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sophiethewitch1 · 4 months

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What We Want - Chpt. 1 - Not Quite An Isekai

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

You awake to the sound of your phone ringing. You slap to the edge of your couch, aiming for the rickety side table. Your wrist smacks against the corner, and you hiss in pain. It’s a few inches too high, and wood, not metal. Seems you somehow got to your bed during the night, but you didn’t remember it. Still, you get your phone. Through squinted eyes, you find the screen, its 3:15, far too early for your drunken suffering- Wait no, it’s mid-afternoon. Still, you feel tired, and you want to sleep.

You answer the phone anyway, putting it on speaker and resting your head back against the pillow. Your head doesn’t hurt that bad anyway. God was smiling down on you today.

“Miss, are you awake?” a man’s voice rings through your apartment.

Who was that? Who called you Miss of all things? Your boss didn’t remember your name sure, but he just called you ‘intern’ instead. You’d been an official employee for six months now. Right, conversation, paying attention, replying like a normal person.

“Hm, yeah, I’m awake,” you say, fighting back the urge to yawn.

“You don’t sound very awake, Miss,” the man replies, his tone familiar.

“Who is this?”

He sighs, “Miss, are you being sarcastic?”

“What? No, I’m serious,” you confusedly answer.

“…This is Alfred, Miss. Now, Master Wayne has asked me to-”

“Master who now?” you cut this Alfred off, doubly confused now. Wayne? Like, the Wayne family? The rich, philanthropist one?

He sighs again, “I understand the relationship between the two of you is quite strained, and this is a personally difficult day for you, but he insists on seeing you. Your birthday gala starts at 7, as I’ve told you, and your assistant will be over at 4. I ask that you unblock both their accounts, as I would much rather I didn’t have to talk to you when you’re like this.”

“What?” you repeat, like the idiot you are.

“Good day, Miss. And happy birthday.”

He hangs up. You blink down at your phone. And then you roll your eyes, because oh my god are Molly’s pranks getting ridiculous. You never should have told her about your weird fascination with the Waynes, she was getting back at you hard for your drunken mistake.

You make a lot of those. Well, life goes on. You’ll put glitter in Molly’s car’s vanity mirror or something.

You turn off your phone, and let your face slam right back into your pillow. For a while, you try to go back to sleep.

��Something about this isn’t right. You, like the freak you are, take a deep inhale of your pillow. It smells like you, like the laundry soap you use, but it also smells like… Well, you don’t know. All you can think about is your new boss’s wife and her awful perfume that swallows the office space like noxious gas.

Your pillow… kind of smells like that. Your first ungodly thought is that, somehow, you spent a torrid night with your boss’s wife. The second is that Molly needs to die for her crimes.

You let your crusty, bleary, stinging eyes blink open.

Hm. Why is there a chandelier in your bedroom? You shoot upright in the bed, silk sheets falling to your lap. Silk sheets you can’t afford. You look around the room, eyes widening at the space. The bed is king-sized, while you had barely been able to afford your twin-sized mattress. The living room isn’t in the same space as the bedroom. You can’t see the kitchen and the bathroom to your right has shining marble tiles. And even then, the decoration’s are luxurious and clean, compared to your livable chaos.

You look to your left, and your mouth drops open.

A floor-to-ceiling window, showing the Gotham horizon with the morning sun. Fog and clouds twist around spiralling gothic towers, reaching down to the people down below. You’re looking out over the bay, and you can see the Narrows barely peaking through the mist, desperately clawing for any sunlight.

The sun rises on the right of your building, not the left. You don’t have a view, you’re on the fourth floor and there’s a brick building directly across from your window. You live in the Narrows.

You live in the Narrows. You press your face to the cool glass and look down. Oh my god, you can’t see the streetside. You’re too high up. You’re somehow on the opposite side of Gotham City.

Stumbling away from the window, you do your best not to touch anything, because you know it’s all too expensive for your peasant hand. Let’s start thinking… whatever was happening to you, through. Molly might kidnap you for a joke, sure, but she was barely any richer than you, and that was just because her boyfriend lived with her. She could not afford this level of fuckery.

So… so… is this, what? A big joke from the universe? Did someone else kidnap you? You have to have been kidnapped, right? Why the fuck would someone kidnap you?

Did the Joker kidnap you? Was he coming to finish you off? End your family line?

You reach down and pinch yourself hard enough you yelp. When the dazzlingly perfect apartment doesn’t disappear, it’s much harder to force yourself not to panic. Okay, okay, okay. It’s fine. This’ll be fine, and it could still be a dream. That whole pinching thing was a myth, right? Argh, maybe you should’ve listened to Molly when she was trying to get you into astral projection.

Wait, Molly!

You go back to your bed and pick up your phone.

It’s… it’s not your phone. What was this? The iPhone 27? You didn’t keep up with those sorts of things, but it looked expensive. Everything here looked expensive.

You think you’re going to go into anaphylactic shock. Wait, no, it’s hyper-something. What was it? Argh, you can’t do this right now!

You press your thumb to the ‘on’ button, and luckily whoever this phone belongs to is not worried about their privacy because there's no password. Stupidly, you look for Molly’s name in your list of contacts.

BLOCKED - ‘Bruce Wayne’

BLOCKED - ‘Damian Wayne’

BLOCKED - ‘Dick Grayson’

BLOCKED - ‘Tim Drake’

‘Alfred :)’

BLOCKED - ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’

You drop the phone. Because the floors, even in the bedroom, are marble, it shatters like glass. You make a sound like a dying chicken as you watch the piece of technology make a bouncing break for the bathroom. It slides to a stop against the giant hot tub, and you pick it up and cradle it between your palms like a newborn.

The screen still works. Even if it’s cracked to high heaven and takes multiple attempts to turn it on, it still eventually does. Thanks God, won’t forget this. You hiss as you open the contacts again, pricking your fingers against the sharp edges.

As fate commands, you click on the ‘Bruce Wayne’ contact. The description is very simple.

‘Massive dickhead. Hope you jump off a building and fall like a rock.’

You go back. Click on ‘Dick Grayson’.

‘Massive dickhead’s beloved firstborn. Most annoying man on earth congrats.’

Again. ‘Damian Wayne’ this time.

‘Massive dickhead’s massive dickhead. Demon? Grinch? Somebody kill it with fire please.’

And finally, ‘Tim Drake’.

‘The only acceptable one.’

…Well, at least your kidnapper liked one of the Waynes. Maybe they kidnapped you because you were their opposite or something? You definitely wouldn’t call Bruce motherfucking Wayne a massive dickhead. Or maybe they wanted to kill you.

The Molly prank idea was becoming more sound. Maybe she won the lottery and didn’t tell you.

You click on ‘Alfred :)’. He’s the one that called you earlier and also called you ‘Miss’, for some reason.

It’s just a bunch of heart emojis. Coherent, sure.

You go back, and click on the final of the list, ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’.

‘Don’t listen to Alfred. She wants to eat you.’

She wants to what?

A knock at the door has you jumping a foot in the air and nearly banging your head on the bathtub’s lip. You hear someone call your name through the door, and you freeze. Who… how? They call your name again, this time their voice louder. They bang on the door.

You creep over to the door.

“Ma’am, if you don’t open this right now, I’m quitting! We both know Alfred contacted you this morning, and he’s going to be very upset if I do so. There’s only so many assistants in this city!” from this close, you can recognise the voice belongs to a woman. She rattles the doorknob.

You lean down, peering through the peephole. The woman has a harsh face, a perfect pencil suit and her blonde hair in a pretty updo. Her makeup is impeccable. You get the feeling this woman is also more expensive than you can afford, despite her calling your name.

Bewildered, you open the door. She slams through like a battering ram, strutting 6-inch stilettos into the space.

She huffs, and then turns around. You can see very clearly she’s trying to keep her calm, but you did leave her at the door for like five minutes. It wasn’t your fault, you thought you were hallucinating or something.

“Ma’am,” she stresses the word, “Please unblock me.”

You blink at her, “Uh, sure.”

She waits, her hands clasped together in front of her.

“Oh- oh, right now?” you stutter, pulling the phone out from your noticeably lavish pyjamas.

Wait had someone changed you in your sleep? What the hell was going on? Maybe you should be more concerned about that, honestly. Still, you do as she commands.

She watches you like a hawk as you stare at the cracked phone. Your eyes flick up at her, and then back down at the screen. Slowly, watching for her reaction, you unblock ‘The Wicked Witch of the West.’ She nods, not even commenting on what was apparently her name in ‘your’ phone.

You were still slightly concerned about the ‘She wants to eat you’ thing, but she seemed… alright. Kind of scary. But not cannibalistic.

Still, this was Gotham after all. A healthy dose of fear was what kept people like you alive.

“Ma’am, did you just wake up? It’s already 4 o’clock,” she gives you a subtly disapproving look, and your shoulders sink like you’re being scolded.

“Yeah- yeah, sorry about that,” you stammer, embarrassed for some unknowable reason. This really was just like a dream. You could tell something was very obviously wrong, but you were still going along with everything like it wasn’t. Everyday life.

You were going to focus on that, this had to be just a dream. Just go along with… this, and then you’d wake up. And if you could manage to get over the uncanny valley-ness of the very obvious wealth surrounding you, maybe you could enjoy it.

You had always wanted to be rich. This was just your brain spewing out random information. Better than the nightmares you usually get.

You’re abruptly pulled back into focus when the woman clears her throat loudly. Ah, shoot. Had she been talking? You definitely hadn’t been listening.

“We need to get you ready, Miss,” she says like she’s repeating herself. You nod, because yes, of course, getting ready.

Ready for what? You think if you ask her she’ll yell at you. So when she grabs your arm and tugs you along, you follow. She pulls you into the bathroom, sitting you down in front of the mirror on a stool. Because this bathroom has stools in it. You stare at your reflection warily, before glancing up at her behind you.

“The stylists will be here in about forty minutes, and the makeup artists in two hours,” she pauses, giving you a strange look, “I appreciate you being so cooperative today. I understand this is all a delicate matter, but I am under Mr. Wayne’s orders first and foremost.”

“Wayne… like Bruce? Bruce Wayne?” you ask, even though there’s really no one else it could be. Still, you have to check.

Because it’s impossible. Even if it’s a dream, it still feels completely impossible. There was just something inside you that said ‘that can’t be right’, even if you knew none of this was real.

You realise, quite late, that you don’t even know this lady's name. ‘Wicked witch’

“Yes, Ma’am. Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises,” she answers you, pulling out her phone and flicking through it. She doesn’t even respond to what you have to assume is an inane question. Maybe ‘dream you’ often asks stupid questions.

‘Normal you’ certainly does.

“Oh… okay…” the conversation drifts off, and she makes no attempt to fill it. Aren’t P.A.s supposed to… you don’t know, fix that? Or maybe she’s not your personal assistant, just an assistant. Silly you, making assumptions.

This bathroom deserves assumptions. You wonder if the gold frame of the mirror is, y’know, real.

The blonde woman walks out of the room without speaking another word to you. You think maybe you should follow her, but instead you just sit there with your hands on top of your knees. Your leg bounces up and down, and you glare it into submission, ignoring the way your muscles jump.

You look at yourself. You look… different. The bags under your eyes are worse than usual, and your gaze sunken into your face. Your hair is sad and oily, knotted in places. Your skin is almost waxy.

You look sick. You look like… you remember, you look like…

In the light of the day, you refuse to think about it. You’re not allowed to, you’ll break if you do.

You just don’t. Even if your reflection just confirms that you have to be dreaming.

Instead, you turn your gaze to the tub. You raise your hand to your hair again. Back in your apartment, you’d had a shower. It was a surprisingly good shower because you’d invested in a showerhead with better pressure. Still, it wasn’t a bath.

You missed bathes. You get up, close the door, lock it, and sink inside the tub. You take off your silky pyjamas inside the bath, and then you toss them on the floor beside you. Sitting there, you watch through the giant window at the world down below. At the ravens and pigeons that fly through the fog, at the few people you can see through the windows and balconies.

You press your cheek against the glass. It’s cold. You’re cold.

You’re sitting in an empty bathtub naked. What are you doing?

Rubbing at your eyes, you reach over to what you think are the controls. They all look very complicated, but there’s a switch that goes from blue to red, so you turn that. It takes another button press for the water to start flowing out. Steam fills the room, and you let out a sigh of contentment.

“Ma’am! Ma’am, the stylists will be here in ten minutes, and you need to get out. Ma’am? Ma’am!”

You shoot up in the bath, splashing water over the overflowing sides. Blinking, you turn your head back and forth and then sink back down. Oh. You’re still here. You went to sleep, but you’re still here. Maybe it’s one of those dreams where you think you wake up, but you haven’t. Or, ah, something similar.

You feel so tired. You really, really didn’t miss this feeling.

Quickly, you wash your hair and body, scrubbing furiously at the oily sweat on your skin. You stumble out of the bath on shaky legs, dry yourself off, and almost trip in your haste to get out the door. Showing off your negligible intelligence, you only realise you’re still wearing just a towel till she manhandles you towards the closet.

A walk-in closet, because of course it is. You think it’s bigger than your apartment. It has a flat bench in the centre because evidently all the walking around you’ll be doing will require a fainting couch.

The woman gives you, horrifyingly, a set of lacy, racy underwear. When all you do is just gape at her, she sighs, takes them from your hands and gives you a simple black set with no frills. You look down at them clasped in your wet hands. They’re clean, and they seem to be your size.

Still, this is a bit…

“Are these… new?” you ask, because there’s no tag or anything.

“Yes, Ma’am. But if you want, we do have some sets still unpacked at the back of the closet,” she says, going along with your weirdness. Even if she was a bit scary, you were grateful for that, at least. You guess celebrities were usually quite eccentric, so maybe this wasn’t out of the ordinary for her.

“Yes, please.”

She gives you a pair of Victoria’s Secret bra and underwear, plain beige and still in their plastic packaging.

“Cool, sweet, thanks,” you say, and she shakes her head just slightly.

She puts a white bathrobe down, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. You lock it, and then you put on the underwear that you did not buy. The whole experience is strange, but still, you just go along with it. You’re a go-along-with-it kind of person.

You were… you were starting to not like that all of a sudden. Still, out of your depth in an odd dream is no place to start doubting your entire personality. You put on the bathrobe too. And the fluffy slippers that are tucked under them, with great pleasure.

You hear the many voices before you open the door. When you step through it, you feel like you’ve stepped onto the set of a movie. Or well, the backstage at least. Women and men are flittering about the chic apartment in the sort of rush you’d only seen working at BatBurger.

The woman from before spots you and you feel like a rabbit under a hawk's gaze when her brown eyes narrow on you. She strides over to you and then, once again, clamps her grip around your wrist and drags you over. You wonder as you stumble after her if she’s got some meta-human in her because no slim, perfectly put-together lady should be this damn strong.

She pulls you towards a set of three people. You can immediately tell they’re the heads of the operation, with an aura that squashes you like a pancake. Two women, one man. They’re all dressed to the nines, in their own unique ways.

They all look at you with assessing glances. You fear you do not measure.

“I’m surprised, Jeanine. You actually got her this time,” a woman with a black bob and a rocker look comments, her red lips twisting into a grin. You realise, with a start, that the blonde woman who was not incorrectly nicknamed ‘The Wicked Witch of The West’ was actually called Jeanine.

Lovely, you were getting the hang of things.

“Yes, she was very agreeable this afternoon. I’d like to apologise once again for any past issues,” Jeanine says, all business. You still have no idea what’s going on, and definitely no idea what they’re talking about. But what you assumed was the jist of it… was that ‘dream you’ wasn’t a very harmonious person.

Lovely, lovely, lovely. This was a bit of a personal nightmare for a people pleaser like you. Actually, it was a literal personal nightmare. Lovely.

“The disrespect I’ve faced is immeasurable. But, Monsoir Wayne pays exceedingly well. Still, it’s nice to actually have our dear client before us,” the other woman says, appraising her french tip nails. Which, considering she said ‘monsoir’ and the whole accent, would make a lot of sense. She’s closer to a classic beauty than her punk rock friend, with brown hair coiled and beautiful pearls across her neck.

“I don’t know, I thought I’d be getting paid for doing no work tonight. Ruins my plans,” the man teases, and you’re relieved at the kindness in his gaze. He’s wearing a suit with a dazzling but trendy red tie. His tie has an odd metallic sheen to it, a fabric your peasant mind couldn’t place.

If Molly were here, she’d jab you in the stomach with an elbow and whisper “One of those homosexuals, me thinks” even if she was bi herself.

You wish Molly were here.

“Yes, well, I’d like it if we could all work together tonight. And get to it quickly, the drive to the Wayne Tower isn’t a quick one with the evening traffic, so, if you’d please.”

And that was that. No introductions, no extra pleasantries. You were swept away in a whirl of fabric and hair products.

They stuff you into a gorgeous evening gown, its colour reminding you of a sparkling midnight sky. Rhinestones dot down the sides, coalescing at the bottom. You hope they’re not real diamonds. Gloves, a bracelet, a necklace, and dripping pearl earrings. It was all impeccably put together, and you felt uncomfortable with such items on you. You didn’t dare ask how much it all cost, despite being desperately curious.

They slip towering 6-inch stilettos on you despite your protests, cake your face in enough powder to make you sneeze. Dramatic liner and eyelashes that felt heavy on your face, a lipstick that had to be coated twice because you chewed on your lip with nerves.

And then you’re done, dizzy and confused but thoroughly made up.

You get one quick look at your reflection before Jeanine is pulling you up and out of the seat.

They’d gotten rid of the signs.

You ignore the part of you that desperately wants them back and follow Jeanine out into the elevator.

Despite the fact that it is, in fact, a very long drive to the Wayne Tower, she does not seem inclined to say a single word to you. The ride is awkward and quiet, broken only by the sound of you pressing buttons in the back of limousine, and even that stops when you get an unimpressed look from her.

So you just sit there, vibrating at frequencies unseen by man.

When you finally arrive at Wayne Tower, the crowd shocks you. There are so many paparazzi, nearly overflowing the flimsy barricades and onto the carpeted marble entryway. The tower itself is a display of outrageous wealth, towering over the rest of Gotham City easily. You think for a while it’d been the tallest building in the world, but you couldn’t remember your elementary school education all that well.

It wasn’t like this information would’ve been useful at any point in your life. You still don’t think it will be, as this is all a very vivid dream.

The door opens, and immediately you’re overwhelmed by the camera flashing. You hunch away from the lights like a vampire, but Jeanine pushes you forward.

“We’re already very late, Ma’am. No time for faffing around,” she says from behind you, hand placed squarely against your back.

What? But all you’d done was rush around all afternoon! You know, if you’d just taken one of the trains or even the Skyrail you’d have been able to avoid this. Still, you’re out the door, up the steps, not given a moment to react to the questions thrown at you.

“Miss! Miss, are you here to celebrate your birthday? Don’t you think it’s a bit callous to ignore the tragedies of today?”

“Miss! Is it true you’ve been disowned?”

“Miss, miss, about your family…!”

Oh, well, even if what they’re saying is awful, it’s a relief. It’s your birthday again. You think the guy who had called you said happy birthday. That meant none of this could possibly be real. See? It had to be a dream. Had to, had to… You decide to ignore literally everything else they say, letting the words float through your very hollow brain.

Life’s a lot easier when you play it a little stupider.

The heels and the stairs are an awful combination, and if it wasn’t for Jeanine’s herculean strength you’re certain you’d be tumbling down them right now. Your assistant… secretary… lady is careful not to let that happen, however.

Maybe you judged her too quickly. You appreciated anyone who made sure you didn’t fall flat on your ass. It was a good quality for a person to have.

You don’t get to appreciate the Wayne Tower all done up. You don’t get to stare at the lights and flowers strung into the art deco rafters. You don’t get to stare and gape and look like an idiot, because Jeanine wants you to look like an idiot elsewhere.

In the middle of all these fucking random rich people you don’t know. Hurray!

You’re shoved into a group of people, with Jeanine at your back. She starts rattling off names and titles and relations, and you can’t make heads or tails of any of it. You turn to look at her with what must be a genuine deer-in-headlights fear, and she stops and then starts speaking slower.

Thank God for that. Well, since she’s making an effort, you do too.

“This is Lianne Jenkins, wife of Senator Jenkins,” Jeanine whispers into your ear, and you nod. You knew him, you’d voted for him, in fact. How the fuck were you here talking to his wife? She’s not looking at you, instead talking to someone beside her. She turns, and you put on the best smile you can.

The socialite physically startles when she sees your face. Great.

“Oh- oh my!” her voice stutters over your name like she can barely even remember it, “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight, it’s a pleasure to see you!”

It… it was your birthday party, right? Your name was on a giant banner at the back of the room, so you had to assume it was. Dream logic. Just- just blame it on dream logic.

“Oh, look it’s Gerald! I’m sorry my dear I really have to-”

And she just ditched you. At your birthday party. You blink at the space she just evacuated and then turn around to Jeanine. You probably give her some sort of weird Kubrick stare, and she winces. She then looks around for someone else for you to talk to. From the growing despair on her face, you can assume she doesn’t find anyone.

“I don’t want to be here,” you say.

“I said I’d quit, remember?” she replies. You think she’s lying to you. She looks about as desperate as you feel, which is a lot. You were seeing a lot of sides of ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’ today. She seemed less wicked and more generally insane. Hey, at least the two of you had something in common.

You turn away from her, eyes roving over the party. You recognise some people, because you know, they’re all rich and famous. That guy over there was in a movie you pirated recently. The one on your right seems to be someone important in online tech spaces. You think he did NFTs or something, which made you sad because you did not want that sort of person at your birthday party. Oh, the woman on the other side of the room eating canapes is an Instagram influencer, you think. The fantasy of a Wayne party gala is fading fast, falling out of the sky like a comet of fire to bring doom and death to mankind.

You are so out of your depth.

You turn back around to Jeanine.

“I really, really don’t want to be here,” you repeat, and Jeanine, shocking you, grabs your hands in hers.

“Please stay. Just for thirty minutes, please,” she begs you, her dark eyes pleading. And because you are the living personification of a doormat, you sigh.

“Alright. But only for thirty. And I’m getting very, very drunk.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be right beside you the entire time-”

You decide, oh so kindly, that you are totally ditching Jeanine, too. Spinning in your dress, you make a grand effort to get away from her, but she dogs you loyally. The goliath-like heels you’re wearing don’t make it any damn well easier. Still, you don’t stop trying to outrun the tiny, control freak of a woman. Because while she definitely seems to desperate to stay near you, you are also very desperate to not be near her.

Your hand itches. Randomly, it itches quite a lot. You don’t know why you only notice what must be a bug bite inside the gala, but you do. Awkwardly, you scratch your palm with your other hand, staring down at the skin. It doesn’t look red yet, but it honestly it’s getting kind of annoying.

You sigh again, and turn to ask Jeanine if she had any lotion or something, because you assume that’s what stalking personal assistants are for and… she’s not there. Somehow you lost her, without even noticing.

You throw your arms into the air. Yippee! Now, it’s time for alcoholism, as is the answer to all problems in life. It’s what the loving and maternal arms of Gotham had taught you, after all.

You stumble your way to a wall where there’s a set of food, and a server with a silver platter carrying a bunch of champagne glasses. You stop the guy before he moves again, your hands in the air like you’re trying to soothe a scared animal.

You point at the tray, “I want that.”

He looks at you with mild horror. You thought rich people were weird, like he’d be used to something like this. It wasn’t like you were asking for the shirt off his back or cocaine or something. If it wasn’t obvious, you really didn’t know anything about what rich people did.

“It’s my birthday. It’s totally cool. I asked Bruce myself,” You bald-faced lie, like you’d ever even met the man. Like a predator, you watch the man carefully put the tray down next to the rest of the food, and then he slowly backs away from you. Well, okay, you could admit that was kind of weird. This night is getting to you. God knows this loud-as-fuck party was more overstimulating than anything you could usually stand. And so bright. What a shitty fairytale ball.

You grab one of the flutes of champagne and swirl it, sniff it, and then once you’ve gone through the polite checklist of drinking you throw it back like it’s a shot of vodka. There were people watching after all. Wait, they��d probably seen you corner that poor server boy.

Hmm, this requires cake. You choose a random slice that looks like it might be strawberry something, and dig in eagerly. It tastes fucking fantastic. The cream is sweet and soft, and the jam has a pop of flavour you totally weren’t expecting. And the cake itself was a lovely, spongy texture.

Grand. Maybe if you just sat here like a wallflower and ate food and drank liquor you could handle this. It wasn’t any different from how you behaved at Molly’s college parties.

So, you decide to work your way up and down the buffet table. Most of it’s delicious, but when you try things you can’t quite recognise, there’s a twenty-percent chance it’ll be disgusting and you’ll have to spit it out to avoid poisoning. You’re careful not to try the caviar, despite your own curiosity. You’d heard that it just tasted like salty water, and that didn’t mix well with whatever you were currently putting in your stomach.

You look down at your hand. It’s another piece of the sponge cake, wedged between a napkin so your dirty fingers didn’t touch it and you didn’t have to bother with another plate. You giggle, because it really is that good.

Ah, this is great. You could do this forever, screw thirty minutes. You eye the entrance the servers keep coming in and out of, and wonder if Jeanine would get mad if you tried to follow them into the kitchens. Probably, probably…

The question was, was it worth it? You’re debating the merits when the sound of someone's shoes stops next to you. You think it’s a man, and you consider barking at him to get away from the buffet, but decide you’ve tried everything and can probably share again. It takes great strength, though. You decide you deserve some more champagne for the kindness.

It’s after a moment that you realise he’s not taking anything.

“Oh, so you actually showed up? Colour me surprised,” a familiar, calm, masculine voice speaks from behind you. Your mouth drops open, and you spin on your heel. If you hadn’t been clinging to the table cloth you’d have fallen over, but still, you drop the champagne flute, and it bursts in a spray of liquid and glass against your dress.

It also splatters on the dress shoes of one Tim Drake.

First the phone, now the delicious drink. You really wished you’d stop dropping things.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam x reader #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

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simpjaes · 22 days

Note

Jake getting TOO excited when reader asks if they can try fucking raw 😋😋😋😋

wc: 1k warnings: borderline breeding kink, he's more so just pussy drunk rather than being an excited loser, jake goes hard, reader goes dizzy.

"You wanna?"

Jake's eyes widen, and truly he can't help them from shining when he looks at you. They're probably sparkling brighter now than ever before.

For a full year now he's wondered how good you'd feel wrapped around him. So warm and velvety inside against his fingers, but always separated by that thin layer of latex when it comes to his cock.

Condoms meant pleasure, of course, because it means he gets to fuck you but that didn't change the fact that they always came with unwanted flavors, unneeded lubrication, and unnatural scents.

For a full year he's begged. Always with pleas of "I'll pull out baby, please." and "Just the tip, I promise!"

You always said no, and he always moved on like he didn't dream about how good it would feel raw. How sexy it would be to know he's pumping his cum directly into you, slamming it in deeper and deeper until he's spent.

"Really?" His big eyes blink at you dumbfounded, cock already having been hard for the past ten minutes from that immaculate fucking head you just gave him. "Why now?"

You lend him a shrug and a snide smile, glancing up to the ceiling before looking him dead in the eye.

"I dunno." You offer first, lifting on your knees from the floor to lay your head across his legs. You gently blow out, watching the way his raging cock twitches at the sensation. "Been wondering what it feels like to, yknow, feel you cum in me."

"Oh..." He trails off in a moan. "Y-you don't want me to pull out?"

You shake your head playfully in confirmation and instantly you see three more beads of precum leak from his tip in anticipation.

He's asked you for this countless times, and you're a bit shocked in the way he stays leaned on his arms looking down at you like this. You do notice his shaky breaths though, that grip on the sheets, the way his abdomen flexes with each act of hesitance to fuck his hips up against the air falling from your lips.

"Really?" He asks again, this time with his voice cracking and showing the eagerness. "Oh, fuck." He breathes out now, flopping back onto the bed and reaching his hands out for you, as if you grab at you to move up and onto him. "Yes. Fuck yes."

You can't contain the giggles that fall from your throat when you crawl on top of him, anticipating the feeling of it yourself and not truly expecting it to feel much different aside from allowing yourself to see what the hype is about regarding like...you know, dripping cum and all that shit.

And he's silent after that. Nothing but breathy sighs and harsh grips of your hips as he slides you against him. As if he's relishing in the feeling of your raw and open cunt spreading out along the length of him.

He does this for what feels like ages, to the point he makes that familiar face. The one where his eyebrows furrow, hit bottom lip sucks in between his teeth, and he starts to let out little grunting moans.

You force your body back in his grip though, stilling yourself and sitting your clit just against the base of his cock.

"So good-" He moans at the feeling of your slick all over him, never once feeling it against his cock solely because the two of you are normally quite cautious by your request. "Drenching me, baby, fucking sliding it all over me."

He's amazed, really, at how wet you get. No need for lubricant or rubber to help the slide. Oh, no, no, no. He can't wait to feel the heat of it, the pure slick and clenching of it. No barriers, all skin.

He's already babbling too, trying to force you to slide forward again on him, out of breath and near whimpering for you to grind his cock to full release, but you're not budging.

Only now does his excitement fizzle into anxiety, fearing that you've changed your mind.

When he looks at you through those glazed eyes, you can only smile wider though. Lifting up only slightly to line him up with you and immediately sink down on him all in one go.

You moan out in unison, his hands holding your hips yet again only this time holding you down on him. His cock sits dormant inside of you, stretching your walls with each breath and pathetic urge to twitch.

It...does feel different. Not so much that condoms ruin the experience in full but god it feels so much better. You can tell he agrees too, with the way he offers a half-dopey-smile as he holds you down on him. Now intentionally twitching just to feel those same hot-velvet walls hug his cock raw for the first time.

And it's not long after that when you start to bounce, but no. It's not enough this time. Jake wants to fuck you, and so, he fucking does. You go a little lightheaded at the movement, where he knocks you back by the shoulders, cock still plunged deep inside of you, and now pins you down against the bed. You only continue to grow dizzy at the feeling of his lips fluttering all across your chest, collarbone, and neck as he does it. Thrusting harder, deeper, and so much faster than he normally would. As if he can't get enough of you, as if he's seeing red and not yet noticing how your head is hanging half off the bed and you can't keep your eyes open through the sheer force of his cock slamming into you. And he just keeps going. Hips chasing every bit of warmth your pathetic and stretched cunt offers to him and his hungry desire of fucking you empty. To the point you gush all around him, splashing your pretty slick against his balls. Only then, will he let himself fill you right back up. Knowing for a fact that he's not going to be finished with you until you're both well aware that his load is going to be fucked right into that little womb of yours, and you'll never forget the feeling of having so much of it both stuffed inside of you and dripping down those pretty buckled legs.

#enhypen smut #jake smut #jake sim smut #sim jaeyun smut #enhypen hard hours #ask #hardthots

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suguruplsr · 6 months

Text

thots abt sugu w/ a quiet girl

જ⁀➴ self indulgent bc im pretty quiet too, i wish sugu could make me scream man

,, sfw n’ nsfw below! , x fem!reader , suguru has voice kink , mentions of: possessiveness , recording (consensual) , public sex , overstimulation , jerking off , blow job , and fingering. not proofread.

sfw

after you two first met, suguru’s came to adore you. you’re like a calm breeze compared to his obnoxious best friend, so he finds himself with you way more often.

he for sure pays attention to you, if you two are at loud places where he won’t be able to hear you, then he’s leaning down closer to you at your first tug of his jacket. which leads to the thing he finds more endearing. noticing your “social” cues.

you don’t talk a lot due to, well, not talking. but it doesn’t means you’re shy or anything. you just don’t speak to a lot of people. so he loves it when you give him small glances, or gestures for him to lean closer so he can hear you loud and clear. it makes him feels special because he knows others rarely pay attention to those aspects of you.

at first, you thought he’d find it annoying having to adjust to hear you, or dealing with others not hearing you correctly. but he never shames you for it. why would he? suguru knows your voice is pretty low so what’s the point in chastising you for something you can’t exactly control without croaking and breaking up.

instead, he welcomes those small adjusts. he doesn’t mind speaking up when you’re friend didn’t hear your voice. or when the cashier mixes up your words. even when you just don’t feel like talking at all, which is mostly because your voice hasn’t adjusted at all to you talking in the morning so you think you sound like a croaky bird.

he made a caw caw joke the first time you admitted that. he definitely wasn’t getting no ‘cawk cawk’ after that if ykwim.

nsfw

let me be quick, it’s so hot to suguru that’s you’re quiet in bed. like he doesn’t mind it at all.

sure it was, kind of, a surprise when you two first had sex. he’s thought about it before hand when you two were just friends. you were quiet and kept to yourself a lot, you’re voice wasn’t too loud, not used to being in use much, but it was just enough to reach his ears like a melody. some part of him expected the, “quiet in the streets, screamin’ in the sheets” trope with you. well, that’s because of satoru, after he mentioned his thoughts about it to him one night, drunkenly.

so he loves your voice. weirdly enough, to him it feels like it lets him set the mood a lot. he can make love, or fuck you into oblivion. a slow pace with hushed voices and sweet murmurs. or a fast pace with low whines and little sobs. but of course, he pulls a few cute loud noises from you whenever you’re a bit overstimulated, something he does quite a lot. but it doesn’t sound like you’re ever purposely being loud when you are. your voice just gets higher in pitch, if it isn’t already is, and eventually it turns into silent screams with a cute ‘o’ shape forming in your expression.

however, he doesn’t see the point in encouraging you to be louder. suguru’s an observant guy. he knows he’s making you feel good from the way you squirm on his lap as he fingers you, breathy moans leaving you and your head is falling onto his shoulder dumbly. plus, it allows for more risky things in public. so yea, he’s taken you to restrooms in public, fucking you against the wall as you two moan against each others lips to muffle each other.

there’s also something about it. a feeling of satisfaction to the possessiveness within suguru that never really grows. he knows that he’s the only one hearing you when you two fuck. he’s the only one who can hear how you cry out his name or stammer over your words when he’s buried inside you. only him. but that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been times where he hasn’t recorded your voice and jerked himself off to it.

how can he not? you’re so breathy and whiny it makes his hand itch for the band of his underwear to free his straining dick. pre cum rolling down his length as he listens to your moans of his name. he can even hear the squelching of your pussy creaming around his cock consistently. he has so many videos, but he knows each one by heart. all hidden in an album called, “pretty girls voice”.

he asks for whimpering audios—

suguru swear he’s never been into a woman’s voice as much as yours, but even when you two aren’t doing anything sexual, simply talking and drinking tea n’ coffee early in the morning, you make his dick stand right back up. even after you’ve gave him a quick blowjob earlier to deal with his morning wood. your voice is just so cute and raspy, a few cracks in it when you try to talk but it only edges him on more. his tired eyes would be trained on your lips as you take another sip of your coffee, loving the way you still have to try clearing your voice just to talk.

or later, when you two are getting dressed and you’re in the bathroom, asking him to tell you about what you have planned on your calendar. and he almost feels bad for how you struggle trying to speak just a bit louder so he could hear you, even with the door between the two rooms being open. mean enough, he did hear you the first time, but his dick twitched and his mind could only replay the sound of your voice.

yea, he loves his ladys voice.

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3hunnidstunt · 10 months

Text

nsfw mdni

nerd plug! eren brainrot

cw : chubby r, nerd eren ( he’s a two faced cunt ) drug useage n smoke, small thigh/lap riding, fingering , sex with glasses on, tiny cockwarming, dirty talk, praising, creampie, shotgunning, small mention of r bein girly, ( i write w black r in mind ) not proofread might be some spelling errors i’m tired mdni

eren would be seen as an innocent, quiet boy who doesn’t care about his surroundings - only mindful to his little bubble. he’s passing all his classes, always at the library studying for upcoming exams and just being the sweet boy he is. and you’d watch from afar a few feet away from him. he’s cute and quiet. you felt bad at how he would chase after some girl who didn’t want anything to do with him. you envied him too - how he would get praised and congratulated for everything he does. the only time he ever talked to you was during a project for chemistry. he paid no mind to you always mumbling how you’re a distraction to him and you should quiet down. he wanted nothing to do with you. you, your glossy lips, those pretty lashes you keep batting at him, your perky boobs that try to escape from the low cut shirt, nor those mini skirts. he tries to not be somewhat mean to you because you’re just so sweet and nice.

now he’s sitting on your couch, a little space between you and him. the show from the tv playing while he lights up his blunt. he’s tired from all the exams and test and shit assignments. but he has you and his weed. he’s running his palm on your leg that’s thrown on his lap, massaging the smoothness of it. he can feel you staring at him. his hair out of that bun, resting on his shoulder while a few strands cover his eyes, his pink plump lips wrapping around the blunt and he’s hanging his head back to blow out the smoke in the air. your breath hitch - he looks so good and it’s making you clench your thighs an random shiver running through your body.

you’re taken back when he looks other you - a wide grin on his pretty face “ got something on my face, love? ” he teases and you frown shaking your head. he removes his hand from your thigh wrapping it around your waist pulling you onto his lap. you’re practically naked compared to him - a crop top with care bear design and panties while he’s in a white tee and sweats. he’s finally happy now that you’re become comfortable around him. “ you starin at me hard. you want some? shit makes you feel good ” he offers but you still and hesitant “ ren i don’t smoke - you know that ”. you take off his foggy glasses off cleaning them with the towel before putting them back. you feel cozy on his lap ( he’s manspreading ) as you wrap your arms around him hiding your face between his neck and shoulder even though you’re watching him smoke. his hand resting on your lower back as you grind on his lap, biting your lip to not let out that whine you’re holding in.

“ what’re you trynna do? ” he spoke realizing how quiet you’ve been and the little damp spot on his sweat. you ignore him gripping on his tee tightly finally letting out a broken moan. he placed the blunt down both hands on your hips trying to stop you. “ ren… wan’ you so bad ” you let out totally absentmindedly. “ fuck what should i do with you? could’ve been a good girl and tell me that ” he laughs standing up with his ashtray walking up the stairs to your room. he placed them on the bed while he drops you as well. “ you so fucking wet. why you so wet precious? talk to me ” his voice so sultry while removing your damp panties making your shiver at the cold air. you were so wet you started dripping down on the sheets. he didn’t get a response which he wasn’t so happy at “ you like watching me smoke, thought that shit wasn’t good for me ” you while your head grabbing the hem of his shirt as he ran two fingers through your slit. “ looked so good rennie.. please ”

he removed his shirt, his fingers now warming up inside your velvety walls gathering all your wetness. your lips parting into an “ O ” letting out little whimpers and babbles while eren is complete in a daze at how your sucking his fingers in, wetting them. your thighs threaten to close once his thumb begins rubbing on your little clit. “ so wet baby, talk to me what do you want? wanna hear it ” he watches you with bloodshot eyes as you stutter - trying to not mess up your words. “ need you t’ fuck me- please i-i…ren ” he nods fully understand. his fingers leave your weeping cunt to pull down his sweats and boxer. his cock so pretty. little trimmed hairs, he’s long and thick, a few veins and a pretty pink tip. he lines his leaking tip at your hole. you hold on the bedsheet with a passion, tear blurring your eyes as you moan trying to take what he gives you.

you soak him up so much making it easier for him to slide inside. he stays still for a bit, grabbing the almost finished blunt and lighting it up. he takes a long drag before leaning down tapping your cheek for you to open up which you do. the smoke blow in your mouth and you hold it in for a while before blowing it out infront of his face. he gives a little smile getting up holding onto your waist as he gives one hard thrust shocking you. he continues watching how you squirm beneath him. your braless boobs moving freely from his thrusts and a little bugle forming from your tummy. “ omgomg fuck ren.. oh my god ” your brain empty and your getting dizzy. the puff of smoke around the air making you feel hot. the blunt finishes and he’s completely high. lifting your top revealing your boobs and hard nipples. “ fuckin’ take it , just like that mama. tell rennie how good you feel ” he manages to grunt out, cursing as your nails starch his back. “ so fuckin good daddy - mak-ing me feel so so good ”

he snatches a hair tie he spot from the bed doung his regular hairstyle but way messier and his glasses were getting foggy again which he swiped. he wants to see you. he could tell your about to cum , your eyes rolling back, broken moans and cries, you’re babbling lost in pleasure. “ move your hand princess- gotta take all of this ” and when he see you try to push him farther he pulls out. you whine now that your orgasm is fading away “ nonono! ren please ‘m sorry ” you apologize but he ignores you turning you around on all fours. he slips back in so easily as he presses on your back to finish the arch. “ push me away again and i leave you here all needy and crying. ” he threatens. he runs his hands on your cute rolls and your ass living how well they fit you. he grabs your hair ( natural, braids, locs, or wig etc ) pulling your face up where he can see those fresh tears running down your chubby cheeks. “ why you crying mama ‘ts too much for you huh ” he tease while grabbing on your neck hovering over you to kiss your lips. all messy. drool leaking on either side. “ gonna cum - please let me cum daddy ‘m sorry pleaseplease ” he shushes you kissing away the salty tears while he rubs your clit. a sticky ring of cum starts to form on his cock completely coating him “ cum baby let it out… want all of it c’mon ”. his thrusts get faster and harder while he slaps your ass, his head hung back as he hold your waist tightly cumming.

this is lowkey the longest i’ve written, so proud of myself :3

Masterlist

#shingeki no kyoujin eren #eren yaegar #eren jeager x y/n #eren jaeger #eren yeager #eren x black fem!reader #eren aot #eren jeager x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren jeager smut #black reader #princess rambles ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ ｡꒱ྀི১🎀🍨

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angelltheninth · 10 months

Note

HSR men and the romance cliche where they wake up married after a night of drinks and partying

Ah, the premise of so many enemies to lovers movies.

Pairing: Blade, Dan Heng, Gepard, Jing Yuan, Luka, Luocha, Welt x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, developing relationship, accidental marriage, enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, confession, angry make outs, fake/pretend relationship to real relationship

A/N: Its funny that as much as I hate romance movies I'm a sucker for so many of their tropes.

Blade takes a lot of delight in this situation because he thinks its funny that you claim to hate his guts but a little drinking, some kisses and one wild night in bed and you're marrying him. Oh this is too good for him to let go of. You can deny it all you want but you're attracted to him on some level, these scratch marks on his back and the rings on your fingers are proof. You can make this easy by admitting it, just a simple "yes" will do.

Dan Heng is confused how you even got to this phase. Yes you like each other to some degree but it's never been like this. When you're at work you have lots of playful banter, it never went much farther. He doesn't want to hurt your feelings because he can see that as much as you're freaking out you want his support too and maybe give this a try? Just for a little while cause it might look bad if got divorced right away. When he sees you looking at the ring with that little smile on your face he starts to wonder if this was something he's always wanted, but was too afraid to ask for.

Gepard is horrified that he allowed himself to get so under the influence that he would marry one of his fellow knights. And you... slept together too... oh... what if... are you pregnant? Right, right you don't know yet, of course. But if you are then he's ready to support you! He's getting a little ahead of things isn't he? It's not as if he doesn't like you or enjoys your company, he wouldn't call it love but would seem odd for him to have a secret wife. So why not start small, you'll get washed up and then he'll take you to breakfast. Who knows maybe you can work your way up to a wedding.

Jing Yuan doesn't think its a big deal, it was just a spur of the moment decision and if he was being honest one that doesn't bother him at all. Everyone's been telling him its time to settle down, why not with his secretary? You've had a friends with benefits relationship for a while and you've both shown no intent in seeing other people. That may be true but this means you'll have to come out about your previous relationship as well. Don't worry, if anything has any objections they can say it to him, if they dare.

Luka hates this as much as you do. You're his rival, you trade blows in the ring, not kisses in the sheets. Although you've both had those dreams too, he himself needed many cold showers because of it. Being forced to endure this for a few months won't be easy, not with the press asking questions, how long you've been dating, why did you act like you hated each other. It wasn't an act, but your happy lovey-dovey attitude sure is. When the doors close behind you all you can do is take out your anger on each other via kisses, trading them as you move to the bedroom to get the frustrations out.

Luocha thought about breaking things off right away but couldn't bring himself too when he saw the lovestruck look on your face when you looked at him. This marriage needs to end sooner or later, unless you plan to follow him to the road, which he doesn't want to do to you. Your life is here, not out there. But he will, at least for a little while be the best husband you could hope for. He never thought he would find himself falling in love and opening a clinic in the process.

Welt kind of wants to give this a shot. Sure he doesn't know you that well yet but from what he has seen of you, you're a very hard worker, you keep a calm head on your shoulders and you look very cute when shy, he remembers that from last night very well. He's never been married before so this will be a learning experience for you both, one that will go from pretending to be in love, to longing glances, to good night kisses just because it feels right, to cuddling on the couch every day, and finally to confessing your love to each other.

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toorurs · 14 days

Text

a polished stone swept to the shore

synopsis: a night sky full of stars and questions. aventurine can't help but wonder what significance he has to you.

pairing: aventurine x reader | wordcount: 1.0k | content and warnings: insecure!aventurine, hurt/comfort, bit of aventurines backstory | ficlet

authors note: dropping this in the night where aventurine realeases jsjejjwwj. also im not really content with how this turned out due to the ending being quite short and rushed.

tags: @azullumi

“what am i to you?

the words nip into the tense atmosphere, ascending into the air like a plump balloon, floating around until a gust of wind blows by and lets it drift away into the distant sky that is draped in the misty blanket of clouds.

“what am i to you?” can be interpreted as two different things. the meaning varies from one to another, depending on how one perceives the question.

“you’ll wait for me won’t you?” a question where every letter plays a significant role. but still, they take over the same role, the letters are equal to one another. fragile, delicate, unsure words that are drowning in uncertainty, that’ll eventually be unable to float above the surface. instead they’re being led to his blood, infusing it with the ugliness of insecurity.

(but to aventurine it’s a familiar emotion, one he’s been acquainted with ever since he was a child - it’s not a novel feeling. after all, it has always been like this. every time, when he felt a tad of excitement he mistook it as the adrenaline rushing and pumping through his blood, only to be hit with the realization that it was uneasiness - it has always been uneasiness. his hand that trembles under the duvet grips the bed sheets tightly, clutching at the sateen fabric with his fingertips, as he awaits your answer.)

“what am i to you” also translates into “why do you love me? how come you love me? what significant role do i play to be held like this?” puzzlement is the noun that depicts these questions well. he doesn’t understand but at the same time he does. when you love someone, you’d learn and get to know all of their flaws, all of their struggles and problems, all of their wretchedness and misfortune.

absurd to think that someone who was blessed by a sheer amount of luck experiences misfortune. he’s the blessed one, his luck is a protective charm that keeps him at a distance, but at the same it is also a curse. his good fortune, the good luck that accompanies him is like a blade, a sharp weapon that leaves scars and inflicts pain, to none other than himself. it's his protective charm, the one that preserves him from the cruel world - although everything he wanted to protect was his family.

he doesn’t understand why it was him, why he had to be gifted with this so-called fortune. he loathes it for making him the sole survivor of his nation, he resents it because he survived every tragedy that fell upon him like the rain. the rain that fell on the day of his birth, the gift of the god, or rather her tears? but he can’t help but love his luck, the only fragments, the only remnants he has left of his beloved parents, sister and kakavasha.

but then again, was his luck the one that made the two of you cross paths?

was it a mere coincidence that he fell in love with you and you reciprocated those feelings? but how come?

aventurine wishes to understand.

aventurine isn't the sun. he's not the one that spreads warmth over the people, he isn’t the one who was tasked to make their hearts pump in joy. he doesn't fulfill any of the criteria to be considered a star that shines brighter among the others. even if he were, he’d be all alone, surrounded by his own warmth, a coat draped over his body. aventurine isn't the one that people yearn for when they feel upset.

aventurine isn't a god. he doesn't possess any powers that'd be considered out of this world. he's not the one people stride after and look up to, not the one people plead and pray to when in need. he isn't able to take away the wounds of others, rather, he's the one who inflicts them. scarring their frail skin and putting it in a painful condition, staining dirt.

aventurine is simply just the gem. but, without the sage green crystal he wouldn't even be considered as aventurine. he wouldn't be the gambler that is bound to the shackles of the ipc. he wouldn't be the final victor then, the one that has each and every move precisely planned out. those are the traits that make him aventurine. without them he'd just be a rock then, a mere pebble to be kicked around. abused and tormented by others, used as nothing else but a stepping stone. cheap, worthless, useless, like the loser he is.

he doesn't understand what you see in a hollow shell like him.

“what you mean to me, you ask? your voice resembles the rain outside that is currently kissing the glass of the windowpane and platters against the big windows. It’s a comforting sound that soothes him and lulls him into a peaceful slumber.

“mhm.” aventurine hums in agreement and tries to stay as quiet as possible, fearing that he might break this dainty moment if he were to utter a sound too loud.

“well.” you say in an amused tone. “if you really wanna know, you're like a prince, prince charming kind of?” your voice cracks a bit at the last part, its sweet aventurine thinks.

“oh yeah? how come?” aventurine tries to sound confident, masking his curiosity with certainty.

“well you know. i’m like the damsel in distress and you’re the knight whom i wait for. you know in those fairytales, when they wait for an eternity for someone to rescue them and immediately fall in love head over heels with their savior who never gave up on them even after so many failed attempts from others and himself, right?” you ask him.

(aventurine isn't too well acquainted with fairy tales. he never got to read them when growing up, he never had the chance nor the opportunity to do so.)

“yeah of course.” aventurine plays it off smoothly, fearing that you might question or judge him and his past. (he knows you wouldn’t but he can’t help to think so.)

“well, there you got your answer!” you giggle.

your words translate into: i’d always wait for you, even if it meant to wait for an eternity. but they also translate into: you’re determined to have me, to know me, to love me and so do i.

aventurine isnt the sun, neither a god. the man that you had lying beside you was the man of your dreams - or rather your fairytales.

e/n: it's 1 am and i have a math exam tmrw which i havent learned for, instead i wrote this 😔😔 © TOORURS 2024. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is not permitted.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #hsr aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine fluff #aventurine imagines #aventurine x gn reader #hsr fluff #honkai star rail fluff #hsr x gn reader #honkai star rail x gn reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you #aventurine x you #toorurs #—stellaronhvnters.

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clockwayswrites · 24 days

Text

Masked- unmasked After 'wrong'

Dick cupped Phantom’s cheek, brushing his thumb against the too pink lips.

“What?” Phantom asked. He shifted heavily lidded eyes from the t.v. to Dick. They were so blue. The hint of green was there, just around the pupil of one looked close enough, but Phantom’s eyes were so blue.

“Just observing,” Dick said. He didn’t know how to sum up even a fraction of everything going through his head right then. His mind scrambled to catalog every difference in Phantom: the lips pinker, the eyes blue, the blush redder, the skin warmer. He leaned down to kiss the scattering of freckles; freckles that were a rusty red rather than a pale scattering of light.

There was no faint glow that bled through Dick’s eyelids.

“I can go.”

Dick pulled back with a frown. “What?”

“If you don’t want to be around me like this, I can go,” Phantom repeated.

It still didn’t make sense to Dick.

He stroked Phantom’s cheek gently. “Why would I want you to go?”

“I just mean—” Phantom cut himself off with a huff of air. It was a long pause before he tried again. “I just mean, it’s okay if you don’t… like this version of me. I know that all this isn’t what you… agreed to have in your bed.”

“All this?” Dick asked, brow furrow. “All this is still you.”

“Sure, but it’s not special, not like my other form.”

Phantom’s sour smile begged to be kissed away so Dick did just that. He leaned in and kissed Phantom’s lips until Phantom gave in and opened up his mouth for Dick. Dick twisted, sitting up further so that he could press down into the kiss. He slung a leg over Phantom, mindful of the stitches and he settled lightly on Phantom’s stomach.

Phantom was the one who broke the kiss first to pant for air. Another difference.

“Boo, you’re beautiful. You’re beautiful in your other form and you’re beautiful like this. I was just enjoying taking in all the differences,” Dick tried to explain. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you out of my bed. You’re still you.”

Phantom still looked unsure. “You might not like the differences.”

“I will,” Dick assured him. “Let me show you.”

“You might eat those words.”

“I’d rather eat you,” Dick said with a smirk. He laughed as Phantom shoved him, letting himself be pushed back. “I mean it. I don’t care that you look different. I still want to kiss you and blow you and fuck you and be fucked by you. I still want to spend time with you and talk to you and keep you close. You’re still you. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen this side of you yet. It’s just a whole new part to explore. So, let me prove it to you, okay?”

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Phantom complained, though he was finally smiling again.

“Yep,” Dick said, popping the ‘p’. “So it’s best you give in and just lay there like a good pillow princess while I fuck you.”

“Don’t make me crush you next training.”

“Worth it,” Dick assured him with a roll of his hips that had Phantom groaning. “Are you really going to say no to me spoiling you.”

Phantom did his best to glare but there was no heat in the look. Finally he sighed as if giving in to the biggest favor. “Fine, just don’t call me pillow princess.”

“Pillow Prince?”

“N.”

“Bedroom beauty, sheet sultan, night—”

Phantom pulled him down into a kiss that Dick was certain was just a move to shut him up, but he went willingly. He’d never say no to those lips, whether they were tinged a cold magenta or a warm pink.

--- AN: tossing this up before I try to sleep. Pain is very bad right now so we'll see. I'm sure there are errors, but I don't need them corrected, ty. Hope all you darlings are being delightful!

masterpost

#dp x dc #death defying #Danny/dick #masked

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raffe156 · 7 months

Text

Room for one more

Pairing - Price x OC Tank (F!reader)

Summery - Testing the limits of a one man tent…

A/N- little Drabble based on those single tents @atomiccrownpoetry mentioned, I’m sorry it took so long! Though I’ve tagged it as Tank an I read it as Tank and some of you will do the same, I don’t mention her by name so can be read as Price x F!reader 😌

Warnings - Smut (18+) Voyeurism kind of , Language, Age gap Price (38) Tank (26) unsafe sex, p in v

✨As always comments and feedback welcome ✨

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Call of duty characters - Only Tank

“You should get your head down kid, you look shattered” Price rubbed your back, he towered over you his hand lingered between your shoulder blades.

He was right it had been a long day of recon and you weren’t about to get into another argument with Soap over who ate the last digestive biscuit.

It was you but you weren’t about to admit that. Tonight was the last night of a 3 day stay in the desert and you were ready to go home.

“Yeh you’re right” You stood up stretching your back.

“Listen, one more night of this and I promise you fresh sheets and a real pillow.” Price squeezed the back of your neck a smile on his face. Everyone cheered at the idea of getting their heads down in a proper bed, but you knew he didn’t mean the beds back at the base. The thought caused a stir in your stomach and it was enough to get you through the next few hours.

You said your good nights and walked back to your single tent with Farah in tow.

You chit chatted as you both stripped down to your under layers outside your tents. Even though the temperature dropped at night, inside the tent was insulated and the last few nights had been so warm you had slept with just the mesh panel.

“Was it you that ate the last of those biscuits Soap loves so much?” Farah laughed as she turned you around to braid your hair just like she had done the last few nights. You gave her a knowing smirk as you handed her the comb. She laughed shaking her head.

“Sooo you and Alex eh?”

Farah didn’t need to see your face she could hear the grin as clear as your words.

“Asimat!” She tugged the braid playfully. You held your head laughing.

“OK OK ‘ana asf!” You pleaded.

“Never mind that, what about you and the Captain eh? Ya ‘iilahi, I see the way he looks at you, like a starving man looks at a meal…”

“Farah! Asimat!” You could feel your face flushing.

She tied a bobble around the braid a cocky look on her face. You both eyed each other, before bursting out laughing the sound echoed across the campsite and off into the distance.

For a few minutes the two of you weren’t soldiers in the night, but just two girls braiding each others hair and laughing about boys at a sleepover.

***********

You lay in your tent listening to the sounds of the desert, the distance chirps and hoots.

Just as your mind was finally drifting off you felt the air shift, turning your head slowly you watched the zip of the tent door curl down to reveal the pitch black night, the warm breeze blowing in as a dark silhouette moved closer inside. You knew instantly who it was the air bringing in the smell of dampened fire and cigar smoke.

You blinked a few times trying to make out where the nighttime visitors face was.

“You awake kid?”

“Yeh…I’am now”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Don’t think you’ll fit”

“I will…move over”

“Move over where? It’s a 1 man tent”

“Good thing I’m just 1 man then eh?”

“….”

“Just move over” a growl more than a whisper now.

“Someone’s gonna see you, I thought you said we have to wait till we get back home? You fully lectured me about it?”

“I know what I said…just move over”

You did as you were told, moving on to your side allowing your Captain to slide in next to you. It was a tight fit as he zipped the panel shut behind him, you could feel the air trapped inside get heavy.

“Come ere” Price pulled you into him, you threw your leg over his waist.

“Oh I’ve missed this…can’t wait to get back to mine, don’t plan on letting you leave the bed let alone the bedroom” He let out a little chuckle as he kissed the top of your head.

“I know it’s not the same….but I’ve wanted to be close with you like this since we arrived Kid, it’s been driving me insane…”

“I’m more than happy with this, I’ve missed you too Boss”

You stretched your body out over his, your hands finding their place to settle.

He was in his joggers and a T-shirt, he must of walked the distance from his tent to yours in his socks you could feel the tiny grains of sand against your legs. You tried to pull them off his feet with your own.

“What are you doing? You’re not taking another pair of my socks!”

“No you’ve got sand on them, take them off”

You felt a little rumble of a laugh come from his chest.

“If you want me to take my kit off all you have to do is ask love”

“Shut up! You’ve got sand all in my sleeping bag take them off now!”

“Oh using your big girl voice are we? Hmm I like it” He pulled you on top of him your body sliding over him with ease, legs either side. You tried to sit up but your back was pressed back down by the roof of the tent.

“John what the…”

He cut you off his hands pulling you down into him, his mouth finding yours in the dark. His kiss was hungry and needy, it had been a few days since he’d been able to show any real affection towards you. You had made do with the odd pat on the shoulder, his hand lingering a minute longer than needed, standing just that little bit closer during briefs, his legs looped with yours in the back of cramped vans and trucks.

You allowed him to devour you in the darkness.

Lifting your hips slightly Price pushed his joggers down just enough to pull his cock out and rest it on your underwear. You instinctively rolled your hips back into him feeling the sturdiness of his erection as it pushed against you.

You felt his hand pull roughly at your underwear, he wanted them off but knew there wasn’t the room or the time so pulled to the side would have to do. His fingers brushed against your folds as he pull the fabric away. Without needing to be told you eased the tip of him inside you savouring the feeling as you pushed through, you could hear the little grunts of frustration and swore there was a whimper or two as you sank yourself down taking him down to the base. It was a snug fit.

“Fuckin ell” he whispered as you slowing rocked your hips back and forth your chest pressed to his. A pathetic whine left your own body. You desperately wanted to sit up, wanted to feel his hands roam up your body, to cup your breasts, you wanted to see his face, see the same desperation in his eyes, to watch as his teeth clenched and gritted together as you rode him, but there was no room for fancy moves or position changes, this was it packed in tight, close quarters.

You tucked yourself in under his chin your head slightly tilted, Price held you close to him as you slowly picked up the pace, his other hand firmly on your backside rocking you back and forth grinding your clit on his pubic bone.

The thought of being heard or even caught made you want to be that little bit louder, just a few feet away your entire squad slept it made your system flood with adrenaline.

As if he had read your mind, Price gripped your backside tighter. You let out a moan.

“Need you to stay quiet love, can’t have you waking the whole camp up now can we…what would they say if they caught us like this eh? I promise you can be as loud as you want when we get back home…” he mumbled as he pressed his lips to your forehead.

You couldn’t take it, you pushed yourself up rolling your hips faster and faster. The roof of the tent rubbing against your back.

The air inside the tent was heavy and damp with condensation, but you didn’t care your bodies were buzzing, you could feel it right there building inside of you both. Each craving for this closeness, this connection for days.

Price placed his hand on the side of your neck. He was close, but you were closer and he knew it your body gave you away.

“That’s it….cum for me love…aww…good girl…that’s its…” he gripped your neck that bit tighter your moans came out ragged and broken from trying to stay quiet, but even though you were coming undone you couldn’t stop your hips from rocking back and forth your body wanted more your insides pulsed and fluttered around him, begging to come again.

Price couldn’t hold out any longer and began desperately bucking his hips up into you, cursing between gritted teeth with each thrust. The sticky wet noises filling the tent, someone would definitely be able to hear, the rush of being caught surged through your body again making your hips match the speed of Price’s thrusts. This caused you both to fall apart very quickly. You buried your head in his neck to stifle your cries.

“Fuckkkkkk…” Prices groaned as he came inside you, his thrusts slowing as he became more sensitive.

You both lay there trying to catch your breath, your bodies pulsing as your heartbeats tried to regulate. Once the blood had stopped rushing in your ears you tried to listen for any movement outside the tent, hushed voices or footsteps, but all you could hear were the distant hoots and howls of the night.

“Think we’re good…” Price kissed your temple as he slowly unzipped one of the panels to let some air in.

*************

You woke up at 6:00 alone having no idea when Price had left you, but you felt his socks at the bottom of sleeping bag pulling them on you sorted yourself out and grabbed your toiletries bag, the makeshift showers weren’t too bad and you definitely needed one.

As you unzipped your tent you were met with the familiar sleepy faces of your squad. Soap half hanging out of his tent with a brew talking to Gaz, his Mohawk fluffy and sticking out in all directions. The pair of them clocked you and grinned. Your heart sunk. They had heard you last night, but before you could speak or plead your case Ghost and Price walked over to the huddle of tents.

“Morning kid…want a swig of this?” He handed you his cup of coffee you took it looking him dead in the eye.

“Can we have a word…in private?” You whispered. His face changed a serious look on his face. He nodded guiding you away from the others.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? I think Gaz and Soap heard us last night they were talking this morning and gave me this look…I don’t know but they know something” you held the cup of coffee tight.

Price smiled resting his hand on your shoulder he leant forward so he was eye level with you. You wanted to slap the beard right of his face.

“We weren’t the only ones at it last night kid, have you noticed anyone missing this morning?”

A wave of relief washed over you, thank god!

“So if it’s not us they heard who was it?….” It only took a spilt second to realise who was missing.

“oh my god….Farah and Alex!” You spilt half the coffee onto Prices boots as you whipped round to look back at the camp.

“Correct…and Soap said they were pretty loud so even if we had been heard everyone thinks it’s them” Price chuckled as he took back his coffee.

Just as you turned back to Price you heard cheering and whistles, Alex had crawled out of Farah’s tent, bed headed and shirtless a weak smile on his face. Soap slapped him on the back offering him a coffee, close behind Farah appeared looking more triumphant than anything as she light up a cigarette. She waved at you and the Captain.

“She’s ballsy that one” you smiled back at her as Price lifted his coffee mug up at her in salute.

***********

A few days later you get a text from Gaz

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ifonlyyuweremine · 4 months

Text

Tough Love

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Smut with a plot nobody asked for.

Overview || Older man König being a dick but we’re trynna get that dick.

(Warnings) Smut, Age gap, soft sex, degradation?, poorly written, praise, size diff, bad grammar, daddy issues if you squint, crying, p in v, power imbalance, mirrors, desperation, covenant plot, semi-public sex, fingering, oral.

I don't know how many words it's just long. 18+

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Being in the military wasn’t easy; nobody had ever said it was. Long, grueling work hours, fixing trucks and tanks you didn’t even know how to operate.

Sleepless nights that left you catching sleep anywhere you could. Training that left your body sore and numb. Yet one man made your life in the force more complicated than necessary. Your Colonel was a man who haunted both your dreams and your hours in the daylight. Putting you through training that exceeded your limits.

He was pushing you to the brim of what you could achieve as a human. He was like a moth drawn to a flame, eyes trained on you. Always you. His rank kept an iron grip on your tongue; never had you wanted to curse out an officer like you did him. He was constantly muttering something in German around you, his voice a low-pitched grunt.

Not only was his training enough to make anyone shiver, but his size alone provoked a kind of unease. The closest thing to a superhuman that you’d ever seen; the fear of him keeping your lips sealed, making you swallow your words and follow his orders like a dog. After all, what was a couple more laps, sets, or chores compared to the punishments he could put you through?

Yet at the same time he ignited a fire inside you, one that bellowed deep within your stomach. Twisting and turning your organs with each step he took. As much as you despised him your subconscious mind had other ideas, ideas buried inside dreams, haunting your nights with his touch.

Rough calloused hands grazing on your skin, wedging between your legs. Breathy groans of relief flooding the shell of your ear. And god, his eyes. His eyes; oh how they would look at you, clouded over like perspiration on a window. Eyebrows knit together in pleasure, your hands cupping his face; tactile touch along his stubble and jaw.

You couldn’t stand it, waking up from those fantasia. Legs tangled inside the sheets of your bed, your chest heaving, and a burning feeling spread across your cheeks and down to your thighs.

Only for you to be torn apart from those fantasies of your Colonel into the harsh realities of daylight. However like all things, this was temporary was it not? A silly little fantasy blooming from your own masochism. It was bound to end.

Right?

————————————————————————

The gym was a good place to blow off steam, and so was the punching bag. A large sack of metal wrapped up in fabric just for your temper. Or lack thereof, holding everything in until it bubbles to the surface only to be released in quick bursts of energy.

Even if it was public and people could see you in all your glory, sweaty, gassed, and irritable. It didn't hinder your fists, rhythmically contacting with the rough, bright red fabric of the bag. Today was a better day; hardly anyone was there. They were keeping to themselves and then wandering back to their barrack. You stayed put. Immersing yourself in the numbness of your spent body.

It had been a collective of instances that had put you here. Firstly a rough start to th morning when you had split the mediocre breakfast onto yourself. Secondly after you had cleaned up there wasn’t much time left before drill runs so you opted out of eating. Big mistake.

People always say breakfast is the most important meal of the day; however, they say it because they mean it. You were irritable and tired, an incessant growling and podding of your stomach for everyone to hear. Your dill instructor also just so happened to be Colonel König. It was almost comical like the universe played an elaborate joke on you. And König being well, König made sure not to go easy on the drills. For being in the military and a colonel at that, he never yelled. He didn't need to, though; his normal voice was enough to command and make your blood run cold.

He eyed you down every step of the way through your drills. His cold blue eyes drilled into your own, and when that was all you could see of his face, make no mistake that those eyes didn't leave you even when he looked away.

You saw those eyes everywhere. His gaze clung to your psyche like sap from a tree. However, they were never as soft in the waking world. You preferred looking at him in your dreams; a spark of life that you couldn't see now when you looked at him.

After exhausting yourself with drills he pulled you aside, crossing his arms and looking down at you. His presence no less menacing than the day before.

“You are cutting back on training.”

It was direct, and straight to the point. Not like you expected anything else. You bit your tongue, “I've been present for each drill Colonel.” You replied plainly, keeping your voice flat.

“Then why are you struggling? Kleines mädchen (little girl), if you are keeping up with your other drill sergeants, you should be able to keep up with me, no?”

His accent rang in your ears, thick inflections rolling off his raspy voice. You swallowed, looking up at him, craning your neck to meet his icy gaze. “I don't know, Colonel, I'm trying, Sir. Believe me, I am.” You breathe, holding back a slew of profanities and excuses you knew he wouldn't accept behind your tongue.

He chuckled, cold and dry like his words. Eyes narrowing in on you, “You don't know?” he clicked his tongue, each one echoing through your eardrum.

“Das ist nicht gut (that is no good), [name] I train soldiers. Not fragile little mice. I know you are a capable young woman. So next time you come here, you train like a soldier. Is that acceptable, maus (mouse)?”

His words made your blood boil, and pursing your lips together you nodded. You nodded like a good soldier, “Yes Colonel.”

His eyes crinkled a little, not as if he was smiling but as if he was smirking. “Good. You're dismissed.” He murmured. You couldn't help how your eye twitched and your jaw clenched. Something that the giant man didn't miss.

You winced, repeatedly striking a metal bag for hours did end up coming back to bite you in the ass. Stepping back for a breath, the sound of your heavy breathing was the only sound you could hear besides the incessant ringing in your head. Running a hand through your hair, your scalp sweaty. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, you never understood how easily König got under your skin. His words cut deep, and it ignited something. A need to please.

You wanted him to like you, you wanted his snide comments and belittling remarks to stop. You wanted his praise, his pride, his approval. And you hated that you wanted it.

Everyone else seemed to like you, so why couldn't he? Why couldn't he see you were trying? How hard you had worked?

You punched the bag again and again. You grunted each time your fist hit the fabric. Wishing it was him, his body, his face, his eyes. You couldn't hear and couldn't think, wanting to dull your senses until you were dumbed down enough that you forgot what you were angry about.

“Enjoying yourself?”

You jumped a little, stumbling forward and looking over your shoulder. The hairs on the back of your stood up. You knew the voice, the rasp, the accent. Königs large figure met your eye, looming behind you like a statue. You panted.

“What?” You looked at him quizically, your body frozen like a deer in headlights.

He chuckled, walking closer to you. “You can punch that bag with such rigor yet you fall short during my drills.”

You breathed, an airy silence filled the open room. You could feel your heart beating, a soft thumping that filled the silence of the now empty gym. König didn’t wait for you to respond.

“Your stance is off; you’ll hurt your back and hands if you punch like that dummes mädchen (silly girl).” He hummed casually.

You blinked; it was this again. Your eyes narrowed up at him, your posture straightening. “Thanks, Colonel, but I don't want your input.” You breathe, feeling a sudden tension strike between you and the large man in front of you.

König shrugged, his gaze never leaving your eye. His stare was almost cockly, arrogant. Like he knew he made your skin crawl. If only he knew how much he made your skin crawl. “I was not inputting on your stance, I'm telling you that it's bad. And that you're going to fix it.” He said calmly.

You tensed a little. Was this man serious? You didn't know if one man could have a more significant power trip than he did. You bit your tongue, something you felt you did frequently when he was around you.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed. The quicker you get this over with, the better. Or maybe someone would walk into the gym to take König away. You could only hope as you turned around to face the punching bag, raising your arms to a stance.

The hairs on your neck stood as you felt a warm body press against your back. You felt it, his warmth, his breathing, his gear; it ignited something. That familiar low buzz from your lower body. Like vibrating a strange frequency between comfortability and unease. A large hand rested on the small of your back, pushing lightly, making your stomach turn.

“You're hunched over too much. No wonder you struggle with posture.” He chuckled, low and throaty. You felt the vibrations of his voice against the shell of your ear.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling your throat get dry. The jab at you didn't mean anything anymore with how you felt his large fingertips pressing against your spine. You involuntary arched your back a little, something that he didn't miss.

“Sensibles kleines ding, nicht wahr (sensitive little thing, aren't we)?”

König murmured; it was in German. You only ever caught bits and pieces of his speech. His other hand ghosted over your elbow, raising it. “You also need to raise your arms; it's no good fighting if someone can strike your head.”

You were slowly becoming hyperaware of everything around you. The sound of Königs breathing, his gear pressed against your neck, his hand on the small of your back. You memorized every detail of his touch; for such a large and dickish brute that he was, his touch was gentle.

“I know you despise me maus (mouse), but I am only ever looking out for your best interest.”

You faulted. He knew? You figured that lying wasn't going to do you good because you did despise him. You hated him. And yet you responded to his touch, even more so you leaned into it. You craved it so much that you dreamed of it. “What gave me away huh?” You breathed.

A low rumble came from his throat again. Raising your other arm, “You are… not very good at hiding emotions, ja (yes)? You tense your jaw and fists when you speak to me; I have noticed you bite your tongue a fair bit around me as well.”

Well, he got you there, but König continued. “Out of everyone here, though, you are the hardest to figure out. Even as you wear your emotions on your sleeve.”

You narrowed your eyes in confusion, letting his large hand guide your movements like a doll. “I don't know what you mean,” you asked.

His hand started to ghost down your arm and over to your jaw. König grabbed your face between his thumb and fingers, his large hand gripping your cheek effectively shutting you up. And you let him.

“You seem to hate me more than anyone, yet I can always feel your eyes on me. And the fact is if you hated me as you do, you wouldn't try so hard to improve; you wouldn't seek my approval.” He murmured.

Your stomach twisted into knots, and he held you like putty. Melting in his hands, “So tell me [name], do you want my approval?”

The buzzing continued; it rang in your ears, and it sent waves through your core. Your eyes were wide, and you could feel your heart pumping in your chest. You were like a deer in headlights; Königs grip on your jaw loosened to help you speak. Everything was quiet. The only sound was your heart racking through your ribs.

König was getting impatient with the silence, his other hand grabbing your hip and squeezing.

“Tell me the truth mädchen (girl).”

You nodded slowly. It was as if you were processing your answer as you nodded. Inhaling shakily, “I do.” you murmured.

“You do what [name]?” He corrected, forcing your head up.

“I want your approval.”

There it was, that obedience that he loved oh so much. If you were good at anything, it was following orders. His upper lip curved up. He laughed softly, squeezing your face In his hands. “See? Was that so hard, maus (mouse)?”

You didn't respond, feeling a twinge of shame. Your body was recoiling in on itself. Your lips formed a soft frown, and your eyes faltered as they were forced to meet him.

He caught this and shook his head, clicking his tongue, “No, no, none of that Schatz (Darling), you said you wanted my approval no?”

You nodded, swallowing your pride. “Gut (good), you listen, and you get my praise. So, can you listen liebling (love)?”

You nodded again, feeling a warmth pooling in your stomach, your cheeks reddening. König tightened his grip on your cheek, “Say it.”

“I'll listen, promise.” You manage out.

He smirked, Königs large hand trailing to the front of your abdomen. “Braves mädchen (good girl), I have no doubt you'll be a good listener. You're already an exceptional soldier, aren't you? While stubborn, yes, but you're an obedient little thing.”

Your stomach tightened, his words filling your ear like music. His hand felt warm as it ran along your shirt. He gripped your body and forcefully moved you to the side so the both of you faced the large mirror wall. Your cheeks flushed at seeing yourself in such a state, as well as seeing Konig's large form pressed against your back, staring at you through the mirror.

“Do you know why I am hard on you [name]?”

You thought for a moment, coming up empty-handed with an answer. “No, I don't know.” You breathe. His hand snaking to your belt.

König leaned down a little, his mouth beside the shell of your ear. You could feel his breath against you, and it drove you mad. “I want what's best for you, maus (mouse), but you rely on others too much. So, someone needed to toughen you up, no? It's just tough love engel (angle).”

Your breath hitched as his hand undid your belt. Königs other hand was still holding your face; it was as if time was moving slower. You watched his movements from the mirror's reflection, the way his eyes stared directly at you through the glass. His eyes weren't like in your dreams, but they didn't look like how they usually did either.

They were darker and more concentrated. Königs pupils dilated, and his irises a greyer hue.

“König, there could be someone around Sir-” You were hushed by the feeling of his fingers sliding over your pelvis, trailing against the fabric of your underwear.

He hummed and looked at you through the mirror, “There is no one. Trust me, engel (angel), just stay put and look pretty for me.” König murmured, his lips against your temple covered by his sniper hood. His middle and ring fingers start to move in slow, sultry circles around your covered bud.

You inhaled; it was shaky. Your stomach jumped as his fingers sent feverish currents of electricity through your body. Your thighs tense, and you blushed, trying to look anywhere but in front of you, knowing you would be greeted by the lewd sight of Königs fingers dancing around your panties. Your hand grabbed his arm for support, and he chuckled grabbing your face harder and forcing your jaw and eyes back to the mirror.

“Don't look away. You look away, and I stop,” He rasped. You looked at yourself, practically put on display for your higher officer. Hips jittering forward as the pad of his fingers brushed and circled over your clit.

König smiled and let go of your face, the same hand trailing down to your chest. He grasped your breast, his larger hand squeezing and prodding at it like a stress ball.

“So verdammt hübsch (so fucking pretty),” König put more pressure on his fingers, digging into your bud. Smiling as you whined quietly, “Look at you, so eager. You hate me, but you can't resist letting me play with this perfect cunt of yours.”

You hated that it was true; you hated him, but God did his fingers feel good. A slick spot started to develop around your panties, accompanied by your red face and heavy breathing. You were getting worked up by barely anything, yet it was better than anything you'd ever experienced. And König seemed to pick up on this rather quickly.

He raised an eyebrow and smirked, “Tell me, engel (Angel), tell me, have you ever let a man do this to you?”

You swallowed, watching through the mirror as his fingers slid up and down the fabric of your soaked panties. You shook your head, “No… I've fooled around with other guys, but nobody has ever done…” You trailed off, breath hitching again as his other hand pinches your nipple through the fabric of your clothes.

König hummed, “I figured so; you fool around with little boys liebste (sweetheart), not men. None of them know their way around. They don't know how to please you, do they?”

You whimper as he slips a finger down your panties, the pad of his middle finger coming in contact with your needy clit. Circling it, gathering your arousal with his strokes. You shake your head, looking at yourself. “No- they don't,” you choke out.

You looked like a skank in your mind, submitting so quickly to him—his hand down your underwear and one on your breast.

He smiled, “Good thing I'm not a little boy.”

Suddenly, he slipped one of his fingers into your eager little cunt. You choke out a surprised moan, your voice echoing off the walls of the empty gym. His finger was enormous; it almost hurt. And you shivered at the thought that just one of his fingers stretched you out.

“Scheiße (fuck), such a tight pussy.” He laughed lowly as he lazily drew his finger out and pushed it back in. He drank in how your gummy walls clenched and twitched around him. “M’gonna have to stretch you out.” He chuckled.

You grappled at his arm as he pumped his finger in and out. You squeezed your eyes shut and let out sweet whines and moans. König promptly withdrew his finger and flicked at your bud, causing a sharp pang of both pain and pleasure that shot your eyes open.

“Hey, what did I say? Eyes open while I work this pretty cunt open.” He ordered, and you whined. Your eyes pool with soft tears from the shock.

You nodded, and he slipped his finger back in, gently working in his ring finger. You squeaked, panting as you watched his fingers through the fabric of your panties. “König, s’too big-” you whined.

He shushed you and pressed a masked kiss to your temple, letting his second finger slide entirely in, scissoring you open. “Shh, it's not too big; trust me, engel (Angel), you're just not used to it yet.” He hushed, pumping his two fingers in at a steady pace.

You felt your thighs shaking a little, watching your reflection as he worked you open. König murmured words of praise into your ear as he did so.

“That's it [name], braves mädchen (good girl). Take it; take my fingers. Let me stretch this perfect cunt out.”

You let out a moan, feeling a burning pleasure building in your core. Your hips began to stutter, bucking into his hands. You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to muffle your moans and cries of pleasure.

König quickly took your hand away from your mouth, “No, no, don't you dare do that. Let me hear you, engel (Angel), let me hear those pretty fucking moans.”

You felt yourself coming undone, your thighs clamping down. A tightness was blooming in your stomach; you could barely hold yourself up as it was. Almost impaling yourself on Königs fingers.

“König, fuck- I can't, m’gonna cum.” You whimpered, your body tensing up.

At that, he forced his fingers deeper, finding that pillowy spot inside you as he curled his fingers, finding your g-spot. “Go ahead, schatz (darling), come for me. Look at me in that mirror; look at who's making you cum.”

You felt light for a moment, and König watched in satisfaction as your mouth formed that ‘o shape he loved so much.

Your legs quivered as it hit you, crashing down on you like a wave. It was too much, the pads of his fingers digging into your G-spot, his large fingers stretching your cunt out oh so nicely. You screamed, the noise bouncing off the walls. Your head thrown back into Königs chest.

That was the first time a man had made you come on his fingers alone.

You came back down into reality after a couple of long seconds. Almost falling due to your limp legs, luckily König held you up. Withdrawing his fingers from your spent cunt and holding your hips. He chuckled and pressed a kiss through his hood to your ear, neck, and temple.

“So good, took it so well, didn't you?” He whispered you looked messy. Your clothes are messy, and your eyes are glazed with the remanence of that hazy pleasure. Your own slick was dripping down your thighs.

You teetered in his hands like jello. König looked down at you, “You're almost ready, I would say.”

Looking up at him confused, your eyes furrowed and eyebrows knit together. “Almost?” You repeated. Almost slurring your words.

He nodded, grabbing you by your hips and hoisting you up. Turning you around and walking towards the mirrored wall. “Yes, did you think you'd be ready after just my fingers?” He mused, lifting you so your legs were wrapped around his torso.

You blushed, feeling a little dense. “Well… yes?” You said feeling your back hit the wall.

König let out a throaty laugh, “Engel (Angel), I appreciate your eagerness, but I'm a large man, no? And your cunt could barely take my fingers; what makes you think you could take my cock?”

You looked away sheepishly, “Don't worry, this will feel good too. I'm not withholding anything from you that you need.” König hummed.

He slid off your pants and your dirty underwear, leaving your bottom half barren. Holding you by your thighs and your back pressed against the mirror, he looked at you. “Take off the top, and the bra too.”

You obeyed, sliding off your remaining clothing. After you were barren of your garments, he took you in. “Gott schau dich an (God look at you), the prettiest body I've ever seen” König breathed.

You felt your cheeks burning at his praise, this was wrong. You would be in deep if the both of you got caught, yet that look in his eyes made you crave more of him. Something real, he was real and he was in front of you.

“Promise to hold on ja (yes)? I won’t drop you.” He breathed, you looked at him in confusion.

“Hold on?”

Before you could do anything he hoisted you up again, throwing your thighs over his shoulder. The mirror behind you pressed against your back. You yelped, caught off guard.

You were high up, almost like a game of chicken. Your face burned as you saw your core inches away from his hood. König held you behind and your thighs, keeping you in place. “König, what are you doing?” you squeaked.

He looked up at you, his eyes crinkling. “I thought it was pretty obvious, no? I want my fill, too. Why not make this a pleasurable experience for the both of us?” He hummed, reaching up to his hood and lifting it past his nose.

His lips curved into a smile, a small scar carved into his upper lip. Königs jaw was sharp, peeks of stubble over his chin and jaw, some of it greying at the edges.

The stubble on his face pressed into your thighs, making it tickle. Your breath hitched, and you felt your stomach do a small flip; you could feel his breath on your core, and it made you shiver.

“Scheiße (fuck), can't wait to taste this perfect cunt.”

Before you could protest, he buried his face into your core. König licked a strip down your slit. Making you mewl, your thighs clenching around his head.

Due to your previous activity, you were already soaked. Königs mouth was covered in your arousal; he hummed as he pushed his tongue inside your swollen folds. The vibrations of his voice sent shockwaves through your spine.

You moaned, and your hands shot to his hood, grasping at the material on the top of his head. “Oh, oh fuck,” you whined, throwing your head back into the wall.

It felt too good. The feel of Königs mouth was like heaven; he moaned into your pussy while his fingers dug into the meat of your thighs and behind. He drew up for air before focusing his attention on your needy clit.

Your back arched in surprise, and you gasped out a lewd moan. Your fingers dug into the fabric of his hood as he sucked and pressed open-mouth kisses to your bud of nerves. It was a lot.

Hot tears pooled into the corners of your eyes from overstimulation. Your thighs clasping as his head, you tried to push his head away from your clit, but he was relentless.

König looked at you the entire time, watching eagerly to see each twitch, moan, and tear.

After another minute, he detached from your cunt. His breathing labored, and his chin covered in your slick. He groaned and pressed a kiss to your spent clit. “You taste so good, engel (angel), sweetest pussy I've had.”

You caught your breath, letting out a soft whimper, “don't stop, please.” you whine.

König raised an eyebrow and laughed, “So bedürftig (so needy).” He readjusted himself, making you bounce on his shoulder. He spit on your cunt and plunged his lips back into you. Moaning as his tongue slipped in and out of your clenching hole.

You yelped and whimpered, rolling your hips into his face. As you did, he tightened his hold on your thighs, “Mhfp- yes, just like that liebe (love), roll those pretty hips.” He groaned against your soaked folds.

You could feel that familiar coil tighten in your stomach. Staring to blabber and whine, your thighs fighting around his head.

As soon as König felt that you were on the brink of cumming he pulled his mouth away. You whimpered at the loss, bucking your hips needily at the loss of his touch. Looking down at him with a fucked out expression, eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Why’d you stop?” you whine.

König licked his lips, looking up at you. “Es tut mir leid Liebe (I’m sorry, love), but I can't wait.” He breathed with a grin.

Quickly, he grabbed your thighs and hoisted you down until you were even with him. He was holding your butt with one hand and unbuckling his belt with the other.

You didn't have the heart to complain at the loss of his mouth when you knew his cock was waiting.

König managed to unzip his pants and then pull down his boxers, taking his length into his hand. You swallowed.

It was big; he wasn't kidding when he said you needed that prep. Your eyes were locked on his hard cock pulsing in his hand. It had to be at least seven inches, maybe eight. The reddened mushroom tip was sticky with his precum. Your eyes trailed down, watching the vein that ran down to the base of his pelvis and his heavy balls.

König chuckled as he watched your eyes, completely enamored with his dick. König stroked himself a few times so he could fully harden, making you blush just watching it.

He smiled and kissed your temple softly, “Don't get shy on me now, engel (angel).” He rasped.

“That thing will not fit; it will split me open.” You breathed, and he laughed at that. “I'll make it fit.”

You looked at him, your eyes a mix of unease and need—a paradoxical combination that left even you confused about what you wanted. But the way he left your cunt wanting, you didn't think you could leave without it.

“Promise to go slow, okay?” you asked him. König nodded. “Promise hübsches mädchen (pretty girl).” He whispered back to you; he then slowly dragged his hard cock along your puffy cunt. Making you squirm as the tip collected your slick.

König then pushed the fat tip into you; immediately, you whined, and your hands dug into his shoulder. Your back pressed against the mirror, and your thighs tightened around his abdomen.

He slowly pushed his hips into you inch by inch. It was a mix between pain and pleasure, feeling a tightness in your cunt as König stretched out your gummy walls.

He looked up at you once you were halfway, “Gut fühlen (feeling good)? Can I keep going?”

You nodded and breathed out, “Yeah, keep going.” You whimpered.

Fuck, it all felt so good, his hands slotted at your back and thighs. His cock pushing into you at an agonizing pace. König hisses as he plunges himself fully into you, his hips pressed against yours. “Mein Gott (my god), that's it.” He groaned.

“Oh mein Gott, verdammt (oh my god, fuck), tightest pussy I've had.” König breathes, his hands squeezing the flesh of your hip and thigh. You felt full; his fleshy tip prodded against your sweet spot. This was different than his fingers or his mouth. This felt addictive, the way your cunt pulled him in, the way you melded into him like you were made for his cock.

You felt your head fall back against the mirror, sucking in breaths and moans each time he pulsed inside your cunt. “König, need you to move.” you gasped.

He nodded, lifting your hips and then dropping them down while bucking up into you at the same time, using you like a human fleshlight. You screamed.

He immediately set a pace, not slow, but not fast either. It was like he was testing the waters on how much you could take. And god, did you want everything. You wanted it more than air.

His cock slipped in and out of your pulsating cunt, a squelching noise sucking him back in every time he forced himself back in. The both of you were a mess, grunting and gasping for air. König slotted his face inside the crook of your neck so he could whisper his profanities into your ear while he speared you with his cock.

“Dir gefällt das, nicht wahr (you like this, don't you)? Come on, hübsches Mädchen (pretty girl). Tell me how much you love this dick.”

His hips rammed up into you, the tip of him pushing up into your cunt, making you yelp. You were barely processing what he said, “Feels so good, fuck you feel so good König.” You cry out.

This spurred him on further, his hands forcing you down at a much more brutal pace. König was splitting you open, and you couldn't be more willing to take it. You took it so well, wet cunt fluttering around him.

The sounds the both of you made echoed across the gym's walls. The grunts and moans, the wet slapping of his balls against your body, and the lewd noises of you soaking his dick in your own arousal.

The mirror that you were pressed up against was fogged in the shape of your ass and back. Yet you didn't care; all you could think about was the giant of a man desperately plunging his needy cock into your swollen pussy.

“God, do you know how long I've wanted to do this? Huh? To fuck you on my cock? Every damn time I looked at you, I wanted you.” He hissed, bucking his hips up into you.

You felt dizzy; you couldn't process his words. You were too fucked out. He noticed this and chucked, followed by a moan—his breath melding against the curve of your neck. “Dummes Mädchen (dumb girl), can't even think now, can you? Too drunk off this dick.” He grunted.

Your hands held his shoulders, nails digging into his clothes. “Making a mess of my fucking pants.” he breathed.

There it was again. You felt the familiar coil within your body. You were close, “König- gonna cum. Can't hold it,” you cried out. Your thighs were clenching around his abdomen. He nodded, “I know, scheiße (fuck), I know. Come on, do it for me; come on this cock.”

You screamed his name, a tidal wave of electricity running through your body. Your cunt fluttered around him, gushing perfectly around his cock. It was like you saw white, your eyes rolling back as he pounded through your orgasm. Your toes curling and your legs straightening out.

König moaned as you creamed around his dick. He felt it, too. His digits dug into your skin, “Engel (Angel), tell me where. Fuck tell me where you want it.” he gasped.

You almost didn't respond, almost in another world entirely, as his hips pounded into your spent cunt. You felt a thousand things at once, “I-Inside, I'm clean.” you choked out.

At that, he came, his hips stuttering, letting out a long breathy moan. He coated your pussy white, a warmth spreading through your hole. He lazily thrust a few more times before just staying put. Gasping for air as he twitched and slowly softened in your cunt.

The two of you stayed there for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow. Then König raised his head from your neck to look at you; his eyes were clouded through his hood. “Hey süßes mädchen (sweet girl), you with me?” he murmured. Holding your hips while he stayed inside, enjoying the warmth of your pussy.

You nodded lazily, your breathing still heavy. “Mhm, I'm with you.”

He nodded and looked at you, “Atta girl, took me so well, engel (angel).” you smiled at the praise feeling a low buzzing in your body that spread over you like a blanket. You let your head fall into his collarbone. “I can't feel my legs,” you giggled softly.

König held you a little tighter, “Like a good ‘I can't feel my legs’? Or a bad one?” He asked you and you hummed in response.

“Good, I think. But I'm not going to be able to walk.”

He grinned, “Well, that was kinda the idea, süßes mädchen (sweet girl).” You could only smile softly; you knew this was probably a wrong decision to do this again, but you couldn't care less at that moment. “I still hate you, by the way,” you murmured playfully into his collar. He chuckled, his fingers rubbing soothing circles around your hips.

“Look who's giving tough love now?” He mused.

Maybe that was all it was between you, tough love. Some unresolved tension that ate away at the both of you until it boiled over. But at that moment, you didn't mind. It was better not to think about that. For now, you just wanted to be.

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Hi, this is my first work. I'm not sure if I like it; it's rather bad. I haven't been on Tumblr that long, so I'm still getting everything sorted out. I'm not much of a writer, and I've never posted any works. If people like it, I'll probably write more, but otherwise, I don't see much of a point. This was kind of a one-off thing. But if you found it mildly entertaining, then I'm happy. And if you did make it this far, then thank you: much love, and happy holidays.

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#könig x reader #könig #cod mw2 #könig smut #smut #enemies to lovers #call of duty #lemon #first post #new user #writers block #fictional men #konig cod #konig call of duty #konig modern warfare #konig x y/n #18+ content #military #age g4p

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visceravalentines · 3 months

Text

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin.

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck.

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes.

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg.

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking.

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line.

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly.

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards.

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin: sunburn, bug bites, bite marks.

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes.

“What’s for supper?”

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.”

He licks his lips.

Supper gets cold.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry.

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else.

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them.

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale. “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor.

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.”

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?”

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get.

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass.

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?”

“Almost.”

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do.

You snip them one by one, bittersweet.

“Done.”

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.”

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side.

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing.

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones.

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.”

Have you always been such a good listener?

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face.

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands.

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world.

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry.

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept.

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too.

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in.

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds.

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe.

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit.

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.”

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish.

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have.

“Get the light,” he says.

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck.

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat.

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him.

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall.

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night.

“Please,” you moan.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.”

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties.

“Good.”

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory.

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here.

Neither is he.

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt.

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap.

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget.

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle.

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles: a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake.

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children.

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet.

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that.

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either.

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk.

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails.

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak.

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood: the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.”

You frown.

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair.

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You.

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach.

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning.

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth.

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him.

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television.

“I killed my mama, y’know.”

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed.

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red.

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling.

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday.

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

#this really truly took it out of me #vignette-style writing like this is SO HARD for me idk why #but i wanted so many moments of normal life in hell and i wanted them all #he's probably so ooc god but it's fine it's fine #we're so back #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #house of wax fanfiction

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pupjakie · 11 months

Text

CIGARETTES AFTER SEX

Pairing: dom!Beomgyu x sub!male reader

Warnings: sexual content, nicotine addiction, unprotected sex,capnolagnia, Y/n trying to smoke

Summary: just Y/n learning more about himself while watching Beomgyu smoking

Word count: 961

"Fuck fuck fuck!" you moaned loudly as your boyfriend, Beomgyu looked at you, your body twitching under the touch of his fingers around your cock and his dick in your hole, abusing your prostate for 2 hours already. His stamina was crazy, making you cry on his dick. "I-I'm gonna cum Beomgyu!" you yelled as his thrusts became sloppier. Soon after you both came and he helped you clean yourself up. He exhaustively laid down next to your body as his hand reached his pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. He opened it and took his lighter, inhaling the nicotine in his mouth.

He smoked way before you started a relationship with him, his idol life is already exhausting enough. One thing he doesn't know is that you love watching him smoking. He looks so attractive with a cigarette between his fingers and his plump lips. This time you took a better look. It felt different. You wondered what the reason was. 'Maybe it's because this is the first time he punished me?' you thought. You were always obedient to him but this time you decided to be a little slut and flirt with people in the club which he obviously hated and took you home immediately. He looked at you and kissed your cheek, keeping the hand where he held a cigarette in the air.

"Hey are you okay?" He asked. You couldn't hold back but to sit on his lap and kiss him, he was about to leave the cigarette on the side and turn it off to finish it later but you didn't let him "please continue smoking" you said, turned on as you kissed. He kept the cigarette in his hands as you two continued making out. He was careful with the hand in which was the cigarette while the other one was on your hips. Suddenly you could feel him getting a hard on underneath you, making you moan as you started kissing his neck, leaving hickeys just like he did to you earlier. He started breathing faster and heavier, his groans were deep, he was laying there tensely, waiting for you to take his big and veiny cock into your mouth.

Instead you smiled at him as he got fully hard and slowly pushed his cock in your hole, making both of you moan as you placed hands on his shoulders. He let out a deep groan at the feeling of your hole around his cock.

You slowly started off by slow bouncing on his cock as he took the cigarette, placing the filter between his lips as he sucked on it for a second and inhaled the smoke, blowing it out right on your face. You couldn't describe how good it made you feel. Fuck for a second you were about to go crazy. You started bouncing faster on his cock and moaning louder. Suddenly you decided tos switch his view as you turned around, letting Beomgyu face your ass as you held onto his thighs. Beomgyu pulled your body closer, with only one hand and whispered into your ear "you're going crazy aren't you? Such a slut you are, just look at yourself bouncing on my cock so shamelessly, even after I fucked you. Such a horny bitch you are" he whispered as you teared up, feeling like you're gonna cum. His free hand wrapped around your cock as you cried out "G-gyu! I'm gonna fucking cum!" You moaned out as he bit his lip and pulled you closer. "Cum now" he groaned. At the same second as those words left his mouth you came. You could feel him filling you up as you both moaned and he pulled you into his arms.

After a few minutes you were cuddling and as he caressed your hair, you were all cleaned up, with the new sheets covering the bed and him talking about the whole day.

"You know…I've never thought you had a thing for me smoking" he said trying to tease you "I wanna try tho…" you admitted looking at him. He looked at you kind of shocked "are you sure? I mean it's very unhealthy, especially for your lungs. And besides these are not good ones to start with because-" you stopped him by a kiss and sat up straight, taking the pack of cigarettes from the desk and the lighter. "How do you do that?" You questioned as you took out one from the pack and lit it up. You read out "Marlboro gold-" from the box while he sat up straight, looked at you and placed it into his mouth after taking it away, taking the first puff. "The first puff is bitter and these are kinda strong" he said as he looked at you and sighed "put the filter in your mouth first and then suck on the filter for a second while inhaling the oxygen and then just blow it out" he said as he did so, giving you the cigarette.

You got a bit excited as you happily took it from him and did so. After you inhaled you started coughing as you tasted the bitterness in your throat. "These are too strong, my love, if you really want to start be careful and start with some lighter ones-" you stopped coughing as you gave him the cigarette back "here you go- I don't think I like it- seriously how do you even like this?" You questioned, making him giggle "you just need to get used to it and start with the lighter ones and I'm not encouraging you to do it I just knew that one puff will be too much for you" he said smiling as he took another puff, exhaling it onto your face.

#bxb smut #kpop x male reader #kpop smut #txt imagine #kpop fanfiction #txt x male reader #txt hard hours #txt smut #beomgyu smut #beomgyu x male reader #beomgyu x yn #txt hard thoughts

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xvysarene · 4 days

Text

𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤 ℝ𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕗

Pairing: Zayne x Fem!Reader Words: ~3.3k Genre: Suggestive Notice: 3rd person POV, Mentions of alcohol, Slight OOC Zayne (not a teetotaler)

"I know a healthier way to relieve stress, doctor."

Alcohol-induced thoughts had rolled off her tongue effortlessly.

She had expected his towering build to abruptly rise and leave her right there, appalled by the provocative comment. A disgusted expression or an unexpected snort would be acceptable too.

Yet, when she finally dared to face him, those sharp eyes locking with hers was not something she expected. Overflowing intensity caused her skin to tingle.

“You shouldn’t offer what you can’t deliver, Ms. Y/N,” his lowered voice warned her, sending a chill down her spine on hearing the way he had addressed her so formally, just like when they were in the meeting room.

The room suddenly spun, but not from the alcohol. No, she only had two bottles of beer, just enough to loosen her tongue like this.

The response in her throat dried as she saw him sipping his whiskey sans ice, Adam apple’s bobbing as he swallowed the deep amber liquid after letting it linger in his mouth, taking in the smoky flavour.

“Well?” Perfectly arched brow challenged her.

Heart pounding rapidly in her chest, she took one last gulp from the barely touched third bottle to calm her nerves before subtly cocking her head to the bar’s exit.

It was one of the rare moments she had seen him smirk and not in response to a challenge in the medical field.

The faint creaking from the bar stool was loud in her ears as he stood up, settling both of their bills with the bartender, and leaving a hefty tip. His surprisingly warm palm rested low on her hip as he guided her to his black sedan.

Mesmerizing city lights blurred. Her attention drawn solely to the sensation of his thumb slowly drawing circles on her thigh.

Next thing she knew, her back was pressed against the back of his front door, lips locked in a passionate battle filled with intense desire that made her knees buckle.

The strong thigh nestled between her heated core was the only thing stopping her from melting into a puddle on his floor. The friction, a welcome bliss, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her.

That was the beginning of the agreement, becoming a recurring occurrence whenever both of them needed to blow off steam from the stresses of demanding jobs. Him, saving lives, and her, dealing with difficult clients.

“Thank you for being my stress relief.”

His words cut through her second post-orgasm haze like ice water.

Somewhere along the line of what was supposed to be a no-strings-attached arrangement, small things like having a late-night snack together to deeper conversation during pillow talks grew to be a regular part of the deal.

Feelings for him had begun to bloom, much like the flowers outside with the arrival of warmer weather.

“Are you okay?” The sound of rustling sheets reminded her that she had been silent for too long while staring emptily at his ceiling.

“Yeah,” she simply replied.

Not satisfied with the answer, she felt Zayne’s fingertips lightly tracing above her collarbone, gently checking patches of skin that had turned reddish. They would undoubtedly be bruised by the next day.

“Was I too rough?”

Hands roamed greedily over her curves, warm lips on the sensitive dips and folds that he had become well acquainted with, growls of desire, and powerful thrusts flashed through her mind.

She tried to suppress the memories, though her body still hummed from the aftereffects. “No, just tired.”

He carefully took hold of her chin, noticing that she had been avoiding his gaze. "Y/N, you know you can talk to me, right?" his voice filled with concern.

“I think that’s the problem.”

Zayne’s calculated hazel orbs bore into hers, searching for the meaning behind her words.

“I’m not sure if you notice, Zayne, but for a casual arrangement, things are starting to get complicated.”

It was his turn to drop his gaze. For someone as bright as him, it would be impossible for the situation to go over his head.

He too must have realised the way their dynamic had changed over time; they had spent more time together in and out of the bedroom.

At times, they’d simply cuddle through the nights, providing a safe haven without the necessity for words.

She held her breath. There was no going back now. "It's starting to feel like more than just sex—it has been for some time.”

Retracted fingers sent a clear sign that he was about to take a step back, the gesture as clear as the darkness enveloping the night. The guarded mask was back once he met her gaze again.

"We both agreed that this was meant to be casual. I don't want either of us to end up getting hurt."

It sounded like an automated response even to his ears. He grimaced.

Y/N's heart sank. Despite the obvious signal of his withdrawal, his words still pierced her heart. "I see," she said quietly, distancing herself from him slightly.

Zayne could sense her disappointment and reached out to touch her arm. "Hey, Y/N, it's not that I don't care about you. I just…” his words faltered.

"I understand," she said, forcing a smile. "I believe it might be best if we stop doing this then."

He breathed out slowly. "Yeah, you may be right.”

A curt nod was directed at him. "I should probably get going anyway."

“Don’t be silly, it’s past midnight,” Zayne immediately stood up, trying to stop her. She tried hard not to look down at his abs or any other part of his anatomy. “I’m not asking you to leave. You can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch if you want.”

“I just prefer to sleep on my own bed tonight, but thank you for the offer.”

He watched as she quickly slipped on her clothes and gathered her things.

“Let me drop you off at least,” he pleaded.

"I'll take the 24-hour taxi on the corner of your street and send you my location," she shut him down with the same assertive tone she used when closing deals.

As he closed the door behind her, a part of him wished she hadn't seen him at the bar that evening when he had let his heart rule over his brain.

“What is it?” Zayne took the pen out of his pocket and began to add his notes to the patient’s file.

When no response came from the direction of his office door, he exasperatedly looked up, about to shoot daggers at whoever was interrupting him.

Greyson, his assistant and regrettably a close friend out of work, stood in place, watching his every move.

“Less than fifteen minutes to the meeting; you were normally ready half an hour before that.”

The grip on the pen tightened as he concentrated back on jutting his notes down, making sure he didn’t miss any important details.

“I have some urgent things to attend to earlier.”

Greyson hmmed. “Yeah, things that you normally assign to the junior doctors so they can 'practice more' as you often phrase it."

Zayne knew that engaging with Greyson was futile since he would never win—a rarity, given that he would typically be the one in Greyson's shoes in any other situation.

“Let’s go, don’t want to be late for such an important meeting.”

As Greyson walked one step ahead of him, he did shoot daggers at the back of his friend's head all the way to the meeting room.

Nervous fingers, poised to adjust the tie, froze in place as he noticed Yvonne sent Greyson a knowing look once they entered the conference room before setting her eyes on him.

“Ah, Doctor Zayne and Doctor Greyson are here,” the hospital administrator greeted them from his seat.

He cleared his throat. “Apologies for running late.”

“Not at all, Doctor Zayne. You are, in fact, right on time,” Y/N said, acknowledging him after finishing setting up her laptop for the presentation.

"It's good to have you back, Ms. Y/N,” Greyson said as he took the seat across from him.

“Likewise, Doctor Greyson.”

“No offense to your colleague, but we were afraid we’d get a new account manager.”

The smile faltered slightly on her lips, clearly taken aback by his assistant’s nonsensical comment. “I had a business trip last time, which was why I had asked my colleague to step in for me.”

“We find that consulting with you is a more enjoyable process for us, as you're familiar with our requirements, isn’t that right, Doctor Zayne?"

Greyson’s sudden query left him unprepared. He sent his friend a quick warning glance before nodding, afraid that his carefully crafted pretense of nonchalance would slip away.

“Right, since everybody is here, should we start the meeting then?” the purchasing manager spoke when he finally put his phone down, not paying attention to the conversation as he was busy texting anyway. “Ms. Y/N, what new devices do you have for us?”

As Y/N started her presentation, Yvonne’s hushed words reached his ears, “Would you like some water, doctor?” The nurse’s hand appeared in his line of vision, handing him a bottle of water.

“Thank you,” he replied, making the mistake of looking into the nurse's eyes. Her perceptive gaze told him she knew how surprisingly affected he was by Y/N’s presence.

For once, he regretted instilling in those who work under him the importance of being observant of their surroundings.

Y/N’s fingers traced the rim of the glass, lost in the haunting cadence of the singer's voice.

The lady poured her heart into each note. Each lyric dripped with the bittersweet of longing, a testament to love that lingered just beyond reach.

“Pretty uneventful for a celebratory night, don’t you think?” The bartender—Ethan, she had learned his name—approached her again once the end of the workweek crowd had slowly dispersed.

“Perhaps,” she replied, “but it allows me to rearrange my thoughts.”

She had found unexpected companionship with the bartender, who had recognised her from the night her loose tongue had led her into a difficult situation with Zayne.

Despite its prime location at Moonshadow Avenue, the jazz bar remained a hidden gem, often overlooked by the bustling crowds.

It was the perfect place to enjoy some time alone outside the confines of her home, feeling it a little too empty lately.

“People normally do that within the privacy of their home,” he responded knowingly. There was a kindness in his eyes, a silent reassurance that she wasn't alone in her solitude.

She sent him a small smile and savored the final drop of the ruby-hued liquid. A delicate hint of orange zest, weaving through the complex herbaceous notes, warmed her body.

Ethan took the empty glass. “And that, ma’am, is the last glass for tonight.”

When he saw her let out a playful huff despite the buzz that she was feeling, he offered a gentle warning, “Negronis can sneak up on you quicker than you think. Wouldn't want you making any bad decisions now, would we?”

"Alright, dad." Y/N playfully rolled her eyes to his retreating figure, feeling grateful for his watchful care.

As the band moved on to another piece, she cast a look around the room. Couples were huddled together, allowing intimate conversations to blend with the somber tones of saxophones and pianos.

The warm, honeyed glow from antique lamps illuminated their faces, creating playful shadows dancing across their features. Every exchanged smile spoke volumes of love in a myriad of languages shared between them.

Feeling a churn inside her heart, she grabbed her purse, ready to call it a night.

“It’s on the house,” Ethan tutted after serving another patron.

“I had more than one glass tonight,” she warned and slid the card to him.

“If I ever undergo heart surgery at Akso—God forbid,” he knocked on the polished bar to ward off any bad luck. “I’ll make sure to thank you personally for the devices you sold to them.” With that, he slid the card back across the bar.

Y/N shook her head at his antics and handed him a generous trip instead. “Thank you, but just this once.”

“Anytime, milady,” he quipped, bowing dramatically. “Get home safely.”

She waved goodnight and stumbled a bit, the buzz from the drink intensifying as she rose from the stool. Ethan’s advice was spot on—any more drinks and she might have found herself spinning along with the room, tripping her way out the door.

The cool breeze of the spring night air hit her, a welcoming sensation that helped clear her head. Phone in hand, ready to order a ride, she thought she caught a whiff of a sterile smell, a scent that reminded her of the corridors at the hospital.

Heart racing, she looked up at the sound of a familiar voice softly uttering her name.

“Y/N?” he called out again as she blinked at him.

It was Zayne, still clad in the white shirt and light beige cotton vest combo he had worn earlier in the day, looking like he just finished his shift.

Though he had rolled up his sleeves, allowing the world to get a sight of his strong forearms.

A faint sigh slipped from his lips as he extended a finger in front of her face, moving it from left to right, checking to see if her eyes focused on it.

“You’ve been drinking more than I thought.”

“What are you doing here?” Y/N countered, not expecting to see him.

Those unmistakable hazel eyes peered down at her, before looking to the side, lost in contemplation.

“I need to see you. Figured you might have frequented this bar again and I was right.”

Her mouth opened and closed, mind racing on how to respond to that.

The lively younger crowd suddenly shifted, eager to migrate to a happening spot as the night was still young to them, and she found herself jolted into his embrace.

Apologies from a younger girl fell on deaf ears as her focus was captured by the arms securely wrapping around her figure.

“Let me drive you home.”

It wasn’t a question. The same words he had uttered the night she left his house echoed in her mind.

City lights blurred into a colorful haze, much like the first time she sank into the plush leather seat of his car, though her thigh felt empty.

The hand that had rested on it previously was gripping the steering wheel tightly, trying to restrain itself. The silence between them was heavy, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he finally broke the silence when her apartment came into view.

Zayne turned off the engine and turned to face her. “But seeing that you’ve had some drinks, it’s probably better if we do this when you’re completely sober.”

“Meet me upstairs,” the words came rushing out of her mouth, surprising him and her both.

He looked into her eyes deeply. “Are you sure?”

She nodded swiftly and opened the car door, stepping out before she could second-guess her decision.

Upstairs, weary feet paced back and forth, the sound of footsteps echoing softly in the quiet apartment. Fresh breeze swept through the opened windows, bringing clarity to her mind.

Soon, there was a soft knock on the door, and her heart raced faster. She was met with the sight of him who had shed his vest and tie. That sure wasn’t helping her nerves as he somehow looked even more dashing than before.

She could feel his heat as he passed her. Suddenly, her apartment felt small with Zayne standing there, his presence filling the room.

“You have been busy,” he remarked when he saw the pile of papers stacked on her coffee table.

“I’m just trying to do more work to take my mind off…” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Of you.

“Of what?” Zayne prompted. “Is everything okay?” He genuinely looked concerned, softening her towards him even more, if possible.

“Just a lot in my mind lately,” she opted to say.

He hmmed understandingly and they resorted to another silence. Feeling parched, she took a swig of the chilled water from her fridge, aware that his gaze was tracking her every move.

"I saw you hurriedly walking down the hospital corridor a couple of months back,” he said quietly, “avoiding me as if I were contagious."

And yet, she had done it again earlier in the morning. After successfully closing the deal with Akso, the businesswoman's confidence evaporated as their hands clasped in a shake.

The familiar hold of his hand ignited a surge of memories, memories where he had once gripped both of her wrists effortlessly, guiding her into moments of ecstasy.

It prompted her to hastily make an escape.

"I just...didn't know how to face you, and I didn’t want to make things more awkward between us."

His hand caught her chin, lifting her head that had hung low from embarrassment. Her breath caught, only noticing how those broad shoulders were closer than before.

“I’ve missed you.”

Doubt stealthily crept into her. “You mean the sex?”

“That’s a totally different context,” he clarified quickly, "I care about you. More than I've ever cared about anyone else. And it drives me crazy knowing that I have hurt you.

“You were right, it hadn’t been just a casual arrangement for some time," he admitted, voice tinged with fragility that she had heard sneaking in within the safe space of their pillow talks. “I’m a coward who thought that completely baring my soul to someone will only end in heartache.”

“Well, I have a soft spot for this particular person who dares to bare his soul.” Her smile was gentle, though he didn’t miss the mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Did you finally admit that it was more than physical or is my mind playing tricks on me, Doctor Zayne?”

A small chuckle escaped his lips. “Judging on your playful quip even when I’m being serious and…” His thumb brushed against her jugular, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her pulse beneath his touch. “…seeing that you’re responding even to the slightest touch, it seems that you’re fully alert right now.”

Smouldering gaze pinned her down to the spot. Their heads tilted closer, drawn by an irresistible magnetic pull.

“Though, I never refuted that I didn’t miss the physical aspect, did I?”

A surge of heat rushed through that one spot south of her body. “So, Mr. Coward, what’s your next brave move going to be?” her words came out in a breathless whisper.

With a barely audible exhale, he grabbed her by the back of the neck. Mouths moved in a passionate dance of need, their kisses growing more desperate with each passing second.

As they fought for oxygen, he withdrew, forehead touching hers. “Are you sure this is something you want? Right after we talk about things between us are more than just sex?”

“Didn’t you confirm I’m ‘fully alert’ earlier?”

She tugged on his collar, drawing him closer until their bodies were flush against each other. The fabric of her pencil skirt felt constricting as his skilled surgeon fingers toyed along the waistband.

“Do you have work tomorrow?” she managed to gasp out in between her moans, tilting her head back, exposing the delicate curve of her neck to his wandering lips further.

“No,” he replied, voice thick with a feral need.

Puffs of hot breath danced across her skin, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand proud. “Will you stay the night then?”

Full-blown dark irises locked onto hers, a sly curl exclusively reserved for her tugged at the corner of his lips

“I thought you’d never asked,” he breathed, before lightly nibbling on his favourite spot. The spot he knew would elicit the sweetest symphony from her lips.

Peppered purplish marks would for sure grace her neck for the next couple of days. And perhaps a few other places on her body too.

#ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐱𝐞𝐩𝐡'𝐬 writing nook #love and deepspace #lads #l&ds #zayne x reader #zayne #zayne x y/n #zayne x you #suggestive

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eyesofshinigami · 2 months

Text

A Day in the Life

Rating: G

CW: None

Tags: Established relationship, kidfic, tiny OC, married life, fluff

Prompt: For @shares-a-vest "Love is co-parenting"

WC: 618

Written for @steddielovemonth Day 15

The sun hasn’t even come up yet, when Eddie feels eyes on him. He groans, pretty sure he knows exactly what’s going on. He cracks an eye open and sighs when he sees a tiny face two inches from his nose. “Bug?” he grits out. A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s about three o’clock in the morning. “Y’okay?”

“Can’t sleep, daddy,” their daughter, Eleanor, shout-whispers. Eddie appreciates the effort but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s being woken up.

He tries to get himself together enough to reply. “What do you mean? Bad dream?” He shuffles over and lifts the covers so that she can crawl inside. Thankfully, Steve is still sleeping, having had a late shift and he only crashed a couple of hours ago.

Eleanor climbs into bed and snuggles down in Eddie’s arms. Her warm little body curled up around Eddie makes him smile. “Yeah. Made me miss you and papa too much.” She gives him a little kiss on the chin. “Can I sleep here?”

Eddie tries not to sigh. As much as he loves baby snuggles with Eleanor, he finds it hard to sleep with her in the bed. He and Steve still have nightmares from their time in Hawkins, and the last thing he wants is to scare her when one of them wakes up screaming and flailing. Both of them would never forgive themselves if she got hurt because of it. “We can try, bug. We just can’t wake Papa up, okay? He worked late, remember?”

She nods and he can feel her breath puff against his chest as she yawns. “Pancakes tomorrow?”

“Sure, bug.”

They manage to fall back asleep, even though Eddie feels more like he’s drifting on the edge of it the rest of the night. He feels like he has to peel his eyes open when Eleanor starts wiggling against him. “Bug?”

“Time to wake up, daddy. You promised me pancakes?”

Damn it, half-awake Eddie sure did do that early in the morning. His head hurts a little and waking up feels like a monumental task, but he did promise. He goes to get up and climb out of bed, when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“I got it, baby. You go back to bed, okay?” he hears Steve say, right before his husband presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“Okay? You’re the one who worked late?”

Steve chuckles, rolling Eddie over to kiss him on the mouth. Eleanor lets out a little shriek and an “ewww!” but they pretend not to hear her. Sorry that your parents love each other, kid. “Yeah, but you got up with Eleanor last night and I know how it is for you when she is in the bed. I’ll get up, make pancakes and keep her busy, then you can switch so I can take a nap later. Sound good?”

“Oh thank god, yes. I love you so much, Steve,” Eddie says, feeling his body sink back into the sheets.

“Love you too, baby. Get some good sleep, okay?” Steve kisses him one more time before he climbs out of bed, swinging Eleanor up under his arm and making her giggle. “Tell your daddy to sleep well, Ms Rigby, and then we’ll go make those pancakes.”

In between giggles, she asks, “With chocolate chips? And that’s not my name! Silly Papa!” Steve nods, and from under his arm, she calls out sweetly, “Sleep good, daddy. We can play later, okay?”

“Okay, bug. Love you both,” he says, blowing them both kisses before he snuggles back down under the sheets. He falls asleep to the happy sounds coming from the kitchen, smiling the whole time.

#steddie #steddielovemonth #les writes things #rating: g

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atlafan · 4 months

Note

Wow that other prompt/blurb you did was so good and quick! What about a holiday blurb with softrry and friends to lovers theme during the holiday season mixed with a snow storm somehow haha

a/n: this was a cute prompt, thanks for sending it in!

Warning: fluff, smut-ish

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This can't be happening. Why right now? This is unbelievable! Of course Y/N's power went out right when she was about to pop brisket in the oven. It takes eight hours to bake because it needs to cook slowly. She's fucked, absolutely fucked. She just had to volunteer to make the main dish for her family's holiday celebration. On top of that, she volunteered to make two kugels, latkes, and bark. She's fucked.

She hates asking people for help, but when she sees her neighbor's lights are still on, she slips her boots onto her feet and heads outside. She nearly slips and falls since there's a sheet of ice underneath the snow that's coming down. Some of it blows back in her face because of the wind. By the time she gets down her own stoop and walks up her neighbor's, she just knows she's going to look like an icicle. She rings the bell a couple of times, and smiles softly when Harry's face appears in the small window the door has.

"Y/N, hi." He knuckles at his eye and yawns.

"I'm so sorry to bother you so early on a Saturday, but my power went out and I was just about to put my brisket in the oven, and now I'm fucked. And I don't feel safe driving to my mom's in this weather. I was wondering if it would be a terrible imposition if I cooked here. I can pay for any of the extra electric or gas or whatever I use."

Harry blinks at her and closes the door in her face. Rude. Harry's never rude to her. He's a very soft and sweet guy. He's a great neighbor. She wouldn't call them close friends, but they're friendly enough that they've hung out and shared a bottle of wine here and there. Just as she's about to start crying, the door opens back up and Harry's got his jacket and boots on.

"Let's go get your stuff." He smiles softly.

"Oh, thank you so much!" She throws her arms around him and gives him a squeeze. He just barely gets his arms around her waist by the time she's pulling away.

He follows her out and into her house. It takes several trips to get all of her things over to Harry's and into his kitchen. She keeps apologizing for needing to take over his kitchen, and she apologizes for the various smells of meat and oil that's about to consume his entire house. He assures her it's fine and offers to help cook.

Harry has a huge crush on Y/N. Ever since she moved in next door six months ago, she's made his heart race. She makes his palms sweat and his knees buckle and his dick hard.

Y/N has a crush on Harry too, but she's much less nervous around him. She figured if he liked her back he would have made a move at this point, so she doesn't let the crush consume her the way it consumes Harry.

"I really appreciate this, Har." She says as she gets the over preheated. How come your power isn't out? You'd think the whole neighborhood would have been affected."

"I have a generator in the basement as a backup since I work from home. I need to be able to stay online to do my job."

"I should really invest in one of those. Do you know how long this snow storm is supposed to last? The street cleaners barely cleaned up the sidewalks from the last one."

"I think it's supposed to snow all day and into the night."

"Fuck. That means the plows will barely be out."

"When do you need to bring all this food to your family?"

"Not until tomorrow night. We're doing a combined Hanukkah and Christmas thing with all our in-laws and stuff. So, I'm not the only one making a fuck ton of food, but still."

"Well, I have snow tires on my car, so I can always give you a lift if you want."

"I couldn't ask you to do that."

"You're not asking." He takes a step towards her. "I'm offering. You can pay me in potato pancakes."

"That seems like a fair compensation to me." She smiles. "I strongly recommend closing your bedroom door."

"Why?"

"Because this brisket has to bake for eight hours, which means your entire house is going to smell like meat. Not to mention, once I get the oil going for the latkes...the place will smell like meat and fried potatoes. It can be kind of a lot."

"Right, I'll go close some doors. What else do you need to make?"

"Kugel, latkes, and bark. The brisket is already dressed and ready to go into the oven."

"Can I help make anything? I'm pretty good at peeling potatoes."

"You're already doing so much. I'm ruining your weekend."

"Y/N," he places his hands on her shoulders, "you aren't ruining my weekend, I promise. I like when we get to hang out. It's not like we haven't cooked together before. It'll be like when we made those homemade pizzas."

"Okay." She sighs with relief. "Then I'd love your help peeling potatoes."

Harry goes upstairs to close the bathroom and bedroom doors, then comes down and makes sure to close his office door as well. He comes back to the kitchen and smiles at Y/N fondly. She's got her apron on and she's mixing ingredient together into a mixing bowl. He washes his hands in the sink before putting his own apron on and grabbing his peeler.

"Wanna listen to some music?" He asks her.

"That would be great. Can we listen to holiday music?"

"Alexa, play my holiday mix on Spotify." Harry tells the Echo.

"Playing Harry's Holiday Mix on Spotify." The device responds.

"That's so cute, you have your own playlist." She teases him, bumping her hip to his.

"Laugh all you want, but some holiday songs are really fucking annoying. I prefer the old classics."

"I completely agree. I hate new songs by artists who are clearly just trying to make some extra money. I think Baby, It's Cold Outside is one of my favorites."

"It's one of my favorites too."

The two work in a comfortable silence, humming and whistling along to the songs that come in through the speaker. Having help is proving to take a lot of stress away from Y/N. Thanks to Harry, she's able to make the latkes in half the time it usually takes her. They clean all of the dishes up before Y/N takes out everything she wants to use for the bark.

"Okay, I've got dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate. Those will be the bases. I have marshmallows, graham crackers, candy canes, almonds, and mint extract."

"I'd also like to be paid in bark. I have a horrible sweet tooth."

"Done and done."

Making bark is like a dirty job. It's messy and sticky, and your hands always get covered in chocolate. Y/N explained it's easier to swirl the fixings in with her fingers.

"Do you have enough room in your freezer for all of this? We need to lay it flat."

"Yup, plenty of room." Harry opens the freezer door and helps Y/N had the bark, that's spread out on wax paper, inside.

"Ugh, my hands are a mess." She looks down at them, then takes a finger into her mouth to suck on. "God, I love chocolate."

"Yeah." Harry blushes, wishing he could suck on Y/N's fingers.

"Thank you so much for all your help. You're like my hero today."

"Oh, I was happy to help. It was fun cooking with you. Um...now that we're done and the kugels are still in the over with the meat, would you want to hang out and watch holiday movies?"

"That sounds great. I'd love to."

"Cool." He smiles.

Y/N gets cozy on Harry's sectional and snuggles up under one of his blankets as he queues up a movie. They decide on Home Alone. Harry sits by Y/N, but not too close. He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable.

"Come closer so we can share the blanket." She suggests. "You know, if you want. I mean, I'm sure you have other blankets, but-"

Harry's already moving and spreading the blanket over his legs. He puts an arm around Y/N's shoulders pulls her in closer to his side.

"Shh, the movie's starting." He smirks down at her.

The two stay cozy and giggle as they watch the movie.

"You're good at cuddling." She tells him randomly. "You're like a furnace, it's nice."

"Glad you think so." He swallows thickly. "Can I confess something to you?"

"Sure." She looks up at him.

"I've wanted to do this with you for a while..."

"What, watch Home Alone?"

"No, be this close to you, like, cuddle."

"Oh." Her cheeks flush. "Really?"

"Yeah. I...I don't want to make things weird between us because I like being your friend, but...I sort of like you more than that."

"You do?" She sits up a little more.

"It's totally fine if you don't like me as more-"

"Harry, shut up for a second." She smiles big at him. "I like you as more than a friend too."

Y/N wraps her arms around Harry's neck and tackles him down on the couch before kissing him. He kisses her back, smiling as he does so, making it a little hard to kiss. They both giggle and Y/N pulls back just a hair.

"Was that okay? I probably should have asked to kiss you first." She says.

"It was more than okay." His hands slide down to her hips. "You helped take the edge off. You make me so nervous."

"Aww." She pouts. "You're so cute." She leans in to kiss him again, giving his bottom lip a small suck. "Would you like to come with me tomorrow night? Like, come inside and enjoy the festivities?"

"I'd love to."

Y/N slots her mouth back over Harry's, and licks inside. Their tongues mold together, and they moan against one another. Y/N rolls her hips down, grinding against Harry's crotch.

"I should've known you liked me. You were so devious for wearing grey sweatpants around me."

"I didn't do anything on purpose." His hands slide down to her ass, giving her cheeks a squeeze.

"Mhm." She rolls her eyes playfully. She kisses on his neck and rubs herself against Harry again, this time getting a better feel of his erection. They move their hips in circles against one another.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"This is really fun, but we shouldn't move too fast...physically."

"Did you think I was going to let you take my pants off?" She laughs. "Baby, our clothes are staying on today. But...I wouldn't be mad if you made me come in my pants."

"I wouldn't be mad if you made me come in mine either."

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