#Web sockets | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

miss-tarja · 3 months ago

Text

Hojōjutsu

Art by mag_bya on X ❤️

Ninja! Miguel O’Hara x Ninja! Reader.

Another for the Miguelverse ✨

WARNINGS: MINORS DON'T INTERACT. Dom/Sub dynamic, Smut, fingering, Oral (F! Receiving) Unprotected p in v, use of bdsm equipment, mentions of Kinbaku poses (Or bondage), mentions of Japanese terms, bratting, ninja activities, espionage, spanking. Rimming (F! Receiving).

A/N: Was going through my photography essays and found a lovely photo shoot I did back then 🤭, then had that fanart sitting on my gallery for too long, untouched. And I might be ovulating so... yeah. Merely indulging myself here jsksk. Hope you like! Feedback and reblogs are always welcome c:

Word count: 7505.

PD: The Hojojutsu is a Japanese martial art used ever since Edo period, used to immobilize prisoners. Due the lack of iron to create tools such as handcuffs, the police back then had to make use of ropes. Still is a practice used in modern days as part of the Japanese police training ~ ✨ It was the main inspiration for the Kinbaku (Erotic tying) that came later in the same period ❤️.

Frantic steps ran through the overcrowded grass field, dodging and zig zagging left and right, until a foot turned on its heels to the right once more in a stupid attempt to lose him and keep himself alive a little longer.

The young man knew what the task of being a messenger ensued, the dangers he'd face ahead on the treacherous path he'd chosen. But never in his short life he'd think he'd encounter danger this early on his very first mission.

The young man's panting increased, like the fear devouring all coherent thoughts inside his panicking brain, begging to keep on running, to keep himself away from the silent steps behind him, preying, approaching him with a deathly and stealthy pace and a single goal in mind.

The scroll.

Not only it contained compromising information about some powerful lords in the underworld, but names of those that weave their webs behind Underground New York's imperious daily activities.

The powerful, the self proclaimed gods among mortals, that looked down upon those beneath them. Lords or modern daimyos (Feudal lords), as they called themselves, strategically distributed in seven sectors through the living contradiction the city was.

A blur of red made the courier's eyes nearly pop out of their socket as it hovered over him. The young and naive man knew running was as futile as sending a signal of help in an open field. He also knew running would just delay the eventual end awaiting with open arms his way. When the courier turned, all that his horrorized eyes could do was widen as open as they could, his mouth gaped, like a fish out of water but no scream for pity or sound came out of it; while the moving blur stopped right in front of him, in the shape of a man.

Someone he was often warned by his mentors, the survivors of his prowess, stood tall and proud before his very eyes. None other but The Spider-man was his chaser and executor. Red, blue and a flash of white by the elongated fangs dashing, was all the courier saw before a powerful sting erupted from the side of his neck, spreading a burning numbness through his limbs, like a disease. Stilling and subduing each movement of his muscles effortlessly.

The flesh skeleton he had for a body twitched painfully, the soft coppery smell tickled his nose along the faint scent of gunpowder flooding each breath.The gloved hands held him still as the bite deepened. It all had happened so quickly, yet the beating of his heart slowed down, menacing to stop at any second. The burning within was too overwhelming for his brain to register.

A bite. It all took a bite from the colorful blur to end it all. Not that the courier’s chase had been exhausting, if anything it all meant a mere game he had lost even before starting. The scroll fell off its secure grip on the ground, like him and his soon to be lifeless body. Unable to tear his gaze from the… creature standing before him. A glint of beady red eyes watched him, with a satisfied smirk on his face before disappearing within the blink of an eye into the night.

Despite the city's futuristic layout, many lived simple and rustic lives, after all, the social barrier was ever present among the denizens of the upper terrains.

Old and new walked hand in hand, carrying the hefty weight of a constantly evolving dystopia. Even though technology oozed in the upper echelons of the city, the most basic and borderline rudimentary ways of life thrived in the subworld. Another reality, some said.

While the top was beautifully constructed with skyscrapers that scratched the sky and beyond, the sublevels of the city still used technology deemed ancient. Manual labour, handwritten letters, artisanal constructions among others that could be found only in history records. Many used it as a getaway from the overwhelming and speedy pace the upper city kept, others, too stubborn to embrace the change to be part of it, but for a certain powerful group, it was the perfect ambience for criminal activities off the radar.

It was no secret that Underground Nueva York was controlled by six individuals that always made their word an ominous promise and the underworld they remained hidden, their playground. Old ways of intel gathering were brought to the table, and old arts of espionage once again resurfaced, leaving the good and the bad to clash in a never ending fight for justice and interests alike.

You often wondered what was the real cause they fought for. Money? Maybe. Power? Definitely. Men loved to show off their power, even in the most subtlest of things. Especially one, your boss. The one and only and true mastermind behind the other daimyos agendas, Tyler Stone.

The man had requested your presence right after you had finished another mission. Infiltration and a little else were your speciality, eventually they both helped you to get the right amount of recognition to put your name out there, earning yourself a good spot as Tyler’s best spy.

“You called?” Your voice echoed behind him, as Tyler read the many scrolls full with intel from his uptown allies. Scrolls were untraceable, unlike an email.

“Your new mission just arrived, Shadow.” His favorite nickname for you, despite your initial mockery for it. “You see, one of Osborn’s agents was supposed to deliver us some information. He never showed up. My scroll is missing and as you might know, if there’s something that grinds my gears is to have my intel in pieces” He sighed, opening the next scroll in line. “You know I’m a complete picture sort of man. So bring it to me. Will you, dear?.”

“Anything else?”

“For you to be careful.”

A tinge of wariness raised in the back of your mind. It was rare when Tyler, out of everyone, warned you, and the times he did it meant only one thing. A formidable enemy awaited.

“Careful?” You repeated, almost incredulous.

“Yes, my dear Shadow. Careful. Whoever is dispatching our agents, is quick, efficient and dangerous.”

So am I

“Is there any pattern?”

“That’s the thing. Whatever this…creature is, leaves a single thing in the bodies. A signature of sorts.”

Tyler handed you a couple of pictures, all of them showed something in common. The lurid silhouette of a man’s bite, nesting too comfortably in the right side of the victims’ necks. Two deep and parallel punctures stood out the most for you, located right in the jugular as an ambar liquid oozed from them.

Creature. It suited the description beyond perfection. The bite reminded you of those fantasy beings you used to read about in your spare time, but with science and progress living above your head, the idea of whoever or rather whatever doing this wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. You had seen your fair share of strange things and mutants. One that loved to bite wouldn’t spook you out.

Without anything more deemed substantial to know, you disappeared. Ready to search and retrieve.

The first two districts had been empty of what you needed. Their people either knew how to hide a good secret, or they were too oblivious as to what had happened with the missing courier. Some thermal water attendees commented briefly on it, but nothing good enough to make it a lead.

Then you infiltrated into an inn, as a masseuse, after tracking one of Osborn’s soldiers. The man turned out to be nothing else but his right hand, and if there was something all the lackeys from the daimyos’ shared, it was their loose mouth.

“-Next thing I know is that he’s gone. Poor kid. It was his first day and he got the bite.” The soldier huffed as you moved your oiled up hands among the layers of skin and bumps, earning a gurgling and approving moan from him.

“See? This is what I call VIP service.” He mumbled, too lost into the relaxation invading him, like the other soldier accompanying him. Another girl worked his neck and back.

“So, that kid, Ricky’s dead then?” The other soldier asked, contemplating.

“Seems so. That… Spider creature is scaring my men shitless. But when I catch him? I swear… he'll pay. I liked Ricky. Was young and stupid, but was a good soldier.”

A him? Spider creature?

Your ears perked ever subtly as you listened and massaged the man's shoulder diligently, while your brain connected two and two. You were on the right track.

“Osborn wants him dead.”

“Like everyone.” His companion chuckled, “He's been messing us up for too long. Even Tyler is looking up for that Spider guy.”

Osborn’s right hand gave a low whistle.

“Yeah. That means we stay out of his way and let him handle it all. If he fails, hope not, we'll be screwed. None wants to be a messenger now, because of that arachnid son of a bitch.”

“Ah, c’mon, it can't be that hard to get him! Just round up some other shinobis and we'll settle a trap for him.”

“That's the thing, dumbass… It's not only him.”

After long days of discreet and low profile searches, you finally managed to not only make a solid lead, revealing more of this phantom-like character to you and those brave or stupid enough to dig past the surface about him.

You found out that what killed the young man was a severe allergic reaction to a toxin located in some spiders you had heard were used in the upper city labs of Alchemax. The arachnid creature was more a fact than a hypothesis now.

And although you had to pay a visit to the upper dystopia to get more information, it all eventually led you back underground. More specifically to the Takuya district. Or colloquially known as “The Spider” sector. Rumors about a secret army being trained under the command of a man were often encountered in your research. And no matter how much Tyler’s minions tortured the captured enemy’s spies, none sang.

Some rather die, others bite their tongue off. None dared to say a word, nor a peep. Until one did, giving you a name in hopes for you to stop the pain consuming him.

Miguel O’Hara.

The very same ghost that owned the residency before you. The very same creature that from time to time, meaning almost on rare occasions, allowed himself to be a regular man and spent the night with some high end courtesan.

Thanks to your connections, you managed to swap with the assigned woman for the task. The madam couldn't make enough emphasis to not be bold or rude or else you'd never work for them again, as he had complained about the last woman they sent.

“Don't look him in the eye if he doesn't allow you to.” “Don't speak unless you’re asked to.” “Don't-”

Will I get to breathe though?

The sudden thought was too tempting to be kept in your red tainted mouth, but common sense prevailed and you remained shut.

One thing you always found curious was the clothing people wore in this side of the underground city. Yukatas, kimonos, obis, so many traditional clothing you had seen back in the museum records. Even the security guards wore the signature red and blue uniforms you had seen since entering some parts of the district. All wearing a spider symbol in their chest or backs.

Once ready, you were allowed in, and soon were guided to the assigned room. The house, or rather manor, was as impressive inside as it was from the outside. Your eyes were already taking mental notes, how many hallways, how many doors, people and soldiers, and of course, how many weapons each carried. Security was alarming, meaning the scroll was somewhere within.

The heavy steps from outside, snapped you out of your thoughts, and when the door slid open, your breath stuck in your throat.

Not only was he the tallest man you had ever seen, but the most serious. Sharp features adorned his strong jaw, the red irises were too strange and pretty to ignore, especially when they raked you up and down, causing a chill to tickle your skin alive while you bowed. Somehow you could understand a bit more on why people feared him.

“You're early.” He noted, closing the door behind you both. The people behind the thin walls left, conceding privacy to you both.

By his damp hair you could tell he was fresh out of a bath. Wearing a burgundy and blue colored yukata contrasting with his luscious cinnamon skin. Dark chestnut and shiny locks perfectly slicked back, almost too elegant. But his eyes were the ones that did the trick for you. Bright red and dangerous. Staring right into your soul.

“Madam Odai refuses to get another complaint from our best client, so she sent me earlier to give you extra time as a compensation, sir.”

His head tilted slightly as his eyes refused to leave you, an appreciative hum left him.

“On your feet. Face the wall.” He instructed right on.

Your brow quivered at his sudden order, but obeyed. Once again your breath caught when the sudden sensation of warmth irradiating from his body pressed against your back. Big hands palmed up and down your sides, squeezing briefly any portion of space his hands reached.

Straight to business, huh?

His hot breath tickled your neck as his hands took a good and proper feel of you, your breast, waist, hips. He hummed pleased, when he found the obi around your waist, and with an impromptu twist, you faced him as the belt fell at your feet. Like the first layer of your robes.

“Haven’t seen you before.” He huffed, his eyes too focused on whatever piece of your exposed skin, as if looking for something.

Your cheeks couldn't help but flush lightly at the sudden pace his hands worked. But a gasp came out of your mouth when his body pushed you against the wall, and with a swift motion of his hands, he peeled off layers and layers, until nothing but a fine linen robe separating your nakedness from his scrutiny remained.

“I-Is there something wrong, sir?”

Although your voice came out laced with innocence and curiosity, confusion crossed Miguel’s eyes for a moment. There were no weapons on you, which earned him a low growl. He was sure he'd find something, anything, tiny as it was. But there was nothing.

Yet.

His eyes smothered you, like blazing and gorgeous fire stones ready to scorch you alive, following every breath you did. He didn’t trust anyone, not even his own shadow.

“Hands above your head.”

You obeyed, with a subtle and playful bat of your lashes. The sleeves of your linen dropped back, exposing your now naked arms. His eyes followed every trace of your bare skin, stopping at your partially open lips for a second longer.

“Are you looking for something, sir?”

“Quiet.” He held with a single hand both of your wrists, pinning you down on the spot. Earning you a ticklish giggle when his brows furrowed deeper. “I would’ve been informed if a new girl showed up.”

“I work in another district. Madam Odai requested my help, her girls were busy for the night. She didn’t want to let you down.”

His hands pulled you closer to him, only to flip you and press your face against the wall with your hands behind your back, his grip tightened, you noted. A tingle ran down your spine, pooling down in the very pit of your abdomen. Your hips arched in his direction, bumping ever softly against his.

Ironic as it was, playing in the handsome face of danger was your best card, but deep in the back of your mind, Tyler’s warning rang loud and clear. To be careful. He was no ordinary man after all.

“...Sir?”

Miguel huffed, almost too amused your charade was still up. For how long though? So far you seemed confused at best by his behavior, you weren’t panicking nor complaining. A big red flag on your end. Other women struggled, over-explained themselves or cried initially, and he always made sure to reward their endurance to the frighten, and here you were, calm and collected as if expecting his next move.

“You never told me the district you came from.” His breath tickled your cheek.

“Well, you never asked.”

“Ha, funny aren’t you?” He pressed tighter, pulling a tiny whimper from your lips. “Where?”

“D-District four.” you gasped. And the hairs of your nape stood. “Your grip is hurting me, sir.”

“Four?” He chuckled and your alarms flared. “And you say Odai sent you?”

“Is this a routine of yours I wasn't told of?”

“You see… If there’s something Odai hates is sloppy jobs” He turned you once again, his hot breath fanning your face as he hovered over you, his hand easily maneuvered your arms above your head, pinning you once again. “And district four. Now, let’s try again before my patience runs out. Who. Sent. You?”

“I told you already! Madam Odai did!.”

He squeezed your wrist tighter as a warning, yet no bigger reaction than a glower crossed your features. His other hand pulled your chin up, making your eyes meet his, the scowl on his handsome face revealed just enough for you to see the tip of his elongated fangs peeking out.

He was the creature. The Spider. The ghost stalking your agents, and everyone deemed a threat towards his interests.

“Are you sure you wanna play that way, pequeña? Cause let me tell you, If we'll play, it'll be on my terms.” His voice turned an octave lower, hissing on your ear, slamming you hard enough against the wall to get his point across. “And I don't play gently.”

“I’m sure Madam Odai won’t like hearing you’ve been terrorizing her employees-”

The slam was enough for you to growl. The confused courtesan mask slowly cracked before him.

“How convenient for her to send a new employee when I precisely requested her to not send any other girls here.” A smirk stretched in his plump lips, “But I do appreciate her collaboration in handing me over stupid people like you that think they have a chance.”

Your eyes widened for a moment, earning a satisfied huff from him.

That old hag…

Odai had delivered you right into his palm, like a butterfly purposely placed in the sticky webs of a hungry spider. A sacrifice for her own and her business protection. A normalized practice within the underworld.

“Are you gonna kill me?” Your eyes followed him with the same intensity he scrutinized you.

“Depends. What are you here for?”

“To please someone. But, guess I'm not his type. A shame really.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your time runs out, corazón. Like my patience, so you better speak.”

“I don't feel like it, actually. Not a good talker when I'm cornered.” The little smirk in your lips was enough for his eyelid to twitch.

“Enough!” He growled, squeezing your wrist tighter, earning a wriggle from you. “Give me names, now. I don't have time for this.”

“Neither do I.” You hissed back and sunk your knee in his side with a powerful kick, pushing all air out of his lungs and weakening his grip on your wrists as he staggered back. All pretense gone, leaving your true colors before him.

“You'll pay for that.” He hissed

“You'll hit a woman? How shameful of you.”

With a sweep of his feet on your ankles, your balance was compromised by losing your footing as you stepped into the discarded silky robes. His hand grabbed a handful of your front robe and pulled you towards him, his angry and gorgeous face inches away from yours.

“It's self defense when you attack me first, bonita.” He growled, dodging and pushing you against the wall with the sole intention of disorienting you, specially with a sudden body slam he did. But you were persistent.

A flurry of kicks and punches moved his way, but he easily dodged, learning your fighting pattern, analyzing your every move. Proficient, effective, lethal and graceful, like a proper kunoichi (female ninja) trained from a young age. Until he seized the chance and grabbed your ankle, pulling upwards, lifting you effortlessly with enough strength to make you yelp, surprised at the sheer display of power, but also making your robe to rile up even further.

“Put me down, asshole!” Your hands tried to reach for the railing hems of your robe and his face, to no avail.

“Como desees, corazón.” (As you wish, sweetheart)

Not only did he put you down by letting your body fall with a loud thud on the ground. But pounced on you before you could scramble on your feet and dash towards the door.

You threw a blind punch with your elbow, earning an amused chuckle from him as he caught it mid air.

“My, my. For being a little thing you sure do put up a fight, I’ll give you that.” He mumbled cockily while restraining both of your arms behind your back and held them on the spot by pressing his knee on them. All while he retrieved a white long rope from a nearby compartment on the floor. “Now be a good girl and stay still.”

Your eyes frowned when his fingers placed the rope around your neck. And just when you thought his fingers couldn’t work faster, there he was, twisting the rope behind your underarms to create a lubber’s knot and restrain your arms behind your back. Leaving zero chances for them to move. And if it wasn’t enough for him, he finished the tie with the ropes caging your breast above your chest and underneath them, perfectly secured in a box tie.

With a pull, he easily lifted you from the ground, the rope around your neck tightened enough to cut off your air intake briefly, earning him a gasp. Your feet clumsily stood, with Bambi-like steps, but a squeal, easily mistaken for a moan, left you as his face found the right side of your neck and sank his fangs in the tender skin, right above your pulsating spot and pulled you closer to his chest while at it.

The sting was something you hadn’t felt before. Unlike the courier, a soft buzz spread through your limbs, heightening every receptor in your pores and skin. Increasing your body temperature with a pleasant scorch that slowly traveled through your chest, hardening your nipples, to finally fall deep in the pit of your fluttering stomach.

Your eyes nearly rolled back when he pulled his fangs out, licking the amber droplets of his poison, off your now trembling skin in the way.

“We’ve already played your games.” He pushed you to walk out of the room. “I think it’s time to play mine.”

The cold splashes of water doused your heated skin, awakening from your sudden slumber. When did you fall unconscious? You didn’t know. All you remembered was him biting you, your body burning and him leading you somewhere.

“Rise and shine, sunshine.” He mumbled while splashing another bucket of ice cold water on your face.

Your groggy eyes fought for a moment to focus, the water droplets blurred your sight, yet you could still see the blue and red blur pacing back and forth before you. Your head hung, too heavy to keep it up, yet the alarms rang once more as you didn’t feel the floor under your feet. A little late you realized you were dangling in the air.

The blur came closer and yet another splash of water doused you once more, making you cough, shiver and gasp. His hands wiped your eyes from the stubborn water pooling in the corner of them, clearing your sight for you to watch him properly. The flimsy and soaked robe now stuck on your body like a second skin.

“There we go. You gotta look a bit more alive for me, darling.” His fingers patted your cheeks softly, squeezing your chin to face him.

“W-Where…” You coughed again, gasping for air.

He just watched you, impassive, as you tried to pull your arms back with a tug, yet they didn’t budge. Your feet twitched. The only part of your body that remained unrestrained. If you fell, the pain wouldn’t be too much. You were hovering a few feet above him after all.

Slowly the numbness holding your brain hostage left, earning you back some mobility, but enough to stop and look down at yourself, or at least attempt to. A spreader bar kept your arms separated behind your back. Your upper body leaned towards him as the rest dangled.

The cold water dribbled in little rivulets down your shivering thighs, you didn’t have time to protest as the ice cold liquid drenched you again.

“F-Fuck, stop!” you gurgled, kicking in the air. But he made sure each part of you was soaked. “I’m awake already you-”

He splashed your face with a smirk, silencing your yapping, earning himself a glare. You were awake. And aware, just like he needed you to be.

“Good. Good. Now… mind telling me who you’re running errands for?”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t know them. I think you'll have to illustrate me.”

You thrashed and kicked his way. Pulling a mocking yet brief laugh as he caught your first leg. His eyes raked your exposed and shimmery wet skin. His thumb rubbed just above your tabi socks, slowly increasing in a powerful squeeze.

“There’s only three people that are in touch with Odai’s services.” He mumbled, pulling you by the hostage ankle, the suspension device you were tied to, moved in his direction, obeying without reply, unlike you. And by the looks of the room, you supposed it was a torture space.

Bars, ropes and other weapons rested too comfortable on the tables. But what truly snatched your whole attention for a moment was seeing the different objects and other tools you often got to see not so well hidden in the massaging rooms. The inns and massage houses were often a decoy for cruising.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.” He pulled your chin and spoke again. “Like I said only three people, daimyos especially, have the connection with Odai. Kingpin.” Your face turned in disgust at the name and he hummed.

“Osborn.” Your eyes went wide for a moment. “Yeah, it’s as surprising for me as everyone that finds out. And last but not least. The boss himself, Tyler Stone.”

Your lips flattened in a tight line at the name, yet Miguel’s eyes shone.

“Tyler is it?” He nodded with pursed lips, then a nonchalant huff escaped his lips. “I see. Guess the upper city life wasn’t doing that old man any good.”

“Old man? Oh god, Save it, will you?I’m not here to talk about your daddy issues, Spiderman.”

You teased, but that earned you a firm spank that had your jaw clenching in a hiss and your toes curl, drowning a cuss.

“Too bad he still fails as one for not teaching his pets to behave.” A dark glint crossed his eyes, “But don’t worry. We’ve got time.”

With a growl you tensed up your muscles, strengthening your core enough to gain some balance and kick his way, but the attack was ridiculous and you only managed to annoy him.

“So damn impolite.” He slapped with precision your cold pussy. Pulling a yelp as you stilled. “That’s better.”

His hands took the rope and wasted no time bending your knee back against your thigh. Although you gave him another kick, it barely budged him. He restrained the first and caught the other one just in time before it connected to the side of his head.

“Dios mio, you’re such a brat.” He restrained the other leg, almost with a lick of humor, leaving you in nothing but a frog-tie position.

Not only now you hovered over him, completely soaked, angry and hogtied. But your cunt was also exposed to him. A shade of flush traveled through your cheeks as he pulled the lever to lower the suspension device just enough for his eyes to meet your folds. And as much as you tried to close your legs and deny him the sight, you couldn’t.

“Now… What does Tyler want so bad he sent you here, hmm?” He stepped back, raising his hand to show his talons protruding from the tip of his fingers.

Your eyes widened for a moment while one of his sharp fingers tipped your chest. You didn’t have to be a genius to understand one slice of them was enough to end you on the spot. But nervousness had a habit of turning you into a parrot when the nerves kicked in.

“Might as well call you kitty-man.” A stupid parrot that earned a growl from the danger before you.

The sound of fabric tearing was too deafening for a moment, your eyes closed as soon as the talons reached up to you and then a shiver ran through your skin when the cold air hit your bare and hardened nipples. He had sliced to shreds your robe, leaving nothing but hanging pieces in between the ropes and you. A beautiful soaked and flushed mess. His talons retracted.

“I liked you better when you weren’t talking without my permission.” He mumbled and approached the special table, retrieving a bamboo gag and waving it for your eyes to see. “Ball gags are unsafe for little things like you. Wouldn't want you to choke on purpose.” His hands fastened the gag around your mouth, making your teeth sink into the bamboo piece. “I’d rather do so myself.”

A crawl pooled in your lower back, but even so, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, refusing to completely acknowledge his undeniable advantage.

“Now. I speak, you listen.” His hands pulled your open thighs closer to his face, his eyes couldn’t help but admire properly the wondrous display of his authority effects on your skin.

A lovely patch of hair covered your pubis, stopping an inch away from your cleft. Puffy labia remained slightly parted by the position of your thighs, doing a poor job in covering the prized pearl of nerves resting in between them, calling for proper attention. His pupils widened involuntarily when it pulsated.

The man in him urged him into making you talk. And by the reactions of your body, he knew the perfect torture for such task. Conventional methods would only be inefficient but boring. Even if you were his enemy, the chivalrous side of him dictated he couldn’t ignore a wet pussy.

His eyes darted to a wriggling you, staring, amused at how your desperate movements of freedom made the ropes to friction tighter, leaving faint red imprints of their pattern in your skin. But oh, when the little whimper echoed behind your gag as soon as the rope touched your nipples, fueled him. He knew he had to do something.

“Look at me.” He instructed once more and your eyes darted his way with a glare.

That stupid and smooth smirk in his plump lips only fed dry bones to the hatred fire burning within you.

“We’ll make this quick and easy. I’ll ask something and naturally you’ll reply. I know… I know. Don’t look at me like that, corazón. If the answer is yes, you’ll…” He took your chin and made you nod. “But if it’s a no?” He moved your head to shake it side to side gently. “Understood?”

Upon not hearing an answer, he reached for your folds and pressed his thumb against your clit, applying the right amount of pressure. Your thighs twitched and you whimpered.

“I said, understood?”

You nodded almost right away.

“Good girl.” He released your clit and rubbed the inside of your thigh, relishing in the sight of the wetness seeping through your pores.

Miguel reached for a little clamp and pried it open, hovering it over your nipple. Your eyes followed the wooden device, backing up as much as you could.

“Do you know what the scroll contains?” He held you still

You shook your head. But the clamp was put on your nipple anyway, tearing a throaty whimper from you while glaring his way. You weren’t lying, and still the asshole preferred to complete the task by adorning both breasts with the wooden clamps. The pressure sent a delicious crawl through your chest.

“You came here to retrieve it, without knowing what it had inside?” The palpable mock in his tone had your eyes rolling, annoyed, but he tapped your clit, rewiring immediately your focus on him. “Nuh-uh. Eyes on me. Yes or no?” His thumb found its way to your pulsating bundle once more, rubbing in tortuously slow circles. Your hips by instinct twitched to the side, seeking more of the friction.

You managed to nod, panting behind the gag while he flickered it to the sides. Each touch only sent burning waves of need through your body.

“Silly girl. Fetching things without knowing what they have is dangerous and stupid.” His face hovered over your cunt, examining with narrowed eyes the way your insides clenched around nothing the more he caressed it.

“Does it feel good? Hm?” Other fingers joined the party as they parted your folds apart, revealing the soaked flesh in between. A fine thread of your juices escaped, smearing itself on his palm, a frisson of lust crossed his focused features when you eventually nodded.

Of course it felt good. Too good for your own well being and damned you if Tyler found out about it. He’d deem you not trustworthy on the spot. But… Did it matter? You were done for anyway as the man before you, edged you into breaking two of the three most important restrictions a shinobi couldn’t break. Need for pleasure and longing.

Both a distraction that nearly cost your life once, and now has gotten you into this predicament. You didn't need his hot breath fanning your pussy, and you certainly didn’t longed for his fingers to explore your insides, like his eyes were. You couldn’t.

“Bet. Just look at you” He kept your puffy and sensitive folds open, too focused on the delicious mess he had created just with his fingers. He smiled, pleased. “So fucking wet. Has it been a long time for you, huh preciosa?”

He buried one of his long fingers inside, watching every reaction of you. Your brows arched and your eyes turned glossy, the flush in your cheeks increased despite the feeble attempt of anger flashing in your eyes. Yet you were angry at none but yourself for enjoying this man’s touch. Not that you could do something about it. And the more friction he provoked inside your spasming and needy walls, the more you planned on doing nothing about it.

The moment his fingers stopped a whine dared to float out from your gagged mouth. And never in your life had you seen a man smiling so shamelessly. And he beamed when another fingers sunk in the glistening and clenching hole, knuckle deep.

“Hear yourself, cariño.” He whispered and your breath hitched. His long and thick fingers curled up in a hook motion and pumped. Once, twice, over and over and over. Faster, deeper.

Each pump turned wetter and wetter than the previous, the sounds your sopping cunt did only mixed with the whimpers and groans your mouth gave him. For once you were grateful you were gagged, or else the shame of having to beg him to not stop would be too much to handle. Yet each stroke of him inside your melting walls caused an obscene slurp and suck, and when the first spasm came, he released your insides with no remorse.

You wriggled, desperate. If your mouth couldn’t beg, your hips and cunt did by moving forward, trying to still get a feeling of his fingers.

“Did you hear that?” He chuckled, admiring the hot and wet mess in his hand. Much to your disbelief, he took each of his soaked fingers in his mouth, groaning as soon as the first hit his taste buds.

Your eyes stared, pupils wide, at the way his tongue cleaned every single trace of your juices off, like if he had just ate the most scrumptious of delicacies with his hands.

“Funny thing is that you interrupted my meal time.” He stepped back to slick the stray strands of hairs that had dared to come in his sight, but quickly propped your bent and tied knees on top of his shoulders, “Guess you’ll do.”

Nothing prepared you for the feeling of his mouth sinking in between your thighs, devouring, starved, caring little for the finesse his mouth kissed and sucked every inch of your cunt. One of his hands held your thigh in place, as the other held your hips tightly, his thumb pressed against the curve of your stomach. Preventing you from wriggling too much.

His ears kept fueled with the syrupy sweet moans erupting every couple of seconds the more he delved in. His nose buried in the soft patch of hair as his tongue focused solely on your clit. He dribbled it with such hunger and energy it was impossible for your eyes to keep themselves in front.

But you had to, cause you didn’t want to miss a single second of his tongue slipping in and out, dribbling, slurping and sucking that sweet bundle that nearly made you see stars. A spank echoed and you groaned. Drool escaped the fissures of your lips, also making the gag a mess.

A violent shiver shook you when his tongue traveled further and further, your head shook but he spanked you again, a warning to stay still and he now parted your cheeks and used his tongue to tease the pulsating ring of muscles. Your spine arched in a way that would put a contortionist to shame when he shook his head and traveled up back at your clit.

Devouring was a flimsy word for what he was doing. His eyes pinned you in the spot as his tongue feasted on your pussy, viciously. The sounds coming out of his mouth nearly matched the ones his fingers did.

“Don’t come.”

Well, fuck him cause that was just what you were about to do. How could you not when he was purposely instigating that spot that ached so good? Fuck him and his authority. Fuck his warnings. Fuck him. You came.

It was like an electric jolt had impacted through your body, your head shook over and over, too overridden trying to assimilate the orgasm hitting you with such force it bulldozed all coherent thoughts from your brain. The muffled shriek was like music to his ears, but even so a growl rumbled in his chest. You had disobeyed.

His eye twitched for a second but sighed, backing up. His hand wiped his glistening chin and lips and approached the table once again. He took a long dark bar that elongated itself when he pressed a button. The hooked a set of cuffs in the hoops on each side’s end pulled the lever of your contraption down.

The chains whirred and he maneuvered the lever again, stopping you right before you impacted the floor. When he crouched right before you, a hardening bump in between his robe caressed your face as he removed the gag.

You coughed, meekly, with swollen and flushed lips, exhaling like you had ran a marathon in just a couple of seconds.

“Since you wanna disobey me so bad…” With a swing of his talons he cut the ropes that held your body suspended, and he caught you, just to put you gently on the floor. “I think it’s time for discipline.”

Miguel placed the bar right above your ankles and secured each limb on each side with the cuffs, spreading your hips and thighs as well, giving him the perfect view of your exposed holes. He carefully cut the box tie around your breast in charge or caging them but didn’t remove the clamps. Instead, he took your reddening arms, full of the rope texture imprinted and guided them underneath you, straight to touch the bar.

“Hold it.” He ordered and took a piece of jute nearby and bound your wrist to the stretcher.

The numbness in your arms mattered little when the tingling remains of your peak still drowned your mind. Too momentarily gone to notice he had removed his robe, leaving his bare body to your unfocused scrutiny.

He kneeled behind you and pulled your hair back, showing the mouthwatering curve of your throat. For a moment, the itch of his fangs to sink in that tender skin of yours was too strong to ignore, but his self control reminded him of the punishment he had in store for you.

His hand lifted your hips higher, to align his cock into your trembling cunt. Miguel stretched his hand to grab your nape and press you deeper against the cold floor. Your body welcomed the coolness as the burning persisted.

A moan echoed in the room as his broad tip rubbed against your drooling hole.

“You want it, pequeña?”

Your hips gave him the answer as they bucked to meet him, but he pulled away, chuckling.

“No, no. I removed the gag because I want you to use your voice, so use it. Do you want it?”

A throaty and meek ‘yes’ came past your lips and it was all he needed to push inch by inch inside. An involuntary gasp rumbled in your mouth

Each bit of himself stretched and molded your walls to his hefty girth, as they choked and gobbled him in. The fiery fluttering of them had Miguel sighing in relief while he kept your hips in place. And once he pushed against your hilt, he pushed forward, as if needing to go beyond, deeper with a powerful thrust.

Your skin slapped against his once, twice, thrice, four times, until you couldn’t keep up the pace to count, or breath, or think. Your breast shook underneath you, the clamps and the coldness of the floor stimulated the right spots, yet no sound dared to come out your mouth. Too fucked out to chose which one you’d vocalize with the pleasure he inflicted.

The sound of flesh slapping unceasingly screwed the synapses course in your brain, filling the room. Weak and broken sobs turned into breathless wheezes. Your mouth parted open, in a silent scream when his pace increased. His hand once again pulled your hair back as his hot breath tickled your neck.

His tongue licked the pleasure tears rolling on each side of your flushed and ruined cheeks. The mascara and the courtesan makeup were no longer able to withstand the heat, nor the sweat pearling your body. For a moment he took the time to admire his cock stretching you, filling you to the very top as you milked him.

“You take me so well, corazón” He grunted, plowing with all his might, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. To your inevitable doom. “You wanna cum, pequeña?”

“Y-Yes!” You shrieked in between wheezing sobs.

“Have you earned it?”

Your poor body bounced mercilessly underneath him. Your nails scratched and sunk into the bar, desperate for permission as the first sparks of your peak ignited in the pit of your abdomen.

“Ple…Please!” You choked, unable to hold it in any more.

“See? Manners aren’t that bad.” He smiled against your neck and groaned right into your ear. So sinfully deep and commanding. “Cum.”

It wrecked you. He ruined you completely after hitting that forbidden spot that had you a blubbering and shrieking mess underneath him. Peak too devastatingly good for your poor brain to process, too intense to keep it all in, you came. And came hard. Drowning his cock in the warmth of your juices as they gushed the moment his tip kissed your cervix.

The raspy and manly groan he gave you as he shot the hot and thick ropes of himself in the depths of your spasming walls was everything he needed for an idea to finally seed out in his mind.

“From this moment…” He panted, satisfied with the wreckage he just created. “You belong to me.” He gasped, pulling out with all the reluctance of the world. “Meaning, you work for me now.”

He staggered and picked his robe, a giant spider symbol scarred into his chest was quickly covered when he secured the robe around him. A fulfilled smirk played briefly in his flushed mouth.

“Don’t disappoint me, preciosa.” Was all you managed to hear before the door closed.

Maybe being a double agent wouldn't be that bad.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

#t writes✨#miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguelverse

406 notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 3 months ago

Text

Carrion (extended edition)

Content: Discussion of torture, suicide pact, identity issues, unhealthy coping mechanisms, gore and death, bad firearm handling

“When I am finished with you, all that will be left is carrion for the birds.”

Mr. Z made good on his promise. Your body had been dissected, vivisected, flayed and eviscerated and mutilated over and over again. Haphazardly reassembled over and over again, until the stitches began to intersect, webbing into a demented railroad of agony.

Each time, you scraped together the shards of your mind, cutting yourself on the edges. You don’t remember when you started losing pieces, or when you started substituting them with others.

All that was left at the end were bloody, sticky shreds - a mangled fraction of a person. Something that was once human, and never could be again. Slim pickings for the detritivores.

There were others, or there had been. Fragments of sentience with blood and guts and a bit of sinew still congealed together. When all those bits of viscera and bone were cobbled together, something that was almost whole reformed.

“Promise,” you (he?) wheezed, “promise if we ever cross again, we will end our suffering.”

“We promise,” you (he?) rasped in return.

It sounded like salvation you’d stopped hoping for since the first time your heart restarted.

You were captured. For a long time.

That’s all Laswell is able to tell them before the team is in the air and then boots down, running. A mission too important to delay poking for classified information and questioning you about.

If you notice they’re sideways glances and disquieted shifting, it doesn’t show.

You sit in your (new) customary spot at the back of the plane - first out and last in, no matter how Price reprimands - with your arms crossed and eyes closed. Seemingly resting, except for how your foot occasionally twitches like a hypnic jerk.

But Simon suspects you’ve already stopped falling.

The inverted cross finger-painted onto your helmet burns into Simon’s eyes. Your handgun rests on the same side, the Cyrillic engraving prowling at edges of his mind. Promise, it says, Promise.

“Carrion, you take the north. Keep that route clear for exit. If you need backup, give us a shout.”

You smile indulgently at Price. “We will be fine, Captain.”

And you are. When Simon and Johnny sprint down the hall, charges in hand to blow the whole operation into the stratosphere, the walls are painted in crimson. Bodies litter the edges, laying at unnatural slants and hasty angles, pulled and pushed out of the path they’re running. Swept aside like so much garbage.

But Simon doesn’t have time to stop. He doesn’t catch more than flashes of only-just-fatal gunshots and bone splintering out of limbs, sockets devoid of eyes. There are hostiles hot on their heels, bullets flying, and you’re leaning by the fire door at the end, casual as you please.

“Cover us!” Johnny shouts.

“Already on it,” you reply, sounding focused in their ear pieces. But Simon can see you shrug leisurely off the wall, raise your gun and barely aim before the barrel flashes.

Johnny yelps as the shot whistles past his ear, but he’s none the worse for wear and a body drops somewhere behind them. And then a couple more, tripping over their fallen comrade.

“Like bowling pins,” you muse. “Hurry up, you two.”

You fire in a steady stream, just purposeful enough to be justified as conserving ammo. Simon lets himself believe that’s what it is as he shoves Johnny through the door and yanks you through just after.

(Are you reluctant to go? No, no he’s just paranoid from Laswell’s revelation.)

On the ride back to base you sigh and stretch out. Your gun is still in your hand, still live. You use the barrel to scratch at your jaw.

“Oi!” Price barks.

“Aye, Captain?” you reply, blinking innocently. “I will send you back to basic handling so fast, soldier,” he swears. Your head twitches. Blink and you miss it, just the tiniest bit. Cocking in confusion. “Ah, shite. Sorry, Cap. Won’t happen again,” you apologize. You sound sincere, but you don’t blink once as you holster your weapon. (It happens again. You sit through the remedial looking for all the world like you’re going to eat the instructor.)

“What do you mean they were captured?” Price demands. His voice is taut, stretched too thin, on the verge of snapping.

His office is too small, too full. It’s 141, minus you, and Laswell. It’s not the bodies that crowd the little space, but tension. Confusion, guilts, desperation for answers - but mostly fear. It’s bitter on the back of Simon’s tongue and knows the others taste it too.

“Carrion’s team was captured in Russia while trying to extract a deep cover asset,” she explains. “They were held by Zakhaev for an extended period of time.”

She pauses as Price curses, walks away to the far wall, then pivots right back around to rejoin the conversation. Simon recognizes the name - recognizes the work. The scars beneath his clothes, his mask, flare and itch. He crosses his arms tight against the feeling.

“How long?” Price growls.

“John…” A long time, she’d said before. Long enough, Simon surmises. (Too long, his mind whispers.)

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Price asks.

Laswell is trustworthy, has proved that over and over again - but she’s still CIA. She knows how to trim and prune information down to the bare essentials so that she never actually has to lie.

“Carrion isn’t compromised, we made sure of that,” she says.

The ringing in the back of Simon’s head gets louder. He smells dirt and decay.

“Dammit, Kate, you know that’s not why I’m asking,” Price hisses.

She sighs, shoulders sloping down. “Because I don’t have much to tell you, John. There’s so much we don’t know about what happened. Carrion won’t tell us anything, and the psychologists have advised that we don’t press.”

“So you kept us in the dark so we wouldn’t press either.”

“I’m saying that even if I told you, it would have done more harm than good. I don’t have any triggers to warn you away from, or PTSD symptoms for you to watch out for. The best course of action was to treat Carrion like nothing happened. Are you telling me you could have done that, knowing Carrion was captured and tortured by Zakhaev?”

Price’s jaw twitches. Johnny picking the skin around his thumb bloody and Gaz keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot. They know the answer, but it still smarts. Rings too close to Simon’s own truth for comfort. He talks himself into taking a deep, slow, purposeful breath. The lingering scent of cigar smoke helps clear his head.

“We know now,” Price says.

Laswell nods, gaze steady, unrepentant. “And now you need to act like you don’t.”

“Carrion isn’t right,” Gaz pipes up. “We’ve all noticed.”

The corners of Laswell’s mouth tug down. “What have you done about it?”

“Nothin’,” Johnny assures quickly. “Jus’ noticed ‘s all.”

“Then keep doing that,” she says, meeting each of their eyes, ending on Price again. “Notice and do nothing.”

The days after feel like a horrific kind of fever dream.

Johnny calls your name across the cafeteria in the morning. It takes you a moment too long to turn. (You don’t have so much as a bite of food despite arriving after them.)

When Price shouts “Carrion” on the training grounds later, you alert like a hound. Like that was always your name.

Simon knocks on your door in the afternoon. You swing the door only just wide enough to fit most of your torso in the opening. Beyond you, the room is pitch black despite the sun shining on that side of the building. Your pupils are blown and ebb slowly in the light of the hallway, slithering away from your irises.

You’re still dressed head-to-toe, as always.

“Need your AAR,” he says.

“Oh, right,” you say, “just a tic.”

You step away, the door drifting closed almost as if by accident. In the brief moment and space you’ve vacated, Simon notices a glittery sliver of mirror on the floor. He could almost swear a shadow slides across it. But then you’re back, the report in your hand. Your pupils are pinpricks now, almost completely gone. There’s a smudge on the bottom corner of one page and your signature is yours but not in your handwriting.

“Anything else, LT?” you ask cheerfully.

"I’m sorry,” he says, “about the things I said before.”

“It’s alright, I know I should have been ready to cover you,” you laugh.

“Not the mission. I mean the things I said before you left. I should have at least shook your hand when I saw you off.”

Something slides behind your eyes, your expression frozen.

“Oh,” you say, blissfully blank. “I really appreciate that, but it’s all in the past. I just appreciated you showing up at the time.”

You smile and for the first time, he notices all your teeth don't look quite like he remembers.

"It meant a lot to say goodbye - you never know what could happen on those long missions, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Previous | Masterlist

#cod #my writing #dark fic #reader fic #reader came back wrong #simon ghost riley #kate laswell

287 notes · View notes

defmaybe · 4 months ago

Text

Sprint

PURPLE KISS’ Na Goeun x Male Reader

2.6k words

A/N: Very messy lmfao, thanks for reading as always! Part of @mintwithchoco's prompt exercise!

—

“You’re arriving at the halfway point of our cycle. I’m still perplexed why they don’t let you come in after this sprint ends!” Goeun says, clearly annoyed by the fact that you were accepted into the department in the middle of this mess. Still, you have to be a professional and accept this hardship, no matter how difficult it will be.

“Don’t worry, Miss Na. I can work with that,” you answer, trying to sound firm as you walk along with her through the floor, passing countless tables and your soon-to-be co-workers. The scent of lavender wafts into your nose. It’s different from what you’ve expected the office to smell, especially a tech-related office. Sounds of clicking keyboards ring through the floor. These people are clearly working hard, and you have a lot to catch up to them.

Goeun chuckles, clearly amused by your enthusiasm. “Well, if you need anything, just tell me or the other guys, alright? We won’t bite.”

“Yes, Miss Na.”

You two advance through the floor until you arrive at an unoccupied table. The table is empty, like empty-empty. There’s nothing on it, only a plug socket on the right of the partition.

“Here’s your desk!” Goeun says, palming her hands towards the table with a small smile. “Again, if there’s any problem, just ask us!”

“Sure, Miss Na.”

“Just call me Goeun. No need for formalities, really.”

—

Two weeks go by quickly. You find yourself caught in the web of the ever-growing project your team is working on. The sprint is harsh on you, punishing in its sheer complexity and size, but you fight through it. You double your efforts on the works, so determined to earn acceptance from your co-workers. You stay for the overtime (the money’s great). You polish your work. You try to be nothing short of resolute.

And it works.

Your first sprint is a success, and your contribution finds its place in the project. The stakeholders give you a few praises during the meeting, and ecstasy couldn’t even begin to describe the emotion you feel after that.

You aced it.

—

“Well, it seems that your first sprint went well. Congratulations!” Goeun cheers, raising her bubble tea for a toast, to which you shyly reciprocate along with your other co-workers.

“You did great! Especially considering you came in during the middle of it,” Jiwoong adds, giving you a thumbs up.

“I couldn’t do half as good as you did when I joined here. Good job!” says Sumin.

“I’m here because of you guys, so–thank you!” you say, smiling. They sure have helped you a lot. You were afraid at some point that they’d be annoyed with how frequently you’ve asked them for help, but it’s apparent that these guys are genuinely kind. You’re falling in love with this company, well, at least the department.

“To the new guy!” and Goeun leads another toast.

—

The rest of the day goes by quickly as you get absorbed into the whirlwind of work. More Python, more Pandas, and without knowing, it’s starting to get dark outside.

“Hey.” Goeun greets, peeking out from the partition with a small smile. “We’re not paying more after six, remember?”

You look at the clock, suddenly reminded of how much time has passed since your last bathroom break at three. “Oh, fuck, shit,” you mumble, quickly scrambling through the tabs you’ve opened through the day on your overworked laptop. “Let me–uh–”

“I’ll wait in front of the building.”

“Sure.”

—

The chilly night air blows through your body. White puffs of air leave your lungs as you walk along the street with Goeun. Your hands occasionally rub against each other in an attempt to retain some heat. A car passes by.

“So–why did you decide to become a programmer?” Goeun asks. The sounds of dry leaves crunching under your feet can be heard. Another car passes by.

“Oh, my mom, she works in tech, and I kinda didn’t know what to do when I had to go to college, so–yeah.” You let out a huff, looking downwards as you take strides after strides along the asphalt road. Another car passes by. “How about you? Why did you become a programmer?”

“I was also like you—don’t know what to do, and I did well in Python, so I kinda just–roll with that.”

Another car passes by.

She muses, looking up at the stars, “You know, I did wanna be a singer once when I was young.”

An image of Goeun, lost in the symphony, pops up in your head. You find it cute.

You chuckle softly, out of endearment more than anything.

“But I was afraid that I’d fail, so I kinda just, well, stick to programming instead, more reliable.”

“You seem like you’d make a brilliant singer, though.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Just a hunch.”

You continue walking along the street. You take a glance at her to find her eyes, and you feel something. It’s short-lived, but it’s definitely something. You don’t consider it much more than just an eye contact, though.

“What?” Goeun asks. You aren’t going to deny that she looks good tonight. The pairing of a black leather jacket and a white t-shirt fit her like a glove. She looks much better than your average programmer.

“Nothing,” you reply, before breaking eye contact and continuing to walk into the nocturne.

After a short while, you reach her apartment, very likely one of the rooms inside this 40-floor tower (unless she’s otherworldly rich). You’ve walked past it quite a fair few times. It’s not so far from your apartment, after all.

“See you on Monday, I guess?” you say, smiling. It’s almost your bedtime now.

“Wanna have something from my room before you go? I have a few beers,” Goeun invites you, her thumb pointing towards the building.

Your eyebrows arch slightly, hands shifting inside your pockets. You’re uncertain.

“I mean, a bottle can make you go a bit drowsy and stuff,” she continues, cocking her head towards the tower. “Should help you sleep better.”

—

“Nice room,” you say as you take a look around her place.

Goeun’s room is neat, spine-chillingly neat. It’s a small studio room meant for single-living. Everything is kept in its place. No stray strands of hair on the floor, no clothes lying around. She’s good at this.

“Can’t live in a dirty room, you know?”

“I get it.”

You settle yourself on her couch nervously. It’s your first time at her place, after all, gotta be a good visitor.

“Kirin or Hoegaarden?”

“Kirin, please.”

Goeun picks up a Kirin from her fridge before walking towards you. Her legs look longer than usual from this angle.

“To our next sprint,” she says, handing you the beer can, smiling. You take it.

Cold.

“Thanks.” You open the beer can with a loud pop. A fizzling sound can be heard. You take a swig of beer. The familiar bitterness and a hint of malt runs down your throat, and you’re sure your face contorts a little as you put the can down.

Tastes good as always. Well, for a beer.

Goeun takes a seat beside you. She reaches forward to pick up the tv remote on the table, before turning it on.

“What do you wanna watch?”

—

You forget what time it is, but after Crazy, Stupid, Love ends, the last Merseyside Derby at Goodison Park starts, and you two are glued to the screen.

“I’m going to miss this stadium a lot, been there once, and it was fucking awesome,” Goeun says, taking a sip of beer. There’s a pool of aluminium cans sitting on the table in front of you now. You’re feeling a little woozy as you open your fourth beer tonight.

“Lucky.”

The word brings out a chuckle out of Goeun. You can see from the corner of your eyes that she moves in closer towards you, but that’s the least of your concern right now.

She takes a glance at you. You can see in the corner of your eyes, and this time, you give her a reply, shooting a look back at her. She laughs softly. The soft glow of the television casts onto her face. It’s mostly dark blue from Everton’s kit. You can feel the effect of the alcohol dawning on you—dizzy, disoriented—and you realize that she looks good under any light. You look into her gorgeous eyes, and there’s something in them.

Want.

Need.

Lust.

You kiss her.

You get a taste of her lipstick flavor—intense, fruity. Your body shudders as she has her hand wander around your body, feeling every curve and contour of your body—touching, sliding down your frame with haste—and she stops right on your belt.

“Can I?”

“Sure.”

Your hands aren’t doing any better in straying away from this filth, pulling her towards you by her ass. She gasps into your mouth. It’s affecting her, and you go a little further, giving her butt a light squeeze. “God,” she gasps again. Her lips softly quiver against yours. Her tongue trembles. She’s nervous.

The tug on your belt pulls you closer into her tremored body. “Shit.” Her hands begin to undo the leather belt around your pants. It makes a slight scuffle with her, but it comes off, eventually.

“Lie down,” you say. Goeun’s flushing, all red, all anxious. She grabs onto the back of your head with her hand, pulling you down with her as she falls onto the couch, and you’re on top of her.

You draw your hands forward to her jeans' button, undoing it with haste. It makes a slight scuffle with you, but it comes off, eventually. You’re so, so close to her heat right now, and you couldn’t have asked for more for tonight.

“Fuck,” Goeun utters, writhing under you as your hand run along the hem of her panties. Her hips buck up to you—so wanton, so full of need. “Stop with the teasing already.”

You chuckle before pulling her garments down in a single swoop. Her glistening pussy is sitting just right there—below you, waiting to be filled with your throbbing cock inside your boxers. “Already wet?”

“I’m horny, that’s normal,” Goeun says, giggling. “You’re hard too, you know?”

“Thanks.”

With no more words, Goeun pulls your boxer down your legs. Your cock springs free from its fabric cage. You lower yourself closer to her wanton cunt, making a slight touch as you run your cockhead along her wet slit.

“Fuck,” she says, breathy. “What did I say about teasing, huh?”

You chortle before you push yourself into her pussy. Her breath comes out in a stuttering rhythm. Her eyes roll up in pleasure. She’s loving this.

“Fuck, goddamn,” Goeun rasps as you push yourself into her wet cunt. Her fingers dig into the back of your head, forcefully pulling you into a sloppy, drunken kiss.

Your hands slide under her white t-shirt for her chest as you thrust into her pussy while kissing her vigorously. You give her bra-clad tits a squeeze, eliciting a soft moan out of her lips.

“Fuck, this feels good,” Goeun huffs between the kisses, hand moving with your hips to push you into her warmth. Your bodies move in sync as if it’s a habit between the two of you. She feels so good. Her pussy feels so good.

The sound of kissing rings inside your ear as you try to take in how her body feels. You drag your lips down her jaw. She smells like spring. Her skin is so smooth, so soft. The notes she makes are chaotic, but you find it angelic. Her body writhes and spasms under you as you fuck her brains out. God, she’s perfect.

You double your efforts, pushing in deeper and faster with each stroke. She cries. She whimpers. She moans. Her body responds to you so well, pussy gripping your cock like a goddamn vice.

“Ugh–fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Goeun rasps, her face flushing with red as your hand wanders under her white tee, giving her firm breasts squeezes after squeezes. “You cock, god!”

You reply to Goeun with harsher thrusts; her notes grow higher and higher as you hit the sensitive spot deep inside her cunt. She’s lighting your synapses aflame, making you see stars around her gorgeous face. Your moans and hers are filling up the bluish room.

Goeun’s breathing grows shorter and shorter. Her moans climb higher and higher as she’s at the brink of her orgasm. “Shit, shit, I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” Goeun rasps, and you thrust into her with even more intensity. Your cock vigorously pumps into her wet cunt, so determined to bring her to her peak.

And she breaks.

Her body spasms under you as the wave crashes into her. Goeun mewls, moans, cries under the sheer force of her orgasm. Her hips buck. Her eyes roll up. And suddenly, she grabs you by the collar again, pulling you into a deep kiss as you keep ravaging her spent cunt. The sound of flesh smacking echoes through the room, along with her filthy cries.

She slowly comes down from her orgasm as you keep fucking her through her peak. Goeun’s chest heaves up and down as she tries to recollect herself back up again.

Pulling back, she utters, “Fuck.”

“I know.”

And you are, again, dragged back by the collar to kiss her pouty lips.

“Cum in me,” Goeun says into the kiss, breathy, tired. “I want to feel that cock twitching inside my pussy. I want to feel your cum hitting my womb.”

The ever-so-used-to feeling is boiling inside your loins as your cock finds its rhythm in and out of Goeun’s cunt. Your hand is still playing with her bra-clad tits. Your fingers slide under the garment for her stiff nipple. She moans, struggling to keep up with the pleasure coursing through her body. It’s getting difficult for her to kiss you now.

“Gonna cum,” you whine, your tongue interlocking with hers messily. Her hand grabs onto the back of your head harsher, pulling you deeper into the kiss. The sound of it is obscene, but you’re too happy to care right now. The burning feeling is so strong right now. You need a release. You need a release.

“Do it, baby. Cum in my pussy.”

And you break.

Your cock shoots ropes and ropes of cum into Goeun’s wanting cunt. Your entire body shakes and spasms above her. You moan, whine, whimper, and cry into the kiss. Her pussy wraps your cock so fucking well, and you just fail to find any word to describe the feeling you’re feeling right now.

Fuck.

You connect your lips with her messily again. Your fingers latch onto her face as your tongues are busy exploring each other’s mouth. She finds a good grip on your ass and pulls your hips closer to hers, pushing your softening cock deeper into her cunt.

You pull back. Her bangs are a mess.

“We can’t tell anybody about this,” Goeun huffs, her chest still heaving from the sheer force of her orgasm. Her whole body flushes with red, but most importantly, she’s beaming, so full of joy.

“Sure, sure, Miss Na.”

Goeun chuckles, getting up from the couch as you get off her flushed body. “We should get cleaned up.”

“Round two in the shower?”

She shoots you a smile, before saying, “Definitely, maybe.”

—

#goeun #purple kiss #goeun smut #purple kiss smut #kpop fan #kpop smut

305 notes · View notes

riddlesrizzler · 3 months ago

Text

We're All Mad Here

summary: You were never meant to leave. characters: mad hatter! mattheo. cheshire cat! enzo. caterpillar! theo. white rabbit! draco. alice! reader warnings: DARK! blood, weird, creepy vibes. mentions of death and gore. word count: 1.4k

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭

The garden twisted around you like a living thing. The air was thick, suffocating, laced with the scent of the damp earth and something ugly, something rotting. The statues lining the hedges weren't right- cracks webbed their marbled faces, their mouths frozen mid scream, their hollow eyes dripping black.

And then there was a boy.

Draco Malfoy

His coat, though still pristine white, was torn at the edges, as if something had been gnawing at the fabric. His skin was too pale, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he ran- no, staggered- past you, clutching a golden pocket watch so hard his fingers had gone bloodless.

"Too late-too late- bloody hell- I'm too late-"

His voice was hoarse, raw with panic. But it was the sound behind him that made the blood in your veins run cold.

A skittering. Fast. Wet. Wrong.

Draco turned his head- just for a moment. That was all it took.

The shadows lurched from the hedges, something long and many- limbed slithered in from the dark.

And then he was gone.

No scream.

Just the sound of bone snapping.

Silence fell.

The garden seemed to breath.

You go to turn to run, this couldn't be right, but the ground was no longer beneath you.

The world collapsed into a vast, gaping, dark hole.

and you fell.

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬

When you hit the ground, it moved.

The earth was slick, pulsing, as if you had landed atop of something alive. The air was stagnant, filled with the metallic scent of blood.

The trees stretched impossibly high, their bark dark and gooey, as if they had been crying thick, black tar. No leaves. No wind. Only stillness.

And then-

Laughter.

Low and amused.

"Lost are we, Alice?"

Your breath hitched.

Enzo Berkshire lounged in the branches above, half hidden in the twisting dark. His eyes gleamed, wide and reflective like an animal's, catching the dim, unnatural light. His grin was too sharp. Too wide.

Like his mouth had been cut open just to stretch that far.

"Where-" You voice caught. Your throat burned. You swallowed, trying this again. "Where am I?"

Enzo tilted his head, the movement slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up prey.

"Now that's a question," he murmured. His voice slithered through the silence, curling around your ribs, tightening. "But I have a better one."

His grin widened and stretched.

"How long do you think you'll last?"

You felt something shift around you.

A wet, scraping sound.

Shallow breaths.

You turned-

And froze.

The trees weren't trees at all.

They were bodies.

Twisted, gnarled figures with their mouths sewn shut, their limbs stretched and fused into a grotesque, bark covered forms. Their fingers twitched. Eyes rolled in the sunken sockets, black tears leaking from the corners.

One of them moved.

Its jaw, half-unstitched, creaked open. A single, whispered word slipped free-

"Run."

You did.

Your feet slamming on the shaking ground as Enzo’s laugh cackled around the edges of the forest.

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳

The deeper you went. The worse it became.

The sky overhead was off- not a sky at all, but writhing mass of shifting shapes, twisting in ways that made your stomach clench. Something was moving up there. Watching.

Then- a towering shape loomed before you .

A mushroom.

But it was rotting. Black and moldy. Dripping ooze from its thick, bloated stalk, and the smell- God, the smell- was unbearable, heavy with the stench of death.

Atop the mushroom sat him.

Theo Nott.

His long coat was tattered, frayed, and stained with something too dark, something red. His fingers moved idly over the steam of a pipe, inhaling deep, slow breaths. The smoke curled unnaturally, forming shifting shapes that resembled faces.

They were twisted, screaming with no sound, before they disappeared into the air.

He exhaled, and the voices wisped around you.

"You've already lost," Theo muttered, his voice low, knowing.

Your stomach twisted. "Lost what?"

Theo smiled- it was small, at the edge of his lips, yet the tiny gesture was unsettling.

"Yourself."

The voices grew louder as the smoke moved towards you, circling around your fingers, slipping beneath your skin. You could feel them. The ghosts of Wonderland. The ones who had come before. The ones who had gone mad.

You stumble back, choking on the scent of burnt flesh.

Theo's gaze followed you lazily, half-lidded, bored. "I would run if I were you."

The trees contorted violently, their skeletal branches snapping and twisting as if something was crawling beneath their bark, trying to get out. The ground groaned in response.

You took it as a sign to keep running.

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺

The tea party was a graveyard.

A massive table stretched before you, impossibly long, its wood blackened and splintered, gouges cut deep in its surface. The chairs were overturned, some shattered into jagged remains. The dishes were broke, porcelain shards glinting like teeth in the dim light.

And the bodies-

They sat in their seats, their faces frozen in time, twisted in horror. Their hands were clawed at their throats, their skin sunken and grey. Rot clung to their bones, the scent was cloying, making you nauseous.

And at the head of it all-

Mattheo Riddle

The king of the mad.

He lounged in his throne-like chair, legs stretched out, fingers idly tapping against the armrest. His top hat sat at an angle, casting his face in a shadow. His smirk was lazy, but his eyes-

His eyes.

They were dark, endless pits, something alive shifting within them, swirling like the sky above.

"Finally," he mused, his voice smooth and deep. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

Yow swallowed hard. "What is this place?"

Mattheo chuckled. "You already know, don't you?"

The shadows around the tables moved.

The corpses had turned to look at you.

Hands- rotting, bones- began to twitch, fingers curled.

It had felt like their stares had sucked the air from your lungs, your soul.

Mattheo stood, slowly, like he had all the time in the world. "You still think you can leave, don't you?" he tsked, taking a measured step towards you. The candlelight flickered in his gaze, casting a sharp gleam across his smirk. "Poor, sweet Alice. Always clinging to hope."

You stumbled back, but the moment you moved, the shadows shifted to close you in. The walls seemed further away, stretching into an endless abyss.

Mattheo shook his head.

"You don't understand yet, do you?" His voice was soft, almost gentle as he reached for you, fingers cold as they traced down your arm. "You've been drinking the tea, breathing the smoke, listening to the wind." His smirk widened, and you could see the madness curling beneath his skin. "Wonderland has already seeped into your veins."

His grip tightened.

"And there's no going back."

You pulse hammered. "I-I'm not like you."

Mattheo laughed- low and weighted, the sound settling around you much likes vines that started to take over a building. "Oh, but you are." He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "You were never sane to begin with."

The room twisted. The walls melted, dripping like wax. The floor buckled, and suddenly you were falling, falling-

Mattheo's voice followed you into the abyss.

"You're just as mad as the rest of us, Alice."

227 notes · View notes

usedtobecooler · 1 year ago

Text

live now, think later | steve harrington x afab!reader

a/n: thank you so much in advance to everybody who takes the time to read, reblog and comment on this fic. it's the first thing i've published in close to three months and i'm honestly a little nervous, i hope i've come back with a big enough bang! title is taken from think later by tate mcrae, and a massive thank you to @trashmouth-richie for making my header+dividers for me. 7.8k words.

summary: upon your arrival in hawkins to visit your old friend, eddie munson, his first idea is to drag you down to family video — where you ‘unintentionally’ meet steve harrington. a well timed deal, a fake friend date and a few drinks later, you find yourself in steve’s downtown apartment with lowered inhibitions.

warnings: sexual content 18+ minors dni, piv sex, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, bratting, spit kink, biting, hair pulling, very poor use of the pull out method. alcohol consumption, mentions of drug dealing and public heavy petting. no use of y/n and very minimal description of reader. eddie munson being eddie munson.

Eddie is all but dragging you into Family Video by your hand, the harsh metal of his rings digging into the webbing of your fingers as he pulls you in through the door.

Eddie Munson was easily the most excitable person you’d ever met in your life, and his sudden enthusiasm to get you into the video store is going to land you in the emergency room, because if he tugs you any harder your shoulder will detach from the socket.

The buzzer above your head rings violently in an attempt to alert the staff that somebody has come in, and a mop of beautifully styled hair attached to an equally beautiful man comes into view as you edge closer to the rental counter.

"Hey, Stevie," Eddie grins, loud and unabashed, "you got that new one with Meg Ryan in it? Heard she cums at a dinner table and lady luck over here is desperate to see it."

He's sniggering as you pull away from him and smack at his arm hard enough that he lets out an indignant yelp. Your face is burning hot with embarrassment as the boy's eyes dart back and forth between you both, confusion etched on his face.

He - Stevie, apparently - raises an eyebrow at you both, taking in the disheveled and most likely chaotic scene in front of him, "You mean 'When Harry Met Sally'?"

"Majorly concerning you know what movie it is from the description of 'Meg Ryan cums at a dinner table'," you quip, mouth running away from you before you can even stop it. Your face somehow burns even hotter, Steve crossing his arms over his chest with a small smirk.

He's in a preppy little striped polo shirt under his green embroidered work vest, and god his arms are bulging. His skin is tanned golden, a product of the heat of an Indiana summer, freckles and beauty marks prominent on his face, trailing down his neck and dipping below the collar.

You stare for a beat too long. Taking in the man in front of you, who looks very sure of himself.

Eddie knows you all too well, Steve is absolutely your type, which makes your first encounter all the more mortifying.

"It's my job to know all the new releases, honey." Steve's smile grows smug, and it's breathtaking how attractive you find it, "You're both shit out of luck, it's been on rent all week. Romantic night in, is it?"

Eddie scoffs from beside you, and it takes everything in you to not be offended by how quickly the noise escapes him, "Yeah, she wishes. She's not my type at all, Harrington. Annoying, clingy, pisses too lo-"

"God, shut the fuck up," you're mortified, covering your face with your hands, "I've been in town less than a day, are you trying to get me ousted?"

Steve looks all too amused by the encounter, struggling to hold back a chuckle. His pretty eyes never leave you as he speaks, "Munson's deflecting, I already know you rejected him and he's taking it like a dagger to the heart."

Eddie points an accusatory finger, "Take it back, fucker. I've never been turned down in my life."

Steve quirks a brow at him, then turns his attention back to you. You squirm under his strong gaze, "Is that true, doll? I feel like he's lying."

"I'm not getting involved in this dick swinging contest," you hold your hands up, trying in vain to ignore the silly little pet name that really does it for you, backing away from the counter slightly, "what are we even here for, Eddie?"

"I was just making sure me and Stevie here were still on for drinks tonight." Eddie glances at Steve, who looks as confused as you feel, “You wanna join us?"

You shoot him an incredulous look, "This feels like a set up."

Eddie smirks, "Why's that? Can't three pals all go out for a drink together? I want my two best friends to get to know each other."

You narrow your eyes playfully, glancing at Steve who seems to have gotten with the program, all signs of confusion gone from his face, "I'm not sure I trust you." You huff, turning to Steve and nodding back at Eddie, "What if he's just setting us up so he can bail and I'm stuck with you all alone, Stevie?"

Eddie feigns offense, "Now why would I do that? Besides, even if I did, you're a big girl. I'm sure you could bully Steve into leaving you alone."

You smirk back at him, "Fine. But if you and Steve start getting all lovey-dovey, I'm bailing and leaving you to pay the tab."

Steve barks out a laugh, "Don’t worry about me, I can behave myself. Same can’t be said for Munson, he takes one look at the Harrington ass and loses all inhibitions.”

“It is beautifully round.” Eddie admits in defeat, hand clinging to his own flat ass, a ridiculously deep frown etched onto his features.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face and stays firmly put as you exit the video store, every nerve in your body buzzing when Steve winks in your direction when you depart.

The black lace bodysuit you wear clings to your curves nicely, the nip of your waist accentuated by your mom jeans. Eddie had even wolf whistled when he saw you, which was his nerdy way of saying you looked really fucking good.

As you pull up to the strip, Eddie slows down to a stop outside what looks like a dive bar, "I'm gonna drop you off here and go 'round back to park up the van, 'kay sweetheart? Steve's already in there."

Your eyes narrow, "I don't trust you, Munson. This feels like a set up."

Eddie holds his hands up, "It's not, I promise. I just need to go park the van and-" he trails off, sighs and rolls his eyes, "I have to go make a deal super quick. Don't want you there for that, this guy is sketchy."

You huff out a sigh, understanding him completely, Eddie really was a good guy who wouldn't put you in harms way. He knew leaving you with Steve momentarily was safer than taking you with him to a deal, and you trusted his judgment.

"Okay," you agree eventually, making to hop out of the van, "but I swear, Eddie, if you don't come back, I'm gonna be pissed. You'd better be dead."

Eddie holds up his hand in a scouts honor as if he was ever in the scouts in he first place, and you roll your eyes as you shove the creaky van door open and jump out.

"I'll be back soon, kiss Steve for me, will you?" Eddie jokes, grinning maniacally.

You stick up the finger and slam the door shut deliberately, making the walk around the side of the van before he can say anything in return.

As you make your way inside the bar, your mind races. Nerves and excitement are almost getting the best of you. Steve was just so cute, Eddie knew exactly what he was doing by introducing you both.

The place is surprisingly cosy, pool tables dimly lit by orange colored lights. It’s reminiscent of a bar from back home, all hard wood and walls covered in various pieces of movie and alcohol paraphernalia. There are people scattered here and there, in booths and at the bandits, playing games of darts and billiards.

Steve's sat at the bar on an old vintage barstool, side on to you. He's dressed in a tight black t-shirt, washed out Levi jeans clung to his muscular legs and a pair of Adidas trainers with green stripes on his feet. He looked relaxed, floppy hair falling into his eyes.

You were a goner already.

As you approach the bar, Steve must sense your presence, as he looks up with a grin, "Hey! Where's Eddie?"

"Parking up the van," you smile, taking the stool next to him and jumping up onto it, trying to ignore the way your tits bounce very obviously with the motion, "I wouldn't bother ordering him a drink yet, though. He's, uh, occupied."

Steve's mouth opens in an understanding 'ah'. It was no secret how Eddie made money, and you were sure Steve had to be used to this by now.

The bartender comes over and you order some fancy cocktail on the menu that consists of Coke, dark rum and cherry liqueur. It comes with a Maraschino cherry on top, and you can't hide the excitement on your face as you take your first sip.

Steve watches you with an amused grin, "You look like you're enjoying that drink."

"Oh, I absolutely am," you reply all too quickly, "a day of Eddie's shenanigans are enough to warrant a good drink."

Steve leans in closer to you, his eyes flickering over your body none too subtly, the charm ramping up with every sip of his Bud, "I think we’ve spoken far too much about Eddie for now. Tell me a little about yourself, honey."

Honey. There's that damn nickname again, enough to make you melt in a puddle off your barstool. There was no denying that Harrington knew what he was doing.

You shrug, going for nonchalant as you lock eyes, "Nothing to tell, really. I work in a little coffee shop during the day, and at night I guess I'm still trying to figure things out."

Steve nods in understanding, "What kind of things?"

You take another sip of your drink, relishing in the way it buzzes through your body, "Where I fit in the world, I guess. What I wanna do with my life in the long term. I’ve been in a rut for a while."

"I get that. Working in a video store in my mid twenties wasn’t really the plan set out for me, either." Steve responds with a furrowed brow, brutally honest, "Has Eddie told you much about me?"

You consider, "Not really. Just that you're a ladies man and you’re forever swiping the ‘hottest babes in Hawkins’ out from under him, but you know Eddie, he's a bit. Theatrical."

Steve chuckles, a flush on his freckled cheeks, as he leans in closer to you, "Between you and me, he's not wrong. Just haven't found the one to settle down with yet."

At the close proximity, you can really take in Steve. He's all tanned skin covered in gorgeous beauty marks, a strong neck with prominent veins, muscular arms but clearly on the softer side like he didn't take it too serious. He was like a Greek statue, his nose like it was carved from the same stone.

You flush, taking another - albeit larger - sip of your drink, swirling the ice in the glass, "So, do you pick up all the chicks in Family Video?"

Steve smirks, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "You recommend a chick flick to a girl and it's like a moth to a flame."

You do laugh at that, rolling your eyes fondly and nudging his shoulder with your own, "That's how you knew what movie Eddie meant! Romcoms are your strong suit for flirting purposes?"

Steve's hazel eyes run over your face softly, his soft, pink lips jutted out slightly, "Would it have worked on you, if Eddie wasn't there?"

Your breath catches in your throat, caught off guard by Steve's question, if only momentarily. "Yeah, I think so. Y'know, if it was actually the movie I was looking for and not an excuse for Eddie to mortify me."

Steve grins, big and wide at that. Your faces are so close together that if he leaned forward just a smidge more you could rub noses. At this distance, you find yourself being drawn into his orbit, nudging closer to him subconsciously.

"Guess Eddie's bailed on us, huh?" Steve chuckles, moving back a bit and looking at the clock above the bar, the time ticking past an hour with no sign of Eddie coming back, "Or maybe it was his plan all along?"

"He's a schemer." You hum, watching curiously as Steve flags down the bartender and orders you both another drink. You try not to panic about the lack of cash in your back pocket, hoping the drinks weren't too expensive.

As your conversation dies down, your eyes are drawn back to his neck. It's covered in an array of moles and freckles, and you find yourself becoming almost mesmerized by it as he swigs from his beer bottle.

His neck is strong and muscular, tendons protruding as he gulps down the warm beer. The dusting of week old stubble adds to the masculinity of it all. It's a beautiful feature, one that you can't help but stare at with hazy eyes, and the markings scattered across his skin just make it more attractive.

Without even realizing it, your hand lifts, drawn to the smooth skin on the right hand side. You trace your fingertips along a particular set of the moles, shaped like carved out fang bites, feeling the texture against the pads of your fingers.

Steve looks at you, his darkened eyes filled with curiosity and something else entirely. You can't help but blush as you realize what you've been doing, only to find your fingers continue to roam across the skin anyway.

"Is my neck really that fascinating?" He teases, a slight chuckle falling from his lips.

You laugh lightly, trying to play it cool as your fingertips slip from the stubble roughened skin, dancing across the open collar of his shirt playfully before falling back to your glass, "Maybe it's just a bit distracting."

Steve smirks, that look in his eyes causing your heart to rabbit in your chest, "You know, I could get used to having your hands on me."

The huskiness in his voice catches you off guard, and you subtly clench your thighs together, aware of the fluttering in your gut as he leans in closer.

You roll your eyes playfully, trying to cover your blush by raising your cocktail glass to your lips, "You're such a flirt."

Steve only shifts closer at that, his shoulder bumping yours gently, "And what if I am?" He asks, lips so close to your ear that you can feel his hot breath dampen the skin, "You're the one with your hands all over me, honey."

Your breath catches in your throat, a hot spike of heady need and want coursing through your body. It's a momentary slip, one that Steve no doubt catches immediately, "I never said I wasn't enjoying it."

Your voice is barely above a whisper, Steve's close proximity somehow narrowing further as his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, "Trust me, honey. I know you're enjoying it, you've had those pretty thighs of yours clamped together for a moment now. Gotta relieve that ache, huh?"

You shiver visibly, goosebumps rising across your neck and down your arms, jolts of electricity coursing through your body. As if Steve can sense it, he lets his own - unfairly, painfully large, veiny - hand run over your thigh, just above the knee. He traces the curve of your thigh through your jeans, barely touching but it's enough to make you ache for more.

Two seconds or five minutes later, who knows, he pulls away from your ear. You gawk, unsubtle, as he takes a long sip of his drink as if nothing ever happened. He smacks his lips together, those hazel eyes landing on yours again, a playful smile on his lips, "Where were we again?"

You try to play it cool, but your body is reacting to Steve, still reeling from the feeling of his touch all over you, "Uh. Um," you start, making yourself busy by tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "we were talking about our favorite movies, I think?"

Steve's face kind of screws up into a fake 'ah-hah!' as you blindly (and wrongly) fill in the blanks for him, seemingly completely unfazed by what just happened, "Right! You said your favorite of all time was Dirty Dancing, right?"

He’s making it up right before your eyes, playing along. And it’s painfully unfortunate that he’s right without even trying, guessing your favorite movie right out the gate. It makes your brain go a little fuzzy.

You take a deep breath, trying to focus on the conversation at hand. Even as Steve's own godforsaken hand continues to rest casually on your leg, his thumb running circles over your inner thigh, just above the knee, "Yeah, absolutely. Patrick Swayze, he's just swoonworthy."

You say it so casually, as if Steve himself didn't look like Swayze. More James Dalton than Johnny Castle, though. The hair, the tight black shirt, the jeans hugged perfectly to the swell of his ass and the curve of his muscular thighs. You had a type, clearly.

"Don't tell anyone, but Roadhouse is my favorite movie of all time." Steve grins, as if reading your thoughts from across the way, "Patrick Swayze, huh? Your type buff guys with a soft side?"

"I would've thought me sticking around on this ‘date’ with you was enough of a giveaway on that front." You giggle, finally finding the courage to tip the last of your drink to your lips, swallowing it down in one fluid motion. You feel Steve's fingers dig into the meat of your leg, feel his eyes on you as you pretend not to notice.

You know you should move his hand away, but you can't bring yourself to do it. The feeling of his touch more intoxicating than the rum-filled drink you'd found yourself nursing, the hot feeling in your gut growing and growing the higher Steve's hand goes.

"And here I was, thinking it was just my natural charm keeping you stuck in that seat." Steve says with a chuckle, running circles around your inner thigh like it's not making your insides squirm.

You roll your eyes, unable to hide your tipsy smile. There's just something about Steve, something so naturally charming that draws you in - he's confident without it being too much, and the way a stormy look swarms in his hazel eyes doesn't help with the physical pull you feel towards him.

The more he touches you, the more he looks at you, the more distracted you are by him. The alcohol coursing through your veins does nothing but amplify the warmth spreading through your body at his heavy petting.

He's beautiful, and you're blissfully comfortable in his presence, comfortable enough that the lull in conversation isn't even awkward. You look at each other through heavy lids, find yourself smacking your glossed lips together prettily, leaning your chin on your palm, elbow on the bar.

Finally, you speak, "So, do you always put these moves on your customers like this? Or am I special?" You drawl, teasing.

Steve leans in, his hand skating higher up your thigh, so close to the warm heat between your legs that you squirm a little, "Only the ones who make the moves first. You started this, remember?"

Your heart rate kicks up a little more, and for a moment you forget where you are. All you can think about is Steve's wandering hand, the bedroom eyes he's giving you like he wants to devour you in public. You want nothing more than for him to pull you in for a kiss, to lose your inhibition and get lost in the heat of the moment.

Somebody across the room begins hollering, crashing you back to reality, and it's a sobering reminder that there are dozens of people in this bar, who can see exactly what's happening right now. You clear your throat, shuffling back on your barstool a little, regretfully.

Steve's face falls, the flirty smirk gone in an instant, his hand dropping back down to your knee. You want to throw a tantrum like a little kid, tell him that it's not him, that you want it. Want whatever he's offering, just not here.

"We should maybe call it a night?" You offer, nodding towards the door, "I've probably gotta catch the bus back home, I know it leaves soon, so..."

You trail off and Steve nods, the disappointed look still on his face but a charming smirk gracing it once again, "Of course, I'll walk you over to the stop."

Steve pays the tab like it's nothing, throwing bills and a nice tip on the bar for the guy who served you. As you leave the bar and walk out into the cool night air, it hits you fast just how much the drinks have gone to your head.

"Hey, you okay?" Steve asks gently, a strong arm snaking around your waist. "My apartment isn't far from here, we can walk back there and sober up a bit? I can drive you home in a few hours."

If it weren't for the fact you knew Steve, Eddie knew Steve, and he was known for being a decent guy despite his reputation, you'd have shot it down in a heartbeat. But, the opportunity to be in his presence a little longer was something you didn't want to give up.

And, honestly, you didn’t know which bus would get you back anywhere close to the trailer park, not knowing Hawkins from Adam. This was easily the safest option.

You look up at him, snuggling into him on instinct, "Are you sure? I don't mind catching the bus, Steve. I'm a big girl, I can look after myself."

Steve beams at that, teeth shining as he looks down at you, his eyes fixed on yours, "You might be able to, but I wanna look after you tonight. And besides, I don't think either of us are ready for this to be over yet."

You hide your small laugh into his shoulder, unable to ignore the strong smell of cedarwood and bergamot wafting from his shirt, intoxicating in its own right. The giddy feeling that erupts in you is almost juvenile.

You walk down the streets quietly, taking in the pretty sunset that dims the strip in pretty pinks and oranges. There's a comfortable tension between you both, like you're both attempting to play it cool but the attraction is too strong to stop you from pulling into each other. He never once takes his hand off your waist, and that's a revelation all on its own.

Finally, you reach Steve's apartment, a cozy little bottom floor space. It's minimalistic, like a typical guy's apartment, but it feels homely. Smells like fresh laundry and the same aftershave you'd been smelling the entire walk over.

Steve looks regretful as he untangles himself from you, throwing his keys down on a table at the front door, "Take a seat, honey. I'll go get you something to drink."

It's all open planned, the entryway leading straight into the living room, where a simple leather sofa and matching lazy boy sit. You throw yourself down ungracefully on the sofa, tucking yourself into the corner with a leg pulled up under your opposite thigh.

There's two pictures on a sideboard, one of Steve and Eddie with two women you don't recognize at what looked like an outdoor gig, amongst a crowd of concertgoers. Another with the Hellfire kids, who you wouldn't know if it weren't for Eddie. The lack of family pictures are telling, though you don't dwell on it.

"Lemonade okay?" Steve asks, a pitcher in hand and a few small cups in the other, "I mean, I do have whiskey and beer if you wanna keep the party going?"

"Lemonade's great." Your voice is fond, unable to keep the smile off your face as Steve sets them down on the coffee table in front of you, looking so domestic it makes you ache.

Your eyes trail over the broad expanse of his back, his strong shoulders in that same tight tee, the way his moles and freckles even continue past the neckline. You wonder if he's covered completely, that same dull throb between your legs returning even as you sober up.

"Stop staring, you'll give me a complex." Steve drawls, not turning to look at you as he pours the cool lemonade into the glasses. You flush warm, averting your eyes.

He throws himself down onto the sofa right next to you, body also tilted so that you're facing each other, though your legs touch, burning hot through layers of starchy denim.

"I'm sure plenty of girls have been caught staring at you over the years, Harrington." You counter eventually, mouth dry.

"None that looked quite as hungry for it as you do right now." Steve quips, that same flirty smirk on his lips as he hands you your drink, "I didn't say I didn't like it, though."

Heat creeps up your neck, the need to take a drink intensifying. You do just that, sipping from the glass in your hand.

Steve's a real handful, and the longer you spend in his presence, the less you know how to handle it. Your body reacting and taking over for your brain, any playful retorts dying in your throat.

"So," Steve starts, no doubt sensing your awkwardness, "tell me. How did you meet Eddie?"

You pause for a moment, caught off guard by the question, "How did I meet Eddie?" You laugh a little, flippant, "Before he came to Hawkins to live with Wayne, he lived in my town. He came home last Christmas break and we met at a friend's party."

Steve raises an eyebrow, "A friend's party?"

You smile. "It's not a crazy story, just a guy we both knew at different times. We just clicked I guess, we have similar interests and he just has this way of making you feel comfortable and safe. I can see why you're friends, you're so alike in that way."

It's Steve’s turn to blush, a flush of pink spreading over his nose and cheeks cutely, "What a compliment. That's cool though, so you didn't know each other before he moved?"

You shake your head, "Nah, he's a little older so we missed each other. But, our friend - Carter, told me this hilarious story about how he got kicked out of middle school that I've got to tell you..."

You trail off, telling the story that Steve genuinely laughs at, this booming, goofy thing that is just so goddamn endearing.

Steve listens intently, like he's genuinely interested. His gaze locked on yours, like he's trying to memorize every single thing you're saying. You don't miss his fond looks as you talk with your hands, gesturing wildly as you tell the story.

And then, without warning, he leans in with a strong hand on the side of your neck, fingertips sliding into your hair.

He gives you enough time to pull back, a moment to say no that you choose not to take. His lips brush yours, soft and tender at first until you're melting into his touch, deepening the kiss with a surge of your body.

His hand almost engulfs your neck, thumb running gently over your trachea as your chest rolls into his, desperate to get closer. The light smacking sounds of wet lips making you light headed, your hand coming out to tug at the material of Steve's shirt to steady yourself.

Steve's tongue slithers out to swipe your bottom lip and you're a goner, climbing ungracefully into his lap, knocking him back against the sofa. He lets out a startled huff, both hands coming out to bracket your waist when you allow him entry into your mouth.

It's raw, messy and a little bit gross. Steve tastes like beer and a tang of the lemonade he'd been sipping, a hint of something else under there, a heady cinnamon. It's intoxicating, more than the drinks you'd nursed in the bar, and you find your hips rolling down into his on instinct, desperate to show him how much you wanted him.

He grunts, hands rocking you and helping you along. He's not hard yet, not at all, but the way he's moving your body is clear enough that he's into it as your tongues slip back and forth. He pulls back a little, the kiss becoming light and you let him guide you.

"Sorry, I just," Steve looks up at you with wild eyes, hair fanned out around his face where he lies back against the sofa, "I couldn't help it. You're so kissable, y'know that?"

“Don’t say sorry,” you scold playfully, smirking down at him, “you have my permission to do what you want. Anything you want.”

His hand wanders over your breast teasingly, light touches that you can barely feel through the layers of bra and shirt over your taut nipple, enough to have you arching into the touch in a silent plea for more.

Steve chuckles, deep and mischievous, clearly enjoying how your body melts under the simplest of grazes. It’s clear as day that he doesn’t give one singular fuck as to how desperate you are, pleased and satisfied taking his time with you.

Your hands entangle in his thick chestnut hair, tugging roughly at the root until Steve is moaning, hand faltering to skate down your stomach. Landing on the button of your jeans, but not moving.

“Steve.” You groan, impatient, “Don’t frustrate me or I’ll do it myself. Please?”

Steve tsk’s, his pearly whites gleaming in the low light as he smirks at your desperation, “You don’t like it slow?”

You roll your eyes, tugging his hair again, using it as reins to grind down into him, the heat of your cunt enough to have him grunting quietly. “Slow is boring. Slow means careful. I don’t want you to be careful with me, Steve. Show me how desperate you can be, show me how desperate you are for me.”

Steve’s eyes flash so dark they’re near black, the sweetness still lurking vanishing in an instant. He gives you one last squeeze to your ass before he’s using both hands to practically rip the button of your jeans, fingers slipping into the tight denim and beneath the satin of your panties.

“I’ll show you, you impatient brat,” he grunts, fingertips sliding between your folds and his eyes roll back at the feeling, “like fucking velvet, honey. You’re so wet, how long you been like this for me?”

“Somewhere between entering the bar and you touching my thigh.” You breathe, crying out when his pointer and middle finger slide into you at once, a blissful stretch that takes your goddamn breath away.

“So easy for it.” Steve coos, and it would be offensive if it weren’t for the way he looks at you with honey swirled irises, soft at the edges despite the bite of his words.

The hand not preoccupied with your cunt grips for your throat, thumb pressing into your pulse point as Steve surges forward to capture your lips once again. It’s rough, intimate, the graze of Steve’s stubble rubbing your chin raw as he bullies his tongue into your mouth.

Your brain short circuits, his tongue reducing you to a bumbling, sobbing mess as you grind down into his palm, clit catching and rubbing against the dry skin in the most painfully beautiful way.

The air is thick with sexual tension, thicker than the strands of hair you pull and tug at, thicker than the outline of his cock that you can feel digging into the fat of your inner thigh.

“That’s it,” Steve mumbles against your lips, the pads of his fingertips rubbing against that little bump on your frontal wall that has your hips jumping forward of their own accord, “don’t hold back, honey. Let me hear you fall apart for me.”

It’s domineering. He’s fully in control and you’re letting him as you rut against the palm of his hand, sweat coating your brow as you fuck your hips against him, desperate to reach the edge.

The plushness of his lips kiss down your jaw, to your throat where he latches on and sucks his mark into your skin. Sure to be a beautiful purple bloom in the morning, a temporary reminder that he was there. You want to beg for more.

So you do.

“Mark me like I’m yours.” You cry, whimper, even. Your body runs hot, goosebumps erupting on your skin as your impending orgasm starts to build.

You swear you feel the smirk against your flushed throat. Steve latches onto you again, this time lower down, wider. You pull his hair, sighing contentedly as he suckles, nibbles at your tender flesh to produce yet another mark.

His hips jump up against yours, a momentary slip that makes you want to plead for his cock, your brain so fuzzy with the need to rut and fuck that you’re about to give up the orgasm you’re so close to getting.

“You’re clenching so tight around my fingers, baby,” Steve moans, kissing soothingly over the thumping ache of a bruise he’s left on your neck, “you gonna cum for me?”

The white hot flashes of want and hunger you feel prickle up your back only intensify with his words, the end in sight as you ride against the palm of his hand feverishly, your clit sliding beautifully over the flesh.

Your orgasm rips through you like a fucking knife to the stomach, your fingers gripping and pulling Steve’s hair so tightly that his head snaps back with the sheer force. You sob wetly, riding his fingers with jerky hips as he fucks you through it, eyes bleary but focused enough to see the hungry way he looks at you falling apart for him, soaking your panties and his fingers in the process.

“You needed that one, huh?” Steve coos, mocking you lightheartedly as his fingers deftly slip from inside of you. You try your best to ignore the way it makes you feel empty.

You nod dumbly after a moment, the whooshing in your ears beginning to fade out. You collapse into his chest with a small, contented sigh.

It takes only a mere few seconds for you to get with the program once more, kissing tenderly at Steve’s mole flecked neck, burying in to nip with your teeth hesitantly. Your hips move like they have a mind of their own, grinding down into the incredibly prominent bulge that rests hard against his zipper.

He grunts, hips thrusting up into yours as you move in some sort of slow, aching rhythm. His wide hands practically engulf your waist, fingertips digging into soft, supple flesh to help you rock your tired body against his own.

It feels so fucking good, your body reacting to his in a way that was genuinely concerning, the primal need to fuck and have him inside of you taking over any kind of inhibition you previously had. He feels big, thick and hot nestled between your folds through two layers of rough denim, and the desperation ramps up.

You whine, pathetic into his salty, sweat damp skin, “Need more. Need you inside me, Steve.”

Steve groans like he’s in pain, hips jerking up involuntarily like they have a mind of their own, knocking you both out of the rhythm, “You sound so pretty when you beg. I’ll take care of you, honey. Knock you dumb just like you need.”

The sound you make is so pathetic that you instantly bury your face tighter into his skin, fingernails biting at the back of his neck. Steve’s hands are under your ass in a second, gripping to your thighs as he flips you onto your back on the sofa, muscular thighs spreading your legs impossibly wide as he buries between them.

“You need these off.” He grunts, pulling at the baggy denim of your jeans with rough fingers. You barely have the coherency to lift your ass up to help him wriggle you out of the offending material, body practically limp after the bone melting orgasm he just gave you with practiced ease.

“This too?” He asks gently, reaching for your top. You nod, lifting yourself up so he can slip it over your head, leaving you in only your bra and panties.

You don’t wait for him to ask before you’re unclasping your bra, pulling that off so that your tits are bared too. They look great, your best feature if you did say so yourself, so it wasn’t exactly a difficult decision to make.

He marvels at you for a second too long, taking in the sight of your body laid out below him, and those stormy eyes of his look deeper yet again – he looks hungry. Instead of it making you self conscious, it only spurs you on.

You wrap your legs around his torso, thick thighs pulling him in until he’s losing his balance and having to lean one arm out against the arm of the sofa to brace himself over you. The gold of his chain dangles close to your mouth, cooling the plumpness of your bottom lip with every gentle sway.

“Down, girl,” Steve scolds, though that cocky smirk still graces his features and makes him look so painfully hot it makes your pussy flutter, “I gotta go get a condom.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, “And risk ruining the moment? You’re clean, right?”

Steve nods, that cock-sure confidence faltering for a second, “Are you?”

You nod, biting at your bottom lip, “Haven’t done this for a while, big boy. You think you have the restraint to pull out in time?”

Steve shudders visibly at your question, a heady whimper escaping his lips, “I can try my best, but no promises, honey. I felt how tight and soaked you were around my fingers, if you feel too good I’m not responsible for the consequences.”

You let out a shaky laugh, though it cuts off into a moan when Steve lifts himself up and away from your body for long enough to stretch his arms behind his neck, pulling his shirt off from the back of his head with one fluid movement.

He’s a marvel. The moles and beauty marks extend the entire way down his torso, even below his belt line, arms sculpted beautifully and his tummy muscular yet still soft. He’s everything, your belly flutters looking at this fucking perfect man sat between your spread thighs like some sort of Greek marble statue.

“Holy. Wow.” Your mouth is dry, your hands having a mind of their own yet again – just like in the bar – and coming out to touch and squeeze the flesh of his torso. Steve smirks, like he knows what you’re so hung up about, arching into your touch.

He allows you the seconds of indulgence before it’s back to business, his fingers making light work of his belt and jeans as he regrettably departs his space between your naked legs to push the material down his legs and away from your bodies.

His dick is so heavy that even though it’s fully hard, it doesn’t slap against his tummy, hanging slightly forward with its own weight. He’s big. Alarmingly big. And did you mention thick? Really thick.

God. He was going to be a stretch.

Steve grins sheepishly, settling back between your legs hesitantly. He makes to speak, but you stop him in his tracks;

“You’ve not gotta be gentle,” you reassure, reminding him of your words before he dipped his hands into your panties just minutes ago, “fuck me like you mean it.”

Steve groans, burying his face into your neck as he lines himself up with your cunt and pushes in with one fluid motion. It knocks the breath out of the both of you for a moment, and you whimper pitifully at the gorgeous, burning ache of him stretching you out to fit him perfectly.

“Holy shit,” He breathes, panting into your neck, “so fucking tight for me, honey.”

You preen at Steve’s words, arching into his torso and somehow pushing him in even deeper. He had no idea just how much it stroked your ego to hear those words, no idea that it turned your insides into goo to know you were doing so good for him before it even started.

He rolls his hips into yours, the wet heat of your cunt gripping him, and you pant like an animal in heat when the subtle movement causes the coarse hair nestled in his mons to catch onto your sensitive clit.

Your hips wriggle a little after a moment, a sign to let him know it’s okay to move, and Steve takes that subtle movement and runs with it — pulling out only to slam back in again, knocking your body up the couch.

It’s maddening. Your body runs hot with want and desperation, insides molding to the shape of his – quite frankly, annoyingly big - dick with each thrust, driving you absolutely insane in the process. The cut head rubs against that damn spot each time, and you know he’s going to tip you over for a second time all too soon.

“Fuck.” You cry, hands coming up to bury in his mane of hair once again and tug him down, “Fucking — how does it feel to be Gods favorite?”

Steve grins, mischievous and lust bitten around the edges as he sinks into your cunt with a quickening pace, “Stroke my ego baby, I love it.”

“Don’t get cocky, Stevie. Or I’ll just shut my mouth.”

The grin turns salacious, a large hand coming out to wrap along the expanse of your throat, just resting and not pushing, thumb caressing the side of your neck soothingly, “Don’t you wanna be good for me, honey? Or are you bratting so that I’ll give you what you really crave?”

You whimper involuntarily, and that's all the confirmation Steve needs to really drive into you. Your back arches so that your torsos flush together, and he snakes a hand beneath the curve to grip onto your waist from below.

“Oh my God!” You moan, body jolting at the change of angle. You’re turned into a babbling mess, fingernails digging into each of Steve’s biceps as he fucks you deep, rough enough to leave a mind numbing sting that you swear you feel in your damn throat.

He’s looking at you with this wild expression, eyes wide like he’s drinking you in, watching each emotion he evokes from you with his body, “That’s it, taking me so fucking good. You like being fucked like a whore, honey?”

You nod, knocked dumb, mouth hung open like a pliant slut, a constant steady stream of whines and shuddering gasps falling from parted lips with each deep slide of his cock inside of you.

“You trust me?” He whispers, lips hovering just mere centimeters from your own, and you nod again, going cross eyed.

A drop of saliva hangs from Steve’s pursed lips, sliding down into your open mouth and onto your tongue. You cry out, pathetic and desperate as you swallow down the spit like it’s cool water on a hot summers day.

Steve shudders against you, hips slamming into you as his thrusts become erratic. You pray his apartment is somewhat soundproof, for all you can hear is the wet slap of skin on skin mixed with dirty moaning and pitiful cries.

“You’re perfect,” Steve mutters, sloppily kissing your lips before moving back to your jaw, worrying the flesh between his teeth like he can’t help it, “a fucking dream, honey. See how you’re ruining me?”

You don’t get a chance to reply before he’s dropping your body back onto the sofa, his thumb swiping over your clit in a desperate attempt to get you there before he does.

It’s all too much. Your body runs hot, static surging up your back, hot in your gut as he works you over. You have to clench your eyes shut, painfully aware of his sculpted body gleaming with sweat, the swivel of his hips as his cock buries deep into you.

Your second orgasm hits you just as hard as your first, your legs shaking and cunt clenching sporadically as it washes over you like a fiery inferno, gasps and wet cries of Steve’s name and other incoherent nonsense spewing from your lips.

“Oh shit, holy fuck, baby you feel so – so good, god I’m gonna cum,” Steve shallowly fucks into you, jerky and desperate, “where do you want me to– fuck!”

You open your eyes within enough time to see Steve pull out of you, sloppily tugging at his cock two, three times before he’s spilling all over your stomach. Hot spurts of it cover you from your belly button the whole way to your chest, and you swear you’ve never seen a man cum so much in your damn life.

It’s so hot. Being branded by ropes of cooling semen, sparking over finger bitten skin and bruises made by warm and heavy lips.

There’s a long second afterwards, where Steve sags heavily against the couch as his dick softens, both of you panting and trying to catch a breath.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve’s voice shocks you out of the contented post-orgasm haze, his hand squeezing your inner thigh gently as he gets up from where he’s perched, off in search of what you don’t know.

He reappears with a wet washcloth, and it’s all very domesticated as he wipes you down gently with the cool towel, fingers gentle against your sore skin in a stark contrast to just moments earlier.

You’re both completely naked still. This should be strange, but it doesn’t feel that way. Steve makes you feel painfully at ease and that’s something your orgasm fogged brain can’t comprehend or bear to think about right now.

“This might be a bit presumptuous, but,” Steve hums, inspecting your body to make sure he’s cleaned you down good enough for his liking, smirking as you squirm under his gaze, “do you wanna stay the night? It’s really late and, uh, well I don’t wanna kick you out after that. It was a bit intense.”

Your eyes are bleary. Fuck. He’s going to ruin you for anybody else.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Your voice is soft, quiet as you rise from the soiled sofa to sit up properly, “You’ll need to call Eddie, let him know I’m okay.”

“I think he knows you’re all good,” Steve grins sheepishly, helping you to your feet and tugging you close as soon as you’re up, “I might’ve called him when I was in the kitchen earlier, let him know you were here to sober up.”

You roll your eyes with a small smile, leaning into him with a heavy sigh, “You better have a comfy bed.”

“The comfiest.” Steve confirms, dragging you gently towards the door, “I also have a really big shower, and really good water pressure, so…”

“Oh my God, I’m never leaving.” You mumble into his chest, giggling playfully when he lifts you up ever so slightly with his muscular arms and knocks the bedroom door shut behind you.

part 2?

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington blurb #mine #my fanfic #x reader

925 notes · View notes

shiftingfawnnn · 3 months ago

Text

The damp air clung to your skin, thick with the scent of stone, old iron, and something darker—something that lingered beneath the surface, like rot buried just deep enough to fester. The walls of Nightmare’s castle loomed around you, a twisted monument of cruelty and power, where the light barely reached and the cold bit through even the bravest resolve.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been here. Time bled together in the endless dark. But what unsettled you more wasn’t the solitude.

It was him.

He came when the castle was at its quietest, when the distant wails of other prisoners faded to a dull murmur and all that remained was the dripping of unseen water against stone. That’s when you’d hear him—first, the echo of his boots scuffing lazily against the floor. Then, the creak of the cell door swinging open, slow, deliberate, just to hear the way your breath hitched.

And then the stillness. That moment where he stood just beyond the threshold, watching, waiting. Drinking in your fear before he even stepped inside.

Tonight was no different.

A soft chuckle shattered the quiet.

“Still here, huh?”

His voice—low, rough, almost amused. Like this was all some private joke, something only he was in on. You didn’t dare answer. Not yet.

Another step. He took his time, the air shifting with each movement, his presence crawling over your skin like something tangible, like the weight of his attention alone was enough to leave a bruise.

“Funny thing,” he mused, tone lilting with mock curiosity. “You ever notice how the body reacts to fear? The way it tenses, how the blood rushes faster, how every little sound makes your skin prickle?”

A pause. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

Then—fingers. Cold. Smooth. Brushing along your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to force your gaze toward him.

You hadn’t looked at him yet. You didn’t want to. But now, so close, you had no choice.

His grin was wide, too wide, his sockets half-lidded, the red light deep within them flickering with something unreadable. Dust clung to him—smudges of it against the cracks in his skull, along the frayed edges of his scarf, the remnants of his sins woven into his very being.

And yet, despite the horror coiling in your stomach, despite the cold sweat prickling at the back of your neck… there was something else.

Something you shouldn’t be feeling.

Heat curled low in your gut, unbidden, traitorous. Your pulse skipped—not just in terror, but in something far more dangerous.

His grin widened, as if he could smell it.

“There it is,” he murmured. His fingers slid lower, the blunt edge of bone trailing down the column of your throat, pressing just lightly enough to make your breath hitch. His sockets darkened, that crimson glow flaring in something not quite hunger, not quite satisfaction—something worse.

“Knew it wasn’t just fear,” he drawled, his thumb dragging over your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin. “You’re tryin’ so hard to hide it, aren’tcha?”

You hated how your thighs clenched at the rasp of his voice, how every taunting word sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

This was wrong.

This was so wrong.

And he knew it.

“Ain’t it funny?” he continued, his grin pressing closer, his breathless laughter ghosting over your cheek. “The way your body can’t tell the difference? Fear, arousal—it all tastes the same in the end.”

Your breath stuttered.

He laughed.

“And I gotta say… I love the taste.”

His grip tightened—just enough to remind you of exactly who was in control. Of exactly how easily he could break you.

And yet, he didn’t.

Because this?

This was better.

Watching you squirm. Watching the war waging in your own body, the terror and desire tangling in a way that left you breathless, helpless, caught in his web with no hope of escape.

“I could do anything to ya right now, couldn’t I?” he whispered, his sockets hooded, his voice velvet-wrapped malice. “And you wouldn’t stop me.”

Your breath hitched.

He laughed.

“Good.”

Then—pressure.

You gasped as something hard pressed between your thighs. Cold. Unyielding. The sharp ridge of bone—his leg—sliding up against you.

You didn’t even have time to process the shock before he moved.

The friction was slow at first, lazy. A deliberate drag up, then down, the pressure firm enough to make you shudder. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers curling against the worn fabric of his hoodie—not to push him away, but to steady yourself.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

“Hah…” His grin twitched, that low, breathless chuckle slipping past his teeth. His sockets flickered, taking in every twitch, every involuntary jolt as he set a rhythm, pressing his bone against you with just enough force to make your breath catch in your throat.

“Look atcha,” he cooed, tilting his head, voice dipping into something close to mockery. “Shakin’ like a leaf… but not ‘cause ya wanna run.”

His leg nudged higher, pressing between your thighs just enough to make you squirm, to make that awful, traitorous heat twist in your stomach. You bit your lip, stifling the sound threatening to spill from your throat.

Dust’s grin twitched.

Then—

The pressure vanished.

His leg dropped from between your legs with a dull thud, leaving you trembling, panting, your body still alight with the phantom sensation of what he’d just done.

You barely had a second to react before his face was inches from yours, his sockets black voids with only the faintest ember of red smoldering deep within. His grin was wide, sharp, his breathless laughter rattling in his ribs.

“Heh… got ya all worked up, huh?”

His voice was thick with amusement, his tone dripping with satisfaction.

And then he stepped back, leaving you breathless, unsteady, your body betraying you in ways you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Hope ya got a real good memory, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice as dark as the space between his ribs. His sockets flickered, drinking in the way you still trembled. ”‘Cause that? That’s all you’re gettin’.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving you alone.

Burning.

133 notes · View notes

horny-marbles · 1 month ago

Note

Hiii :(

I’m going through a painful breakup. Could you please write me a long ass heartbreaking EJ angst (not involving death/ cheating/ anything like that, just falling out of love)

Actually any CP is fine, I just want to cry

Thanks in advance if you do decide to write this

hi baby, i'm sorry to hear :( shit fucking sucks i know. sending you much love and healing and this fic i did a while back. i actually closed my reqs for the moment but i already had this written and i couldn't not post it lol. kisses and hugs, i hope everything falls into place for you soon💗

Erosion (Eyeless Jack x GN!Reader)

CW: angst with no comfort, light mentions of cannibalism and blood

wordcount 3.6k

You never flinched when you saw him.

That’s the first thing Jack would bring up later, in one of those rare, quiet moments where he let memory bleed through the cracks in his composure. “You didn’t flinch,” he’d murmur like it still surprised him, like it was something sacred. He’d say it with that low, flat voice of his, but you’d feel it anyway; in the way he touched your hand after, careful like he might still ruin it.

And it was true. You hadn’t flinched. Not at the sight of his eyeless face or the oily, unnatural gleam of the scar tissue that webbed through his sockets. You didn’t shrink from the smell of blood on his breath or the uncanny stillness in the way he moved. You’d just looked, and maybe that was what did it. You looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.

You’d loved him. You really fucking loved him.

It was one of those rare loves that felt mythic in its stillness. No explosions. Just gravity. The kind that anchored itself so deep in your chest it changed the way you breathed. It was like waiting for snow to melt through black dirt. Messy, quiet, inevitable. Every time you looked at him, you thought, I will never love someone like this again.

You didn’t fall in love all at once. You fell the way water seeps through cracks in stone—quiet, insistent. You learned him like erosion. You watched how he touched things only with gloves, how he turned his head slightly when you laughed, like it was something foreign but not unwelcome. You caught him listening. That was always the first step. Jack always listened before he ever allowed himself to care.

He didn't speak much at first, only watching you with his unreadable expression while you chattered nervously to fill the space. The stillness was brutal. He sat like stone, like bone-deep control. He observed. Measured. Not like a man, but like something old and starved of gentleness. Like he wasn’t just seeing you, but weighing you. Testing if your softness would rot like everything else.

It took months for him to let you see him without the mask.

And when he did, when he sat on the edge of your bed in the dark and peeled it off like it hurt him, you didn't gasp. You didn’t turn away. You looked.

And he flinched harder than if you had screamed.

You never thought someone so dangerous could seem so… tired. But maybe that’s what you loved first. How exhausted he was from carrying himself like a loaded gun. You wanted to be the one he could hand the weight to.

And eventually, he let you.

Not all at once. Jack didn’t work that way. But there were little moments. His hand resting on your lower back longer than necessary. The way his body leaned toward yours in sleep, as if pulled by instinct alone. That one time he let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a low, guttural hum, when your fingers curled into the back of his hair.

And through all of that, through all the things he didn’t say, he let you touch him.

Do you even understand what that meant?

Jack, who lived in endless control, who dissected every instinct, let you in. Carefully. Like one mistake would shatter everything and he’d never recover. You were the first person who didn’t try to fix him. The first who didn’t flinch. And God, he needed that. He needed you. He needed someone to be soft and unrelenting in their care, someone who wouldn’t hand him their fear like a fucking gift and ask him to carry it.

He trusted you. Slowly. Brutally.

You learned his habits like a language. The pauses in his speech meant he was filtering thoughts through caution. A low twitch in his jaw meant he was hungry and trying not to think about it. When he touched you bare-handed, it was his way of saying I trust you not to run.

And God, you were so sure you wouldn’t.

You remember the first time he touched you without gloves. The way his hands trembled—not from cold or nerves, but from restraint. From the raw fact that he hadn’t let himself feel skin like that in years. The warmth of your body against his made him go still, like the contact struck some bone-deep alarm that he silenced only for you.

“Are you afraid of me?” he’d asked, low, in that scraped, worn-out voice.

“No,” you said, and you meant it. He was many things, but not to you. Not dangerous. Not disgusting. You saw the monster, yes—but you saw him too. The man. The thing underneath. The part that still wanted, still longed. Jack didn’t believe in redemption, but he believed in you. Maybe that was worse. Maybe it was too much.

Because there’s something violent about being loved by someone who doesn’t think they deserve it. It’s beautiful. God, it’s beautiful, but it’s also fragile. Every kindness becomes a debt. Every mistake becomes betrayal. And you didn’t understand it at first. You didn’t see how love, to him, was a battleground where he was always about to be abandoned.

It was rocky. Of course it was. There were days he vanished for hours, came back with blood on his collar and glass in his fists. Nights where you reached for him and he flinched, not because of you, but because touch still felt like a trick. He didn’t know how to ask for closeness. He didn’t know how to keep it.

But you stayed.

You stayed when he shied away from your eyes. You stayed when he snarled through gritted teeth that he didn’t need anyone, even as his whole body leaned toward you. You stayed through the mutterings, the nightmares, the hours where he crouched on the kitchen floor gripping his head like something inside him was trying to crawl out.

And when he said “Don’t go,” barely audible, barely even him, you stayed.

Because you loved him. You loved every mangled, haunted part of him. You loved the way he dissected the world like a puzzle, loved the way he remembered every detail you’d ever mentioned. You loved that he never lied. That he didn’t know how to.

You believed in him.

And you thought it would be enough.

God, you thought it would be enough.

The beginning of the end started with a twitch. Not yours—his.

He hadn’t fed in over two weeks. You didn’t know that at first. You only noticed the tightness in his jaw, the sudden pauses mid-sentence like he was fighting something back. He got quieter. Still, somehow even more still. Like he was afraid that if he moved, he’d splinter. He sat on the floor more often, back pressed to the wall, hands loose in his lap like claws waiting for command.

You didn’t ask. You should have, maybe. But you didn’t want the answer.

Because you already knew.

You knew by the way he touched you. Gently, but from a distance, like your skin was a prayer he wasn’t allowed to speak anymore. You knew by the weight of his body beside you in bed, tense like a wound, holding his breath when you moved in your sleep. You knew by the silence after you laughed. It used to comfort him. Now it made him ache.

He was starving.

And it wasn’t just hunger. It was denial. He thought if he could just push past it, if he could go long enough without feeding, he wouldn’t need it anymore. Like a bad habit. Like an addiction. Like something love could fix.

But you were never meant to fix him.

And that’s what made it worse.

Because Jack did it for you.

Every second he went without tearing into someone’s chest, every hour he spent gritting his teeth as instinct clawed its way up his throat, it was all for you. Not because he saw the flicker in your eyes every time he came back, smelling like blood and rot, but because he felt it. Even blind, he felt it. The hitch in your breath. The spike in your pulse. The unconscious step you took back when he walked through the door. You tried to hide it. God, you tried.

But nature doesn’t forgive love.

You were still human. Your body remembered the old language of fear, even when your heart was fluent in devotion.

And still, you... stayed.

You stayed through the tension, through the growing silence. Through the weeks where he barely touched you. Where his voice became rawer, scraped thin by restraint. Where you found claw marks in the sink and didn’t ask questions. Where you woke up alone and found blood in the grass out back.

He always came home. Even when he shouldn’t.

Even when he knew the sight of him—trembling, soaked in gore, face slack from the afterglow of instinct—would make something in your chest twist violently. Even when your body stiffened in his arms, and you hated yourself for it. Even when you whispered, “It’s okay,” like a prayer, like a lie, like a desperate thread trying to hold it all together.

He always came back.

Because he couldn’t survive the guilt of not coming home to you.

So he’d run. He’d disappear into the woods, into the night, into the parts of the world that had long since stopped asking questions. You knew what he did out there. You knew he tore through homes, through throats, through families. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. And when the haze lifted, when the blood dried and the hunger subsided, he always ended up at your doorstep. Sometimes hours later. Sometimes days. Eyes hollow, skin vibrating from adrenaline and self-loathing.

He never knocked. You left the door unlocked for him anyway.

And when he stumbled through it, like a dying man crawling back to his altar, you never said a word. You just opened your arms. Even if your stomach turned. Even if your hands shook. You opened your arms.

Because you loved him.

Because he was still him.

Because if you didn’t hold him, who the fuck would?

He wept once. You only saw it once.

You were sitting on the floor, his head in your lap, and he was still sticky with blood. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t spoken. You were combing your fingers through his hair like it was a ritual, like touch could ward off the rot in his mind. And suddenly, his shoulders locked up, and he made this sound. Not a sob. Something quieter. Rawer. Like something breaking inside him.

“I tried,” he rasped. “I tried, I tried, I tried—”

You hushed him. You pressed your lips to the crown of his head, despite the blood caked in the strands, and whispered, “I know.”

But you didn’t. Not really. You couldn’t possibly.

Because you didn’t know what it was like to wake up with blood under your fingernails and a name you didn’t recognize in your mouth. You didn’t know what it was like to spend hours shaking, hoping you hadn’t gone too far this time. Hoping you hadn’t become what you always feared. Hoping the next time you walked through that door, you wouldn’t see revulsion in the eyes of the only person who had ever seen you and stayed.

And that’s the part that made him want to die. Not the hunger. Not the guilt. Not even the kills.

But that fucking look on your face when you tried to hide how afraid you were.

Because he would’ve ripped himself apart to make you feel safe. And the cruelest part of it all? He already was.

The thing about endings is, they never happen all at once. They don't knock. They whisper.

You still kissed him in the mornings. Still made coffee while he sat wrapped in a blanket like penance, still let his cold hand brush yours in passing. But something had shifted. Subtle at first. Molecular. You didn’t know it then, but it had already begun: the withering.

It wasn’t his fault. Not really. He hadn’t changed. You had just finally accepted that he never could.

You used to think he was a tragedy, a thing broken by the world, by the sharp teeth of circumstance and cruelty. Something to mourn. Something to heal. But time had worn that delusion down to the raw bone of truth.

He wasn’t just broken. He was built this way. Hurt was written into him. Etched into the dark sinew of who he'd become.

He was made to suffer, and to make others suffer by existing. And he hated it. You know he did. Every time he came back with blood on his teeth and a tremble in his shoulders, every time he whispered your name like a prayer he didn’t think he deserved, every time he curled around himself on your kitchen floor like a dying animal, you knew he fucking hated it.

But knowing that didn’t make it easier.

Because love couldn’t stitch his biology into something human. Because no amount of tenderness could override instinct. Because he was trying so hard to be good, and still, he fed.

And you tried to hold on. You fought to hold on.

You helped clean the mess when his body slackened post-feeding, wiped the blood from his jaw with shaking hands and kissed the sharp edge of his mouth like forgiveness. You whispered, “You’re not a monster,” like a vow you didn’t believe anymore. Because monsters choose to harm, and he didn’t choose this, not really. But he did hurt. He would hurt again. And the aftermath always ended up in your lap, like grief you never asked to carry.

Jack knew you loved him. That wasn’t the question. The question was whether that love was survivable.

And the answer started showing up in small ways. In how you didn’t reach for his hand as often. In how you stopped looking at him when he spoke. In how your voice softened too much, like you were soothing something on its deathbed.

You began to leave rooms before he entered them.

He noticed.

Of course he did. He couldn’t see your eyes but he could feel the absence of them. He could smell guilt like blood in water. He could hear the way you sighed after you thought he was asleep. Like the weight of him was something you couldn’t hold much longer. And worse, like you were mourning him while he was still breathing.

He asked you once, in the dark, “Are you afraid of me now?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t lie to him. Not when your heart was already a ghost in your chest.

The silence was enough. It was everything. He flinched. Not visibly, but internally. You felt it like a knife lodged between you. He rolled away. Didn’t speak again until morning.

You watched him, in the light of day, moving through your shared space like a haunting. Like someone trying not to take up space. And it hurt—god, it hurt—to see him so small. To see a creature built of fear and hunger trying to fold itself down into something harmless just so you’d stay.

But what neither of you ever said out loud, what gnawed at the edges of your mind every day like static, was this:

He didn’t need you to stay. He needed you to love him. And they weren’t the same thing anymore. And that was the real decay. That was where the love began to rot.

Not because you wanted it to. But because you realized... You were never enough to save him.

And the worst part? You still. Fucking. Stayed. Because leaving would hollow you out. Would turn your body to raw, weeping loss. Would unravel every moment you ever shared. But staying was its own kind of agony. It was watching him shatter and trying to pretend you hadn’t been the one to drop him.

So you stayed. You loved him in past tense, quietly. You smiled when you didn’t feel like it. You kissed him on the forehead instead of the mouth. You washed the blood out of his clothes and whispered, “It’s okay,” knowing it wasn’t.

And every day, he died a little more knowing he was losing you while you were still right beside him.

Erosion. That’s what it was. Slow. Silent. Unforgiving.

He used to picture the end like something cinematic. Violent. Devastating. You in a fit of fear, maybe screaming at him to get out, to stop hurting, stop being what he is. Or worse, you running from him, phone to your ear, the word monster trailing behind you like a scarlet ribbon. He imagined his own version, too, one where he lost control, finally, fully. Where hunger and madness swallowed him whole and he ended you because he couldn't survive without you.

But it didn’t happen like that.

No, it ended on a Tuesday.

He thinks it was Tuesday.

There was blood on the floor again. More than usual. His hands had trembled the whole way back, and he collapsed in the entryway like he always did, because your home was the only place he could fall apart in without fear of being killed for it. It used to be sanctuary.

This time, he didn’t even get a word out. You walked in barefoot, hair still damp from your shower, wearing the t-shirt he used to love you in, and you didn’t gasp. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask if he was okay.

You just sighed. Soft. Barely audible. And got the mop.

And that’s when he broke.

No screaming. No rage. Just his knees to his chest. Fingers clutching his skull. A low sound in his throat, cracked and animal.

He sobbed. But there were no tears. Just sound. Just shaking. Just pain with no exit.

You didn’t stop cleaning. Didn’t pause. Didn’t look. Just scrubbed the blood from the tile like it was ketchup, not evidence of the agony he’d tried to drown in.

And it didn’t hurt that you didn’t hold him. Not really. He understood. He always understood. He had lived without warmth his entire life. He had adapted to absence like some animals adapt to the dark.

But what gutted him, what turned the sobs to silence, what made his stomach hollow out like a carcass... Was the way you looked at the stain and not at him. The way your body moved around him like a chair or a table or a spilled drink. Like he wasn’t suffering. Like he wasn’t even there.

And for the first time, he wondered,

Do you think I deserve this?

Because once, you had looked at him like a question worth answering. Like a wound worth treating. Like something sacred that just needed love to stop unraveling.

Now, he couldn’t be sure.

Now, he thought maybe you’d stopped seeing a man trying to survive, and started seeing the thing that killed to keep breathing.

He didn’t ask that, though. He just asked, “Are you afraid of me?” Again. Voice low. Unsteady. Hoping.

And you didn’t look up. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

Because what was left to say?

You had already said everything in the way you didn’t say anything anymore. The silence was a scalpel. It cut clean.

He didn’t leave right away. He couldn’t. He lingered like breath fogging a window. Like a stain of blood in old floorboards.

He hovered in doorways. Sat on the couch even when you didn’t sit beside him. He kept asking.

“Do you want me to go?”

“Is this what you want?”

“Do you still…?”

You never said no. But you never said yes, either.

And that was enough. Eventually. It wasn’t a door slamming. It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t anything, really.

One night, he just didn’t come back.

And you noticed. Of course you did. The absence was a shout in the quiet of your routine. No blood on the porch. No heavy, trembling footsteps. No murmured apologies into your neck while he tried not to fall apart. Just… stillness.

And what's worse? You didn’t cry. You sat in the kitchen for a long time. Fingers wrapped around a mug gone cold. Eyes on the doorway. Waiting for something you no longer had the strength to want.

He’s gone. But you still flinch when the floor creaks at night. You still reach for two mugs instead of one. You still whisper, “Be careful,” to an empty room.

Because it ended. But it didn’t stop.

101 notes · View notes

grumblegrumpinactive · 3 months ago

Text

burden - errorink fic

Ink sat in a hammock of string, dangling idly above Error’s beanbag. The anti-void was far from his favorite place, it was cold in a way that couldn’t make you shiver. Cold like the hollow in his chest where a soul would have been.

Ink was convinced he could fix it with some murals, but Error refused to let him anywhere near his void if he carried any form of pigment— a frequent source of controversy between them. But it was the only place Error was willing to be during an episode, so Ink forced himself there— that’s what a person in love would do, right?

He stayed up there for a good while, swinging his arms up and using the strings as an aerial silks course… until Error groaned softly from below. The destroyer had been glitching badly all day, his body racked with painful twitches and convulsions, the glowing symbols and alerts blocking his eyes, which frequently teared up— at a few points that day Ink had even seen blood leaking from a slash across his glitching torso.

Ink tried painting magic onto him, it didn’t do much except turn him and his beanbag fun colors. He had waved chocolate in front of him, and all the glitch had done was whimper. It seemed like the two of them were just going to have to wait it out, like they always had…

But while Ink was up in that string web, twirling and twisting and trying to entertain himself, Error sat up and screeched.

“Bug?” was all Ink could blurt out inbetween his partner’s screams, but the nickname seemed to register in Error’s panicked mind. ‘Bug’, like a computer bug, an endearing little name Ink had called him for so long just to annoy him, now being used to soothe him.

By the time his glitches had faded enough for him to see, all Error’s mismatched eye lights could register was someone tucking him in. He was still screaming, he thought, but maybe it was a hallucination. He couldn’t tell with most things during glitch attacks, but he did know one thing— he was talking. To someone. Someone he loved.

He hadn’t loved anyone in a very long time, had he? And although it wasn’t how he thought, this person did love him back, didn’t they?

As Ink finished tucking Error in and trying to calm him down, his yellow and red eye sockets locked onto Ink’s, and through a garbled, repeating, broken radio of a throat, he managed to whisper two words.

“take it.”

Ink stared, wondering what his partner could possibly mean, before the glitch grabbed at his shirt and moaned in pain. his eye flared with a forced spasm of magic, and within seconds his soul was clearly visible, hovering above his chest. Ink made some horrible sound, he had never seen someone take out their own soul just to avoid pain… but those words echoed again.

“take it,”

This time, it was followed by a desperate, pained “please.” Error would never plead with anyone for anything ever, so this situation was clearly… well, for lack of a better term, an anomaly.

And although Ink wouldn’t say it, this would benefit him too. Just once, he wanted to have a soul. Just… once. Was he putting himself first? Probably. Do people in love do that? He didn’t know, a voice in his head said otherwise, but he chose to ignore it. Without hesitation, he plucked Error’s destabilizing soul from his chest, and absorbed it.

First came the pain, blinding and screaming and searing across his chest and belly…

Then came the EMOTION. He could almost touch it, it was so strong in the air around him. he wanted to fold himself up and cry and throw up… but fortunately, the part of his brain that wanted to learn to love took over.

The artist linked ink-stained, spindly fingers around tremor ridden thick ones, and whispered something just as anomalous as Error’s whispered plea.

“is this okay?”

From the now-still glitch came a croaked reply, inaudible but clear in meaning. Error needed help, someone to help him carry his soul when it began to fall apart. Ink knew he’d probably always be there to pick up the pieces… but Error sure hadn’t. One exhausted glance between them dissolved into weak giggles, leading to an Undernovela binge and pizza night… and for the first time, the two of them actually felt like they knew what it was to be loved.

#error sans #error x ink #errorink #ink sans #errink #ink #ink x error #inkerror #my fic #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #my wriitng #my wriring #gay #glitches #geno sans #mentioned

72 notes · View notes

distant--shadow · 6 months ago

Text

Imogen stirs

"Honey, did you say somethin'?" she blearily whispers.

"I'm sorry, were you sleeping?"

"No, I was just thinkin'."

"With your eyes closed?"

"With ma eyes closed." Imogen turns over her shoulder and kisses Laudna on the end of her permanently broken nose. "What were you laughin' about?"

Laudna's focus darts to where her hand had grasped for energy unattainable to her.

"I was thinking about my arms popping out of their sockets after trying to wrangle Fearne."

Imogen stifles her laugh, her dimples drawing in shadows.

"There is a lot of her."

she quiets as from a few feet away, Fearne gently snores.

the scoff Imogen's throat gives is affectionate, a reverberation of rumble travelled between them sympathetic and synchronised.

"mm." Laudna shortly hums. She can't disagree.

She returns her hand to lay ontop of Imogen's upturned, though it is hard for her eyes to ignore the only source of light in the room, despite her dark vision.

Imogen's fingers thread between her own; squeeze tentatively, questioningly.

Laudna's head is rested over Imogen's shoulder, sunken into the crook of her neck, her soft lilac hair pillowing her white castle ruin cheek

their line of sight can't be too dissimilar, surely Imogen can't ignore the spectral tightrope illuminating between herself and the faun.

(Laudna hadn't done a good job of making it across the one over the river.)

Imogen can most likely feel it, even if her eyes are closed.

Thinking.

How much of that is her own?

The gold of her circlet a juxtaposition of hot flesh meeting cold, a flux permanently balanced between their two body tempratures.

"You have said before, that we're a lot..."

"We are, but we wouldn't be us if we weren't. It's what makes us right, it's why we work." the hush to Imogen's voice doesn't dampen its affection.

Laudna props herself up on her left elbow, right arm still draped over Imogen but now her head hovering over the other woman's, their hair a mass of wiry blacks and wavy lilacs covering the pillow

Laudna wonders how the two would look braided,

of seafoam green-

"And Fearne?"

Imogen's brow furrows.

Fearne?

Imogen opens their mental connection to excuse the third woman from their conversation.

The two of you…

Imogen's cheeks flush, imperceptible to anyone else within their nook or the neighbouring-nook ‘rooms’ (Laudna would know easily how to make a room of them), despite their sleeping, despite Orym’s perception. He can't see in the dark. He can't get to know everything. And Chet-

well, he'd probably argue he could smell the blood anyhow.

I am not jealous. I do not envy your posistion. I am glad you have someone-

Laudna, what you talkin’ about? I have you.

You have both of us, and I really am thankful for that.

both- Imogen mirrors, a slightly confused crinkle still on her brow and a rosy flush under the peach fuzz. Laudna is inherently enamoured by it.

I will always stand by the belief - my belief - that you should do what you want and you alone, but I am thankful-

Laudna leans down and kisses Imogen on her forehead just to right of the jewel embellishing her circlet; her lips feel the skin rise, in relief or surprise, maybe both, maybe something else.

I am thankful that you are not alone in this, I am thankful that you have someone to share it with-

her grip tightens around Imogen’s, and she extends their arms by the hand from out of the confines of their bed roll, running just parralel to the tether between Imogen and Fearne.

-and the ‘thing’ I should be directing that thanks towards is Fearne; because I certainly don't like the idea of directing it towards anyone or anything else that's involved.

Imogen's lips part as if they mean to form words, but only a long and slightly shaken exhale departs from between them.

No, certainly no thanks to her mother, nor Fearne’s father, not the gods, or their predator.

Don't stunt yourself, don't close yourself off. What connects us is what gives us power.

#imogearne #imodna #imogen temult #laudna #critical role #bells hells #fearne calloway #coven #browz writes #soooooooooo 😳😳😳😳😳😳😳#have some of my feelings about my 3 favourite women #part 2 will happen if people are ncie and comment and reblog lol

73 notes · View notes

violetjedisylveon · 3 months ago

Note

Hello! I have an awful angsty plot idea for you because the idea of expanding on it makes me want to cry and you seem like you enjoy pain.

Instead of the typical sub-text of Macaque fell first, Wukong fell first. Like so first, it was all the way back before he scrubbed his name from the scroll of the dead. Maybe Wukong saw that Macaque dies because he died and wasn't there to protect him. Maybe he panics so hard, he goes overboard about obtaining immortality thereby leaning into the whole "I DID THIS FOR US!" thing.

And to really make it hurt, let's add Hanahaki into this. (A chronic version that's more like a common cold or an inconvenience because the terminal one is too sad and has an ick factor).

I also have it in my head that once you develop this Hanahaki for someone, every injury you give them, flowers bloom in the same spot. If you kill them, the flowers kill you. If you say, take out an eye, a riot of blossoms will take your eye as recompense.

So Wukong gets to deal with falling in love with his best friend, being too emotionally immature to deal with it/ not be given the emotional tools to help himself, being left with the knowledge that if he dies, Macaque will likely follow for one reason or another (ie. depression, fighting whatever killed him, illness etc), whatever bullshit Heaven's got going on and the numerous stresses of actually ruling a kingdom.

Oh and the flowers currently choking his airways occasionally if he thinks too hard about how pretty Mac looks in the moonlight.

(This guy needs a hug and therapy and he hasn't even seen the inside of the furnace yet :) )

Macaque in the meantime has no idea that Wukong is in love with him, possibly doesn't know he reciprocates, and is left wondering where the smell of Moonflowers is coming from. (Oblivious to love character who is otherwise the most observant, my beloved.)

The only one who might know is DBK and that's only because he caught his Xiandi coughing up nearly a whole bush's worth of flowers the night before they rebelled.

The furnace burns most of it away from his lungs, leaving him breathing clear for the first time in centuries and they go into semi-dormancy once the argument happens. (Wukong can't help the massive glob of full blossoms and vines that he spits out after Macaque leaves.) It comes back with a vengeance and takes his eye as he takes Macaque's.

(Both are in such pain that neither notice the icy blue chains grabbing Macaque in his shadows.)

Fast forward to LMK era and due to the fact Wukong has lived with this disease for so many centuries, it's actually starting to be more like the traditional lethal variety. It has spread through his lungs and is starting to burrow into his circulatory system and muscles. No one was meant to live that long with it whether through acknowledging and letting go of the feelings or by confessing.

The only reason it hasn't turned him into a walking flower garden of pain is because he's managing to repress like a motherfucker and he rips his heart and lungs out twice a year to regrow what has been taken over.

Which is a major contributing factor to his decision to retire. Holding on to his feelings hurts so much but he doesn't know any other way to live. And something has to give.

None of the gang know about the flowers, but DBK blows an entire gasket when Wukong hucks up another glob of flowers and catches sight of his moonflower-filled eye socket during a brief glitch in his glamour when they are both caught in Spider Queen's web.

It's a very confusing evening for everyone else when DBK insists Wukong comes with him for a check-up, Wukong refuses adamantly and neither of them are saying a damn word.

Although Wukong will give the damn flowers one thing. By not having the control to repress his feelings once possessed, the flowers grew so quickly through his body that by the time LBD had him fighting Macaque and MK, he was more vine than muscle and so much easier to fight.

She didn't have to drop his glamour though.

(Don't think of the heartbreak Macaque would feel about the sight of Wukong's eye, a beautiful devastating proof that everything really had been for us him.)

(Sorry for just dumping this massive ask, but I started and I couldn't stop. Have fun and I sincerely hope I'm bullet-proof cause this is about to hurt.)

oh even if you're bullet proof, I'm about to nuke you with angst. I do enjoy causing pain thank you ☺️

sorry for delayed response, I'm on a trip with family til Wednesday and will be slower to answer, but good news! I infected my cousin with the gay monkeys! Thanks to Nezha 2

I gotta go to bed soon too so I have to rush sorry!

Think Flower Blind is a good name for this?

Wukong being stupidly madly in love with macaque from basically the day they met is such a sweet idea, and to twist it like this is just so wonderfully evil 😈

And the flowers growing over wherever you hurt the person you love, genius!

It'd be really funny if some god sent the Hanahaki because they saw how down bad Wukong was and thought this would help since certainly he couldn't hide it forever, but then he did.

Back to angst!

I love this variant of hanahaki being a petty one, like oh you hurt the person you love get it back ten fold bitch! Now admit you're in love and we'll go away!

Hanahaki really is just that one Doge meme with the toy dogs, only if they don't kiss, death.

Man can't even think about the guy he loves without the flowers trying to force a confession out of him. I do love an oblivious macaque, he can comprehend anything except that his best friend is in love with him.

After their fight under the mountain, flowers start growing from his peach marking on his chest, even though they are dormant during his imprisonment, once he's out there's a few blossoms growing near his heart, a representation of the emotional damage he did to the one he loves.

I'm guessing Macaque never dies by Wukong's hand here, since Wukong would die too. But Macaque still dies.

It's LBD, she makes Macaque think Wukong killed him, and Wukong thinks this too, he just assumes his immortalities were enough to stop the petty flowers from killing him.

He does have a gaping feeling of emptiness and loss when macaque dies, the white moon flowers now have another meaning besides his unexpressed love, his unending grief and mourning for his friend, and they are a near constant reminder of a love that could never be.

He looses his sight in the eye he took from his love, the only thing he can see is the white petals of the moon flowers. Not even gold vision gets through them, he just sees Macaque's face, now missing an eye whenever he tries.

Nobody ever take relationship advice from this guy, he literally rips his own heart out rather than accepting his feelings or confessing them. The flowers are fed up with him now and trying to kill him.

Even Spider Queen is telling him to get his shit together when she sees him vomit flowers out onto her mech, this is the worst case of hanahaki ever. DBK is the most angry and is threatening to tell MK about it if Wukong doesn't go get checked out. He doesn't follow through cause that should be Wukong's choice but it's about the principle! His brother is dying!

And the flowers immediately giving LBD a problem when she posseses him is kinda hilarious, I've kinda given these flowers sentience in my mind so they are fighting LBD's possession too, and they will not allow LBD to kill their source (Macaque) again.

Once the glamor is dropped, probably in the middle of their battle and Macaque sees Wukong become a walking flower tower, he's frozen for a good few seconds, the flowers won't let Wukong attack him until LBD puts more focus into controlling him, and by then he's recovered from the initial shock.

When they get close too each other in the battle and macaque stares into the unseeing eye of his best friend/unrequited crush, he realizes he was wrong about everything, he remembers when Wukong started smelling like moon flowers, he played it off as wanting to smell more like him or spending so much time around him that he picked up the scent. Macaque knows how long this has gone on.

Wukong should be dead. The flowers should have killed him.

He isn't, his life is constantly, never ending pain because he couldn't confront his feelings for him and the flowers are making him regret everything he has ever done.

But! Macaque doesn't know if he loves Wukong anymore.

LBD was very good at convincing him that Wukong killed him and she saved him and twisting his memories into Wukong knowing of his feelings but disregarding them, effectively killing any love he still had for him upon his death.

He knows Wukong loves him, has always, always loved him, and he did too once upon a time. He doesn't know if he could return Wukong's feelings if had the chance, he doesn't know if he can save him from his pain and prison in the flowers.

Once LBD's defeated and Wukong has the control to suppress the majority of the flowers again and his glamor back, he tells Macaque all his feelings and everything that he did, it was all for him, he didn't want him to die and he lead to his death even if he wasn't the one to kill him directly.

And what is Macaque's response?

He says he needs to think and leaves.

I bet the gay bunny god is crying seeing all this drama go down(there is a gay rabbit god in the Chinese folk religion i just can't remember his name rn, he has a temple in Taiwan!) he wants these two to be happy gods dammit!

I'd love to expand on this more but I gotta go to bed!

Thanks for asking, really enjoyed it!

#lego monkie kid #lmk #shadowpeach #Flower Blind AU #lmk macaque #lmk sun wukong #hanahaki #shadowpeach au #lmk shadowpeach #lmk wukong #lmk six eared macaque #shadowpeach lmk #lmk angst #shadowpeach angst #lmk au #lmk aus #VJS AU:P #VJS Answers:P #VJS

47 notes · View notes