#empty curtain rail

[vivalasthedas]

sims 4 released another overpriced kit consisting of content you can get better of for free, and it's called Modern Luxe. So it's meant to be like fancy and luxury.

The bed has an energy recovery rate of 5.

[jlheon]

𝓢𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐓 ୨୧ 𝐏𝐒𝐇

(𝓹airing) ── psh x fmr ꣑୧ 𝓬lassmates to lovers ; fluff, kissing, & nonsexual shower 𝔀ordcount ( 1600 ) 𝓹eng's note. my kiss scenes suck! they move too fast i reckon! 𝓫ookshelf

𝓼ynopsis. while patroling at night on a class field trip, you catch sunghoon swimming fully clothed past curfew

unlike the rest of your peers, you hate going on school trips, especially overnight ones.

it was tiring to patrol the hotel late at night when everyone was supposed to be in their rooms at curfew. you were exhausted from being in charge of making sure everyone had a room once arriving.

and now you had to do one extra lap around the whole building before you could knock out on your bed.

but that was just your job as class president, you loved it, but you must admit sometimes you wish your vice president was given some of your tasks.

luckily for you, as you finished your lap around the floor everyone was staying, nothing seemed out of place.

you sighed in relief as you unlocked your room with your keycard, about to fall asleep in the same clothes you arrived in due to so much fatigue until you heard a huge splash coming from your balcony.

you groan as you walk up to the curtain and push them aside, only to reveal park sunghoon fully clothed swimming around the pool.

angry and tired, you quickly slide open the glass door leading to your balcony and lean over the railing to shout. “sunghoon! get inside! curfew was an hour ago!”

the boy looks up at you on your balcony and smirks, getting further into the deep end.

he goes below the water's surface and when he emerges his hair is dripping wet. shaking the wet strands out of his face. his white shirt sticking to his skin, giving you a glimpse at his toned chest.

“park sunghoon i will come down there and drag you out myself,” you huff, glaring at him.

“i’ll be waiting,” he teases, diving back under the water.

you aggressively shut the glass door and slip your slippers back on. sprinting towards the elevator and getting down the ground level, not wanting to waste any more time that could be used for sleeping.

when you enter the lobby it’s not empty, families and couples still wandering about, but thankfully none of your classmates were up but sunghoon whom you knew of.

“how long is the pool open for?” you ask the front desk.

“for another hour,” the woman behind the desk tells you, “do you need any towels?”

“one please,” you say, watching park sunghoon swimming around from the window.

you make your way out to the pool deck after thanking the woman, pushing the door open to see his head bob up from the water to stare at you.

“i brought you a towel,” you inch closer to the pool, “go to your room.”

“that’s sweet of you ms. president,” sunghoon coos, “but i’m not done swimming yet.”

“seriously, go to bed,” you pinch the bridge of your nose in annoyance.

“the pool doesn’t close for another hour,” he reminds you, “if you join me i’ll go inside.”

“it’s cold and it’s late,” you cross your arms.

“i guess i’m not going inside then,” he shrugs, getting ready to dive under the water again.

you groan in defeat, setting the towel on the closest pool chair and slipping off your slippers. walking towards the pool stairs and dipping your toes in. cursing at the temperature, you walk a couple of steps down just so the water touches below your shorts.

“are you happy now,” you roll your eyes as his drenched figure approaches you.

“come deeper,” sunghoon extends his hand.

you reluctantly place your hand in his and let him pull you deeper into the pool. the water seeping through your thin shirt and shorts.

sunghoon notices you shivering and pulls you closer by your waist.

“can we go now?” you say quietly, placing your hands on his chest.

“you just got in,” he fakes a pout, tightening his grip on your waist so you can't retreat now.

if someone told you this morning that you would be waist-deep in the hotel pool at eleven at night hugging park sunghoon, you would have punched them in the face.

your head leaning on his shoulder as you stand in the middle of the water.

you’ve never been this close to sunghoon, though you’ve talked to him many times. he was your deskmate in freshman year in biology and you two had gotten considerably close.

though that faded when you had no classes together in sophomore and now junior year, but it’s not like you two were strangers.

but you would never expect to be practically molded to him instead of getting the well-needed rest required for the activities you and the council had planned tomorrow.

sunghoon notices the chattering of your teeth as you cling to him in search of any heat. your lips quivering as you hug him close.

“you still cold?” he softly asks, his wet hand running through your hair.

“mhm,” you hum, staring at the blue water surrounding you two.

“want me to warm you up?” sunghoon says teasingly, lifting your chin with the tip of his finger.

you tilt your head at him in confusion before he leans down and presses his lips on your cold ones.

the kiss is slow yet deep as he places a hand on your neck to tilt you at just the right angle. your hands find his nape and thread your fingers through the wet hair.

you break away to catch your breath and collect your thoughts when sunghoon gives you no time to recover.

his lips smashing against yours once again in a more passionate kiss. filled with desire as he gently nibbles on your bottom lip, silently begging for entrance.

you obliged, parting your lips so his tongue could slip inside. exploring your mouth as you stand there unmoving.

when sunghoon finally breaks free for air your cheeks are flushed and you are embarrassed by your lack of kissing experience.

“that was my first kiss,” you blurt out as sunghoon’s chest heaved up and down.

“what?” sunghoon says a little stunned, not that he’s complaining, he’s glad to be your first kiss. but how has nobody ever kissed you before?

“yeah,” you uncomfortably giggle, “sorry if i was bad or anything, you were good though!”

“you were good,” sunghoon pats your head, pecking your cheek.

you bury your head in sunghoon’s neck as your cheeks continue to heat up. he can’t help but smile to himself at your adorable antics.

a minute later one of the hotel staff walks out to inform you two that the pool is now closed. sunghoon splashes you as you run away from him to exit the pool. wrapping yourself in the towel you had brought.

“i only brought one towel.”

sunghoon chuckles before unwrapping the fabric from around you and fixing it to cover both of your cold bodies.

you both rush into the elevator, pressing the button to your floor. sunghoon walks you to your room before kissing you goodnight.

though minutes later when you’re sat on your floor trying to process whatever just happened, there’s a knock at your door.

sunghoon is back with his phone and a change of clothes, still dripping onto your carpet.

“sunghoon?” you look at him confused.

“thought we could spend some more time together.”

you find yourself under the warm shower head with sunghoon behind you, gently shampooing your hair.

your drenched clothes are now laid on your balcony to dry.

the warm water hits your back as you wash his hair. steam engulfs the whole bathroom, fogging up the glass door, and the mirror.

the body wash you both lather on diminishing the scent of chlorine that followed you from the pool now replaced with strawberry and coconut.

it’s weird to think you and sunghoon are in such an intimate position after not talking for nearly a year and a half but it feels right.

the way he kisses you between rinsing his body makes an uncontrollable amount of butterflies erupt in your stomach.

you both get out of the shower, sunghoon shaking his hair like a wet dog, droplets of water hitting your face.

sunghoon gets changed into the clothes he brought from his room while you find something to wear in your suitcase.

he brushed your hair and blow-dried it for you as you did your skincare in the bathroom mirror. you spin around to apply some of your moisturizer to his pretty face.

you both finally crash onto your bed at a quarter to one in the morning. a time not ideal for your set alarm of six that will go off in a mere five hours. but that doesn’t seem to matter to you when you have your head rested on park sunghoon’s chest as his arms are around you, lips brushing against yours in one final kiss before the both of you fall into a deep sleep.

in the morning you realize you’ve hit snooze too many times when there's a loud pattern of knocks on your door. startling both you and sunghoon.

you instruct sunghoon to stay in bed while you answer the door.

your annoyed vice president is the one outside your door, storming past you and into your room only to notice sunghoon asleep on your bed.

“you spent the night with sunghoon?” jungwon gasps.

“shut up!” you shove him, “he’s still sleeping!”

“well, you need to get him back to his room before we head out to the city,” jungwon argues.

“oh my god! can you just cover for me for once?” you plead with the underclassmen, “just give me like an extra hour of sleep and we’ll meet you there!”

“fine, but if mrs. kim catches sunghoon in your room it’s all on you,” jungwon sighs, exiting your hotel room.

you let out a breath of relief as you climb back into bed with sunghoon. setting another alarm before slipping under the duvet and back into his strong arms.

you pray that nobody notices the two of you showing up late to the café for breakfast at the same time, with park sunghoon smelling like your signature scent of strawberries and coconut.

[driaswrld]

i'm just — gojo satoru and geto suguru.

wc : 1.6k

summary : (fem!reader) satoru gets lost in his head way too early in the morning, you and suguru ease his worries with one simple question.

part of : the star paradox collection.

notes : honestly this is before megs and tsumiki, just when the trio is figuring out their futures and i wanna show rlly how complex satoru's feelings are but from the pov of the ppl who love him. bcus let's bfr suguru and reader would live in a cardboard box under a bridge with satoru if it meant the three of them would be happy.

other : mentions of hickeys/lovebites ig? poly satosugu x reader but labels haven't really been defined so do with that as you may. and yes this is totally reader n suguru telling satoru that hes kenough!

current casette : i'm just ken - barbie, the album

You wake to a weight pressed against your left arm, blood rushing to your fingertips. A soft gust of summer air blows the thin blue curtains to the side, just as the morning sun peeks out from beyond the railing of the balcony. It’s hot.

It’s not just hot. The apartment is quiet.

Not often is it this quiet.

Wiggling your legs beneath the covers, you roll onto your left side, and the first thing you see makes your heart do a somersault.

Suguru, with his head pressed against your arm, his chin snug in the inside of your elbow. You don’t want to wake him — really, when was the last time any of you got a full night’s sleep let alone the privilege of sleeping in during the day?

One of your legs hike over the thigh Suguru has slotted between your own thighs, and there’s a sliver of movement beneath his eyelids. You freeze.

There’s a shift in his breathing pattern, like he’s about to wake up, and instead of moving your leg more, the arm he’s laying on moves around him to the back of his neck, pulling him closer and into your chest.

In his sleep, he mumbles something inaudible.

You still talk in your sleep after so long, Suguru?You think, but you swallow it with a smile.

Strands of jet black swallow your chest like a blanket. Silently, you card Suguru’s hair between your fingertips. Halfway down, the length of your thumb hooks on a broken hair tie, and you pull it out, a few darkened knots coming with it.

Graciously, you discard it on the empty side of the bed next to you. Satoru's side.

The pillow is cold.

Back then, you would slide out of Suguru’s hold and saunter off to find Satoru, drag him back to bed maybe. But now, you’re old enough to know he can never stay away too long.

No sappy stuff! Satoru just gets major FOMO when you and Suguru cuddle without him, that’s all!

His words, not yours.

The sunlight beaming in from the open balcony door warms your skin, heating the curve of your jaw, the flesh of your cheeks buzzing with warmth. You look down at Suguru, wondering if you should close the curtains before the light bothers him—

He’s like a baby, just laying there on your chest.

From here you can see the edge of his shoulder, a soft red mark blooming on his bare skin. Was that you? No, you don’t remember doing that. Maybe it was Satoru.

Maybe it was the both of you. You can never tell.

Suguru shifts, nuzzling his head into you, tip of his nose in between your breasts, and you wonder if he can even breathe like that.

He babbles something mindlessly, and his arms snake around your waist, pressing his weight firmly on top of you. Curious, you move a tuft of hair out of his face.

His eyes form soft slits, moisture tickling the edge of his dark lashes from sleep, his lips parted slightly with soft breaths. He’s beautiful like this.

“...Did I wake you?” A whisper comes from across the room, and you turn your attention from Suguru to where Satoru is leaning against the doorframe, shirtless and eyes heavy with sleep.

Carefully, you check on Suguru before you glance back at Satoru. “No, you’re fine…” You whisper back, hyper aware of your volume. “I got warm, is all.” The last thing you want to do is wake Suguru, and Satoru gets the idea quick as he steps over to the end of the bed.

“Warm?” Satoru repeats, rubbing a fist over his eyes, before he glances over at the open balcony doors adjacent to the bed, the baby blue curtains swaying softly with the little wind. And it clicks in his brain. “Yeah, the thermostat is still busted — I tried fixing it,” he murmurs, taking a seat at the edge of the bed, back turned to you. “I’ll just call someone to get it fixed later.”

Suguru stirs atop your chest, and you pat the top of his head, coaxing him to sleep more.

“Do we even have the money to get it fixed anyway?” You ask, soft.

Sometimes, the three of you tend to forget you’re just kids. Fresh out of highschool and starting from scratch — desperately trying to make something of your own. “I can ask Nanami to look at it tomorrow—”

“I don’t want you to ask Nanami, though.” Satoru cuts you off, and you breathe a sigh.

“Don’t be prideful, ‘toru. It’s just a thermostat.”

Satoru feels a foreign feeling bubble in him. Rather, not foreign, but a variation of the same feeling he’s been feeling these past days.

Ever since he decided to put his inheritance from the Gojo clan on hold, so the three of you could do this on your own. Ever since Suguru started taking extra missions to help with rent. Ever since you started taking half of Nanami’s overtime shifts — is pride the name of the heat bubbling inside him? Or is it disappointment?

“It’s more than the thermostat, name.” He whispers, looking over his shoulder for all but a mere second, waiting for Suguru to stir again. But he doesn’t.

He can’t run to Suguru to stall this conversation. “It’s the bathroom sink—”

“Suguru tied a bandana around the bottom of the faucet, it’ll stop the dripping until we can—”

“No.” He shakes his head, shifting to fold one leg under him as he finally turns to look at you. “It’s the whole apartment, it’s the late shifts — it’s all the things I can’t do.” Satoru’s voice cracks an octave higher than it should.

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out. Suguru’s body rolls to the side and you take advantage of this to slowly start sliding up against the headboard.

“All the things I can’t give you two.” Satoru whispers, mostly to himself than to you.

Suguru sleepily stretches his arm to you, his fist curling around the hem of your shirt just as your back leans against the wood of the headboard. “I never asked for anything though… I doubt Suguru has either.” You reply in a mumble.

You’re right. Satoru knows that. But why would you and Suguru ever need to ask him for anything?

It’s what he’s supposed to do. That’s what love is. He’s supposed to want to give you two the best. He’s supposed to do all the heavy lifting — he’s the strongest. He's supposed to take care of the both of you.

“You’re stupid if you think we care about all that.” Suguru’s voice cuts through the air, hoarse from sleep but thick with something other than sleep — conviction, pride.

Pride in Satoru. Pride in you. “Who cares about the thermostat? Who cares about the sink?” His head lifts only a few centimeters away from your chest, his eyes still closed but his voice showing no signs of slumber at all. “I could drown in the bathroom tonight for all I care.”

You smile a little. And Satoru looks over at you two, albeit a little incredulously.

Why are you looking at him and smiling like that?

Why is Suguru so unbothered?

Satoru tries to wrap his head around it but for the life of him he can’t.

“What the hell is wrong with you two…” Satoru mumbles beneath his breath, turning his body completely, both legs crossed as he sits on the bed. “This isn’t— this isn’t what we wanted…”

The three of you wanted peace. A life full of shenanigans and sporadic missions. A life where you’d worry about nothing, do nothing but feel everything.

Satoru can’t help but burn inside at the way you two don’t even realize you’ve gotten the short end of the stick with this life. This life with him—

“name.” Suguru mumbles into your chest, just as he raises his head to your eye level, the first time he’s opened his eyes since morning. And yet, there’s a softness in them you’ve never seen before. “Are you happy?” Suguru asks, simply, straightforward.

In your mind, you think of a million different ways to answer the question, a million different ways to break down and explain and talk and talk and talk about how you feel but ultimately it all leads back to—

“One word, yes or no.” Suguru tilts his head, looking up at you expectantly yet prepared. Like he already knows what you’ll say before you think it.

“Are you happy?” He asks again and Satoru strains his gaze to the bedsheets, waiting for an answer he thinks he doesn’t want to hear. Because how? How can you be happy?

“Yes.” The answer leaves your mouth with a fluidity, like it came out absentmindedly, without needing any thought. And Satoru is about to say something like about it not being so easy or Suguru’s question being dumb and vague, but—

“Now, Suguru, are you happy?” Suguru mimics Satoru’s voice, dramatically raising his pitch a few tones, even going as far to open his eyes wide — like he’s got six eyes to spare. “Oh, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been—!” Suguru raises his arms in an over the top gesture and you can’t help but laugh.

You look over to Satoru, and he’s looking at you and Suguru like he’s seeing something he’s never seen before.

And the knot twisting inside of him loosens. Just enough for him to have to force himself to bite back a chuckle. I don't even talk like that, he wants to say.

“Are you happy, Satoru?” You ask, and he stills for a moment. And now he thinks he understands Suguru’s dumb not so easy but extremely vague question.

He’s never not been happy when he’s with you two. It shouldn’t even be a question.

“I’m never… not happy…” He whispers, his shoulders slouching forwards. “But it’s not—”

You cut him off with a grin. “One word.”

Suguru laughs. “Yes or no?”

Satoru sits a little straighter, and he feels like he can breathe easier.

“Yes. It’s always yes with you two.”

[neochan]

RULE BREAKER (M)

PAIRING: rockstar!mark lee & fem!reader

GENRE: rockstar au! band au! pwop

SUMMARY: another city, another girl, another broken rule.

WC: 3.3k

WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol & drugs, cursing, explicit sexual content, fingering, pretty tame smut ngl, spanking, choking, hair pulling

NOTE: this was just to get me back in the groove of smut writing since it's been a couple months. this is also a submission for @nctpromptmeme . this is prompt 1 of this list!

mark lee knows it’s against the rules to take a fan backstage.

it’s not the venues rules. staff members barely spare a glance when he tangles his fingers in yours and pulls you down the nearly abandoned hallways just left of the stage. he doesn’t get a second look from a wandering sound engineer when he escorts you through the jungle of metal rails supporting the stage from beneath. and no one bats an eye when he slips past security to an empty green room nearing the back of the building.

it’s not his own personal rule either. mark has done this plenty of times; choosing someone within the first few rows at his concert, playing up the eye contact, having a security guard slip them a note telling them to wait up after the concert — and it almost never fails. after the band bids goodnight, and fans filter out on the street, mark hops back on stage to greet his lucky winner.

and they’re always there, eyes aglow with excitement and shock when they realize that yes, this was real. mark lee wants them for the night. leader of pop punk band parasocial wants to meet…y/n.

the taste of your name rolls off his tongue so beautifully, so intoxicatingly, he has to repeat it a few more times once the green room door is locked and the curtains are drawn — not too loudly though.

because while it might not be the venues rules, and it certainly isn’t his own, he promised his band mates this couldn’t happen. he swore up and down they wouldn’t become those kinds of rockstars. everyone knows the type — scandal starters, excessive partiers, seen with a bottle of alcohol or tightly wrapped blunt in hand, escorting fans backstage at every show to....well, to do exactly what he was doing right now.

but mark isn't stupid, so he hides it from his bandmates; despite them breaking the rules so brazenly. jaemin stacks up scandals like spare drum sticks, jeno gets off on the attention & fame, renjun self medicates with alcohol, and haechan couldn't be labeled as anything other than a junkie. but he can't be like that, because mark is the leader. the one that has to walk a straight line — at least in public.

so when he's finally locked away in private with his lucky hit, he let's go. there's no need to be an upstanding, careful leader — he can shake off the tension, relax his shoulders, and focus on what's right in front of him.

which, at the moment, just so happened to be you.

"you're gorgeous, you know that?" a tender hand tucks stray strands of hair behind your ear, "couldn't keep my eyes off you tonight."

you can't believe mark lee is right in front of you, touching you, praising you. it's every fantasy you've had of him rolled into one. so when his hands wash over your top, fitting themselves so perfectly on your waist, you giggle and take a little step forward. his body is warm, and he smells smoky with a tinge of bourbon, but what's catching you off guard is how much prettier he is up close. eyeliner is smudged underneath his lashes, and there's blue hair dye running down the side of his neck, on par with rivulets of sweat. the metal bar through his eyebrow is real, and when he flicks his tongue out to lick at his lips, you find a matching tongue piercing.

he loves this.

the wide eyes, taking him all in. the giddiness. the oh my god mark lee is touching me; and while he might not get off on it as much as jeno, he can't help the feeling rushing straight to his cock.

after a few beats of becoming completely starstruck by him, you respond, clasping tightly onto the front of his shirt, "i mean i'm not all that special, but you...." a blush warms your cheeks, "you're out of this world."

it's a reference to one of the songs he sang tonight, so he let's out a forced chuckle and mumbles the rest of the line, "if galileo could see you, he would fall to his knees." he catches himself by surprise when he slowly sinks down onto the floor, the cold tile seeping through the rips in his jeans. his fist curls around the waistband of your skirt, eyes raking your figure. hunger clouds his eyes, but you don't care.

you want this.

he almost thinks you're backing out when you clamp a hand around his arm, but then you say something that makes his head spin on it's shoulders, "you don't have to be gentle...."

it's the desire in your eye, the same glint that matches his own, that permisses him to yank the flimsy skirt down around your ankles, nearly throwing you off balance in the process. "pretty girl wants it rough, huh?" mark pulls himself back up to his feet, one hand winding through your hair, the other knocking your thighs apart, "don't worry, i'll make you scream." his fingers open you up, just the tips of them pushing into you. already you're stretched on your tip toes, trying to run from the warming sensation below your navel. but mark catches this and gives a harsh tug on the roots of your hair, "feet down."

you're basically sinking down on his fingers when you settle on the balls of your feet, the stretch welcoming yet too intense for your body, "f-fuck." you curse.

"baby," he coos, "if you're drooling over two fingers, i don't think you'll be able to take my cock."

"i can, i promise." you mumble, face burning with embarrassment. not because you were under the rough hand of your favorite singer, not because he was teasing you about how tight you were, but because he was peering so fucking deep into your eyes, like he was searching for your soul.

"oh she promises," he mocks, pushing his fingers deeper. he can feel your walls fluttering around his digits; pulsing when they curl and brush the sweet spot he knows all too well.

you're out of breath, eyelids drooping with the weight of having to keep them open, "s-stop toying with me." you plead, nails raking the arm that's holding your body against the cinder block walls.

theres no snarky comment that follows. instead, he leans forward and captures your trembling lips with his own, and you see stars. it's exactly like you imagined it be — feverish, rough and demanding, exhausting every bit of willpower from you. his tongue swipes at your bottom lip, and his piercing clacks against your teeth, forcing a shiver down your spine. he smirks, that much you register, before bullying his tongue into your mouth, the hand between your legs matching.

too many sensations cloud your head — his hot tongue swirling around your own, forcing you to open up and taste each other, the metal ball on his tongue sticking against your teeth, and his fingers culling you into a head high. your eyes drift shut and you push your hips into his hands, all but grinding down.

mark lee might not have been a guitarist, but he sure did know how to use those hands of his. he sets back and licks his lips, letting out a shaky breath. the wet heat of you was drawing him in; he eases two fingers back inside until his knuckles pressed against your folds, and you sighed his name again. he was hard and aching now; listening to the soft pants that fell heavy as he thrust his fingers in and out. the hand that was threaded through your hair finds home on the sides of your throat, squeezing just enough to get your eyes fluttering open.

"whaddya doing sweetheart? sleeping?" he teases, his voice a drawn out purr in the quiet room, "i can't be that boring now, can i?"

when you try to shake your head no, this was far from boring, you find yourself stuck in his grip.

"maybe you want my cock instead?" marks eyes go soft, melting with the way you try to squeak out a response, "what was that?"

"p-please," you cry out hoarsely, his fingers finding that sweet spot again — but, only for the last time. just as fast as he was in you, he was pulling out.

"look at how wet you were for me," he groans, showing off your arousal that dripped from his fingers. he doesn't hesitate when he sticks them both between his lips, the most vulgar sound emanating from his throat, "you taste good as fuck."

warmth returns to your face at his remark, and it's only then that you realize your state. he was still covered head to toe in his stage outfit; metal chains and dark black alt pieces of clothing hung off his body, but you....you only had your top on. from the waist down, you were completely exposed.

mark seems to realize this too. "take this off for me?" he asks, fingering the strap of your top. "don't worry, i'll do the same." the grin you'd seen splashed across magazines and album covers lights up his face when you do as he asked. and true to his word, his shirt was on the ground in a matter of seconds - right next to yours. dark spills of ink swirl up and around his torso, nearly becoming a second shirt, but you see the muscles. the abs everyone goes crazy for, and with a tentative hand, you reach out to touch them.

"aw, don't be shy baby, i won't bite." he grabs your wrist and makes contact for you. another wave of arousal rushes down your spine when the hard lines of his stomach flex in response to your graze. "you like that, huh?" furiously nodding your head, he chuckles,

"alright, let me give you what you want," he says it like his cock wasn't nearly bursting from his pants, swiftly aching at the mere thought of sinking into you. his gaze darts from yours to the couch to the wall to the table shoved in the corner of the room. where did he want to fuck tonight... "come here," his hand tugs you away from the cinder block walls, over to the soft looking leather couch, "let me see you bend that pretty body over...." he purrs, a wide sweeping gesture to indicate that he knew exactly how he wanted you.

face down, ass up...wasn't that the saying?

and you don't mind, gleefully shimmying across the arm of the couch, cold leather nipping at your skin.

"fuck, man...look at you," you can't see him, but you bet his gaze is hungry again, soft, but visibly desperate, "you really are out of this world."

a chuckle passes your lips at the joke, and for a fleeting second you wonder if you weren't the first girl to hear the phrase. but the thought is swept clean from your mind once you hear his pants slipping on the ground, his metal pocket chains scraping the linoleum.

"stop taking your time and fuck me."

he cocks his head to the side...did he just hear that right? a harsh smack lands on your ass cheek, the throbbing, searing pain causing you to lurch forward and cry out. marks hand rubs over the spot immediately, trying to soothe the sting.

"now come on baby, i just need you to be patient with me." you mewl out an incoherent acknowledgment. "here," he grins, "is this what you want?"

a gasp is pulled from your chest at the feeling of him dragging the head of his cock between your folds. "mark please, fuck." slowly, he pushes into you. one hand guides himself, the other is lazily wrapped around your hip. but you can't even think of that right now, because he was filling you to the brim. you've never felt this type of stretch before. it was mind-numbingly delicious,"you're so big."

both of you share a shuddered breath of air when he pulls out and pushes back into you, "damn." he swats at your ass again, this time not bothering to rub his hand over the sting, "you just keep getting tighter...."

his eyes flutter close for a second, lost in the wet heat of you. he's never felt this before — the mutuality of getting off. every other time it's felt forced from the other end; the overdramatic moans were always a turn off but you... you take it like it's real. like it's truly the best cock you'd ever sat on.

mark loves that the most.

"feel good?" the question is drawn out, too focused on keeping his pace even and sharp so that you wouldn't go face first into the couch cushions. you babble out some sort of response that mark can't quiet understand, "words baby..use your words."

"so f-fucking good," you choke on a gasp, "oh god, please don't stop." each word feels like it's ripped from your throat as mark works behind you, thrusting so deep you're left on your tiptoes again.

mark lets out a dark chuckle, fingers digging into your side so he can keep leverage, "be careful what you pray for baby, the devil might hear." it's another musical reference, one that you catch immediately, but you're too cock drunk to form a coherent thought much less a sentence. he feels the way your pussy clenches at his words though, "you liked that, hm?"

you shake your head, arms stretching out in front of you to keep yourself from slipping further down the arm of the couch before a squeal is wrenched from your throat. "you're so deep!"

before he can tease you about going deeper, a loud buzzing sound goes off on the coffee table next to you. it's his phone, lit up with someones caller ID. your eyes are glazed over and blurry, too unfocused to see who the hell was interrupting this. but it didn't matter, because mark ignores it and keeps fucking into you — a little more enthusiastic than before. his fingers still dig into your waist, yet this time, they pull you back to meet his cock. essentially you were bouncing on him without having to do most of the work, "look at that ass bounce."

the buzzing finally stops, replaced with another harsh smack to your ass. you cry out in pain, quickly drowned out by a moan as mark swivels his hips so that he was hitting your sweet spot. white hot pleasure courses through your entire body, and you all but thrash against the leather. "almost there, fuck, keep going. gonna c-cum."

the words are like music to his ears. "just a little longer," mark typically had great stamina, but after the performance tonight, and the way your pussy was sucking him in right now, his willpower was melting away. he was edging himself within your walls at this very second. he needed release. "you're so fucking wet, i can't... oh fuck." his phone starts buzzing again, and this time he glances at the name flashing across the screen and groans, "be quiet okay baby? i need to take this."

furiously, mark jabs the green button on the screen of his phone, "what do you want." through gritted teeth, he keeps his pace, thrusting into your warm cunt. it's difficult, but you manage to stuff your fist in your mouth and bite down, stifling any sound that threatened to come out. hot electricity was still running through every nerve in your body, but as mark mindlessly slows to concentrate on not moaning into the phones receiver, it slowly dwindles.

"i'm..." he glances down at the way your waist curved in, the jiggle of your ass when his hips met yours, "i'm outside. why."

you can't hear who's on the other end of the line. maybe it was his manager, or another member of the band. the only thing you knew for certain was they wanted to know where the fuck he was at.

"don't you dare talk sideways to me." the warning in his voice nearly makes you moan out loud. this side of mark lee was something to marvel at. but you don't. you just push your hips backwards onto him.

a breath of air rushes past his lips, "shit." he mumbles.

"i wasn't-" he grits his teeth, "i wasn't cursing at you......because i dropped my cig on the ground, i don't know jaemin."

ah so it was na jaemin - drummer of parasocial. hot head. scandal starter. covered in more ink than you thought possible.

"okay..." mark sighs, his pace slowing, "okay, i'm coming....yeah whatever." he presses the end call button on the screen and tosses the phone on to the couch in front of you.

"baby..." he warns, now lazily fucking you, "i gotta go..."

"why?" you whine, hips pushing back against him in an attempt to get his pace started again. you so desperately wanted him to keep bullying his cock into you.

"they said the vans packed up... if i don't go now, they're gonna leave me behind." he pulls out and helps you flip over to face him, hands instinctively come up to cover your chest, "i'm sorry," he breathes.

"it's okay."

maybe you didn't get to orgasm, but mark lee between your thighs was enough of a treat. as long as he felt good, it didn't matter. so it doesn't irk you when he says, "i'm sorry this couldn't be more..i'm worn out from the show, and...." his voice trails off into a sheepish shrug, his wrist flicking towards his phone.

"i know." it wasn't your job to reassure him, but you knew what this was. what his life entailed, even if it was from an outsiders perspective.

mark sighs, settling back against the couch while he watches you hurriedly throw your clothes on. there's something different about you.

"i can walk you to your car if you want," he offered, his voice tinged with a mix of earnestness and hesitation. he knew he couldn't, not really. the risk of being seen outside the venue with a fan was far too great — jaemin learned that the hard way. but still, there was something about your presence, something that made him want to break the rules just a bit more.

you responded with a wry smile, "nah, i'm good. appreciate it though."

he returned the smile, though a hint of disappointment flickered across his features, swiftly masked by indifference. "alright then, take care."

as you turned to walk away, his gaze lingered, a mixture of longing and apprehension in his eyes. the echo of the performance still reverberated in the air, and the cacophony of the crowd faded into the background. the isolation that often accompanied the applause and adoration settled around him—a sense of detachment despite the proximity to his admirers; to you.

"hey, wait up!" his voice rings out, more desperate than he intends. you stop and turn back to him, a questioning look on your face. "here." he thrusts a piece of paper into your hand, his fingers brushing yours for a moment. in messy scrawl, a ten-digit number is scratched across the paper. he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, the stage persona melting away to reveal the vulnerability underneath. "call me when you get where you're headed."

you take the paper, feeling surprise and curiosity bloom in your chest. "sure, i will." a smirk tugs at the corners of your lips as you tuck the slip of paper into the pocket of your skirt, a secret kept close to your heart. "have a good night, rockstar."

his eyes meet yours, a silent exchange that speaks volumes. in that moment, no other words are needed to understand that this is a fleeting connection, a chapter in a story that will continue for him in different cities, with different faces. another show, another night, another girl.

another fake number.

A. NOTE: this can be read as a standalone, but it is also part of a bigger series i've yet to release. so if you like this one shot, please let me know! you can send in an ask, or comment, reblog, or like <3

TAGLIST: @peachjaem00 @mrkis @downtonbabyah @vangoes @cutiepeas @yujuvly @nuttie-nv-blog @seuomo @mrkleelvr @kazuhateez @chardonnayyyy @hyuckiegirlfriend @jwijii @meowniee @leep0ems @hibye02 @girlwholoveslpreppyattire

[existentialgaybirdnerd]

Stealth in All Forms

Ghost is a stealthy man.

He can blend into the shadows quickly, and use them to his advantage to be anywhere he wants to be. He's quick and silent.

This is the most known fact about him.

What isn't known is that he can use his stealth in more ways than just blending in with others or the shadows.

What no one sees, is that on leave, Ghost will wear weird outfits and stand out as much as possible, simply because when someone looks and acts like they don't belong there, like they're from another planet, like they're a tourist, they get ignored. Looked over. They blend in by standing out.

Soap finds this out the hard way.

The first time Johnny goes home with Simon, he sees a side of his partner he never would have put near his vision of Simon "Ghost" Riley.

They get ready to go shopping for groceries, having arrived at the Manchester flat late last night and finding it devoid of anything due to his long absence from the place.

While getting ready, and waiting for Simon to get ready in his usual black-on-black with a balaclava, Johnny wanders around the home. Finding comfy afghan throws on the couch and armchair, red blackout curtains on every large window and sliding glass door, and even a funky tie-dye shower curtain in the bathroom with a matching bathmat. Ok, so his partner likes some color outside of his job, noted.

What he does not expect is for his boyfriend to come out of the room with a black baseball cap with a cartoon ghost on it, a tight red Henley t-shirt, faded blue bootcut jeans, the ugliest pair of pink Crocs he thinks he's ever seen, and no facemask in sight.

While he takes the time to catch his breath after laughing so hard in surprise that his knees nearly give out, Simon grabs his wallet, keys, and a backpack filled with produce bags.

With the glare he receives right as he's about to comment, Johnny wisely shuts up and simply kisses Simon on the nose as they exit the flat.

They walk hand-in-hand for a few blocks, no words coming to mind as they take in the cool weather and quiet within their own little bubble of space.

This bubble pops when they hear a woman yelling at someone to let her go, she didn't do anything wrong.

Simon's steps become rushed as they head towards the noise, Johnny following in his wake as they round the corner to see two police leering at a woman in front of a small cafe, one holding her right arm with one hand and a half-full cup of coffee in the other, puddle near his feet and splashes on the woman's shoes.

Without warning, Simon hands Johnny the backpack, grunts "Watch this," and goes over to the confrontation in quick strides, leaving his very confused partner behind.

On the way, he grabs a cup of coffee from another patron, who doesn't notice due to watching the confrontation behind their table.

Walking up to the trio, Simon gets out his phone and pretends to speak into it in a heavy American accent, one that would blend in with a fraternity party, voice higher pitched than he would normally speak in.

When he gets there, he bumps into the cop not holding the woman, spilling the hot coffee all over his neck and back, splashing a little onto the other cop during the "accident."

As he profusely apologizes and stutters his way through an attempt at an explanation, he puts his phone in his back pocket, spills more coffee on the other cop who had let go of the woman, pretends to try to wipe it off both of them only to spill more and hand the now empty cup to the woman.

As he tries to "wipe off" the first cop he spilled coffee on, he sticks his foot out to trip the other one as he takes a step forward to stop the havoc, ending in him going to "help" him up, only to accidentally "bump" both of their heads into a nearby stair railing leading to the raised coffee shop.

By this point he's put himself between the cops and the woman, hiding her with his height as he apologizes profusely and looks to be on the verge of tears, pouting as the cops call him a blundering fool and tell him to leave them alone "[they] don't need help."

As the cops leave, complaining about how the cafe didn't get their order right and then suddenly they're drenched in coffee, Johnny walks up to Simon in awe and the woman starts asking if he's ok after the bump on his head.

As she asks this, Johnny starts laughing incredulously. At the weird look he gets from her, he just gestures to Simon.

"He didn't get a drop of coffee on him, is all, I doubt he actually hit his head." This is supported by Simon grinning slightly and looking away with a nod.

At the dumbstruck look on the woman's face, Simon decides to get out of there as soon as possible, handing her money to replace the coffee he took from the other person, apologizes to that patron, and grabs Johnny's arm to drag him to the grocery store.

One quick shopping trip later, Johnny demands an explanation for what that was and gets told that stealth comes in all sorts of forms.

Gaz doesn't believe him when he recounts the story back on base 3 weeks later. Price just looks resigned.

Here you go @spottlessspectre

Hope you like it lmao.

[rollinouttahere-writes]

platonic yandere shanks and child reader

Better Left Unsaid

Yandere Shanks x GN Child Reader

3k words

“Don’t.”

With one leg still thrown over the side of the ship, you whip around and glare at Yassop. You dropped your head onto the railing and groaned, “Come on! I won’t even leave the docks, please!”

Yassop looked up from the gun that he was polishing, shooting you a weary look, “You know the rules, kid.”

“The rules are stupid!”

“Take that up with Shanks if you think so,” he replied in a bored tone.

You give out the most exasperated sigh and hop down from the railing with a huff. The boards creaked under the impact, more so after you began stomping across the deck. Both of you knew full well that talking to Shanks would get you nowhere. He’s the captain and your dad, he isn’t about to take orders from you.

Using more force than probably necessary, you open and slam the door to the captain’s quarters. It doubled as your bedroom, too. That was fine when you were little, but now you wanted your own space. Every time you tried to tell him this, you would just get waved off and told there was no room. It was either his room or bunking with all the other guys, so you begrudgingly accepted your fate of staying where you were. At least he put up a curtain to give you a little privacy.

After flopping onto your bed, you screamed into your pillow at the top of your lungs while kicking your feet on the bed. This was so unfair!

All you wanted was to leave the damn ship on a populated island. The only times you ever got to set foot on solid land was if they stopped at an uninhabited island, but that wasn’t enough for you anymore. You wanted to see people that weren’t your family, see sights that you don’t usually get to see, and pick out your own damn clothes for once! Was that really so much to ask for?!

Violently, you flipped onto your back and scowled at the ceiling, clutching your screamed-in pillow to your chest.

This was all so frustrating, but you didn’t know how to fix it. Talking to your dad was pointless, he never listened to you when you were complaining. The crew was just as bad, they treated you like a baby. But they were all you had. Shanks didn’t let you see, much less talk, to anyone else.

What you needed was leverage. You needed something that would give you enough of an upperhand to get him to listen to you. In essence, you needed blackmail, and you were in the perfect place to find some.

You grinned maliciously as you sprung out of your bed and marched over to his side of the room. Surely there had to be something in here that would give you some dirt on him! You aren’t sure what exactly you’re looking for, but you figure you’ll know it when you see it.

First was the bed. You lifted up the mattress to peek under and see if anything was hidden underneath. Nothing.

Next was the bedside table. You opened all of the drawers one by one. While you did find some stuff, it wasn’t anything useful. Some old maps, pens, notebooks with nothing interesting in them, a mostly empty booze bottle. Nothing scandalous enough to get a leg over on him.

There was a clothes dresser, too. At first you hesitated. No one wants to risk seeing their dad’s underwear, but desperate times call for desperate measures. 

Pulling open the first drawer, you found a bunch of shirts haphazardly shoved into it. None of them were folded, and it looks like he filled this thing up blindfolded and under intense pressure. No wonder his clothes are so wrinkled. It was a bit of a struggle to close when you were done rifling through it due to how jam-packed it was. Part of a shirt was sticking out after you finally slammed it shut, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. It’s not like you were going to make it look any worse.

The next drawer was similar to the first in terms of how messy it was, but this time with pants. It’s no longer a mystery as to why he perpetually looks like he just rolled out of bed. Whatever, his unfortunate state of fashion is of no real concern to you.

As you dug through the mess of pants, your fingers made contact with something solid. You froze briefly but quickly snapped out of it and grabbed whatever it was you touched. It took a bit of effort, but you freed the object from its tangled up prison. It was a small box. With a lock on it.

Perfect!

This had to be it! If he cared enough to lock it up, then there must be something top secret in here! Giddily, you scurried back to your bed with your findings, not even bothering to kick the dresser shut. You were going to be confronting him with this anyways, no need to be secretive about it.

The box was tossed onto your bed while you dug through your own bedside table, looking for your lockpicking kit. Shanks was about to regret teaching you how to do that. 

You threw the kit next to the box and hopped on the bed. The lock was tiny and appeared to be uncomplicated, you’re betting you’ll have it open in under a minute. Grabbing your slimmest hook, you jammed it into the keyhole.

It unlocked instantly. Damn, you might have to make fun of your dad for using such a useless lock.

The lock was discarded and you opened the box. It was full of pieces of paper and photographs. Interesting. You pick up the first photo you see. It’s facing down, the back of it says ‘Uta - 2’. You flip it over, curious to see what that note on the back means.

It’s a picture of your dad when he was much younger, but that wasn’t what stuck out to you. What really caught your eye was the little girl he was holding. She was very young, and her hair was split down the middle with one side being white and the other red. Both of them were grinning from ear to ear. You can’t remember ever seeing your dad look that happy.

You look at the note again. ‘Uta - 2’. The girl looked to be about two years old, so that was probably her age. Was Uta her name? That made sense.

But who is she? 

No one has ever mentioned someone named Uta being on board. As far as you were aware, you were the only child that’s ever been with them. Maybe this picture was taken before Shanks became a pirate? No, wait, it can’t be that either. He’s never not been a part of a pirate crew.

You need more information. Setting the picture aside, you start pulling more stuff out of the box. There’s some sheet music. The handwriting is somewhat neat, but also big and exaggerated with more loops than necessary and hearts dotting the i’s. Like it was written by a child. On the bottom, the name Uta was signed in large cursive letters.

Another photo is taken out, Shanks isn’t in it, but Uta and other members of his crew are. Uta is standing on a box like some sort of a makeshift stage, and appears to be singing if you had to guess. The others were clapping and cheering her on. This was definitely taken a while ago. Benn’s hair hadn’t even turned gray yet. The back of it said ‘Uta - 5’.

The next picture once again has Uta in it. She’s sitting next to a little boy with black hair and a scar under his eye.

Why does your dad have so many pictures of some girl you’ve never even heard of? This definitely feels like a secret, but you’re so confused about what you’re finding that you can’t bring yourself to feel like this is really a victory for you. You need to dig deeper.

Once again, you reach for another photo, one with three people in it this time. You instantly recognize Shanks and Uta, who you don’t know is the seemingly newborn baby in Shanks’ arms. His expression is nothing but soft and adoring, while Uta’s is a combination of curious but excited.

How many damn kids has your dad taken in and proceeded to just never mention ever?!

You flip over the picture to figure out who this one is supposed to be, but freeze up when you read it.

‘(Y/N) - Just got here!’

That’s… you? You and Uta were here at the same time, but you’re just now finding out about her? What the hell is going on?

Frantically, you unceremoniously dump out the rest of the contents of the box. You’re desperate to find answers, anything that could explain why your dad has this top secret box dedicated to whoever this Uta girl is.

A picture that stands out to you is one of Uta helping the baby- you- stand. You’re a little older here, roughly a year old it would seem. A quick glance at the back confirms your guess as correct, and that Uta is seven. She’s six years older than you. Since you no longer have the squished face of a baby just welcomed into the world, your features are actually recognizable. This is definitely you and not just some other kid named (Y/N).

The mystery unraveling in front of you is so engrossing that you’re deaf to the world around you. That is, until the door to the room is thrown open. Your heart leaps into your throat. Oh shit! Why is he back so soon?! You scramble to quickly but quietly pile your findings back into their box.

“(Y/N), I got you something in-” Shanks voice falls flat and stops abruptly in the middle of the sentence. No, no, no! How does he know something is wrong already?!

You didn’t close the dresser.

Before you can even begin to think of what to do next, Shanks drops whatever he was holding and closes the distance between you two and rips the curtain to the side. All you can do is shrink in on yourself and gawk at his furious expression.

The second his eyes land on the box in your hands, he snatches it into his own. He stomps away and slams it onto the dresser while hastily rifling through it. He hasn’t said a damn thing to you since the realization of what you did. 

Damage control, you need to do damage control, and fast. You move to stand, and utter out a quiet, “Dad?”

“Sit. Down,” his tone was sharp and left zero room for argument. He’s never spoken to you so coldly, even during your worst arguments. 

 All you wanted was to have a chance to explore the town, and now look where that has gotten you. This was a stupid mistake. Shanks and his crew were all you had, and now you’ve made a huge problem of yourself. What would happen to you if he decided you weren’t worth the hassle anymore?

You couldn’t help it. Between all the previous confusion mixed with his harsh treatment broke the dam and tears started to pour down your face. You sniffle loudly while furiously wiping at your face, and force out, “I-I’m sorry.”

With your head being in your hands, and your eyes clouded with tears, you have no hope of being able to gauge his reaction. Or see if he even cares enough to pay you any mind. Probably not, not when he’s this mad at you. 

Your bed dips from the weight of Shanks sitting down next to you. Without hesitation, you latch onto him, burying your face in his coat while sobbing out apologies. Anything to make him stop being so upset with you. Much to your relief, his arm came around your back and held you to him.

“It’s… fine. I wish you wouldn’t have done that, but it’s nothing to cry about,” his voice was strained, but held the warmth that had been previously absent.

Even with that, you needed time to calm down. While your dad being annoyed with your attitude was hardly a new occurrence, him being genuinely upset was. Frankly, you didn’t know how to deal with this, and you were still terrified about how much damage your actions just did.

Shanks didn’t say anything else, instead choosing to sit in silence with you. You couldn’t decide if that made things better or worse. Actually, you could decide. The lack of words was absolutely worse, but you didn’t know what to say right now either.

“Yassop told me you tried to sneak off the ship. Again.”

Nevermind. You wish to go back to silence. All you did in response was bury your face deeper into his coat while mumbling a quick ‘sorry’ for your actions. You were going to dump out that snitch’s booze stash later. 

His chest heaved with the sigh he let out, and his hand came up to pat your head, “I know that you don’t like this, I understand that, but sometimes you have to do things you don’t like.” There was a pause, but when you didn’t respond, he continued, “It’s for your own good. The world is a dangerous place.”

“But… But you’re an emperor. You’re the Red Haired Shanks. What’s the worst that could happen if we just go for a walk in town?” As far as you’re concerned, there’s no threat that your dad can’t handle, not to mention the rest of his crew. Even if someone is stupid enough to try something, they’ll deal with it.

He chuckled, but it was humorless, empty, “Just because I’m an emperor doesn’t mean that bad things won’t still happen. That bad things haven’t already happened.”

“Where is Uta?”

Bringing her up was risky, you knew that, but you need answers. You need to get to the bottom of why Shanks is like this, and this is the closest you feel that you’ve ever come to finding out.

Shanks became rigid at the mention of her name. The hand on your head was now squeezing, bordering on painful from how tight it was. You tried to wiggle away but couldn’t break his hold. 

“She’s gone.”

“She died?!” While you didn’t know what to expect, it certainly wasn’t that.

“No!” Shanks' hand dropped down onto your shoulder and wrenched you away from him. His eyes were wide and wild, “She’s not dead!”

You visibly recoiled from him, you can’t remember a time you’ve ever heard him yell. Once again, you can feel your eyes start to water and your lip tremble. God, what you wouldn’t give for this whole interaction to just be over already. Or for it to have simply never happened in the first place.

His face fell, and he looked away from you with a grimace. Mercifully, his grip had relaxed a bit and no longer felt like a vice on you. “Uta is alive and well, she just isn’t here. Not anymore.”

“Why not? Where is she?” You had more questions with every answer he gave, this wasn’t making any sense. What could have happened to result in her not being here? He wouldn’t just… abandon her. Would he?

“Because I wasn’t able to protect her,” his voice was so quiet that if you were any further away from him you wouldn’t have heard him. “She needed to be left in someone else’s care for her own good. I wasn’t able to keep her safe, and that’s something that I will never let happen again. Not with you.”

“But what happened? I don’t understand,” you felt like you were simultaneously getting closer and also further from the truth. Nothing about this was making sense. There was a bigger story here, but he was seemingly hellbent on keeping his answers to you vague. 

“You don’t need to understand, you’re just a child. Do both of us a favor and forget about what you saw and what’s been said,” Shanks got to his feet, moving to leave not only the conversation, but also the room entirely.

You launched yourself off the bed and grabbed onto his arm, “Wait! You can’t just tell me to forget about this! I want answers!” You weren’t about to let him get out of this discussion so easily.

“Well, (Y/N), sometimes you don’t always get what you want. We’re done talking about this,” the way he spoke to you was slightly condescending. He turned to face you and crouched down to be at eye level, “How about you take a nap? Seems like you need one.”

You were getting on his nerves, that was a given, but you couldn’t up and let this go. Scoffing, you crossed your arms and glared at him, “I don’t need a nap, I’m not a baby.”

Shanks smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “Could’ve fooled me with the way you’re acting today.”

As much as you wanted to yell and be mad about what he just said, your mind went blank. You felt dizzy and like you couldn’t remember how to control your body. A second later, you stumbled and crashed into Shanks who caught you with ease.

Haki. He used Haki on you. 

Distantly, you registered being lifted off the ground. Your head was pounding and felt like it was packed with cotton to the point of bursting. A few steps later, you were dropped on a bed. You’re so out of it that you can’t even tell if it’s yours or his.

An attempt was made to say something, anything, but your tongue refused to cooperate. All you could do was stare up at the blurring form of Shanks helplessly, wondering why he would go to such an extreme over you asking a few questions. 

The last thing you remember is a blanket being pulled over you before everything fades to black as you’re forcibly thrown into a restless sleep. 

[thedeepgreensea]

Steps, light and measured but steps nonetheless, ring through the kitchen, coming closer until the beaded curtains to the porch jingle as Spock steps through them. It's only just light enough to make out his sleep-mussed hair, although he seems to have tried to smooth it down with his hands. A sliver of pale skin shines though between the button-up he threw over his shirt and the cotton pants that sit on his hips.

Jim blinks up at him.

“Did I wake you?”

Spock shrugs, rounding the table and sitting down on the rocking chair opposite Jim, almost close enough for their legs to touch.

“I got enough sleep.”

“So I did wake you.”

Another shrug. Jim pours some coffee into his empty mug, offers it to Spock and he accepts, seemingly too tired to even complain about the taste.

The first slivers of sunlight begin climbing over the hills and Jim looks over to see Spock watching attentively, taking a sip of his coffee every now and then.

“This your first sunrise here?”

Spock nods. “First one in ages, to be honest. I haven't had the time to really look at one since I- since I was a child, probably.”

“You work too much, Mr. Spock.”, Jim criticizes playfully, nudging Spock's foot.

“Not all of us can live on their families ranch, Mr. Kirk.”, Spock quips back, eyes leaving the horizon that took a deep golden colour and landing back on Jim.

Jim feels his breath catch. Something inside him claws at his chest, desperate to get closer to Spock. The morning is warm enough to sit outside without blankets, a screaming reminder of summer coming. Summer, when Spock leaves. He doesn't want Spock to leave, and the thought scares him.

You could live here, though., Jim thinks. You could stay.

“Let's go inside.”, Jim says.

“Breakfast is my treat, since I woke you up. What are you in the mood for?”

“Anything as long as I can get a decent tea with it.”, Spock murmurs, leaning over the porch railing to empty the remains of the now cold coffee onto the grass.

“Finally awake enough to complain about the coffee! I was getting worried there. I'll put on the kettle.”

_____

Snippet of the cowboy au bcuz I fear I'll lose interest in it before I finish it so I wanna at least share some scenes :')

With art because idk how well text posts r gonna do on here-

[milqueandsugar]

sneaks into asks again >:3c

any general nsfw headcanons for Adam, Lucifer and Vox maybe? since I saw you were trying out writing nsfw again!

🌼☕` Your Tea Is Ready `☕🌼

MINORS DNI

Includes / Adam , Lucifer , Vox

A/N - Voxs part was fighting me today, I'll post them later when I can get a more coherent thought out!

| ADAM |

Bratty bottom > Mean Dom

Someone had to say it and it clearly wasn't going to be him

He's inherently selfish, but he's also inherently prideful, it's this pride that keeps him from opening up about his interest in subbing

This pride however is also how you can get him into it

" Oh subbing is so hard, there's no way you could last without tapping out, being the top is the easy part of sex "

He folds instantly, just to prove you wrong and it has nothing to do with the fact he wants you to peg/rail him so so bad totally unrelated why would you even bring that up

Loud during sex, sub or dom this bitch shuts up for NOTHING he has no shame if someone hears

Likes when your loud too, he knows he's the shit but it's affirming to have you a moaning, screaming mess on his dick

Doesn't care much for actually talking during sex, he is NOT paying attention, no thoughts head empty yknow?

Does like when you pull or play with his hair though!

Also likes fucking you in somewhat public places, getting fucked though? In his house, in his room, doors locked, curtains pulled that side of him is for you ONLY

Hard no to pictures, he doesn't want others seeing you like that and he definitely doesn't want anyone seeing him like that

Doesn't mind a cheeky nude though !

Sends them before his shows, just to mess with you cause you know he won't be able to get back to you until hours later

Looooves when you show up for his signings afterwards and drag him back stage <33

May be while he still does it but that's between him and God

It definitely takes some time for him to come forward with his own kinks but he's absolutely willing to try yours no judgment, he'll try anything at least once

| LUCIFER |

Service top, it's not that he doesn't mind giving up control or letting you do as you please but he has such a drive to pleasure that he usually ends up taking control at some point during sex

Getting you off gets him off basically

Oral? Loves it! Loves giving head its his favourite hobby <3

Please tell him how good he is for you or how good he makes you feel, makes his head all thick with pride

Will fuck anywhere anytime

He doesn't have a particularly high libido but being an angel he's got mad stamina

Sex ends when something comes up or you tap out, he will keep you there for days if he could (and he's tried)

Hard no to any kinks that could do serious damage to you, he's an angel he can heal so so fast, you can't do that! He has this nagging fear that he'll hurt you, that he doesn't know his own strength

Doesn't mind getting hurt, as said he can heal whenever he wants to, just keep it away from his back

Wings are sensitive, it's a dirty dirty secret of his you only find out on accident and you've been abusing that knowledge ever since

Kissing down his spine? Hard. Grazing his wings? Drooling. Preening a loose Feather? Bent over the desk for you

Has so many sex toys he's willing to try, Ozzie's been giving him toys for holidays since the beginning of time

He has the first dildo ever made, it's displayed in his office somewhere

Loves cuddly morning sex, it's his favorite, kinky rough sex is awesome too, but he likes holding you and taking his time

Has all of you memorized and he treasures it, thinking fondly of your figure often

He's got three thoughts at any given time, ducks, Charlie, bending you over his desk after your third date when you licked the scotch from his bottom lip-

In his defense, you've got no right being that sexy, it's absolutely sinful

[shalotttower]

Characters: Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader Summary: You died and became a ghost. Now you can’t leave Chrollo, but at least there’s satisfaction in taunting him. Notes: yandere!Chrollo, ghost!Reader, past nonconsensual relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

"Do you ever wonder what it's like," you ask, watching Chrollo flip the pages of his book, "to be dead?"

He doesn't reply.

Of course he doesn't, it's simply not possible. Most conversations you have now are one-sided, monologues with occasional questions sprinkled in between which always stay unanswered. Because he can't hear you. Or see you. Or touch you, unless he accidentally walks through you, and it's probably the only time when Chrollo feels something.

Maybe that's why you keep doing it, walking right through him. Just to make his skin crawl like he once made yours.

But Chrollo only closes the window and gets a warm cardigan. Cold drafts are coming in more often these days, since fall is nearing its end.

It annoys you how meticulous he is.

You float above the tub while he brushes his teeth, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling that weren't present three weeks ago.

"It's chilly here," your fingers sink deep into your thigh, like through butter, and yet it sends no signals down the nervous system to let your brain know. Strange, this body you have now ─ translucent like a jellyfish.

Chrollo rinses his mouth, you push the towel off the hook.

"I could use a cardigan too."

He doesn't get scared. Doesn't get uncomfortable, doesn't...anything, really. All Chrollo does is fix the towel and turn the bathroom lights off.

Fallen things get picked, switched objects ─ put back to their respective places, and doors locked shut. He goes about his day, sometimes drawing two mugs instead of one from the cupboard.

You could leave.

You sit on the balcony railing where Chrollo drinks his tea, and swing your legs in the air. Below your feet, cars move on the pavement like toys lined up in neat rows. People cross busy intersections, and the wind doesn't rustle your hair anymore.

Could. Could leave.

If only you knew how to do that. If only Chrollo wasn't attached to you, like a string tied to your wrist ─ invisible, but still so thick that it tugs you back whenever you try going further than a few blocks away.

You don't know why it's like this, but suspect it might have something to do with unfinished business.

Stuck here, you watch him read and brush his teeth, drink fancy tea and shake the snow globe he stole two weeks ago; the dancing fairy inside looks a tad much like you and you're debating whether pushing it off the shelf would be childish or not.

Sometimes it's frustrating being around him.

But sometimes, sometimes a door creaks and Chrollo stops in the middle of the opulently decorated space. The wallpaper has little fleur de lis printed on it, and heavy red curtains frame large windows.

This is when you go so, so still and stare.

"Dear?" he asks quietly.

There's nothing behind the door.

Just an empty hallway bathed in dim lighting.

You never reply. Because this is why you keep hanging nearby, even when there're many empty rooms in the penthouse, barely there, barely lingering ─ for the greatest and most profound pleasure of making him believe, just once, that perhaps, there's something else besides himself in this furnished apartment.

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: 6

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Series Masterlist

—

You’re surrounded in warmth.

The storm outside is gone, the blue wash of dawn filtering through the nearly transparent curtains and your eyes flutter open, focusing on nothing. A tickle of breath skims across the nape of your neck, the weighted drape of an arm curled over your side and you are limp and boneless.

Sated, relaxed.

Tucked away safely in the solidly soft embrace of his body, you fall back asleep.

–

When you wake again hours later, it’s much brighter outside and the warmth is gone.

Reaching your hand back, you find nothing but wrinkled sheets and an empty space, cool to the touch. You skim your hand over it anyway, as if the imprint of his body would still be found if you search long enough, but it isn’t and needing a confirmation of the night before, you reach down underneath the blankets and let your fingers run a path up the inside of your thigh. Smooth, velvety skin and then – the barest trace of tightness across the surface; dried and flaky, smeared there and left.

At least the two of you had the wherewithal to do that, even in your sleep soaked need.

The clean, masculine scent pressed into his pillow brings to life the ache between your thighs and shifting, you note how different it feels between them. Still slick, worked open and used. A pleasant reminder lingering there, your eyes close as you let yourself lie suspended awhile longer in the memory.

His panting breath filling your mouth, the stretch of every push inside. A phantom fullness felt in your core, his beard brushing against your lips. The husky rasp of his voice, the tightness of his grip. The gleam of his eyes in the dark.

Thinking about how he pulled himself back the last time he kissed you, you stay tucked away in the safety of his bed until it seems too late to stay asleep. Not wanting to leave it for fear of finding a different man than the one who held you last night, you eventually force yourself up and fishing your underwear and shorts out from the bedding, go to find him.

Out on the deck, the outline of his body is highlighted in the sun with his green and red flannel taut around his shoulders, his broad back facing you and when you walk out to join him, he turns at your hesitant, creeping steps.

A shyness you’ve never felt with him has you averting your eyes, and coming closer, you keep your arms tucked tight around your torso.

“Good morning.” His greeting is a quiet one, fitting for the peacefulness of a morning after a storm.

Lifting the corner of your mouth, your gaze flits over to him. “Hi.”

There is mutual silence; the restlessness of his body giving him away: the drum of his fingers on the wooden railing, the white knuckled grip he shifts into as he fiddles with it and thinks. He peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, and you look over at the garden.

The leaves of the plants are sodden and limp, dripping with moisture but still very much alive.

“How are you feelin’?” he asks, keeping his eyes downcast on his hands.

“Sore,” you admit, looking over at him. Pulling your bottom lip into your mouth for a moment, a frown forms deeply between his brows, his jaw shifting under his beard. “But I mean, it’s okay. It’s not bad or anything.”

He lets out a huff of laughter, laced with self disgust.

“I was too –” he starts and stops himself, his finger digging into a dry crevice in the wood as he searches for the right words. “It’s been a long time since –”

He stops again, and taking a breath, he steels himself and pulls himself upright, facing you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rough. I shouldn’t have even–”

Your hand rests on his automatically, your chest tightening at your fear playing out in real time. The action stops him as he looks at your hand on his and then at you, expressive earnestness spilling from his endless, brown depths. You know what he is trying to say, even if he can’t seem to get the words out.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. Your thumb sweeps a path across the back of his hand, and his eyes drop down to watch the movement. “I wanted you to.”

He shakes his head, disappointment flashing across his face. “I know you did, but I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You didn’t want to?” The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and you hold your breath, waiting for an answer he gives you right away.

His face is stern when his head pulls up to meet your eyes. “You know I did.”

The lowness in his reply and the blunt confirmation of what he’s wanted swirls inside you, heady and rich. The open acknowledgement of it frees your hesitancy, even just a little, and something inside you preens at the speed of his reply.

“Then it’s okay,” you say quietly.

His eyes search yours for a moment, and you let him look.

Please, you think. Please don’t say it was a mistake. Please agree to more. Please. Please.

Weighted air fills the space between you, his eyes leaving your face to scan the yard as he buys himself time. You let him think, your fingertip tracing the line of a vein on the back of his hand, following the path of it to his wrist and his eyes drop down to watch your careful exploration. Afraid to push him too fast, you don’t want to break this tentative truce; this liminal space where he’s neither going back on his actions nor forward. Your touch stays on him as a silent offer, just like the one you gave him last night.

Nothing and then, he lifts his thumb to brush against yours, the corner of his mouth lifting only just.

He nods and you let a slow breath out, his hand lifting off the railing to take yours. You let him take it, threading your fingers together.

“You want some breakfast?” he asks, leading you into the cabin and you smile, following.

“Sure.”

–

His hands deftly pulling the soaking clothes from the line, he wonders how it’s possible to want you even more now that he’s had a taste.

Shouldn’t the pull lessen? Shouldn’t his thirst be quenched? Shouldn’t he be able to stop thinking about how good you feel now that it’s not a mystery anymore?

He grimaces at the memory of what you said. Sore. He was way too rough last night. Too eager, too hungry, too unable to stop himself from taking what you were offering. Stripped bare having just come out of that dream, he could say he didn’t know what he was doing, but he knows that’s not the truth - he knew.

The comfort of your body was too much to resist, his hands searching for your soft warmth and the taste of your mouth, and when you didn’t even try to stop him, he told himself it was okay to finally take.

When he woke before you this morning, he watched the slow rise and fall of your breathing under his arm, and studied the swirls of hair just behind your ear. Your back was bare against his chest, a sensation long lost to the days of before and that’s what finally pulled him from you: a tightness along his sternum; the velvet skin of your spine fitting just right over it.

Glancing over at you, he watches as you kneel over the barrier of the garden, checking on your plants. Yours, because even though they technically belong to both of you, you were the one who nurtured them to life. Through careful attention and delicate touches, through a gentle coaxing out of the confines of their small, stunted beginnings to give them space to stretch their roots and grow as they soak up the sun.

The sun, a joy he had forgotten about.

You use your knuckle to swipe a stray lock of hair out of your eyes, and his gaze trails down the length of your body: the delicate line of your neck, the swell of your breasts under your shirt, the plump curve of your bottom sitting on your ankles. If he tries hard enough, he can feel your smooth skin under his palms and pulling himself away from the memory of his dark bedroom, he goes back to what he was doing.

One by one, he takes each piece of clothing off the line and wrings it out, his forearms straining as he works the fabric into a tight spiral. Water pours from each one onto the grass below, splashing onto his boots and when you come over to join him, his doubts from earlier fade as he pushes down the sudden urge to drop the cloth in his hands and reach for you.

“Oops,” you laugh, looking at the heavy clothes. “I guess I forgot to bring these in yesterday.”

“Good thing they didn’t tear off the line,” he says. “Find my shirt up in a tree or somethin’, with that wind last night.”

He wants to tease you for how shameless you are when you watch him wring out another shirt, but wasn’t he just doing the same himself? A silent acknowledgement runs through his mind: this is how it could be, if he lets it.

“God, wasn’t it bad?” you say, bending down to pick up a large stick. “These things are everywhere.”

“Yea, I was gonna gather them up in a bit, stick 'em somewhere for later maybe.”

His old backyard in Texas flashes quickly through his mind; the square patch of grass, the domestic act of taking pride in his property as he cleaned up the morning after a storm. He hasn’t stayed anywhere long enough to care about doing something like that since then, and he’s surprised he even remembers.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad not to be sleeping outside,” you say and he looks sideways at you with a smirk, glad when you match it. “I mean, for a couple of reasons.”

He hums, his grin stretching and you bite your lip and tap the back of his thigh with the stick.

“Hey now,” he laughs. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Sure you didn’t.” You hit him lightly again, poking him with the edge of it and he gives you a look.

“You better watch it, honey. Don’t dish out what you can’t take.”

“You think I can’t take you?” you tease back, swatting him this time on the small of his back and he stops what he’s doing, turning towards you. Anticipation swirls in his gut when you grin, somehow light for how present it is when you take a small step back for every one of his forwards.

“Oh I know you can,” he says lowly, the words heavy with implication.

Caught unawares by his statement, he uses your pause to his advantage and reaches for the stick, swiping it from your hand to toss it carelessly behind him into the grass.

Your eyes brighten with excitement, your foot taking another step back and when you turn to run from him, he’s ready for it. One lunge forward and he’s snagged you around the waist with his arm, tugging you back against his body and he smiles at the laugh you let out that pierces the air. The sound breaks out into the sky, brighter than the sun above and then he’s tackling your squirming body to the damp ground, pinning you down.

“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he says, breathless as you try to fight him off and his hands wrap around your flailing wrists, pressing them into the grass above your head.

You say nothing, stilling underneath him with a smile. These playful touches so far have been like arcs of tension filled energy, bursting and catching against each other as he tries to find the edges of this new boundary. He’s still within it, but the longer he looks at you, your face shifts into something else. Your chest heaves underneath him, and he twitches in his pants, the tight drum of fabric pressing against your stomach.

“I do want it,” you urge beneath him.

He knows you do: can see it in your hooded eyes, in the way they keep dropping to his belt buckle. They roam greedily over him, your mouth parted as you take him in and though he wants nothing more than to break these newfound, uncharted boundaries and take care of you like he always does, he can’t.

Slow. He needs to go slow. It’s only been hours, and the sound of your voice saying “sore” echoes in his mind. Reaching into the depths of his memory, he recalls long ago dates with lingering touches, knees pressed together beneath bar tops, teasing words murmured into ears full of promises that would be fulfilled later.

Later, when the need became too unbearable to hold back.

Later, when his fingers and mouth would find an eager, wet warmth.

Later, knowing that when he eventually got there, they would be ready to take what he needed to give.

Later.

There hasn’t been a later for a long time. Later is a thing of the past, now when every day is lived one day at a time and just like you’re teaching him the power of later with this garden, he needs to relearn it for himself. Reach deep inside for those long neglected reflexes, brush them off and polish them through practice - starting right now.

He bends forward, until his mouth is resting just above yours and he can feel the absence of your breath, as if you’re holding it.

“That so?” he hums, watching your eyes flutter shut.

Light plays across your face, sliding over the soft, familiar features and he drinks you in, finally allowed to look as much as he wants. He feels the tension held in your limbs as you try to stay still underneath him, his hands tightening subtly around your wrists while he watches your pulse thrum beneath the skin of your throat. His mouth waters in memory of the salt taste of that exact spot.

Your lips part slightly, and he knows if he shifts forward just a bit more, he would be able to touch them with his own…but he doesn’t.

Instead, he brushes them along the curve of your cheek, leaning forward to whisper directly into your ear.

“Later, honey,” he murmurs, savoring a sweet little inhale from you. “We’ve got chores to do.”

–

It’s criminal, how good he looks doing yard work.

Almost as good as he looks holding his rifle or his bow, but not as good as he looks when he makes a kill just for you.

You had thought there was something wrong with you the first time he did it – the way your breath quickened with arousal, your belly pulling tight with need. You had blamed it on adrenaline in the moment, but hours later when your body was still thrumming with it every time you called the image back, you knew it wasn’t just that.

You had quickly reasoned that it was due to many things: the implication of his protection, a confirmation of the lengths he was willing to go for you. A fierce protector in this terrifying, brutal world, with his competency never more present than when taking out a threat, you knew he didn’t do it out of love for you, but your body attributed his actions to something akin to it.

You want him the same way now, watching him gather sticks in the yard.

He’s stripped his flannel, draping it over the railing of the deck. His arms are tanned and thick, his body so blatantly masculine in its broad muscles and width, and he’s holding a bundle of broken, wet pieces of wood as he bends to pick up each one. He dumps them in the corner of the lot, the pile growing bigger with each round and then he’s adding larger branches, ones that got knocked from the trees during the storm.

A slick ache beats between your legs, remembering the weight and heat of him as he straddled your body, the solid thickness of him on top of you in the grass earlier and you keep watching.

He wipes his hands on the back of his jeans, his ever present knife hanging on his belt just to the side of his ass and when he turns, you quickly go back to what you were doing.

Enough. He said later.

–

Dinner is a quiet thing, the protector you were ruminating about earlier gone and replaced by a version of himself that seems looser, without the tight winding tension that’s usually present in his form. There is still some there though, and though he gave a promise of more to come later, there has been a piece of you all day that has waited for him to change his mind. To pull back, to give into the doubts he clearly had before.

You’ve been watching for signs: for him to fall silent, to get that far away look he has on his face sometimes when he ticks his jaw and thinks, to pull away when you come near him - but he hasn’t.

At least, not for today.

When you come in from outside just before bed and he’s settled in his own room without you, your self doubt creeps back – just as slowly as you creep across the hallway, to his room.

“Hey, can I come in?”

He’s sitting up in bed, warm light spilling from his lantern and he quickly sets his book face down on his lap, like he was waiting for you.

“Sure, yea. Of course.”

He shifts on the bed to make room, shadows pooling and sliding over his bare chest as he reaches over to turn the light off and you stretch out next to him, rolling onto your side to face him.

“You didn’t need to turn the light off. You can keep reading, if you want.”

“I don’t want,” he says lowly, scooting closer to you. His hand settles on your hip, tugging you closer.

“Oh yea?” you tease, smiling in the dark. “What do you want?”

His hold slides up the side of your body, a rumble of satisfaction rolling through his chest and then he’s even closer, his hand cupping your jaw to pull you close.

“This,” he breathes, kissing you.

His mouth finds a rhythm with yours immediately, and for all that was frantic the night before, it’s matched by tenderness tonight. Still just as hungry and demanding, his mouth insists you open for him; the sheets rustling as you slide and shift against them.

Delving his tongue deep, he explores the way yours brushes and slides against his. His mouth is just as competent as his hands are, just as sure in its intent.

When you sigh into his kiss, he breathes it in.

When you ask for more, he relents.

He helps you out of your pajamas and then peels his own bottoms off, tossing both sets onto the floor below and then he’s reaching for you again, his slow, careful movements giving way to hunger as he guides you onto your back. You make room for him between your thighs, letting the weight of him settle there.

“I wanted to do so much last night.” His voice is low and full of want, sending shivers across your skin in the dark. “Wanted to taste you, or fuck you with my fingers. Should've got you ready.”

“Do it,” you moan, your thighs involuntarily dropping open wider and he grinds himself between them, his hips a sure, steady roll.

“Yea, honey?” he asks, his breath humid as it blows across your parted lips. “You want my mouth?”

“Please. Please.”

It’s something you’ve been dreaming about for months, never confident that it would ever come true and your eagerness is reflected in the slight whine in your answer, in the way you arch into his hands when he lowers to pull the peak of your breast into his mouth. He sucks on it for a moment, giving another long, lingering kiss to the underside. Another one scrapes across your belly, one pressed into the hollow of your hip, and he works his way down, his shoulders forcing your thighs open wider.

His mouth finds you in the dark, the edges of his shadowed form between your knees making you wetter under his touch and when his tongue dips into you, your fingers curl into a fist, grasping his sheets.

You suck in air, your back automatically arching at the sensation of his wet, scorching mouth and he gives you a longer lick, a more intent one that slides up to your clit. He circles it, dragging the tip of his tongue over the peak several times and then he swirls it around to taste it, letting out a deep groan. He presses his face closer, his whiskered cheeks brushing against the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs, and his mouth opens wider as he gives you an open mouthed, messy kiss. His tongue slips inside you with a thick push, your hips rolling against it.

When he finds the pearl of your clit with a light suck, you start to beg. “Joel, please. Please.”

The sound encourages him, his large hands wrapping around the top of your thighs to spread you wider for his mouth and your fingers curl into his hair, the silken locks slipping in your hold. Rolling your hips up, he flattens one hand wide across your belly to keep you in place and then he’s sucking on your clit again, just enough to make your whole body focus on that singular, bright sensation. A flash of heat ripples through you, your core clenching around nothing and then his tongue is there; his groan of relief a deep rumble into the heart of you.

You let yourself get lost in it – pleasure soaking you underneath his mouth and spreading with heat through your limbs. He’s good at it, just as competent and sure as he is with everything else and your thighs tense the longer he laves, your moans growing higher in their pitch.

The slick heat of his mouth pulls and draws and takes, ignoring the way you pull back in order to push his face deeper with a low, long groan and then you’re pushing lightly on the firm round of his shoulder, your body pitching forward into ascent. Starlight bursts across the inside of your eyelids when you breathlessly tell him that you’re coming, and he keeps going, his tongue working faster.

His finesse slips, his careful, practiced touches and licks given with intent slipping into something more base, something that pours from the inside out, just like the deep, satisfied groan he lets out when he tastes your release. He eats you like he can’t stop, his hips shifting to grind into the mattress and then it’s too much all at once, your hand reaching down to push him away.

“Stop,” you plead, breathless and desperate and the need that he pulled out of you with his mouth has you shifting and sitting up, guiding him onto his back. His chin glistens in the dark, his whiskers dark and damp and his mouth tastes like you when you lean down to kiss him. He sees your need and matches it, cinching up to kiss you harder and his own grasp on your hips turns demanding and rough as he helps you settle into place on his lap and then just like last night, he’s lining himself up and pushing himself inside, only this time you’re so unbearably wet that you take him effortlessly.

“Oh fuck, honey. Fuck.”

His head drops back onto his pillow, his lips parted as he lays back and his hold slides up your arms to skate down over the delicate line of your collarbones and then he’s palming the weight of your breasts in his hands. They grasp and touch, his thumbs dragging across the peaks and you think about how he’s handled so much with these hands.

These brutal, deadly, efficient hands. These capable hands, now skillful and careful and deliberate in their touch with a lightness you didn’t know they were capable of. He uses them just as deftly on your body, sliding them down to curl around the meat of your hips to encourage you to ride him faster and his thumb seeks out your clit, nestled just above where you’re stretched open for him.

‘Yes,” he groans, his drawl slipping deeper. His words are soaked in rough pleasure, husky and low. “Come on, pretty girl. Come on.”

His breath comes fast and heavy, his plush lips open and inviting as you lean forward to drape yourself over his chest, seeking out his embrace with a kiss. He wraps his arms around you, one hand splaying across your tailbone to keep you in place and the other around the nape of your neck, and then he’s fucking up into you, his feet planted on the mattress for purchase.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it,” you breathe into his ear, repeating his own words to him from earlier and his response a wordless growl as he clenches his jaw and his grip tightens ever harder, his hips moving faster.

This Joel you know. This Joel you’ve seen: the one who delivers brutal blows with singular focus, taking out any and all threats with a fierceness you’ve craved. The same look of intensity is on his face now only softened with lust — but it’s the same black pitch to his eyes, the same intent.

“Take what you want,” you tell him, your lips catching on his just for a moment. “Take it.”

He does — immediately rolling over and taking you with him with a grunt and then he lets himself go, his groans crawling out of his throat with a delicious strain. His filling strokes speed up, his hips fitting tightly into the cradle of your thighs, and you know you’re going to be sore again tomorrow, but you don’t care – you don’t care, every thought being fucked right out of your head.

“You feel so good, honey. So good. You’re gonna make me come.”

You tighten around him in wordless encouragement, the scent of his skin and the heaviness of his body and his warm, gusting breath and low groans enveloping you, forcing you higher beneath him. It’s all consuming like it was last night, and his hand comes up to wrap around the back of your knee, tugging it higher.

“Joel,” you cry out, the depth he’s reaching pushing you over the edge and then he’s pumping into you one, two, three times more before pulling out with an abrupt jerk of his hips, spilling in hot spurts across the sheets.

There is a beat of silence, each of you breathing heavily and his skin sticks to you, tacky in the places where it meets. He shifts, his muscles relaxing.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, a low chuckle rolling through his chest into yours and you smile, reaching up to push a lock of hair away from his brow.

“What?”

He drapes himself on top of you, letting his weight push you into the mattress and he drops his head to fit into the crook of your neck, his mouth seeking out the curve of your jaw. Your hands linger on his biceps, thick and strong under your palms and you drag your nails over the back of them, content under the heat of his body.

“We gotta sleep in a wet spot,” he mumbles into your neck, and you laugh underneath him, feeling him grin against your skin.

“Hang on.” He pushes up with a groan, the same he makes when he’s been kneeling for too long, and getting off you, leaves.

The room loses its heat without him, your bare skin exposed to the air, and you wait until he gets back with a towel, scooting over so he can lay it down. He crawls back into bed, the two of you settling into a comfortable position.

With you next to him, his eyes are already sliding shut, a low, contented hum leaving his throat as you drag the tips of your fingers along his skin in a soothing pattern, lulling him to sleep.

His chest rises slow and steady beneath your touch, and the edge of your lips curl up at his grumbling about the wet spot. This, from a man who has spent countless nights in some of the most uncomfortable sleeping spots imaginable.

Comfort something that hasn’t been a guarantee for years, he’s been quick to acclimate to it. Not all things have come as easy: he still scans the yard endlessly, still checks the traps every day, still makes note of the rations and only just allowed himself the comfort of another human being, but a soft, warm, dry bed – that was something he took to instantly.

Your nail traces a line up the sternum of his chest, your palm sliding over the firm round of his shoulder and tucking your face into the crook of his neck and fitting your leg between his, you start to fall asleep — but not before you feel the weight of his cheek, his head tilting to rest it against your hair.

—

a/n: I lost track of the amount of times I asked @mourningbirds1 for help on this one — I love you my dear; only you know how much. Thank you ❤️

[myfictionaldreams]

I can’t lose you // Mafia!Stucky x fem!reader

Summary: Being the girlfriend of the Mafia leader and his second in command had its dangers but for years, you'd never had to experience this. Until now. How will the boys react when you're put in danger?

Requested by: @tinkerbellasstuff​ (thank you so much for the request!)

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, threesome, dom/sub, hostage, threats of violence, angst, fluff, hurt, size difference, double penetration, protective steve/bucky, anal and vaginal sex, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, daddy kink, praise kink, begging, subspace, pet names, not beta read

Word: 5.6k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

“You know, this feels more like a treat for the both of you rather than me”, you explained watching Steve and Bucky skim through the dresses on the rack around the store and pile their favourites in front of you. Dating the leader of the Rogers mafia had its perks, Steve knowing all the right people had managed to book out the entire store for you to look and purchase anything that you wanted, something he liked to do on occasions to treat you. However, you always hated spending his money, the situation almost feeling wasteful so the shopping experience usually felt like you were being Bucky or Steve’s shadow as they searched through the clothes that they thought you would like or want you to wear which you much preferred to do. Especially as they both had a very good eye for picking out the most beautiful clothing, even though they seemed to be eye-watering expensive.

“If you bite that lip one more time hot mama, I’m going to take it out myself” Bucky muttered as he placed a suspiciously short black dress in front of you, not taking his eyes off of yours as he backed away, disappearing into the mass of clothing rails. Releasing the lip that you hadn’t realised was between your teeth as you shook your head, looking at the article of clothing now in your hands.

“You know, I might just let him”, Steve then whispered into your ear, making you jump not having noticed that he was close. It was now his turn to pass you a deep maroon silk dress. Both of your cheeks warmed at his words, something Steve seemed to notice as he leaned to peck your cheek and smile against your skin. “I love how easy it is to make your flush, baby”.

“I’m going to try some on!” you declared, standing quickly, holding the two dresses tightly in your hand, brushing past the Blonde mafia boss, ignoring his chuckle at your reactions as you moved into the empty changing rooms.

Breezing into one of the cubicles and shutting the curtain behind you, a few seconds passed as you decided which dress to try on first before finally going for the maroon dress. As you were about to ease the jumper up and over your head, a noise was heard on the other side of the curtain, stopping your movements. Smiling to yourself whilst simultaneously rolling your eyes, you shouted, “Steve, I’ve not even tried the first dress on yet, give me some time”-.

All words were cut off as the curtain was yanked to the side, revealing a deranged-looking man that you recognised from a few weeks ago. Not even daring to breathe as your heart pounded violently in your chest, staring at the man that you couldn’t quite remember his name, not that you could even remember your own when you noticed the gun being lifted to point directly at your forehead.

When you and Steve first started dating, he had spent hours going over how to react in different scenarios whether it was kidnap, being tied to a chair or being held at gunpoint but you’d never been in this sort of situation before, Steve and Bucky having never left your side for you to be in any danger. Trying your hardest not to allow fear to take over you completely, thinking hard over what Steve had taught you. The first was to show you were no threat, most of Steve’s enemies were triple the size of you and rather than trying to fight them off, you’d have to make them feel like they were in control so, you raised your shaking hands palms up, showing your surrender. Next was that you must follow their orders if and when necessary until help arrives, try and find out as much information as possible from the threat but as you looked into the desperate man's wild eyes, you didn’t want to risk upsetting him anymore by asking for his name. So you stayed in silence, as you heard Steve and Bucky talking close by, internally begging that you both stayed in there, you couldn’t even think about either of the boys being hurt but luck wasn’t on your side as he waved the gun in the direction of the boys, a silent command for you to walk ahead.

Exiting the changing cubicle, still facing the man, you took slow, steady steps backwards toward the main area of the store. “Turn around”, your heart dropped at his words, hating the fact that you had to have your back to the man with the gun.

Doing as commanded, you held back a scream as his arm was suddenly around your throat, not fully restricting your airwards but enough to make you struggle and grip his forearm to try and ease the tension as the cold tip of the gun was now pressed against your temple. He now led the way with his body behind yours, pushing you forward and entering the store once more. Your eyes desperately flicked between Steve and Bucky who both had their backs towards the two of you, still idly looking at clothes.

“Hands up!” the stranger shouted suddenly, making you jump, breath coming in shuddering bursts as you watched both of your boyfriends instinctively reached for their own guns in the holster attached to their chests but stopping when quickly when they turned and saw your predicament.

“Steve” you pleaded, hoping your voice wouldn’t annoy the man behind you but he didn’t say anything, only pushed the gun further into your temple causing a slight whimper to come out of your lips. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” the man demanded at Steve and Bucky’s movements. “Do you want me to blow a hole in her head, is that it? Both of you slowly, take out your guns and slide them over to me and if I hear either of your safety being clicked I can guarantee I will shoot her before you shoot me”. Both men stopped their movements instantly taking a second to contemplate the man's threats before slowly undoing the strap holding their guns to the belts and then sliding them across the floor until they knocked into your feet.

Now it had been a few minutes, and you had contemplated trying to disarm the man exactly how you’d been taught to do but now with the added pressure of both potentially being in the firing line and your increasing panic attack trembling beneath the surface, you decided against it. Instead, you tried to tug on his arm away from your neck as his rising anger only meant that he was cutting off your airway more.

Steve managed to catch your eye, seemingly not even blinking, almost like he was trying to communicate with you and for the most part, it helped you to steady your breathing. Your trust in Steve and Bucky was much more than the fear you held over the man holding you hostage but with their weapons now at your feet and they couldn't approach any closer, only the negative outcomes were consuming your thoughts entirely.

“Paul, don’t be stupid, point the gun somewhere else”, Steve’s voice remained calm as he addressed the man behind you, his name now sparking the memory of seeing him only two weeks ago in the boy's office, he looked just as angry then as he did now. Even as your body continued to tremble, you tried to hold eye contact with Steve’s unnaturally calm face, a clear comparison to Bucky’s when you had briefly glanced over and seen unfathomable rage, his body shaking slightly.

“Oh, should I? Did you do the same when my brother pleaded for his life a month ago?” Paul’s snarled, voice breaking slightly as if he was on the verge of tears. The hand holding the gun began to tremble with his heightening emotions but then he seemed to study himself, pressing it in further into your temple causing both pressure and pain to leave you gasping and knees buckling.

Steve and Bucky both shifted forward at hearing you in pain but Paul continued to shout, “stop! Hands-on your head, both of you. Did you really think you could get away with killing my brother? That there would be no repercussions for your actions, Rogers?”

You weren’t sure when but you’d begun to cry, wetness pooling down your cheeks, a sight that seemed to make Bucky flinch before he decided to speak up. “What do you think you’re going to achieve doing all this Paul? You kill her then what? We let you leave? Do you really think you’re going to get out of this situation without being skinned alive”. His voice was dripped with venom as he spoke and you could feel Paul shake slightly at the threat before he righted himself, standing to his full height which only caused you to stand on your tip toes from his grip around your throat.

“Maybe you’re right Barnes, I won’t get out of this alive, but what makes you so certain that you will?”

“No!” One moment the gun was pressed against your head and the next it was being pointed at Bucky and it was almost on instinct that you released your hold on his arm and reached for the gun, pulling it back to point at you. It was like a reflex, not fully comprehending what you’d done but judging by the dark looks in Steve and Bucky’s eyes, they weren’t happy with it.

What shocked you next was a chuckle coming from the man holding you, his mouth moving to your ear which only caused more rage in Steve’s eyes. “Do you really want to die for these murderers?” he whispered.

“Yes”, you answered honestly, without a moment's hesitation. Pauls's arm tightened around your throat with more strength, cutting off any chance of you breathing in. Struggling against his hold, eyes now closing as the overwhelming pressure increased in your head, white noise pounding in your ears.

“Have it your way then”, Paul continued, the cool tip of the gun once again pressing in against your head, if you’d opened your eyes you would have noticed Steve and Bucky make a move to step forward when the deafening bang of a gun firing echoed throughout the store.

Almost in an instant, the arm around your neck loosens so that you were able to suck in the deepest breath you’d ever experienced but it only caused you to cough violently, trying desperately to take more and more breaths as your knees gave way. A warm body caught you before were able to collide with the floor and Steve’s urgent voice was whispering in your ear as he was able to drag you across the store.

In the rush and panic of the store being raided by other members of Steve’s gang, you were able to spot Paul lifeless on the floor with blood pouring from the fatal wound in his head but Steve was quick to cup your cheeks and turn you away from the scene. “That’s it baby keep taking nice long breaths for me, in and out. Are you injured anywhere else? Are you ok?” You’d never heard Steve fully lose control like this before, no matter the situation he was always level-headed but he seemed just as close to having a panic attack as you were.

As he spoke, he continued to move you throughout the Store until the sun was beaming down on you and the car door was being opened for him to place you into the backseat. Steve’s thumbs brushed away the tears that had stained your cheek, you were able to respond. “Steve, I’m ok, I think, I’m-I’m fine” your fingers rubbed against your neck, something Steve was quick to notice.

His fingers lingered on the sore spot before leaning his face closer and fiercely kissing your forehead, taking a deep breath in, almost like he was trying to memorise your smell before swiftly leaving and shutting the car door behind him and walking back into the shop. Muffled, you were able to hear him shout to Bucky, “take her home, now!”

The brunette was out of the store and into the driver's side of the car in only a few strides, engine on and the store was far in the rear-view mirror. In the shock of suddenly driving off without Steve, your tears had ceased and concern had replaced fearful feelings as Bucky drove harshly through traffic, definitely going over the speed liit as he swerved around cars. “Bucky please slow down, we should have waited for Steve.”

“Put your seatbelt on”, was his only response, blue eyes unblinking as he stared ahead at the road. You couldn’t sit in the back and not be close to him, not after everything that had occurred so made the decision to quickly climb into the front of the car and into the passenger side seat.

“You need to put your seatbelt on as well”, you tried to tell him, fumbling with shaking fingers to clip in your own. Bucky didn’t say a single word as he kept one hand on the wheel, and the other helped to click your seatbelt before quickly doing his own. The two of you didn’t speak another word, even though you wanted to talk, tell him how much you love him, how scared you were, how thankful you are to him and Steve and the gang but every time your mouth opened, all thoughts dispersed.

Finally giving up on the words, you watched him carefully. How painfully his jaw was clenched, the metal hand that was holding the steering wheel so violently you could see the material was beginning to bend and he was sat so still you were sure for a moment that he wasn’t breathing.

So lost in watching Bucky, you’d not noticed that the two of you had arrived at the gates of your home until the car stopped directly outside of the front door. The silence was almost deafening as you swallowed thickly but Bucky’s thoughts seemed to be somewhere far away. Deciding to make the first step, you unclipped both your and Bucky’s seat belt.

“Don’t you ever point the gun at yourself and risk your life for me ever again, do you understand?” His voice was only just above a whisper, cold and full of passion as his eyes finally snapped to look at yours.

You weren’t sure what to respond with, on instinct wanting to disagree, having made the same decision a thousand times more but with the panic and hurt in his eyes, you weren’t sure you could have this conversation right now.

“Yes, I understand”.

“Good… because I can’t lose you” Bucky’s voice cracked as well as your heart as his eyes became glossy with unshed tears.

“I can’t lose you either”, you couldn’t hold back your emotions as warm tears escaped the corner of your eyes as the two of you reached for one another. Bucky opened his arms as you climbed across the car until you were straddling his lap, the steering wheel uncomfortable against your back but you didn’t care as he held you close to his chest. Finally, you released the pent-up emotions, sobbing into his shirt as he comforted you with soft whispers and delicate strokes of his fingers through your hair.

Eventually, your cries calmed and a soft buzz hummed through your veins, muscles relaxing into his hold, the warmth from his body consuming you thoroughly. “It’s ok, I’ve got you, no one’s going to hurt you now, I’m never letting you go”, Bucky continued to whisper comforts that made you feel safe.

A knock at the car window had Bucky shifting but you paid no attention to it, wanting to only be with Bucky, unsure of even how much time had passed. The sound of the door opening filled the silence, and then Steve’s voice was floating to your ears. “Is she asleep?”

“No I don’t think so, are you sweetheart?” Bucky asked before kissing the side of your head.

“I’m awake, sir” you were able to mumble, feeling even fuzzier, mouth dry and head spinning slightly. “I feel funny”.

“Lets’s get you inside baby” Steve encouraged, working with Bucky to ease you from the car and once more half-carrying you into your home.

Promptly you found yourself being placed onto the couch, your body melting into the cushions. Steve knelt before you as Bucky walked into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of water, handing it to you which you gladly drank. The two men waited patiently for you to finish drinking before Steve took your hand.

“What happened today, I can promise will never happen again.” Bucky took your other hand as he sat next to you on the couch, looking at you just as intently as Steve was.

“I know-”

“Please let me finish. What happened today, I don’t know how that little weasel managed to sneak his way into the facility or get as close to you as he was able to hurt you. But please know, you will never be in harm's way ever again. If another person so much as looks at you wrong, I promise their lives will be quickly ended. In fact, I’m slightly annoyed that Sam ended that fucker as quickly as he had, he deserved to feel everything I had planned for him” Steve spat with venom before taking a quick steadying breath before continuing.

“I love you, Bucky loves you and I know you love us. Nothing like this will happen again, can you forgive us?”

“Forgive you? There’s nothing to forgive, you couldn’t have helped what happened. I knew what loving you both would be like, the danger I wanted to put myself in and I’d never blame you, I love you and nothing can change that.” The truth spilt from your lips in a blur, every word the truth and you wish there was a way that you could prove this more but you found yourself completely exhausted.

You tried to smile at the men who seemed still just as tense but as you caught each of their eyes with your own, they seemed to relax, squeezing your hands before Steve smiled back. “How are you feeling now? Does your neck still hurt?” 

“Slightly, but mostly when I touch it or move my head, otherwise I’m ok, still feeling a little fuzzy” you admitted.

Bucky nodded your head, stroking a hand now your cheek to cup your face tenderly. “Did he injure anywhere else?”

“No, nowhere else”.

“Do you mind if we check?” Steve asked seriously, a slight crease appearing between his brows. 

“Yes, of course, but you have nothing to worry about”.

“I still just want to be sure”. Each man sat beside you, your head turning in each direction causing you to wince at the movement. “Look forward Doll, we’ve got you”.

You did as instructed, trying to peak from the corner of your eyes as Steve and Bucky moved with the same idea in mind, inspecting a hand each in their lap before kissing each of your fingers delicately when they deemed there was no injury. Next, they turned your arms, looking at every inch of skin and then leaving a trail of kisses as they moved along the limbs. The tenderness in their movements had you shivering in anticipation, especially as they reached the shoulders and their heavy gaze was felt on your burning face.

Steve leaned forward first, the touch of his lips against your cheeks causing your eyes to shut in calmness. Then as Bucky’s lips connected with your other cheek, did Steve lean in to kiss you deeply, all emotions from the day, the love, everything went into the kiss and it had you moaning and almost wanting to cry and all too quickly he was pulling back and Bucky was taking his place, the metal hand stroking a stray of hair behind your ear.

As Bucky too moved back, you made to follow but the brunette paused your movements, his chuckle deep in his chest, “we still need to check the rest of your body first, mama”.

Steve's fingers gripped the edge of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head, leaving in just a simple lacy white bra that displayed your already perked nipples beneath. Their eyes, followed by their lips moved to your shoulders, causing a shiver to spark down your spine and goosebumps to litter your skin.

Steve moved back first as he reached the edge of your bra, “stand up for us baby”. He held up his hand for you to hold as you stood, turning you slightly so your front was facing Steve and your back was facing Bucky who was too now standing. Your breaths were coming out in short bursts as you tried to not look down as Steve knelt before you, hands resting on your hips, searching your body before leaning in a licking a single strip from your navel to the band of your bra.

Bucky was similarly doing the same except when he reached the lacy material, with one hand unclipped the clasps at the back, allowing for the material to slip from your shoulders, exposing your breasts to Steve who hungrily disposed of the material and seal his lips around one of your nipples, sucking it into his mouth. You let out an ungodly moan, back arching to be closer to Steve, hands lifting to hold onto his blonde hair but Bucky eased his own hands around you, tugging lightly on your wrists until they were in his grasp and behind your back.

Steve then moved to the other nipple, his hand squeezing the now wet and perky breast as his tongue teased the other, the sensations and pleasure pulsing to between your legs. Closing your eyes, you concentrated on his touch, the warmth and comfort that it gave you, as well as Bucky was still tenderly kissing up and down your spine, holding your hands together. 

“Steve…” sighing as you spoke his name, feeling the need increasing in your cunt, thighs rubbing together to try and ease any sort of tension. With a wet pop, Steve unattached himself from your nipple, leaving it slightly swollen from his mouth's action and once more he continued his visual and physical journey down your body.

Helping you out of your jeans and underwear in one swift motion, dragging them down your legs, Bucky helping to keep you upright as the material was removed from each leg, both socks going with it until you were in the complete nude before them both.

Once again, Steve and Bucky worked in tandem with one another. As Steve lifted one leg up to cradle, he inspected your feet, calf and thigh, kissing and licking as he moved, and Bucky did the same with the leg you were trying to stand on. Both of them doing so was a difficult feat to achieve, especially as both reached your sensitive thighs that had your knee buckling therefore Bucky had to keep you upright but never faltered in his lips journey.

Your skin was now hot to the touch, especially as you could feel the cool air around you grazing over your damp upper thighs from where your desire had spread over and as Steve and Bucky reached the top of their individual thigh, you were already moaning for whatever their next moves were.

Even though you couldn’t see him, you could feel Bucky smiling against your arse cheek as he leaned in to peck each one quickly and then standing to his full height, standing so his clothed chest was against your naked back, arms trapped in the small space as both his arms encircled around your waist.

You were about to ask what he had planned but his actions proved the answer for this as he lifted you slightly, allowing your legs to drape over Steve’s shoulders and his face to delve between your legs, right to that spot you were so desperate for him to search. Instinctively your thighs clenched around his face as his thick tongue pushed between your folds, but he seemed to like being squeezed from the deep moan he purred.

Steve didn’t miss a single drip of liquid as he licked up and down your slit, slipping his tongue into your already clenching hole as far as he could reach before pulling out and moving up to your early awaiting clit that he greedily sucked into his warm mouth. You were completely overwhelmed by his wonderful mouth, a continuous stream of moans spilling from your mouth.

“Do you like that Doll? Do you like it when he fucks you with his tongue?” Bucky asked, his face had dropped so that his lips were ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Yes, sir” you quickly agreed, wishing that your arms were free so that you could run it through Steve’s blonde hair. Bucky chuckled at your response, kissing your temple and continuing to hold you up for Steve to continue pleasuring you.

As Steve’s tongue swirled around your clit at an increased pace, you could feel the sudden tightening in your abdomen, a sensation that was only increasing with each stroke of Steve’s. “I’m going to cum daddy”, you announced, not being able to hold back the nickname anymore, needing them to know just how far gone you truly were in the pleasure.

The mafia leader seemed to like it if the smile against your pussy was anything to go by and the next moment, you felt the tip of two of his fingers breach your cunt, stretching it out. Once again, the duo worked together, Bucky began whispering encouragements in your ear, “cum for us Doll, that’s it mama, cum all over his face”, and Steve began curling his fingers against that spot within that had you seeing stars as his mouth sucked harshly on your clit.

It only took another breath and the overwhelming sensation consumed your entire body, back arching, legs twitching and cunt convulsing and his fingers as you orgasmed hard. The pleasure was almost overwhelming as you tried to regain your normal breathing pattern.

“I want you both” you declared after a moment, wanting nothing more at that moment than to feel you all connected and to feel full of their cocks. Steve eased a few inches away from your cunt, looking up at you which you could now see as you glanced down with half-lidded eyes.

“I think we should take it easy today, we don’t want to put you under too much pressure today, you need to rest”.

You weren’t able to hold back to annoyed sigh, even if you had tried to. “Well you should have thought about that before checking me for marks, I want you both, please daddy”.

“Sassy Girl”, Bucky whispered against your cheek as he still held you up.

“Fine, but give it some time, we need to prep you first” Steve finally agreed but you were still being impatient.

“No, I want to feel it, I know I can take it, I just want to feel you both now and it was only this morning that you’d both fucked me anyway. I promise I can take it” you tried to reason with him, sticking out your lower lip for better effect as he looked up at you from his position still on his knees.

Steve and Bucky seemed to have a silent conversation with each other, something that you’d decided was taking way too long as you wiggled your hips, knocking slightly into Steve’s face. “Fine, you win baby” he finally relented, standing up and dropping your shaky legs to the floor.

Thankfully Bucky was still holding up most of your weight as you tried to hide your shit-eating grin as Steve began undressing, your eyes dropping to the throbbing cock, already dripping to be inside of you. Steve let out a deep chortle, your eyes looking up at his face to see his smile curved into a beautiful smirk as he held out his arms for you.

“Come here, sweetheart”, the mafia leader helped to grasp your hips, lifting you up until your legs were wrapped around his waist, hands that were once trapped behind your back were now gripping the short hair at the nape of his neck.

Your lips were instantly connected with his, desperately moving and pressing against his soft ones, tongue even slipping between. You were utterly breathless and only pulled back to gasp as the tip of his cock pressed against your awaiting hole, pushing in slowly, making sure to give you time to adjust to his size.

“Fuck you feel so good” he praised in your ear, teeth then nibbling the soft lobe as you moaned and tried to refrain from dropping your head back as your neck still ached slightly.

From behind you, Bucky swiftly removed his clothes, moving his hand up and down his shaft a few times as he watched you hungrily from behind, waiting for the moment Steve glanced at him and gave a swift nod and then stepped forward so his chest was once more touching your back, one hand now resting on your hip and the other at the base of his cock.

“Remember Doll, if you want me to stop use the colour code, ok? We’ll take this nice and easy hot mama.”

Bucky's voice was calm as he talked you through his motions as he aimed his cock towards your asshole. Both of the mens body heats were helping your body to relax as you closed your eyes, leaning your head delicately against Steve’s shoulders, taking a few deep breaths and trying not to tense around Steve’s cock that was still inside of your cunt as Bucky began to penetrate you.

Without the fucking session from the morning, you wouldn’t have been able to take him without any prepping as both men were significantly sized. Even with the morning, the stretch of Bucky’s cock still had you squeezing your eyes tightly, trying to remain relaxed so that it wouldn’t hurt as inch after inch delved deeper until his full cock was twitching inside, matching Steve’s.

You almost felt beyond full, your muscles between your legs stretching to the max and you were thankful that they were so tentative of your feelings, letting you take your time to adjust, taking a few deep breaths before attempting to raise your hips slightly, indicating that you were ready.

Bucky and Steve then took complete control so that all you had to do was hold onto Steve and melt into their bodies as they began slowly rolling their hips, working together to drag across every single one of your nerves that had you screaming out in pleasure.

They began slowly, making sure to still not cause you any harm but before long you couldn’t take the reserved pace. “Please go faster, I need you to fuck me harder daddies, please!”

You sounded desperate and that’s because you were, wanting to feel the rough slaps of their hips, the way their fingers clenched harder into your skin as they started to lose control of their own restraints. You needed this thought, needing to forget about the day's events, about how close you were to losing them both.

The orgasms you were experiencing were enough to make you forget your own name, only being able to scream there as your cunt and asshole tightened and contracted almost consistently around them but they didn’t relent their movements.

Maybe you were lost in subspace, the surroundings have become fuzzy, or maybe you were just cock drunk but at some point, tears began to leak from the corners of your eyes.

“I can’t lose either of you” you sobbed, head tipping back against Bucky, not caring about the pain you experienced in your neck from the movement.

Both men stopped fucking you which was the exact opposite of what you wanted as you desperately moaned, “please don’t stop!”

They did as instructed, almost trying to move closer, kissing along your shoulder and face, catching any tears that had slipped out as they put as much emotion into their fucking as you were into your moaning.

“I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, ever! I love you” Steve grunted as his hot cum coated your pussy, dripping out and onto the floor as he sloppy slowed down his thrusting.

Bucky continued to fuck you hard, your cunt already spasming through another orgasm, you weren't even sure what number it was anymore.

“I’m going to always protect you mama, don’t forget that” Bucky grunted, his balls tightening to his body as you were able to moan out ‘i love you’ as he found his own release, his cum dripping down and missing with Steve’s.

All three of you were breathing heavily, sweating glistening your naked bodies as you kept your eyes closed. Bucky and Steve had pulled out at one point but continued to hold you up between them.

“You with us baby?” Steve asked, kissing your forehead, not caring about the sweat.

“Daddy…” you mumbled, sounding half asleep.

Bucky smiled into your shoulder, kissing it once before taking a step back, “don’t worry Doll, we’re going to look after you” he promised, watching as Steve began to carry you up to the bedroom, planning to get you washed and into bed. Even if tomorrow the full extent of the day's events hits you, you knew that Steve and Bucky would be there for you no matter what.

[rel124c41]

NARC. floyd leech

It’s a chance to prove yourself again … and to ignore this godforsaken craving for a burger.

tags: mafia au, blood and injury, mild sexual content, organized crime, emotionally repressed, food issues, nonconsensual kissing, & post-betrayal

word count: 9436

You pluck a glass of red wine from a tray. Shoulders gliding past a humanoid Cthulhu, you pour the blood-hued liquid down your snorkel and sample the taste of dry wine. It is a Pinot. Gratefully for this, you take care to pour a bit more in your snorkel. Though, just as you duck under the wayward stretch of a shark’s gesturing, cigar-holding hand, – smoke from a White Russian cigar furling out of his rubber lips like crisp, morning fog that a ship must part through  – Jesus asks, scandalized, in your ears, “Are you drinking on the job?”

The wine halts its descent down your throat. Holding (almost choking on) the liquid in your mouth, your eyes momentarily widen in surprise. You throw your head back and down what is left in your snorkel, because it is necessary to communicate with an empty mouth. “I thought you said you didn’t have any eyes in here.”

No one can really blame you for how your own eyes start to flutter around the room, like tracking an energetic butterfly.

“I took the precaution of sending Rook to plant S.T.Y.X. cameras in the ballroom. I, however, did not know I would have to take any precaution against one of my spudlings being inebriated,” Jesus chastises. 

Caught red-handed, you feel heat crawl up your face. “ …It’s just one drink, boss.” Even though it is soft, you can still clearly hear that admonishing huff of breath come through your ear-piece while your personal Jesus – your boss, Schoenheit – breathes with affront. You decide that you will hold the cordial glass for the rest of the night as decoration rather than drinking it.

“One too many.” The words are so cold that you feel a shell of frostbite coat your earlobe. “I expect your greatest performance, Potato. The audience is very bilious tonight.”

Bilious, as in bad-tempered. For a moment, it feels the weight of the world socks you in the ear. That you know too well. Whether they are actually watching through the S.T.Y.X. footage back home or are simply holding up an ear to tomorrow’s whispering grapevine, the audience is upset with you. 

If tonight’s performance does not go well, there will be no more stage for you. The next time you appear to the audience, it will be on your curtain call. You imagine Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) taking a knife to your throat with all the poise of a violinist playing its instrument, the red notes splattered across the leather seats. 

The thought makes you yearn to down the rest of the Pinot. 

Instead, you find an appetizer table to stand by inconspicuously. And though you have already been stricken by the sight (which caused you to even grab a drink!) you glare upwards with a furrowed brow, through the polycarbonate sheets of your swim-goggles, towards the second floor. 

Above the ballroom is a circular platform walkway, connected to the ground by two spiral staircases. Leaning on the golden railing that twists like interlocking peppermint canes, the left hand man of Ashengrotto fiddles with a single drumstick. It propels through his hand like a miniature helicopter blade, spinning effortlessly. Sullen and bored, his eyes flicker all across the ballroom to find a crumb of entertainment. In Floyd’s right ear, Ashengrotto is talking – yet most likely being ignored too. 

His outfit is … juvenile. (the sneer blooming on your face is natural) Unlike the other attendants, the eel-mer is simply dressed in a graphic tee – your HUF graphic tee with Spider-man and Venom on it – and sweats. There is a ketchup or tomato soup or blood stain on your shirt’s collar. A pair of Monty Python bunny slippers peek out from the pooling, gray fabric around his ankles. The ears flop as he squirms back and forth on his feet.

Ashengrotto is dressed much better – an expensive, freshly pressed notch lapel suit of cobalt and swirling violet – but it is still very different from the fool’s play that is happening below them. You survey the crowd wearing rubber fish masks, diving equipment that conceals their faces, and any other variation of deep sea disguises. The ocean tonight is full of sycophants..

Most people think an Ashengrotto masquerade is the zenith of high society. Tabloids have waxed poetry about the ‘nocturnal beauty of a deep sea labyrinth where desires are found in nebulous waves’ and how the masks give ‘a thrilling sense that we are all drowned, wayward souls brought together in harmony under his glorious might’. You know better. That flowery poesy is a mere facade in a game of facades. Ashengrotto likes to throw these masquerades so often because he likes to laugh at others who unquestionably follow his every whim or will.

Schoenheit has informed you that Ashengrotto is a schadenfreude. Not too fluent in German, you asked for the translation. The two jigsaw puzzle words of schaden, which is damage, and fruede, which is joy, connect to make schadenfreude. It means Ashengrotto experiences emotional pleasure at the sight of others misfortune. 

‘There is no better sight to Ashengrotto than the sight of some poor, unfortunate soul begging on their knees at his doorstep. You would do well to remember that, Potato.’

Remember it you shall and you have. One drink is not enough to send you to your knees or make you beg. However, to Schoenheit, sipping a drop of wine tilts the scale in favor of the one-out-of-ten chance of you walking up there, blowing your cover, and smashing the empty glass in Floyd’s face.

Instead of doing that, you ask conversationally, “When was a covenant struck with the Shrouds?” You wish Schoenheit would have more trust in you, but you are well aware you lost that trust. Waiting for an answer, your eyes search the environment for those mentioned cameras.

“When you were out of commission.” 

All of your limbs flinch at that, as if you have just taken a bite of the world’s sourest lemon. “Ah.”

How altruistic of Schoenheit to remind you.

Being out of commission was very unlike you. For five years, you have known Schoenheit; for four, you have worked for him. In that time, sick days were once-in-a-lifetime events. You pride yourself on how effectively you worked because, for three years, you have known Schoenheit’s face and for two years, you had been in the upgraded position from canon-fodder to information recon. 

Then, for one whole year, you had … well, you rather not say. Speaking it would be like swallowing a bouquet of roses but without the petals and solely the thorns. At the very least, you inform Schoenheit on new information, just in case he has not seen it on the cameras, “He’s here, boss.”

“Ah.” At least both of you are dealing with this in stride. After that faint whisper, the earpiece fixated tightly on your snorkel is quiet for a few moments. In that time, you stumble into a memory. 

As the kunai slams into the wall by the door’s opening entrance, emitting a sharp warning bang, you announce to your uninvited guests, “If it’s the mailman, you can leave the package by the grocery bags like normal. If you’re here to stop my heart, someone’s already beat ya to the kill.” With that said, you let your deceased arm drop and fall limp on your mattress. 

“And if it’s your boss?”

Wincing, you respond, “ … ah, I supposed you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Schoenheit says primly as you hear your apartment door close. 

Though he says nothing, you can hear Schoenheit’s eyes flickering across each item of a break-up vomited across your single room apartment. Ah, where to even start? The snow white vivisection of the beheaded bear that he made for you at Build-A-Bear? How about the dart board where a handful of porcupine quill darts stick out of a five-tiered photo of you and him squeezed tight in an arcade’s photobooth? Yet, who could neglect to look at the real ruins of the relationship which is you, spread out like a starfish on your bed, eyes raccoon-ed with running mascara and insomnia?

After scrutinizing over the heartbreak hurricane that has torn through the room, Schoenheit starts to make his way over to you. It only takes a second to recognize that he did not come alone. You hear a second pair of shoes. “Oh, mon cher,” Rook says sullenly.

At least you don’t have to turn your head to see who it is. Body comatose in dolor, you cannot be bothered to move an atom of yourself besides the hand that feeds yourself and your bunny a bowl of carrots.

You hear one of your two superiors seat themselves at your bar as Oswald nibbles an orange stalk from your fingers. “How long do you think you have been here?”

“Must be more than a couple days, three?” You put a carrot in your mouth as you wait for the reveal.

“A week and a day,” Schoenheit supplies the answer. Then, he repeats chastising, “A full eight days.” 

“Hm,” you hum, just as acknowledgement to let him know that you heard him. Eight days seems so insignificant. You press another carrot to Oswald’s lips as he takes it in his chattering teeth. As the ebon Havana whittles the vegetable down to nothing, you depress your fingers down onto his fur, feeling the vibrations of his nibbling on your chest. 

Eight days? If you had the energy to scoff, you would be up in Schoenheit’s face with the loudest, most scornful scoff he has ever heard in his life, a scoff that would have the academy sending you home with a performing arts award. 

Eight days is nothing!

Your apartment goes quiet for a beat. Unsure which one has previously sat down at the bar countertop, you listen to the single pair of footsteps that walks around the wreckage. Crunching glass murmurs in the air. Again, you are unsure on whether one of your two superiors has picked up a photograph frame you bludgeon to bits or has accidentally stepped on the skeleton remains of a ceramic plate you two painted downtown at some rickety pottery studio. 

You bloodlet a year worth of your time for him. He left. So, you broke everything that could be a reminder of stolen seconds, minutes, and hours – even though it does not reverse the clock at all – to cement the finiteness. 

No going back: that is what you wanted your destruction to symbolize. You know that is not where your feelings lie. Reversing time is all you want to do. All your love and longing is strapped to you like a huge hiking bag, and you cannot find it in yourself to shoulder off that paralysis-esque weight. Thus, it crushes you, much like how Oswald crushes down on your sternum when he starts to make biscuits. 

“Do you plan to make it nine?”

That rouses you enough where you stop looking at the ceiling and drop your cheek on the right side of the bed. Schoenheit is the one sitting at your bar. Plucked straight from a vogue magazine, your boss looks like Jesus himself with his shoulder-length hair. His halo is the light shining in your set of a dozen, upside down cordial glasses. Like sleeping bats, they hang from your iron mounted, wine glass rack and cover him in evangelical sunshine. Your personal Jesus who came to console you after a break-up. 

“I don’t know,” you verbalize. Moodiness makes you brave. “Why don’t you stay for the next twenty-four hours and find out?” You put another carrot in your mouth, intending to turn back to staring at the ceiling when, “Ew, bunny hair.” You flick your tongue up and down, trying to dislodge the stray black hair. 

Chuckling with a dangerous undertow, Schoenheit says, “I wish I could but I have much better things to do with my time than watch you eat your pet’s hair. Time should not be wasted. I know, Potato, that you can use your time more wisely than this.”

Oswald’s hair finally out of your mouth, you bite back, “No, I’m quite content doing this forever.” This time you take care to brush your fingers on the edge of your shirt to rub off pet fur before you reach back into the bowl. 

“Well, I tried to be gentle about it.”

Oswald is plucked off your lap. You give a noise of protest when the rabbit is handed to Rook. That noise is effectively silenced when a disposable syringe tip is placed on the skin folding over your carotid artery. Not yet pressing it, just a small apply of pressure to remind you of its existence. 

Your slow blink is confronted by the blink of awe that rinses over Schoenheit’s face, thoroughly shocked at your lack of reaction. In the grand scheme of things, eight days truly is nothing. And, in the grand scheme of things, death really is nothing. “I loved him, Schoenheit.” You have no idea what could possibly be in the syringe. Poison made by your boss has made men weighing two hundred plus pounds drop in seconds and has made others dissolve into a bubbling puddle of red. 

Thus, you continue on, bitter and thoroughly hurt, “I loved him like a garden loves the sun and rain. I loved him like a guitar loves making music. I loved him like … oh, I don’t know. More than anything really.”

“The sustenance from a kiss is a fertilizer like no other! From each replenishing embrace, a flower grows in the garth of our hearts! What a beautiful seraphim love is! A free spirited angel of our making! Some might even say finding love is like finding Heaven on Earth! Que c'est beau!”

“You’re not helping.”

“Ah, je suis désolé,” Rook apologizes, switching his energy outlet from an impromptu poetry slam to brushing Oswald’s fur in neat sections.

Schoenheit’s eyes are testy as they regard you. Two rich pools of orchid violet dissect you from the top layer of epidermis down to your bone. You are very curious to what those keen eyes could be seeing in the decrepit, disgraceful state you are in. Is there anything left to salvage from you or are you a lost cause (a potted plant, too withered to revive)?

You flinch when the syringe goes in. It feels like pinching skin between metal. As mysterious fluid flows through your carotid artery, you listen to Schoenheit’s lecture, “He has stolen from me something that was in your possession. Something that I trusted you to keep safe. That I cannot forgive.”

When the syringe is pulled out, you offer nothing more than a wince. You want to be a smartass and ask, no bandage?, but you continue to listen on. “Diligence. Excellence. Relentlessness. Those three values are what Pomefiore is founded upon.” The cap clips over the empty needle of the syringe. “I have full confidence in you that those are memorized in your mind. Yes?” Those orchid lakes seem to grow bottomless and nebulous. Which of the Greek Gods must you never look in the eyes?

Jesus pulls back from your coffin-bed. Oswald is put back on your chest like a bundle of flowers. 

“The heart is flexible. There is always a place to make new love.” 

You have no idea what is in the syringe but you sit up in bed, feeling refreshed like one does after a long shower or long nap. 

After they leave, on your countertop and under the hanging wine glasses is a ticket to Ashengrotto’s upcoming masquerade along with three vials of swirling colors that move like tiny lava lamps of blue, red, and yellow.

“Remind him, Potato.”

So caught up in memory-lane, you startle because who are you supposed to remind? And remind them of what? Jesus (the actual Jesus, not your boss), did a week out of commission really have you in such disarray? 

Yet, you know each intricate circumstance that leaves your nerves so shot. Just like you know exactly where freckle is on his back, the exact hues that blend together to make up the color of his contrasting, gazing eyes, and just like you know the print his teeth leave behind when he bites down. All that information is left in high, extensive detail in the files of your mind. 

Luckily, Schoenheit was only beginning his sentence with Remind him, Potato. You listen to the rest of his words and commit them to memory. “That he is not the only one on the stage. You are there too. On the same stage.”

You inhale a tiny planet of air. Steeling yourself, you take one last glance up to the second floor. The only person who could recognize your face from the casting call of tonight’s performance stands up there, picking his nose with his pinkie like a child. Tonight is just: him, you, and this wire.

The objective of tonight – in order to proceed to the main objective – is to find someone to inject with a syringe. 

You have exactly three. Blue, red, and yellow. Three plastic vials that are hidden in a pocket professionally stitched inside the inner wrist of your suit. Nestled together like newborn bunnies nursing, they lie in that pocket and await the moment you take out the needle from your boutonnière. 

It is an impossible task to bypass security into an Ashengrotto masquerade. Without fail, guests are scanned down for metal lingering on their bodies. Thus, creative liberties need to be taken to complete Schoenheit’s wish. Underneath the rose pinned on your suit are three needles. They blend together with the metal found in a boutonnière, and that disguise allows you to perform on stage. 

A brief [Aside], they also do not check shoes here with their metal scanners.

Each vial has a different job for tonight. Blue, red, and yellow. All your primaries gathered together underneath the veins on your non-dominant wrist. 

If injected, blue will cause a seizure unlike the likes anyone has seen before, causing bones to climb into directions thought impossible of anatomy as the victim crawls upward for heavenly salvation. If injected, red will cause the punctured spot to dissolve, flesh dripping away to reveal bone that falls away like a melted jar of sugar. If injected, yellow will cause any wounds to heal, reversing all damage no matter how grotesque or twisted out of proportion. 

The best thing about them is there is no need for a syringe. As soon as the needle pierces something, the liquid is pulled out of the plastic by its own fate. Right now, you look around for a masked individual (anyone besides Ashengrotto and Floyd)  to empty the blue one into.

It has to be a distraction of magnetic caliber. Everyone’s focus needs to be pulled, even those of the most insignificant waiter to Ashengrotto himself. No matter what, it has to be compelling and spellbinding.

Which is why you chose a man wearing a diver’s helmet. So when his Herculean head inevitably falls, it will cause a loud clank! that is heard all the way from the second floor. 

It is why your conspiracy starts off delicate; the femme/homme fatale simply spreading out their influence in subtle ways. You only know you had him ensnared in your web when the arm you are running a hand upon relaxes, his previous flinch and tension melting like a peppermint in the mouth. You flutter your eyelashes at him from behind your goggles.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you; I was simply hoping to get the hors d'oeuvre in front of you.” You retract your hand but not without giving his elbow a teasing squeeze.

It is difficult to deduct any sort of thought from the impenetrability of his costume. Sealed away by blue-rusted brown copper, his ‘face’ is a tenebrous ebony with the words Anchor Engineering, 1913 as his temple and then as his chin. Unperturbed, you stare lovingly into the cold, lifeless circle. 

He side-steps but does not leave. That’s good. As you masterfully pluck a shrimp square off the lazy susan, you make sure to turn your victim. Act uninterested in the food. Look at him as if he is your next meal. 

“They always serve such extravagant, authentic seafood here. It feels as if I am truly dipping my hand into the Coral Sea and reeling in my meal from those very waters. Don’t you agree?”

The helmet sways up and down in a slow nod. His body underneath is like a statue.

You take half a bite of the shrimp square. It is an explosion of flavor; the bread, sauce, and meat combines into one sophisticated umami that excites your tastebuds. When you finish chewing, actually genuinely pleased with your bite, you hum out, “köstlich!”

And whatever fleeting interest this stranger has with you is amplified, if only by a slim margin. That flat black circle that reminds you of a bottomless fishing hole in northern ice tilts, curious at your words. A smile graces your face. 

“Do you speak any German?” The helmet goes back and forth in a negative response. “I’ve picked up a bit of German in my teens. A beautiful language. Köslitch, a pretty word, no?”

His body language is poised with interest. Thank Jesus, he must think you are something exotic and seductive. That intrigue will solidify his fate. “In German, it has a double meaning.”

You finish your shrimp then continue, “It means both funny and delicious. You would call a certain snack köslitch in the same way you would call someone that makes you laugh köslitch. I think,” — Here, you grab his hand. It is ungloved and a bit coarse. Meaty in your slim hand. Gingerly, you pull his hand up towards your mouth, making sure your breath hits across each of his knuckles — “, that you could fit both meanings.”

Then, mimicking a centipede with sharp pincers, you bite hard upon his index finger. And, with both hands cradling his single hand, you slip the needle piercing the blue vial into his exposed wrist. A crescent mark of teeth lingers on the top notch of his finger.

“I’ve always had this secret yen for funny guys.” The black hole leans forward, intense. “Meet me in the bathroom on the second floor in ten minutes.”

Yet, walking away, you know the diver only has five minutes of oxygen left in his tank. 

“Ya never had a burger?”

Even though, yes, you did just previously confirm that, Floyd’s awestruck words leave you wide-eyed. You are in disbelief over how … in disbelief he sounds! Lips on his cheek, lipstick-staining activity halting momentarily, you ask, “Is it really that hard to believe?”

“It’s almost impossible to believe!”

You chuckle with a dumb grin. Used to his dime-flipping moods, you lean in to continue peppering his face with kisses. Arms already around his neck, you pull him just a few more centimeters down so you speak into his ear. “Well, we just gonna have to order one after we fuuuck.”

Despite the chuffing link you have with your arms around his neck and with your legs around his waist – your crotch rubbing eagerly and teasingly up against his! – Floyd pulls back from you. It is almost comedical the look of sheer devastation of his lipstick polka-dotted face; would be too if you were not so astronomically horny. “Never? Like never never?”

Oh God, this is going to be a whole thing. “I don’t know. Maybe as a kid? Come here.” You tighten your legs around his waist when he tries to pull himself up from your apartment’s bed. Doubling down, you fasten your pace a bit when grinding down upon his crotch, feeling the familiar shape of his penis in his sweats moving against you so nicely. “Forget burgers. I want a different kind of meat.”

“I can’t just forget something like that! Who the hell grows up without eatin’ a burger!” 

How you desperately wish to reverse time when his steadyfast words reach your ears. There is a determined fixation in his voice. You let your arms fall by your head as Floyd’s hands squeeze your ass; he’s now no longer reciprocating in your grinding. Putting on your best pouting face like a young actor desperate for the role, you whine, “If I knew you were going to be like this, I would have said yes.”

“But seriously, how have ya not?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t something my parents made and now I’m on this caloric diet that has me eating whole foods.”

“A hamburger is a whole food. It’s a whole cow.”

“Ugh, I don’t know! Can we please have sex!” 

You throw your head back in exasperation. Legs fall down by your side. Floyd had the munchies after coming back from your bowling date, so you thought it would be nice to brainstorm aftercare options for dinner together  — ping-ponging between the idea of ordering takeout or going somewhere. Curse you and your big, dumb mouth. 

“Nope! We’re goin’ out again!” 

Just like that, he is skirting around your apartment to pick up the graphic tee he shucked off. His Neckface dunks are already hooked on the edge of his fingers when you sit up, readjusting your wrinkled shirt. You need to fix your cosmetics. However, when your hand falls around the oyster-shell of your compact mirror, your other hand is grabbed.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Floyd cheers, half-dragging you to the door. He is ignorant to your distress as the compact-mirror slips from your grip, soap-esque. “Me and my brother used to go to this place all the time. They do this whole burger of the week thing; it’s like pun-based burgers. My brother kept going back for the jokes, but I just think the grub’s good. You’ll love them! The owner’s super nice and I met his wife and kids –!”

“Floyd.” Your feet digging into the carpet finally grabs his attention. His face is equivalent to a giant question mark. “I need to check my face.”

The blank look on his face is wiped by him moving his dual-colored eyes up and down, surveying the area. His reply is genuine. “Looks fine to me, babe.” A mischievous gleam comes to his irises as he chuckles, “It’s a real sexy face. Even sexier when it’s moanin’ my name.”

Hope flares up in you. Maybe, just maybe, you can drag him back to the bed. 

“Yeah, baby?” You slur huskily before pulling him into a deep kiss. 

Floyd always kisses well. Somewhere in the middle of it, he spins you. Towards the bed? Hope is dashed when you hear the click of your apartment door, realizing you two are on the opposite side of it. Your boyfriend giggles the entire way down to the lobby, having successfully duped you.

The burger joint is built like a tiny house or a big shed, depending on how you view its humble spot in the universe. With the sun starting to set, the owners have powered on the string of lights crawling like a march of ants across the tiny house’s soffit. The unique footprint of Floyd’s car engine is already recognized before you enter. And, when you are seated, the waitress already knows not to ask for Floyd’s order (“He won’t order anythin’. Just trusts the slobs in the back to bring him something good.”) and the waiter claps him so hard on the shoulder you are afraid Floyd’s thin frame would break (“Haven’t seen you in a whole month! Where you been?” – here, the waiter stops and looks at you – “… and you are trying to hide things from us now?”). The energy is so light that you cannot stop yourself from leaning over your shared appetizer, waffle fries. 

“You failed to mention you're a local celebrity here, you know? Warn a girl/boy before you bring them to somewhere where they’re rolling out the proverbial red carpet for them” you say, fishing a fry out of the greasy basket. You really should have done your face.

“What,” unlike you, Floyd talks with his mouth half full of words and the other half full of food, “everyone here is super lowkey.” 

“I think the entire world is lowkey from your perspective.” You dot your sentence by dipping the waffle fry in the shared ketchup. “I feel like everyone is dissecting me.”

Floyd looks back again at the bar where everyone seems to be oblivious to your conversation, so deep and entangled in their own. “Nah, I don’t feel it.” And before you can refute, Floyd reaches over and bumps your chin with his finger, causing you to miss your bite. Your worry is forgotten as you dabbing your face with a napkin, laughing threats about taking the entire basket if he plays dirty with his food anymore.

At an appropriate time, your food arrives from the kitchen. It is set down on the table and this time, instead of Floyd’s shoulder being clapped, his hair is ruffled. Juice spills over the edge of the lower bun, soaking into the yeast. The bun seems to radiate its own heat as you pick up your burger – Knife to Meet You Burger (comes with thinly sliced beets) – and bring it towards your mouth.

“You eat with your pinkies up?”

Lower jaw still hanging open, you glance at Floyd. He has already taken two large bites of his burger, a ketchup mustache decorating his face. My, he really does not care about his appearance. “Hmmm?” You look down to see that your pinkies are in fact raised like two little horns.

A laugh comes out of your mouth. It has been ages since you’ve eaten finger food other than fries or maybe some whole wheat crackers. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Floyd smiles, fond. “Cute.”

The clang as metal helmet meets ground sends a shockwave through the masquerade. A woman shrieks; when a man starts to yell out if anyone shrouded in mysterious masks might just be a doctor by chance, you make your way up the stairs.

It won’t take you long to decipher the code. The potion Schoenheit gave you yesterday heightened your senses. Hearing each click of a correct turn on the safe’s dial will be easy. Like how elevated your sight and smell are, there is a certain air about you. 

Despite the entire prologue, you feel good. Heartbreak might be the costume cemented upon you in this masquerading parade but you are still capable. Pomefiore’s disciples always seek to be their best.

As you slip into Ashengrotto’s bedroom like a breeze, removing your snorkel, you forget in your joy of elevated sensations how your own heavy scent carries on the wind. 

Just as the safe opens, the door to Ashengrotto’s bedroom opens. 

It is a bit hard to shoulder your apartment door open with arms full of groceries, five ringlets of plastic hanging on for dear life on each of your forearms, but you still manage to do it. 

Today, the click of the door seems a smidgen louder than normal. It is probably because of how you need to use your spine and hip to push open the wooden slab. Blissfully unaware your key did not manage to unlock the door on the first try like you thought, you rotate yourself so you walk into your small apartment chest first. 

You would have flicked on the lights if you did not spot movement in a place that is definitely not where your bunny cage is. Five grocery bags sliding off your right arm, you hold out your second kunai, pinched in your hand. 

The first kunai you throw lands a few centimeters from the man who is crouching down by your slide-open closet door, piercing the birch wood. 

You take care to put down the groceries bags on your left arm. You have lettuce, eggs, and bananas in those. Hand still aimed, the point of the kunai trained straight at the spot where the intruder is, you take your non-dominant hand and turn on the lights. 

“Floyd?”

Standing up – the files detailing Schoenheit’s jury tampering where two of Kingscholar’s men were killed by Schoenheit’s men and then the failed narcotics conspiracy sentence to imprison one of Ashengrotto’s men (files that could get Schoenheit arrested in the wrong hands (his) and files that could get Ashengrotto arrested in the right hands (your boss’s)) in his dominant left hand – Floyd gives you a fleeting once over. He looks as if all of your time spent together was erased from his memory. As if he has successfully forgotten it.

“It’s nothing personal, Shrimpy. Just business.”

The door of Ashengrotto’s bedroom fully opens and knocks you back into the present.

He looks handsome. 

To be fair, his face has always looked handsome. He has looked handsome curling into your blankets, hair unbrushed and laughing. He has looked handsome picking you up in his car, cheek soft and squished on his steering wheel. He has looked handsome eating a burger with you, face dotted with a melange of sauce and crumbs. He looks handsome, staring down at you now. 

Shock – in the terms of upsetting events that surprise you like a deer in highlights – is something Schoenheit has trained out of your system. The only man who does not act is a dead man. So, when you launch yourself to your feet, you fully anticipate getting the first punch in.

Only to be caught so off guard when your ex-boyfriend cuffs both your wrists in one large hand and sends your face reeling back in whiplash due to the connecting embrace his other hand delivers. 

It feels like a spider blooming. That animal is all you can use to describe the sensation of being punched. The egg-shaped body of the arthropod is the spot where the nose lands – directly on your nose – and the spreading flame of pain is like a thousand legs stretching over your face.

A teardrop trails down the heated surface of your face as you gather your bearings. Or is it blood from a nostril? You cannot check the color of the watery drop because Floyd still has your two wrists prisoner in his single hand. With a grimace and hateful eyes, you turn so you may face him. Gaze upon his handsome face and deem it ugly. 

“Shit. I didn’t mean ta hit ya that hard.” The whiplash you are receiving tonight is like a rollercoaster! Full of so many ups and downs, just like you would expect of Floyd. Still, you cannot help the look of pure dumb shock that paints itself over your face as you are suddenly fussed over. 

When the hand that punched you tenderly touches your broken nose, you reel back with a growl.

“Get your hands off me!”

The files are still in your hand when you pull back. Like a magnetized magnet, Floyd follows in your desperate attempt to escape the bind he has upon you. You waste no time in clicking your heels, gaining an extra inch under your left sole. If that idiot won’t let go, you’ll force it. Left soles now sprouting a field of spikes, you bring your foot up and kick him hard in the abdomen.

Floyd falls back. The papers rustle. The click of your heels is like the tongue of a dragon sparking up a breath of fire. As his footing stumbles, you kick up and cut a long slash across his cheek and down to his lips with the knife sticking out the top of your right sole. 

“Shit,” Floyd shouts as his body collides and closes the door. 

When you pull your fingertips back from your face, you see that the drop from earlier was certainly blood.

Then, for a moment, you and Floyd observe each other. Intensely, both of your eyes take to tracking over the features previously known so intimately. Your eyes squint with so much vitriol that Floyd almost blurs in your vision. But, you are eating up the gourmet image of him, blood curling down the left side of his face much like the black strand curls down his right.

He smiles that familiar smile. “Hi, Shrimpy-baby.”

“...”

“Ya know, I never told ya this, but I always had this secret yen for the feisty ones.”

“Don’t spew that shit at me, you asshole.”

What a wicked game he played with you. To burrow into your life like a plump, devouring mite that took to digging deeper into the soil of your garden. A year of love is too convoluted of a scheme for a man of his ever-changing disposition to do, yet he did it. In doing so, he has destroyed your belief in the very concept of love. 

This time around, you are much more unsure if the drop falling down your face is a tear or blood. 

“Ya … You smell the same.” Confusion flickers over your face, so Floyd continues, “Didn’t think you’d be wearin’ the same perfume. Was almost positive I wouldn’t smell it again. Shit stinks.”

My, what a compliment. Like a practiced magician, you go to pull a syringe out from underneath your cufflink when surprise paralyzes you. Cheekbones burns as Floyd perfectly recites the French name – you distantly him saying how much he hated that language – of your perfume. 

“Comme Des Garçons Avignon.” Then he names the top notes. “Smells like Roman chamomile, elemi, and incense.” Then he finishes off with, “Ya spray like twelve puffs on yourself. And ya always make sure to get in on your inner wrist before rubbin’ it into your neck.”

“There’s something evil in you.” Disgust coats your tongue as you shake your head back and forth. Why can’t he just vanish off the face of the earth? Or at least walk back into the masquerade so you can finish your job. 

You cannot face the ugly truth that you still love him.

Floyd’s eyes flicker down to the ground … or perhaps only to analyze the files in your hand. All the same, a shadow falls over his features. It reminds you of each time his body shut down when emotions got too big, resemblant of powering off electronics. His next words are less confident than how he described your habits and perfume in detail. Whispering, he insists, “You should be in my life.”

What is he talking about? Your head continues shaking, almost stuck in that action. You were in his life. Both of you were so intimately entangled with one another’s life. That sentiment is now completely unrealistic; this cavern between you will never heal. 

“I hate you,” you whisper, just before closing the distance. 

There is a foreign sentiment you know pretty well despite the language gap. Bilingual because of Schoenheit and his right hand man, you pick up French and German much like how a child picks up alluring shells on the shoreline. You carry them in the pail of your brain. Naturally, you cannot stop one from floating to the surface as pallid plaster coats your knuckles.

Qui aime bien, châtie bien. Who loves well, punishes well. 

In its original meaning, it relates to the idea that as your love grows older, you become well versed in teasing. More comfortable in your aging relationship, certain barriers fall away from the heart. The nautilus shell falls away to reveal the soft, vulnerable body of slime. Teasing happens. Tough love is natural. Right now though, as your hand clenched around a syringe falls in a diagonal arch, you use the proverb in a much more literal way.

The popcorn wall dissolves under administration of the liquid. Red churns in the tube before magical magnetism pulls into the area of injection. Floyd ducks out of way just in time and makes a grab for the hand holding the files.

TITLE: THE TEXT MESSAGE ‘IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU’

INT. ASHENGROTTO’S BEDROOM

OPEN on two people fighting. One holds a stack of papers large enough to be a dictionary. The other is trying half-heartedly to steal those files back, but is mostly fixated on avoiding the onslaught of punches falling in his direction. The shuffle is a violent dance. Punches are thrown and dodged. Some connect and others miss. The only sound is the huff of measured breaths, exhaling when either FLOYD or YOU attack on offense. 

The room is full of three main objects; a safe, a bed, and a dresser underneath a large mirror. 

FLOYD. 

(exuberantly) 

You’ve been holdin’ back on me. I didn’t know you could fight like this.

YOU. 

…

FLOYD.

C’mon, Shrimpy, don’t be like that. Woah!

YOU

Do you ever shut up?

FLOYD. 

I’d like it if you made me. Aren’t little spiders supposed to neutralize their prey with venom?

YOU.

Aren’t little eels supposed to bite their prey with teeth? … Did it feel good? Building me up to tear me down?

FLOYD.

It was just business. It had nothing ta do with us.

A punch connects with the side of FLOYD’s face. As he stumbles, a swinging leg sends his torso falling onto the dresser. It rattles like a hundred bones in a coffin shakened like a child’s birthday present. 

YOU. 

(voice raising)

Don’t lie again. I’m sick of being lied to by you!

FLOYD.

I never lied to you. I haven’t been lyin’ about a thing. It’s not fair that Vil gets to have ya.

YOU keep throwing punches, ignoring his words. 

FLOYD, growing increasingly aggravated, abandons his position of defense. He pulls YOU in by the lapels of your suit, hoisting them up by sheer strength and slams them into the mirror above the dresser. Papers fall like autumn leaves and glass falls like snowflakes. Seen subtly behind them, a trail of blood coming from their pierced shoulders, rolling down the dresser’s side like one stretching snake of sanguine. 

YOU twist yet are unable to escape the grasp.

FLOYD narrows his gold and olive brown eyes.

FLOYD. (CONT.)

I know everything about ya. I know ya can’t blow a bubble with gum. I know each mole and freckle on ya. And I know no matter how hard you try, your pinkies always go up when you eat a burger! So, you shouldn’t be with a lover who doesn’t know ya. Give him up. I can put in a good word with Azul; we could be back to how we used to be. It’s not fair that Vil gets to have you! I should have ya!

YOU

(shaking their head and laughing, haggard)

You don’t get to have me. – No-Not after what you did. 

FLOYD

(angry)

You should be in my space! You should be in my life!

THE fight continues. A sharp sound much like a tongue clicking inside a mouth startles the audience. YOU press the left sole of their shoe into FLOYD’s abdomen and push back as hard as they can. A pained shout bleeds out his mouth. YOU, stumbling from the glass that managed to sink through their suit and into skin, goes to punch yet is blocked. 

WITH a rough tug on YOU’s biceps, FLOYD pushes them both down to the ground. Pain flares across their back like one crashing wave. EXIT SCENE.

“Kiss me. Kiss me,” he pleads, his fingers digging so harshly into your skin that bruises will be there tomorrow. His voice is turbulent with so many emotions. “Just one. Just kiss me again.”

Fist enclosed on his shirt’s sternum, you push against him and try to rebuild the distance between you two. “Get off! Get off me, you psycho!” Each time he attempts to close the gap, you violently twist your lips away. Your body squirms like a desperate fly caught in a web. His lips collide with the corner of your lip and chin. You push back as hard as you can. “Get off me right – fucking! Floyd!”

The hands that left tomorrow’s bruises on your upper arms move to grip your writhing, wrinkled in anger face. He holds you still with tremendous strength, eye to eye. Each atom of your skull shakes with frustration. Gritted teeth almost seem to vibrate in your mouth. Despite your desperation to tear away and flee, Floyd keeps you pinned.

“I love you so much,” he confesses, dual-colored eyes brimming over. Emotion crinkles his voice. You want to scoff at his well-improvised act.

The scoff lands in Floyd’s mouth as he pulls you into a perilous kiss. Teeth act like iron gates. Closing him off from your love, you try to use each component of yourself to escape. Knees and fists curl up and push him away with fruitless strength. Nose wrinkles as if you smelt something horrid. When he tries to French-kiss you, you take the hand shoving at his chest to wrap your hand around his throat. A thumb presses hard in his trachea.

Floyd pulls back immediately, hacking and his spit flying through the air. There, you think, is your opening for freedom. 

Your body rolls onto its side. You only get a shuffling inch or so away from him before he is laughing jubilantly, teeth gleaming in his mouth – Like he used to laugh at comedy shows, playing on your shitbox CRT, or like he used to laugh when breaking out into an impromptu dance, playing music and heartstrings in your kitchen. – “That’s my Shrimpy. Oh, I love you!” 

Your fruitless escape is squashed as Floyd pulls you back into another kiss. This time he manages to slip his mouth past those iron gates.

According to songs, sparks fly when a kiss happens. In this moment, you feel like those sparks are not from joyous, amorous fireworks but a hundred plane engines blowing their transmission. Screaming into his mouth, you pull back so hard that your head splinters a crack into the wooden dresser behind you.

Floyd’s hands protectively cradle the back of your head after that. He rotates his body so his weight smothers. Your rotated body is once more flatten like a pancake. Lying by the dresser, you kiss – well, he kisses you. You are actively still fighting against it.

Curses and potions, you know them well. They are frequently used in your work. It is not unheard of to utilize ancient, outdated methods of magic to gain an upper hand in this dangerous tango of organized crime. Just like the Shrouds excel in technology, the Schoenheits excel in potions and curses. No matter how many charms cloaked over objects or potions brewed inside bubbling cauldrons, you have never been under a curse or tasted a potion more dangerous than love. It is the most potent, poisonous curse.

A wet drop falling from Floyd’s face falls on your cheek; tear or blood, who can tell? The next motion you make, you blame it upon the brain damage you sustained when knocking your head into the dresser’s bottom leg. 

As you grab his hair and open those iron gates, you think, ‘Sorry Schoenheit.’

Slobbering into his mouth, like you are trying to fuse together, you explore the cave. Finding the familiar stalagmites of teeth and the moss spot where his canker sore from too many bedtime sodas or snacks laced with salt and vinegar. Teal hair is pulled at the root and your embrace feels more like a hook than a hand, yet Floyd still launches into the kiss with relief and excitement. 

He is an everlasting object of motion. Unstoppable and breaking laws of psychics. He pushes his tongue further in, entwines it with yours. Each pressure point of contact is seductively bewitching. Floyd lets out a long, stretching groan like a widow mourning. The sound reverbs in the grottos of your interlocked mouths.

Hands flurry about in wild motion. You open up your legs and hold him pelvis to pelvis. His hands do not stop running up and down frantically from shoulders to waist. It is only because of this endless stream of movement that Floyd does not notice when you draw a Z across the back of his skull. 

Pulling back from the kiss, you say a single word with closed eyes, “Somnum.”

Floyd’s own eyes fall shut and his body goes limp. 

Like pushing away fallen rumble, you discard Floyd’s body to the side and bring yourself up to sitting on your knees. A shaky groan exits you. Fingers trembling from adrenaline, you smooth the pads of them over your nose – it is definitely broken – over your back – the material is wet with blood – and over your bottom lip – it radiates a soft heat. Ducking your head, you sigh.

Bewitched Sleep is one of the least complex curses. Just a simple swish of a finger writing a Z and a single Latin word, the chosen victim will fall under a temporary spell of sleep. Those guarded enough will be able to resist it though; casting a glance over at Floyd’s slumbering body, you reflect upon the notion that his iron gates must have been open the entire fight.  

A glare passes over your face. It melts. Then, it comes back again stronger than before. “Such an asshole.” You bite at the air and push yourself up to your feet. One last time, you knock your heels together and the spikes underneath your left sole disappear. “You’re the most convincing actor of all, Floyd.”

It takes a while to gather up the mess of papers, shaking the glass off certain pages. Still, you pile them all back into the folder and check that none had swooped underneath the bed or dresser. As you go about collecting all the pages, you also pick up the snorkel you left by the safe. Holding it up to your ear, you say, “Have Epel send the car around to the back.”

It takes a while to receive an answer and, even when you do, the snorkel is held in your hand rather than by your ear so it is a very muffled answer. “Good work, Potato.” The praise feels empty as you stare down at Floyd’s body sleeping in a bed of glass.

He is not your problem anymore. He is not yours. Yet, it was only nine days ago that he meant everything to you and he had been yours. Just because it is over, that doesn’t mean it didn’t mean anything.

Like a sinking stone, your acid-coated heart makes itself a little elevator ride down to your stomach. 

“Fuck,” you whisper before fastening your snorkel back on your face. “I’m ridiculous.”

So, ridiculously, you find yourself hooking your hands under Floyd’s armpits. Dead-esque, his head slumps forward on a limp neck. It reminds you of those nights, coming home to the apartment from the bar, each of you shouldering the other’s weight. Experienced with it, it is a fluid effort and getting Floyd on Ashengrotto’s bed is no trouble. 

You shake the files in your hand. You stomp your feet to make sure each blade is inside the sole. Then, you go to leave?

Ridiculously, you find that your feet are hesitating. Shuffling indecisively on the carpet. Heavy as if cement has been poured in them. The window is only a matter of a dozen steps away yet you might as well be trying to trudge through glutinous quicksand towards a whole other planet.

Once more, your intelligent mentor’s voice rains down from the Heavens with his oh so introspective words of wisdom (this time imaginary). “Honey, ditch that loser,” Jesus-Schoenheit says.

‘Oh I wish I could. I really wish I could,’ you bemoan to the fake voice of your boss, face pinched in a grimace. As you turn around, you start to dig around in your slacks pockets. 

‘I should have that pen somewhere.’ Shoving the files under your armpit, fingers flutter through the snow fields of lint at the bottom of each pocket. Where is that stupid pen? You know you were carrying a permanent tattoo marker. If you had to make a run for it after getting the codes but before opening the safe, you brought along the writing utensil so you could mark down the numbers on the length of your arm … that is, if you can find it.

A breath of relief escapes you. Uncapping the pen, you take a short moment to observe comatose Floyd. Even with his clothes elongated and stretched from your hateful hands and his skin drenched in sweat and sanguine, he rivals the very concept of beauty. Individuals favored by Aphrodite, actors or actresses with faces that belong immortalized in marble, and a blond Queen who seduces men and women with a poisonous potency: these are the type of people you surround yourself with daily. Yet, all of them look hideous in comparison to Floyd who sleeps with a slightly parted mouth and tacky blood streaming down his face. How has he warped your vision so grandly?

Upset, you force your eyes to fall away from his mesmeric features and move down to his waistline. Most of your graphic tee is untucked like normal so you have little problem with wrestling his shirt above his belly button. On his navel, above the dusting of black hair, you place the tip of the marker. 

In quick yet eligible swirls, you write down your new phone number across Floyd’s V-line. A twisty six forms, an eight loops side to side, a soldier-straight one is born. You punctuate it all with a sharp dot, imagining that your very innocent pen is a dangerous knife. The stab of ink hits him so hard that he coughs in his sleep, pained. 

God, you want to make him feel so much more pain than that. 

Capping your marker, you pull down his shirt and pull the files from the crook of your armpit. Rereading the document’s identification, you feel just a tiny spritz of your frustration dissolve inside of you. The job is complete. Despite everyone back home thinking you would be a loose canon and fail tremendously, you manage to succeed. 

Yes, your nose will have to be snapped back into place. And, you doubt Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) will be gentle with the whole procedure. But, at least you did not run into Ashengrotto which you consider a huge, jackpot-esque win of a night full of many ups and downs, and much lack of faith from homebase.

The door clicks open just as you reach up to your ear. Startled, your fingers depress down on the still intact communication device, sending your desolate “fucking shit” out on radio waves back to that beloved homebase.

“(Name)? (Name), what’s wrong?” Schoenheit’s voice worries in your ear as you and Ashengrotto lock eyes across his wrecked, demolished bedroom. The absolute puzzlement in those blue eyes would be amusing if only you did not know the octopus’s exact next move.

“How close is Epel?”

“He’s only one block away from your location.”

“Yeah, I got enough time.”

“Potato?”

“I’m jumping out the window,” you inform your boss just as Ashengrotto unclips the gun from his belt. Confusion has long since drained from those blueberry hues; just as hesitation has vanished magically from your feet. “Tell Epel, proceed as planned, meet me at the spot.”

“Potato! Don’t you dare jump through a window! (Name)? (Name)!”

You have a nagging suspicion that Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) will not be gentle when taking the glass out of your skin. It matters very little to you as the wall by your head coughs out a dusting of white plaster. A decorative new eye in Ashengrotto’s bedroom wall is just another damage left behind in the mess you have made. Something else matters much more.

There has been a dormant craving in you for disgustingly greasy food for days.

That said, you need to keep your calories in check so you could definitely use some company to reach over the sticky table and paw at your share of food. The burger of the week at yours and Floyd’s self-established ‘joint’ is Poutine on the Ritz Burger. Comes with poutine fries. Probably will put a yellow, waxy clot of cholesterol in your veins. As you leap from the window, you can already picture it perfectly. 

Floyd, sitting across the table from you, licking gravy from his fingers, his shark maw gnashing back and forth noisily as he grinds down cheese curds and potatoes from your fries, looking as irresistible as a hung Da Vinci portrait. 

[ayanominitrash]

Act Cool, Senpai! (Geto Suguru x reader)

₊˚ ♡

Geto-san falls for his dearest kouhai.

⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

4th Entry. First part here. Fifth Part here. Masterlist. 

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Today was the day Geto realized he’d fallen for you. 

The moment of understanding was sudden, like getting his head submerged in cold water - earning him clarity when he finally pulled his head up from it; his head empty, only the feeling of exhilaration in his veins remained for the time being. Indeed, the second he came to terms with his feelings, it was a shock in his system, but it wasn’t a surprise. 

His overwhelming feelings built up from the second he saw you materialize your weapon from across the stadium, swinging it to exorcise curses in your way, Haibara by your side. There was a bit of hesitancy in your movements - the mannerisms of a rookie, but you still managed to stay elegant in the way you weaved through the chairs as you chased the curses, but harsh enough to not be afraid to get a few tears in your uniform, either from the cursed spirit’s attacks or just from bumping into places. How his heart longs for you, trying to get closer to you during this mission. He also loves the way your eyes lock on to each other unintentionally of the two times you two ran into each other looking for more curses, exchanging soft smiles before walking on by. 

Geto knowingly smiles to himself when the adrenaline of his feelings dies down, gradually descending into contentment and calmness when the once-disturbed freezing waters of his soul finally stills.

“Why are you smiling to yourself? Have you lost it?” 

Gojo approaches him near the railings, hands on hips after just killing a curse behind him that’s now dissipating in thin air. “There’s nothing to smile about - the curtain is still up so we’re still missing a curse or a few.”

“Is the Gojo Satoru worried for the first time?” He smirks up at his classmate while summoning his cursed spirit back to him, having just defeated a cursed spirit himself. “Is it because of the number of people that will soon be here?”

“No, I’m hungry and sleepy.” 

“Ah - of course.”

The two of them started talking about lunch - Gojo adamant that the Juniors treat their seniors, Geto saying it’s the other way around - when you and the others join them in the stands that are in the middle part of the arena.

“The veil is still up,” Haibara says once he’s within earshot. “It looks like we’ve got all of them though, since we’ve swept the entire place.”

“Not yet, my six eyes can still pick up a few curses nearby but I can’t exactly pinpoint it with how vast this place is.”

“Well,” Nanami starts, palming his blunt cursed tool,” is there a place that particularly has a majority of curse energy?” 

Gojo closes his eyes and puts a hand to his chin, contemplating, “My brain’s a little foggy, I can’t focus because I’m sleep-deprived and a little worn out.” He holds out a hand to you, “Prove yourself useful? Lend me some of that RCT.”

Geto’s shoulders tense up - does Gojo get to hold your hand before he even could?

How does he even stop it from happening without seeming suspicious? Without jeopardizing the mission? 

You dematerialize your weapon into nothingness before clutching the ends of your uniform, “G-Gojo-san, I t-thought I’d just hold you all back?”

Everyone looks at you dumbfounded. You’re clearly holding a grudge against your senior.

“Oh please. Don’t be butthurt. Isn’t this the very thing you’re here for? I’m throwing you a bone here.” 

You cross your arms this time, about to open your mouth but the next thing you know, you’re screaming at the top of your lungs as a large cursed spirit worm suddenly manifests itself from the arena’s roof and lunges at you, tearing you away from the group and across the room. Panic, Geto launches his spirit toward the attacker, and at the very same time, Gojo releases a lapse blue in the same direction. Much to Geto’s dismay, his summoned cursed spirit got caught in Gojo’s attack, exorcising it as well as your attacker.

The veil disappears.

Haibara and Nanami quickly ran towards you as you hit the wall across the venue, letting out a pained grunt before falling onto the ground. Gojo was going to offer his apology to his classmate but Geto was already sprinting your way.

“Are you okay?!” Haibara asks as he and Nanami pull you up by your arms. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“I’m fine,” You shrug them off of you, annoyed and embarrassed, patting your uniform.

Suddenly, Geto catches up to you and puts his large hands on your shoulders, eyes frantic and all over you, checking if you garnered any injuries. “Hey, are you alright? Did it hurt you?”

You freeze for a moment, mind still taking in how your beloved senior looks so worried for you. If you weren’t so ashamed of how you were caught off-guard by the cursed spirit just now, you’d be swooning. “Just a few scratches, Geto-san. I can heal myself.” You try to calm him with a smile, but his worried expression isn’t letting up.

“You should forget about staying on the field.”

Gojo butts in between the two of you, like he always does. “Imagine if it were only you juniors just now.”

“Satoru, it’s done. The curse has been exorcised.” Geto holds a hand up when his classmate stops right in front of you, face to face. 

The tall man ignores him, “Do you understand? You should stay in Jujustu High - you’re just too weak for this.” 

Haibara nervously bows beside him, “Gojo-san, this is understood! We’ll definitely train harder - “

“I’m not talking about you now, am I?”

“No…Gojo-san…”

“Satoru,” Geto says.

What are you thinking right now? He thinks. 

Geto watches your glassy eyes look straight to your confronting senior, an angry look on your face before it eventually crumbles into a guilty one. You look down at your shoes and bow, “I apologize, Gojo-san.”

With that, you went running.

Haibara calls you out, ready to chase after you but Nanami holds him back with a hand on his shoulder, “Don’t worry, there aren’t any more curses.”

Geto frowns at his classmate, who only gives him a shrug.

“I’ll go check if she’s okay,” He finally says. “You guys can inform the managers.”

“Geto-san, we can - “

Nanami quickly covers Haibara’s mouth. “Understood, Geto-san. Please get back safely.” 

“Hey, Suguru - what about lunch?!“

₊˚ ♡

It wasn’t long before Geto found you.

You were sitting in one of the outside seats of a convenience store, rapidly typing into your little phone - probably ranting to Shoko with the way your face is contorted in a precious little frown. Despite all of the events that have happened so far and his weariness starting to seep into his bones, he can’t help but chuckle to himself.

You look up and jump in your seat as the very subject of your conversation with Shoko helps himself with sitting from across the table. You close your phone.

“Geto-san…”

He beams, “I thought you’d make it harder for me to find you.”

“Ah…To be honest, I thought Haibara would come after me.”

“So, you’ve noticed, huh?”

“He’s always like that.” 

“He’s a good kid, always looking out for others.”

You hum in agreement, then look down to twiddle with your fingers. “I-I’ve noticed you too, Geto-san.”

He paused, before huffing out a chuckle that leaves your heart doing 360s, “I’m not exactly subtle, am I?”

You try to stifle a giggle before fiddling with the hem of your shirt, “No. But I am honored G-Geto-san, to be receiving your, um, attention.”

Silence fills the air between the two of you, and it stays like that for a while. Both of you people-watch, eyes squinting against the bright light now that the sun was high up in the sky. When you take a peek at your senior, you catch him already looking at you, before the both of you look back to watching the bustling streets. 

“I hope you don’t hold too much of a grudge against Satoru,” Geto starts, “He can be, well, blunt,  but I’m sure it’s his way of looking out for you.”

“...I know. It’s more that, I’m…angry at myself.” 

“What is there to be angry about?”

You stare at your hands. “Geto-san, I became a Jujutsu Sorcerer not for some heroic reason or out of the goodness of my heart, but to really leave the place I used to live in.” 

He looks at you from the corner of his eye, “You’re angry because that’s your reason?”

“No, I’m not really looking for some kind of self-fulfillment. Jujutsu gave me a new home and new people in my life. I’m just hoping to be useful while I’m here, to somewhat give back. But…earlier, hearing Gojo-san say those words…am I even doing it -  am I supposed to be here? Who am I to think that any different from one of the strongest in this generation?”

Geto watches your sullen face as you continue to stare down at your hands and notices how he can see contentment in your features and your posture like your whole body has submitted to his classmate's words back there. 

A thought.

Then, “Well, if it means something, I’m one of the strongest, and I think you’re pretty great.”

You whip your head in his direction, eyes wide with a red tint across your cheeks.

There’s the cutie I’ve known, Geto thought.

You keep staring at him before shaking your head with a smile, “You’re always too nice, Geto-san. Even going far as to say things just for my sake.”

“But I’m serious.” He shifts his attention to the birds perched on one of the street lamps. “Gojo is different from us - he was raised to be who he is now. He was destined to be a sorcerer, so he was able to start training from a very young age. Meanwhile, we’re here trying to catch up.” The two of you lock eyes, “Remember, you’re still in your freshman year - you’re just starting your true journey to become a Jujutsu Sorcerer. And well, I didn’t always think that sorcerers existed to protect the non-sorcerers. They recruited me from my small village, and I’ve got no reason to say no.”

“You always seem the type to be so kind and motivated though, Geto-san. So when you said about the thing about protecting normal people, I always thought that was your ideal from the get-go.” 

“No, it was something I’ve come to terms with as I’ve started my path as a shaman. You’ll eventually find your own meaning along the way of the journey you’ve chosen. You and I are not that different.”

The both of you exchanged soft smiles. Your Geto-san reaches a hand out to you, “So if you’re going to listen to the words of one of the two strongest, believe in mine.”

You look at his hand, noting how there’s a subtle swell in them. Probably from constantly fighting curses. You take his large hands in both of yours and start to heal him, much to his surprise, missing how his cheeks are painted in bright red which mellows out to a peaceful grin.

Geto was certain, that this was the day he has truly fallen for you.

“Thank you, Geto-san.” 

₊˚ ♡ - - - -

Meanwhile. . .

“How come you didn’t tell me sooner, Nanami?! Geto-san must hate me for shutting down his advances - I’m such an idiot!” Nanami only shrugs next to him, taking a bite of his bread as he’s seated next to him at a cafe. “What are you guys talking about?” Gojo asks wide-eyed and a mouthful of food.

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(❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ reblogs and comments are appreciated//do not repost my work anywhere

//

I appreciate how a lot of ya’ll liked this series <3 thank you as always and happy leaks day :))) 

***Drop an ask or comment to be added on taglist bc I don’t want to assume and tag you even though I see you following the serious huhuhuhu: @dookiemeshibear @pochapo

[selarina]

Bleeding Heart Dove (Part 3)

-> Nanami Kento x Reader

Summary: After acquiring two tickets for a play by the docks, you and Nanami get ready with anticipation.

Tags: angst, slow burn, marriage au, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, unresolved tension (they need to fuck nasty), smoking (discussion of quitting)

Word Count: 2.5k words

Read on AO3 | Part 1 | Part 2

Light seeps through the thin curtains of your hotel room window, stirring you awake. It’s a weak light, but it’s insistent, and you turn away. But the curtains are wide open—no doubt a result of Nanami being out on the balcony.

He was always an early riser, which prompted you to do better in that regard.

Your hand brushed against the cold sheets beside you as you shifted in bed. Slowly, you got up and headed to the bathroom, knowing that bathing right now would be your only chance today. The day was busy. Markets, museums, restaurants—exciting, but a little daunting.

Emerging from the steamy bathroom, the cold air pricked at your damp skin. Pulling your bathrobe tighter around you, you grabbed your lying pack of cigarettes and an obscenely bright yellow lighter, making your way out to the balcony.

You leaned your forearms on the railing, and as you turned, there he was— just as you expected. Nanami was sat on the jute chair, reading glasses perched on his nose, eyes fixed on his lap.

He had been there for a while, wrestling with a pesky crossword puzzle.

He looked up as you joined him, his eyes catching the wetness of your hair and the flimsy towel loosely perched atop your head. You slipped a cigarette between your dry lips and flicked the lighter.

The first drag was deep, the smoke accompanying the two of you this morning.

“Filthy habit,” he tutted, his voice a gentle chiding.

You turned, a soft smirk playing on your lips as you exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Good morning to you too,” you murmured.

“Morning,” he says. “There’s some orange juice,” he points to the table with half a jar of orange.

“Yes, yes—Gimme!” you said, sitting down and pouring some into the empty glass beside it. Freshly squeezed orange juice after a smoke. Perhaps life wasn’t half as bad as you made it out to be.

Nanami watched you again, the cigarette between your lips, the smoke swirling around you as you took another drag.

“I wish you’d quit,” he said aloud. He’s disapproved of your smoking for a while. – a filthy habit you picked up two years ago when you got prompted and the workload tickled into your stress. He had tutted and thrown away countless packs, yet never before had he asked you to quit outright.

“You want me to quit?” you asked.

He nodded. He knew you wouldn’t see it, but this was the first time he had directly asked you to stop. He wasn’t sure what effect it would hold.

“I guess I can,” you said, taking another puff. “I’ll quit.”

“You’re serious?”

“I mean, if it bothers you— plus, it is the healthy thing to do, no?” You chuckled.

“You’re quitting because I asked?”

You turn around, smiling reassuringly. “Yeah, Kento.”

He wonders if you would’ve quit earlier if he just asked. He wonders if it’s the same way with other things. I wish you’d take some day off, you deserve it. I wish you’d be there beside me when I go to bed. I wish you’d fire that arrogant assistant of yours, he stares at you at you in ways I don’t like.

“Thank you,” he says simply.

You turned to him. “Can’t promise you this will be my last cigarette. But here goes—last puff for a while.” You took one final drag, the smoke filling your lungs before you stubbed the cigarette out. “Oh,” you said suddenly. “Hold on—”

You disappeared inside, returning moments later with something in your hand. “Here,” you said, dropping two slender, golden-striped papers into his lap.

He glanced down at the papers lying still on his open crossword book. He picked them up, holding them aloft and adjusting his glasses for a better view. “What are they?”

“Tickets.”

“What for?”

You take one from his hand, turning it to reveal bold, black lettering. “For a play. It’s tomorrow evening.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Oh,” is all he murmurs.

Upon that, you elaborate. “It’s in the auditorium by the dock”

The Rose Auditorium was known for its top-notch productions—musicals, plays, and even orchestra and choir performances. The venue’s proximity to the beach made it a costly affair.

He wonders how much you spent on these, but most importantly, he wonders more about why he hadn’t thought to arrange this himself.

Observing his muted reaction and ensuing silence, you grow a bit uncertain on your feet. Shifting your weight, you speak up. “I should have asked though. We didn’t have anything planned for the evening, so I thought—”

“Yes,” he says at once, a warm, appreciative smile twitching on his lips. “I’d love to go with you. I was just thinking I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”

At that, you laugh aloud. “Now, I know that’s a lie. You practically live in suits. We’ll find something fitting.”

He simply smiles back at you. He knows, he simply didn’t want his own wife to feel like she needed to ask permission to book something for the two of them. That would be absurd. That would be rock bottom.

Your eyes flit down to his lap where the tickets flicker against the book, and you notice the familiar crossword book. “Having trouble?” you ask.

“Huh—” He follows your eyeline, back down to his lap. “Yeah,” he says, as he watches you walk closer, moving his arm so you can plop yourself down on the arm of his chair. “7 letters.”

You lean closer, “What’s the clue?” you ask as you peer down at the crossword book nestled in his lap.

He moves the tickets, holding them in his right hand as he wonders what he should do with his left. Usually, it would rest on your waist, your thighs, or in your hand, but now it feels awkward. You no longer plop yourself freely into his lap, and he can’t help but leave his hand cold against his thigh.

"Something about a bird," he murmurs. "A tropical bird with colorful feathers. The middle letter is ‘c’”

You think for a moment, then grin, as you bend down to pick up the pencil, and you write down the word.

"Macaw?" he asks.

You hum, “It fits.”

He’s immensely better than you at this, but you always had a talent for picking it up when he can’t. Just one of those things.

“Guess it does,” he says with a smile.

—

Nanami sits on the edge of the bed, adjusting his cufflinks with his practiced steady hand, his feet tapping away profusely against the carpeted floor.

As soon as he hears the door unlock, he’s lifting his chin and drinking up the image of you stepping into the room. You’re wearing a dark olive dress, with a black lace bodice cover. The material looks satin, silk-like, and it flares out from your hips, where it’s girded by a dark black satin belt, cinching the dress where his hands have so often rested. He hasn’t seen this one before. It must be new.

“Help me with the necklace?” you ask, as you bring your hand up to show him a thin chain with a drop pendant.

He simply takes it from you, and the two of you move back into the bathroom.

His eyes flit down to the marble countertop, a myriad of makeup products and jewelry spread out. He should help you clean up before you two leave, he notes silently.

Standing in front of the mirror, you move your hair to the side, exposing your neck and back to him.

He steps closer, his hand brushing against your back. You draw in a breath.

"Cold," you murmur.

He hums in acknowledgment. His hand reaches in front to draw the necklace around, pulling it up until it rests neatly against your chest. Pretty, he thinks as he bends down, the lack of glasses making it harder for him to find the clasp, but after a few moments, he succeeds.

He looks up, meeting your gaze in the mirror. You’re watching him intently, curiously. He sees your lips, plump and lathered up in some shade of pink.

He straightens up, before bending down— his eyes still locked with yours as he presses a soft kiss to the bare skin of your back.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” you swallow, your shoulders rolling back. You break eye contact, turning to reach for a black clutch as you speak up. “We should leave soon.”

—

Nanami’s starting to wonder if he’s the biggest idiot in the world. Why couldn’t he think of this first? You loved this — the theatre, the whole ceremony of greeting and entering. Why didn’t he think of bringing you here? He had even seen a poster on one of your walks in the city yesterday.

This place—it's overwhelming in its opulence. Nanami was quite familiar with how metallic luxury tasted, a remnant from his early twenties, but even he could not help but feel somewhat dwarfed by the grandeur and extravagance of the architecture surrounding him.

He turns towards you, his smile somewhat wistful. He can tell you seem just as impressed as he is, even if your reaction is restrained and taut — a simple pursing of your lips indicates enough to him.

He sees beyond you, noticing how the ceilings are adorned with glass chandeliers that seem to drip gold, a place fitting for a woman of your stature, he can admit as much.

You smile back at him, as your hands come to encircle his bicep as you two move.

You produce two tickets from your clutch and offer them to one of the many attendants. Nanami watches as a smile brightens the attendant's face.

“Thank you,” he says. “Please turn right at the door and meet the usher at the elevator. From there, someone will escort you to your seats.” He hands you a program sheet and points to the right as the two of you make your way in.

Nanami murmurs a “Thank you” to the man and then you feel his hand on the small of your back, warm, guiding you towards the red ropes.

“Not too bad,” you say as you make yourself comfortable, smoothing down your dress in the seat next to him. Well, technically, it’s one seat. One long red seat for two, so there are no barriers between the two of you, apart from the ones you’ve built by placing your clutch and program sheet.

“How do you feel?” you ask.

“Yes.” His elbow brushes your forearm, as you turn to find that he’s already looking at you, wearing a fond expression. One you haven’t seen in ages. “I should have thought of this.”

Ah, you think. That’s what this is about. “Next time,” is all you say, with a warm reassuring smile, knowing that this is his battle.

“So, you never even told me what this play was about,” he says.

You perk up. “Oh, right. It’s about romance, marriage, heartbreak, war… you know the gist.”

He nods, not particularly interested in hearing more, and you know as much because you don’t seek to elaborate. He always believed it best to go into these things blind. The most effective experience.

The seats below and around you continue to flood with people as it nears seven, and by the time it’s fifteen the show begins, as was announced by a man in a silly tophat on stage. It was brimming full of people.

“I guess it’s about to—” He says, as he turns to find that your face glistening with red. “You’re bleeding,” he says, as he immediately gets up.

“Nanami, it’s about to start,” you protested softly.

“You’re bleeding,” he repeats, sternly this time. His hand grabs yours as the two of you dash out. You manage to trail behind him, grasping onto your clutch, as you tilt your head back, relying on his touch to guide you.

You hear him converse with who you assume is one of the attendees, asking for a bathroom.

You see the pristine white floor, and you’re so nervous — you don’t want to stain it red.

He points to the marble countertop. "Up," he commands, pointing to the marble countertop. You hop onto it, spreading your knees to make room for him as he situates himself between them.

Gently, he dabs at your nose with a tissue, getting rid of the excess blood dripping down to your nose.

“You haven’t had nosebleeds in a while,” he notes with quiet concern. “Are you feeling okay?”

You nod slightly, trying to smile despite the inconvenience, trying to steady yourself. "I’m fine. I think it's just the dry air."

You feel a bit embarrassed by it all. You’re grateful you didn’t see any of the onlookers’ faces.

“Here, let’s get this under control,” he says, handing you thinly molded tissues.

You carefully insert them into your nose, hoping to stop the bleeding.

"I'll get you some water," he says, and you nod, as you’re left to stew on the countertop, feeling somewhat foolish with tissues up your nose. Not at all how you expected the night to go.

He returns with a bottle of water, and you uncap it to take a sip. Even the water here tastes luxurious.

You take a breath in, removing the tissues wadded up your nostrils. “I ruined the night,” you say, with a frown.

"It's barely started. We can still go back in," he assures you.

"I don't want to," you sigh. Tired. "I just—"

He hums, squeezing your thigh gently in reassurance, urging you to continue.

"I want to go back."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

You nod, blinking in reassurance. “Unless you want to watch the play.”

"No," he says softly. "Let's go back.”

—

It is not often you walk away from commitments. Not work, not hangouts, not meetings, not runs. And especially not paid events.

You must be very tired, he thinks.

“Chicken and rice?” you asked, as the two of you made your way back.

Nanami’s blazer is draped over your shoulders. The night isn’t too cold, and you watch his white shirt flutter against the muscles underneath. You feel loopy.

“Chicken and rice,” he affirmed, his tone steady.

“Some dessert?”

“Tiramisu?”

“Eh,” you reply, disinterested, the idea of sweetness somehow too much, too indulgent.

“I want some,” he says, a bit insistent, like a child.

You smile. “Then we should get you some.”

Back in your hotel room, your heels and stockings are discarded onto the floor as the two of have finished eating.

“That was good,” you say, you’re seated on the couch, your hand resting on your full stomach as you stare back up at the ceiling.

He hummed beside you, his glasses abandoned as he stared at you. He lifted a hand to run by the bridge of his nose. “You look beautiful,” he says.

“You’ve said that today,” you say, turning back to look at him.

He hums, again.

At that, you turn back to the ceiling, not particularly certain what you can do with that response.

“We should do this again,” you say, still affixed on the bland off-white ceiling. You felt heavy and light all at once.

“A date?” he asks.

You turn back to him now, smiling. “Oh, was this a date?”

“I would assume so,” he says, matter of factly.

"I guess so," you said airly as you got up, turning back as you said. “Just attend things together. I miss it.”

Nanami smiles with a nod as he watches you walk into the bathroom. He misses you too.

[formulauno98]

Waking Up In Vegas | Chapter One

Inspired by our favourite Spanish paddock Dilf and his late-night shenanigans. In town for the Vegas Grand Prix, your trip takes a turn for the worst when you wake up in a stranger's suite, not remembering a thing from the night before. Or is it a turn for the better when the stranger turns out to be Fernando Alonso?

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Mentions of Sex/Nudity/Alcohol/Drugs

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer, purely fiction, no-one is taken in this alt-universe. And side note, I'm thrilled Fernando Alonso got P4.

You groaned as you woke up, the last thing you remembered was dancing in the hot sweaty mess that was Omnia. Knowing you had a race to attend the following day, you hadn’t intended to go on a big night out but it was just across the strip from your suite at the Venetian and your friends had persuaded you. What happened after that was an almighty blur, but one thing you did know was that your head was banging and you were stark naked and not alone in your bed.

Gingerly opening your eyes you were met with darkness and the strange feeling that your bed had turned around in the night. Finding it hard to make out the shapes in the pitch black you scrambled to find the switch to open the heavy curtains. Weirdly no matter how hard you tried, your hand found only a blank wall. Where the hell was the switch?

To make matters worse, you normally put your phone on the nightstand beside your bed and it was also nowhere to be found. Knowing that your companion was snoozing beside you you carefully lifted the sheets, putting a foot down on the floor. Even stranger, you could have sworn that your suite had carpet and all you were finding was cool marble.

Standing up you moved around to where you knew there was a rail to walk down into the sunken lounge area, trying to grab it in the darkness. Once again, nothing. Taking a careful step forward where you knew where there was a step, once again you were astonished to find no step. What the fuck was going on?

That’s when it dawned on you. This was not your suite. And although you were not the betting type, you’d be willing to put money on the fact that this room belonged to your mysterious bedfellow. Continuing to scramble around in the darkness you at last found a doorframe, and sure enough a door handle. 

Carefully pushing down on the handle, you cracked open the door to reveal a very large living room, a large expanse of window along one side with a glorious view of none other than the Venetian. Great. Not only were you not in your room, but you were not in your hotel. 

Stepping through into the living room, you felt a little self-conscious, still completely naked. Surely your clothes were somewhere around?

Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror you were even more horrified, your hair was stood on end, your make-up smudged around your eyes like a panda. Not a pretty sight. Taking in more of the enormous room before you, you noticed a fully stocked bar, grand piano and some expansive art pieces, all set around the largest sofa you’d ever seen in your life. Two half-full champagne flutes were left on the coffee table, aside from a large ice bucket filled with three empty bottles of what you knew to be very expensive champagne. Whoever this guy was, he was stacked with cash. 

Failing to find your clothes anywhere in the room you glanced out of the window, trying to figure out where exactly you were, you could see the large red sign for Casear’s Palace as well as the Venetian and if you craned your neck to the right, Resorts World. You had to be at the Wynn. Knowing you had to find your clothes and your phone and hotfoot it out of there, you snuck back into the bedroom, leaving the door open just enough to see better.

“Buenos días, mi ángel.” came a voice from the bed. You froze. You hadn’t been as quiet as you should have been.

“Hi.” you said, awkwardly turning to cover your body as you finally located your dress, flung across the floor at the foot of the bed, “I’m so sorry, I was just leaving, go back to bed.”

“No, no, but why?” the man said, his heavy Spanish accent raspy with sleep.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t normally do this… I don’t know…” you stammered, trying to pull on last night’s dress, as quickly as possible. No mean feat in the semi-dark.

“Oh.” you could hear the disappointment in his voice, “At least stay for breakfast? Look I can find you a bathrobe.” 

You could just make out a dark shape getting out of bed, a slight but muscular frame and long, tousled hair. At least he seemed hot.

“Sure, but I do need to find my phone, I need to let my friends know where I am, they’ll be worried,” you said, sitting down on the edge of the bed while the man went into the bathroom. You heard the light switch click on and curious what this man looked like in the light of day, you glanced up.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw. Fernando Alonso. The affable Aston Martin Formula One driver. Ass out, equally as naked as you were.

Trying to compose yourself and pick your jaw off of the floor, you were floored as he replied, slipping on a bathrobe “But don’t you remember? You wanted to stay out dancing but your friends wanted to go to bed so I promised them I’d bring you back to the Venetian?”

“Oh.” you said feebly, “But we’re not in the Venetian…”

Fernando smiled wryly, “I didn’t say what time.”

“Touché,” you said as he returned to your side with a matching fluffy white towelling robe.

“Here,” he said kindly, draping it across your shoulders, “Let’s find your phone Y/N.”

“You remember my name?” you asked, dumbfounded.

“Of course? Do you not remember mine?” he raised an eyebrow as he got back up and made his way towards a control panel, pushing a button to open the curtains.

“Fernando?” you said.

“Yes. Thank God, I was worried there,” he said, grinning as the electronic curtains whirred into gear, opening to reveal another large expanse of glass with a commanding view of the Las Vegas strip.

“Sorry,” you said, “I must have drunk a little too much last night.”

He smiled kindly, “Well me too, to be truthful I don’t remember what happened after we left the club. I know we got here so maybe we took a taxi. I will check my phone. But let’s find yours too”

He bustled about, lifting cushions and various items of his clothing that were thrown about. Not remembering anything about last night you wondered if you’d had sex. Waking up naked in his bed it was inevitable but you didn’t feel like you had. 

“Ah here,” he said, waving your distinctive lilac phone. “Here you go.”

“Thank you so much,” you said, glad to have something that might help you piece together what had happened. Your smile faltered though as the screen stayed black “Oh no, it’s dead though.”

“I have a charger, let me find it for you.” he said kindly, “And then we can order breakfast.”

“Oh thanks, that’s super kind.” you said, standing up and tying your robe tightly, deeply uncomfortable in this increasingly awkward situation, “Again, I am so sorry.”

“Please, stop apologising,” he said, looking bemused, “It looks like we had fun last night. Even if we don’t remember anything.”

“Do you think we…” you started, not sure how to broach this delicate question.

“No.” Fernando answered succinctly, clearly his thoughts aligned with yours, “There was nothing in the bathroom bin and we were not sober enough to clean up.”

Slightly relieved you smiled, “Ah thank God.”

Looking slightly offended, Fernando raised his eyebrows as he handed you a phone charger, “Am I that scary?”

“No, not at all.” you said, trying to salvage the situation, “Just that you know… I don’t normally make it a habit to spend the night with strangers and wake up in their rooms.”

“I got you.” he said winking, producing a small booklet, “What do you like for breakfast? Pancakes? Fruit salad? Coffee? Tea?”

“Any of that sounds good right now.” you said, plugging your phone in beside the bed, “Maybe pancakes and coffee?”

“Coming up mi ángel,” he said, picking up the phone on the dresser to ring down for room service.

Now faced with more awkward silence as you waited for your phone to come to life, you wriggled back into bed, slipping your dress off from under your bathrobe and folding it neatly on the nightstand. You may as well be comfortable while having the most awkward breakfast of your life.

“Please don’t look so scared,” said Fernando, making his way back towards the bed, having made his order, “They said breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” you said, eyeing him up as he slid into bed beside you.

“Want to watch some TV?” he said, reaching across for the remote.

“Sure,” you said. Anything to break this awkward silence.

“So Y/N, how much exactly do you remember of last night?” he said, flicking through the TV channels before settling on the trusty Weather Channel.

“Not so much to tell you the truth. I remember seeing you in the club and you coming over to ask me to dance, then dancing for a pretty long time. After that, no clue.”

Looking concerned, Fernando turned towards you, “Did you take anything apart from drink?”

Surprised by his accusation, you shook your head, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff.”

“Just checking.” he said, looking bashful, “It’s just I only remember you drinking vodka tonics, and not enough for you to be blackout drunk.”

“That’s what I thought!” you said, feeling more animated, “But you said you don’t remember us coming back here, how much do you remember?”

A guilty look on his face, “Not so much more, I remember your friends leaving, and then my friends asking us if we wanted to go to another party and that is all.”

“Oh.” you said, “You don’t happen to remember where we went?”

“Nope.” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “But we made it back here so we’re safe and sound.”

“That’s true I suppose.” your conversation interrupted by your phone beeping to life. It was finally charged enough to message your friends. 

“Maybe you took some photos?” said Fernando, smiling hopefully as he saw you grab your phone off of the nightstand.

“That’s a good point actually, I’ll just reply to my messages and then let’s do some detective work,” you said, scrolling through several notifications from your friends, demanding where you were. 

Y/N, are you okay?

Y/N are you still with Fernando?

Y/N please call me.

Hurriedly replying, you were happy to know that your friends at least had met Fernando so would have had some kind of lead if you’d gone missing.

“Your friends are worried?” Fernando asked, peering at you curiously.

“Of course,” you said, “Would you not be worried if one of your friends went off with a strange man in Vegas?”

“Maybe.” he said, “But I’m not strange.”

“You know what I mean,” you said shaking your head. “Let’s have a look through my photos, maybe we can figure it out.”

“Yes, let’s do this,” Fernando said, leaning in closer, eyeing up your phone over your shoulder.

Scrolling through your photos your jaw dropped once again. Looking at Fernando, he looked equally as shocked.

Little Vegas Wedding Chapel. Spelt out in bright pink letters above a photo of you draped in Fernando’s arms, bride style.

“No.” was all you managed to say, “No there’s no way.”

“Scroll up!” said Fernando, his brow furrowed.

Clear as day, there it was, you and Fernando stood at a bedazzled neon altar in front of an Elvis impersonator, surrounded by a gaggle of what seemed to be Fernando’s friends. 

“Fuck.” you said, looking at Fernando, eyes wide. “But surely they don’t let drunk people get married no?” he said, trying to rationalise the photos.

“No, and besides I’m sure it’s not legally binding,” you said, mortified by this discovery.

“100%, if it was there would have to be a contract or paperwork,” Fernando said, on the ball.

“Yes! You’re right. I’ll check my purse.” you said, jumping out of bed to check.

“Yes, let’s check every pocket, purse,” Fernando said, jumping out of the other side of the bed.

“All good!” you said, having rifled through your purse, finding only a lipgloss and your room key card.

“Fuck!” called out Fernando’s voice.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, making your way over to where he stood, a piece of paper in his hands, eyes wide, mouth agape.

“We are married,” he said gulping.

[jisungsdaydreamer]

sweet, sweet | h.js

there isn't enough rockstar!han jisung smut on here soo...

warnings: porn w/ basically no plot (but make it stupidly romantic), explicit sexual content, dom!jisung, sub!reader, oral (f receiving), slight degradation, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, rough sex, overstimulation, cum eating, kinda corruption kink. 2.5k words, mdni.

Jisung is a different person when he is performing. He’s instantly in his own element, confident, cocky, almost, always having just enough time to shoot his audience a flirty grin. On stage, he makes the spotlight look easy, and to him, it really does feel so simple in that moment.

All he has to do is imagine that you’re right up there with him, that his fingers strumming the nimble guitar strings are skimming your skin instead, that his hands so tightly holding the mic are gripping your hips instead. The lights around him fade into a mist, all of those eyes taking him in when there’s really only one pair that he truly cares about.

There you are, your body draped over the railing while you sway along to the set, your smile radiating with pride. A room full of other people, and there's only you. Jisung looks only at you, looks at the way you mouth along with every single lyric that Jisung and his bandmates sing, the way you tuck your chin into your palms, dreamily gazing at him.

In the intimate confines of the theater that he chose for his venue, he can make out just how stunning you are; the curtain bangs that he cut for you himself are plastered against your forehead in perspiration, the curves of your body shadowed under the hazy lighting. You raise your arms up with the rest of the crowd to cheer, and in doing so, the too-short skirt you’re wearing lifts up, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs, driving Jisung absolutely crazy.

You’re his sweet, sweet girl, and you don’t even know what you to do him.

The show has ended, and he’s now tugging you into an empty dressing room backstage, the door barely closing before he’s slamming you up against it and claiming you with his mouth, everywhere and anywhere. The scent of your peony body wash is stuck to his mind, the way you slowly card your fingers through his hair tattooed on his heart. The gentle kisses he places along the arch of your neck juxtapose the movement of his hands on your body, rough and demanding.

In a moment of vast self control, Jisung pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, properly looking at you for the first time tonight. You stare back up at him curiously, your bottom lip taken between your teeth in heady anticipation. Fuck, you’re cute.

Earlier today, Jisung had witnessed you get ready for the show, dolling yourself up for the opening night of the tour that he’d postponed for far too long after getting distracted by other things. You— that said distraction— had bent over the bathroom sink, trying to get ready and getting adorably disgruntled when your hair didn’t suit your taste, while an amused Jisung slumped against the shower door, just watching.

The black eyeliner you had so painstakingly rubbed on is now slightly smudged, glitter shimmering prettily on your lids; the whole effect makes your doe eyes look even bigger, making you look more innocent than Jisung knows you to be. After all, cherry gloss is now messily stained on your lips, your cheeks tinted a rosy blush, all courtesy of him. You’re his masterpiece, his work of art. You’re his.

“I miss you,” Jisung mumbles, capturing your lips with his own once again, savoring the way you so quickly fall into him, running the tips of your fingers up his back. 

You giggle into his mouth, a sound that sends shivers down his spine in the best way. “You have me.”

“But I’ll be leaving soon,” Jisung responds sadly. Tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight to another irrelevant city, somewhere you won’t be. 

“I’ll call everyday. We’ll do skincare on FaceTime. And I’ll spill all the work gossip,” you whisper theatrically, making Jisung smile like an idiot. “Besides, we still have tonight.”

The unintentional sultriness of your last few words go straight to Jisung’s cock, reminding him of the few hours that you both had left. He decides that he’ll make it count.

It’s why Jisung lets you push his blazer off of his shoulders, ridding him of another piece of pesky clothing separating the both of you. You don’t get the chance to do the same with his slacks, before he’s gripping the backs of your thighs, pulling you up into his arms to move somewhere more convenient for his plans. 

He moves fast, sparing no words to keep back all of those emotions that threaten to spill off of his tongue. You have that effect on Jisung, to unravel the parts of him that he can just never bring himself to convey. He can’t let you have that power today, not when the smallest assurance will have him rooting his feet in the ground, refusing to go without you. 

Jisung gently lays you down on the sofa, taking utmost care with what is most precious to him. He flips up your skirt with haste, pausing when he realizes that you aren’t wearing anything underneath. Your bare cunt glistens in the dimmed lights of the room, and you smirk, knowing your action has had its intended effect. Jisung aches for the strength to crawl back to where his jacket has been discarded, to pull out his phone camera and immortalize that tantalizing gloss on your folds.

“Since when did my sweet girl become such a slut?”

Even now, he can’t help the affection dripping from his tone. But it’s a question that Jisung doesn’t expect a reply to, especially when he’s suddenly launching forward and burying his head in between your supple thighs. He flattens his tongue and licks a stripe through your pussy, down from your clit to your entrance, collecting your arousal on his lips. You moan and grab onto his locks, bucking up into Jisung’s mouth.

How many details of tonight would he retain? The memories that would accompany him during lonely nights in empty hotel rooms, the thoughts that would have him inappropriately zoning out during interviews?

There’s your taste that has got him insane, a lovely tang that’s more potent than any of the pre-show shots that Jisung had downed with the band. Your divine, musky scent that Jisung wishes he could capture in a bottle, a fragrance more priceless than any coveted perfume. The answer is: all of it, everything. From the first night that he had made you his, he couldn’t ever forget a single thing about you. 

And Jisung cherishes the soft noises that you make when he kitten-licks at your cunt— but he can do better than that. He wants you to scream for him, for everyone to hear how good only he can make you feel. He clamps his fingers tight onto your legs, forcing them further apart as he dives in with full force. He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking hard, eliciting a broken cry from you.

“Jisung… please,” you whimper, clutching at his hair; Jisung has to bite back a moan at the sensation, at how much he loves it when you’re reckless with his body.

“Please what, baby?” Jisung nearly mocks you while his gaze is fixed on the way your beautiful features are twisted in utter pleasure. He skillfully hooks two fingers into you, all the while knowing what you really want. After all, what use are his hands when they aren’t grasping your hips as you ride him, his mouth when he isn’t kissing you while he fucks you? “Want my cock, don’t you? So, so desperate for it, aren’t you? Isn’t this enough for you?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes when Jisung leans forward again, placing a tender kiss on your pussy, as if to promise you that in spite of his harsh words, he could never be truly hard on you. “Need you so bad. Please, please, Jisung.”

And you might have given Jisung all of the control, but he never actually has it, not when just a few words from you can make him fold so easily, when his only purpose is to fulfill your wishes and give you all that you want. “There we go, sweetheart. Since you’ve asked so nicely.”

In truth, you could have fucking spat a command at him and he’d obey, a scenario that he’ll tuck away for when he wants to try a different dynamic with you, but he won’t let you know that right now. Instead, Jisung rises to his feet, deftly unbuckling his belt with one hand while swiftly undoing your ponytail, freeing your luscious hair from its tight hold. 

You sit up when Jisung lowers himself, reaching for his tie and pulling him to you with it. You kiss him frantically, like you’re drowning and he’s the air that’s saving you, and therein, Jisung briefly considers the possibility of you wanting him just as much as you do. 

But it’s impossible— Jisung knows that his love for you is unmatched, that not even you can rival it. Maybe he’s stubborn, maybe he’s whipped, but he’s right. He’d move heaven and Earth, steal a star from the sky and trap moonlight within his palms, all for you if you simply just asked.

Jisung groans as he sinks his cock into your heat, relishing in how tight you are around him, how you clench when he snaps forward. “God, you’re perfect. Made just for me. All for me.”

Ever his sweet, sweet girl, you intertwine your hands in Jisung’s, sucking in a sharp breath when he hits that particular spot inside of you. “You- you feel so good, Ji.”

Jisung can’t help the next words out of his mouth, the ones that have been repeated so dizzyingly often on his end. But he wants it, wants to adore you and be vulnerable with you. 

“I love you.”

He cups your cheeks and looks deep into your eyes so that you remember it, for those times in the heavily impending future that he can’t say it all the time anymore, when you’re alone, and you miss him. Because he wants you to know that you’re never really alone, not when he’s thinking of you with every breath he takes. 

He is so gone for you, so painfully in love with you. Jisung, who never thought himself capable of such a gift, loves you with everything that he is. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. And if those three words pledging himself to you may never be enough, he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to prove it to you.

Jisung reaches his hand down, rubbing circles onto your clit and moving you even further, to that climax that probably doesn’t represent even half of the euphoria he feels when he’s around you. You gasp, delicate tears trailing down the sides of your face with how he’s taking you. “I love you too, always.”

Your response, no matter how many times he’s heard it, doesn’t fail to spark that giddy feeling in his limbs, the pure joy in his heart. Here you are, long hair spread like a halo against the back of the couch, strands soft against Jisung’s exposed skin. You look like a goddess, chest heaving up and down, plush lips parted with lust. And Jisung will gladly worship at your altar for as long as you desire him to.

Sometimes, he’ll fantasize about letting his bandmates take their turns with you, about showing you off to his closest friends and giving them an idea of the heaven he is in everytime that he touches you. Maybe he’d kiss you while Minho eats your pussy, or get himself off while Felix has his way with you. It’s what he should do for his brothers, isn’t it? Share with them what makes him the most happy?

But Jisung has always been a possessive man, and he’s reminded of how greedy he really is when you’re under him like this, looking up at him with wide eyes. No, he could never let the others have you. You’re his.

The thought sends Jisung into an electrifying sort of rage, one that has him mercilessly ramming his hips into yours. He focuses on how you suck him in, so wet, so warm, and how your eyebrows are scrunched together in ecstasy. Your sighs wash over him like cool water, your legs around his waist and caging him in, just like what you’ve done to his heart.

With one final thrust, you come undone as you both moan into each other’s mouths, raw and uninhibited. Your body spasms in Jisung’s arms while he holds you tight, tracing his palms down the sides of your arms, calming you down. Before you can blink, still dazed, Jisung is pulling out. He throws his head back and fists himself to his own orgasm, body tightening in urgence. Stripes of his release paint your pretty little cunt— you the canvas, and him, your devoted artist.

Breathing ragged from how fucked-out he is, he kneels in front of you once more, reveling in the surprised mewl you let out. Carefully, Jisung licks his own come from your pussy, cleaning you up in a way that feeds his selfish desire to have you even more. Your body reacts to the overstimulation in cute, slight jolts, legs attempting to close, but Jisung holds them open until he finishes what he’s started. 

When he’s finally had his fill, he places a soft kiss to your inner thigh, before pulling your skirt down and fixing his pants. He lies down on the sofa next to you, drawing your head onto his chest, where you might just be able to hear how fast his heart beats for you, even in the aftermath of the more exciting events of the night. Because here you are, looking unbelievably beautiful even after Jisung has so lovingly ruined you. 

In the silence that follows, you start to cry again, the sobs escaping your throat, the tears this time more meaningful this time. Jisung immediately smooths the hair off of your forehead, trying his best to wipe the tears from your flushed skin. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Baby, what’s wrong?” Jisung asks you, concerned. He hates when there’s anything other than happiness in your beautiful eyes. “I’m here, I’m right here.”

“I’m just really going to miss you,” you whisper, sniffling. “And I know I said we’d call, but WiFi on the road is really sucky…”

Jisung melts right there. His heart is heavy, yes, but not just with the sorrow of having to leave you. He’s content, happy beyond words. Never before has he felt so tied down somewhere, that need to run with stability. He’d never thought he’d live to see a day in which he’d want to stay, and especially not because of someone who brightens his life beyond any sun.

“We’ll get through it. Sucky WiFi, late nights, and all. You can’t get rid of me that easily, darling.”

You let out a watery laugh and close your eyes. “Come back to me soon, okay? I love you.”

Jisung kisses you deeply, his own tears trickling down his cheeks. He’s weak, he’s so, so weak for you. And he doesn’t mind it, not when all of the strength he’d ever need is right here in his arms. 

And I love you so much. My sweet, sweet girl.”

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