#and no longer having to go into the basement to do laundry

[dummerjan]

having a bit of a very unexpected emotional crisis

[after-witch]

Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2 [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Cream and Sugar [Damn Your Eyes Chapter 2] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: A fateful meeting at a bookstore between you and Ren Hana, years upon years after your escape from Strade, turns into a coffee shop date. You're not supposed to accept drinks from strangers, but Ren's not a stranger--so it's fine, right?

Word count: 5,322

notes: yandere, descriptions of violence/death/wounds, drugging

AO3 LINK

How did one get over something like Strade? Get over that house and that basement? How do you move on with your life when you’ve seen someone’s guts spill out of their body while they’re still alive, and you’ve been instructed to pick them up and play with them for the delight of sick fucks watching it all on a paid stream?

The pretty answer, the one everyone recites when asked, because that’s what you do: with therapy and time and forgiveness for yourself. You take it one day at a time. You treat yourself. 

The real answer: You didn’t. You don’t. You can’t. 

Not fully. Because “getting over” something like that means it will eventually no longer affect you, no longer being a part of you. 

And sure. You will, eventually, go about something that feels like an ordinary life. 

You will walk into a grocery store with a tidy little list, you will roll your eyes at the rising cost of laundry detergent, you will smile at a cashier who says they like your outfit. You will date and drink coffee and sway to your favorite song while making dinner. 

But inside, inside of you , you are still there--still hovering at the last step of the basement stairs, listening to someone’s guttural shrieks as their skin is blow-torch melted down. Still clinging to Ren in the middle of the night, flinching when his hands wander over a recent gouge, a hastily stitched cut--an accident, he whispers, and you’re never sure if you believe him.

And that is what happened to you. 

It took years, of course, to even get close to that semblance of normalcy. A few years were spent in feverish hiding, running from place to place with no paper trails that might lead some gorehound that subscribed to Strade’s torture porn sniffing at your door, hungry for more. 

But you settled down, in time. Slowly. Bit by bit, piece by piece, inch by inch. 

That took years, too--the settling. 

It started with staying in an apartment for more than three months at a time. It started with going to the grocery store wearing only sunglasses, instead of sunglasses, a wig, and the most nondescript clothing you could fish out of a bargain bin. It started with applying for real jobs, not just seedy work that paid cash, quick.

It ended here, in this quaint little home that you shared with your husband for the past five years, though you’d lived together for longer. It ended here, with a modest marketing career that you’d built up after going back to college. It ended here, with a life you built for yourself; frail and a bit unorthodox, but a life nonetheless. 

You wouldn’t have been able to survive, if you hadn’t adapted. There is only so much terror the human man can manage before breaking entirely, and so--adaptation. 

It was a gift that your husband didn’t mind your… differences. The heavy insistence on home security, the desire for privacy, the slow way you gave trust to strangers--if you gave it at all. 

Some things did bother him. He grumbled about your lack of social media presence, and you’d once had an awful fight when his sister put a photo of you on Facebook that you’d demanded, in furious tears, be taken down. 

But, deep down, it wasn’t like you could blame your husband for bucking against your near tantrum-like reaction. For the way he sometimes sighed as you locked the front door with triple locks, and an electric sensor. For the way his jaw sometimes set, when you did something that wasn’t normal to anyone who hadn’t been the extended torture victim of a serial killer that doubled as a snuff porn producer.

Because you knew--deeper down--that you were still haunted by the ghosts in that basement. Strade and the torture victims and Ren and yourself, shaking like a leaf, bleeding onto concrete. You knew, even if the man you slept beside in a bed every night had no inkling of it, that you could never step back across that threshold and be the way you were before.

But.

And there’s always a but, isn’t there?

But… that was okay. It was okay that you could never go back; it was okay that you were someone new; it was okay that you weren’t okay, and you’d never be okay in the fullest sense of the word.

Your life was a life you created out of shaking fingers, something clawed out with dirty fingernails. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

What more could you ask for, after Strade?

What more could you ask for, after anything ?

--

Books are a vice. More than smoking, more than sex. You could give up sex, you could swear you’ll never buy another pack of smokes, but you could never give up books. 

Okay, okay. You’re being over dramatic and theatrical. But how can you think of books as anything other than a sinful pleasure when you’re surrounded by these shelves and stacks, imagining that one day you can afford an extension on your home and dedicate an entire room (or two--why not, in a daydream?) solely to books?

You’re not even supposed to be here today. It was your day off, and your calendar was packed to the brim with mundane errands. Today’s schedule certainly didn’t leave room for indulgently browsing at a bookstore, but sometimes you just have to live a little, don’t you? 

Although if you come home with yet another bag of books, your husband is bound to shove his face into the nearest couch cushion and scream. But c’mon. It wasn’t your fault that you’d long since run out of shelf space and were prone to stuffing the books into boxes that cluttered the closests. 

Your fingers wander over the spines of the books crammed onto the shelves, catching the uneven mismatched spaces between with every dip. The spines are often worn and weathered, some of them even peeling a little. 

This was why you preferred secondhand bookstores. No neat lines of fresh new books set up to catch the eye and make a sale here. No, instead there were countless books shoved together with no care for size or color or sometimes (depending on who was stocking that day) even genre. 

For instance, today you find a battered paperback copy of Carrie by Stephen King right next to a suspiciously pristine How to Keep Your House from Drowning that probably still has an uncracked spine. That poor soul, with a messy house. Maybe they should have read the book. 

You’re about to keep moving when, on second thought: Your partner might get a kick out of finding that book on his nightstand. Or he’ll chuck it at your head (lovingly) for bringing it into the house. It’s a 50/50 gamble that you’re willing to take.

And so you go to pull it out, a private little grin on your face, just as another hand reaches across for Carrie.

Fingers and elbows bump together and you feel that slight flush of awkward embarrassment rush to your cheeks as you sputter out, “Sorry!” Your voice even goes up an octave, an annoying habit that you’ve been trying to train out of yourself.

The stranger pulls away and mutters their own low apology. They sound just as awkward as you, which makes you feel a little better, at least, so you turn to look at them and offer an embarrassed smile and you think, briefly, maybe you’ll grab Carrie for them or cheekily ask if they were going for the cleaning book--

But when you turn to look at them, all thoughts and cheek are snuffed out.

Not because the man in front of you is wearing a nicely tailored business suit and matching fedora hat; a dark gray complimented by a muted burgundy tie. Like he’s off to a meeting or comes from a big city where such outfits are often found in shops and cafes during lunch hours.

Not because the man in front of you is attractive, with red hair with a bit of ever so slightly silver sticking out from underneath his hat; his cologne, soft but spicy, tickles your nose. 

But because the man in front of you is Ren. 

Older, yes. His hair and face peppered with signs of time, just like yours. There are scars on his face that you remember--some etched onto his flesh right in front of you, and some from that gray area of before, when Strade had yet to take you--and some you don’t. 

Your body is lead, your throat is closed up. Speech and movement are now foreign, unknowable things, because Ren is standing right in front of you.

It takes you a moment to shake it off; no, two moments. No, three. 

And then you can finally speak, although the word comes out hoarse and whispered, like every ounce of spit in your mouth vanished the instant you saw him. Perhaps it did. 

“ Ren ?” 

He blinks. His eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing. For a terrible moment, you find yourself thrown back down the basement steps, when knowing the difference between Strade’s brows furrowing in annoyance or amusement could mean the difference between the degree of your upcoming burns.

And then his expression opens, widens, just enough for you to recognize that he knows who you are now and you’re here, in a bookshop, decades on; not there, not in the basement, where you left Strade’s corpse to rot.

Ren--for he is Ren, and you know it--lifts his hat, his lips turning up in a smile that makes your heart twist painfully, and shows just the bottom edges of his ears in greeting.

He says your name and your ears ring, high and tinny. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a cashier standing at the till rearranging trinkets while clearly spying on whatever bit of vaguely interesting gossip this might turn into during their lunch break. 

You had, in truth, imagined this moment before. Countless times. Usually at night, though you weren’t terribly picky; a long trip on a bus, head pressed against the window glass, was also a great time for such thoughts. 

You’d imagined finding Ren some day, in many different ways. 

In some fantasies, you look him up in the phonebook (a stupid idea fit only for a fantasy, because Ren would never put himself out there like that, just as you hadn’t) and give him a call and meet up at a park and you apologize until your lungs stop working. In another, you run into him somewhere else, a store or park; a coincidence just like this one. In still others, he finds you, offering to meet in a public space because he knows you’d be scared and he wants you to be comfortable and Ren would definitely think of things like that, considering your shared experiences. 

In your daydreams, you had a speech prepared. It was always moving, of course. It culminated in a soft, unbearably sweet hug where the two of you squeezed out the pain from the preceding decades and parted in mutual understanding. Maybe with each other’s phone numbers on slips of paper. 

But those were daydreams. This is real life.

In real life, your throat feels closed up; your eyes burn with hot tears that want to spill out, and everything from your chest to your cheeks feels hot and swollen. In real life, it is not the daydreams but your nightmares that worm their way into your brain: those nightmares you have (yes, have, still--even this far down the line) where he hates you, where he tells you that you left him there like he’s nothing, where he throws back all your whispered conversations in the dark back in your face.

In real life, you can only stammer out, expecting the nightmarish worst: “Ren. I’m s…sorry. I’m sorry . I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have --”

Ren raises his hand; his brows furrow again. He says your name, once, twice. Softer. Gentler. 

“It’s okay,” he says, low. You don’t know if he means that it’s okay that you left him (it isn’t, is it?) or that it’s going to be okay or that he’s okay or--

Ren must sense your upcoming lack of steady breathing, because he places one steady hand on your shoulder. The way he used to do, when you started thinking about the fact that you were going to die in that house, and it would be an awful death, and the thought of it made you want to tear into your own skin. 

It brings you back down to the ground, which only makes you want to cry for a different reason.

Ren’s face has a touch of sticky pity on it when he smiles at you. 

“Why don’t we go somewhere we can sit down and talk?” 

--

You are sitting in a coffee shop across the way from a fox man who used to be tortured with you in the basement of a serial killer's home that doubled as a snuff film studio. There are people around you, but they might as well be invisible, be nothing at all. 

Because every nerve in your body is focused squarely on Ren, sitting in front of you with a muted awkward expression as the pair of you wait silently for the barista to call up your order. 

Neither of you have spoken since you sat down.

Sweat is beginning to stick to your neck, but you don’t want to move without warning--don’t want to startle Ren. If you do, maybe he’ll run off, and… no. He wouldn’t run off now. You can tell. He’s not like he used to be, and neither are you. 

There are decades between you, and yet--and yet that thread is still there, isn’t it? You could never fully cut it. Maybe it pulled, instead. Pulled and pulled and eventually lost all of its slack on this unassuming afternoon, when the two of you met again in a bookstore. Reaching for books with cracked and weathered spines, lines creasing over the paper like scars on the skin.

Your scars. His scars. 

How many times have you traced over the marks on your skin? How many times has he? Maybe he didn’t do it anymore. Maybe he was in a much better space than you, and that’s why he looks so awkward and you feel like your heart is about to pound right out of its chest. Because he’s moved on and you, stupid thing, just woke up in the basement in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

His shoulders straighten; you imagine, under his hat, that his ears have perked. For a moment,, a familiar sensation washes through you. Danger. He’s coming down the stairs and it’s going to hurt.

But Strade is dead. And you are alive, and Ren is alive, and his attention only raised because the barista set both of your coffees down on the counter. Nothing more than that.

Slowly, the world seems like it regains its normal gravity. The sweat clinging to your neck feels silly and not ominous. You can breathe, and the world of the coffee shop seems to settle around you like it would have on any other day.

“I’ll get them,” Ren says, quietly, eyeing you with wariness–like he’s the one worried about you bolting. Fuck. He’s probably right to think that; a moment ago, you might have been the one to run.

Ren pauses after he stands up, and there’s something soft and sad in his eyes when he looks at you. Part of you thinks he’s about to say that he’s going to leave, that this was a mistake. But instead, his lips curl and the softest of smiles, and he asks:

“You still like cream and sugar?”

Oh. 

“Yes,” you say, automatically. But you don’t. Not anymore. Tastebuds change and you drink it black with no cream, when you do bother to drink it. It’s not worth correcting, and you don’t. You just watch as he grabs both cups and heads over to the counter on the far side of the coffee shop, where there’s oodles of sugars (and sugar substitutes); creamers; and little tins of milk to add to your drink. 

Then your phone vibrates, and the “fuck!” that comes out of your mouth is involuntary. It was about the time that you should have been heading home, bookstore stop  notwithstanding. What were you going to say to him? That you’d run into someone from your past that used to get tortured with you? That you remember what Ren looks like when his flesh is sliced into and pulled apart? 

You heading home? Took ground beef out for dinner. Tacos?

Your thumb hovers over the phone screen. You’re going to lie. You already know that. Even if you were ready to tell him about your past, it would not be like this. Even you, not particularly attuned to mobile etiquette, knew it was better to confess something like this in person. Although the temptation to confess it all and  add silly emojis to punctuate the gritty details was very strong.

Ran into an old friend , you type, finally. They want to hang out a bit. Tacos are fine, don’t wait up! Xoxoxo.

It feels so normal. And that’s okay, isn’t it? That you’re being normal right now. It’s a sign that you’ve come so far, if anything. And you’ll take any of those signs that you can manage to get, so when the text comes in–

Can’t wait to hear about it!

I don’t guarantee there will be tacos left. 

Kidding.

… Maybe.

–you let that normalcy wash over you, and it helps you settle as Ren returns, coffee mugs in hand.

His expression is lighter, too. He probably notices the weight off your shoulders, the way you’re trying to look interested and perhaps even excited to see him, rather than looking like you’re about to throw up on a half-empty stomach.

He slides your mug across the table and you can tell at a glance that it’s going to be sweet. A hesitant sip, your tongue curling back from the warmth and inevitable sugar, confirms it. Milky and creamy, just like you used to take it.

“Do you live around here?” Ren asks, taking a sip from his own mug.

Such an average question. It’s almost enough to make you snort. Really, you should be asking him when he got out of that basement and whether or not he ever thought about cutting you open and if he still had dreams, like you did.

Instead, he’s asking something you might ask an old high school friend that you haven’t seen in twenty years. 

Fuck. What a world you live in. 

Maybe he senses your thoughts. Maybe the two of you really are in tune from what you went through together. Because he cracks a smile, the edge of a sharp tooth showing. And then the smile spreads and turns into a little chuckle. It’s not the giggling snort he would sometimes fall into at the house. It’s something older and more reserved, but that shouldn’t surprise you. You’re the same way.

You take another sip of the coffee. It really is too sweet. That’s how you took it at the house, though. It was better to drown your sorrows in creamer and packets of sugar–pilfered from diners that Strade went to, sometimes to scope for victims–than mope about them all the time.

“I really am curious,” he says, voice light. “If you’re okay with telling me.” Something different in his tone. Offense, maybe? God, it’s strange, being on the lookout for what someone’s tone really means again. 

But it’s just Ren. You shouldn’t be so worried about it.

“It’s fine,” you say, just as light. “Yeah, maybe about half an hour away? I have a little house…”

Ren’s eyebrows raise. Not in surprise, exactly. But in interest. It relieves you, just a little, that he didn’t let out some sarcastic remark about having your own place away from him.

“Do you have a garden?” He asks. “You always did talk about getting one.”

A twinge in your heart. Bittersweet and old. Sometimes at night, when the two of you were allowed to curl up together, you would talk about a fantasy world. A world where you never came here; where you’d be and what you’d do. Sometimes, you’d be in a pretty little cottage with a pretty little garden in a pretty little town.

Well. Your garden is pretty, even if your house isn’t an adorable cottage and you live at the edge of sprawling suburbs where you have to drive 20 minutes to get to anything useful. Close enough?

You tell him about it. The house and the garden. You even tell him about your partner, and maybe his smile does quirk down a little, then. But you could be imagining it. 

“Do you have kids?” Ren asks, next. If he were anyone else, it would be a mundane question--the kind you ask every couple who's been together a while. In Ren, it feels different. Serious. Sincere. He tilts his head a little, taking another sip of his coffee, which prompts you to do the same.

Kids. Hah. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed your mind. But it didn’t happen. For a lot of reasons, it didn’t happen. Mind and body and the basement worked against you, and maybe there was a part of you that was afraid to bring anything into the world, because you knew it could be taken away. Taken to someone’s basement and hurt and hurt and hurt –

Ren says your name.

Ren’s hand is on yours. 

You glance down at his hand–see a familiar scar, see that your hand underneath his is curled up and tense–and then look  up at his face. 

Oh, the passing of time. 

“Me neither,” he says, softly. Like he knows why you didn’t and couldn’t, and maybe he was the same way. 

It hurts too much to think about. So you clear your throat and slowly pull your hand away, letting it rest on the now cooling mug of coffee. You take another swig, despite it not being to your taste anymore. Ren really did put in a lot of creamer.

“What about you?”

His head tilts, almost slow, almost curious.

“Me?”

He blinks.

You blink back. 

“Do you live around here?” 

A smile–an Ahhh sort of smile. 

“No,” he says, simply. He shakes his head. “I travel a lot.” He nods his head. “For business.”

“Oh,” you say. “What sort of business?”

A flicker in his gaze. Something sharp and familiar. It’s gone too soon to matter. 

“This and that,” is all he says.

And there’s a strange sort of realization in your head. A fuzziness that seems to spread right to your scalp. This is all too casual, too normal. It’s not at all what it was supposed to be, when you met. Asking about homes and gardens and kids and what you do for work; fuck, you two had been tortured together. Had watched people die. Had helped other people die. 

This should have been about more than banal pleasantries. This should have been about reconnecting. About that thread between the two of you that couldn’t be cut, even now.

Maybe it’s that fuzziness in your scalp and maybe it’s the lurching of your heart, but you reach out your hand again towards Ren; your hand and your heart reaching and aching –

“Why did you run that day?” Soft and to the point. All the years have led to this question. 

The question drops your hand straight to the table. The thud feels harder than it sounds. What ease your heart had mellowed to earlier melts away entirely, and you can feel adrenaline beginning to pump, your heart pounding and racing. Your ears hurt.

Why did you run? It’s the question you wanted him to ask, isn’t it? The question that would lead to your big sappy explanation and apology and the sentimental hug before you two parted ways, perhaps with phone numbers in your pockets? 

But now that Ren is real again; now that he’s here, lines around his eyes and a touch of silver in his hair, you don’t know how to answer.

You ran because you were scared. Scared of people from Strade’s fucked up streams finding you in that house. Scared of Strade’s corpse rotting in the basement. Scared, too, of Ren. Of being chained to him, or by him, and you could never be sure which was more likely. 

You ran because you weren’t strong enough to face whatever was left behind for you in that fucking house. 

Thickness lodges in your throat but you swallow against it. This is not a daydream. This is real life. And you have to own up to what you did now. 

“Ren, I–” 

The words don’t come, because the world suddenly spins. The fuzziness prickling on your scalp, your ears ringing, your heart going too fast–this has all been too much for you, you should have known that. There are brief thoughts–heart attack, stroke, fuck, fuck, FUCK–and then Ren’s hand is gripping your upper arm so you don’t fall out of the chair. 

“Are you okay?” Your vision is clear enough to see the concern in his face. His brows furrow together and he looks around, telling someone– ”Yes, I'm going to get her home” --and you’re about to tell him not to take you to the hospital because your insurance has a high deductible for the emergency room when another dizzy spell hits you, and you’d rather be in debt than dead.

“Should I call an ambulance?” He asks, voice low, calming. Your mind latches onto it. You’re not alone, it’s going to be okay. Someone is here to take care of you, and if you have to go to the emergency room, well, it couldn't have happened at a better time.

Ambulances cost too much money, though, and Ren 

“Could you drive me?” Even as you talk, you know something’s wrong. The words come out too slow, a little slurry. Almost like you’re drunk. 

Ren starts to shake his head and your dizzy self makes a pitiful sound. 

You swear you can see Ren’s ears twitching underneath his hat. You don’t have the presence of mind to think about why–where and when he’s heard that pitiful whimper before–so you just cling to him as he gently pulls you out of your chair.

He grabs your purse and carefully leads you out of the shop. Someone holds the door open, and he tells them that you’re going to the emergency room, thank you for the concern. Your head swims and you might mumble thank you to them, too, but you’re not entirely sure. Are you dying? Is it a stroke? Will the last thing you texted the love of your life be about dinner? It’s funny in that awful, delirious sort of way.

“Ren?” You ask, helpless. You’re holding onto him as tightly as you can, but your fingers feel fuzzy. Your whole body feels fuzzy, actually. Heavy and strange. Drunk and leaden.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you into my car, all right?”

You don’t have the presence of mind to wonder why his car is already out on the curb, running, with a driver in the front seat. You aren’t coherent enough to think about things like that; but then, even before you drank the coffee cup laced with a sedative, you didn’t notice the black car following the pair of you down the road to the coffee shop. 

You didn’t notice it follow you to the bookstore, either, nor did you give it a second glance when it pulled out of the lot after you stopped in at the grocery store to pick up a few miscellaneous items.

You really had lost your touch after all these years.

Ren grips you carefully while he opens the back door to the car. It’s roomy, expensive. Clean black leather seats that probably don’t show stains. Up front, a driver sits, wearing a hat and sunglasses and a uniform.

There’s a brief thought–Jesus, what does Ren do for a living to afford this?--before Ren is helping you crawl into the backseat.

The movement only makes you dizzier, and you’re telling the person in the front seat, whoever they are, that you need to get to the nearest hospital please.

They don’t even turn to look at you. It’s strange. But then Ren is there in the backseat with you, and you’re mumbling the same thing to him. Rattling off your symptoms–dizzy, fuzzy, confused, tingling hands. You try to remember the test for a stroke but can’t.

Ren smiles at you.

Why is he smiling? That thought comes through loud and clear, but it doesn’t stick for very long.

“Ren,” you say, slurring. “The hospital, the nearest one is… I think it’s… you have to…”

And those words, difficult as they are to get out, slowly drop away. Because while your mind is not capable of many things right now, it is capable of registering something unusual.

Ren. 

He doesn’t look worried anymore. No more concern furrowing his brow, no more softness. 

Instead, he looks pleased. There’s a smug smile on his face, and you’ve seen it before, but it’s older now. Wiser. Less impulsive and more assured. 

A cat–a fox–that caught the canary. And you, what little remains of your logical mind tells you, are one dumb bird. 

And he knows that you know. Because he jerks his chin at the driver in the front, who must press some kind of button; the doors lock. Loud. Hard. Your numb hands fumble for the door handle but no matter how much you try to shove the door open, it doesn’t budge.

 You're locked in.

“Back to the hotel for now,” Ren says. Not to you. To the driver. Who–to your horror–begins to pull away from the curb.

“Oh, no–” You try to scream. It’s not quite loud enough. Not quite sharp enough. but maybe someone can see you, even through the tinted windows. Or they’ll hear you and tell someone, who will maybe tell someone else, who might call the cops. If you’re lucky.

Ren’s hand cups your mouth firmly. 

“Don’t waste your energy, you’ll need it soon.” The hand moves from your lips to your cheek, resting there. The look in Ren’s eyes is blurry–whatever he drugged you with is making it hard to focus–but you recognize bits of it, because you felt the same damn thing.

The awful mixture of nostalgia, regret and ache.

Maybe if you explain everything. Tell him why you ran. Apologize like hell. You won’t be hugging after this, but you won't be drugged up (what did he give you?) in the back of his car, either. 

“Ren– the hous e–I ran–I–let me explain, it–”

Ren’s hand trails back to your mouth. The sharp edges of his nails graze against your nose.

“Hush. We’ll talk about all that later.” 

Later?

Oh, fuck –

There’s an awful, stabbing pain in your thigh–you look down and see Ren pulling away a syringe with a bright silver needle.

Ren–you try to say his name, but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Your lips gape and close and words no longer form.

Your head is swimming now, all highs and lows, dipping and rising over waves that never seem to end. It’s like you're falling asleep in the worst way, hard and rocky.

Like you’re falling backwards down the basement stairs. 

Ren’s voice is the last thing you hear before you black out.

“Sweet dreams.” 

[ja3hwa]

♡ 𝐏𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 | 𝐉.𝐖𝐘 ♡

【Synopsis】 : You started to think you were losing your mind. Where on earth is your underwear disappearing to? Your roommate wouldn't happen to know, right?

『Word count』 : 750

-> Genre: Smut. Roommate au.

Pairing: Bestfriend!Wooyoung x AFab!Reader

[Warnings] : Masturbation. Pantie fucking. Swearing. Pet names. Kisses. Light banter. Flirting.

Note: I'M BACCKKKKKKK!!! DID YALL MISS ME HEHE.

My darling @shinestarhwaa , the minute i saw your request, i was up all night thinking about it. I would have made this longer, but Idk why i didn't, honestly, haha. I hope you like it hehe.

Based on this request ♡

Masterlist | Navigation | Buy me a Ko-Fi ♡

This was the fifth pair in weeks that had gone missing. At first, you thought you might have been forgetting them at the laundromat in the basement of your apartment. But when you couldn’t find them there you started to believe only one thing. Standing in your silky robe with your hands on your hips, you head down the hall from the bathroom, going past your room towards your roommate. If anyone knew what might have happened it’ll be him. 

But little did you know, Wooyoung, your precious roommate was the one stealing them. It didn’t start like this at first. One time he did his laundry with your stuff and one of your pretty pink pairs of lacy panties got mixed up with his stuff. Tucked perfectly in his jeans. Out of sight. When he was putting his clothes away, he couldn’t help it, you were napping and he didn’t want to sneak into your room, fearing he’d wake you. 

So he did the natural thing. He was going to leave them on his counter and wait until you woke up. He was going to leave them on his counter…. He was going to wait. Wait for you to wake… How on earth can your panties be so soft? Are they silk? So warm, and they smell like your floral detergent. God, they're perfect. “Fuck…”

He was ashamed at first, rushing to pull his sweats down, awkwardly wrapping the garment around his aching cock. He had never came so hard in his life before feeling the sweet material around himself. It was messy, filthy. Sinful. He couldn’t help himself, as the days turned into weeks and one pair turned into five. He hid them under his bed, of course, not knowing what to do with the cum filled cloth. He couldn’t just put them in a wash, cause you do the washing nine out of ten. And he couldn’t possibly say all of these panties just happened to end up in his load. He was in too deep. So hiding them became the best option.

Then a knock at the door alerted him. He was right in the middle of pleasuring himself with your panties when you walked in and man the look on your face turned him pale. Pure shock was best to describe your features. Standing there in a bathrobe of all things, looking at him with utter disbelief. Wooyoung wanted nothing more than to hide away, and never return. Tucking his cock away in his sweats, his hand was tightly clutching the -your- panties. “I… I. uh. I can explain.”

“I was wondering where my panties went. What the fuck Youngie!?” You folded your arms across your chest, tapping your bare foot on the ground. “Do you have the rest of them??”

Wooyoung’s brain had successfully stopped working, just staring at you like a deer in headlights. In his mind, your friendship was over, but in yours, he needed to be punished. Sure it was weird but not the worst thing you’ve seen. And it probably doesn’t make it as bad since you have a huge crush on him. So right now, you wanted to play a game. Since he made you lose your mind, you wanted him to have just a taste. “Well? Why did you do it? I’ve been searching myself stupid for them.”

“Look, doll, I’m so sorry. It just happened and I couldn’t stop. I uh… god I’m a creep.” He was still seated in the middle of his bed, banging his head lightly on his headboard. You were silent for a moment, letting him sit in some guilt before you couldn’t hold back the smile. Starting to laugh. This caught Wooyoung’s attention so fast, letting him snap his neck in your direction.

“Oh lighten up Youngie.” You waltz over to him, leaning down so your face is inches away from his blushed one. “Just tell me so I don’t lose my mind over where they went.” he kissed his cheek before turning away and heading for the door.

Wooyoung didn’t move though, no, he sat with bulbous eyes watching you with a stopped heart. You gave him one more smile before saying. “Oh and next time you want to fuck your cock with something of mine. maybe try my pussy.”

And with that you left with a beaming smile, closing the door to leave Wooyoung with his short-circuited mind and aching hard cock.

—

Special Taglist: @wlv-asteria @isiloiale @imperfect0angel @sugarnspice630 @yeorisanaxox @maeleelee @uarmytess @mxnsxngie @shuporangporanglinossss @nopension @sanhwalvr @gypsythrift @hyukssunflower @dearinsaniiity

[carlsdarling]

HEAR ME OUT (up to you!!)

Part 4 to no mercy where they had the baby and they can actually resume to being rough and negan is just being an overprotective grandpa😭😭

No Mercy Part IV

Carl and Y/N have their son and are finally back to enjoying rough sex after a jealousy drama with Enid. Everyone is 18 or over.

WARNINGS: smut, nsfw, slightly violent sex (consensual)

After your and Carl's son Jamie was born, you had moved out of Rick and Michonne's household and had been assigned your own house in Alexandria. By now Jamie was three months old and you and Carl still hadn't resumed your sex life; mostly you were too tired because of the baby, you were still breastfeeding, plus you were still showing your pregnancy and that affected you because you were unsure if Carl would still find your naked body attractive. There were veins on your legs that hadn't been there before, and your stomach was softer and less firm than before, and milk came out of your breasts at the slightest touch.

Carl was on guard duty and you were taking care of Jamie and tidying the house. You decided to do some laundry.

You froze as you emptied the laundry basket from the bathroom. There was something red dangling from the pocket of one of Carl's jeans. You pulled it out and frowned at it: it was a thong, and it wasn't yours. Jealousy seized you painfully, because you immediately had a hunch who the owner of the panties was: Enid. The thong had a golden butterfly embroidered on the top edge, and you had seen it often enough over the hem of Enid's jeans.

Enid had also made no secret of how angry she was that Carl had ended the relationship with her after you returned to Alexandria and revealed to Carl that you were pregnant by him. She didn't respect Carl's relationship with you and took every opportunity to try to sabotage you. She kept stalking Carl somewhere and trying to change his mind; to get him to leave you and get back together with her. There had already been several bitter arguments between you and Carl about this. Carl swore he was no longer interested in Enid, but Enid just wouldn't give up, and apparently she had succeeded. It hurt so much.

You stifled your tears and quickly stuffed the panties into your own pants pocket as you heard footsteps approaching the bathroom, then your father Negan appeared in the doorway. Ever since Jamie was born, Negan had been paying you regular visits - much to Rick's annoyance. But Negan was completely in love with his grandson. Even now, he carried Jamie in his arms. "Jamie can already turn himself around," he announced proudly, as if this was his achievement. "He'll be a leader one day. He'll be just like me."

You preferred not to comment on it - firstly, Negan wasn't going to change his mind anyway, and secondly, you had other things on your mind. Your father seemed to pick up on your bad mood, and he looked at you inquiringly, asking what was wrong.

"Nothing, I'm just tired," you mumbled and gathered up the dirty laundry to put it in the washing machine. On your way to the basement, you saw a silhouette on the porch, you pulled back the curtains on the front door and recognized Enid, so you dropped the laundry to yank the door open. "What do you want?" you asked rudely. You would have liked to scratch her eyes out, but it wasn't her who had betrayed you, it was Carl.

Enid tilted her head and smiled sweetly. "Is Carl here?"

"No," you replied dismissively. "He's on guard duty."

"Oh, it's just... He left this at my place recently." With an innocent face, Enid handed you one of Carl's boxers.

There were a few telltale stains on the light blue fabric. Your face turned red with anger and pain. Carl hadn't had these underwear for long, so he couldn't have forgotten them during his relationship with Enid. And then there were the red undies in his pocket! The evidence was clear. Enid was obviously hoping for a reaction from you, but you didn't want to give her the satisfaction, so you grabbed the boxers and slammed the door in Enid's face. Now you couldn't stop hot tears from running down your cheeks.

Negan heard you crying. "Tell me what's going on, Y/N," he demanded angrily. "What did that girl want?" Then he spotted the boxers in your hand and put one and one together. "Are these Carl's?" he asked sharply, reaching for them. You nodded. Negan's expression darkened menacingly as he eyed the stains on the fabric. "So Carl's cheating on you. That little bastard; I'm going to kill him," he threatened.

"No, do not get involved," you ordered brusquely. "Please take the baby carriage and go for a long walk with Jamie." Carl would be home soon and you wanted to talk to him alone - even if there wasn't really anything more to discuss.

When Carl entered the house a little later, sweaty, dirty and exhausted, you were waiting for him with teary eyes and arms folded across your chest. When he tried to hug you to say hello, you pushed him away. "What's wrong?" he asked, puzzled.

"You're the one asking?" you shouted at him and threw the red thong and his stained boxer shorts to his feet. "You're cheating on me! You are a liar and a cheater!"

Carl looked completely taken aback. "What?" he asked confused and bent down to grab the underwear. He held up the red slip. "I've never seen this before," he said, confused. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, don't play dumb, Carl! You're cheating on me with Enid!" you accused him. "These are Enid's panties, and they were in the pocket of one of your jeans!"

"But that isn't possible," Carl claimed, ruffling his hair. "I swear I've never seen those panties before and I'm not cheating on you!"

"Oh yeah? And why did Enid just come by and bring your boxers that you left at her place after you fucked her? Those are yours, aren't they?" You pointed your finger accusingly at the boxers.

Carl picked it up and inspected it. "Yes, it is," he admitted. "But I don't know how Enid got hold of them, I..."

"Stop lying to me!" you shouted. "Enid had your underwear! And there are cum stains on them! The case is very clear!"

Carl turned red with embarrassment. "I can explain about the stains," he mumbled ashamedly. "It's... the thing is, we haven't had sex since Jamie was born, and... and I... I still have needs, and that's why..."

"That's why you fucked your ex," you said coldly. "Great, Carl."

"No!" protested Carl outraged. "Why won't you let me speak? I wanted to say that... well, I have no choice but to pleasure myself at the moment. I was on guard duty alone recently and... well... I thought of you, and then I... and I didn't have a tissue to clean myself afterwards, and that's where the stains in my underwear come from." With bright red cheeks, Carl looked down at his feet.

"Bullshit!" you snarled. "None of this explains how Enid got hold of your underwear."

"But I don't know that either," Carl tried to defend himself. "Any more than I can explain Enid's panties being in my pocket! All I know is that I tossed both the jeans and the boxers in our laundry basket! Last week already!"

"I don't believe you," you cried.

Carl held out his hands to you, looking desperate. "Please, Y/N, I love you, I would never cheat," he pleaded. "Enid's just jealous, she orchestrated this somehow."

The doorbell rang. "We'll continue talking in a minute," Carl promised and opened the door.

Michonne stood on the threshold. She looked suspiciously from one to the other. "What's going on here? Are you two fighting?" Carl sighed and gave a censored version of events. He left out the part about the stains in his underwear. Michonne frowned. "That's strange," she mused, "because a few days ago, on Monday, I saw Enid come out of your house. From the back door, to be precise. You weren't home, and when I asked her what she was doing in your house, she looked caught off guard and claimed she'd just wanted to return some comics to Carl."

"But I hadn't lent her any comics, and there weren't any comics there either," Carl said immediately. "Enid must have gone into our bathroom to steal my underwear and put her panties in my pocket," he stated angrily. "She wants to break Y/N and me up. That bitch!"

"I want to hear it from Enid herself," you insisted. But on the day in question, you had been home before Carl, and you hadn't actually noticed any comics anywhere.

"Let's go to her and confront her," Michonne suggested. "I can confirm that she was in your house."

The three of you went to Enid's house. Enid grinned gleefully at first when she saw your tear-stained face, but when she spotted Michonne, she suddenly looked panicked. Michonne spoke up. "So, Enid, spill the beans," Michonne said angrily. "What were you really doing at Y/N's and Carl's house a few days ago?"

"I...it was like I said...the comics..." stuttered Enid.

"That's a lie," Carl cut her off, upset. "I didn't lend you any comics."

"Yes, you did," Enid contradicted stubbornly. "You just don't remember."

" Oh really? What comics were they, and where did you put them?" Michonne questioned.

"I... I..." stammered Enid. "On the stairs," she then said.

"But I was home before Carl on Monday, and there were definitely no comics on the stairs," you replied.

"Then... then I put them somewhere else, I can't remember exactly..." Enid squirmed.

"Just admit that you wanted to cause trouble between Carl and Y/N," Michonne demanded angrily. "You could have given the comics back to Carl at any time without going to his house, that's a lie, Enid. I'll tell you what you actually did. You rummaged around in their laundry basket and put your panties in Carl's jeans pocket, and you stole one of his boxers. All to pretend that Carl was sleeping with you and cheating on Y/N. That is so vile, Enid. They have a kid together. Don't make it worse, admit it."

Enid blushed crimson and clenched her fists. "All right, yes, that's how it was!" she hissed, "But it's not fair! Carl should be with me, not her! He just ditched me when Y/N came back and announced she was pregnant! Even though she left Carl without a word!"

"That's not true," you said furiously. "I was sent back to my dad all of a sudden! I didn't even get to say goodbye to Carl! I didn't want to go, I didn't leave him voluntarily!"

Enid didn't respond. "And who knows if your brat is even Carl's? Probably not! You foisted it on him! I'm sure you've fucked several guys!"

Carl stepped forward, his teeth clenched. "That's enough now, Enid," he growled. "You apologize to Y/N right now!"

"'Forget it, I only had your best interests at heart, Carl. She's not good enough for you," Enid raged, slamming the door, but you didn't care if she apologized or not anyway - it had been proven that Carl hadn't been unfaithful to you, and you didn't care about anything else.

You and Carl returned home. Negan was still out with Jamie. As soon as you closed the door behind you and realized the two of you were alone, Carl grabbed you roughly by the wrist, kicked off his shoes and dragged you up the stairs to your shared bedroom, where he pushed you onto the bed and began to undress. "Carl!" you protested, "What..."

"Shut up," he said impatiently. "I want you now." He carelessly tossed his flannel and shirt aside and undid his belt, then unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down and off, along with his boxer shorts. His cock sprang free, hard as a rock and the tip glistening with precum, veins protruding. The sight and scent of it made you tingle with excitement.

You tried to get up from the bed, but Carl immediately pushed you back and pressed you into the pillows, hastily fumbling with your clothes. "Carl, I'm sure my dad will be right back with Jamie, and I really don't feel like it, it's too soon, I'm still breastfeeding, and..."

Carl leaned forward and bit lightly into your neck, then sucked hard and left a hickey. "I don't care," he murmured, his voice hoarse with excitement. "It's been months since I've been able to fuck you. I can't take it anymore. And I don't care if your body has changed. I miss you, Y/N." He tugged at your clothes, dropping them on the floor beside the bed and ripping your lacy panties in his hurry; he held your wrists together above your head with his left hand and spread your thighs with his right. Carl was so needy that he wasted no time with foreplay, he slid his glans over your clit and the opening of your pussy a few times, then pushed his hard shaft into you, moaning.

You let out a soft cry of pain as Carl's dick suddenly stretched your walls, you weren't used to his size anymore and you weren't ready at all, but at the same time, it felt so amazing. It was so intense to finally be intimate with Carl again.

Carl forced himself to wait a moment for you to relax, then he let go of your wrist and began to thrust hard and fast. "There you go," he gasped. "You're getting wet."

You promptly slapped him across the face. "How dare you just fuck me?" you hissed.

Carl grabbed your throat and gave it a quick squeeze that made you black out for a few seconds. "'Slap me again and I'll turn you on your stomach and take you from behind so you won't be able to walk for days," he whispered. "I'll fuck you whenever, however and whereever I want. Remember? Got it?"

Excited to the extreme, you caught your breath as Carl took his hand off your neck; it was true, you were reacting to him as you always had: With every second he was inside you, the wetness between your legs increased. You began to whimper and moan, digging your fingernails into Carl's back. "Oh my god, Carl. You're so good." You put a hand on his firm butt, feeling the motion of his muscles as he thrusted into you.

Carl propped himself up on his elbows and pulled out of you for a moment. He licked off the milk that had leaked from your breasts and sucked and nibbled a little on your nipples. His cock was dripping wet with the fluid from your pussy, even his pubic hair and the area up to his belly button were wet and slippery. "Look how horny you are for me, Y/N," Carl whispered, grinning naughtily.

"Put it back in," you moaned, writhing on the bed. "Please, Carl."

Carl did you the favor, penetrated you again and increased the speed and intensity of his thrusts. Your pussy was on fire, throbbing, you wrapped your legs around Carl's hips, only now realizing how much you had missed having sex with Carl. The room was filled with both of you moaning, sighing and the wet sounds your bodies were making.

"Cum with me," Carl gasped; pounding even faster, unable to hold back any longer. The orgasm swept over you like a hot tsunami, you screamed out, arched your back and buried your teeth into Carl's left shoulder as your muscles spasmed. Carl shot his load into you, collapsing on top of you, quivering with arousal and exertion. You both were totally breathless, Carl's heart beating hard right next to yours. His weight pressed you deep into the mattress, and you languidly stroked his back. You both enjoyed the afterglow, you kissed and looked deep into each other's eyes. "I love you," Carl whispered. "Only you, Y/N. Just you and me, no one else."

"I love you too, Carl." You feathered kisses on his neck and on the red teeth marks you'd left on his shoulder.

After a while, Carl lay down next to you and you snuggled together under the covers, exhausted, sweaty and happy. "Y/N? Are you home?" you suddenly heard Negan's voice. Before you could react, he appeared in the bedroom entrance and stared perplexed at the scene before him - you and Carl in bed in the middle of the day, the smell of sex in the air and your clothes scattered all over the floor. Negan cleared his throat sheepishly. "I'm... glad to see that things seem to have gotten sorted out between you," he mumbled, rubbing his chin, preferring to retreat to the living room.

Carl looked at you mischievously and you both burst out laughing.

--

Tags: @knochentrocken0808 @taylormarieee @xxcarlswifexx @tessasweet @richardsamboramylove55

(Sorry that this took so long. I was simply never completely content with the fic)

[katuschka]

Everybody's Got a Secret

Josh Kiszka x f!Reader

3.393 words

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Also, if you're under 18, go find some other entertainment elsewhere.

Warnings: This is filth!, mild erotic asphyxiation, unprotected penetrative sex, oral sex (both f and m receiving), light bondage, masturbation, dirty language, sub&bratty&cheeky Joshua, open relationships

Masterlist Taglist

My doors were always open, and no questions asked. Everybody’s got a secret, and in this particular case, in this time and space, his secret had my name.

No strings, no obligations. Both of us had those already somewhere else. Both in long-term relationships with other cocks that just weren’t always available… or able. Hence the arrangements were made and doors were opened…

When my husband was out of town, which happened more often than not, I spent my days in my downtown apartment, because I hated the big and quiet country house when he was not in it, playing his piano or keeping fit in his basement gym. Always a hopeless romantic, an old soul in a mature body, he made sweet love to me in that house. With his kids already raised and gone, he offered me a new chance, away from the abuse and sorrow that was my old life. He gave me an opportunity to pursue my dreams and a new home in that big, silent mansion. Always grateful, I cooked his meals and did the laundry there. 

And we both knew that it was not enough. I would do anything for that angel of a man. He couldn’t do everything for me. But that’s ok. Everybody’s got a secret, and he willingly granted me mine. I wasn’t delusional either, I knew there were other women… 

So, as long as he didn’t know the details, I could do whatever I wanted in my cherished hiding place, the only condition being that I pay my rent. Fair enough. More than fair. It was a place where I reigned, after all. The big house was my home only as long as he wanted me there, but that was it, that was the agreement, too. So I eventually learned to fend for myself in every way. That was our mutual goal. One day, I would be alone again. I was almost sure of that. But thanks to him, I would no longer be lost. 

It was a bit different with Josh. He had almost everything since the day he was born, and he gained even more as the years went by, simply because he was talented and brilliant and surrounded by his equals literally since the days he was still in the womb. He had people. He had love too, and they were almost a perfect match, save for just one tiny little thing. Josh was a shameless slut, always on a hunt for a healthy dose of naughtiness and depravity. Josh loved dirty fucking, he loved to experiment and he needed his fix from time to time.

His man just couldn’t force himself to do it. He only made love to him. He also didn’t have enough holes. Or meaty pillows. Not exactly Josh’s preference, but a welcome bonus when it just clicked. To keep things interesting, he said. That was when I entered the building…figuratively speaking, because I never EVER crossed the threshold of their house. Secrets don’t do such shit.

He knew about my existence, and that was ok, as long as he didn’t know my name or my face. The sentiment was mutual. He didn’t want to meet me, see me, acknowledge me. Ever. Josh made sure he wouldn’t. 

So, my doors were always open and Josh called whenever he needed. This time, my phone rang at 2 a. m..

It was a 45 minute drive from his place to mine, depending on the traffic. At night, it would be less, but still enough time for me to get ready. So, when he rang my doorbell at last, I answered in his favorite vintage slip dress, holding two glasses filled with wine. Like a valley doll. 

“Well, well, well, what brings you here at this ungodly hour?” I teased, watching him grin at me in return. 

“Stupid question, darling,” he answered, while running his finger gently down my bare upper arm. “The reason remains the same. You’re a comfort blanket for my dick, and I need you to do some ungodly things to it tonight.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment. So you need to have your dick comforted?” I snickered and handed him his glass and he nodded in appreciation, taking a sip without breaking eye contact, pursing his lips around the rim with the tip of his tongue sticking out just a tiny bit. He always did that when he wanted to communicate his neediness. “What happened? Trouble in paradise?” I cooed, while making room so he could enter.  

“Don’t ask, and I shall not lie, remember? But since you asked so nicely – no. I have had some trouble with certain lyrics. I need my muse. Will you help me?” He wasted no time, already making a beeline to my bedroom. Pausing at the door, he glanced back at me, fishing for the answer he didn’t need. Of course I would. 

“Always there,” I chirped again and stuck my tongue out at him playfully, following him without haste.

Pausing in the doorway, I leaned against the door frame and took a sip, watching him unzipping his fly already. He was always gorgeous, whether dressed in plain white cotton or embroidered organza. But preferably naked. Lean, but not skinny. Toned, but sweet. Bare like a statue…until he raised his arms up and I fainted. Always. 

“Eager, aren’t you! So no small talk today, I assume?” I was eager too, knowing what was coming. 

Always a tease, he rolled his hips lewdly and, glancing at me through the ridiculously long curtain of his eyelashes, he puckered his lips, inviting me to join him by the bed with a loud and playful smack. “It’s not a day, darling. We’ve no time to waste before the sun comes up and orders us to be elsewhere.” 

A fucking poet, sometimes spitting dreamy verses down at me even in between moans during the actual animalistic process of fucking, like a true artist that he was. I watched how he batted his eyelashes at me again. Ridiculously long, indeed… “Did you put some mascara on, Josh?”

“And if I did?”

I licked my front teeth in silent anticipation. He was needy and ready to play the mouse, which in return made me greedy and instantly wet. Meow! “Joshua! Do you want to cry tonight?”

After he took off the last sock, he flexed his shoulders and straightened, facing me completely; already stark naked and already completely hard, his second weeping head nodding at me, greeting me like an old friend. “I voiced a plea, and I gave you a hint. You’re the director tonight.”

The plan formed in my head the moment he called. Even before that, actually. I’d lie if I said that I didn’t care about what he did for a living and how. Watching videos of him performing was one of my favorite leisure activities when he was away and out of touch. It made the anticipation ever so sweet, because his stage presence was just as sensual as his bed behavior. I knew what he was capable of, while others only imagined. 

“Did you bring your payment with you?” The word payment was a deliberate, whorish choice, completely ok only because I was the one who started using it one day, and the only one allowed to use it. God forbid if I’d ever heard it leave his mouth. He’d have to dry hump the mattress instead, and let me watch his torments. He loved the whore in me, but alas! The only way to get a taste of it was to treat me with respect. Night-time calls meant that he would have to grant me one wish, often in the form of a prop.  At night, I was ALWAYS in charge, giving him what he wanted, but it was always delivered my way. 

This time, I ordered him to bring one of his beaded scarves he wore onstage. Now he pulled it from his man purse and placed it in my waiting hand ceremonially, like a cherished treasure, smiling at me with little sparks dancing behind his pupils. “Am I going to be tied up with this?” 

“Oh no baby, I have my handcuffs for that.” He watched me swirl the scarf around his head and tie it tightly around his neck, leaving one end long enough to tickle his left thigh. Swinging it like a pendulum, I let the heavily beaded end hit his throbbing cock with a faint tinkling sound. 

I reveled in watching his immediate reaction: his eyes widened and lips parted in shock. He quickly tried to hide it by darting his tongue out and curling it against his upper lip, but his heaving chest betrayed him. This was when he was at his cutest, figuratively or literally on his knees, but always too stubborn to give in entirely.

“See, I’m gonna use it as a leash, if necessary,” I explained and took a small step back to admire my work. “Don’t you like the idea?”

He narrowed his eyes at me and those plump lips curled up into that bratty grin again. “Oh I like the idea very much. I’m ready to be…bad.” 

“Bad,” I whispered,and circled him like my prey, which is what he essentially was. Hugging him from behind, I let my hands travel up his chest, grazing his right nipple with my fingernails while the fingers of my left hand closed around his throat. “Bad boys don’t whine,” which was exactly what he did when I applied a little bit more pressure. He tilted his head back and rested it on my shoulder, eyes closed, showing me how much he loved being under my control. 

“You look really lovely like this. Makes me think… You know what we haven’t tried yet?” I was now intentionally rubbing my lace-covered tits against the tense muscles of his back, whispering those words sultrily right into his ear.

“No…” It was but a hoarse whisper already. It was fascinating how much power his voice normally held, but I always managed to gag him with ease. 

“I'm thinking… pegging you from behind, doggy style. With this,” I tugged at the scarf demonstratively. He yelped, his knees buckled for a split second and his whole body shook as if from cold. He was stupendously aroused. I loved it!

“Yeah, exactly. Like a bitch,” I twisted the end of the scarf around my hand and tugged again. The most delicious whimper escaped his lips and I watched him wrap his right hand around his twitching cock, while the left one reached behind and rested on my thigh. He gave himself a few slow strokes, then slid the hand down to cup his balls. “Oh yeah, please, do that, I’m already aching…”

“I’m really glad you like the idea, baby, but not today. Another time.”

“Why not?” He turned around and tried to win me over with those puppy eyes, but I had a very clear vision in my head. It had occupied my mind so much that I already bought some new additions to my bedroom inventory, just for him. I grabbed the scarf again and drew him closer to me so that our lips were almost touching. I tightened my grip, holding the scarf right under the knot below his ear, and twisted my fist slightly. He swallowed with difficulty and his wide eyes glimmered with undiluted lust. I licked his parted lips with the tip of my tongue until his eyes rolled back. Only then I finally released him and he stumbled backwards.

“Because you wanted me to do ungodly things to your dick, not your ass. Now onto bed, chop chop.” I smacked his tiny, perfectly rounded ass and he obliged, climbing on the bed with exaggerated sway like a tomcat, performing just for me. He turned around then, and spread his legs, licking his index finger lewdly while he shook the end of the scarf with his left hand until the beads tinkled again. “M’waitin’,” he breathed out and moaned around the finger. Such a slut!

I took one more sip, stripped too, and joined him on the bed, climbing right in between his thighs, admiring his cleanly shaven treasure. “You have a truly beautiful dick. It absolutely deserves some profane treatment.”

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it,” he responded, his voice shaking ever so slightly when I pressed my tongue flat to the underside of that gorgeous cock and licked a long stripe all the way up. I laughed. “So humble.”

“Darling, I’ve seen many cocks in my life. I know mine is awfully pretty.” 

“Hmm, how about you balls?” I cupped them gently, while crawling up to kiss him, tickling his chest with my hair.  

“Also exceptional.” He kissed me back, then pushed my head back down. 

“That’s why you keep them on full display all the time?” I bent down to lick around his areola before I sucked the nipple in between my lips, still refusing to go back down and suck on his cock instead, even though he bucked his hips up several times, giving me a clear hint how impatient he already was. 

“Flaunt…aaah…flaunt what you’ve got. God, you’re such a tease.”

His tone was dangerous this time. I looked up to meet his deadly, bratty stare. “You’re in no position to look at me like this.”

“Yes, I am. My thigh is completely wet from how your cunt already weeps for me.” He made another lewd gesture, putting his fingers in a V shape in front of his mouth and sticking his tongue through it at me, flickering it up and down. Yes, very suggestive. I’d love that. Continue and we’re both gonna get it. He usually got a warning first. 

“You’re a hoe, Joshua Michael.” I grabbed the scarf and pulled to the side. He inhaled sharply with a wheeze and looked daggers at me.

“Go on, I love high praises,” he spat. “Especially when they’re coming from your dirty mou…uuughn...” I didn’t let him finish the sentence. He would get what he asked for. Scrambling up as quickly as possible, I landed on my knees on each side of his head and sat on his face, effectively silencing him.  

And it was what he wanted. Grabbing my buttocks to pull me even closer, he instantly buried his tongue between my folds, making me gasp. I had to grab the headboard to keep myself from falling or hurting him as he enveloped my clit with his full lips and started sucking. This position was my Achilles heel and he got me there in no time. Two, maybe three minutes until my thighs started shaking. I looked down at him and he wiggled his eyebrows at me, before he closed his eyes and moaned loudly, as if he was eating the most delicious ice cream. Fucking tease. I inhaled sharply when he flattened his tongue and swirled it gently one more time around my swollen bud. The orgasm swept through me like an electric shock and I had to bite my forearm to muffle my scream. He was cruel, licking me through it and inducing more and more waves and aftershocks until I had to grab him by the hair and pull at it to still him. 

I creeped down his body, smearing my juices all over his skin and peppering his chest with kisses, before I straightened up again, hovering above him. “Tamed?” 

He looked up at me, ready to retort again, and finally saw the big silver hoop that hung from the ceiling right above my head. His eyes widened and sparkled with confused anticipation. “What’s that?”

I let out a satisfied exhale and smiled down at him. “That, my dear, is the surprise I got for you tonight.” I crawled towards the edge of my bed, opened the largest drawer of my bedside table and pulled out a silver chain with leather cuffs on each end. I let it fall on his chest. “Sit.” 

“What?”

“I said sit!” When he did, I pulled the chain through the hoop and told him to put his arms up. He was unnaturally silent all of the sudden, doing as told, and I fastened the cuffs around each wrist. When I was done, he just sat there, legs spread as I knelt between them, chest heaving and arms up, armpits glistening with sweat, just the way I wanted. He looked sinful. I admired this view so many times before, him reaching for those high notes or who knows what else. He would be reaching for pleasure tonight. First things first. I tugged at the scarf and pulled him closer to me, connecting our mouths in a searing kiss. He kept moaning as our tongues danced together. It made me even wetter. 

When I finally broke the kiss, I looked down at his cock, slightly reddened and rock hard, and ran my finger down his length. He squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered. “Do something…please!” 

Finally, the magic word. 

He cried out when I put him in my mouth and swallowed him whole. I could hear the chain rattling but I couldn’t see, lying on my stomach and fully immersed in giving him pleasure. He cried some more, and moaned and groaned and whimpered as I kept bobbing my head up and down, up…swirling my tongue around his leaking head, and down…tickling his balls with the stuck out tip until I gagged. I stopped only when his hips started jerking upwards, telling me he was very close. I wasn’t done yet, not until I felt him in me. 

I sat up again and saw the smeared mascara under his teary eyes. “Oh my baby, so beautiful,” I cooed and caressed his cheek, smearing it even more with my thumb. He looked exhausted and pursed his lips at me. “Please,” he whispered. 

I finally straddled him, positioned myself and slid down. His mouth opened wide but no sound came out. It made me pause for a second, raising my chin in a silent question. “Won’t last long,” he breathed out, so I started slowly, rolling my hips languidly, while I watched him watching me. The room fell silent, only our synchronized breathing permeating the air.

He looked down at the scarf, then back at me again, his eyes full of wicked gleam. I threw it over his shoulder and tugged at it from behind, making his head tilt. His ragged breathing and his barely noticeable, but content smile made me feel high. The intoxicating smell of his heated body made me even more lightheaded.  I hugged him tight and traced my parted lips up his jugular as I quickened my pace. His moans broke the silence again and I followed suit. Running my hands up and down his back, I could feel droplets of his sweat trickling down my biceps. I never believed in heaven, but this was close. Even closer to hell, maybe.

He wanted to take control, but couldn’t. Not without his arms supporting him. He was completely at my mercy and when I leaned back on my arms to get a better traction, the head of his cock hitting my inner pleasure button made me cry out. It didn’t take long and the spasms of my second release made me clench around him. In my high state of mind, I nearly missed his moment. Only his high-pitched scream pulled me back to reality. I had barely enough strength in me to untie him at last. And then we collapsed on the pillows, completely spent and happy. 

We often cuddled afterwards, we always showered together, but he never stayed. The sun was already rising when he left this time. I buried my face in my pillow to inhale his scent that always lingered. Falling asleep to the sweet and heady smell of Chergui was great comfort in twilight hours. Many times, I imagined what it would be like to just rest my head next to his and drift away like that, with his messy curls tickling the tip of my nose. Someone else had this privilege. Someone who loved him, and thus deserved it. 

In the middle of the night, I was sometimes honest with myself, admitting to myself that I loved him too. But that’s ok. Everybody’s got a secret.

@its-interesting-van-kleep @takenbythemadness @edgingthedarkness @writingcold @ignite-my-fire @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @fleet-of-fiction @lvnterninthenight @myownparadise96 @gvfstuddedmajesty @josh-iamyour-mama @jazzyfigz @sanguinebats @thewritingbeforesunrise @wetkleenex-gvf @lyndz2names

[i-like-forcefem]

PURELY hypothetically speaking, how EXACTLY would you go about forcefemming a guy who’s sooo masc, like he thinks he’s the ALPHA SHIT, he thinks he pulls all the ladies and is the most manly man to ever man… and turning “him” into an adorable little girly princess :3c asking for a friend

For a hard boiled egg like this it’s very important to get her alone in an isolated location for an extended period of time! It always takes a little longer then they’ve got pride, but honestly that makes it so so much more fun when they crack

It’s a bit of a staple, but I think I’ll use my Basement, yes it’s generic, but it’s tried and true, and a girl like this isn’t a time to experiment

Getting her to the basement is usually easy enough, just invite her over for tea or something and apply a little posion of your choice that will have her immobilised, sleepy pills work, but I personally prefer it when you can see the fear in her eyes when they get fully paralysed

I always have my basement prepared for new arrivals, this means a firm lock, and plenty of hand cuffs around the walls and girly furniture for if I want to move her around

The first time she wakes up is always so important and so so fun, so I’ll pick out a good spot to tie her up, I think the plushy couch would be good for this cutie, and make sure to pick a good outfit

For a girl like this I think it’d be best to start with her in just a pair of pink panties, just being handcuffed in a hugging position with a plushy against her skin should be enough embarrassment for the wake up, I’ll also be sure to use my princess gag just to make her first impressions extra cute as she makes muffled screeches

Then I’ll wait till she wakes up, I usually monitor a camera from outside the room and wait to enter, I want her to get a feel for the room and her situation before she sees me, 2 minutes is usually enough for her to glance around the overly girly room, notice she’s tied up, and to start her muffled screams

Then I’ll calmly enter and tell her how she’s my doll now, she’ll have objections of course, being a big bugle “man”, but it’s pretty hard to do anything about your situation when tied up like that

And then I’ll play it slow

I think I can have her docile by the end of the day, dress her up in her first dress (the basement can get very cold so if she doesn’t want to wear her dress that’s fine by me, but she’ll give in by the end of the second day, and to survive that long I’ll probably get some adorable footage of her willingly snuggling up with her many many plushies, hard to think a “man” would do that)

Any food I give her will obviously have hrt inserted into it, but in this case in particular I want to try something new, next to her (estrogen filled) meals I’ll also give her some placebo pills I’ll tell her are actually hrt, and if she’s a Good Girl and takes her pills she’ll be rewarded

Obviously she’ll refuse at first, willingly taking pills is one of the hardest milestones for a girl to pass

But always giving her the option always gives me to opportunity to punish her, and to tell her just how easy it’d be if she just submitted, became my pretty little girl

Now some of the girls have a surprising amount of determination to not become happy, so this might take a while, which is why I’ll give her her hrt anyway

Since it will be so so fun to tease her for it, I could maybe even gaslight her into thinking she might be taking the pills anyway, or her body wants to become a girl so so bad that’s it’s making estrogen all on its own

You’d be surprised how much gaslighting you can get away with if you’re a persons only outside contact

So… I’ve got some plans to say the least!!! I’ve got a whole laundry list of activities we could try every week to keep it fresh (from shock collars to vibrators to bondage, to “toy” pink weightlifting products that are 10 times the weight it says on the box, I will have so much fun breaking her :3)

Now do you have any idea where this hypothetical person is? And do they prefer tea or coffee?

[hertzwritings]

You spin me right round (baby, right round)

A/N: Am I alive? Physically, yes. Am I okay? Probably not. Did I miss all of you guys and writing? YES. Honestly, it’s been weird not writing and keeping in contact with all of you, but I’m trying to get back to it – and that brings us to here. Also, I’ve been listening to Sleep Token on repeat, so I’m feeling things.

I don’t have a set schedule right now, mostly because I have no idea if I’ll be posting regularly or just on a whim, but for now, I’m just getting back in the groove of things!

Your comments, likes, reblogs mean the world to me and would definitely help me stay on it, so if you’ve got anything to say, say it, my loves.

Remember English isn’t my first language, so if there’s errors in grammar or language, try to overlook it. Love you all!

Also, please be gentle wit me on my first day back – it’s like being nervous to start a new school, really.

MASTERLIST

Ask me anything/requests/tag list requests

Pairing: NotFamous!Henry Cavill x female reader

Warnings: Language, dorks being dorks, meet cute, strangers to lovers, neighbors to lovers, smut (18+, minors DNI), dirty talk, slightly dom/sub, spanking, p in v, tongue on v, blowjobs, slight Msub to Mdom, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, creampie, petnames

Wordcount: 4633 (whoops)

You spin me right round (baby, right round)

  Laundry day. Probably the worst of days, especially considering the hefty trek from your 5th floor apartment to the basement, which would be bad enough in and of itself, but carrying the massive load of laundry down without a functioning elevator without spilling half of your delicates did seem like an almost impossible task.

At any rate, you were going to do it, and you were going to be a strong, independent woman, who could definitely carry it down and back up again without dropping a thong or three (like last time, where Pete from 5D was lurking).

You heaved the blue IKEA-bag higher on your shoulder, silently cursing yourself for not actually doing the damned laundry more than you did, and began the descent into the musty basement, your trusty laundry-tokens jangling in your pocket of the loose shorts, you were wearing.

It took longer than you’d like to admit, and you almost did drop the entire bag down a flight of stairs, but you made it and with a loud grunt, you pushed the door to the basement and laundry-room open, almost stumbling inside.

“Oh.” You locked eyes with a very handsome stranger, who looked up from the only dryer, hands still buried pretty deeply in there. “Oh, you need this one?” He asked politely, and that voice – smooth velvet, mixed with a deep rumble that settled nicely in your chest and between your legs. The accent didn’t help at all with how attractive you found him, either, and you shifted your weight slightly. Fuck.   “I-I… I’m… Not right…” You squeaked, silently cursing yourself for wearing your gray, tattered t-shirt with a faded logo on it, that definitely did not do anything nicely for your shape. You cleared your throat. “No, I’m sorry, no. I’m still in the early laundry-stages.” You said with a smile, and immediately wanted to die. Laundry stages?? He grinned, a fanged tooth catching his lower lip. “Alright. New to the building?” He asked, casually loading a basket with his clothes.

  “Sort of. More of a recluse, that have been living here for a month, and just never do laundry at normal people-times.” He chuckled and stood up to his full height. He was an impressive man, easily towering a head and a half above you, and he looked enormous. Muscles rolled under his perfect skin on his arms, and you couldn’t help your brain going in all other directions than polite talk with a neighbor. “Well, nice to meet you, recluse. I’m Henry.” He balanced the basket on his hip (a beautiful move, if you were honest) and extended his hand, which you cautiously shook. “I’m Y/N.” You said with a small smile. His hand was warm and the grasp was firmer than you had expected, small callouses on the tips of his fingers that graced the inside of your wrist deliciously. Fuckedy fuck. “Y/N. Good name.” He winked at you. “Oh, don’t use the second washing machine…” He pointed to the washer with a bright red 2 painted on it. “Stinky Pete from 5D used it, and I don’t want to imagine what on earth he washed, but it still smells vaguely like rot.” He winked at you. “Bye, Recluse Y/N!” And with that he left, leaving you slightly shellshocked and a scent trail of hazel and wood behind.

It went on like that for a few weeks; you showed up, he was already there in various states of undress (once you even came face to face with him in just boxers, because he had spilled what appeared to be red wine everywhere) and you exchanged pleasantries before leaving the basement and going back to your apartment, sighing deeply over the fact, that you never actually talked to the handsome stranger.

----------

 A while later, a little past midnight, you were back at it (still no working elevator) and found yourself face to face with the very handsome British man, who this time was wearing fucking gray sweatpants and a tank top, that definitely didn’t leave anything to the imagination. You could see every single muscle underneath the shirt as he loaded the laundry.

“Ah, look who’s back!” he grinned at you. “I saved the best washer for you, but don’t tell Mrs. Selton on the fourth. She can’t know I play favorites, or I’ll never get cookies again.” You laughed. “Alright, your secret’s safe with me, sir.” You said and stood next to him, before starting to load the washer. He tried to say something, but almost bit his tongue and groaned at the sensation. “Are you always this smooth?” You asked, laughing slightly, as he began coughing. “Inhaled… Spit…” He coughed again. When he was finally breathing normally, he raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll have you know, this is in no way an indication of how I handle normal interactions with people. It’s late, and I’m slightly flustered.” He said with a small smirk.

“Mhm.” You nodded, while mindlessly stuffing your washer. “Sure, I’ll believe you.” “Hey, you don’t know me.” He said, leaning against the dryer and crossed his arms. “Maybe you know my name, and probably the color and general state of my underwear, but you don’t know me.” “I never said anything.” You grinned and closed the lid on the washer. “Wait, that’s not even close to full.” He tsked at you and opened it again. “You have to really stuff it in there, or you’ll be down here until morning.” “Excuse you, can you get your hands off of my laundry, you weirdo.” You slapped his hand away. “Maybe I don’t want my clothes overly wrinkled, have you considered that?” You asked. “Pfft. That’s the charm of communal laundry. It’ll always smell a little like other people and it will be wrinkled.” You guffawed. “Sure thing, Henry. Any plans for tonight?” you asked, mindlessly pouring detergent into the container. He looked at you with his head tilted slightly, a few stray curls bouncing onto his forehead. Goddamnit, it should be illegal to look like that when doing laundry. “Eh, not really. It’s Sunday, Sundays are for me and my boy.” You raised an eyebrow. “Your boy, huh?” “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I am indeed a parent. I have a child.” He said proudly, leaning over you to press the on-button for you. You jumped onto the counter behind you and sat down on it, insistingly ignoring the creaking of the wood beneath your butt. That’s an insecurity for another day. “Really?” He nodded. “Would your boy happen to be a giant dog?” he frowned. “How the hell did you know that?” You pointed to the unwashed load of laundry, where a suspicious amount of hair had settled on pretty much everything. “Why are you pointing at my... Yeah, well, that is a lot of hair…” He looked back at you with a furrowed brow. “Why are you even looking down there? My laundry should be sacred!” He said teasingly, covering the basket with his arm. “Well… That’s… Uhm… Anyway.” You laughed. “Are you just down here for fun, or did you wait for me?” You asked with a grin. He shrugged. “Oooor… Did you wait for me down here, because we’re the only people in this building that are somewhat close in age, and you are trying to befriend me, which is why you’ve hidden a bottle of wine in your laundry?” “Stop making assumptions that are astutely accurate, it’ll turn weird soon.” He groaned, and – as you thought – pulled a bottle of rosé out of his laundry. “I’m not astutely accurate, I didn’t know it was rosé.” You grinned. He laughed lightly and cocked an eyebrow. “To be fair, it’s mostly because I have nothing to do, and I have a feeling you never celebrated moving here. So…” He opened the bottle with a swift move and pulled two red solo cups out of the basket. “Drink?” You laughed.

“Love to.”  

 “Okay, come on, why on earth are you keeping these?” He asked, holding a very old thong between his fingers. “Shut up, and stop fondling my underwear, you freak!” you quickly grabbed it from him with a laugh. The bottle had been emptied, and a new one had been brought down and for some reason, in your tipsy mind, it was a great idea helping each other folding each other’s clothes while you were waiting on the load that was currently spinning in the dryer. “I’ll have you know, some clothes are sentimental!” You said, throwing the thong into your blue IKEA-bag. He snickered. “How on earth is tattered and holed thongs sentimental? Besides, to be quite frank, at this point it’s just… Like… A string.” He laughed. “You’re the one to talk! You threw a pair of his socks at him. “I have never seen so many pairs of boxers with holes in them!” He shrugged. “I call it the surprise.” You frowned. “The surprise?” “The surprise.” He moved closer to you, and every single hair on your body stood up, while your breath hitched. He whispered into your ear, closely enough for you to feel his lips touch your earlobe. “If I’m feeling very saucy, I’ll simply rip them off and yell surprise!.” He said and laughed, sending vibrations through your entire body. “Ah, why of course. That’s a totally normal thing to do.” He pulled back slightly, his eyes a little darker than usual. “As opposed to being sentimentally attached to a thong?” he asked, his arms caging you in – it wasn’t an unpleasant experience, but it did make your thighs shake a little. His scent enveloped you completely and made it almost impossible to think. “Many tings are sentimental. Underwear, stuff…” You answered lamely. He laughed, a low rumble in his chest and cocked an eyebrow at you. When did his face get so close? “Ah, of course. Stuff and thongs. Nothing better than relieving the good, old days of… Black thongs?” He said softly, his breath fanning over your face. It was intoxicating. “Right. Besides, you have no right to judge me when your underwear looks like it could’ve been made during World War two.” You retorted, shifting slightly in place. He chuckled. “Well… Maybe I have to get new ones, then.”

His lips were so, so close to yours, all it would take was just a little nudge and you would be connected. He was intoxicating as he had you caged, muscles rolling in his arms, his scent of wood and something inherently Henry fully filled your brain, and you almost moved your head, but the sound of the dryer going off pulled both of you out of whatever that was.

“Second load done, one more to go!” He said a little breathlessly and pushed himself away from you – you let out a breath, you didn’t know you were holding and jumped down from the counter. “Great.” You whispered, bending down to grab whatever was in there – you would’ve just kept going, if it wasn’t for the small groan that sounded behind you. You turned your head around and caught Henry looking at your ass. “Excuse you.” You smirked. He cleared his throat. “Were you just looking at my ass, Henry from 4C?” “Uhm… No, I… I-” He groaned. “Fine, I was, but you can’t blame me! You’re bending down like that, and you’re wearing those fucking shorts… I can’t help it, you’re fucking gorgeous, darling.” You shivered. “Oh.” A thick silence fell between you, and you slowly stood up, laundry be damned. “Yeah, well… It’s an unfair advantage, I really tried to be proper and all that, but... Jesus Christ, Y/N.” he groaned again and closed his eyes – the small twitch in his gray sweatpants did not go unseen by you. “Respectfully, are you wearing anything underneath those sweatpants?” You asked, slightly out of breath while heat and wetness were pooling in your panties by the mere idea. “Maybe, maybe not. Are you wearing anything under that?” He asked, opening his eyes slightly. “No, my sentimental thongs are in the laundry.” Wherever the confidence came from, you had no idea, but his reaction to you was more than enough for you to keep going. You were slightly shaky as you moved a step closer to him. “Y/N…” He whispered. “Henry…” You were chest to chest to him now, his lower back against the counter. It was slightly exhilarating to have the control, especially over such a big man as Henry. “Henry…” You whispered his name again, and a fucking whimper fell from his lips. Yeah, fuck this.

You pounced – as best as you could, height difference and all – and the moment, he realized what you were doing, his arms wrapped around you and lifted you slightly, so your lips could connect. It was electric. No, not electric, it was like a symphony of colors, feelings and it was like plunging into cool water, when his lips touched yours. You moaned against his lips, and he gasped, letting your tongue glide against his. Deepening the kiss, he straightened up slightly, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist, holding on for dear life. Your lips and tongues slid against each other fervently, a slight groan reverberating from his throat send you over the edge. You bit his lower lip, pulling a soft moan from him, and wrapped your hand in is hair, tugging it slightly. The reaction was better than you could’ve ever imagined. His hands moved from your waist to your ass, squeezing hard, while a mix of moans and your name tumbled from his lips to yours – you could feel his hard length pressing against the sweatpants and your shorts, and you were sure you were leaving wet spots on his pants. “Fuck, Henry…” You mumbled his name, and he turned around to place you on the counter, before going to your throat, kissing and biting. You moaned at the feeling and threw your head back. “Harder.” You moaned, and felt him smile against your skin, before his teeth sunk deeper into your skin, his large hands tightening their grip on your thighs, causing you to roll your hips. “Fucking hell, darling, I can almost taste you from here…” He whispered against you, his hands moving upwards. “Hmm, really?” You moaned, rolling your hips again. “Nobody’s stopping you.” You tugged his hair again for good measure. “No, you’re right about that.” He mumbled, his hands dancing up, up, up, until they reached the waistband of your shorts and gently pulled them down, letting the fabric slide down your legs – you lifted your ass from the counter, allowing them to fully fall off of you, and he groaned at the sight in front of him. “Fuuuck, darling… I can see how fucking wet you are… Can I taste you?” He asked, his darkened eyes finding yours, chest heaving. You cocked an eyebrow. “Ask nicely.” He chuckled, a thick finger gliding along your hip, slowly inching towards your mound. “Please, Y/N, please… Fuck, I need to taste you, please, let me taste you… let me eat you out until you cum on my tongue.” For a seemingly proper British man, he was filthy. “Yes.” He didn’t wait a second before moving down your body, teeth catching both fabric and nipple on his way down, before he stopped, licking his lips, while looking at your exposed, dripping pussy. “Y/N…” He mumbled your name like a prayer, and before you even had the time to breathe, he licked a thick line along your lips, parting them with it. He moaned at the taste and dove in like a man starved. You mewled at the feeling, his tongue moving around your clit, fingers still on your inner thigh, and you could barely hold your upper body up as his tongue dipped inside of you. “Fuck, yes… I want to feel you cum on me, darling…” He mumbled against you, his hips rutting slightly into nothing. “Fingers. Please, fingers.” You managed to moan as his tongue went back to your clit, hardening against it as he began to eat you out with an intensity you’d never experienced before. He obeyed silently, adding two thick fingers into your dripping pussy, curling them upwards. You bit back a scream as they filled you, slowly sliding in and out, hitting your g-spot over and over, while his tongue did magic on your clit; you’d forever be ruined by this man, and he hadn’t even been inside of you yet. “Fuck!” You bit back a scream as he sped up, tongue and fingers working in perfect unison to pull you closer to the edge; he chuckled darkly against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your clit. “Be quiet, little bird, or someone will hear.” He said slowly, taking a small break from your clit. “Fuck off, it’s like three in the mo-or…” You didn’t finish your sentence, as he dove back in, this time with a speed and intensity, that could’ve killed you on a different day. “Shit, I’m gonna…” He moaned as you tightened around his fingers, and he slurped your juices from you, keeping the pace as best he could. “Fuck, you’re so fucking tight, baby… I want to feel you cum, can you cum for me, please…” He whimpered as your pussy pulled his fingers deeper inside of you, and you shook slightly.

You couldn’t stop it, even if you wanted to. Your orgasm hit you like a fucking train, white spots appearing in your vision, and you felt, more than heard, his moaning as you rode your orgasm out on his face and fingers.

“Fuck, baby, look at you… You squirted for me, didn’t you, darling?” he looked up at you with a devilish smirk on his face, that was shimmering with your cum under the low fluorescent lights. You moaned – his fingers were still going in and out of you. “Now…” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. “You get on your knees, darling.” E stood up and wiped his face gracefully, putting a single finger in his mouth. “You taste fucking amazing.” He grinned at you and stood to his full height, a sense of authority filling the room. “Knees.” He commanded, and who were you to deny that? You slid down from the counter on shaky legs and landed on your knees, looking up at him. “Fuck, darling, you can’t look at me like that, I’ll fucking cum here and now.” He groaned. “Well, where’s the fun in that?” You said while your fingers grabbed the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled them down, letting his cock spring free. You almost salivated at the look of it. Thick, throbbing slightly, a thick vein running down the length of it and a drop of precum sparkling under the lights. He was huge. “Well, what are you waiting for, little bird?” he chuckled, before he cut it off with a moan, as your lips wrapped around the tip, and you slid down as far as your jaw and throat allowed you to. He moaned as the tip hit the back of your throat and you choked slightly on it – you were dripping wet, as you began to move back and fort on his length, swallowing as much as you could, reveling in the taste of is precum. He twitched slightly and a choked moan spilled from his lips, as he thrusted forwards. “Fuck, baby… Shit, you’re really... Fuck… Good at this…” He moaned. You smiled around his length and moved faster, hearing the choked moans above, spurring you on. “Fuck, baby, stop, stop, stop… Stop, I’ll cum if you keep going…” You whimpered as he pulled away from you, a line of spit connecting you, and you looked up at him with big eyes. He groaned and held your chin with a large hand. “Good girl. I want to feel you before I cum, darling.” He whispered, gently guiding you up to your feet again by your chin. He kissed you deeply before turning you around, bending you over the counter. “Fuck, this ass… You’re a fucking wonder, baby…” He reveled, a hand falling on your ass. You moaned at the sensation and your hips bucked, exposing yourself more to him. “Oh, look at you, doing so fucking good for me already, aren’t you?” he whispered. You moaned again. “Henry, please…” You whimpered his name and tried to push back to get him inside of you, but he chuckled and held you tightly in place. “No, baby girl, you’re going to stay right there.” He ran a hand down your spine and slapped your ass again, forcing a whimper from you. “Now, you ask nicely, and I’ll fuck you right here, right now.” He said darkly, his hand gently running circles over your ass, sometimes dipping between your legs. You coked on a moan, and barely had the wherewithal to create a coherent sentence. “Please, please, p-please, fuck, Henry, please… Please f-fuck me, I’m begging you-u…” His finger dipped inside of you. “You want to feel my cock slowly slide inside of you, baby?” He asked, dragging his finger in and out painfully slow. You whimpered a broken yes. “Want to feel me dragging against your walls, huh? Want me to fill you, let my cum drip out of you?” You were a shaking mess as another finger was added. “Y-yes…” You felt like crying. It was so good, but so torturous to feel his fingers glide so fucking slowly. “Ah, you can do better than that, darling.” He said, bending over you – you could feel the tip of his cock against your ass, as his mouth found your neck again. “P-please, Henry, please… I want to feel your cock in me, please…” “Mhm… I want to fill you up, darling… I want to watch my thick cock slide in and out of your tight pussy, seeing you take me…” He rambled, fingers moving faster now, and you groaned at his words. “Fuck, y-yes, Henry, I’m b-begging you, please…” you mewled. He withdrew his fingers too quickly for your liking, and he spat on your already soaked pussy, before lining himself up. “You think you can take all of me right now, baby? Let my thick cock go as deep as it can, huh?” He asked, rubbing the tip against your entrance, smearing the wetness around. You nodded, desperate for anything at this point. “No, no, that won’t do, little bird.” He tsked at you and his free hand wrapped around your hair and tugged slightly, arcing your back as your head got pulled back. You moaned loudly. “Mhm, keep the sound down, we’re in a public area, sweetheart.” He said with a small chuckle. “Ask me and mean it.” He ordered, the tip of his throbbing cock so fucking close to glide inside of you. “Fucking fill me, or I swear to god…” you begged, and whatever you wanted to say got lost in your throat, as he slid inside of you swiftly and in one, single thrust, bottomed out.

You shrieked in both pain and pleasure, your legs shaking and if he hadn’t kept a tight grip on your hair and waist, you’d probably collapse. “Oh, good girl, look at you taking all of me… Sit, it looks to fucking good to see my cock in you, baby…” He mumbled. He didn’t move yet, simply allowing you to adjust.  After a few seconds, you rolled your hips to let him know you were good, and he chuckled darkly. “There’s a good, little slut, darling.” His words combined with his voice sent wetness down your thighs as he began moving, slowly at first, before picking up speed. You felt every single twitch inside of you, and he filled you to the brim. You had never been so fucking full before, and you’d never want to stop, if you were honest. He angled himself a little better and pistoned in and out of you; you saw stars and a red-hot burning started in your abdomen seconds before your orgasm hit you; it was blinding and your legs were barely functioning as you came around him, your pussy pulling him deeper, as your thighs got soaked and he moaned. “Fuuuuck, you’re so fucking tight, Y/N… Fuck, I’m not going to last long…” He moaned as you twitched around him and met his thrust, the sound of your skin slapping against each other filling the otherwise quiet room. “Fucking fill me, please… I want to feel you cum, I’m b-begging you…” you moaned, almost delirious at this point. He roared and bit down on your shoulder, before he picked up speed and began fucking you fiercely, his tick and long cock hitting your cervix slightly. You mewled and another rush of wetness went down your legs, as you neared another orgasm while he whispered praise and encouragements in your ear.

“Look at that fucking… Oh, fuck…” He groaned and thrusted harder than ever, his rhythm becoming irregular. “Look at you taking me so well, darling… You’re doing so good for me, can you cum again?” He licked the spot, he had just bitten. “Can you cum for me again, baby girl? Let me… Fuck… Feel you cum again?”

As if you could deny him.

He clamped a hand over your mouth as you came wit a scream, your pussy tightening and pulsing around his length as he fucked you into oblivion. He roared with pleasure and his hand moved from your waist to your ass, grabbing it harshly before picking up speed and chased his own high. You were shaking, barely coherent as he fucked you relentlessly. “Henry… Fuck, please… Let me feel you cum… Fuck, p-please, I want to feel you fill me, please…” You moaned his name like a prayer, and he growled before his speed stuttered. “Fuck, baby… I’m going to fill you up, you’ll be dripping for days… I’m so fucking deep in your tight pussy…” he mumbled, his hand bruising your ass, wile he pistoned back and forth; he fell silent for half a second, before you felt him swell and twitch slightly. “Tell me you’re mine.” He growled. “Mine.” His cock pounded you relentlessly. “H-henry… Shit, y-yes, yes, I’m yours!” You mewled as he twitched again.

Ropes of his cum painted your insides, and you came with him as you felt the heat of his spend inside of you. Henry growled as you tightened around him again, and he jerked his hips so he was a deep as e could be, whispering praise to you, as you rode out your own orgasm.

 You stayed bent over the creaky counter, sweat dripping form the both of you, his cock still inside of you, for a few minutes, trying to catch your breath.

“Shit, that was…” he whispered, kissing the bitemark on your shoulder gently. You shivered. “Mhmm…” Words did kind of fail you at the moment. He seemed to understand whatever you meant, at any rate, and chuckled gently, before slowly pulling out with a hiss. “Jesus Christ… You’re a fucking wonder, you know that, Y/N?” He asked, the sweetest smile painting his features. You grinned with slightly bruised lips, and pulled your shorts back up. No reason to try and clean up. “Says you.” He bent down and grabbed the black thong, that was more string than fabric at this point, at stuffed it in the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Sentimental value, you know?” You laughed. “Does this mean I get to see your surprise-move?” You asked jokingly. He cocked his eyebrow and a smile spread across his face – he was a goddamn Adonis.

“Well, I do have more wine in my apartment… And a bed…”

“Lead the way.”

 TAGLIST:

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[missinghan]

falling asleep in a time machine ⤖ bang chan

❖ genre : mafia au; fluffy angst; hurt/comfort; female reader insert

❖ word count : 6,9k.

❖ warning : swearing, implied major character death, mention of arson, depictions of vomiting, killing, blood, death, can be brutal (!!!), delusional happy ending. 

❖ summary : four times you try to go back in time and save chan; or alternatively, you keep dreaming about chan to see if there is a way to undo his death when in reality there isn’t — from the world of illicit & priceless.

❖ author’s note : just finished my first term of uni (like actually the first term ever) and I’m so dead inside so here’s a silly little something. I can’t use pts anymore so pls bear with the banner *cries and dusts off this old blog* also I try to explain here why Chan was so attached and pissed off when mc stole his mother’s ring even though it’s accidental.

first attempt —

There are three missions that have altered the course of your and Chan’s relationship.

The first mission goes back to when you were still going on heists and Ryujin had foolishly put a piece of Chan’s mother’s sentiments into your pocket. Neither you nor Chan have come to know or like each other much before it.

The second one is the mansion with a bomb planted in the basement and Chan got locked inside a conference room with a three-layered door, one of them made from the same metal as the fucking Titanic. The third mission involves a casino where the Germans and Italians came together to push Chan toward a dead-end they had cultivated for the Devil himself, to his ultimate demise. They are all too arrogant to admit that Chan will take over the entirety of the East Asian market before any of them can start rolling in their graves.

Three missions of importance and not long after that, you and Chan have agreed to never go on a mission without each other. An unwritten contract. An unspoken promise. Nothing that the mafia engages in is legal so everything runs on trust, on how much faith you are willing to give those who you keep close.

However, there is a fourth mission that the Underworld records will fail to keep because even only a minuscule part of the Bang family is informed about this—how their precious heir has been summoned to bring home the girl he loves.

“Would you do laundry and taxes with me?”

“That’s an odd way to propose to someone, Y/N. And please, you’re asking an obvious question.” Chan looks up at you from his book. His smile is gentle, soft at the corners with his dimples sinking in—it’s how you know that he means it—the way it usually is these days. The way it has been for the past year. It is almost obscure, you think, how you both would have wanted each other’s head on a stick a year ago before one of you managed to make the other person cry out of gratitude.

You lift the book away from his face, glimpsing at the cover. Because Chan is an absolute heathen, he has been reading No Longer Human and you’re being annoying about it because he hasn’t come out to train with you for two days already. “Are you telling me you’ll say ‘no’?”

“We’re already doing laundry and taxes together. We will just have matching rings and a signed piece of paper,” Chan gives you a pointed look; he always looks so serious whenever he wants to correct you as if your sarcasm is that dry. “So it naturally implies as a ‘yes’, idiot,” he nags, even though he doesn’t mean the last part.

“Oh how you wound me, love,” you bite back, even though you don’t mean it either. “Chan, come on. You’re locking yourself up in a prison.”

Chan lets out a long, heavy sigh as if he’s insulted that you have just called his room a prison—which you never verbally hinted at, he simply interpreted it that way. He reaches over to grab the book from your hand, seemingly giving up his reading time for you, and places it on his bedside. 

“What are you–” You watch as Chan walks over to one of his mahogany drawers. “-doing?”

“I need caffeine to talk to you.”

Despite your bristling, he stays true to his words and finds himself a mug, a tea bag, along with a boiler. By the time Chan finishes filling up the boiler with water and turns on the heating switch, your legs are dangling over the edge of his bed as you puff up like a cat, baffled and offended. 

“So,” Chan inquires, a steaming mug of tea in his hand. “What’s up?”

“I find your current state distressing to look at,” you elaborate with glee, a glint coming into your eyes that Chan knows you’re up to no good. “Take a week off with me. We can go anywhere you want, it’ll be a short getaway, just the two of us.”

Chan’s back is turned toward you because he’s too busy searching for a spoon but you can boldly assume that he’s smiling. It’s hinted in his tone when he asks, “You mean a vacation?”

“Brilliant interpretation, Chan,” you smile wryly. “Of course, I meant a vacation!”

“No, you can go have fun by yourself. You have my permission,” he shakes his head. “I have things to attend to. Meetings, banquets, important business transactions. You know how boring the mafia lifestyle is.”

You still, voice low and suppressed in something Chan can’t seem to grasp at. “You’re going back to your family.” It’s barely a movement, a small enough action. Any passerby would think that you have only faltered a little but Chan has observed you for a good while now to notice you’re holding your shoulders back from trembling. 

“I am going back to my family,” he repeats calmly. “Only for a week, though. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Chan, I know they want to see me.”

Chan tries not to let anything show on his face. “And they may very well kill you because that is what they are. Godawful, egoistic, and incapable of compassion.”

“Let me go with you, I—” you begin, though you cut yourself off almost instantly. The room is suddenly steeped in silence, unwieldy at the absence of your words. Every noise seems amplified in the quiet: the boys’ chatters echoing dully from the living room, the ticking hands of the clock, and every breath you take to calm the anxiety in your rib cage.

I do not fear death, sickness, or anyone’s hatred. What I fear most is losing you, Chan. It’s all so beyond you because a year ago, you were a thief, taking things as you please and sending them away when they’re no longer of use for your benefit. Now there is someone who you will live for and his kiss you will kill for, his laugh you will die for.

“Chan, do you have any idea what I would turn into if you left me?” You have always worried loudly, from the volume of your attentiveness and the anxiety beneath your skin all lie in the tender manner of how you love Chan—the same goes for him, that you can be certain of.

“I will never leave you, Y/N. We will be okay,” he assures you, unbearably calm.

Chan is a liar. 

second attempt —

Chan is supposed to go back to the Bang family’s estate with Yuriko for the New Year. Yuriko is the housekeeper whom he has retired for about a year ever since you came into the picture. The boys, especially Jisung, have been forced into keeping their surroundings clean because, for some wicked reason, they think you are absolutely terrifying when you’re upset about their muddy shoes dirtying the floor after a mission. Yuriko always giggles at that, her Young Master surely knows how to pick a partner. 

“I’ve got word that your father wants you to back to the estate, Young Master,” Yuriko tells Chan when she finds you and Chan in the archive because you have insisted on reading about something you won’t say a word to him. Surely, Chan recognizes what you’re searching for but he doesn’t mention it. 

“He said he wanted to make sure you are ready to take over his position. And there is a dinner he wants your attendance for,” Yuriko continues, hands clasped behind her back. You didn’t even realize when she stepped in and approached Chan—for a mere housekeeper to be so swift and quiet with her movements, you have long guessed that she’s not just any old woman to be hired by the Bang family.

The way Chan stiffens in his seat is telling all on its own. You are suddenly struck with the recurring memory of how Minho used to babble about how much of an ass Chan’s family is when he has had one too many drinks. “You don’t know how bigshot mafia families treat their children, do you? They kept the world from knowing for a reason. I’m surprised Chan didn’t turn out to be a monster like them.”

“Forgive me, Yuriko, but you can tell the old man to suck it up,” Chan says softly but his voice is dark, tense, riddled with a sharpness you haven’t heard from him in a long time—you were threatened just the same way when you had stolen his mother’s ring. Now you realize Chan only ever speaks so heartlessly if something precious to him is hanging on the verge of being taken away. 

“Young Master,” Yuriko frowns for two reasons; firstly, Chan has never been able to decline his blood family of anything and secondly, there isn’t much that she can do to solve the problem at hand. She’s a mere servant for the Bang family; she doesn’t have much power to begin with and therefore, she can’t exactly tell them ‘no’. 

“No, you can’t make me,” Chan grits because he knows, he understands it all too well. Unsaid words of all the things money can buy hang in the air like bile. 

“Young Master Christopher, you must know what happens if you defy your father.” And there goes Yuriko’s final warning along with Chan dashing out of the archive, straight through the hallway and the front door of the mansion, completely vanishing in the white curtain of December snow.

Yuriko murmurs something under her breath, unintended for you to hear her. You continue staring forward, the file in your hands completely forgotten. “He can come home with me,” you say without actually thinking about it until she turns to stare at you, expressionless before breaking into a fit of giggles.

“I think Young Master would like that.”

With that, you set off to find Chan.

“No one will love you unconditionally like we do.” “You belong to us, so do as we say.” “Work to kill, kill or you’ll die. You were born to kill, it’s a gift that not everyone receives.” “The world will bow before you and sway the way you want it but you’ll have to-”

“I don’t want any of that,” Chan hisses but the voices keep coming back louder, harsher, with more bite than he has ever heard from them. “None of you ever gave me anything that matters! You just can’t admit that you made me a murderer!!” 

The snow around him sinks with each step he takes, their words still echoing in his mind and sending shivers down his spine, driven so deeply inside his skull that he wishes he could have nothing of this reality. “Be mindful of yourself. Control it.” “Your fangs and claws are too sharp for you to be swinging just at anyone,” he hears them again

His nose burns in the cold but Chan doesn’t notice something warm and wet trickle down his cheekbones. “You never cared about restraint. You said I must kill or I would die. You all just want to possess me, you want me not as an heir but as a commodity!!”

“It’s how we’ve been running this family. It’s how we keep things in order. You’re one of us, Christopher, you are this family.”

With a huff, Chan eventually gives in and listens because he has no other choice but to; he slides down against concrete with a white-out vision, a quivering figure with nothing on but his cardigan. “Then you’re just as godawful as any of them,” he tells himself, knees curling against his chest, almost justified in his own lie that he wants to burst out laughing.

Chan knows they have made him more of a weapon than a child, more of a monster than a man and he is stuck with it for good. He has been holding onto life just because he can, not so much that he wants to. Because he never truly wanted anything before or was wanted in any way.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking man-child!”

He hears someone’s nagging from afar and ignores it, hugging himself impossibly tighter because asking for comfort is unacceptable, they taught him so. “Chan!!” He hopes it goes away with all of the other voices. 

It doesn’t. Instead, it comes closer in a humane form, boots crunching against the snow and warm breaths sounding rhythmically. “It’s been an hour. Do you have any idea how worried we all were- how worried I was?! What the actual hell,” you snap. “Now I’m going to hear all this shit from Seungmin again because I let you run off and he’s too terrified of you to properly lecture you. God-”

Your rambles cut off when you kneel down next to him, rummaging for a scarf, a pair of gloves, yet another pair of gloves, his puffer jacket, and a hat from your bag. Chan quietly watches as he tries to blink away the oncoming tears but he can’t—they keep coming. He doesn’t reply when your scolding goes on because even though your voice is sharp, Chan can catch the worry hidden along the edges. Being cared for and cherished like this has made him realize how much he doesn’t want to come back to his family and he wants to cry like he’s the fourteen-year-old boy who used to refuse to pick up a gun all over again.

A child who was unable to stuff down the overwhelming agony and grief forced upon him. A child who was weaponized. A child who was threatened into killing his own mother. “If you can’t kill what you hold near and dear, you’ll never be able to kill anyone to save yourself.”

“Chan?” you call out to him, unbearably soft. There’s a certainty, a sort of gentleness in the way his name is said that only makes his tears come hotter, more and more of it because your love feels big, overwhelming.

Chan hates crying so he never did, not when they had locked him up in his room, not when they had starved him because of his disobedience, not when they had made him pull the trigger with the gun’s mouth pressing against his mother’s chest. Chan hates crying but it seems to be all he’s doing now. 

You’re wrapping him up so gently and trying to warm him up because you know he’s just as human as any mundane individual out there. Humans shiver when the temperature drops, they shed tears when they’re upset, and they bleed and bruise at the right amount of impact. That’s why humans are so clingy toward each other so they can prevent harm from coming the other person’s way. Because no one enjoys getting hurt and there is no good reason to voluntarily get hurt; it sounds like common sense but Chan never grew up with such things. He never came to think he was deserving of such things.

“Chan, come home with me. Forget your family. I don’t need to know about them,” you smile at him, somehow empathetic and so understanding when Chan has barely given you an explanation, when he is desperate to fill the silence but he knows his voice will be weak with tears, stumbling, and pitching all over the place.

Chan sniffles, finding the courage to say something back because he wants to, not because he feels like he has to, “Can I really…come-come home with you?”

“I’m sure the girls wouldn't mind, they might be a little annoying. Yeji, though, can be wary of strangers,” you shrug, something so relaxed about your posture tells him that you have learned to accept something without telling him. 

A breathy chuckle. “Especially when they’re a mafia leader.”

An exhale. Chan shudders when you embrace him wholly—every moment of pride and arrogance, betrayal and hurt that he has been boxing away—as the beautiful mess that he is. You’re the safest person on the face of Earth not because you are on equal terms with him in power but because you never care about those things. You will let him break something, burn something down, cry, and laugh however he pleases but you won’t ever let go of his hand. You never ask him for anything in return while continuing to save him over and over again.

He’s so unbelievably lucky, Chan thinks but doesn’t say it aloud, instead, he tells you, “If you’ll have me.”

The night after you drive Chan back to your mansion, the place goes up in flames. Only you are able to open your eyes to see the next daylight.

“Welcome home,” you want to whisper but can only watch a last smile bloom on the face of a ghost amidst the orange blaze.

third attempt —

You decide to come home with Chan.

For a non-mafia family, it might go like this.

Meeting Chan’s parents will be the hardest thing you have ever done—and that is coming from someone who has broken through the world’s most modern security systems and got your hands on objects worth billions of dollars. 

You will bow when you meet them, use the politest speech you have taught yourself last minute, and desperately try not to remember how Chan was forced to shoot his own mother as a child. They will pinch your cheek and call you lovely, chuckling at how stiff you are and offering you a ‘Come on in! Don’t mind the mess, it’s always how our house is.’

You will smile and you will play along because you want them to like you so badly it hurts. 

Chan will gawk at you without even trying to hide it because you have given him a completely different experience upon your first encounter. Casual, timid, and quick with your tongues when it comes to those witty retorts.

They will then ask you, ‘‘What are your hobbies? Any sports? Instruments?’’ Purely in the Asian parents’ style. 

You will be so nervous that you forget you play the violin and practice meditation occasionally. You will sit at their dinner table in their cozy, lived-in home, and rack your brain for a proper answer that might be deemed reasonable for a mundane girl. “It can be anything you do for fun, honey. No need to be nervous,” they will say again and you will give them a small grimace in return. 

It’s probably deeply fucked up when the first thing that comes to your mind is ‘I retired from heists a year ago because museums are fucking boring so I have moved on to finding new and creative ways to eliminate anything that might be the cause of Chan’s suffering.’

“…You play the violin beautifully,” Chan will suggest quietly beside you, his hand laced with yours beneath the table. “And you interrupt my reading time whenever you need attention.”

“I…I like to be with you,” you will finally find the courage to say with a firm squeeze of his hand, and the strength to smile when his eyes widen faintly, flustered yet not surprised. 

Still, it doesn’t matter whether Chan was born from a mafia family. You don’t hesitate to hold his hand beneath the table when Chan tenses up from the disappointed gaze of his father, lean over ever so slightly, and whisper, “I like to be with you.” He almost gasps but refrains. “Wherever we are. As long as you allow me to stay by your side.”

For once, Chan lets himself think that he won’t fuck up something before he even gets to have it in his arms. 

You did come home with Chan even if the dinner is anything but cozy and mundane. Their smiles are cold porcelain, a familiarity with death so staggering you feel nauseous. They are all here, though. Every single one of them. “I’ll be back,” you say and excuse yourself to use the restroom, he assumes.

Chan finds an uneasy slick in his throat, almost thick like blood when he sees a bright thing in your eyes. He lets you go anyway. Will things happen differently if he holds you back? 

Minutes after your withdrawal from the dinner table, an explosion goes off downstairs. The mansion quivers with a long string of rumble, a horrible feeling looming over everyone in the room like an ugly shadow. Though, no one bats an eye. Maintaining such a high position in the Underworld for so long is more than enough for the bounty on each of their heads to go up to millions of dollars. 

As much as Chan detests his blood family, he doesn’t want to die here, a horrendous place for his corpse to be found. So he stands as the rest of the room begins arming themselves, doing his best not to pay any heed to his father, and bolts downstairs. 

In situations like this, he is taught to close his heart and kill. Hence why there was barely any screaming when the commotion occurred, only the metallic sounds of bullets being clicked into their chamber. Truth be told, there is a weapon vault on the main floor of the mansion. Chan knows the most efficient shortcut there and can run through any hallways even without any lights on. He did grow up in this terrible place, and now he will make use of that to get you out of here before anything else. 

Chan arrives at the main floor and there is nothing but a giant hole and crumbled metal pieces in the weapon vault—or what used to be the weapon vault, blown up by a bomb it seems. Well, shit, he doesn’t even know how to register this. The entrance to his father’s most treasured place in the mansion has a three-layered door with an extremely lethal surveillance system, who and how the fuck-

He stops. He doesn’t so much as twitch. It gives him a moment of pure chill when the main floor has gone completely muted, both audibly and visually, like his life has just tipped off balance and leaned towards the bad part of a zombie movie. Upstairs, there is a cry for help and the sound of bullets continuously firing. 

“My fucking god,” Chan curses and turns on his heels, steeling himself mentally while rushing up the stairs. 

Upon arriving at the scene, it’s difficult to say whether turning up just five minutes earlier would have made much of a difference. Fuck, but if he had held you back, would things have taken a different turn?

There is a lot of blood. Too much blood to be explained away, and too much evidence to be traced back to no one else other than you. Well, to be fair, you’re the only person still standing and kicking aside from Chan anyway. The shotgun in your hand with a silencer attached speaks volumes, a knife between your teeth, and your left hand is fisted tightly. 

“…Y-Y/N,” Chan utters, in disbelief. “You’re Y/N, aren’t you?” 

You release something in your left hand and several fifteen-bullet magazines drop to the ground, the sound scratching his spine in the wrong way. The knife also hits the ground, metal echoing loudly against hard marble. 

“You’re here, Chan,” you reply, like your hands and clothes aren’t painted red. Swiftly, you duck to fumble for something beneath the dining table. Chan’s gaze follows you suit, prompting uneasiness to crawl down his throat when he realizes everything is, quite literally, drenched in blood. When he manages to snap out of it, you are unwrapping something from a white blanket—Berry, his eight-year-old Spaniel. 

You don’t look one bit surprised to see him—you have been expecting him. You simply keep on tucking Berry neatly into the blanket, murmuring something along the lines of ‘it’s over now’ and ‘I’m sorry I scared you’. Berry offers you a small whimper in return, still startled and recovering from the loud ruckus. 

Chan inhales very slowly. Exhales. “What did you do?”

“I killed everyone here,” you say levelly, as if mass murder is no big deal. “You’re a little late. I thought your intuition would be keener than that.”

“This is no time for a fucking joke,” he snaps. Chan has snapped because he’s mad at himself. He has been living purely by his intuition for more than two decades already, without it he would have died a long time ago. Yet when it comes to you, he’s always the most irrational. 

Your lips twitch like you’re about to smile but realize he’s upset. “You’re right, sorry.” 

Chan moves further into the room, his shoes squelching with each blood-drenched step he takes. He takes the scene in once again and keeps calm because that is what he has trained himself to do ever since the first time he got kidnapped. When his gaze brushes over the corpse of his father, he tries not to think about anything just yet. What’s done is done but Chan can piece the scene together from the explosion downstairs—a bait that anyone will be eager to take and a good way to disarm your enemies—to the scattering of hole-filled bodies, their blood blooming against the marble floor like a grotesque bouquet.

The crux of it is you know all too well he will run to find you without question, lending you the space and time to kill whoever remains.

“Why?”

Your eyes sweep over the mass of bodies, dull and distant. “Does it really matter?” You don’t think it’s fair to say you did it because you love him; it will become a curse that haunts him for as long as he lives. Yes, you love Chan with your entire soul but you also simply want to act as you please, allowing yourself to have your selfish ways of declaring your love for him. 

His chest heaves without any stability. “I thought you said you’re used to taking many things but you don’t take lives!!”

You cut right in, all glass. “Will anyone be able to do anything about it? Can anyone possibly arrest me, Chan?” 

Chan shudders, a sour thing gnawing at the back of his throat. It’s a morbid feeling he knows will become recurring at night, on the bad days. Chan wants to be furious, it feels like a moral obligation to be. Then again, everything the world has learned about empathy is already torn up by his family, they smeared it beneath their feet like it’s common trash. In the end, all of his nightmares and source of fear amounts to this, a mass of corpses with no resolution. 

“Do you want to kill me, Chan? If so, do it. You’re your own person, you are free.” 

Your eyes have turned into ice, and suddenly you have become so intangible that Chan slowly grows afraid. He thinks of terrible things, Am I allowed to have you? What makes you want me so badly? Why am I different from any of them?

The sound of retching interrupts his train of thought. It takes him precisely half a second to stare at how you are folded over your knees, dry heaving at the marble floor with Berry fumbling for help right at your side. Chan rushes to you to keep your hair out of your face as you gasp for air, choking on stomach bile and body raking with shudders. Once his hand smooths over the fabric on your back, you eventually cough and hack out the last of whatever is left that your system rejects. 

You breathe as shallowly as you can. Quiet wheezes, hollow breaths that pull in and out of your lungs too quickly. Chan rubs small, gentle circles on your back and doesn’t expect it when you snap up to look at him with wide, pained eyes as though you didn’t just murder his entire family in cold blood minutes ago, like you didn’t just take out the Underworld’s most feared lineage of demons by yourself.

Chan decides not to say anything, lets you lean into him shakily, and tries to figure out what you’re attempting to do with your hands. Dry blood makes your skin itchy every time your fingers twitch but you don’t mind it. 

“I’m here, I’m here,” he finally whispers with you sitting in the circle of his arms; you’re shaking like you’re sobbing even though you make no noise and cry no tears. Chan lets you squirm with a wild mania in your eyes, frantic and lost. He can’t quite pinpoint what you want until he gets it. 

You stop shaking the moment your head leans against the left side of his chest, right where his beating heart is. A pattern in his rib cage and a rhythm in your ears, relief so immense you feel like you can finally breathe. What you want is just to hear the sound of his heartbeat. It makes Chan feel a little exposed, somewhat scrutinized but he really doesn’t mind taking himself apart to hand his heart over to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, your tone wet and warm with oncoming tears. 

Chan presses his lips into a thin line, feeling like a hypocrite when he keeps you caged in his arms. “What are you sorry for, silly?” From the bottom of his heart, it’s abominable, he thinks—that even amidst such gruesome bloodshed created by your own hands, Chan is relieved that you are not hurt.

“I’m sorry this isn’t real.”

fourth attempt —

Chan is coming home with you. The childhood home you used to grow up in with two extremely loving, a little too oblivious parents who never once questioned their daughter’s occupation in the big city. 

It takes time to adjust but Chan is sliding into your little family without noticing it himself. He manages to impress your mom with his cooking and discusses politics with your dad. You might be going delusional but you swear you saw him chuckling faintly at your parents’ terrible taste of reality TV. 

The house might only amount to one-tenth of his mansion but it smells like fresh laundry all around, tender and soft, smothered in the love of ordinary human beings. So everything just feels that much bigger, a love so warm and overwhelming it stains Chan’s eyes with unfamiliar myriads of emotions. It takes him a few days to finally laugh a little louder, not refraining his speech to specifically formal phrases, and allowing himself to nag you in front of your parents. He even makes a sound of disbelief when you keep telling them he’s only a friend from work.

“Oh my god, why are you so salty about it,” you chide and close your bedroom door. “If I had said you’re my boyfriend, they would have started interrogating you!” 

Chan sits on the duvet you have laid on the floor for him—your childhood bed is too small to share—and mumbles something morbid under his breath, “I am quite good at tolerating any methods of torture thank you very much.” However, he doesn’t miss the look your parents give you whenever you bid them goodnight with Chan hovering over you in a way that’s nowhere near platonic.

You snort, actually, no, it’s too bitter for you to even react. “The worst they will do is leave you out when we watch TV,” you grin to relieve the inevitably building tension, shit-eating and all.

“That’s cruel. You know I love reality TV,” Chan replies, completely monotone. He flings an arm over his eyes like he’s putting in effort to mimic a dying body trying to convey his love in a Shakespeare play. Wrestling with like ten other housewives to buy those eggs on sale for your mom was more of a workout than any gun fights he has engaged in.

“Sleep. Mom said we’re going outside tomorrow,” you huff, tossing him a teddy bear from your bed—the amount of stuffed animals you own is impressive, they easily take up half of your bed so Chan had to accept his fate with the duvet. 

“I thought we’re heading back?”

“We will after going out with her. She said she wanted something from the bakery.”

Chan hums in response, his gaze skimming over the interior of your room again. Light pink wallpapers, white bookshelves and wardrobe lining the corners, and soft hues of blue on your bed and curtains to top it all off. “Truly, you are the designer of a generation.”

“Toddlers usually don’t like black. And I was eight, Chan, shut the fuck up,” you laugh, the sound so hearty it makes him want to bottle it and keep it all to himself like a child hiding his favorite candy. 

“Hurts my eyes a little, but I like it,” he declares and unwinds for the day.

You never realize you don’t really walk around town every time you visit your parents. Maybe it’s because you didn’t have many friends growing up, meaning there’s no one to call up for a hangout, or maybe it’s because all of the memories you want to relive here are with your parents, in the warmth of their home. So you walk down the sleepy streets with laziness on your shoulders, somewhat at peace when Chan can’t seem to keep his eyes in one place, secretly comparing the imageries of bright, colorful Seoul with this hazy rural area.

“What is that place over there?” He asks when you stride past a sketchy-looking building when in reality, it’s a spa run by this really nice old lady upstairs.

“Did you go to school here?” He ponders when you glance at what looks like a middle school; no kids are running and shouting in the playground since it’s the New Year holiday. 

Your mom notices how much curiosity Chan has for an apparent mid-twenties young adult so she giggles, offering to point out something she thinks he might be interested in, “That’s a small park Y/N used to play at. She wouldn’t leave when I came to pick her up after work.”

You can’t decide if you should scowl at your mom or burst out laughing at her implication that Chan, the leader of a notorious mafia group, should go and sit on one of the swings while she heads inside the bakery. “Come on, Chan,” you quickly make your choice. 

Chan sighs, though the sound is fond because he sees a sort of excitement blooming loud and clear in your pretty eyes. You have observed Chan long enough to know when he has given in so you laugh, turning to your mom and saying, “We’ll be back in a minute.” The familiar promise melts Chan inside out but he doesn’t tell you that. 

You accidentally drop your phone while walking down the stone steps so you turn away for half a second. And when you look back, Chan is seated neatly on the swing which is definitely not fitting for his age—his long legs dragging against the soil as his arms are crossed in front of his chest. As serious as he tries to look, you find the whole imagery so ridiculously unserious. He senses your gaze burning holes on the back of his neck so he stands, reaches upward, and lifts himself to sit on the metal bar that the chains rain down from.

“Chan, what the fuck, that’s not how you use a swing,” you chide, nearly rolling on the ground and barking a laugh. “If I take a photo of you right now, how dead am I?”

Chan doesn’t even need to turn his head. “What do you think?”

He looks down when your footsteps squish against the snow and he tries to imagine how a little you would hang around this place for an entire afternoon, up to no good things while waiting for your mom. “Concise as always, boss,” you purse your lips at him, nostalgia a heavy weight on the curve of your shoulders as you peer over places you used to designate as your hiding spots. 

Chan catches something shifting on your face and he ponders; why would you voluntarily involve yourself in outlaw doings when you could have had a perfectly normal life? “When did you start stealing?” 

“Probably when my parents sent me away for university. I hated it. School was hard and the expenses were awful for their bank accounts but they wouldn’t tell me that,” you mutter and decide to join him, legs dangling over the edges, a confession dragged from your lips unwillingly. 

Chan scoots a little closer, a hand reaching over to your left side to keep you from falling. “And you figured you were pretty good at it?”

“Nothing to be proud of, obviously,” you shake your head and can’t help a small grin. “Okay, maybe just a little. I was making money from racing on the side as well.” 

It takes him a moment to register your words when surprise halts the words in his throat. No wonder you’re better at handling car chases than any of his teammates who have been involved in this business for years. You look over at him, seeing that he’s having trouble reacting so you pinch his nose teasingly, “I know, so sexy, ain’t it?” 

Chan rolls his eyes, neglects the warmth spreading on his cheeks, and simply sits with you. The swing creaks and groans beneath the weight of two adults, rust staining his hand when he lifts it to check. 

“It was enough money for me to graduate and I was fine with that. Mind you I was always the top of my class,” you scoff, thinking of long days when you used to get little to no sleep, of when you had mustered the best smiles for your parents through FaceTime, of how you had begun not caring for how much money the jewels you had stolen were worth. 

None of it matters anymore, you think as you lean into Chan, and he lets you. “I’ll guess this, you were homeschooled?”

Chan doesn’t answer immediately as realization tightens his ribs. You don’t talk about home or how you grew up, and Chan doesn’t talk about his parents. Perhaps you both are similar in that way so neither of you mind when the other person never initiated it. “I was. Everything I ever learned was taught in that forsaken mansion. Most of it, actually.”

“Everything?”

“You can’t run away from what you’re surrounded with,” he says, and there’s a chilling edge to it, an icy kind of shiver that makes your fingers more numb than the winter cold ever can. 

“Chan, you’re not them,” you declare out of the blue, eyes crinkling up in adoration. “You are free, okay? No matter how hard they try to ruin you, you can’t become them.”

When you look up again, his eyes have a glassy shine when he says, “I know that now.”

“Don’t cry,” you huff out a breath.

“I’m not crying,” Chan shakes his head slowly, voice suspiciously shaky. “I guess I just thought you had a lot to live for and I was…you know, it was arrogant of me to keep you by my side.”

You laugh, a sharp, crisp bark of a sound that cuts right through his doubts. “Who do you think you’re talking to? If I wanted to run, I would have and no one could catch me, not now, not ever.”

“Well, I did,” Chan retorts, though there is no bite to it.

“Only because I let you,” you play along sedately. It’s the soft hum of your voice that makes breathing for him feel easier, and his shoulders feel lighter. When Chan exhales, it no longer tastes like the unfathomable, untouchable nightmares that he was so used to choke down, swallow, and not allow himself to throw them up as proof to show anyone else. 

Your mom returns perhaps in about an hour, a box tucked in her arms and groceries hanging from her elbow. “Time to go back,” she yells from the top of the stone steps. “We need to cook dinner, kids!”

You don’t dare budge. Chan notices it and nudges your shoulder gently, sensing your discontent. “You heard your mom, come on now.”

“I don’t want to go back,” you disagree. “Let’s stay here. I want to go to the beach with you when it gets warmer. And diving, kayaking, too!”

“You told me to leave my credit cards back home. You’ll have to feed me and pay all of my expenses,” Chan reminds you.

“Guess what, I left mine at home too,” you reply breezily. Maybe you both need to find new jobs. You don’t think Chan should worry about that because there’s nothing that he can’t do if he puts his mind to it, he’s just that great. Chan is the greatest thing there is, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You watch rosy lips part, brown eyes widening as his grip on your shoulder falters faintly. “I don’t deserve good things, Y/N. I can’t stay here with you,” Chan says like he means it. “Tell me to leave.” He really is stupid until the very end.

“If you’re worried about that, I’ll kindly decline my spot in heaven and go to hell with you,” you assure him, your voice chirping with mirth but even that doesn’t seem to elevate his gloom at all. A groan. “Fine then, as the most wonderful person alive, I now denounce us of all our wrongdoings. And I announce us to be the best of normal friends as normal people!”

His solemn expression crumbles and now he just looks straight up insulted. “It’s supposed to be ‘husband and wife’,” Chan nags while fighting off a grin of his own.

A light feeling burgeons in your chest. “I thought you didn’t care about that kind of thing? We’re already doing laundry and taxes together, right? It’s not like we have enough money to buy the rings either.”

“I suppose I’ll have no say in that,” Chan sighs in defeat, finally smiling brightly as he reminds himself of what he has, and what he wants to become for you. “But I like to be with you as well. If you’ll have me.”

You look back at him, wanting nothing more than to burn those words into the flesh of your heart. “I already have you right here, don’t I?”

Because Chan’s existence is etched deeply somewhere inside your soul. And you love him everyday for that.

❖ note (yet again) : hello there, if you have reached the end, thank you so much for reading! I wish 2024 will bring you and your loved ones nothing but happiness and great health! (no one asked but I really tried to simplify their speech of affection towards each other here compared to illicit & priceless because all they really want is to be normal people living a normal life)

[jenni2bameerah]

Her voice was steady and direct. There was no tenderness like there was before when we had such different roles with each other. This was purely professional. A mistress employer letting her employee know what was expected of her. Her tenderness was now for her new husband who I was about to meet for the first time.

And I was to meet him as the family maid. This was what I wanted and my wife was kind enough to put all the necessary legal, mental, emotional, and financial changes in motion. I no longer own any assets or rights to what is now her very large estate. And for a year I have assimilated into this cherish role as the family maid. I live in the small modest studio apartment down in the basement next to the laundry room and am not allowed upstairs unless doing my chores.

Everyone has fallen easily into their new roles especially me. But now there will be a new dynamic as the man my wife married is back from his 6 month business related obligations overseas and is moving into her, I mean, their house. Now, instead of caring for my wife, I mean my female employer and her family I will now be under the power of her husband.

It will be fascinating to follow the orders of a man and one who I understand to be very demanding who expects perfection. That he knows I was once married to his current wife will add such a remarkable and profound power dynamic which I look forward to experiencing. I am also looking forward to making sure his life is more luxurious as I have for the rest of her family.

Oh he just unlocked the door. I must go greet him, take his coat and await his next orders. I check in the mirror over the table to make sure my appearance is un assuming and pleasing.

[maybanksbabe]

𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐋 [𝐈𝐈]

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: days later, you're hung up on what transpired between you and Rafe. Unable to distract yourself, you decide to take matters into your own hands, only for things to take a drastic turn... Maybe having walls as thin as yours is not the blessing you first thought it was.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): pornstar!Rafe Cameron, language, mentions of and descriptions of sex and sexual content, mutual masturbation, oral (m), R is THIRSTY, fingering, overstimulation if you squint, *gasp* and they were neighbours! if I missed anything lmk!

𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: star boy - the weeknd; good kisser - usher; hands to myself - selena gomez

𝟷𝟾+ 𝙼𝙳𝙽𝙸 - 𝙸 𝙳𝙾 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙼𝙸𝚃 𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙽𝚂𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝚈 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺

Days after your first foray with Rafe in his kitchen, you'd been left in a kind of limbo; too shy to ask for more but thinking of nothing else. Things hadn't seemed to change all that much at a glance, but you could feel it in the way you shared glances across the laundry room. Or how your fingers grazed when he handed your mail over first thing on a Saturday morning.

It was getting unbearable and all you could do was suffer in silence. Well, not total silence. Not in the small hours when your vibrator called to you from your nightstand drawer on more than one occasion. It was beginning to affect every little thing you did. Collecting mail from downstairs had you wishing he'd appear and bend you over the sorting table. Swapping your laundry over in the basement made you want to sit on a machine with his head between your thighs as the washer rumbled and vibrated beneath you.

You had a serious problem.

Even midday naps were no longer sacred. Rafe had managed to leak into every aspect of your life since that night. It was driving you crazy. What else could he do? What was he into? So many more questions like that filled your every waking hour. Bu all you could do whenever you saw him was smile awkwardly and offer a small wave.

So who was going to blame you when you saw him picking up a delivery and he was there in his - now trademark - grey sweatpants and no shirt, gold chain hanging perfectly against his collarbones. He hefted the box into his arms and you had to bite back the moan that threatened to excape at the sight of his biceps flexing.

You'd ducked back into your apartment before you could be seen and later that night, the indelible image of those muscles flexing and rippling took you over the edge of white hot euphoria. You weren't exactly shy either with your volume, uncaring if he heard you or not over the equally explicit sounds coming from his side of the wall.

And now, ten days later, you were still harboring that sinful crush on your neighbour, who may or may not already be in the know. Rafe kept his cards close to his chest, that's for sure. Nothing in his outward demeanour had changed, or so you thought as you passed each other in the corridor or made eye contact as you took out the garbage.

You'd also learned some interesting things about Rafe since that night in his kitchen. For example, if he wasn't filming that day, at about one in the morning you could hear him rubbing one out. That was enough to tell you that he could definitely hear you too. Or, when he was filming you heard almost every single one of his co-stars refer to him as Daddy. Not that you'd argue, to be honest.

It must've been a free day for him because you hadn't heard a peep all morning, save for him moving about in his kitchen, playing music. But almost like clockwork, around the 1 AM mark, the faint, throaty grunts and groans started. Unlike the other times though, you decided to indulge yourself.

Your fingers travelled, skimming along exposed skin and pushing your sleepshorts down to your ankles, underwear quick to follow. You closed your eyes as you began working circles against your clit and teasing at your bare cunt. Picturing Rafe hovering over you, your legs over his shoulders as he rocks into you relentlessly, that fucking gold chain dangling in your face with each thrust.

"Fuck..." you moaned, louder than you had originally intended. Rafe quietened for a moment before resuming at a slightly louder volume than before, as if trying to prove a point. His moans and muffled cursing was enough to keep you going, wanting to make it a game of who could be louder, to hell with anyone else in the unit.

That familiar knot in the pit of your stomach already began tightening with each sinful and illicit noise you could hear from Rafe. Even as you tried your hardest to reach that one spot just inside your aching cunt, knowing it would draw out loud, unfiltered moans from you, you kept picturing Rafe in the room with you, pounding into you like his life depended on it or between your thighs like he had been the other night.

"Rafe - oh, shit -" you gasped as you stroked against that one spot inside you and kept your other fingers pressing messy circles into your clit, making you crave the release that was so close.

Next door, Rafe didn't let up either, clearly trying to egg you on and encourage this.. Whatever it was that you were doing. And it was working. A light sheen of sweat beaded on your forehead as you chased the high you so desperately wanted.

Chanting his name like some kind of Holy mantra, you came undone against your fingers. Seconds later, the tell-tale moans had tapered off and now you were both left breathing hard and blinking away the stars from your vision. Enough was enough now. Redressing yourself, you hurried to your feet and made sure to grab a key on your way out. Five steps to the left of your door you stopped and raised your hand to knock, only for the door to swing open and for Rafe to pull you into his apartment.

"Think this is some kinda game?" he snapped as the door swung shut behind you both.

"You started it," you remarked childishly as he backed you up to the nearest wall, caging you in.

"That's not the fuckin' point." Lips connected with a bruising force and it was a good thing he had you pressed up against the wall because your knees damn near gave out.

"You think it's been easy listenin' to you moan my name through the wall whilst getting yourself off? Did you even cum or were you just doin' it to get under my skin?" there was a heavy, breathless pause between the two of you as his hips came flush to yours, allowing you to feel just how hard he was under those fucking grey sweatpants.

"What if it was both?" He let out a sharp sigh and shook his head in disbelief.

"You're drivin' me fuckin' crazy, y'know that?"

"I had an inclination," you replied without missing a beat and reached between you to cup his raging hard-on.

"Minx," he growled against your parted lips, trying so hard to keep his resolve and prove that he had the upper hand in this scenario. Alas, that was not the case.

"And d'you think it's fair that for the last week and a half I've had to listen to you fuck other people and then your hand in the small hours? I can hear everything, Rafe." What compelled you to guide him back to the kitchen table and push his sweatpants down to his ankles, you're not sure, but you were thankful for the sudden confidence. Hi boxer-briefs were quick to follow and before he knew it you were on your knees, mouth open and a hand around his hot, aching cock.

"Shit..." he gasped at the first contact from youur warm, wet mouth and the way you hummed around him, taking him as far as possible until you couldn't manage any more. You stopped, looking up at him like butter wouldn't melt and the rosy flush on his cheeks definitely made the ache in your jaw worth it. You moved slowly at first, well aware of his size and not wanting to do any kind of damage to yourself. Now that you were upclose and personal, the noises you drew from him were so much better thananything you'd heard through your bedroom wall.

"Fuck - God, that mouth -" Braced against the table behind him, Rafe let you do as you pleased and made no attempt to stop you in any of your endeavours. Or keep the volume down, it seemed. There was no shyness in the way he moaned and praised you with shaking breaths, though you supposed in his line of work, shyness wasn't an option.

"You keep goin' like that and I'm gonna embarrass myself," he stated, flushed and breathless as you carried on, not changing anything about the way your lips wrapped around him and how you hollowed your cheeks to take him as far into your throat as possible. His slender fingers wound into your hair and tugged ever so gently, encouraging you to keep going.

With just a few grunts and half-uttered warnings, Rafe became unspooled and came with a sharp gasp. You swallowed all that you could and when you stood up, he pulled you in for the most obscene kiss you'd ever had, the taste of him still on your tongue.

"Goddamn, that mouth of yours... Next time, just talk to me, okay, sweetheart?" It was your turn to get hot under the collar as your foreheads rested together.

"I'll sure try... But maybe we could, I dunno, make this a regular thing?" A toothy grin spread across his kiss-bitten lips and he reached a hand up to cup the side of your face.

"Like a no-strings arrangement? You really that insatiable?" You nipped at his bottom lip and he snapped his teeth in retaliation.

"I can't think of anything better, to be honest. I get it if you don't want to, I'm just offering a means to let off steam," you stated and tried to step away, but he pulled you right back in and swallowed your protests with a languid, messy kiss.

-/-/-

@veescorneroftheworld @drewphyy @dreamingwithrafe @softcoremaybank @outerbankies

[faghubby]

Giving in to my desire

Me and my best friend Pete where sitting close to each other we had done this since we where in middle school. Now home for the first time since college we again found ourselves in my basement watching old points as we jerked each other off. Pete stopped moving his hand at one point and I didn't care. I swirled my hand and teased his balls. He shot his load all over his stomach. The difference this time was I leaned in and licked his stomach.

"What the fuck?" Even said surprised. I just licked up all his cum even off the tip of his dick.

"I am not doing that" Even told me, he no longer even jerked me off.

"I know, I just wondered what you tasted like" I told him

"Have you done that before?" He asked.

"Just my own" I admitted feeling ashamed for it. I looked at him for a second then licked his soft cock again taking it in my mouth.

"Paul, I'm not gay" he moaned his hand grabbing my hair but not pulling me away. he grew hard again in my mouth.

"That feels fucking amazing" he moaned. We where both virgins. I didn't want to stop even after my jaw started to hurt. I tried different things trying to take more of his cock like in all the old porno we had watched. Gagging over and over again. Suddenly Evan pulled my hair lifting me off his cock.

"Listen you want to be a fucking fag and suck my dick fine but you better stop trying to hump my leg" he told me. I had not even realized I had done that. I repositioned getting on my knees and took him back in my mouth. He seemed to just lean back and relax as I sucked him again. After another 15 minutes or so he grabbed my head with both hands as he pumped his load into my mouth. He was grunting loud I was afraid my mom would hear him. I couldn't swallow fast enough he let me go and shot the rest all over my face. I just smiled up at him. He quickly pulled his pants back up. And made an excuse to leave. I was afraid he might say something but then again he had never mentioned our little masterbating times together.

I went into the laundry room. Right there in the basement and cleaned up in the sink. I saw my mom had a pair of her panties soaking. From a stain or something. I'm not gay I thought. But I wanted to suck Pete again. Still horny as he'll not having cum after being so close. Maybe I was a woman? Thennit wouldn't be gay. Mom had several other pairs of panties and bras hanging up. Most where plain simple cotton in pastel colors. But one pair was white lace. They looked so femine. I tool them and stripped sliding them on. Then getting dressed again. They where very tight. My erection sticking out of the waist band.i suddenly had a thought, would Evam fuck me? What did it feel like? I

ed the feel of my mom's panties, the softness, the tightness. I tried to go about the rest of my day wearing them. I loved being so excited I wanted to jerk off. But also didn't want to wanted this felling to continue. Over the next two weeks I sucked Pete off everyday. I also wore my mother's panties, all the time. I had found she had a whole drawer full of "sexy things" she must wear for my father. It made me think if my mom sucked my Dad's cock? What positions they fucked in? Had mom ever experienced anal? I also found a wand vibrator in her drawer but was to freaked out to even touch it. Soon it was time to head back to school. I packed. I took two pairs of mom's panties the white pair I had worn that first time and a pink thong. That was way to small but made me feel so hot. Mom and Dad drove me back to school three hours away. Mom went as far as to "properly clean my dorm room" I just let her do it knowing it was her way. She worried I might get sick or something. She even cleaned my roommates side of the room. I didn't think about it till she went to put my clothes away. She must of seen the flash of pink. I saw as she cupped the tiny panties up in her hand before my Dad saw. Then sent my father on some errand.

"Paul?" She said. Showing me what was in her hand. I blushed a deep red.

"Well I guess they go in your underwear drawer" she smiled. "It's okay" my mother assured me. She finished up the room and insisted on taking me to dinner. Nothing fancy a buffet style place. My mother came right uo behind me as I scooped up a big scoop of Mac and cheese.

"Should watch your figure" my mother said with a smile. Switching her plate with mine. Her plate had a big salad on it. I blushed again and went and sat. My father looked at me odd as I ate my plate as he stuffed steak and potatoes in his mouth. After dinner my parents headed home. Now mom checked in usually every week. So when she called the next day I was surprised.

"Paul, would you like to talk?" She asked me.

"Sure mom, what's on your mind?" I replied

"Little pink panties" she said you could almost hear the smile thru the phone.

"Well, I um" I started

"Do you wear them often? Do you have a favorite color? Style? Would you like some more?" She rapid fired.

"Yes!" I said excited.

"Yes to what?" My mother asked.

"I only tried on a few pairs" I stated.

"Just mine?" She asked.

"Yes, I am sorry" I started

"It's okay, all GIRLS come to an age where they try new things, sexy things" my mother stated. Had she just called me a girl?

"Have you tried it her things?" She asked I was scared to mention Evan. When she added. "Make up? Or even a dress?" She asked. I was excited as I talked to my mom. I explained it was all recent only the past two weeks. I am not sure she believed me. And in truth when I was younger, first time I "helped" Evan I had tried on a dress and shoes. But no more. We had a the longest talk I could ever remember having with her. Afterwards I went and changed into panties. Walking around campus. And attending classes all while wearing panties was exciting. A secret no one knew about.i was careful to change before I went to bed so no chance my roommate would see. The next morning just before lunch my mother called me again.

"I am headed to your dorm" she said excitedly

"You're here?" I asked

"Yes now come let me in" my mother sang. I went down to let her in she had two huge bags with her. I grabbed them as we headed to my room.

"Where's Kevin?" She asked. As we entered the room. Speaking about my roommate.

"He has a class" I responded

"Good, I got you somethings" my mom stated excitedly as she started to pull things from the bag. "Just a few things, but thought I could take you shopping if you like?" she said as if afraid of what I might say.

She pulled out a makeup mirror and then lipstick.

"Not sure how much you want to wear, I mean like a Tom boy, or girlie girl" she giggled. I watched as she pulled out a ton of things I did not even know what they where neverless how to use them.

"Don't worry, I will teach you and if you don't want to that's okay as well. I just. Well I always wanted a daughter." Then as if a light went on.

"OH I never thought, I mean does anyone know? Do you want them too?" She asked as she looked at Kevin's bed.

"Only Evan" I told her. Not wanting to just came out.

"I see" she smiled. I blushed as she had guessed.

"Mom, this is great and all but I don't know" I started she smiled.

"Of course, I am sorry I got so swept up in it all" she told me. We hugged and I hid the makeup along with hair removal cream and pink razors. Blow dryer, curling iron all In my trunk. Mom took me to lunch.

"So Evan?" She smiled as we got our food.

"It's not like that" I told her again blushing. After lunch we wondered around before she had to head back home.

"Okay, now you can use this to buy online if you don't want to go to the store" my mother said handing me a Victoria Secret gift card. She then did something that shocked me. She pulled at the front of my pants. And smiled when she saw the flash of white lace from my panties.

"Mom!" I said totally embarrassed. She just smiled. Then pulled out lipstick from her purse and applied it to my lips right there on the street. I almost came in my pants as I tasted the light pink lipstick.

I was so mortified but also more excited then I had ever been in my life. My mother sensed this and led me straight into a woman's clothing store she looked at me for a second and picked out a simple yellow dress. She led me to the changing room. The clerk a woman of about 50 gave a smile as my mother asked if I could try it on. I didn't argue just went into the changing room and put it on. My mother didn't make me come out to show her. Instead opening the door to peek in to make sure it fit.

"Want ro wear it out of the store?" My mother asked. I just nodded no. She left me to get changed. I was so embarrassed and so happy at the same time. As we headed back to my dorm room.

"Mom, have you ever? I mean. Well anal does it really hurt?" I asked. I felt like I could ask her anything.

"Yes, it does the first time. I think it's more your partner" my mother explained. We talked about sex, something my father and I never has. As she dropped me off

"Paul, in those bags there is one more thing that might help you with your backdoor question" my mother said now she was the one embarrassed. I kissed my mother goodbye.

To be continued.....

[boopernatural]

could you write a light hearted fic where Joel breaks his ankle and Ellie starts hovering bc she is trying to take care of him but also he's a stubborn bitch who still tries to do things while injured.

“-ve got it!” Joel snaps, shoving through the front door as Ellie trails right on his heels. She’s been glued to him ever since he’d left the clinic with his crutches, watching him like a hawk, demanding he take it easy. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into the kid, why she’s all of a sudden such a damn hawk, but it’s gettin’ on his goddamn nerves.

“You have a broken ankle,” she deadpans, “you’re lucky I didn’t tell Tommy to strap you to a bed at the clinic and just keep you there. You’re a fucking headache.”

“I’m a headache?” he demands as she closes the front door and sets his hunting bag down beside it.

“Yeah you jackass. Your bone is broken. Just sit the fuck down and let me handle shit.” Ellie shoves him lightly toward the couch, insistent, and he obliges. If nothing more, to shut her up for five minutes.

With a pained exhale, he lowers himself to the couch, wincing. He’s too goddamn old for shit like this; the nurse on call at Jackson’s clinic had said it would probably take longer than usual for his body to recover, considering his age and wear and tear. That hadn’t exactly delighted him.

The last thing he wants to do is make Ellie take care of him, again. He still has nightmares about it- hazy and unfocused blurs of memories, fragmented and cold. A stiff, stained mattress on a basement floor, pain so intense that he began to not even feel it after a while, numb limbs and a constant throb in his body. He remembers hearing bits and pieces of her voice; she talked to him the whole time, quiet and concerned and terrified. He’d never felt so helpless, leaving her to save his life, putting her own in so much jeopardy.

He can’t stand the thought of her feeling like she has to do it again. Even here, in the quiet safety of Jackson’s walls, he can’t let her be his protector. That ain’t how this is supposed to work.

“Here.” Ellie’s at his side again, holding out a small vial of medication they’d given him at the clinic. Supposed to help relax him so he doesn’t move too much or get too stiff. They hope it helps the pain too, but most things are homemade salves and tinctures these days, so it’s often a guess.

“M’fine,” he argues.

Ellie scowls. “Joel, take the fucking drugs. They told us you have to.”

“Kid, I’m alright, okay? I’m gonna sit here for a second and then start on that laundry.”

“You’re- no the fuck you’re not!”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he insists, hoping to reassure her.

“Yes the fuck I do your ankle is broken!” Ellie exhales with frustration and sets the vial down in front of him on the coffee table. “I’m going to finish cleaning up in the kitchen. Don’t touch the laundry.”

Joel glowers in her direction. He ain’t sure when exactly the kid got it in her head that she can tell him what to do, but she’s sorely mistaken on that.

Grunting in pain, Joel shoves himself to his feet, fingers flexed around the crutch. His movement is shaky, weak, but he manages to get himself standing upright. All he has to do is make it up the stairs, grab the laundry, and he’s golden.

Hell, he leveled a hospital full of armed guards by himself. This ain’t nothin’.

Each step hurts, though it’s bearable. He makes it toward the first step and finds his way up. One. Two. Three. He just has to keep going and he’ll be fine. Four. Five.

Fuck-

His ankle gives out and he topples over, scrambling to catch himself before his head smashes into the landing. He somehow manages to break his fall on his shoulder, which sends a ricochet of pain through his body, leaving him strewn out on the steps.

“Joel?” Ellie’s voice calls out in alarm, and before he can figure out a more appeasing way to present himself, she rounds the corner.

“Oh. For fucks sake.” Her hands are on her hips, looking up at him with disdain in her big eyes. She’s shaking her head before he even begins speaking.

“Listen, I-“

“You are so annoying.” Ellie scolds. “Seriously dude, I’m leaving you like this. I told you to stay put.”

He shoots her a glare. “Good. I can get myself up.”

That ain’t likely, but he’d rather dig himself out of this hole than drag her into it with him.

“Oh my god why are you so fucking stubborn?”

Joel’s teeth grit together. “I ain’t stubborn Ellie, I just don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, you’re doing great, half-dead on this staircase.”

With a patient inhale, he replies, “I miscalculated. It happens.”

“Miscalculated. You’re the worst.” She shakes her head again. “Obviously I’m gonna help you up, stupid.” She begins ascending the staircase toward him.

“No!” Joel surprises even himself with the ferocity of his shout, stopping her in her tracks. She looks at him with disbelief written across her face.

“What the fuck?” Ellie demands.

“I-I don’t need you to take care of me,” he stammers, “I’ve got it, kid. It ain’t your job.”

“Joel,” she says patiently, “is that why you’ve been…so annoying? You think you’re like burdening me, or something?”

Her voice is soft, surprisingly gentle for his usually rough kid. He can see the understanding in her eyes, the sympathy.

With a resolute sigh, he responds, “I know how hard it was on you, everything that happened in Colorado-”

Ellie flinches.

“-and I made a promise that you’d never ever have to be in that spot again.” Joel glances down at his ankle with disgust. “I’m not breakin’ my promise.”

For a moment, she studies him, her expression unreadable and ambivalent. She takes her time with whatever quiet debate she’s working on, before exhaling slowly.

“Man, I get it. That was fucked up, back in Colorado. But…it wasn’t your fault, okay? You gotta stop blaming yourself. Shit happened and we dealt with it, both of us. Don’t forget you came chasing after me with a hole in your stomach, dude.”

Joel winces at the memory, eyes still cast down, unable to meet her gaze.

“We’re here to move forward,” she says in a determined, if not a little shaky, voice. “We’re in this together, just like always. That means we look out for one another. Both of us. Let me help you down.”

Giving him no opportunity to argue, Ellie steps up and grabs him under the armpits. With no warning, she heaves him upright with a groan of effort, giving him enough leeway to grab the banister. Together, they right him with his crutches, and she begins walking him down the steps.

With him situated on the sofa, Ellie holds out the vial of medicine. “I’m not asking, I’m telling. Take this shit or I’ll drug your food with it. Believe me.”

Joel believes her. He downs the bitter tasting mix and sits back against the cushions, feeling vulnerable and raw.

“Listen up,” Ellie says, “you’ve looked out for me for the past year. You’ve protected me and taken care of me, given me everything I needed.“

“That’s my job,” he insists.

“Don’t interrupt me, man! It’s my job to look after you too. We’re…we’re like family now, right?”

He doesn’t miss the slight uncertainty in her words at the end. As quickly as he can, he soothes it.

“Yes, of course.”

“Alright then. Stop bitching, sit your crusty old ass down, and let me do the laundry.”

“Crusty?” he demands.

“Yeah, you broke that thing on day two of your overnight patrol. Crusty.” She turns on her heel and heads back for the kitchen, shouting, “I’m making dinner! Hope you like toast!”

“Long as you don’t burn it again!”

“Literally no promises!”

Joel can’t help the smile tugging at his lips as she goes, even though the thought of sitting down while his kid cooks him a meal makes his skin crawl. He reckons she has a point, at the end of the day.

They are family.

[hillbillyoracle]

What To Do In Tornados

I’ve lived in tornado country pretty much my whole life and to be honest they still freak me out. I also remember how anxiety inducing it was when I first moved out and had to deal with them on my own. So like a message in a bottle to my former self, I wanted to compile what I’ve learned over the years in a skimmable format in case there’s anyone else out there today who could use it. 

Difference between a watch and a warning?

Tornado watch means you have time; think of a wrist watch. Tornado warning means one is incoming, no more time. This is the one I use to remember it.

Or if you prefer the Weather Channels very memeable explanation - tornado watch means you have taco (tornado) ingredients - picture a taco bar. Tornado warning means you have a fully assembled taco (tornado). This is what my partner uses. 

So there are possible tornados in the forecast: 

Make a plan about where you’ll go if you get a warning. It should be the most interior room in your house, well away from any windows. Here we have a walkout basement and I go to the most interior part of it. When I was in an apartment, the most interior room happened to be my bathroom and hallway. If you live in a dorm or other communal setting, they should have a plan in place so make sure to find out what it is.

Take pictures of your rooms and car in the event you need to file an insurance claim. Having pictures of what you own, it’s condition is helpful for filing insurance claims if you need to. Especially if you’re a renter. This is easiest to do when there’s no storms in your area so you aren’t nervous or pressed for time.

Make a power outage plan. A lot of the threat that comes with tornados is not from the tornados themselves but the damaging straight line winds around the tornado. Whenever there’s high winds, there’s a chance to lose power. Consider how you’d eat, drink, go to the bathroom, and stay warm in the event of a power outage. Less necessary but still helpful - consider how you’ll entertain yourself, especially if cell towers go down or you need to conserve your phone battery. Consider what chores - like laundry or dishes - would be good to have out of the way before hand. 

Grab snacks and food that doesn’t need refrigeration. If you’re able to make a grocery store run, grab some food you can eat that is shelf stable and doesn’t require cooking. A good rule of thumb in my experience is three days worth. Most power outages I’ve been through have been fixed in that time and you can more safely evacuate then if you need to go somewhere with power. If you’re like me and have a lot of food allergies (gluten, dairy, soy) - consider baking items ahead of time that can keep well at room temperature like cookies, scones, and breads. 

So you’ve been issued a Tornado Watch:

Check the forecast; you might have lots of time before the storms will be in your area or you might have very little.

Make a plan if you haven’t already. Or check your building’s plan if you live in a dorm or communal setting. 

Make sure everyone involved knows the plan. Don’t assume people you’re with know. I have made that mistake before. 

Charge your phone and electronics. If you don’t currently have a thunderstorm in your area, go ahead and charge your phone, power bank, flashlights, and anything else you’ll want to take with you your safe spot.

Gather supplies to take with you to your safe spot

Minimum: 

Shoes

Phone

Form of ID*

Leash/Harness/Cage for pets 

Explanation of minimum: 

Shoes are important because if you need to evacuate, there’s likely broken glass and other things on the floor that can injure you. If you can’t safely move through it, then people will have to come escort you out which means waiting longer + more risk. 

Phone is important for calling for help and receiving alerts. Also many can double as a flashlight in a pinch.

*ID is helpful accessing emergency housing and medical services if you have to leave your home. If your ID doesn’t list your residence or you don’t have/want to have ID documents on you for safety reasons, consider grabbing a copy of your lease or some mail addressed to you there. You can still access services without this, it just helps speed stuff up. 

Keeping pets on a leash or cage helps keep them safe in the event you need to evacuate with them. 

If you can:

Tote bag

Helmet

Flashlight

Power bank + cord

Weather radio

Water bottles

Some pet food + bowl

Snacks

I put all my supplies in a little tote bag. It’s my storm tote (conference bag I’m never gonna use for anything else).

Helmet is pretty self explanatory. One more way to keep your head safe in case anything falls on you. 

Flashlights help you move around your house if it’s safe to stay in if the power goes out. In the event your house is unsafe, it helps you safely evacuate. If you’re trapped, it helps you signal for help. 

Power bank + cord helps you recharge your phone if the power goes out. When you’re checking alerts and watching streams, the battery can deplete quickly. 

Weather radios of any kind is helpful. Cell service often goes out so the way you’ll get your information then will be primarily through radio. If you’re reading this not in a watch and want to get one, look for ones that will wake you up if there’s a warning in your area. Midland has several. I have a small Sony radio I take with me to my safe spot. 

Water bottles are helpful because they’re highly portable and in the unlikely event you get trapped in your house, you’ll have water to keep you hydrated while help gets to you. 

Pet food is so you can feed your animal without leaving your safe spot since warnings can last a long time. I’ve seen some areas be warned for 1-2 hours before if a storm is slow moving enough. But it’s also so you’ll have some food for them in the event you need to evacuate. 

Snacks are similar to pet food. It’s you food. Just helps you shelter in place. 

So you’ve been issued a Tornado Warning:

Put on your shoes

Put pets on harnesses and a leash or in a cage 

Go to your safe spot and don’t come out until the warning has expired

Especially if the warning is PDS or has some other enhanced tag, try to bring something to cover your head and body with - like a mattress. A thick blanket is better than nothing in a pinch.  

[thereisntenoughspace]

In my parents’ basement between leases

I take a shower late, long after the laundry is put away

and long after my dad began snoring next to my mother who’s still reading.

I’ve been 24 for months by now,

but when the water hits my skin

and the echoes are all the same,

I’m 15 again.

Worried about what I’ll wear in the morning,

It’ll be Monday and I’m

stressed about my Spanish test,

and wondering if my friend are stressed out too.

I’m 16 and washing off my nights of work

and I’m wondering if my phone will ring

before I’m asleep for the night.

I’m 17 and I’m in love

and full of hate all at the same time

and I can’t wait to die,

but I’m desperate to experience life.

I’m 18 again and all my plans have changed

and I’m excited to go.

I’ve always been ready to leave,

and I still want to die, but I have things to do first.

I’m 21

back in my parent’s basement

losing money on time wasted at a college I no longer care about.

Saving up to try being an adult.

Vowing I’ll never live in this basement again.

Funny how home does that to a person;

all your own ghosts are right where you left them, and they know when you’re back to visit.

I’ll remember, this time, to kiss each one goodbye.

I won’t be home for a very long time.

-a.a.s.

[byuteablanc]

One Human and a Whole Lotta Bones! | Skeleharem x Gender Neutral Reader

—

I hope you enjoy this! If you need to find the beginning or any chapter, refer to the links at the bottom of the post!

And if you prefer to read on AO3, click on this!

Chapter Four: Strecrets

You woke up to your 3 AM alarm, groaning. You weren’t able to sleep all that much with work and your homework last night, at least you got a solid… three hours? You knew that wasn’t nearly enough, but it was better than nothing like most days.

You slid out of bed, akin to a slug. Your eyes felt heavy as you motioned toward your undergarment drawer. You opened it, noticing your abundance of socks and other clothing, but acute lack of underwear. You slowly blinked, your sleepy way of frowning without exhausting so much energy. Closing your drawer, you grab your blanket and wrap it around you, taking yourself downstairs to the laundry room.

Walking down the stairs and past the foyer, past the kitchen and the door to the basement, you get to the laundry room and attempt to open the door. But, it’s locked? You slow blink again. You don’t know why someone in their right mind would have a lock on the laundry room of all things, but pondering the necessity of that was beyond your tired consciousness. Weirdly, you heard shuffling in the room, someone was in there.

Sudden the door was opened to a nervous looking Stretch, he smiled down at you. “hey sweetie, what’s brings you to the laundry room at such an hour?” He uttered.

Becoming more awake, you furrow your brows. “I can ask you the same question. I was here to get my underwear, what were you doing here?” You raised a brow, becoming suspicious.

Stretch had a habit of staying up late longer than he should. On nights where you’d be up late or woke up in the middle of your sleep, he could be up and fumbling about in his room or around the house. It worried you a little, but when you’d ask he’d insist he was fine.

“oh nothing, just laying around and staying up like usual. you know me..!” He chuckled faintly, leaning more of himself against the door frame.

You tried to look into the laundry room, seeking your underwear. Considering you’re the only one who wore underwear, they wouldn’t be hard to find. Suddenly Stretch’s body shifted to shield the laundry room from being seen. “need something?” he inquired, trying to act like he wasn’t nervous.

“Yes, I already told you… Stretch let me come inside.” You frowned, your headache starting to form.

You two continued to do the this in-the-door-frame tango until you saw an opening in between his legs. You dived so fast to what seemed to be his crotch that the only thing he was able to react with was to hastily cover his area in defense. Unfortunate for him though, you were definitely not going for his non-existent junk.

You successfully went in between his legs and got into the laundry room. You felt triumphant. You quickly scanned the room for your underwear and—

Was that a sewing kit and one of Edge’s crop tops?

Before you could investigate any further Stretch grabbed your shoulders, turning you to him, away from what you just saw. “You’re the one that sews up everyone’s shirts?” You asked, smiling genuinely.

In your roommates’ mansion, every time someone would get a hole or a tear in their clothes, the next time they got them, the embellishment would be patched up. It was always suspected that Blue or Papyrus was the one who did it, considering they are the ones that take care of the laundry most often. But they had both confirmed that they didn’t do it. You had always suspected it was Cinnabar and he never owned up to it because he would find it embarrassing for the others to know he cared that much. But, you never suspected it could be Stretch!

Stretch is by far the laziest out of all your roommates, even in comparison to Sans, which is nothing to scoff at. To find out that he was the kind one doing the sewing was not only cute, but a surprise.

Stretch sighed, an orange-creamsicle-like color spreading across his cheekbones. “yes…” He looked down, not wanting to make eye contact with you.

“I didn’t know you knew how to sew!” You brought your hand up to your face, this was too cute.

He took his hands off your shoulders. “yeah, i do. just, please don’t tell the others.. let’s just keep it a secret between us, okay?” He smiled his usual smile, finally looking at you.

“Fine, but I want to know, how long have you known how to sew?” You raised a brow.

“since i was a babybones. i used to..” he took a pause, sighing, “i used to make clothes for blue when we were younger. clothes weren‘t always something we could readily afford, so i decided to make them myself. blue always wanted to look cool so when he would mention things to me, i’d make it for him. he would be so happy,” Stretch smiled in reminisce, becoming less tense.

You could burst into tears right there. You had no idea he was so noble! “Oh Stretch, that’s beautiful. I bet Blue was so grateful.”

He blushed again, and more this time. He rested a hand on his neck vertebrae, avoiding eye contact. “yeah, he was. he never knew i made them though, he always thought they were bought.”

“And you never told him?” You furrowed your brows.

“no.”

“Why?”

He deadpanned, looking uncomfortable. “please don’t pry.”

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t know!” Now it was your turn to blush a little. “Either way, you’re very sweet Stretch. We’re all fortunate to have a secret seamstress! And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

He chuckled. “thanks, honey. and you said you were looking for your underwear, right?”

—

“What would you like to have today, sir?”

You and Cinnabar were at your somewhat routine lunch together in a coffee shop on campus. You both tried to commit to something relaxing after every school morning. It gave a way for you both to decompress and relax.

“I Would Like One Order Of Fries Please!” Cinnabar replied.

“Make that two,” You added, taking a sip of your water.

With a nod, your waiter left you and Cinnabar to your own devices.

You always appreciated these lunch sessions with Cinnabar. You got to sit in a little coffee shop and talk, or sometimes you both don’t talk at all. In past, you and Cinnabar could sit at the same table, and be focused on or do two different things at the same time. You both just enjoyed each other’s company. It was refreshing to have that relationship.

“So, how was your morning class?” You inquired, tilting your head slightly.

“It Went Well! I Didn’t Fall Asleep And I Think I Took Useful Notes?” He furrowed his brows in thought. “Fortunately For Me Though, We Get To Actually Model Cases Next Class. I’m Glad I Won’t Be Bored.”

“Cases?” You asked, confused.

Cinnabar rested his elbows on the table, folding his hands together. “Cases As In Like.. Lawsuits For Example. We’re Going To Model What A Court Proceeding Would Actually Look Like.”

“Oh no I got that part, I’m just not familiar with law terminology.” You shrugged, taking another sip of your water.

“That’s Fair, I Didn’t Know Any Terms At First Either.” He smiled, resting his weirdly malleable chin on his folded hands.

“What brought you to go into law anyway?”

“Money.”

“Oh!” That was fast.

“Well! Not Only That! I Also Wanted To Do It Because I’m Also Magnificent At Debate And Wont Stop Until I’m Right.” He smirked, very sure of himself.

You raised a brow. “Oh really? I’ve heard from the others and have seen sometimes that you’re pretty strong. If anything I could see you being a pilates instructor or something.”

He blushed a little, clearly flattered. “Well, Darling, I Do Have Legs Of Steel And Arms That Can Carry A Couple Tons. But Alas, My Beautiful Physique Can’t Make Up For How I Don’t Quite Like People Around People Very Much.”

“But you’re around me and I’m a people.” You folded your arms in skepticism, pointing a thumb to yourself in the process.

He gave you a half lidded look, smiling in seemingly pure bliss. “Oh Y/n, You Are A Completely Different Case.”

You blushed, quickly averting your gaze. Funnily enough, Cinnabar didn’t quite realize what he’d said. Usually, saying something like that wouldn’t be a problem but the way he said it was… He was looking into you dreamily, and you knew what that meant.

Realizing his actions, he recoiled, scrambling to find something else to say through his embarrassment.

“SOOoooo, Who Do You Think Is The Mystery Seamstress?” Cinnabar said quickly, avoiding eye contact.

You straightened up, recalling your recent discovery earlier in the morning.

“I have no idea.” You replied, trying to seem genuine.

“I Know Right! It’s Such A Mystery! At This Point I’m Suspecting Stretch, And I Most Certainly Don’t Want Stretch’s Dirty Hands On My Clothes.” He glared into the distance, arms crossed.

You grew slightly nervous. “Stretch isn’t dirty!” You frowned, reprimanding him.

Cinnabar eyed you skeptically. “Dearest, Don’t Defend That Pack Rat. Besides, You Know Yourself That Stretch Taking A Shower, Let Alone Brushing His Teeth, Is An Urban Myth.” He swatted his hands towards you in disgust, having an envious look in his eye lights.

You always assumed he was probably just going through something, even though every time he walked past you, you noticed that he seemed to have a literal green trail flowing behind him. “Even still, Cinnabar, I think that Stretch being our possible seamstress is super cute! It would show that he cared.”

Cinnabar sighed, conceding. “I Suppose,” he rolled his eye lights. “But, He Still Doesn’t Bathe. That’s Nasty.”

You exhale, chortling a little at the same time. “Can’t let anyone off the hook too easily hm?”

“Absolutely Not.” Cinnabar smirked.

—

With Stretch In the Skeleton Mansion..

An assortment of yarn was strewn about the room, along with a couple of crochet hooks and a few knitting needles. Stretch, making a crochet star out of boredom suddenly piqued up, then shrunk into himself.

”why do i feel judged?”

——

Previous | Current | Next Chapter

[sirfrogsworth]

Looking Forward

If I trust my brother... and he did my dad's will properly... and set up my trust correctly... then I should be able to stay in the house for roughly 2 years.

If I trust my brother.

Then I can either sell the house and use that money for a small apartment or try to find a roommate situation to help me stay in the house a little longer. The nice thing about paying the mortgage is I can get most of that money back if I ever do sell the house. It's almost like a savings account with all my stuff inside.

Let's just hope the property value doesn't plummet for some reason. Though it has been around the same amount for many years.

I like living in my house. It's what I've known for 30 years. But being alone in the house is going to be a hard adjustment. After two years (or sooner) I may want to move near Katrina or Delling so I am closer to a support system. I wish we could all live next door to each other. Or live on a farm/ranch situation. And instead of chickens it is just a bunch of free range corgis.

I tried convincing Katrina to build a pool house, but she has a small backyard and no pool. HOWEVER... Apparently Florida has a lot of "mother-in-law suites." I had no idea that had a name, but I could be Katrina's mother-in-law. I have the skill set to guilt trip, make passive-aggressive comments, and judge how she raises her future kids. (And any other outdated stereotypes I've learned from 80s comedians.)

But I also like the idea of having a roommate. I could accommodate a single person or a small family. And I'd love to have an animal of some kind around. We have a huge fenced-in area left over from Otis.

I think I could offer someone a pretty sweet living situation. I have a full basement apartment that I reside in and so the entire upstairs is available for people to live in. I could charge cheaper rent than a cheap apartment in exchange for helping with chores that I struggle to do.

There is plenty of furniture and appliances ready to use. Full laundry room. I've got a really nice home theater in the living room so they can watch movies in style. I also have a few hundred TV series and several thousand movies on Plex. They get a full kitchen and bathroom to themselves. Plenty of garage space and a long driveway to park vehicles. They can have up to 5 rooms to do whatever in. They could do 3 bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a small den area. My mom liked the den because she could watch her Judge Judy shows while my dad watched JAG in the living room.

If they don't have a family, they could convert 2 of the bedrooms into office space or craft rooms or S&M dungeons. They can decorate any way they'd like. But they have to keep the sex swing clean so I can use it. Not for sex--I just enjoy centripetal forces. And they'll have great privacy as I will be in the downstairs apartment. They'd only see me if I exit the house or if they invite me to dinner or movie night.

All they would have to pay is whatever I can't cover. I'd estimate in the $600-$800 range once the trust fund runs out. Plus the chores like cleaning and yard duty. That's a good deal, right?

The only downside is the house is in a deteriorating neighborhood. Businesses are closing and people are moving away. Our street is pretty isolated so there isn't much danger or crime. But we are adjacent to a dangerous neighborhood and the schools aren't great. That said, while there isn't much around here, in St. Louis you are always ~25 minutes from anything you need. The highway is literally down the street so driving to anywhere is fairly hassle free.

Also, I'd be happy to lend out the car for transport to a job. I'll only need it to get groceries every few weeks. They'd have to get added to my insurance and help with gas and maintenance.

Soooo... yeah, I think I have a lot to offer with my house.

They do have to be okay with my big subwoofer rattling things. The sound doesn't really travel through the floor, but the vibrations can. I can tone it down if they are sleeping though.

Oh! We also have a huge workshop on the property too. It could be used for working on cars or woodworking or an art space. It has electricity, lighting, heating and is perfect for anything that requires getting dirty. If that makes sense.

One idea I have been considering is seeking out an unhoused queer individual who was kicked out or is struggling to afford a decent place. If their parents don't want them, maybe I could provide a safe place. Things are so scary for LGBTQ+ folks right now. Especially in Missouri. St. Louis is a pretty blue city, but Missouri is a blood red state. If I could do something small for someone like that, I would be happy to help. Could be mutually beneficial.

So those are all of my thoughts and ideas as of now.

Again, if I trust my brother, I should have a decent amount of time to figure things out.

If things go sideways, I might be screwed.

So far he seems to be doing all the things he should be doing to get me sorted.

I'm going to choose to trust him.

With my life.

Oof.