floor. “Oh, my God…,” he sighs, staring greedily at your pussy, a broken groan sounds from his throat when you spread your legs more.

You bite your lip and giggle, smiling shyly as you tangle your fingers in his hair once more. “Like what you see?”

He nods his head rapidly, making you chuckle again as he stares up at you, an almost pained expression on his face. “I… uh, w-what now?”

He’s so endearing, you can’t help the little sigh that leaves you and you sit up a little, leaning back on an elbow as you use your other hand to spread your center open. You bite your bottom lip once more when he whines a little, seeing you all spread out before him, flushed folds already slick and shiny.

“Lick here, honey,” you whimper as you skim your fingers over your clit, so keyed up from only a few kisses that you gasp a little when you feel yourself clench; Michael looks like he may pass out.

Ever the dutiful student, he gives you one last look before diving in. Your head falls back with a whiny gasp as his tongue snakes over your clit, just as you’d instructed. A long, shuddery moan leaves him, vibrating against your cunt and you watch as his blue eyes all but roll back in his head.

“Just like that, Michael,” you praise, tugging at his hair ever so slightly, which only serves to make him moan more. Your chest heaves as you watch him, determined not to let your eyes squeeze shut while he licks and kisses and sucks at your pussy like a man possessed, “Holy shit!” You whimper loudly when he pushes his tongue into you, groaning lowly when he feels your walls clench around it as he presses his nose perfectly against your clit.

“You taste so good,” he gasps, wrapping his hands around your thighs to keep you exactly where he wants. He peers up at you through blond lashes as he feasts on you, sucking eagerly at your clit and savoring the way you shiver and squirm from his motions.

Unbelievably, you already feel that warm, familiar tug in your belly beginning to grow, making your whole body feel flush and taut. “Just like that, just like that,” you whine urgently, grabbing onto his hair tighter and guiding his mouth exactly where you need it, your eyes finally rolling back and fluttering shut, “Holy fuck, don’t stop!”

Michael grunts as you tug at his hair, his own hips rutting greedily against your pretty bedding — cock throbbing so hard there’s no doubt he’s leaked through his boxers. He watches you carefully, studying your movements and reactions as best he can while he rhythmically licks at your clit.

“Oh, shit!” You cry not even a moment later, your whole body seeming to stutter as your muscles finally relax. You mewl as your high finally washes over you, savoring the way Michael groans into your cunt as he feels it contracting on his tongue. Your eyes stay squeezed shut as shivers roll up and down your spine, shuddered cries leaving your lips.

Just as his touches begin to border on overstimulation, you have enough wherewithal to push him away, and he releases your center with a lewd little pop.

“Was that good?” He asks through a breathless laugh, swallowing as he looks up at you, evidence of your arousal still shining on his lips and chin.

“Good?” You huff, eyebrows raised as you gaze down at him, “You’re sure you’ve never done that before?” You question in disbelief, chest still heaving.

He smiles shyly, already pink cheeks seeming to flush deeper from your praise as he chuckles. You cup his cheeks when he leans over you again, whimpering as you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You’re unbelievable.” You sign as he kisses down your neck again, making him chuckle against your skin.

“Just observant,” he grunts, shuddering when you wrap your legs around his trim waist. You gasp as his length brushes over your still sensitive pussy, impossibly hot and hard even through the thin fabric of his boxers. His fragmented sigh makes you smile and you tug his head up, blushing as you look up at him.

“You ready, honey?” You breathe, giggling when he nods his head again eagerly, his hips stuttering instinctually against your center. “Here, let me…” You trail off, the two of you separating for a moment as you lean over and pull open the top drawer of your desk, pulling out a pack of condoms and tearing one off before laying back down.

You watch enraptured as he kneels between your legs again, pulling down his boxers finally. “Holy…” you gasp when his cock finally bobs free, twitching up to rut against his lower stomach; he’s long and thick, curving a little as veins run up the underside, leading to a flushed, leaking head. He smiles shyly again at your attention as he shuffles awkwardly out of his trousers and underwear, kicking them off and onto the floor.

You hand him the condom and watch as he rolls it on, giving him a little reassuring smile as he does. Once it’s securely in place, you pull him back to you, eagerly kissing him once more and wrapping your legs securely around his waist. Both of you moan in unison when his length glides through your folds, the head catching perfectly on your clit.

He pulls away with a little gasp, hovering over you as he glances down at your hips. “S-So, I just…” He trails off, watching as you reach down with one hand, grunting softly when you wrap your hand around his cock.

Carefully, you position him at your entrance and angle your hips a little. “Go on, honey,” you encourage with a soft smile, running your other hand over his chest.

Nodding once, he presses forward and swears he sees God. “F-Fucking hell,” he groans, loudly sighing your name as he carefully guides himself into you, absolutely in awe at the way your hot cunt grips him. His eyes squeeze shut, his hips resting firmly against yours as his chest heaves, breaths coming in short, sharp pants.

You aren’t fairing much better, head spinning at the way he splits you open, pressing incessantly at each and every sensitive spot within you. You pant against his neck as he stills, pressed deeply within you.

“D-Do… fuck, do I just…?” Michael stutters, giving half-hearted little thrusts to test the waters.

“Yes!” You answer instantly, anxiously nodding up at him as your hips wiggle against the bedsheets, making him swear and shudder above you, “Just move, honey, do what feels good.”

He groans again and gives a little nod before experimentally moving his hips again, pulling out more this time before pushing back in. “Shit,” he breathes above you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he grunts with each roll of his hips.

You pant underneath him, spurring him on by pressing your feet against his backside, urging him to move faster and faster as the frilly lace from your socks tickles his pale skin. “You’re doing so, so good, oh, my God,” you breathe, your voice high-pitched and whimpery as you tangle your fingers in his hair again, knowing by now that it drives him crazy.

Above you, Michael’s hips slowly but surely begin to stutter, his thrusts starting to peter out as his breathing picks up. “I’m —!”

“Wait!” You blurt suddenly, smiling wickedly as he comes to a screeching halt, pushing himself up enough to stare down at you with wild eyes, “I have an idea…” You tease with a little giggle.

“W-What?”

“You have a phone, yeah?”

“…Yeah?”

“One that can, like, take video?”

“Yes?”

“Grab it,” you laugh, pushing him off of you with a laugh. He rolls his eyes with a smirk but does as you ask, clumsily pulling himself from your heat before stumbling over to where his khakis had landed. He shuffles about for a second before pulling a silver phone from the pocket of his trousers.

“Now what?” He asks curiously, positioning himself back between your thighs, cock twitching meanly.

“Film me.”

“What?!” He gapes at you, brows creased.

“Film me, honey,” you giggle, biting your lip conspiratorially, “For your little task, you need proof, yeah?”

“Well, yeah, b-but I can just take your panties or something, I don’t —“

“Or you could bring back something better…” You smirk, shrugging your shoulders playfully, “We don’t have to but… it could be kinda hot?”

He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking between you, your pussy, and the phone in his hand before he nods once, curtly. “We… we can try it.”

“Yeah? You wanna?”

“Yeah,” he quips, catching you by surprise as a mean little smirk spreads over his lips, “Wanna see the look on Catton’s face when he sees you creaming on my cock.”

Your eyes widen and you huff out a shocked laugh, a zing of electricity lighting behind your eyes. “You’re insane,” you say softly, an endeared smile on your lips.

He snickers, his whole demeanor seeming to change before your eyes as he transforms from this shy, stuttering boy into an astonishingly cocky man. “You like it, love,” he teases, grabbing his dick and positioning himself at your entrance yet again.

“Wait!” You giggle again, blushing as he groans.

“You don’t want to anymore?”

“No, no, not that,” you assure him, affectionately running your hand down one of his shockingly muscular arms, “You can film me… on one condition.”

“‘N what would that be?”

“Take me on a date.” You breathe, suddenly shy. You know he’ll agree to it, but even still, your heart pumps wildly in your chest.

He stares at you for a second, blinking dumbly as he processes your request. “You want me to take you on a date?” He asks, flushing so deeply that the soft pink hue cascades all the way down to his chest.

Giggling, you nod your head, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze. “You need to start giving yourself more credit, honey.”

He sighs at that, a little astounded huff, before he’s suddenly grabbing at your calves and pushing your legs up toward your shoulders, all but bending you in half, anxious to get his cock back into you. You gasp at the movement, and chuckle at his eagerness, a sound that morphs into a whiny moan when he slides back home.

“Christ,” he grunts, shoulders heaving as he gets used to the way you feel around him once more, “Y-You feel so good, love, fucking perfect.”

“You’re so big,” you whine, nodding as you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky, “You’re so good, Michael, you have no idea.”

He groans above you, hands shaking as he grabs for his phone, flipping it open and quickly opening the camera as his hips rut into you, making the springs of your bed creak softly.

As soon as Michael gives you a little nod to let you know he’s filming, you truly put on a show — or well, you at least stop trying to quiet yourself down and be conscientious of the people in the rooms next to you. The way he has your legs bent back makes him feel somehow bigger and causes his cock to hit that sensitive spot within you with pinpoint accuracy every time he thrusts in, making you clench around him and moan loudly each time he moves his hips against you.

You watch as he angles the camera down a bit, no doubt pointing it at the spot the two of you are joined together, letting the camera record his cock sliding in and out of you. When he moves it back up, however, to get your face as evidence, you plaster on the cheekiest grin you can muster.

“H-Hi boys,” you tease breathlessly, smirking as you lean up on one elbow. You wave with your other hand before blowing a kiss to the camera, which makes Michael cockily laugh.

“Fuck, I gotta…” he mutters after a few more seconds, carelessly dropping his phone down on the bed before roughly grabbing at your thighs with a bruising grip, one that makes you mewl and arch your back toward him. The two of you moan and whimper in unison as he begins thrusting wildly, seemingly too worked up to care about anything but cumming.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You chant over and over, head spinning as he bullies your sweet spot.

“That’s it, love,” Michael murmurs, his voice gruff and low as he stares down at you, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead; he looks wilder than you’ve ever seen him, the thought only serving to push you closer and closer to the edge. “S-Shit, that’s it. Fucking come for me, cream on my cock; please, please, please,” he murmurs, leaning down to press desperate kisses against your neck and collarbones.

The new position causes his pubic bone to rub deliciously over your clit, making you seize beneath him with a loud whine. Your toes curl, heels still pressing into the small of his back. “M-Michael, holy fuck!” You practically squeal as your high finally washes over you once more, stars dancing behind your eyelids as you go lax and pliant underneath him.

The feel of your walls pulsing around his cock has Michael reeling, his hips somehow thrusting even faster as he both desperately wants to cum while also never wanting this feeling to end. “C-Cum, honey, cum,” you pant softly, cupping his cheek with one hand and turning his face toward yours.

That does him in and the rubber band in his belly viciously snaps, making him shudder above you as his thrusts come to a halt, cock twitching wildly inside you as he empties himself into the condom. You watch him in awe, taking in every detail from the way his nose scrunches up as his eyes squeeze close to the way he whispers your name over and over like a prayer.

The two of you lay in silence for a moment, his breath warm against your neck as he slumps against you trying to catch his breath.

Eventually, you can’t help it anymore and let out a breathless giggle, which only intensifies when he props himself up on an elbow to peer down at you with a smirk.

“Something funny?”

“Just,” you breathe, trying to calm yourself enough to get words out, “Just… wow,” you finally say, giggles petering out as you look up at him, the soft gleam in his eyes makes your heart clench in your chest.

“Good wow?” He blushes, looking down between the two of you as he pulls himself from your walls with a little hiss.

“Very, very good wow,” you confirm, grinning as you watch him pull off the condom before he peers up at you with a sheepish grin. “Tie it off, honey,” you instruct, smirking as he does just that, before nodding to the little wastebasket by your desk.

He gets up with a groan and quickly tosses the condom in the trash before turning back to you, the bashful look on his face making you blush.

Unable to resist, you grin at him and spread your arms with a giggle, wordlessly inviting him for a cuddle, which he gladly accepts. The bed creaks slightly as he lays back down, relaxing his head on the pillow just beside yours. Again, the two of you stay silent for a moment, content to merely gaze at one another, before he shyly looks away and sighs.

“I…,” he starts, blue eyes blinking and flitting around your room as he gathers his thoughts, “Thank you,” he finally says, looking back at you with a little half smile.

Your brows furrow at this as you grin at him. “What’re you thanking me for?”

“Well, f-for… this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you before sitting up just slightly and fishing around in the blankets for a second. “And this,” he sighs, holding his phone up before twisting around to set it on the corner of your desk, turning back to you. “I just… I know you didn’t have to, is all, so…”

You cock your head to the side as you prop yourself up on an elbow, eyes narrowing as you study him closely. “And people have the nerve to say I’m thick,” you joke, lips spreading into a wide grin as you gaze down at him, “I wanted to do all this, Michael. I’m the one that came onto you, remember?”

“W-Well, yeah, but —“

“No buts!” You laugh, pressing a finger against his lips as you shake your head, “I have eyes too, you know.”

“What does that mean?”

“You haven’t been the only one watching someone for months,” you giggle shyly, pressing your forehead against his, “I meant what I said about that date, too.”

His arms wind around your waist, holding you tight as he processes your words with a dumbstruck smile, blushing under your gaze. “Whatever you say, love,” he concedes finally, pressing his lips against yours sweetly.

He yawns tiredly when he pulls away from you after a moment, which only makes you yawn as well, and you glance over at the little clock on your dresser. “Christ,” you gasp, turning back to him, “I didn’t realize it’s already almost four… you can crash here, if you want?”

He considers it for a moment, knowing he has to be back in that stupid little basement by noon and making a mental map of where exactly your dormitory is in relation to the Merton College Chapel. “I… I can stay, yeah,” he finally nods after a moment.

“You’re sure?”

“Love, I’m not sure my legs work well enough yet to walk out of here anyway.”

Michael

Groaning, Michael slowly blinks his eyes open, rubbing them softly as he sits up in bed with a yawn. Blindly reaching over for his glasses, he’s confused when he doesn’t feel them in their usual spot and finally opens his eyes properly.

He stares, confused for a moment as to how exactly he somehow got transported into what appears to be Barbie’s damn dream house, before the events of last night come flooding back to him.

“Holy shit,” he breathes when he turns his head and sees your still-sleeping form beneath your flowery sheets, your hair tousled wildly on the pillow as your shoulders rise and fall evenly still with each breath. Looking around, he finally spots his glasses and puts them on before reaching for his phone, and cursing again when he sees the time.

11:47 AM.

He practically falls out of your bed as he tries to extricate himself from the sheets, and he hears you wake with a start behind him as he grabs wildly at his clothes on the floor.

“Michael?” You ask questioningly, your voice still hoarse from sleep as you, frankly fucking adorably, rub at your eyes before fixing him with a curious look.

“Gotta, shit, gotta run,” he explains quickly, cursing as he nearly loses his balance trying to tug his trousers on, “Need to be at Merton Chapel in, like, Christ, ten minutes!”

“Ohh,” you giggle softly, watching with amusement as he finishes getting dressed, hair and clothes so disheveled that he’s sure he looks like the very definition of the walk of shame.

Just as he’s tugging his shoes on and making a mad dash for the door, you stop him. “Here,” you smirk, holding out the same lacy pair of pink panties you wore last night, “For proof,” you explain, nodding to the phone in his hand, “Along with that. Should be more than enough,” you giggle proudly.

He smiled sheepishly as he pockets your underwear. “T-Thanks,” he nods, turning to leave before you stop him once more.

He can’t help but blush when you lean in and press and quick kiss to his lips, your cherry chapstick rubbing off on him some. Pulling away, you playfully smack his chest with a little grin. “Go get ‘em, honey.”

Nodding, he smiles again before finally pulling your door open and bounding down the hallway. “I’ll text you, love!” He calls, peering back just before he rounds a corner, “About that date!”

It’s 11:58 on the dot when he flings the basement door open, only to be pulled over to the same stupid dank basement wall, his back hitting it once more with a dull thud.

Glancing around, he sees the ski-masked boys again, all fifteen of them, standing in a row with the head boy slightly out of line. To his left stands one of the other initiates, clutching a black tube of some sort.

The basement stays silent for a moment before one of the masked boy’s watch alarms goes off just as the bells in the tower begin to chime.

Once, twice, all the way up to twelve. Noon.

Right on cue, the head boy steps forward even more and looks between Michael and the other initiate. “Your friend couldn’t be bothered to show his face, then?” He asks, dark eyes peering at the boy next to Michael.

He scoffs and shakes his head, glaring at the head boy. “He’s still at the bank!” He snaps, “All the way in bloody Switzerland,” he kicks at the dirty stone floor as he explains, “Dickhead,” he finally mutters lowly under his breath.

“Shame,” the head boy quips, clasping his hands in front of his waist, “Some men are simply not cut out for Bullingdon.”

The boys in the row behind him nod knowingly, each making some little noise of affirmation until the head boy quickly stops them, holding a fist up by his head, bringing it back down to his side when they shut up.

“So, initiates, what’ve you got?”

The boy next to Michael steps forward first and hands the black tube to the head boy with a sigh. “There,” he says, gesturing to it, “There’s your bloody map. My mum could get sacked for that.”

The head boy pops open one end of the tube, a document sleeve Michael now realizes, and gingerly extracts a rolled up piece of parchment from it, unrolling it just enough to confirm it's what they asked for.

“Well done, initiate,” he nods, seemingly impressed as he flashes a smile at the boy, white teeth gleaming creepily through the slit in his ski mask. Carefully, he rolls the document up again before sliding it back in the tube, “Your commitment to Bullingdon will take you far. Welcome to the fray.”

The boy stands still for a moment, eyeing the document tube with an almost regretful expression before curtly nodding and taking his place back against the wall.

“And then there was one,” the head boy murmurs, dark faze fixed on Michael, “I seem to remember we gave you quite the… interesting task indeed, initiate. How did you manage?”

Smiling damn near arrogantly, Michael all but skips up the head boy and proudly pulls your panties from his back pocket, letting them dangle from his index finger. “See for yourself.”

The head boy grabs them by the edge and studies them for a moment, turning back to the row of boys behind him with a questioning glance. The boy Michael knows already to be that cunt, Oliver Quick, glances between him, the panties, and Michael, before cutting a sideways glance to a tall boy standing next to him.

“These could be anyone’s,” the head boy says, turning back to Michael as he shakes his head, “You could’ve nicked them from your sister or something, we’ll need more than this, initiate.”

“Don’t even have a sister,” Michael quips, shrugging his shoulders with a little frown.

“Okay, like, your cousin or something then –”

“Don’t have a female cousin,” he says with a shake of his head, “All boys.”

“The point still stands!” The head boy finally snaps, making Michael bite the inside of his cheek to hide a little laugh, though the corner of his lips still quirks up in a smirk, “You haven’t got any proof, do you? Is that why you’re stalling?”

Huffing a little laugh, Michael finally lets himself smirk meanly and steps closer to the head boy as he pulls his phone from his pocket, flips it open, and navigates to his video gallery. “Is this enough proof?” He teases, pressing play on the most recent video.

The picture is small and grainy but there’s no doubt as to what’s happening as the sound of your pretty whimpers and moans echoes around the brick basement, along with the wet smack of Michael’s cock driving into you again and again.

The head boy stares at the screen still as curiosity gets to a few of the boys in the row behind him and they all come crowd around Michael’s phone, eyes widening behind their ski masks and mouths falling open.

The tallest one, the one Oliver keeps glancing at, lets out a long sigh as he peers down at the small screen and brings a hand up to his head as if he were going to run it through his hair before remembering the mask he has on. With him this close, Michael finally notices the little silver barbell stuck through his eyebrow and shivers as his lips curl up into a sadistic Cheshire cat smile, a tidal wave of savage pride crashing through his system.

Finally, fucking finally, I get something he wants, he thinks as your breathy moans continue to pour from the speaker of his phone, tinny and muffled in some spots where he’d accidentally covered the microphone, but beautiful, beautiful and because of him.

After a moment, the video ends, the tiny phone screen reverting back to it’s little thumbnail as the head boy peers up at Michael, the rest of the club members taking their places back in line, though he can’t help but notice that Felix’s broad shoulders are slumped now and Oliver stands ever closer to him, like some kind of fucked up bodyguard.

“I’ll be damned, initiate,” the head boy sighs with a shake of his head, “I really didn’t think you had it in you.”

He watches as Michael merely nods and pockets his phone again, holding it tightly in his fist even still. After a second, he smiles widely and claps a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

“Welcome to Bullingdon.”

Some time later, Michael finally exits the basement, a few of the club members, sans ski masks now, nodding goodbye to him as they disperse across campus, meeting adjourned.

He wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting from the initial meeting but it was mostly them prattling on about where exactly they had all their grubby little fingers, poked in seemingly every facet of society from Parliament to local newspapers.

Braggy cunts, Michael thinks as he ambles outside, glancing up at the sky as he steps into the Mob Quad, surrounded by stony old buildings.

Smiling to himself, he pulls out his phone and quickly finds your number in his contacts list, blushing when he sees you’ve taken the liberty of adding some girly heart emoticon next to it. He hardly has time to press it against his ear before you answer.

“Well?” You demand with that now familiar giggle, some unfamiliar pop song playing in the background.

“I’m in,” he confirms, nodding to himself as he slowly walks in the direction of his dormitory, “Thanks to you.” He smiles like an idiot when you laugh.

“Don’t sell yourself short, honey,” you tease, he can picture your bright, glossy smile in his head, “You earned that spot.”

Michael merely shakes his head with a happy little sigh. “So,” he starts, clearing his throat and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “About that date… I was thinking the King’s Arms? Tonight at six, if that works?”

“Oooh, tonight at six,” you repeat teasingly, an image flashing in his mind of you twirling your hair around a perfectly manicured finger, “Someone’s quite eager, hm?”

“Can you blame me?”

“Hmm, I suppose not,” you giggle, pausing for a second, “It’s a date then.”

“Fantastic,” Michael sighs, trying with every fiber of his being to sound casual and cool about the whole thing, even as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest.

“See you tonight, Mr. Bullingdon,” you tease, making a little kissy sound into the phone before hanging up.

Michael pauses for a moment, standing to the side on the pavement as he nods to himself. If it weren’t so fucking cheesy, he’d raise his fist in the air, victorious, à la Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club.

Instead, he flips his phone back open and navigates back to your video. Sighing, he stares at the little thumbnail for a second before deleting it, pocketing his phone once more, and continuing back to his dormitory.

He has the real thing now.

taggled lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @imawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @fan-goddess @cl-0-vr @kittendoll05 @beautbuck @eponaartemisa @trshngyn @brettlovessuckingcocks @alerisc @moonriseoverkyoto @wolfdressedinlace @do-double-g @kennafild

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

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nysrage · 3 months

Text

Midnight Snack, Connie Springer.

synopsis: connie just couldn’t wait for his dessert to be served..

connie had an extreme sweet tooth, so it was no suprise when he was won over by the pretty lady that owned the bakery shop on the corner from his loft. he’d been a regular customer for about a year before he finally asked you out on a date, and ever since it’d been history. You’d always surprise him with a late night sugary snack after a nice hearty meal and tonight you chose to make his favorite— cinnamon rolls. Even at home you always got into your work mode when making treats, your hair pulled back in a half up half down with your favorite bow securing it all in place. Pink silk robe secured tightly in place as your skilled hands prepare the pastry. Spreading the cinnamon sugar filling on the sweet dough, rolling them with precision and placing them onto the baking sheet as connie sat in the living room, taking in all the delicious aromas filling the place.

Watching his pretty princesa from across the room as you got into your element. Brows scrunched and lip pouted as you focused on preparing your man’s favorite pastry. Roaming around the kitchen as you searched for the ingredients you always stored in his cabinets. His eyes low and red from the previous hits of his blunt that he smoke earlier, biting down on his lip as he took you in. That silk ballerina pink robe contrasted against your brown skin lovingly, displaying every curve and dip beneath the fabric. So mindless unaware of the ripples of your body with every movement you made, even as you whisked the ingredients of the sugary glaze.

Connie didn’t know if it was the sweet aroma or the view from afar but before he knew it was he was right behind you. Kissing your temple as he wrapped his hands around your waist, earning a light giggle from you. “They’re almost done baby,” swaying in his arms as you continued to finish the dessert. “let me just me get these in the oven and i’m all yours..” bending over and placing the cinnamon filled dough onto the rack. The only thing now on connie’s mind was you, that ass on display, and how he wanted rip every piece of silk off your body.

He started slow by pecking your cheek, before slowly moving down to your neck and taking in your flirty perfume. Running his hands along your curves as he lightly sucked at your skin. “Connieee, our snack..” you breathed out, eyes closing as he peppered kisses along your shoulder. “it’s okay mamí, papí ‘bout to give you one..” feeling on that soft booty of yours, hiking your robe up in the process. Slowly you bend over the counter, giving your man a shy twerk and backing your jiggly ass into him. His hard on fighting the restraints of his sweats as he pressed himself into you, earning a soft moan in return. Removing his clothes quickly he bent over you, giving you a wet kiss and whispering into your ear. “You want this dick, hm?” Rubbing that leaking tip through your flooded slit, and toying with your clit. Nodding your head eagerly, pussy clenching with anticipation and waiting to be filled.

“Words, talk to me princesa..” giving your lips a quick two taps, as he continued to teased your pussy below. Barely pushing his tip in and out of you, “Yess, please— I want it connie.” a whimpering gasp leaving your lips as he filled you up slowly at your word. Pelvis flush with your ass before pulling out and giving you a firm thrust. Setting a steady pace that had your pussy gripping onto him tightly, glistening slick leaking out onto his dick. “shit always so wet fr’ me..” those tight walls slowly letting him in with every thrust, opening up just right for him to fuck you stupid.

slobbering on the counter with eyes rolling back as you took those delicious strokes. connie pounding you hard and steady as your body bounced above the island, “yes, yes, yess, f-fuckkk.” you squealed, gripping and scratching at the marble counter. Connie roughly slapping down on that soft flesh rippling against his pelvis. Eyes focused on that tight pussy clenching down on him with every slap. “mhm, like that?” slapping harder, hand imprinted slowly beginning to form of your cheek. building the pressure as he angled his hips up towards that spongey spot deep within. “o-oh my godd, just like that.” voice bouncing with every thrust. Connie digging deeper until your legs were shaking, that creamy essence gushing from those pretty two toned lips and onto the floor.

Connie’s moans growing louder as his thrust grew sloppier, getting closer to his own orgasmic bliss. The oven sounding off with a beep behind you as the clapping sound of connie fucking you echoed throughout the loft. “c-connie, the rolls!” throwing your hand back to slow his pace, just for him to pin it behind your back “fuck them cinnamon rolls mi amor,”

“papí want a cream pie..”

#nys works.ᐟ ᥫ᭡#black writers #aot connie #aot connie springer #connie springer #connie springer smut #connie x black!reader #connie springer x black reader #connie x black reader #connie smut #connie springer x black reader smut #connie x black reader smut #connie x black y/n #connie springer x reader #connie springer x you

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tripleyeeet · 9 months

Text

BLEED YOU DRY (1)

SUMMARY: When you awake to find Astarion attempting to drink your blood, you find yourself making a interesting decision.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader (reads as Gender Neutral but future chapters will be femme focused, just a heads up!)

WORD COUNT: 3,273

WARNINGS: Bloodsucking, that's about it?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, so I'm aware I'm way ahead of schedule for this Haunted Hoedown thing but I'm going to be gone for a few days in the middle of it so I figured I'd get a headstart now to make sure I get every day done but also to build the hype? Maybe?

Basically this is going to be a little twelve part miniseries based on prompts from this writing challenge. I'll make a masterpost either tonight or tomorrow with all the ones I chose, plus some other stuff, so you guys know what's going on!

The prompt for this particular day was "I want to watch you bleed."

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

The squirming tadpole behind your eye is what wakes you up. Its constant movement, wriggling from edge to edge quickly prompts you to groan and palm your eye, attempting to suppress the feeling as you blink through the darkness. It takes a moment to adjust —to feel that twitch of the creature die down— and when it does there’s a sigh of satisfaction that leaves your lips.

Despite how long it’s been, you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the fact that you have a parasite living inside your mind. Even after experiencing the insertion firsthand, you often forget it’s there, looming behind your retinas, awaiting use every time you run into another. Normally it’s so still, barely inching out of place; sitting there, incubating within your thoughts. Tonight though, something’s urging its presence. Keeping it awake as you close your eyes again, scrunching up your face once it moves a second time.

Angrily, you sit up and turn your head, suddenly catching Astarion’s gaze, noticing the open-mouthed grin he offers in response.

“Shit.”

You narrow your eyes, focusing on his teeth. How bared they are; ready to strike at a moment's notice despite the only food lying around being you. “Were you just about to bite me?” you ask and almost immediately he attempts to play it off as if it were nothing, scoffing and rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you if that’s what you’re insinuating. I was only going for a nibble.”

You can feel your tadpole squirm. He’s telling the truth, albeit for reasons that are more selfish than he lets on. Despite seeming otherwise, he only wants to drink from you for strength —for energy. His desire to kill you is minuscule, lingering in the shadows of his mind for a potentially later day but surprisingly such notions don’t scare you. Astarion may be a bloodthirsty creature but for now, he’s an ally.

“And you didn’t think to just ask first?” You raise a brow at him, watching his expression twist into something bordering between confusion and interest.

“I’m sorry, just ask?” he parrots, exploring your features and how they remain calm despite the context.

He was expecting you to be angry. To throw some kind of fit and deny. It’s what any normal person would do, but considering the circumstances, offering up a little blood to build up the strength of someone on the same side is worth more than the annoyance that forms across your face.

“Yes, like a normal person,” you chastise, taking in the scowl he offers in response.

His brows furrow at the sound of your words, angling upwards to appear as sinister as possible, and you can’t help but snort. Something about his constant disapproval is almost humorous at this point.

“Normal? Darling, I’m a creature of the night. A blood sucking fiend. A—“

��Vampire, yes, we’re all well aware given the teeth.” You poke at your own canine, tapping the enamel with open lips just as he swallows hard and narrows his eyes.

“Yes, well, obviously considering such details I thought it inappropriate to ask. People don’t typically agree to such perilous sounding terms,” he says, voice light and airy. Casual, you might say, despite the context.

“So instead you were just going to go for it?” You raise your brow, a smirk playing across your lips as he rolls his eyes.

“Seemed like the best possible option… at the time.”

You offer him a quiet ah, nodding your head as the two of you remain still, watching each other. Trying to gauge how the other is feeling without the use of your tadpoles.

Based on what you know about Astarion you assume he’s too stubborn to ask. Now that he’s caught, regardless of whether or not he needs the blood, he’ll never find himself in a position to be desperate enough to say those simple little words. Being a man of persuasion, he’ll most likely just talk his way into it —make it seem like the whole thing was your idea in the first place before diving right in.

It’d be respectable if you weren’t the victim. If it were Wyll or Gale and you were to bear witness to his deceptions, you’d fully support it. Encourage it even if he were to ask your opinion.

Since it’s you though, you can’t help but feel a bit frustrated. Astarion and you have never been particularly friendly. Having only been around each other for a few weeks, all you’ve talked about is the Illithid and how you plan to get rid of it —what you’ll do after it’s gone. But even the latter conversations hardly spark specific details. Mostly they’re just brief mentions of wanting to run away. To become hidden after the war is over.

You assume someone’s looking for him based on the way he speaks and carries himself. When you’re on the move he hides within the pack, using you all as a shield while he looks around. Always on high alert, his ears twitch at any foreign sound, his eyes dart to meet the faces of anyone you may come across. At night, he’s always the one to keep watch and over time you’ve come to realize it isn’t just because he doesn’t sleep. It’s because he’s looking for someone.

Even now, as he stands above you, you can see his eyes looking past you to focus on the underbrush. The way they narrow with focus, pushing past your face. He can sense something that you can’t —feel the eyes of some foreign presence staring at the two of you.

You’re tempted to use the tadpole to find out what exactly it is but quickly refrain once you hear the shuffling of branches behind you followed by Astarion’s breath of relief.

“You alright?”

His eyes shut for a split second. His chest heaves a single breath and in that moment you’re struck with an odd sense of sympathy. The feeling of pity laces throughout your thoughts as you imagine Astarion’s life before all of this. You imagine it isn’t great. Considering he’s a vampire, there’s probably at least an inkling of trauma there after living, dying and coming back as something other than yourself. No sane person would be the same after that, especially when taking into account all the symptoms. Before his transition, he could do mundane things. Enjoy the pleasantries of life like the sun and sleeping and food.

Nowadays, all it seems he craves is blood and power. Flesh of whatever he can get his greedy little hands on. The upper hand in any possible argument. Both make what Astarion is on the surface, but looking at him now, wondering what else lies behind that thick, defensive coat of first impressions, you know there are other things. Nicer ones he refuses to showcase.

They’re the details of his life before everything. Traits reserved only for himself, and for some uncharacteristic reason, you’re tempted to find out what they are.

“If you need to…” Trailing off, you feel your stomach twist at the realization of what you’re about to offer. The consequences are high, maybe even too high, but perhaps the benefits could be deemed higher. At this point, you’re certain no one else will give him what he needs. They’re all too noble or guarded to allow Astarion, regardless of his current allegiance, to drink.

They don’t trust him. And even though you find yourself in the same boat, feeling the skepticism of your words start to echo in the back of your mind, you know it’s the most logical thing to do. Sure, it may not be the right one. By a long shot, it’s probably one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had, but you know deep down that it’s necessary for your survival. To ensure that, when all this blows over and the potential of you going your separate ways occurs, Astarion doesn’t view you as an enemy.

“If you need to drink, you can.”

His eyes widen only a bit. Just enough for you to notice the slight shock that spreads across his features. “I can?”

There’s a reluctance you feel begin to bubble up but instead of acting on it you merely shut it down, nodding your head. “Yes, but only a little. Don’t want you bleeding me dry before this whole thing is all over.”

Somehow that makes him laugh. “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.”

You force yourself not to smirk as he lies through his teeth. Knowing him, he’d suck you dry if it weren’t for the fact that there’s safety in numbers. “Unfortunately for me this isn’t a dream.”

“Fair point,” he replies, taking a short step forward. After that he slowly begins to crouch towards the ground, watching you closely —focusing on the rise and fall of your chest as his face falls mere inches from yours. “For now though, I promise to do no such thing.”

“And you’re certain you’ll keep it?”

He hums, a grin pulling at his cheeks. “For now,” he muses. “In the future though…”

He’s so close you can feel his breath. Hot and heavy puffs pushed through a low, far too sultry tone of voice that has you pressing your lips together in a thin line.

Out of everyone, Astarion’s always been the most intriguing. The one you’ve had this constant back and forth with, debating whether or not to approach or run. Aside from the obvious vampirism, it’s quite obvious that he isn’t like the others. From what you’ve been able to piece together, he doesn’t have a cause. A God or some sort of leader he’s willing to lay down the law for. He’s not noble like Wyll or faithful like Shadowheart. He’s just Astarion. A bloodied wolf all by his lonesome, following the rest of the pack.

You’re sure he has desires like the rest of them. Wants and needs that’ll inevitably be gifted to him at the end of this —so long as you all survive. Like everyone else, he has a purpose in mind, but what that purpose is is unbeknownst to you thanks to the charm he offers in replacement of the truth. Because of this, he feels almost like a treasure chest. A trove of untold riches kneeling before you, tempting you to open.

“I’m sure the future will have us far enough away from each other where that doesn’t happen, so I won’t worry.”

Almost immediately, he can tell you’re fishing for information. The way his brow slightly upturns and the flirtatious grin across his face transitions into more of a smirk. It makes you internally curse, knowing that no matter how hard you try you’ll never beat him at his own game. His way with words is too precise. Too calculated, even for someone like you who grew up convincing people of your lies.

“You never know. Perhaps after this is all over I’ll follow you. Linger amongst the shadows until the time is right.”

You can’t tell if he’s kidding. His voice is too convincing to be completely certain, so you merely roll your eyes. “Yes, well, if you do decide to drink me to death, be sure to make it quick.”

He clicks his tongue, leaning slightly further in. “What would be the fun in that though?”

There’s an unfamiliar ache inside your chest. A rupture of pain that wreaks havoc against your ribcage, pounding. Now that he’s close to you, you can assume it’s always been there but because he’s so good at posing a distraction you weren’t fully aware of it until now.

“Fair point,” you repeat his words back to him, deeply inhaling just as the tadpole suddenly shifts in tandem with your chest. Ebbing and flowing across your inner eye in time with your shaky breath, you notice Astarion pick up on it, humming knowingly.

“You fear me, don’t you?”

Despite the answer being blatantly obvious, your lips remained sealed. Closed off, regardless of the truths the rest of your body spills.

“It’s quite alright, darling. It’s normal. Creatures of the night are hardly meant to be trifled with.”

He’s in your face now, a mere hair’s length away, once again baring his teeth. Against your lips, you can feel the movement of his words pushing through the air, coating you in further reluctance as the withheld breath inside you finally releases. As it hits his face, he blinks and pulls away. Ever so slightly giving you the space you need to recollect your thoughts and swallow back the fear.

He’s terrifying. Even you have to admit that. Unlike Lae’zel he’s more calculated in his intimidation, opting to pull you in —to make you feel comfortable— before he ultimately strikes. Because of this, his threats feel more authentic. Less like simple tactics used to get you to back off. They aren’t words of warning —they’re promises. Declarations of a moment he’s more than willing to make a reality if given the chance.

“Do you want my blood or not, Astarion?”

Your patience is thin. Your chest is in pain and while the tadpole inside unwittingly reaches out to his, driving you both closer as he instructs you to lie back down and get comfortable, all you can feel is temptation. Desire.

Upon resting your head, you feel the connection between you grow stronger. Inside, your head flashes with icy sensations that trickle down towards your neck. Small tremors of what’s to come as Astarion positions himself around you.

When he leans down, there’s a moment where you think of retracting. This is all too sudden, you think. A mistake made in hopes of gaining the upper hand. Just moments ago you were made unaware of the full potential of Astarion’s charms, but now that you’re lying beneath him, awaiting the moment he sinks his teeth into your flesh, you can feel the regret begin to build.

“It won’t last.”

Pulling yourself from your thoughts, you look to see him staring over top of you. Both of his arms are planted on either side of your head, bending at the elbow so that he’s low and close. “I’m sorry?”

“The pain. It won’t last long, I promise.”

Strangely enough, he sounds sincere. Not that that means much when a good portion of the words that exit his lips are lies. Still though, instead of returning to that previous headspace you merely breathe and nod, waiting for the moment the tadpole’s connection vibrates with confirmation and Astarion begins to lean in.

It’s a slow process. Above you, his shoulders shift, pushing his arm to cup the back of your head and expose your neck. Against your skull, Astarion tightens his grip to steady the endless thoughts that race through your mind as you share a glance. It’s small but important. A moment of recognition that tonight is not the night you die at his hand, but merely a preview of what might come if your paths wrongfully cross.

At the last second, you give him a curt nod and feel him dip, running the tip of his tongue along your jugular before the presence of teeth poke holes through your flesh. At first, it's painful. The blood that’s sucked through your veins pulsates through the open wound in stinging waves as you feign a soft groan. Then Astarion’s grip around your head tightens at the sound, pushing you further into his mouth. Further into the euphoria he takes as the feeling transcends into something numbingly cold.

Your eyes flutter shut at his continued feed. The feeling in your hands begins to fade even as you somehow find them moving to Astarion’s back, one of them pressing against his shoulder, the other finding purchase in his locks. At that point, you can feel Astarion moan against you, desperation filling his every cell as his teeth shift further into your neck, prompting your eyes to shoot open.

He’s going to kill you at this rate. To drink you drier than an insect's husk, so, through half-conscious pushes, you tell him to stop. To let go and to keep his promise as you grip the roots of his hair and pull.

As it happens you see his eyes shift to yours. They’re blown out completely, the whites of his eyes stained red to match his ruby pupils. For a moment, they remain locked to your half-lidded ones, honing in on the way they start to flutter again before you see them tightly close. Then he finds himself ripping away and gasping for air. Coughing through the thick blood that coats his tongue as he stares down at your neck.

The wound is only slightly gaping. Two well-defined puncture wounds sit side by side, but at the moment you can’t feel them. Instead, there’s still only numbness. A space of nothing that lingers between your head and chest, making you shift to sit up and place your hand there, finding more blood.

“See? Over before you know it, right?” He laughs but all you do is glare.

“You almost killed me.”

“Ah, yes, but notice the key word being almost.”

If you weren’t so heavy-headed you’d punch him in the throat. Maybe strangle him if you could get the right angle. “Yes, fine, you’ve had your fun. Now, do you need anything else or am I fine to pass out now?”

You expect him to say something else. To make some quip about the safety measures of post-bloodsucking, but he doesn’t. Instead, he merely inches closer, staring at you as he reaches for your bloodied hand and pulls it close.

Once again, your tadpole wriggles against your will. Throughout your skull, it practically dances as Astarion glances down, taking two of your fingers into his mouth with careful precision. If anyone were to see they’d most likely faint at the mere lewdness of it. Frozen in time, your body refuses to move as he laps the blood off your skin, staring at you through hooded eyes that make you want to scream.

You’ve never been in this kind of position before. Sure, you’ve experienced many kinds of intimacy, both sexual and not, but somehow this feels different. Forbidden, in a sense. As if sharing this moment is not only wrong but also against some sort of ethical code.

At first, you wonder if it’s because blood isn’t necessarily something that’s given. Always taken. In battle, it’s ripped from your skin through the means of injury. Punctured or sliced out of you at the hands of a sword. No bond goes along with it. No mutual agreement that any life will remain once the deed is over.

But then you begin to think of Astarion. The elven vampire now infected with the Illithid. Like you, he’s been changed. Subtly shifted into something new. Overall, your transformation isn’t nearly as different as his. Before the infection, you could still enjoy the pleasantries of being human, but still, there’s this connection that draws you towards him. It makes its presence known within the tadpole. Throughout the movements that echo in your minds as Astarion cleans the last of the blood away, looking at you with soft eyes.

“I consider this a gift, you know,” he says, dropping your hand, and moving away to stand without so much as a thought.

You blink back your confusion, trying your best to focus on the genuine-looking smile that appears as he takes a few steps backwards, never breaking eye contact until he telepathically adds I won’t forget it then stalks away.

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