#horrible urge to bruise my legs again

[honeyed-disgraceful]

The balcony is 2here I go be insane and procrastinate

[st-danger]

May I humbly request some SwissDewTher, or SwissRainxDewTher? Sorry im terminally ill with “everyone gangs up on Dew and he loves it” disease.

He's easy to hold. To restrain. And maybe that's part of the satisfaction, that he's easy to manipulate and maneuver the way they see fit in the moment, and even if he struggles- it's just because he likes when the hands tighten further. He has no illusions about actually being able to get free. He doesn't always want to find himself in this position, enjoys getting a hand around Rain's throat or a hand inside Aether, but when it happens this way, all clothes and choice stripped from him, allowed only to take what they want to give... how could he complain?

He finds a way.

Arms held behind his back, wrists enveloped in Swiss's strong hands, legs spread and held by Rain and Aether, he wriggles ineffectively and shoves his hips rudely upwards. He has been touched, kissed, and caressed everywhere but where he is the reddest and most sensitive.

"C'mon," he groans. The pointless thrusts make his cock bounce, desperate for attention. "Touch it, please."

"You're a slave to this thing," Aether says, and reaches for it. Dew tenses in anticipation, and yelps when all he gets is a cruel flick on the head. Tries to jerk away protectively, but with his legs held, it affords his hips little movement. It looks funny, at least to Swiss and Rain who chuckle audibly. Dew pulls on his arms and moans again when Swiss’s grip tightens. If he's lucky, if he really tries to fight, he might get gentle bruising.

"It's really hard," Rain says, letting a hand smooth up his skinny thigh, feeling the way his quad is pulled tight from his tension.

"I'm really hard," Dew corrects. Behind him, Swiss hips hitch forward to press his erection against Dew's lower back, hot and insistent.

"It's hard," Rain says, and scrapes blunt nails across the soft skin when he pulls his hand back. "You're a toy."

Oh, Dew's going to combust one of these days.

"If I'm a toy," he grits out, and can't help from shamelessly humping the air, "then fuckin' play with me."

Aether reaches out with a single finger and Dew freezes, already for another painful flick, but what he gets is worse; a tender pad rubbing the frenulum, and his cock wagging to and fro with every shock of pleasure the motion pulls. His eyebrows are knit together, mouth hanging open while his breath comes harsher and harsher.

"Please, please, make me cum-"

"It," Swiss corrects, and Dew shudders, screwing his eyes shut again, little toes curling in. The objectification is a sick little thrill, and the way his balls go tight, nobody misses it.

"Make it cum," Dew relents, nodding, unable to look anymore. "Make my dick cum."

Rain's fingers are tweaking a nipple, an act he has no warning for with his eyes shut. He hisses, and wriggles, and feels slightly insane.

"I need it hard," Rain says, pinching and tugging so sweetly, in a way that reminds Dew horribly of the motion you'd use to milk a cow. It's nothing he can examine to closely for fear of losing it for real. "I can't sit on something limp."

"Don't worry," Aether says, and grasps him for the first time tonight, and Dew's hips stutter. Something bleeds from Aether's warm hand, something tingly, something unmistakably magick-

"Oh no," Dew says softly.

"I'll be hard as long as you need it," Aether assures him, withdrawing his hand and letting Dew shiver underneath the quintessence forced into him.

Rain is shucking his pants immediately.

Swiss nuzzles into the crook of his neck, places a soft kiss to the lobe of his ear.

"Me next," he says, and punctuates the statement with a lick up the shell of his ear. "And I'll hold him down for you after," he says to Aether.

Dew opens his eyes when he hears the cap of the bottle of slick, watches Rain reach between his legs, and listens to the sigh when he presses a long finger into his hole in one slow go.

"Get yourself ready for me, baby," Dew says, fighting the sudden urge he has to pass out.

With a wet sound, Rain fucks himself and stares right into his eyes.

"It," he murmurs. "I'm getting ready for your cock."

"We'll remind you as often as you need," Swiss says.

[anangelinthepit]

Bruise my Bones but Leave My Heart Alone

Please be advised this story does contain sensitive topics ‼️ please please please be advised I love you all please enjoy- as always with love Magenta

Part 3

Part 3

God does have a sense of humor. I used to wish the worst for Jason and now that it’s staring me right in the face, I feel sick to my stomach. My flight or fight instincts really should have kicked in but they didn’t. All I could do was stare at the lifeless body that was once my boyfriend.

Even when the guys started to walk towards me, all I could do was spit 4 little words.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I said shaking

“I’m sorry beautiful,” Noah said

Suddenly, Jolly and Nick grabbed me while Folio put a cloth over my mouth. The last thing I saw before I slipped into complete darkness was Noah shaking his head. Are they gonna kill me now that I saw them kill someone? Is this my karma because I wished horrible things on my ex? I should have just minded my damn business.

After slipping into the darkness, I started to dream. I was sitting in a field of yellow flowers when I got the urge to get up and run. While sprinting across this field, all the flowers began to die and darkness started to move across the sky. By the time the darkness reached me, I woke up.

The room I was in was pitch black with a few windows. “What time is it?” I said to myself looking out one of them only to be met with the night sky. There were a few lights off in the distance and I could still hear bands playing. The relief I felt knowing I was still at the concert made me feel a little better.

I looked around trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness once again. The only thing I could make out was the couch I was lying on, the windows, and what looked like an exit door. Trying to find my phone I heard it hit the floor and saw my Home Screen light up. When I went to go grab it I miscalculated how small the couch was and ended up hitting the fucking floor.

“Of course,” I said. While lying on the floor, I laughed at my clumsiness then a thought crossed my mind.

Jason probably got me drunk again and did this to teach me a lesson. It wouldn’t be the first time and probably won’t be the last. All I did was go to the bathroom, does he expect me to ask him every time?

I picked up my phone and saw that I had 50 missed calls from Delilah. I went to call her back but my service was inactive. “Jesus Jason I know I fucked up but this is a little ridiculous,” I swear to god when I get back home I’m leaving him.

I got off the floor and tried to find a light switch but of course, I tripped over what felt like shoes and bags before I did.

“God can you give me a freaking break,” I said stumbling

I flicked on the light switch and confirmed my surroundings. I indeed was in someone's RV but how Jason managed this I’ll never know.

I reached for the door but stopped in my tracks when I heard voices. Putting my ear up against the wood I wasn’t able to decipher what was being said, why I thought it was a good idea to crack it open a little is beyond me but that’s what I did.

When I peeked out, I saw 4 men standing in the sleeping area talking….

“Should we kill her ?” Folio said

My heart fucking dropped into my stomach.

“No fucking way, she’s the one who sent us the necklace. That’s our girl” Noah said shaking his head

“It would be kind of fucked up to kill her after everything she’s been through. I don’t like the idea as much as you do Noah but she watched us kill her boyfriend, it’s probably best to take her out. We probably fucked get up even more now. Look, We can do it painlessly and Noah you can hold her so she has some type of comfort” Jolly said

“This isn’t just some puppy we found that had a wound on its leg. The day she sent us the letter we knew we had to find her. We ALL agreed on that. That is OUR girl” Noah scolded

I felt like I was gonna pass out. Maybe if I begged they would let me go. I wouldn’t snitch on them because if anything, they did me a favor.

“This girl has been through hell and back. We witnessed part of it tonight, imagine what she had been through before writing us the letter.” Nick said

“Like Jolly said she saw us kill her boyfriend. If we’re not gonna kill her then we’re gonna have to keep her. We can’t let her go yet, she’ll end up telling everyone, and that's it! Orange jumpsuits for all of us ” Folio said with his hands on his head

“Well we could use a maid around the house. We’ll just have to get Bryan on board,” Nick said.

They all began to shake their head in agreement. I wish this was a fucking joke, I'm not anyones maid nor slave.

“Alright. So. who’s gonna go in a tell her we just took her freedom and life away?” Jolly said

“I guess I will.” Noah sighed

“I think she already knows,” Nick said

They all turned around and saw that I had the door cracked, they began walking towards me and I went into an extreme panic.

“Oh shit”

I slammed the door shut and locked it. My head started to spin and I thought I was gonna really throw up this time. I fell to my knees and everything came back to me like a giant tsunami wave.

Jason didn’t do this, Bad Omens did. Jason is fucking dead and I saw them standing over his body. They’re the ones who kidnapped me and now are gonna use me as a maid and still possibly kill me. I got back up on my feet and ran over to the window in desperation. Nothing I did would make it budge.

I heard a loud smash from the other room. At this point, the guys were trying to break down the door, and for how thin it was, I knew it was only a matter of time before they got through. I gave up and started pounding on the window, I am in no way strong, but hopefully, someone would hear me scream.

“SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE, THEY'RE GONNA FUCKING KILL ME,” I said screaming with tears rolling down my face

I felt someone’s arm wrap around my waist and a hand goes around my mouth muffling my cries. The next thing I knew I was being dragged throughout the tour bus until we reached the front. Whoever was holding me decided to toss my ass onto the couch.

“I am so sick and tired of being fucking manhandled.” I thought to myself

When I looked up I was met with my potential killers. They all just sat there staring at me, and when I tell you if looks could kill, I would have been dead. They made it seem like they've never seen a girl before, and them crowidning around was giving me a heart attack .

“Please, I didn’t see anything. I won’t say a word just please don’t hurt me.” I said crying while backing myself up into the corners of the couch

I always thought I would die at the hands of Jason, not people I care about. I feel so heartbroken and betrayed, they were supposed to help me through the hard times. Not fucking make them worse.

“Hey hey, take it easy. We’re not gonna hurt you.” Noah said trying to calm me down

“I’m sorry but I don’t believe you, I heard the entire conversation,” I said defensively

“Okay so then you would know we aren’t going to hurt you, please just take a few deep breaths,” Noah said

I put my hand over my mitt trying to calm down and not go into a full-blown panic attack. How is it that my world had been flipped upside fucking down and it’s permanently there?

“ Okay Babydoll, we have a couple of questions for you and we need you to tell us the truth.”

I shook my head in agreement hoping that these questions were not going to dictate whether I live or die. God, I don’t ask for much but please I’m not ready to lose my life.

“Okay first one, are you the girl who sent me this necklace,” Noah said pulling it out of his shirt

“Ye… yes I did,” I said quietly

“Okay thank you, now second one is does your friend Envie know where you are?”

“No she thinks I went to the ba- wait how do you know her name? Please leave her out of this.” I said sternly

He tried to lay a gentle touch on my right thigh but I immediately shoved his hand away from me. How could he sound so nurturing and caring yet do such an evil act? His touch brought me everything but comfort.

“Please don’t fucking touch me.” I spatted.

Noah backed up and realized he must have hit a nerve. In any other situation, I would have begged for this man to touch me but not now. Especially when I saw what he is capable of. Part of me felt bad for snapping at him, yes they killed Jason but they also did me a huge favor in the process. I have too many mixed emotions about this, playing it nice is probably my best bet.

“I’m sorry….I don’t mean to be rude but everything going on here is a lot to take in. Especially since I heard the entire conversation.”

“Look, Princess, you don’t need to apologize. You are the one being kidnapped and about to have your freedom taken away .” Nick said laughing

“You’re laughing at this situation? You guys killed my boyfriend and kidnapped me, forcing me to do God knows what! How is any of this comical?” I said with wide eyes. Who laughs at this except psychopaths

“Angel we know none of this is funny and we’re trying our hardest to make light of the situation. You act like we wanted to do this to you, but we didn’t.” Jolly

“Yeah Bunny, none of this was part of the plane. We were gonna get rid of that asshole and you would finally be safe.” Folio added

“First of all what’s with all the pet names? Bunny? Angel? Princess? Babydoll? I am not your guy's girl, I sent you a fucking necklace and now that makes me your guy's property?” I said. These guys are fucking crazy

“No, you made us responsible for you when you sent that necklace. We looked for you at every fucking concert hoping that we could get to you before some asshole breaks you.”

Noah said standing up. His posture, attitude, and eyes all became more resentful.

Honestly, sometimes I would push people past their limits when I got angry. For some odd reason, I had so much fight in me that I was never able to let out and I felt this was the best time if any.

“Now I know you don’t like the idea of all of this but once we feel we can trust you then we’ll let you go. I promise it’s not what you think, I would never do anything that you wouldn’t want me to” Noah said

“That’s literally what you ARE doing. You can’t just kidnap me, people are gonna notice I’m gone.” I said

“Well, we kind of need you to call your friend and tell her you’re okay,” Noah said while rubbing the back of his neck

“Why the fuck would I do that?” I glared

“Angel you are not making this easy. We are genuinely trying here to hit everything we give forward to you is getting nothing but pushback.” Jolly said rubbing his forehead. I could tell all the guys were losing patience

“Okay, so how long do I have to stay with you guys until you can trust me enough to let me go ?” I said sitting up.

“Maybe a few weeks, a month at most,” Nick said

“A year,” Noah said

He stood up turned his back on me and began to walk away.

“A what ?” I heard him correctly but I feel like I’m still dreaming.

“A. Year.” And then I’ll see about letting you go. Noah said looking at me

Those beautiful brown eyes that used to make me fly are now filling me with pure rage. The fucking audacity of this wannabe boy band, how dare they take over my life when I just got it back? I couldn’t think straight, the room began to spin and I lost all control. I lunged at Noah and managed to get the weakest punch across his face.

It didn’t do anything he barely even bugged. Noah threw me over his shoulder and decided to take me back to the other lounge again. With one swift kick of the door, I was tossed onto the couch and back at square one.

“I’m starting to lose my fucking patience with you. Please keep in mind my kindness isn’t something that should be taken for granted. Keep pushing me and I’ll make other arrangements.”

I saw a mini glass figurine of Disney World sitting near me. I grabbed it and threw it at the doorway, it barely missed Noah. The look on his face when he realized if I had aimed a little closer I would have got hit head

“Kill me,” I said while holding my face

“What?”

“I’ve been through enough shit. Used and abused. A slave to what I thought was love. You making me stay with you ain’t going to change a thing. You let me go even after a year, I WILL fucking say something. I don’t give a shit anymore so you better kill me now.” I said

“Y/N shut up shut up shut up”

My conscience was screaming at me, telling me to be quiet. I didn’t want to die I just wanted the abuse to stop.

Noah laughed a little and just shook his head

“Good night baby doll ”

“Fucking prick”

I got up and ran over to the window. The lights I once saw were now officially gone meaning everyone went home.

“I’m stuck here. Why is this happening to me ?” I said with tears started to fill my eyes.”

I waited till I knew no one was near my door and ran for my phone. I now had over 100 missed calls from Delilah . It's weird, I never heard my phone go off once but since I could receive calls that meant I could make them.

My hands were shaking so aggressively that I kept typing in the wrong number. I finally pulled myself together and dialed Envies contact.

“Y/N?!”

“Delilah omg thank god I got through to you,” I whispered

“Y/N Where the fuck are you? I’m worried sick!

“Delilah please tell me you’re still near the venue,” I said shaking

“Yeah, I’m at a diner about two miles down the road why?”

“I’m still here you’re not gonna believe me but I’m in Bad Omens tour bus. Envie, Envie please listen to me I’m fucking scared right now. They killed Jason and kidnapped me because I saw everything. You have to come get me.”

“Y/N that is one sick twisted joke”

“I’m not fucking joking! Do you need me to take a fucking picture?!” I quiet screamed

“Yea because honestly, I don’t believe you.”

Jesus Christ

I snapped a pic standing next to the poster they had hanging up in the back of their tour bus

“Y/N where are you ?”

“I’m locked in their fucking tour bus!

“Jesus you weren’t kidding. What do you mean they killed Jason?” Envie questioned”

“I can’t explain everything right now just please get here with the fucking police.”

“I will but Y/N.”

“Yea?”

“Who is that standing behind you in the picture?”

I was so confused about what she was talking about until I looked at the photo myself. Standing behind me was a tall silhouette whose face was leaning down towards my shoulder

“You just made a huge fucking mistake babydoll.”

Noah grabbed my phone out of my hand and smashed it into pieces with one fucking stomp. I fell back at how aggressive he was being and realized this might be it. I’m gonna die right here

“Well looks like I can’t trust you to be by yourself can I.” He said walking towards me

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell her anything I swear. I just wanted to hear her voice” I said shaking

“Starting the relationship off with lies will get you nothing but a punishment babydoll.”

I saw behind him that Nick and Jolly were there ready to back him up. The way my heart sank when Noah got so close to my face if I turned he would kiss me.

“I hope you know, you’re sleeping with me tonight

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

I love you all

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Lovers & Friends (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Keigo Takami x Black!Fem!Reader (Friends to Lovers)

Synopsis: In which you and Keigo have begun to realize the strange new feelings you both have for each other after one drunken night at a close friend’s wedding that ends with you in his bed, but because of your longtime friendship and committed relationships with other people, you’re more than happy to forget that night even happened and keep your mutual feelings in the dark…for now, at least.��

Story Warnings: Smutty smut; 18+ (MINORS GET AWAY); Cheating/Infidelity; Mating; Light Degradation; Spanking; Exhibitionism; Multiple Positions; Creampie; Unprotected PIV Sex; Facial; Scent Play; Marking; Spitting; Deepthroating; Cunnilingus; Begging; Edgeplay; Power Play; Wing-Stroking; Daddy Kink; Some Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Mild Violence

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: Got another smutty ass story for y'all! And it's with my baby daddy Hawks!! I had this idea in storage for a while. Idk how long it'll be, but I'll try to finish it before the holidays start coming since shit is gonna get BUSY. Thank you always for the love & views! -Jazz

Chapters: Soundtrack. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Bonus Chapter.

Read on AO3 here!

***********

Chapter One: The Dry Spell. 

“God, yes, Y/N!” Rei shouts from above you, his hips grinding against yours as he pistons in and out of you. 

The bedsprings to your bed creak in time with his movements which are relentless as he approaches his orgasm. “You feel so good!” he moans, eyes closed and a smile on his face. “Are you feelin’ it too?” 

You stare at him from underneath his body, barely making a peep. “Yeah,” you mumble. “I’m definitely feelin’ something.” Instead of looking at how much ecstasy your boyfriend is in above you from the completely dry and unsatisfying sex, you look off to the window where the warm summer night air blows in. 

You wonder briefly what other people are doing on a nice night such as this one. Hopefully something better than this: lying underneath a man and pretending to like how his fingers are rubbing your clit too hard.

Not that he notices. He doesn’t notice much when he’s close to nutting. You instantly feel horrible for thinking this way about your man, but shit, after a year of dating, you’d think the guy would know how to please his woman. You guess not since the sex hasn’t gotten any better since you two did had it the first time. 

All you can do is grasp his shoulders and let him do his thing. When he proceeds to rut into you like he’s trying to hit a home run, you know he’s close. He usually only uses about 10% of his quirk at this point into sex. At first, you were uncomfortable with the amount of speed he was using so he cut back, but now you’re used to it. 

“Fuck!” he shouts, his dark coils of hair bouncing around his head as his hips snap into yours again and again. He grips your hips roughly, meaning you’ll definitely have bruises on your hips tomorrow. He goes so fast that you hit your head against the headboard repeatedly, but you don’t say anything. You don’t want to ruin his fun. It’s bad enough you’re not enjoying yourself even the least bit. You don’t even have the urge to reach down and rub your clit to cum with him. 

But you do care about the guy and you don’t want to hurt his feelings, so this is usually the point where you fake your orgasm. Getting into character, you grip his shoulders and wrap your legs around him, pulling him in deeper. “Yeah, baby,” you gasp into his ear. “Cum with me, please! Make me cum! Yes, yes, just like that!” 

A string of fake moans and whines you remember hearing in your favorite porn videos leaves your lips as Rei fucks you until the point of no return. The moans that leave his lips are shrill and loud. You sigh, knowing you’ll have issues with your neighbors again over noise complaints. When he finally cums, it is just as uneventful and anti-climatic as a bad action movie. His muscles clench and his body seizes, his mouth open in a silent O of pure ecstasy. When Rei cums, he always sounds like he’s having the biggest yawn of his life. 

You just continue to play your part, acting like you’re cumming with him. However, your mind is somewhere else entirely. Though his handsome face and sweat-soaked body are nice to look at, you feel nothing even remotely close to arousal that urges you to cum. You feel nothing. And you hate that. 

Finally, after giving you some more sloppy thrusts of his hips, Rei looks down at you and smiles, bliss on his face. “That was amazing,” he sighs. “You’re amazing.” You manage to smile as he lovingly strokes your face. “You’re so pretty when you cum,” he coos before leaning down to kiss your lips. 

Now, Rei is a great kisser–he has these full, pink lips that he knows how to work against yours. You wish you could cum just by his makeout sessions. But this is about the only thing he’s really good at when it comes to physical intimacy, especially in the bedroom. It isn’t that he doesn’t care about your pleasure too, but he isn’t attentive. He doesn’t quite know or understand your body. 

Or maybe you just don’t know yours. That may be another reason why you’re not feeling sexy time with your boyfriend. 

You look away towards the window as your boyfriend rolls off of you, satisfied with the unfulfilling sex you two just had. You don’t tell him you didn’t cum. You just let him feel proud of himself, not wanting to argue or hurt him. But the simmering frustration inside of you doesn’t let up. 

Rei reaches for you for a snuggle like you usually do after sex, but you’re not in the mood to pretend tonight. “Um!” you squeak, suddenly sitting up straight. Rei stares at you, confused. “I-I’m gonna go pee,” you tell him, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right back.” 

Rei, in all of his beauty, with his tan skin, toned body, and that cute little mole on his chin, smiles at you. “Hurry back,” he coos, sitting up against the headboard of your bed. You smile and slip out of bed, quickly grabbing your robe from the floor that Rei ripped off of you beforehand. 

You slip into your private bedroom and close the door, locking it for good measure. Then you sit on the edge of your bathtub and put your head in your hands. Your body yearns for release and your pussy aches in desperation. You’d run the sink water and masturbate if you didn’t know you’d feel guilty for it later.

You groan, running your hands through your hair. “Why are you like this?” you ask yourself. 

You wish you had the answer. The unfulfilling sex is nothing new–it’s been happening for months now. You don’t know when you realized how much you despised having sex with Rei, but it never let up or resolved itself. 

For one, the sex is boring. While Rei loves his missionary and doggy style but he doesn’t mind switching things up when you ask. You want to 69? He does it. You want to be on top? He lets you with no problem. 

But kink has never been Rei’s thing in the bedroom. There was one time you and Rei tried handcuffs one night, but he had lost the key, so you never ventured down the road to kinkiness ever again. But with every new, adventurous thing you tried in the bedroom, nothing worked. While it’s totally fine for kinky sex to not be someone’s thing, there are times when you want more from Rei. You want some excitement! Some razzle dazzle! Something to have you coming back for more!

Secondly, Rei isn’t as attentive or in tune with your body as you want him to be. Though you’ve tried to teach him, he’s always pinching your nipples just a little too hard or wiggling his tongue a little too fast when he goes down. You often just let him do what he wants now without speaking up because of how hard he’s been going with work. 

And then there’s a third reason: you simply don’t feel that connection with Rei during sex, which is odd because he’s such an attractive and amazing guy! He’s a gentleman; kind and intelligent; sweet and funny. Not to mention he’s an amazing pro hero, ranked at no. 9. He goes by the name “Tempo” to match his speed quirk. He can control and utilize his quirk extremely well during missions. You’ve seen him in action many, many times since you’ve worked together over the years. 

You found yourself working alongside him at your first agency (which you’re still at now) shortly after graduating UA when you were just eighteen. Word around the office was that he was crushing on you, but you never had a chance to investigate because he was transferred to a new agency that paid him a lot more four years later.

Time passed and at the age of twenty-six, you found yourself crossing his path again a year ago during a mission that involved a bank robbery and a villain with a gas quirk. You knew Rei the moment you saw him once you got a look at his hero’s fit and those coils of black hair that reached his shoulders. After an arrest and a job well done, Rei had asked you out for coffee and that was all she wrote. 

Now here you are, about to rip your hair out over a possible future of doomed sex and no orgasms. This is truly a tragic tale for you both. After a few more minutes of moping and regretting your life choices, you splash some cold water on your face from the sink and walk back into your bedroom to find Rei getting dressed. “What’s up?” you ask as he pulls on his briefs and then his jeans. 

“Villain attack,” he sighs, his tall, broad frame silhouetted in the moonlight as he buttons his pants. “Fucker decided to terrorize downtown by setting fire to some buildings. Apparently, he has a Pyro quirk. It’s not nothin’ too bad, but my boss wants me posted with a couple of other heroes I’ve worked with before.” He turns to you, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, honey. I wanted to stay tonight, especially since Rumi isn’t here, so we could spend more time together.” 

You feel a twinge of guilt in your gut. Here you are, neglecting him and acting distant, and he’s so concerned about spending more time with you because of your work. You feel like the worst girlfriend and person in the world.

You go to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “It’s fine. The work of a pro is never done, ya know.” You peck him on the lips, nuzzling your nose with his. “Go, and be careful. I don’t need to see you on the news tomorrow all bruised up.” 

Rei scoffs, rolling his pine-tree green eyes at you. “Please. Like that’d be possible with my speed.” You stand back and watch him put his shirt and shoes on before he presses another kiss to your lips, holding onto your waist. “I love you,” he whispers against your lips. 

“I love you too,” you reply, which is definitely something you say to someone who loves you. At least that’s what you tell yourself. But even as the words leave your lips, you don’t feel like you truly mean them–yet another reason you’re a horrible girlfriend and person. You’re lying right through your teeth. 

Rei smiles adoringly at you before he leaves your bedroom and minutes later, exits your apartment. As soon as he’s gone and you hear his car pull out of your driveway, you sit down on the edge of your bed and run your hands over your face, trying to fight back the tears threatening to push through and make your night even worse. 

“Fuck, I thought he’d never leave.” 

A very familiar (and sexy, according to some people) voice coming from your window makes you jump right out of your skin and nearly use your quirk to fend off the “threat” you believe they are. However, when a familiar mess of unruly blonde locks and goggles peers around the corner to look into your bedroom, you sigh in relief and irritation. “Keigo!” you scold him as he sneaks through your bedroom window, decked out in his hero’s gear too. 

He gives you his signature dazzling, white-toothed grin as he climbs through your window that even the burn scare that stretched from his jawline down to his neck can distract you from. “What’s poppin’, b?” he asks, using that greeting only he and Dabi use to make you and Rumi cringe. 

“You can’t just sneak up on me like that or come to my bedroom window, especially when Rei is here,” you criticize. “How many times do I have to tell you this shit?” 

Keigo huffs, now standing in your bedroom in the late hours of the night, which is a normal occurrence for the pro hero no. 2 aka Hawks. He’s been crawling through your bedroom window for late-night adventures since middle school when it was just you and him. Rumi aka Mirko, the Rabbit Hero, came later while you attended UA.

Not much has changed since then, except now, instead of your childhood home, Keigo crawls through the window of the condo across the city that you share with Rumi. 

“Oh, relaaax, baby bird,” he chides you. “After the last time I showed up and got a flash of your man’s dick, I learned my lesson. Plus, you act like I’ve never seen you naked before.” He raises an eyebrow at you. “Remember that time in middle school I snuck into the girls’ locker room?” 

You laugh at the memory, remembering the big ass knot he walked around with for days after that you gave him. “Yeah, and I believe that’s when we first met. Shit, that was a long time ago. Weren’t we in fifth grade?” 

“Sixth,” he corrects you, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “But we can reminisce more over our decades-long friendship over some wings, shots, and karaoke at Hoshi’s now that I’m off the clock.” 

You sigh, already exhausted from the idea of going out tonight. Especially with Keigo. The man is like a damn kid with candy once he’s got some alcohol in him. “As much as I’d love to hear your drunk ass attempt at singing,” you sarcastically say, “I’m not really in the mood for all that, Kei.” 

By the look Keigo gives you, with his head tilted to the side like a puppy, he can tell this has to do with Rei. He doesn’t even have to ask, which you also hate. The guy can read you like an open book, but you’d expect nothing less from someone you’ve been friends with for years now. 

Instead of saying anything, he just takes his wallet out of his back pocket and flashes it to you, an eyebrow raised: ‘I’m paying.’ You groan, not being able to turn down free wings, booze, and endless karaoke. “Alright, fine,” you sigh, defeated. “Get out so I can change and don’t wake Rumi.” 

Keigo flashes you a prideful grin at his success. “I never wake cottontail,” he scoffs before turning to the window and climbing back out, laughing into the night as he does. 

You sigh and walk to your bedroom closet, readying yourself for a night of total chaos. 

[thesandsofelsweyr]

HIS

《 CHAPTER 2/4 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

Jason has been beaten half to death with a crowbar, shredded by barbed wire, strung up for so long his shoulders ripped from their sockets, shocked, starved, branded… It's only a wooden paddle, it can’t hurt more than any of the Clown’s other toys… right?

《RATING》 🔞 Explicit 《WORDS》 1,362

《CHARACTERS》 Jason Todd/Robin, Joker, Bruce Wayne (mentioned)

《TROPES》 Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Whump, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

《WARNINGS》 Humiliation, Forced Nudity, Non-Consensual Spanking, Paddling, Ownership, Torture, Blood and Injury, Non-Consensual Touching, Scars

《SERIES》 Part 2 of My Arkhamverse, Part 2 of Ruined

《TAGLIST》 @aaliyah-wayne @ladytauria @millyhelp @betty-1880

《NOTES》

This fic is dark (and will get even darker in the following chapters) so be aware of the tags (especially the DD:DNE tag)

If you'd like to be added/removed from the taglist, you can submit a request here!

Kudos & comments on AO3, as well as reblogs here, are greatly appreciated 💛 (I'd really love to see this fic get more attention so that I'll be inspired to finish writing it!)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated)

The first blow was harder than he’d ever imagined, the second blow was even worse. Joker was swinging that heavy wooden paddle like a baseball bat, driving his scrawny body into the side of the desk with such violent force that the solid wood desk bucked beneath him.

“Five sir,” Jason grunted as thousands of red hot needles stung his bare ass.

Before the sting of the last blow faded, before he could prepare himself for the next blow, before he could even catch his breath, another loud CRACK shot through his storage room cell then searing pain exploded in his paper-thin flesh. “Ssssix, ssssir!” he hissed through gritted, broken teeth. Every muscle in his emaciated body was pulled taut as he fought to keep still while the paddle landed again and again across the same burning stripe of skin. There was hardly any meat protecting his skinny ass so he felt each bruising swat all the way down to the bone.

CRACK! “Eleven, sir!” CRACK! “Twelve, sir!”

The Clown was continuing his “angry dad” routine but Jason had tuned him out while he focused on surviving each horrible stroke. He clung to the lip of the desk as if it were a life raft, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white. With his ear pressed against the wood, he could hear his heart hammering in his chest as his malnourished body absorbed shockwave after shockwave of tremendous pain.

CRACK! “Thirteen, sir!” CRACK! “Fourteen, sir!”

CRACK! The paddle tore into the tender skin where cheeks met thighs, right above his dangling balls. “Fffffifteen, fffffuck!” He bit down on his tongue a split second too late to contain the curse.

Immediately his heart leapt into his throat and he flinched as Joker rubbed the flat of the paddle against his blistered asscheeks. “Was that a naughty word I just heard?”

“No!” he squealed desperately, remembering the time the Clown had duct-taped a sudsy bar of gooey soap in his mouth before stringing him up by the wrists then leaving him dangling for hours—punishment for his “naughty words.” “No sir, please. I didn’t mean it. Fif-fifteen, sir. Please. It hurts so much,” he begged breathlessly.

A whoosh of air licked against his vulnerable sack a heartbeat before the paddle cut across that same tender crease of stretched skin. CRACK! “Sixteen, sir!” Jason shouted, his legs straining painfully against the urge to close them and protect his nuts from that wicked piece of wood.

Whenever Willis had been sober enough to notice him, he’d find an excuse to beat him. When he wasn’t using his fists, he’d whip him bloody with a belt, leaving angry red welts down his back, ass, and thighs that lasted for days. But this pain was different. Each stroke seemed to burn his humiliation, his weakness, his cowardice, his failures, his shame, deep into his flesh like the brand on his cheek. Another agonizing reminder of how helpless he was to resist, how he was no longer in control of his life. How he let himself be treated this way because he was too afraid to fight back.

CRACK! “Twenty… ohhh… twenty-two, sir,” he moaned.

There was no predictable rhythm to the blows. Sometimes the psycho would hit him several times in rapid-fire succession, and Jason could hardly keep count. Other times Joker would wait long, agonizing minutes before hitting him again, teasing him with soft taps before the torturous blow.

Jason clenched his throbbing ass as the paddle rubbed hard circles over the bruises, then—CRACK! “Thirty-five, SIR!”

The burn grew hotter and hotter with each brutal blow, the sting more maddening, and before long he was squirming like a child to avoid getting hit across the same raw band of angry red skin, his voice increasing in octaves until he was nearly squealing like a piglet. Sweat dripped from his forehead, into his eyes, stinging them.

CRACK! Joker had given that one a bit of an upswing. His head snapped back and he yelped, “AH! Forty-seven, sir!”

Not even fifty strokes and he already felt tears wetting the corners of his eyes. “Pathetic,” a familiar voice echoed in his head, and his racing heart shriveled in his chest. Batman scowled at him. “You just reminded me it’s better to work alone,” his old partner growled before shaking his head in disgust and turning away, leaving Robin behind. Jason squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to hold back the hot tears of shame threatening to spill down his ruined cheeks.

CRACK! “Fifty-three, s-s-sir,” he cried, his voice finally breaking with the dam of tears.

A gloved hand seized a fistful of sweat-damp black hair and wrenched his head back, yanking his neck into a painful arch. “Are you crying already? I’m just getting warmed up, baby boy.”

The fist loosened and Jason’s head fell limply back against the blood-stained desk with a thud. “I’m sorry sir,” he whimpered feebly.

Joker sighed. “I suppose I should’ve expected as much. Why did my ol’ Batsy keep you ‘round for so long? His munchkin army was much more impressive before you sullied its ranks.” Jason choked back a hollow sob as Joker continued to mock him. “I don’t think the first Boy Blunder would be boo-hoo-ing right now, do you? And what about the girl? I doubt a little hide-tanning would have her in tears.”

Shame reddened his face. “No sir,” he agreed wanly with a sniffle. He hated being reminded how he didn’t measure up to the first Robin, how he deserved to be thrown away, to be replaced with a better model. One that wasn’t a useless, sniveling coward.

Joker sighed again, then tapped the paddle against Jason’s burning ass, lining up his next shot. Jason sucked in a quivering breath and gripped the lip of the desk even tighter.

The blows that followed were even more brutal than the first fifty-three.

“This is no more than you deserve.” CRACK! “Running away from your Batdaddy,” CRACK! “trying to take down the big, bad Clown all by yourself.” CRACK! “Did you really think you could kill little ol’ me?” CRACK! “I asked you a question!” CRACK! CRACK!

“No sir!” he wailed. “Fifty-nine, sir!”

“Liar… liar… pants… on… fire!” Joker punctuated each word with overlapping blows and Jason was on his toes trying to redistribute the awful pain. “I took you in when you fell into my lap,” CRACK! “after your Bat-daddy abandoned you.” CRACK! “Put a roof over your head,” CRACK! “food in your belly,” CRACK! “even let you keep the clothes on your back.” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! “And you repay the kindness of my heart,” CRACK! “by running away?” CRACK! CRACK! “That broke my heart, sonny boy.” CRACK! “I thought we really had something special,” CRACK! “you and me.” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“Seventy-nine—ah! Please, I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry!” he sobbed, squirming as the paddle rubbed hard circles over his battered, burning flesh. “Please,” he rasped, “please forgive me—ohhh…” The paddle tapped his ass, and he braced for the next blow. When the blow didn’t fall, Jason stupidly prayed the punishment was over until he felt Joker bending over his back, then a gloved finger traced the J on his cheek.

“How can I forgive you,” Joker asked softly, dragging a bony finger over the curved and puckered letter, “if I don’t believe you’re truly sorry for what you’ve done?” Joker pressed down, rubbing the brand harshly with the pad of his thumb, irritating the scabbed skin. Jason winced. “I thought this would help you remember your place, but you’ve forced my hand, kiddo. You still haven’t learned your lesson.”

“I have sir, please, I swear. I’m your sidekick,” he panted. “Yours.” CRACK! “Eighty, ugh! Please! This is my home now, I know. I know. I swear to God I’ll never run again.”

Joker gave his branded cheek a soft pat. “Oh I know you won’t, my darling baby bird,” he cooed in his ear before straightening and resting the heavy paddle against Jason’s black and blue ass. “But just in case you start to forget, you need a reminder of what happens to naughty little boys who misbehave.”

[ddejavvu]

Bunny!Chrissy who kicks when she wants attention, thumps her legs out. But when she feels the urge bubbling up in her the first time you ignore her and don’t immediately give your your attention when she tugs on your sleeve and asks for it, she lets go of your arm, pouts, feels that annoying feeling inside of her, her tail twitches, and she kicks. Unfortunately. She’s laying spread next to you on the couch, so in her dazed out silent staring at your face, she kicks you. And bunny!Chrissy kicks hard. Especially having done gymnastics all her life.

She didn’t mean to, and as soon as her feet meet your legs/ribs a tiny gasp flies from her mouth. And from your perspective, you heard Chrissy ask you something, asked her to wait one minute, and the suddenly got kicked by her. You just turn to her, shocked yourself, and let out an “...Ow?!?!!” Like what? Especially taken aback when she just grabs you in panic.

She feels awful. “I’m so sorry! Y/n I’m so so so sorry! I-I didn’t mean it I- I promise!” She explains about her hybrid instinct, that she just got a little needy when you said no and she, she didn’t even realise she was doing it! And she’s gently moving her hands, before placing them on the area she kicked, eyes already watering and nose twitching to stop the tears as you let her touch you, but tears fully spilling when you hiss as she applies the tiniest of pressure in her soft rubs. She hurt you! Definitely so scared you’re going to hate her, and you’re gonna throw her out, and never wanna speak to her again.

And no matter if you scoop her into your lap immediately, kissing all over her face and assuring her you understand, it was an accident, you know she wouldn’t actually hurt you, you really are okay, you’re fine! You’re both okay. She feels so bad, as horrible, dark, big bruises spread over your skin. If it was on your ribs, she’s lifting your shirt all the time to kiss them, but even if you’re wearing pants that block the sight, her lips are constantly on it. Always so lightly kissing that mark. So so apologetic and sad she accidentally bruised you :’(

she really doesn't mean to!! she just gets so relaxed when she's sitting there with you, your hand raking through her hair, your thigh pressed against her, in this case her feet are braced on your thigh. you're just there and you're warm and you're cozy and you're loving, and she lets herself go completely

which means, when she gives you the telltale please pet me sign, and you ignore it, (really, she just doesn't register/hear you tell her to wait), she rams her feet into you. it's completely instinctual, she doesn't mean it at all, but it hurts, my god it hurts, and you get the wind knocked out of you as her feet ram into your stomach. you're stunned (and injured) into silence, turning to stare at her incredulously, your brows dipped in pain. she's already springing up from where she was laying, tears in her eyes as she grabs needily at your arm, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

she's frantically apologizing and explaining to you, and even though you're not angry once she explains, you're not exactly happy either, your stomach/ribs hurt. you take a moment to catch your breath but that only makes her more worried, you're not speaking to her! she doesn't know if it's because you're angry at her, or because you're hurt, and she doesn't like either of those :') she just keeps stammering about how sorry she is and how she really didn't mean to and how it was just instinct while you catch your breath and try not to cry from the pain. it doesn't help that she's lifting the hem of your shirt and crying at the way you flinch when she brushes her finger over it, and if it's visible she has to look away because she just feels so so guilty

when you finally speak up you coax her away from the wound, smooth over her ears, tell her you're not mad that she kicked you. you're not super happy, but you're not angry with her. you kiss her nose and wipe away the tears that fall when you do, she's just so so sad that she hurt you even if you promise that you're okay. she definitely dotes on you a lot after that, kissing the spot, sleeping on it if it's not sore, and she might even be hesitant to snuggle afterwards :( but you can soothe her into it! as long as she keeps her feet facing away from you, she's snuggling up into your side again, finally letting herself relax :')

[howdoyousleep3]

It's been a hot minute. Let's have a story:

The first thing that warner Bucky that something was wrong was how quietly the front door of their apartment closed.

Steve never slammed the door, true, but his patience for the outside world immediately ran out as soon as he stepped inside the home they'd built together, and was always eager to cut it off with a very audible *snap*.

This time, Bucky had no clue Steve was back until the sound of the deadbolt being carefully turned echoed through the room.

The next clue was the slowness that Steve walked with, like every step was through knee-deep molasses. None of the hurrying to remove societal trappings and don comfort. None of the scurrying to find his Bubba and gush about the dogs he saw, or the new painting idea he got on the bus, or just plain eagerness to kiss and touch and see the one he loved.

Something was *wrong*.

And this was confirmed as Bucky stepped out of the bedroom and found Steve, halfway through the living room, staring at his feet, and watching the water drip from the bottom of his pants onto the rug.

The blond lifted his face, cheeks hollow, eyes lost and bruised looking. "I forgot to take off my shoes," his voice wavered and cracked through lips that trembled. "I made a mess. I-I'm sorry, Bear. I--"

He hiccuped out a sob and Bucky swooped in, pulling Steve's bag off his shoulder and dropping it where they stood. Pressing a kiss to Steve's forehead, he quickly ushered his boyfriend into the bathroom and started the shower before turning back to help Steve, who was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

He had no idea how Steve ended up soaked from his ribs to his toes; the rainstorm from last night had petered out in the early hours of the morning, finally allowing Steve to get some rest, as the pressure and temperature changes had made his knees and wrists ache horribly as well as aggravating his lungs.

That didn't matter, though. All that mattered were the tears tracking silently down his lover's cheeks as Bucky knelt to unlace his shoes and unbuckle his belt, pulling everything off with a practiced motion.

He pushed to his feet and gave Steve another quick kiss. "Get in and get warm," he urged. "I'm gonna go make you some toast and tea, okay?"

Steve hiccuped again, "Peanut butter and honey on the toast? P-please?"

Bucky's heart broke, and he nodded. "And agave syrup in the tea. I love you."

"Love you, Buck."

--

As soon as Steve was settled on his shower chair, Bucky rushed through the apartment. He shoved Steve's towel, the couch blanket, and one of his own sweatshirts into the dryer and set the timer for 15 minutes, put their kettle on and prepped Steve's favorite mug with some blood orange tea and agave syrup. He pulled out the peanut butter and honey for the toast, and stabbed at his phone until soft instrumental music started flowing from the speakers around the living room.

--

As soon as the dryer timer beeped, Bucky set the toast cooking and the tea steeping, bundled the deliciously warm laundry into his arms, deposited the blanket back on the couch, and went to retrieve Steve, who hadn't moved, even as the water started to cool.

Steve remained silent and unresisting as Bucky dried him with the warm towel, though his eyes fluttered in pleasure and he sighed heavily as Bucky slipped the sweatshirt over his head, tugging it down until it settled in place, brushing his knees and hanging over his fingertips.

Bucky sat him down on the couch with another forehead kiss, tucking the blanket around his legs with the promise of a quick return. Steve snuggled down more fully as he watched Bucky assemble tea and toast with bleary eyes.

Holding the toast in one hand and the tea in another, Bucky sat beside Steve and gently encouraged his to relax back onto his chest, handing off the mug as soon as Steve was leaning against him, freeing his hand to pull him even closer and offer the toast as needed.

Steve sniffled softly as he was cradled and kisses were rained down on the back and side of his head. Slowly, quietly, he spoke of his sleepless night, the lingering pain in his joints from the storm, his overburdened workload, his dropped afternoon coffee, the unseen puddle at the bus stop that drenched him, and a thousand other little things that would have been nothing normally, but felt like nothing but unending punches to his spirit today.

And Bucky held him, fed him toast, wiped away the peanut butter at the corner of his lips, kissed his temple, murmured his empathy and his love over and over until Steve gently slipped into sleep with the whispered words:

"I'm so proud of you. You did it. You made it through. And you never have to do today again. I love you."

And Steve, even in his sleep, knew it was true.

[junipercreeps]

I sat cross-legged in front of the mirror of my wide-open wardrobe. My bathrobe hung loosely over my shoulders, and in front of me lay the empty packaging of a headache tablet I had borrowed from the room next door. The girl had eyed me sceptically and asked which dorm I came from – when I told her I had moved in right next to her, she seemed quite surprised.

June, the Invisible.

That's what Grace used to call me. Grace, the one the student mentioned who was supposed to ask me those horribly intimate questions. My former best friend. The person I used to confide in about everything until I turned seventeen.

Grace Gilbert.

I examined my reflection in the half-darkness. My knees peeked out from under the bathrobe; they were scratched, and bruises were slowly forming on my skin. Exactly where I had been bumped or lay on the hard stone.

My jogging clothes lay in a small pile next to me. I looked down at them wearily and felt an overwhelming urge to cry. This powerlessness. The way they just kidnapped me and asked me these questions. Why did I always trade one horror for another? When would it finally end?

I was cold, but I wasn't trembling. I stuffed my dirty clothes into a laundry bag and sat back on my bed. I wouldn't have gotten much further over the next few minutes if it hadn't been for a soft knock on my door.

Out of reflex, I slipped my arms into my bathrobe and tied it tightly around my naked body. I looked sceptically at the door, but when it knocked again, I finally got up and stopped just short of the door handle. My hand was only a few millimetres away. My heart was pounding like crazy, and that was after I had successfully calmed myself down over the past few hours.

"Who's there?" I asked, pressing my ear close to the door, curious about who would come to my room so late at night. After all, no one here knew me.

"Alaric."

The name meant nothing to me.

"I don't know you," I said a bit louder.

"You don't know anyone. I'm here to check on you. Audrey sent me."

My heart sank into my stomach. Samuin. Couldn't they just leave me alone for tonight? I put my cold hand on the door handle and opened my bedroom door just a crack.

Standing outside my door was a young man, probably almost six feet tall, with black hair. He looked like a typical heartthrob to me. Someone I had often seen at polo tournaments.

He examined me closely. From my hairline down to my toes, but he didn't enter my room without permission, although he took a cursory glance into the darkness from where I had just come.

"You look terrible," he said quietly.

"You're the guy from the ritual," I replied, ignoring his comment. He was the one who had asked me the three questions. I would never forget that voice. "We don't discuss Samuin publicly."

"Ah, I see," I replied.

He chuckled and reached into his pocket. In the hand he extended to me, there was a single tablet, still in its small blister pack.

"For the headache," he said when I hesitated to take the medication. This time, I scrutinized him. His dark hair and eyelashes, his bright blue eyes, and the expensive clothing he wore. Even though he appeared casual, I recognized every brand.

On one of his fingers, I noticed the underside of a silver ring. I placed my hand on his and, instead of taking the tablet, I held his hand firmly and turned it over with my palm.

With his hand now on top, I looked directly at the signet ring he was wearing. A rune and an ornate B – almost like an old coat of arms.

"Blyton," he said, unasked, and I nodded as I slowly withdrew my fingers from beneath his, now inspecting the tablet.

"Tramadol?" I asked in disbelief.

"Probably works better than your aspirin, right?"

Of course, he knew that too. I didn't give him an answer but was immediately distracted when a door across from my room opened; a girl gently pushed another girl out, both grinning. They winked at us while they shared a goodnight kiss.

As I waited for the girls to finish, Alaric continued to scrutinize me. "Can I come in?"

My attention returned to him.

"No," I said immediately and gripped the door handle tightly.

"Too bad. We'll see each other in the coming days, June. Good night."

And just like that, Alaric left. I glanced at the girls one last time, who were still busy, and then quickly closed my door.

My heart was pounding, along with the pain in my head. What had my parents gotten me into here?

When I took the tablet to the bathroom, I briefly considered not taking it. But I really wanted to sleep and knew the headache probably wouldn't let me rest. So, I removed it from the blister pack, placed it on my tongue, and took a sip of water straight from the tap.

I hadn't turned on the light in the bathroom, and when I looked up again, directly into the mirror above my sink, I nearly screamed in shock.

In front of me wasn't my completely drained reflection; instead, I saw the outlines of an old woman with a contorted face.

June.

I stumbled backward and practically slammed my hands on the light switch. My mirror was empty; there was no woman to be seen. When I carefully stepped back in front of my sink, I was only me.

My wide brown eyes, which were now wide in fear. My deep, dark eye bags and my still-wet hair from my shower earlier.

June.

I flinched at the sound of my name, my hands tingling, and I looked down at them. But those weren't my hands. They were the hands of an old woman, scarred and wrinkled. Tattooed with runes and symbols from another time. The skin was dry and cracked. There was blood on her fingers.

And then I couldn't hold it back any longer. I screamed.

[caelmewedd]

Gift for @krwioholik and @wilczmin

Hi, dears! I love these baby bruxa anons that I have been following for a long time. I hope you like my little fanfic version. Maybe one day I'll make it into a long story. Most of quotes are from the post on @wilczmin blog.

Geralt had assumed the bruxa was the only monster here, have scented only her, through all her spilled blood and the faint tinge of flames in the air where she had vanished and reappeared again, over and over as they battled. He was only glad to get out of there alive, without only a few average cuts and bruises. By some miracle, he had also come away without a single bite, though several times the bruxa's fangs had come terribly close to breaking skin and veins. But they hadn't.

And now, he dragged himself from the abandoned cellar, casting a gaze at the abandoned estate. But when he paused, only for a moment, he swore he could hear movement inside. He expected a stray knight had survived  the attack and taken shelter inside the walls while he waited for help, but the trails of blood led only from the cellar, and not up the steps to the dilapidated building itself. His boots clicked heavily against the cracked stone steps.

Geralt spotted her only an instant before she hid in the nest maded from pillows, blakets and furs. He hear her, too, and her frightened breathing, and he could smell her and smell that she was no ordinary human child at all, but that she carried the same odour as the bruxa that he had just killed. Oh no. The thought pained him with immeasurable guilt, which he expertly urged back before it threatened his consciousness. This was a child. This was a baby. Regardless of what species she was, the witcher couldn't simply slay her…He couldn’t do a such horrible thing.

„Hey,” he murmured softly, shutting the door to the small room behind himself and slowly squatting, his bad leg extended slightly outside, one arm between his legs to balance himself. „It's all right. Not here to hurt you.” He crept forward, just slightly, then sat himself down fully on the dusty floor. „Were you waiting for your mother?” Another pang. „I'm sorry. You the only one?”

The baby bruxa, of course, did not answer him in any way, did not try to babble, coo or cry. She lay still among the pillows breathing quietly, instinctively trying not to draw danger to herself. However, the strange stranger was still right next to the nest staring at her, but apparently the stranger had no intention of harming her, as he himself had announced. After a long moment, however, she decided to try to look at the witcher, and slowly and very carefully shifted the gaze of her bright blue eyes to Geralt. As she looked at him longer, she noticed that the stranger was smiling slightly at her, but it took her a moment to realize that it was a good, welcoming smile and not a wraith-like grin.

Geralt slowly moved closer and sat down on one of the pillows. He remained cautious, however, as he had never dealt with a bruxa young before and suspected that even a young bruxa was very strong, and even a young vampire was not to be taken lightly. Fortunately, the baby bruxa was fairly calm and her instincts were overshadowed by the natural curiosity typical of any child. Slowly she began cooing quietly and extending her tiny hands to the witcher. Geralt gently reached out his gloved hands to the child and gently took the baby bruxa into his arms, though he was unsure about holding the infant. He had never held such a baby before, only seen other mothers do it, but whether the baby bruxa's mother carried her baby in her arms, he didn't know. He knew nothing at all about bruxae and the care of their offspring.

"Huh?" The baby bruxa sighed quietly as Geralt wrapped his arms around her. Geralt gently adjusted the hug and gently stroked the baby's head covered in soft black curls.

"Shh...It's all right." Geralt whispered quietly, realizing that he had never spoken a more blatant lie. Of course it wasn’t all right. Not for this baby bruxa, whose only fault was to have a mother who killed so senselessly that she drew the attention of a witcher; whose only fault was having a mother who could not best the witcher at her own game. He knew not whether he would have spared her even if he had know that she was nursing a child. At the very least, perhaps, he would have reasoned with her, or found some sort of common ground. Perhaps his attempts would have been futile, but at least he could have tried.

The baby bruxa began to wriggle gently in the witcher's arms, as if she didn't want to be away from the cozy nest for too long. Geralt instinctively firmed his embrace for fear that he would inadvertently drop her and hurt her.

„Don’t want to stay there in those blankets all night, do you? Come. Come here. Won’t hurt you. I promise. I know I’m not your mother. I know. I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t know how sorry he was.

„I promise, I won’t hurt you. Just want to comfort you. I know you’re sad. Know you want your mother.” He wiggled his fingers slightly.  „It’s okay. It’ll be…it’ll be fine.”

She blinked when the mention of her mother came from Geralt's lips. Although she was calm and seemed to have nothing against the witcher, she was beginning to feel uneasy about her mother's prolonged absence. "Mama?"

No. No mama. No mama anymore. Geralt thought sadly.

He didn't know how he was supposed to tell her that her mother would never return to her again, as she was already lying dead outside. He couldn't tell her that. She was so small and couldn't know that she had become an orphan because of him.

"Shh...It will be okay. I promise you won't be alone, little one." Geralt replied, trying with all his might not to give in to the guilt that wanted to hit his consciousness again.

As gently as he could, he picked up the baby girl, wanting not only to comfort her but also to get a better look at her. The baby bruxa squealed quietly, but let him take her in his arms, then looked with her blue eyes at the witcher also wanting to look at him. Geralt curved his lips in a small, gentle smile. The baby bruxa initially lowered her gaze, but after a while she got bolder and looked at him, and even started cooing sweetly to him and reaching out her hands to him curiously, wanting to explore his face by touch. Then the witcher saw hanging on her small hand a bracelet of white gold with a heart-shaped ruby pendant and beautiful engraving. Geralt gently took the baby bruxa's bracelet-clad hand and looked at the engraving.

"Lizzie." He read aloud, then smiled at the baby vampiress, guessing that this was the girl's name. Lizzie cooed softly, as if to introduce herself nicely to him. "That's a very pretty name, little one. Nice to meet you, I'm Geralt."

Lizzie smiled then reached out and gently mussed the witcher's chin with her fingers, which scratched her delicate, soft fingers like a hard brush meant for horses. However, the baby bruxa did not find this feeling unpleasant. Geralt began gently rocking Lizzie while looking around the room. He didn't know what he should do with the little vampire, but he knew he couldn't leave her alone. Left alone, without her mother's care, she could easily become the snack of some ghoul or other monster, or she could simply die of hunger and cold. He instinctively took the first better blanket from the nest and covered Lizzie with it, who was still playing with his stubble, apparently enjoying the feeling of gentle scratching.

"Let's get out of here, little one." Geralt whispered quietly, tossing a few of the baby's essentials into her baby basket, which must also have been a carrier for Lizzie, quite often used. "Don't worry, Lizzie. I'll be there for you." He whispered quietly as they left the abandoned estate.

[bloodbetwixtgold]

🏠

Send 🏠 for my muse to show up at your muse’s house unexpectedly!

"Such a delightful surprise."

He hadn't wanted to believe his luck, when he had finally spied out which rooms the young prince occupied... Prince... not yet Pharaoh.

Probably still as rotten to the core as all of them. His lithe frame had pulled itself up the edges and crannies of the palace.... he had found somebody to explain to him the climbing for this very moment. Nobody expected a human to be able to climb up these walls...

They'd look again if they found the first born of the God's pets horribly maimed in the morning. Neither fit nor worthy to rule a kingdom-

And he was asleep. Bakhura's eyes narrowed. What a brat... not even the loud proclamation had roused this one. So... it didn't matter. He was a little breathless from the climb... one or two moments of breathing more wouldn't turn his luck.

Something inside of him snarled, almost prompted him to grab for his dagger and plunge it horribly into the other ones throat... but his hands interlocked and he rested against the wall below the smooth hole that was the princes window.

He could wait... wait until the other one woke up... maybe he would wake him, just to see how right he actually was, to see him understand and watch the light leave his eyes. Bakhura fingered the dagger in his hands and simply stared at the sleeping young man, even younger than himself. Merely a child.

His eyes closed. This kill was supposed to hurt, it was supposed to mean something in the large pattern of things. He had only seen the young prince from afar, enraged at the mere sight of him... deeply enraged about the fact that his enemy still grew sprouts while the fields of his family lay barren and dry. Forever.

A low sigh left him. He wasn't one to step back from a kill. He usually didn't even care enough to bother. Yet... this was the parting of ways. Would he become like his enemy... or should he ascend them in victory. Revenge was no fun like this... he decided and ignored the dark urge that raged wildly in his chest. The boy threw himself around on the bed, in the dark he could see that his hair was wild and ruffled.

He slipped the dagger back into the sheath. Bakhura could wait. One or two hours more.... a week... months, if he had to. As much as his urges demanded of him to slaughter every living being in this palace... it was the pharaoh, he wanted. While this would cause him at least a part of the grief that he deserved... the child on the bed - likely unaware - shouldn't pay for the sins of his father. He refused to sink that low. The brat seemed spoiled, but he could see a few bruises on his legs... like he had been playing around. A pair of dusty sandals that had seen better days. His eyes closed. JUST a child, no matter their birthright. Just like he had been.

[the-everlasting-downpour]

IV. – Hirmukånslar.

The jets of hot water wrapped around my naked body. The noise of the shower was the only sound in the bathroom. The scars continued to ache from every touch. Square sat on the floor of the shower stall, pressing his knees to his chest, and stared into nothing. He didn't know how much time had passed in that stall, how long the water had been pouring, how long he was going back in time, remembering the good things that had been overshadowed before the nightmare that proudly bore the name – «adolescence».

The shower stall in the only bathroom on the first floor of his house was his only refuge. He found no safety in the living room, in his relatives' rooms, in his father's room – even in his own bed he felt fear. Fear enveloped him as water enveloped his body now; horrible faces appeared in his closed eyes, his imagination painted monsters too real to believe they didn't exist.

He got up and turned off the water. Water vapor rose to the ceiling and dissolved into the cold air. Of all the sounds, there was only the droplets falling to the ground. Square felt cold, so he stepped out of the shower stall, grabbed a towel, and began to wipe himself. The scars hurt more, but Square just endured looking at himself in the mirror. When he wiped himself off, he hung up his towel, stood in front of the mirror, and examined himself again.

Scars, abrasions, bruises, unhealed wounds – all of it had a history. No matter how much Square ran from it, he would be reminded of it every time, for the bandages covering them had to be changed every day. The wounds arose then. Back when he was weak and when his paranoia was born. A perpetual fear of strangers dressed in long coats. Square opened a locker behind the mirror, pulled out a couple of packs of bandages. Opening them, he began pulling out bandage after bandage, opening it and wrapping it around his battered body. First the white sterilized cloth covered his chest, then his legs, and then his arms.

When all the wounds were covered with the bandages, he got dressed, picked up the rest of the garbage, and left the bathroom. He tossed the packs into the trashcan in the kitchen; the packs of bandages disappeared into the blackness of the bag. Glancing out the window for a second, where there was only the blackness of November at night, he went up to the second floor and entered his room. It was empty and cold; the unmade bed was somehow more invigorating than the cold wind through the open window.

Square lay on the bed, not trying to get under a blanket, and closed his eyes, hoping that time would pass more quickly.

a man of no goals, a man of no needs, a man of no purpose, a man of no life.

are you actually a man? or something, so pathetic to be unseen? because, unlike you, a friend of mine, even the rotting husk has a purpose to fulfill.

it is to wither, turn to nihil, it is to rot away.

In the morning he woke up heavily. When he looked out the window, all he could see was blackness. He checked the time on his phone – 5:44 AM. With a heavy sigh, Square rose up from the bed, walked to the table, picked up his clothes from the slid-in chair, and got dressed. On the table, as he dressed, he saw the usual mess of books, papers, and the usual junk, underneath which he could see a laptop computer. Still feeling sleepy, Square tightened his belt and left his room.

He went down to the first floor and immediately went into the bathroom. There he washed his drowsy face, and the feeling of sleepiness disappeared, but the ghostly urge to go back to bed was still there. He came out of the bathroom and walked to the kitchen, where his father was already standing making coffee. He was already dressed in his shirt and pants.

— Why are you up so early? – his father asked, looking over at Square, who was seated at the table.

— I don't know, – Square replied.

His father put the coffee on the low heat and sat down at the table in front of Square. He looked a little worried, but Square didn't notice it.

— Look, – his father said, – if you have a problem, let's talk about it.

— No, dad, – Square said. – I'll take care of it myself. I'll take care of it myself.

His father looked away, contemplating the possibilities of their conversation, and then, returning his gaze, asked his youngest son:

— Why do you keep avoiding a proper conversation?

Really, fucking, why, thought Square. He didn't know the exact answer to that question, but he had an idea of the possible outcome of his life. A sad one.

— Because it's personal, – Square answered.

— Even for the family?

— Yes, even for the family. It's... a little bit more personal, you know? There's «personal», and then there's «a little bit more personal». And there's a boundary between those concepts that determines whether or not you can reveal them to your loved ones.

My father got up and poured himself a cup of coffee in a small black cup. He sat silently sipping the black, scalding and invigorating liquid, looking out into the empty living room. There was not a single rustle on the first floor, and only his father's sobbing was any sound. This silence hung as a stone on Square's soul – he was ashamed and afraid; ashamed that he could not reveal these secrets, and afraid because of what would come after his revelations.

— Well, – the father said, putting the empty cup on the table, – what are you going to do this early in the morning?

— I don't know, – Square said. – Maybe I’ll go for a walk.

— If you’ll do, please take the trash out.

Square nodded and got up and got out a bag of garbage and went into the hallway. There he put his shoes on, threw on his windbreaker, and left the apartment to the gaze of his father, in whom he found only sadness and concern. Square left the house, threw the garbage into a black bin, and headed into town, which was only two streets away from their house.

The sky was black, but there was a slight change in color closer to the horizon on the left – it was beginning to dawn. It was quite cold, and the wind that occasionally came through these streets beat Square in his flat, square face, but neither the cold nor the gusts of wind bothered Square; all he cared about was what he could see today, whether this day could be imprinted on his memory in any way.

The sun rose gradually, slowly, taking his time to start a new cycle. Square walked past different houses, where different people lived: some drunks, some drug addicts, some businessmen, some family men. Each house had its own little piece of history, each person in each house ready to tell about himself-about his tastes and dreams, about his victories and defeats, about his fears. Square sometimes felt as if he didn't belong here – among a community ready to tell its own story.

Square reached neighborhoods where twenty-story houses rose up, standing atlantes at small establishments and shopping centers. Skyscrapers could be seen in the distance; their obsidian windows reflected a whole cosmic world calling out to them. Square was ready to follow the stars and the rising sun, but an anchor of guilt held him to the surface of the mortal earth. He had no choice but to walk around, to meet the occasional lark, eager to get to work on time.

He glanced at the time on his phone – 6:20 AM. Though he walked leisurely, it surprised him that so much time had passed. He walked past various amateur stores, cafes, bars, and restaurants, among which a small number had already opened their doors, hoping to catch early visitors. As he walked, a minivan with a familiar logo drove by; Square followed.

As Square rounded the corner where that minivan had disappeared, he saw two silhouettes outside an establishment he knew. The silhouettes were unloading something from the minivan and dragging it inside the establishment. Square moved toward the silhouettes without hesitation or fear, knowing full well who they were. As he got closer and closer, he noticed more and more familiar details until he saw two young human faces, one with a beard and one without.

Noticing Square, those faces stopped their procession.

— Oh, Square! – the first one said with a friendly smile, putting the crate back in the minivan. – What's the matter?

— Nothing, Rudolph, – Square said. – 'Woke up very early.

— Nightmares again? – Asked the other, leaning against the window inside the establishment with his shoulder.

— Yes, Henry. Sadly.

Rudolph and Henry continued their business. Square just stood, leaning against the pole that lit the road and sidewalk with its inhuman white light, and listened to them talk. They talked about all sorts of things-about the profitability of their establishment, about further plans for their personal future, about plans to improve their establishment, about all sorts of other things. Their conversations mingled with the wind, singing for all and for none, for the language of the wind was unknown to anyone, but at the same time so understandable to everyone. He heard notes of melancholy dark jazz mixed with Twenty One Pilots in the wind's song today.

The brothers finished their work. Rudolph closed the minivan; Henry closed the door to the establishment. A silence hung, in which Square couldn’t find themselves properly – as if isolated from something, that they call «I»

— Let's walk the streets, – Rudolph suggested. – We open at nine o'clock anyway. There's plenty of time.

— Yes, but... – Henry began.

— But what, Henry? – Rudolph asked. – As if «Sex Pistols» weren't late for their concerts.

Henry sighed, heavily.

— You're always comparing everything to them.

— And what’s the matter? They're the standard of a man.

Henry didn't say anything back. After thinking with a droopy look, he said with a sigh:

— All right, let's go.

Rudolph smiled contentedly, but Square didn't see it. The trio of friends moved toward the center of the city, illuminated by white light, surrounded by houses, drawn by those obsidian obelisks of parasitic capitalism. As they walked, while the surroundings around them were changing, and the sun was slowly rising, already fully over the horizon – while they were walking, Henry was on the phone with someone, and Square asked Rudolph:

— Listen, do you know any good shooting ranges?

— What? – Rudolph asked, somewhat surprised.

— Do you know any good shooting ranges? – Square repeated.

— I know some, –  Rudolph answered, scratching the back of his head. – I only don't know if they are open now. Though, as I remember, one of them must be open.

— Will you take me there now?

Rudolph looked at Square. He was absolutely serious, which made Rudolph all the more surprised by his determination.

— Okay, no problem, – Rudolph said.

— Thanks.

They spent the rest of the way in silence.

There was no sun during the day; the whole sky was covered with a gray mass of clouds, giving Square’s thoughts a peculiar melancholy and the day itself a tendency to long metropolitan downpours. Paradoxically, though the country is quite far from the tropics and subtropics and is considered a northern country by its location, the fall showers here are quite heavy. Sometimes they come unexpectedly, sometimes there are preconditions in the form of such gray days, which usually occur one to three days before the downpour. When the downpours do come, Square sits down at his desk and just stares out the window and listens to the heavy, cold droplets trying to burst into his room.

In spite of this gloomy weather, Square moved to the nearby park, just to gaze at the world around him. Once there, he simply walked between the bare trees, black earth, gray tiles, and brown benches with black metal frames. There was nothing to catch in such parks, so he moved on to another park. And so he passed through at least four parks before anything worth his while happened.

The Tshenvalsky Park, in addition to its location in the «center» of the capital, differed from dozens of other parks by the bust of the «Creator of Paradise», the god of creation and destruction – a gigantic Artifact, on a six-meter obelisk that was already several thousand years old. Here Square decided to stop long enough to gaze at the obelisk with the bust of the Artifact, at some other notable things around and just hope that he didn't have to go any further than this park. And, sitting down on the bench, he began just to look at the obelisk and the people nearby.

Ten minutes passed, and the thought that something was sure to happen in this park began to decay, as did previous thoughts like this one. But soon a man stood beneath the obelisk, spreading out a booth handing out something under the bust. Square decided to get up and walk over to the man who was laying out his works for display.

The man had shoulder-length hair and a beard that made him look like Jesus Christ. He was dressed in a shirt with his jacket unbuttoned, slacks and high black sneakers. When asked about the books, whose wine-colored covers with a strange portrait of a strange man attracted Square's attention, he answered:

— No reason... I wrote it myself, published it myself, but no store will accept it. They say I write bad things. I used to try to sell it on different markets, but it was no use. Now I'm walking around like an idiot, trying to give them away this way. For a donation.

Square, expressing his sympathy for the author's situation, decided to take the book from him, donating ten jsabs in return. The writer smiled, and Square considered his task at this point completed. He returned to his seat on the bench and, holding the book in his hands, simply decided to relax as much as possible. For a second, he looked up at the sky and saw the sun breaking through the clouds, illuminating everything around him with its pale autumnal light.

However, rather quickly, after about ten minutes, three persons in suits appeared in the park. They approached the writer at the obelisk, looked at the books, and suddenly slowly, one by one, began to scatter them in different directions, giving some comments:

— All the books are going to fly away – are you keeping track of them?

— The wind is strong today.

— Haven't you read about the weather? They say there's going to be a storm from the south.

It wasn't the impudence of the men in suits that surprised Square, but the writer's patience. If it had been him, he would have let the fight happen long ago, even though Square was weaker and he was alone.

— What do you want? Money? – The writer said after all. – I don't have any money. I just got here recently.

— How can you have no money, but so many books? –  the man, clearly the leader, asked, while facing him «tet-a-tet».

— Because I am a fucking writer! –  the writer answered. – That's exactly how writers live. No work, no money, but there are books. Just books.

— Look, this is our land, – the leader said, hinting that it's time for the writer to leave.

— This? – the writer questioned, and he held his hand above the head of the person in front of him. – You have control of an entire park? That's actually the state property? I don't believe it.

— Well… You'll have to, – the leader said.

The leader drew a gun from his groove, took a step back and put the barrel to the writer's forehead. Square wanted to rush to his aid, but at the same time logic hit him in the head like a book in his hand. The simple thought of his own mortality made him sit back and watch that writer probably get killed.

— What are you going to do now, huh? – said the leader mockingly.

The writer sharply knocked the pistol out of his hand, discharged it, and put it away in his pocket. The leader, who looked dumbfounded at his empty hand, in which seconds ago had been his only argument, became very angry and tried to strike the writer, but the writer struck him in the throat with a straight palm, causing the man only to fall to his knees pitifully, holding himself by the throat and trying to say at least a word. The writer took him by the lapel and told him, in a rough, smoky, rather low northern voice:

— Don't mess with life. Go away.

The writer threw him to the ground. The man's partners picked him up and walked away, and the writer returned to his seat and just kept waiting for someone to come up and take his book for a donation.

It was rather late in the evening when Square returned home. He himself was surprised that he had walked so much, but he was glad and satisfied that this day was somehow different from the previous ones. Unclothed and making his way to the living room, he left that writer's book on the counter, with the author's name, Evgeniy Alyokhin, and the book's name, The Routine, written on the cover; both were in paradisian. Underneath the inscription was a strange face drawn, evoking some kind of baser instincts. Square went over to the couch to look at what Cube was watching (and he was either watching the news or some art program), lowered his gaze, and noticed that his sister Circle was drawing something. It was hard to see, but as he stood next to her, he examined the drawing more closely.

The drawing was done in black marker. The lines depicted branches, trees, small grass, a couple of people, an owl in a hollow tree. There was a small inscription, written so finely that Square didn't even dare to delve into it.

— It's a beautiful drawing, – Square said.

— Is it? – Circle said, lifting her head to Square. – Thank you. I thought I'd try out a new style. What did you like about it?

— I don't know... its overall composition. You know? I don't know how to take something out of a drawing and make it a reason why I liked the whole drawing.

— I see, – Circle said and flipped through the album, starting a new drawing.

After thinking for a while, Square went up to the second floor of the house and secluded himself with his thoughts in his room. Outside the window, the rabble continued its expansion.

The next day was also a day off, so Square decided to devote himself to walking around the city once more. All the streets, alleys, avenues, and other places he already knew, most of the notable places and establishments had been visited at some point in his life, and now all he had to do was walk and wonder what would happen that would make this day different from thousands of others.

Soon his appetite heated up. It only heats up when nothing worthwhile has happened in a day. There was money, so Square decided to turn out of his way and go to the nearest diner. Once inside, he was struck by the bustle of this small two-story building, or rather, the bustle of the kitchen with a bunch of underpaid workers. It's amazing how many minds, because of the possibility of becoming a laughingstock, have fled their talent here, to such and tens of thousands of other eateries, to be in the face of others a normal person and not a monster out of a snuffbox.

Square stood at the interactive menu, selected his food from various promotions, and paid for his order. The receipt was printed out. Looking at the number of his order, he stood in a small waiting area, where besides him stood a few other people, fiercely clinging their eyes to the monitor, on which in two straight vertical lines were the order numbers. Here, among these strangers, he saw one of them, a man with shoulder-length hair, dressed in a black jacket, black pants, and tall sneakers, also black. He looked painfully familiar to Square, and he touched his shoulder a couple of times without fear. The man turned toward him, and Square felt scared and fearful – what to do now? But the way out was quickly found.

— Excuse me, don't we know each other? – Square asked.

— Maybe, – the man said. – What gives?

— I think I saw you yesterday, – Square said, a little nervously. – You were handing out books in The Tshenvalsky Park, by the obelisk.

— Yes, that was me, – the man said.

— And how did it go? – Square asked.

— I only managed to give half of them away. I'll try to distribute some more today.

The man was distracted from the conversation by the sound of his order number. He came over, took his tray and sat down at a free table not far from Square, who in turn followed where the man was going. After getting his order, he sat down at a table right in front of the man.

— Let's get acquainted, – the man said, holding out his hand and saying his name.

— That's a beautiful name, – Square said, shaking his hand. – I'm Square.

— Nice to meet you.

— Likewise.

They began to eat, each from their own tray. They ate as they went about their business, and they continued to make noises in the kitchen.

— What do you do for a living? – Square asked.

— Bartender at the Sixth Lynch, M. answered. – I'm also a student at TSC.

— Oh, I'm a student of TSC as well! Just… unemployed.

— It's okay to be unemployed. But it's better not to be.

— That's true.

After finishing his burger, M. wiped his hands, crumpled his napkin, looked away for a second, and then, looking at Square, asked:

— Player, right?

— Yes…? – Square said, quite nervous. – How’d you know?

— I know your family, – M. said. – Penti, Circle, Tri.

— Really? – Square asked in surprise and relief. – And how did you meet?

— At a party at the «Shajar Home», – M. explained. – About three months ago.

When he heard the words «party at the «Shajar Home»», Square became gloomy, as the scenes of what had happened there flashed through his mind. M. noticed this change in his face, stopped chewing the fries, and wiped his hands again, with a new napkin.

— Do you remember something bad? – he asked.

— Uh... No, not at all, – Square said, trying to get out of it. – Don’t think about it.

M. wrinkled his dirty napkin.

— You’ve met some terrible fates, aren't you? – he asked.

Square's heart skipped a beat. Various paranoid thoughts flared up in his head in a blue flame. When he looked at M., he noticed that he was looking into his soul; nothing could distract his gaze – his two black eyes had turned into coal peaks, reaching into Square's very soul, touching those memories that made Square want to vomit.

— Yes... – Square admitted helplessly.

M. nodded, placing his hands in front of him. The sounds around him suddenly fell silent, as if they were alone in the entire establishment; as if life itself had changed its flow under his influence.

— To forget the past is to admit one's weakness and immutability, – M. said. – Learn from the past. That is my advice to you.

Square was silent; his downcast gaze stared at an invisible point beyond the horizon of events. Life was back to the way it had been. M. looked around, then picked up the trash on a tray, picked it up, and stood up.

— So long, – M. said simply.

He left. Square remained silent.

It was night, the kind of night when Tri, Circle, Penti and their father were already sound asleep in their beds, and Square was the only one awake. He was sitting in the living room; the lights were off, and he could hear the tree tops moving in the cold wind outside the open window. His mind was blank; his gaze was stony; his heart was slowly becoming glassy, hardened in an ocean of eternal despair and guilt.

A text message arrived on his phone; the sound of the notification caused Square to wake up from contemplating the ceiling. He got up, took the phone from the table, and read it. The message that came to his phone said his package was at his doorstep. At first he was surprised – first, it was already two in the morning, and second, he couldn't remember what he had ordered. In spite of this, he got up and moved to the hallway.

Behind the door was indeed a parcel. He looked around, but found no one in the blackness of the street, so he took the parcel. It was a rather heavy little box, wrapped in twine, with a small piece of paper with his name and address written on it-it looked exactly like the other packages Square had received. He took a knife from the kitchen, sat down on the couch, placed the box in front of him on the coffee table, and began unpacking.

Carefully cutting the twine and cutting through the opaque duct tape, Square opened the flaps of the box. On the thick layer of Styrofoam lay a note, folded in half. He took the note, and a strange heaviness began in his head; his nerves began to fray, different bad thoughts flashed, different creatures appeared in the periphery of his vision, and his hands shook slightly-all the things he'd felt then. Square swallowed and unfolded the note.

«The target is located at 8 Blommar st., ap. 20. Objective: eliminate target, retrieve suitcase, leave suitcase at statue at The Tshenvalsky Park.

Failure is not an exit. We are watching. Phoenix of Paradise.»

The businesslike, straightforward language bluntly told Square that it was time to go back in time. Back when Square was weak and pathetic, when he was afraid of the personalities in silhouettes, when he didn't try to fight for himself. Where his paranoia arose. Where he learned how fear feels like

Square put the note aside. His hands shook and tingled, his nerves stopped obeying the commands of his body and his body stopped obeying the commands of his nerves; it was as if he was going mad on a biological level. In his head, on the canvas of his thoughts, the word «no» was written in bright flame – the desire to refuse to believe in reality, in the kind of cruel and unfeeling reality that surrounds him.

In the fear came a thought that gave a spark of hope: this is nothing more than a farce, a joke, a prank. There were few people who knew where Square lived, because everyone else lay in coffins in the territories of different cemeteries. Suddenly, a wave of horrifying but strangely comforting thought swept over his mind-if this was what he thought it would be, it was probably the meanest of jokes and the cruelest of pranks.

Square concentrated the rest of his attention on the package. He picked up a piece of Styrofoam and picked it up. A Glock came into view – which one, he had no idea. He pulled it out and examined it; this polymer instrument of hatred and deprivation of life was now as if bound to him as people handcuffed each other in different situations. He put the gun aside, rummaged through the parcel some more-so he found two magazines, fully loaded with what Square thought was a 9mm round.

Looking at the gun, Square thought. The minutes flowed in a thin, drawn-out stream, and he kept thinking. In his head, among all the other delirious thoughts, a simple truth blazed in particular: You're in the grid, my friend, and there's no way out. You have to participate, you have to kill-just like back then, only now you know for sure that the target will be killed.

Square gathered the rest of his will into a fist, got up from the couch, and shoved the gun behind his groin. He stuffed the magazines in his left back pocket; he folded the note and stuffed it in his right pocket. Taking the box, he tossed it in the kitchen, shoving it deep into the trash so no one would notice. He moved to the hallway; there he put on his windbreaker and left the house. Ten minutes later, he reached The Tshenvalsky Park.

Square stood looking at the obelisk, illuminated by the faint moonlight, and tried to figure out which «right» he meant. How should one look at the statue, from the face or from the back? After agonizing for five minutes, Square moved to the right of where he was. He reached an ordinary residential building made in the old northern style in the fifties. The sign in front of the front door read, House 8. Everything seemed right.

Standing at the door, Square stopped himself again. The thought occurred to him that all his movements were ruled only by the usual fear of some strangers. He could rush out of his seat now and run back home, and if asked, answer that he was having trouble sleeping, and he would be understood. But that idea was trampled by logic. Square had a real service weapon in his pocket; if he rushed back, that same gun would finish him off. And maybe his family, too, so he'd have someone to see him off to the next world.

Square went inside. The first man he saw was a thug in a jacket, with a bat in his hand, standing on the stairs with his back to him, talking to someone. Square shut the door, walked up to the bandit, pulled his gun in the process, and punched the bandit in the back of the head. Square pulled the bandit aside, loaded his gun, and started to climb higher. As he reached the third floor, he saw a couple of bandits with serious weapons. He checked the chamber, came around the corner, and pulled the trigger several times. The shots rang out with a distinctive, blunt echo of eternal death. The bandits, now corpses, fell, sprawled by the door to apartment number 20. Square, stepping over the corpses, opened the door and stepped inside, gun at the ready.

There was a sepulchral silence inside, worse on the nerves than withdrawal. The apartment was obviously lived in, and judging by the light, someone was inside. The living room was stuffy, and the kitchen was humming quietly with the refrigerator. The bathroom was empty, but the stifling smell of cigarettes wafted in. Square went into the bedroom, but there was no one there either; things were scattered everywhere, the window was wide open, and the ceiling fan was silently spinning its lonely dance.

On an empty table next to the lonely bed lay a black suitcase. Without thinking long, Square approached it. The desire to open it and see the contents fluttered in his mind – maybe there was money in it, maybe there were stacks of all sorts of obscure but very important documents. Square shook his head, shaking the stupid idea out of his head, took the suitcase in his other hand and headed for the exit.

At a brisk pace he left the apartment, stepped over the corpses, and left the house. At the same rapid pace he walked to the obelisk in the center of The Tshenvalsky Park and, looking at the bust high on this granite pillar, which under the light of the moon seemed to be the Almighty Judge, left his suitcase. Square, looking at the suitcase goodbye, ran home, looking around nervously, trying to find any silhouette in the darkness between the lamp lights. As he disappeared, a mysterious figure swept across the square in the cold night wind and took the suitcase with him.

When he returned home, he vomited, put the gun in the nightstand of his desk, stuffed it with a pile of papers and notebooks, and then, exhausted and exhausted, collapsed on his bed. He hadn't fallen asleep – his only eye was open, staring into eternity, like a dead man.

Feeling the weight of what he had done, Square sat in the park with a sore head and a pistol behind his groin, staring into nowhere. If you traced his gaze, it rested against the wall of an old, pre-revolutionary building, hidden between bare trees that were just beginning to be covered by the December layer of snow. His hands were on his feet, propped up against the cold, his chest barely heaving, inhaling and exhaling – he seemed to be sleeping with his eyes open. Or quietly dying.

His hearing caught the approaching stomp of boots. He turned his head toward the source of the sound and saw a tall figure, Amin in an overcoat. He paused for a few seconds to stare at his friend and record in his memory some details about his present condition, and walked over and sat down next to him on the bench.

— Is something wrong, Square? – Amin asked.

Square sat down more comfortably.

— Amin, – Square said. – Does the name «Phoenix of Paradise» mean anything to you?

Amin's heart skipped a beat. There was an overpowering abyss of horror in his big eye.

— Please don't tell me you fell into their trap.

Square looked at him. Amin understood everything without further ado.

— «Phoenix of Paradise» is a new criminal organization, – Amin said. – Almost PMC-alike, but is a step above all the known criminal groups and mafias we know, to this day. They remain anonymous, recruiting people through parcels, sending them messages about the tasks from different numbers... and so on. They've made a system that's impossible to penetrate from any direction.

Square's head sank.

— Don't blame yourself, Square, – Amin continued. – You didn't know, and there's no point worrying about that. What's more, I'm already working out a plan to get rid of them. And you can help me.

Square looked at him sharply.

— And how? – He asked.

— I don't know yet, – Amin said, – I still have a few things to put down, but I'm sure we can break them.

He nodded and lowered his head again. Amin looked at him, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up and also lowered his gaze, thinking about his plan.

Square, driven by paranoia, walked the night streets of Treeangle. Not that he had been given a new assignment – he himself had little idea what he was doing. The eternal melancholy thoughts of a mind damaged by past and present, the lifeless light of the lamps, the ghostly silence of the roads and the jaundiced patches of windows in the distance, all drove him mad, slowly, plaguing the mind with ulcers of fear, destroying cells like cancer.

As he passed beneath the alley's vault, Square noticed a figure sitting on a bench. She looked familiar to him, and he moved straight toward her. As he got closer and closer, the figure's face became clearer and clearer. Two steps away from the figure, Square finally realized who was sitting on the bench – Henry von Ernen; there was an ocean of despair in his eyes, so familiar.

Henry looked up at Square.

— Oh, Square! – Henry said, and rose cheerfully, as if he felt no weight upon his soul. – Are you walking through the streets at night again?

— Yes, – he answered simply. – Where is Rudolph? I thought you were inseparable.

— He's at my house, – Henry answered. – Come with me, it’s just around the corner.

Square only nodded, and soon the two friends were moving through the nighttime neighborhood.

Henry and Square entered the nearest building, went up a couple of floors and entered an apartment similar to the one Peter Void had entered in a completely different dimension. It looked exactly as Peter had seen it, and Square, correlating what he had seen and what he was seeing now, had no doubt, if not that the apartment was exactly copied from that work, it certainly looked as much like it as possible. Everything looked exactly as it was described in that book-the painting, the table, the chairs, the couch, all the cabinets. Everything was arranged exactly the same way.

Square and Henry sat down next to each other, Square at the table and Henry next to each other, but not at the table, but on the edge of the table. Henry noticed the look on Square's face, the same devastated look that he himself had a few minutes ago.

— You look quite upset, Square, – Henry said. – Are you all right? Is there anything I can do to help?

— No, Henry, – said Square. – I've got it all under control.

Henry hesitated, took a sip from his flask, and held it out, offering a drink to Square. Square shook his head, and Henry put the flask back.

— I know what you're thinking, – Henry said amicably.

— Do you? – Square asked incredulously.

— How did I, a theater critic, stoop to this? How did I get into this maelstrom? It's simple. I received a parcel, exactly the same as you did.

— And how do you know that's the exact package I got?

— Because they're identical!

— And you went straight for the gun? Without even thinking about your old job?

— Almost. I had to give up my work in the theater to become a soldier for a new future country. And I did.

— I didn't know you were a nationalist.

— I always have been, – Henry said, with a much more serious face. – It used to be the norm to throw a rotten tomato on the stage. And now actors are shooting rifles at the audience. So what do you want to be, Square? An actor? Or an audience member?

Square was quiet for a few seconds, and then he said:

— I don't want to be one or the other. I want to get out.

Henry punched Square sharply in the head and, stepping back a couple of steps, drew his gun from behind his groove.

— There's no way out, Square. It’s either them or you. I think you've made your choice. So did my brother. Hands on your head.

— What's the matter with you, Henry? We used to be friends.

— We «were». Key word. Now you'll have to go to the theaters alone, – Henry said. – Put your hands on your head. Where's your gun?

— In my jacket, – Square said, rubbing the point of impact. – What happened to your brother?

— Exactly what you're thinking, – Henry said, pulling a gun from Square's jacket inner pocket. – Now, open the door – and onto the stairwell.

Square noticed how Henry acted – he acted fidgety, like a first-time schoolboy at a serious competition, probably because he'd never had to stick a knife in someone's back so sneakily and openly. Square slowly rose from the table and walked to the door.

Square picked up his jacket with both hands, turned slightly to slip his hand into the sleeve – and the next moment he was pouncing on Henry, throwing his jacket over his head. Henry pulled the trigger a couple of times, trying to take aim at Square, but the pressure on his throat and his life going away made it impossible. For a second, Square wanted to stop when he saw the pleading and pity in Henry's eyes, but he continued to choke him, pressing his throat through the fabric of his jacket and not looking at Henry's clutched hands. Before his fingers were finally loosened, he managed to fire a couple more shots at the wall.

When Henry stopped twitching in his attempts to get out from under his killers hands, Square rose over the corpse, stepped back a couple of steps, and went into pure panic. He didn't run around the apartment like a madman and stand as a petrified statue, looking at the corpse, whose body above the waist was covered by his own jacket, but he didn't know what to do next. Panic gradually receded, the soothing thought entering Square's mind that Henry was one of the men who had threatened his life, and therefore there was no reason to panic, much less suffer for his death. When she stepped back, however, unclasping Square's body from his unpleasant embrace, he immediately put on his jacket and retrieved his and Henry's weapons.

Glancing at the door, Square saw that the door was open, and that an unarmed man was walking slowly down the corridor. Square inhaled sharply and aimed his pistol at the man, and the man, hearing his breath, turned and raised his hands

— Take it easy, Square. It’s me, – the man said in a familiar voice.

Square, seeing the familiar shoulder-length hair, black eyes, and stubbly face, slowly lowered the gun and sighed in relief. He stepped back and sat down on the edge of the table, and M. walked across the room, looking at Henry's corpse.

— God forgive… – said M. longingly.

— I didn't mean to, – Square said bitterly. – I don't want to do it no more.

— There's nothing to worry about, – M. said. – You didn’t had any other choice.

There was silence. Square looked out the window. It was hazy, showing the orange street light against the endless blackness. Such scenery made Square think of his misfortune, how he had to suffer so often for pure nothing. How life had turned around, dislocating his legs and making him fall on the dirt floor to his own ridicule.

— Just so you understand, – M. said, – I don't work for them. I know a thing or two, but I don't think you're mentally stable enough to hear it, and…

— For God's sake, spit it out! – Square blurted out. – It can't be worse than that, can it?

— It can, – he said, sighing. – Henry and Rudolph have been working for them for a year now, and their antique shop works as a cover. Lately they've been working against them, the day before they put a ton of information into one man's hands. And now they have a reason to do a gigantic «purge».

— «Purge»? – Square clarified.

— Yeah. A real, Andropov-style «purge», – M. said. – We are a part of it.

— Wait a minute, – Square said and stood in front of him. – I understand why they want to get rid of Amin. But why do I, and even more so – why do you fall under this «purge» as well?

— Because we show action against them, – M. explained. – And it is noticeable from afar. Moreover, for them I am the number one target.

— Why?

— Because I'm clever, Square, and I wasn't just able to fool them – I robbed them of a lot of useful data, – M. said. – The next shot, I'm afraid, will be at our feet and we will not have a chance to escape, so let's get going before it's too late for all of us.

M. and Square left the apartment in a hurry, leaving Henry’s corpse behind them, whose dead eyes were staring dumbly at the ceiling.

To the Table of Contents. / To Ch. III. / To Ch. V.

[littlelioncub43]

Anger Issues

Summary: You and Lance like to argue. You hate him, he hates you, that’s how it’ll always be... right?

Pairing: Lance Tucker x fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT, so 18+ (minors DNI), hate fucking, choking, name calling, Lance Tucker being Lance Tucker but my interpretation of him

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: Hey, wee lambs! I missed you guys. I hope you like this one. I was supposed to be working on pt. 2 of Games and Lectures but I ended up writing for this guy instead. Oops, teehee. Like 99.99999% of my fics, this started as a filthy, naughty thot that I sent to @slothspaghettiwrites​ many moons ago. Leave a comment or send an ask if you have any suggestions, ideas, constructive criticism, or just want to chat :) Kisses —K 

P.S. this is for you @tumblin-theworldaway

Next part Series Masterlist

~~~~~~

“FUCK YOU, LANCE!” 

You shouted at the top of your lungs, your throat a bit sore from the near half hour of arguing. You’d just about had it, and so had he. All the yelling and shouting and name-calling that was so common between you and Lance always ended with both of you red faced and fuming. 

Today was no different. The gym was empty, everyone had cleared out once they heard your voices shouting from the office. You can’t even remember what you were fighting about anymore, you just knew that Lance Tucker was the bane of your existence and that you did not plan on losing this argument anytime soon. 

“You’d have to get in line, Sweetheart,” he said with his signature smirk. 

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, “oh, I’m pretty sure it’d be short line,” your tone spiteful and harsh. 

He laughed dryly, scratching his cheek while looking you up and down, a new wave of anger rising in his icy blue irises. It wasn’t until then that you noticed just how close he was standing. Your head tilting back to look up into his fiery eyes with your own anger. His chest was heaving up and down as he cornered you against the desk, labored breaths matching your own. 

“You can be such a fucking bitch, you know that?” His voice strained as he whispered. You fought the urge to glance at his plush lips but failed horribly.

“I fucking hate you,” you whispered when your eyes met his again, eyes blown wide in lust. 

A growl rumbled in his chest as he smashed his lips against your own. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, another way of fighting. You feel one of his large hands grip the back of your neck, the firm hold pulls a subtle whimper from the back of your throat. Lance doesn’t even try to hide the smirk spreading across his lips the second you respond to him. Every fiber in your being telling you to let him take over, but your mind screams at you to fight back. 

Your hands move up his chest, taking a moment to appreciate the firm muscled under his warm up jacket, then sliding one through his hair. A deep groan leaves him when you suddenly drag your nails across his scalp, tugging harshly at his hair, making his head tilt back. 

“Ohhhhhhh fuck, you bitch,” he growled at your smug face before ducking his head into your neck to bite your tender flesh harshly. 

“Fuck!” you yelp as his teeth sink into your skin, his tongue quickly soothing over the stinging flesh. The action causing you to roll your hips against his, the thick, hard bulge at the front of his thin warm up pants rubbing deliciously against your soaked core. More moans fall from your lips as he begins to grind into you, each noise you make going straight to his cock. He sucks bruise after bruise into the sensitive column of your throat, biting and nipping at the special spot that had you shivering against him. 

Suddenly, he pulls back, leaving you confused. Lance swipes everything from the desk in one quick motion, and hauls you up to lay back on the now bare desk.

“Are you gonna be a good little slut and let me fuck you, baby?” he taunts. 

You scowl at his words, wanting to tell him you’d rather die but the heat and throbbing between your legs tell a different story. A strong hand gripping your jaw in a firm hold, forcing you to look up at him, his face had the same smug expression that made you want to slap it off of him, “Hm?” 

His firm body pressing into yours, pinning your form against the hardwood of the desk. You tear his hand away and grip the collar if his shirt, pulling his face into yours. 

“You better watch your fucking mouth. Now, fuck me or fuck off, Tucker,” you seethe through clenched teeth. 

He makes quick getting rid of your leggings, neither of you bothering to care about the mess around you. All the fights and shouting matches coming to mind; the throbbing in between your legs when he’d lick his dry lips after screaming at you, the wet patch on your panties when he’d grip your arm when things got especially tense. Your hand falls to the front of his pants, gripping the outline of his hard on harshly. 

“A-aah, fuck,” he ruts into your hand, tossing your pants haphazardly behind him. He reattaches his lips to yours roughly, seemingly trying to suck all the air from your lungs. Your hand sneaks under the waistband of his pants, wrapping around his bare cock, making Lance shiver and fuck into your hand. 

“Aww, you’ve been trying to hide this pretty cock from me, haven’t you, Lance?” you whisper into his open mouth, taunting him in the same tone of voice he used on you, your eyes trained on his dick. 

It was flushed with need, the nearly red tip weeping pearly drops of pre-cum into your palm, thick and the perfect length; absolutely gorgeous. Your hand stroked his length in quick tugs, his eyes falling shut, head tilting back ever so slightly. You took this opportunity to mouth at his neck, giving him a matching love bite over his pulse point. 

“If you hadn’t been such a god damn pain in my ass, sweetheart, I would have let you see it sooner,” he spit harshly, one of his hands pushing into your panties. “Oh, and what do we have here?” 

He sat up, his free hand wrapping around your neck, holding you in place as he stands over you. His rough fingers brush through your soaked folds, collecting as much slick as he can before pulling them out of your panties. He brings his drenched fingers to your face, showing you just how wet you are. 

“This all for me, Princess? And here I thought you hated me,” he bragged before licking your juices off his fingers with a deep groan. “Ohh god, your pussy tastes so sweet,” his grip on your neck tightens ever so slightly, making you feel a little lightheaded in a very pleasant way, “need to get a better taste,” he mutters, mostly to himself. 

Tearing your panties in half and prying your thighs open wide, Lance dives into your heat eagerly. 

“Oh, fuck! Lance!” You cry out when he wastes no time wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. Grunting appreciatively at the way your hips grind against his mouth, he slides one finger into your slick channel. 

“Such a tight little cunt,” he moans against you, his finger working in and out of you, a second one quickly joining to stretch you out. Your hands gripping his hair tightly, holding on for dear life as he devours your most delicate parts hungrily. 

You feel your orgasm bubbling in the pit of your stomach, your pussy gripping Lance’s fingers tighter and tighter. You try to warn him before you let go, but he seems to be one step ahead of you. He pulls back again, smirking at the near desperate whine that leaves your lips and the harsh glare you shoot at him. While you try to catch your breath, you watch as he quickly undoes his pants, your arousal dripping down his chin, “aww, how cute. You thought I was gonna let you cum on anything but my cock?” 

He grips your thighs tightly, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He teases the tip of his cock at your swollen entrance, he smears more of his creamy pre cum up and down your pussy lips. Your hips instinctively start to chase his, rolling in a silent plead for him to fill you up. With a quick thrust, he bottoms out with a loud grunt, your own cries filling the air. 

“Not a fucking chance,” he groans in between pants, giving you a brief moment to adjust to the pleasurable sting, “you’re not allowed to cum on anything but my cock, do you understand me?” 

You absentmindedly nod, making him smile at your already fucked out state; your eyebrows furrowed, your bottom lip caught in your teeth, harshly biting in a pathetic attempt to silence your moans. Lance can swear you’d never looked more beautiful in your life than when you’re stretched out on his cock. His hands give your hips a quick squeeze before pulling out and snapping his hips into yours, knocking the air out of you. The pace he sets is filthy and harsh, everything you’d dreamed about. 

Sinful grunts leave Lance with each aggressive snap of his hips, matching your high pitched moans, your hands find their place in his hair. 

He smiles coldly down at you, one hand caressing your flushed cheek, “you’re such a good fucking slut, letting me fuck you like this— ah, fuck!” He cut himself off, your pussy fluttering at his words. “Gonna have to keep your tight little pussy for myself, oh god, yes! Work yourself on my cock, baby, go on” he groaned, his eyes glued to the sight between you both: your pussy glistening with arousal, swallowing his cock eagerly, your supple flesh trembling from the sheer force of his thrusts. 

It was “fucking perfect,” he mumbled to himself. 

Your own hand wrapping around his throat catches him off guard, a surprised moan leaving him in a choked as your hand curls around his neck. “What have I told you about watching that mouth, hm?” you sneer up at him, your hips rolling in angry, passionate motions; it was making Lance feel delirious. 

“You wanna own my pussy, Lance?” You tease, watching as his face turn a soft red from your tight grip on his throat, the power struggle making you smirk. He moans and nods, his ears filled with the sound of his skin slapping into yours, your filthy words, and the desk groaning under the rough pace you’re both maintaining. 

“Y-yeah,” he grunts out when you tighten your grip, further constricting his breathing.

“Then you gotta fucking earn it, baby,” you release his neck and move to pull his hair once more. He gulps down air, a new found determination burning in his belly at your oddly soft voice. If it was the last thing he was going to do, he was going to fucking earn it. 

Leaning over you, Lance folds your knees to your chest, holding you open for him to pummel into you. His sudden movements had him slipping deeper into your heat, you couldn’t help but claw at his strong back with a scream. 

“Ohhhh God!” Your back arched off the desk, exposing your neck to him unintentionally. You felt him mouthing at your jugular, making a trail of sloppy kisses to your ear where he nipped at your lobe. 

“You want me to earn it, Sweetheart, I’ll fucking show you that I fucking own this sweet pussy,” his voice barely above a whisper held that malice again, his knees moving to rest on the desk, his pants around his ankles, giving him better leverage to plow into you. The new angle has his tip rubbing that special spot inside of you that you never knew existed, your eyes crossing ever so slightly. That bubbly feeling in your lower gut returning, your pussy fluttering around his girth signaled your impending orgasm. 

“Can feel y’tremblin’ ‘round me…. y’gonna cum?” he questions, his words slurring together as he pants hotly in the crook of your neck, his own orgasm creeping up on him. “Yeah, y’are, can tell,” he snuck a hand in between your sweaty bodies to draw quick circles on your throbbing clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Tell me y’hate me, baby,” he whispered hotly in your ear, “C’mon, tell me how much y’hate me, need t’hear it…” his tone bordered on begging and demanding. 

“I-I… I hate you,” you cling to him as you moan in his ear. 

“Louder,” he says in a growl, hips driving into yours harder and his fingers on your clit speeding up.

“I hate you!” You repeat and toss your head back, your toes curling and your hands fisting the fabric of his jacket. 

“Scream it fo’me, Princess!” He loudly demands and slams a fist into the desk next to your head. 

“I HATE YOU!” You scream at the top of your lungs, your earth-shattering orgasm finally washing over you intensely. 

Legs trembling and locked around Lance’s waist, you whimper and shiver underneath him. Lance watches you intently as you fall apart for him; your eyes shut tightly, mouth hung agape in a silent, thin, breathy scream. His hips only stutter for a moment, fully entranced watching you, before he feels his control slipping. 

Opening your eyes to find Lance staring down at you hungrily, his cheeks flushed, forehead damp with sweat, lips plump and bruised. You can see his eyes grow darker with the selfish need to cum that he’s been staving off the entire time. 

A primal growl rumbles in his chest as he resumes his movements, moving with the sole purpose of cumming. You quiver as he begins to jack-rabbit, tucking his face into your neck again. 

You take the chance to whisper in his ear, “y’gonna cum for me? C’mon, Lance, y’did so fucking good, fucked me so good,” the praise had his balls tightening, his eye shutting tightly. 

You smirked to yourself, moaning and licking at his neck, you knew you were getting to his head this way. 

“Who owns this pussy, Lance?” You whispered to him, making his thrusts stagger, his chest swelling with pride at your words. 

“I do…” he grunted, “oh god, I’m gonna fucking cum!” 

You could tell from his voice that he was right there, “who owns this pussy, baby?” you taunted again, moving your hips in time with his. 

“I FUCKING DO!” He shouted as he came, his entire body going rigid, back arching dramatically to give you the best view of his face. His eyes crossed, hooded lids, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth— fuck he was beautiful like this. 

You felt his length twitch as he shot his hot cum into you, filling you to the brim. He was sure he died and went to heaven, his vision going white, his ears ringing so loudly he couldn’t hear the throaty groan he let out. Finally coming down from what was the most intense high he’s ever had, he slumped against you, finally able to hear your voice cutting through the haze. 

“Y’did so good, Lance,” you murmured quietly, almost embarrassed to be saying it, your hands shyly soothing the scratches on his scalp and at the base of his neck. He draws in a deep breath, the soft praise and touches making something tug at his heart. 

He presses a kiss to the first bite that he left, the mark a deep purple now, and sits up. Climbing carefully off the table, you both start to dress. 

“Damn it, Lance!” You scold when you find your torn panties, a pout on your lips. 

“What? They were in my way,” he defends with a shrug and his classic smirk, tossing you a tissue to clean yourself. He plucks the shredded fabric from you and stuffs them in his jacket pocket. You scoff with a shake of your head, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips, and finish getting dressed. When you turn around, Lance had just finished putting everything back on the desk (it looked just as messy on the floor). 

You wordlessly begin walking to your cars, you tried to hide the small limp you had but Lance was able to tell anyway. Just as you reached your car, he spun you around and pressed his lips against yours firmly. You couldn’t help the small moan that escaped you. He pulled pack with a smirk, slapping your ass and biting his lip, he whispered, “See you tomorrow, Princess.”

~~~~~~

Taglist: @tumblin-theworldaway, @slothspaghettiwrites

[imagineaworld]

leather & jeans | b.b

pairing : biker!bucky barnes x reader

summary : you walk into a biker bar to repay a debt for your brother and get more than you bargained for

word count : 1.9k

warnings : 18+ ONLY, smut, swearing, oral (m recieving), fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, daddy kink, praise kink, thigh riding, pet names

You regret offering to help your brother the moment you stepped through the door to the bar.

Loud ruckus all around you sent your heart rate through the roof, and it took everything in you to keep a calm exterior as all eyes fell on you. A momentary silence before the rowdiness resumed.

Walking into the bar owned by the local biker gang was scary enough as it was, let alone being a woman, walking in by yourself, carrying a bag full of cash.

You looked around through the sea of faces, hoping to see someone who looked mildly friendly that you could approach to ask for the man you needed. There seemed no such person. Instead, you opted to head to the bar and ask the bartender for help.

Clutching the bag on your shoulder, you made your way to the bar. On your journey through the leather-clad bodies, you bumped into someone.

“Sorry,” you blurted out, afraid of the consequences.

You looked up at the man you had bumped into. He towered over you, ruggedly handsome with long brown hair and piercing blue eyes. A black leather jacket coated his muscled body. Your eyes fell upon his left hand, made of metal, glistening in the light of the bar.

“No problem, doll,” the man replied. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, hm?”

His intense gaze intimidated you, not to mention his beautifully carved face. “I’m looking for Bucky,” you answered, slightly flustered.

“Well,” said the man. “You’re lookin’ at him. What can I do for ya?”

The man did fit the description that your brother had given you. The boss. A ruthless, violent leader. Despite this, you couldn't help but be attracted to him, the danger perhaps adding to your desire.

You'd heard from your brother about all the horrible things this man was capable of, the terrible things he'd done. Danny had told you what happened to people who didn't pay up on time.

“Danny sent me,” you explained. “I have the money.”

He didn't tell you why, but your brother owed money to the leader and was banned from the bar until it had been paid. He sent you in his place, with a shit ton of money you had no idea how he had come to possess. You didn't want to think about it.

How'd a pretty young thing like you know that low-life? Bucky thought. Better yet, what was Danny thinking, sending you to a place like this, full of men ready and willing to take advantage of you.

“Let’s see it.”

You slipped the bag off your shoulder, opened it up and displayed the contents to Bucky. He peered into the bag and assessed the stacks of cash inside.

"This all of it?" He asked, looking back up to you.

You shrugged. "As far as I know."

Your heart was still pounding and an uneasy feeling had settled into your stomach. Something didn't feel right. All around you, watchful eyes fell upon you and the leader. You tried to ignore them, tried not to make eye contact with anyone.

"Come with me."

Closing the bag and slinging it back over your shoulder, you obeyed. Bucky placed a large hand on the small of your back, leading you through the crowd. Men adorned in leather jackets stepped aside, giving respectful nods to Bucky as he passed them.

He led you to a private room that resembled something like an office, though much less professional. Still, a wooden desk and chair gave the impression this was Bucky's office.

"Empty it out onto the table, darlin'," he ordered, finally removing his hand from your lower back. "I need to count it."

With the way he spoke, it was clear he was used to giving orders and having them followed. You dreaded to think about what happened to people who didn't obey him.

You did as you were told, feeling even more unsettled now that you were alone with this man. You stepped away from the money scattered on the desk, putting as much space between yourself and the man.

You watched as Bucky began to count the stacks, organising them into piles as he went. You waited in silence, not daring to interrupt him.

"Well," he spoke after he'd sorted all the stacks into piles. "Looks like it's all here."

"So what now?" You asked. "Is Danny still in trouble?"

Bucky looked at you, his eyes running up and down your body. "How'd you know Danny, sweetheart?"

A shiver ran down your spine at the nickname that rolled off his tongue so easily. "He's my brother."

He started towards you, closing the space you had put between you and him. "Danny never said he had a sister, or that she was so beautiful." Your cheeks heated at the compliment, but dread pooled in your stomach. "What was he thinking, sending a sweet little thing like you into a sinful place like this."

"I offered," you began to explain.

"That was stupid."

He slowly stalked even closer to you, like a predator catching its prey. In a bid to keep a safe distance from him, you backed away. You took a step back for every step he took towards you until your back hit the wall.

Your heart rate sped up as you realised you had backed yourself against the wall. And with Bucky advancing on you,  there was no escape. Calling for help may only cause more problems.

"Don't worry, darlin'," he said darkly. "No need to be afraid. I just wanna teach your brother a lesson."

He had his body pressed up against yours, sandwiching you between him and the wall.

"Leave him alone," you breathed out. "Please."

He whispered in your ear. "Say it again." His breath was hot on your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Please," you whimpered again, ashamed at your arousal beginning to pool in your panties.

Bucky breathed in the sweet scent of your perfume, he could feel your heart thumping against his chest, hear your breath trembling. He couldn't help himself. You were so innocent, so untainted.

"What are you willing to do," he spoke gruffly into your ear, twirling his finger around a lock of your hair. "To make sure nothin' happens to your brother?"

"Anything."

He started slowly kissing behind your ear, trailing down to your neck as his beard scratched your soft skin. "Anything, hm?" He said gruffly. "Cos I've been dying to know what you'd look like with my cock buried in you since you walked through the door."

There was no denying any longer. "Bucky," you panted, desperate for his touch.

"Tell me you want it, baby," he urged, slipping a hand under your shirt. "I'll give it to you."

"Please," you pleaded. "I want it. I want you."

That was all Bucky needed to hear. He crashed his lips to yours in a hungry kiss, pulling off his jacket as he did so. You let out a small yelp at the urgency with which he kissed you, his facial hair rough against your face.

He slipped a thick thigh between your legs, causing a moan to escape your lips as his thigh brushed against your pussy through the fabric of your jeans. 

"You like that, hm?" He growled, kissing his way down your neck as goosebumps erupted on your skin.

You managed a breathless 'yes', but Bucky pulled hard on your hair. "Yes, daddy," he corrected.

"Yes, daddy," you repeated and he let go of your hair, satisfied with your submission.

His touch sent shockwaves through your body, and your pussy throbbed, desperate for release. You palmed him through his trousers and he let out a deep groan, throwing his head back in pleasure.

"On your knees," he ordered, removing his leg from between yours.

You obeyed, sliding down the wall to your knees as he unfastened his belt, discarding it on the floor and unzipping his trousers. He pulled out his sizeable cock, already rock hard from your touch.

"Open."

Again, you did as he told you to do, opening your mouth. He pushed his cock to the back of your throat, your eyes filling with tears as he triggered your gag reflex. Your mouth was warm and wet on his dick, and he savoured the feeling.

"Good job sweetheart," he praised. "Taking my cock so well."

Your head was pressed against the wall as he fucked your mouth, holding your hair back with his large hands. When the tears started streaming down your face, he knew you'd had enough.

"Be a good girl," he said, stepping away from you as you tried to catch your breath. "Bend over the desk for me."

You climbed to your feet and did as he asked. Bent over the desk, the used your forearms to prop yourself up slightly, so the hard, cold desk wasn't pressing into you.

"Look at this ass," he worshipped, grabbing a handful causing you to cry out. "All mine."

He yanked your jeans down, exposing your thong underneath. "Such lovely panties, you wear these just for me?"

"Yes, daddy," you mewled.

He pushed your panties aside and slipped a finger into your wet pussy. You moaned out as he curled his finger inside you.

"So wet for me, huh, baby?" He murmured, adding another finger as you clenched around him. "Such a pretty little pussy."

"Please, daddy," you whined. "I need your cock."

He chuckled darkly at your desperation. As he took his fingers out and pulled your thong down, you felt empty. He pressed the head of his cock to your sensitive clit and began lathering up your slick as he teased your entrance.

He pushed into you with a hard thrust and you cried out at the feeling of him stretching your walls. Your eyes rolled back as he started pounding into your pussy, almost feral.

"So fuckin' tight," he growled through gritted teeth as he hammered into you.

Your ecstatic moans could surely be heard by the long-forgotten men in the bar but you didn't care. Bucky, on the other hand, wanted them to hear you, wanted them to hear what he was doing to you. Show them you were his.

"Gonna fuck you so hard you can't walk," he groaned, continuing his assault. "This pussy is mine."

He was true to his word, fucking into you roughly, his large hands gripping your hips and leaving bruises to mark you as his. You were completely at his mercy, though he seemed to have none as he ignored your cries, a mixture of pain and pleasure, at the way he beat your cunt.

You had no idea how long he had been fucking you when he said, "Gonna cum inside that tight little pussy of yours."

His cock twitched inside of you before he stilled, filling you up with hot ropes of cum. He collapsed against you, sticky with sweat and panting for breath.

"You did so good for me," he murmured eventually, slowly pulling out of you and watching his cum drip down your thighs.

He helped get you cleaned up, gently wiping around our abused cunt before pulling your jeans and thong back up. Taking your flushed face in his hands, he placed a gentle kiss on your temple. 

"You know where I am if you need me again."

[folkloreguk]

French Class [6]

A/N: You guys might want to whack out your love song playlist for this one…I cried writing this BYE I'm posting this from my grave!!

genre: optional bias (m) x reader (f), fwb, f2l?, college!au, fuckboy!bias, nerd!reader, ANGST, smut

words: ~ 3.8 k

✽series masterlist✽

taglist (lmk if u wanna be added!): @lovely-ateez, @runaway-fics, @mainexiii, @awfullytiredbuthealing, @erikyoong, @etherealuv, @staysuki, @justcuz-ican, @yeostars, @hyuckthangs, @teenloves, @mexious18-blog, @sunghoonied, @mailobjaeyoon

couldn’t tag: @chorizoek

You: can I come over? I kind of need u

H/N: you need me huh…you’re lucky I’m home alone

It always starts differently. Some other question, or a subtle message of telling him you’re bored, or a flat-out confession of being horny. The ending is always the same. You, naked in his bed. You just had to get there, and things were easy when you were already on his dorm’s doorstep.

The moment he had opened the door, you had fistfuls of his hair between your fingers and attacked his mouth in a feverish kiss. He made a noise between a laugh and surprise but reacted quickly. His lips parted right away, letting you in, and you tasted mint from the chewing gum he liked so much.

“Let me- at least- close the door,” he mumbled. “Jeez, what’s gotten into you today?”

You stepped aside and mirrored his grin. He was acting surprised, but the way he instantly locked your lips after he had shut the door told you he was enjoying this as much as you were. You ran your hands down his torso and along the side of his thighs. His happy hum only poured oil into the fire, and you saw no reason as to why you should have kept your clothes on any longer. In minutes, in the middle of heated kisses and clumsy chuckles, your clothes were discarded, and you were left in your underwear. You stumbled into his bedroom in a tangle of arms and legs and heads barely pulling apart.

“Will you tell me about the date you had today or are we skipping over that part?” he asked, as he pushed you down by the shoulders onto his bed. You groaned a little, not even knowing where to start.

“Didn’t go well, huh?” he asked. Only a few nights ago you had consoled him after his failed date, now the roles were reversed.

“That’s one way to put it,” you said. He was climbing on top of you now, and the weight of him between your thighs still did the same things to you it had done the first time. There was one of his random playlists playing quietly from the speakers, but you were both too occupied to even consider switching the music off. You weren’t in the mood for a chat, not when he was biting and sucking bruises into your chest, pushing aside your bra just enough. But you knew he wasn’t going to let it go this easily.

“Tell me about it or I won’t take one more piece of clothing off your body,” he threatened. You shot him an are-you-serious-look while he only blinked at you innocently, like he was awaiting your response.

“Fine,” you groaned. “But hurry, now.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, before unclasping your bra and throwing it to the other side of the room. “Go ahead, I expect a story.”

You had rolled your eyes at him, but when he sucked on your nipple all of a sudden, and his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud ever so perfectly, your eyes moved to the back of your head involuntarily. And, before he could complain, you started to retell today’s events.

“Alright. First of all, he acted all gentleman-y. Pulling back my chair at the restaurant, letting me have a look at the menu first, letting me order first, asking me if I was okay with our seats because they were in the sunshine, or whether he should have requested we get a different in the shade table, blah, blah, blah.”

With the lewd noises he was making, kissing your chest and fumbling with your breasts, you almost wondered whether he was paying attention to you at all.

“I’m waiting for the plot twist,” he chuckled. “If he had been this great, you wouldn’t be in my bed right now, would you?” He was now on his way to your lower regions. Your breaths came out shaky when he gripped your hips with familiar fingertips and placed a few kisses there, right above the material of your underwear. Nonetheless, you had to continue your story.

“Oh, it’s coming,” you said. “Because I suspect, the only reason he was acting that way was to compensate. For the fact that he was an hour late.”

He stifled a laugh, and you slapped his head playfully. “It’s not funny! I stood outside that restaurant on a busy street like an idiot for an hour. During exam season!”

“I wonder, if studying is so special to you- ,” he said. He tugged on your underwear, and you barely cared about his words when you were already imagining his mouth on your pussy. “Why aren’t you at home right now, doing just that?”

“Too frustrated,” you groaned, spreading your legs, practically inviting him in. “You don’t get it. That was only the beginning of the date. It gets worse.”

“Oh, damn,” he laughed, and you were going to slap him again. Harder, this time. But his tongue kitten-licked over your clit and you didn’t dare interrupt him further.

“First of all, he turned out to be boring. An economics major. And look, I’m not generalizing, I’ve met some cool economics majors. But when I said I never really understood the whole thing with inflation and deflation, I wasn’t asking for him to explain it to me. I know what it means, I just meant to say money is the root of all evil,” you said, little moans slipping inbetween your sentences. He laughed whilst sipping on your clit. You couldn’t be mad at his laughing anymore. In fact, at the sound of his chuckles, your own lips curled into a smile, too. God, he was so good with his tongue.

“But turns out he loved money. Like it was the sole reason he was doing anything. When he showed me his gold watch I almost yawned,” you continued.

“Dating a rich guy can have its upsides too, though,” he said, but you knew he was joking. He was running the tips of his fingers over your core, and you whimpered at how badly you wanted him to put them inside of you. You loved watching him, loved feeling his hair tickle the side of your thighs and having his free hand laying on top of your hipbone. The familiarity of it all, his little habits, made your heart heavy, so full of emotion, all of a sudden. But you had to snap out of it.

“Not this guy. He kept saying these lowkey sexist things I won’t repeat now. It’ll only make me mad again. He was one of those who thought money would buy him a girlfriend. And I was really trying to see the good in him…only there was none,” you said.

“Alright, I’m starting to understand why you needed some cheering up,” he said. “Good thing you’re at the right place. I know just the thing.”

At this, he slid his digits into you. You hummed and dropped your head into the plush pillow. Slowly, you exhaled, happy you finally got to relax after being so upset. But of course, he had to interrupt. Again.

“Did I say you could stop? Was that the end of the story?” he said. How did he expect you to form a coherent sentence? He fingered you gently, but the slowness of it all only drove you crazier. You felt every tiny sensation, every new bit of you he touched.

“No,” you sulked. “Fuck, it feels so good.”

“Go on, then,” he encouraged you, grinning because he was proud of your reaction he had caused.

“Fuck- okay. He was super shitty to the waiter. I’m talking about criticizing everything. This man had the audacity to complain about the food. I’m not a food critic, but I swear the food was amazing, there was nothing to fault at all,” you said, and then whined when he switched from licking your clit to sucking it between his teeth. You knew he was doing this on purpose. To make speaking harder for you.

“Oh my god, H/N. Wait, let me finish this. Not only was he horrible to the waiter in person, but he also made fun of the waiter’s appearance behind his back. And all along he expected me to find him funny. I used to think he had a sense of humor but not after today. Blech.”

“At least you got a free dinner?” he said, and without awaiting your answer, went back to work. Your head was spinning in pleasure, and you could only laugh sarcastically at his suggestion.

“Yeah. And after that train wreck of a date, he really thought he’d get to stick his tongue down my throat,” you said.

“Did he at least ask permission?” asked the boy between your legs.

“Mhm…but I told him I don’t do that on the first date,” you said. “Safe to say there won’t be another date, though.”

He looked up now, laughing more than before. You grinned, mainly because the sight of him was so cute. He folded his hands on your belly and put his face down onto your skin to giggle. In no way could you be upset or urge him to keep giving you head. In fact, you had forgotten about all of that for a while, as he seemed to enjoy your misfortune a little too wildly. You should have been hungry, eager to have the half-naked boy inside of you. Yet, you laughed at the way his breaths tickled your stomach and when he finally made eye contact, it was a wholly different sort of hunger which overcame you. Instead of the heat he usually made you feel, it was a comfortable warmth that was in your chest. It reminded you of a bonfire or of drinking your favorite hot drink on a cool autumn day.

“I want to watch you come,” he said, casually. “Were you close?”

You were so lost in his trustworthy, dreamy eyes, you almost forgot to reply. Quickly, you nodded and hummed.

“I would have already come, had you not pestered me to tell you all the details of my date,” you said. The way his cheeks beamed when he smiled made you feel as if your insides were turning into mush.

“I’m sorry. I’m your friend, aren’t I allowed to ask how your day went?” he asked.

“Of course you are,” you said. The word ‘friend’ echoed off every wall in your head until you wished you could have deleted it from the dictionary.

“I’ll make sure it feels extra good now,” he said, kissing your stomach. You shivered as you watched his gentle lips move lower, to your hips and the insides of your thighs. The touch felt like butterfly wings on your skin, and the tardiness of it made you impatient. When his tongue came in contact with your clit again, you sucked in a breath of surprise.

He tried to start slowly, but then you gripped his hair tightly, and carefully pushed him further. It was something you did often, a way to tell him you wanted more without having to use words. After all this time, he understood perfectly. Your clit was between his lips and his tongue flicked over the sensitive bundle of nerves with just the right amount of pleasure. It felt incredible, creating a funny sensation in the pit of your stomach. His fingers grazed over your slit until you were whimpering and shifting your hips, trying to make him hurry.

One of his digits slid into you easily, curling against your sweet spot, and it hit you only now how much you had missed him between your legs since he had stopped a few minutes ago. It made you feel as though you were suddenly overwhelmed with all of him, but you were willing to let the heat crash over you if it meant you could be close to him.

“Am I making it up to you now?” he asked as he pulled away merely for a breath. “I’ll turn your day into a good one after all.”

In a different tone his words would have sounded like the exact thing one would have expected to hear from a fuckboy in the bedroom. He could have boasted and bragged endlessly about how great he was with his tongue and fingers – he would have been right – but he didn’t mean it like that. You could tell from the uprightness and the authenticity in his voice that he really was doing his best because he wanted to make you feel better and turn your day around. Because you were special to him. Or so you desperately hoped.

Your legs wrapped around his shoulders as if you were trapping him between your thighs. But he was right there, and he would gladly stay for so much longer, and to say it puzzled you was an understatement. The boy who belonged to everybody, who was known by all of the campus, was treating you like you were royalty, and not the other way around. You moaned, his name inevitably falling from your lips. He added another finger and the slightest stretch made you lose your mind for a split second.

“That guy could have never made you feel this good, could he?” he suddenly asked. Your initial response was a helpless whine. You had been so close, and his talking had interrupted the otherworldly bliss for a moment.

“No, never,” you then whimpered shortly. ‘No’ was such a tiny word. It could barely encapsule what you truly meant to say. Which was that it would have never even gotten that far. That other guys couldn’t even have you at all. They didn’t get their turn to try and beat him. Not as of lately, at least. That you didn’t so much as dare to think about sleeping with other guys. That even before you had gone on the date, you had known it wouldn’t lead to anything. No guy could let you develop an interest on him in the same way the boy between your legs had done it. No other would be able to kidnap your brain like that. H/N was always there. Even when it was only you and your sex toys, you would automatically pretend it was him getting you off. You were so far gone that it was embarrassing how long it had taken you to admit it to yourself. But it was a colossal thing to confess to him, and you would never do that. Rejection would hurt a billion times more than whatever it was you two had now.

Your heart was racing as you closed your eyes. You had been so lost in thought, it was wondrous you hadn’t fallen yet. But you were right on the edge, making your breaths come out like puffs and a string of moans and swears sound from your lips. He too had stopped talking, concentrating on the task at hand, and judging by the way your back arched he was doing one hell of a good job.

“Oh my god- “ you whimpered. “I’m so close, H/N.”

This time he didn’t reply, which was for the best. Only a few seconds passed until you started to quiver and whine beneath him. You were going to outer space behind your eyelids as your high rushed through you. Your fingers curled and tightened in his locks while your legs clenched around his head. He was quick to pull your thighs apart again, still not being finished. For long seconds you swam in pleasure, with nothing on your mind but bursting stars. He was heaven, knowing precisely how far he could take it until you were too sensitive to take any more.

When you were at that point, he finally pulled away and looked up at your crumpled form. There was a lazy smile playing in the corner of your lips and your vision was hazy after having had your eyes closed for a while. He climbed up your body until his chest was against yours so he could really look at you.

“I get all of this without ever having been on a single date with you? I’m so lucky,” he said. You only smiled at him, at a loss for words. What were you to say? The two of you were clearly past the awkward dating stage already.

“I’m lucky you let me come over all the time,” you said. “I would have expected the campus fuckboy to be busier. To not have an empty spot in his bed every night.”

“Ah, shut up,” he said. “I’d rather have you here than a girl I don’t know at all. Look, I’m really tired so I don’t know how this will go…but can I?” He was on his knees, a tent visible in his boxers. With a questioning look, he was tugging them down his legs now.

“Of course,” you said. As you watched him roll on a condom, your ears perked up. Did that song have to come on shuffle just now? The coziest, most romantic love song you adored so much? You knew if you looked him in the eyes you’d be done for. But there wasn’t anywhere else to look when he settled between your legs and held up his weight with his forearms. His eyes were deep enough for you to get lost within a second. Distracting yourself was impossible. The one last thing you could do was to reach between the two of you and guide his length into you.

The song’s chorus came on, you looked at him once again, and suddenly you were all his. You didn’t need to tell him so. He thrust gently, almost carefully, like he had never done it with you. Your heart hammered against your ribcage so vivaciously, you wondered whether it had turned autonomous and was now trying to jump out of your body, onto his skin and through it, so it could nestle next to his own heart.

Neither of you spoke. Yet, there had never been so much chemistry, such a heavy amount of uncommunicated emotions between the two of you. You were ready to hang on his every word, should he decide to speak up. In your head rampaged a billion sentiments you needed him to know, but there was no option to express them adequately. Perhaps there were simply no words in the English language to declare your feelings for him.

Small whimpers and moans left your lips only for him to hear. Sometimes he moved a little quicker, gifting you with the most perfect sounds he could make. And to know you were the cause for it sent you into overdrive. His mouth was right above yours. If you lifted your head slightly, you could have kissed his sweet, sweet lips. But you were so afraid. What would he think? You had never kissed him during sex. Not softly, like you wanted it so terribly.

Even worse, you craved so much more than that. You wanted to pull him in, envelope his mouth in your own, crawl over the edge of his lips and reside in his chest for safety. Because that’s what he was. Comfort. Reassurance. Home. How foolish you had been, pretending this little fling would lead to nothing more. You really had told yourself this would work. No feelings. Just fun. You couldn’t deny having fun with him. He was the best company you had ever known, and he had become your most precious friend quickly. It was as if you had only been waiting for the silly, flirty boy to sit across from you in the library and make weak advances towards you.

The love song tuned out slowly, replaced by something more sensual and sinful. In accordance with the new background noise, he gripped your hips a little meaner and went faster. You barely noticed how his breathing had sped up as he was getting closer to his orgasm. A trance had overcome you, transfixing you on his godlike features and how much it hurt to know you couldn’t call him yours. In your head you were made for each other. They always said to date your best friend, didn’t they? You could try to turn back time, go back to your first meeting place, at the party. See if things would turn out different. But you knew they wouldn’t. As much as your fear tried to suppress it – you would take the same path again, stumbling head-first into his arms and letting him into your life like a crashing wave of laughter and heart-crushing conversations.

Now you reflected in despair, how he had taken your heart in a storm, without having to try too hard. And worst of all, you were okay with it. Your heart was secure with him, you thought. The feelings yearned to be spoken out loud, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

“You feel so good,” he said. “Always, so fucking good.”

He snapped his hips against yours, burying his cock deep inside of you and all you could muster was a hum of agreement. This is what you got for keeping him at arms-length from the beginning. Wasn’t it you who had challenged him to be friends and only that? Perhaps you would be okay, so long as no one else called him theirs either. You could go on like this, letting him use you for sexual relief and making him laugh when he needed it. Gladly, you would take the pain of not being allowed to love him with your whole being if it meant you could see him whenever you wanted. Exposing those silly emotions would wreck your friendship and you wouldn’t let it happen.

He grunted and only then, when he lowered his head into the crook of your neck and moaned your name, you realized he was reaching his high. Softly, you cradled his head in your hands, as if it was the last time you could hold him like this. When he put his forehead against yours, he had his eyes closed and his chest was moving steadier than before.

“You’re the best,” he whispered. “Stay the night?”

Should you have gone home, and missed him all night? Would you have regretted saying no while you curled up in bed with no Cheshire-cat-grin-boy to hold? Or were you to remain in his bed, and pray you would survive the torture of not speaking your mind? His skin radiated the most wonderful warmth and you wanted to trace his lips with your eyes until you fell asleep. That’s how quickly it was decided.

“Okay,” you answered.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

A/N: If there’s anything I learned from doing this, it’s that vampirerry is an utter WHORE. Good for him!!!! As for myself, I’m done with the semester and my term projects and finals left my singular brain cell fried, so this was a nice way to get back into writing again. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you to the anon that suggested it, this was super fun to do! :D

read you’re someone i just want around here

word count: 6k

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Harry is very attentive when it comes to aftercare with Y/N. The sex they have is often rough and includes toys, degradation, and multiple rounds, so he believes aftercare is non-negotiable. Rough sex can be fun, but if it’s not followed by a lot of communication and post-performance support, it can take a hard emotional toll on a person. Even when intimacy isn’t meant to be inherently sentimental, there has to be a certain level of connection and etiquette surrounding it, or it could end badly for both parties involved. He always checks on her immediately after they finish, simply to gauge her headspace and how her body is responding, and after he’s made sure she’s alright, he goes into his usual routine of skin-to-skin contact and gentle coddling. Reassurance and praise is just as important afterwards as it is during, because it’s good to let a partner know that your appreciation runs deeper than just the physical need felt in the heat of the moment; everyone deserves to feel valued beyond their body. 

Harry proceeds to clean Y/N up after every session, because it’s the least he can do since she’s usually the one getting the brunt of the work. He’ll fetch a clean towel dampened under warm water to wipe her clean, or he’ll offer to help give her a bath or a shower— whichever route she prefers. Harry dresses her, and changes the sheets if need be, and tucks her into bed to ensure she’s nice and comfortable. If it’s been a particularly intense session, he’ll go the kitchen and bring back a snack and a drink— a granola bar and a Gatorade, or some chips and her favorite juice, or if she’s feeling especially hungry, he’ll happily go out of his way to prepare her an actual meal— and he insists on feeding it to her bit by bit until she’s come to enough to handle it on her own. If she’s not hungry, he at least brings her a glass of water and urges her to drink it; better to be safe than sorry. After that, more cuddling is the status quo, which normally ends in Y/N falling asleep in his arms, and Harry has absolutely no problem with that at all.  

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Harry’s favorite body part of Y/N’s is probably her chest. Yes, he likes it for sexual reasons— obviously— but there are innocent reasons for his fascination, as well. He likes how responsive she gets when he touches her there— how he can get her going just by groping her the way she likes it, or by using his mouth to tongue across her nipples until she’s writhing in pleasure and whining for more. He loves leaving hickies all over her tits, probably more than she likes receiving them. It’s just so fucking hot seeing himself marked all over her, especially when she’s putting on a bra and he can see all of the dark bruises scattered across the cleavage spilling from the undergarment. Filth aside, he also enjoys loving all over her chest. Absentmindedly cupping them while they’re snuggling, nuzzling his head between them while they’re watching television, massaging them under her shirt with his large palms as she sits back against his chest, sipping a glass of wine and chatting away, unwinding after a long day. It’s a form of intimacy; it provides a type of closeness nothing else can. 

As for his own favorite body part, it’s a tie between two different areas. He loves his thighs— they’re one of his most prominent features. They’re thick and meaty and sensitive, so they’re the perfect sweet spot to touch when he wants to get riled up. Given his previous response, it can be easily deduced that he likes to get hickies there, as well. The marks look great peeking out from under his briefs (for the short amount of time they last, anyways) and they make a great accessory to the large tigerhead tattoo along his left thigh. It’s artwork, really; a proper Picasso. 

His other favorite body part...well, take a lucky guess. It’s likely not that far off— literally, considering it hangs right between his thighs. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Harry’s personal preference is cumming inside. He adores feeling the way Y/N tightens around him when he finally orgasms (she’s just so warm and soft and unbelievably tight; it’s like she was made for him), almost as much as he loves seeing her reaction. Her body will immediately start to wriggle and her back will arch as she releases broken little whimpers, clinging to his shoulders with her nails and begging him to fill her until he’s milked his worth. Hearing her ragged breathing and feeling her sweaty chest stutter against his is enough to do him in, but when she goes as far as to gnaw on his ear and whine a soft little, “Want it all, baby. Want you dripping out of me when we’re done.” Well, that’s enough to kill him all over again. 

Of course, there are times when Harry likes seeing himself all over her, too. On her outstretched tongue, or smeared across her pretty face and plush lips (she looks particularly cute when it ends up all over her eyelashes), or streaked over the valley of her tits, or pooled at the center of her tummy. If he’d been taking her from behind, then he likes seeing it run down the backs of her thighs, or splattered across the dip of her spine. And if she’d been giving him a handjob, then seeing himself dribbling down her fingers is just as good. Why? Because those fingers usually end up in her mouth, which means he ends up all over her tongue, and so the cycle comes full circle. How poetic. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Did Harry suggest wearing a matching set of a vibrating cock ring and buzzing bullet to do grocery shopping once? Yes. Did he drop three glass jars of peach preserves by accident as a result, causing them to have to book it out of the bread aisle while trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, which failed horribly because they were literally hobbling like a crippled elderly couple? Also yes. Did they end up fucking in a Target fitting room? Definitely. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

A lot of experience. Tons. Immense amounts. Insane amounts. Two hundred years of the same seven continents just means two hundred years worth of sex across every single one. And it gives you plenty of time to find the clitoris, as well as giving you a chance to learn the female anatomy like the back of your hand. That being said, Harry doesn’t doubt he could make Y/N cum with his wrists tied behind his back and a blindfold strapped to his face. In fact, he’s made her cum just by using his thigh, so that in itself is enough credibility to last him several more lifetimes. The toy chest in his closet and the fact that he’s well-endowed are bonuses— he knows more than enough tricks to keep her satisfied with just his tongue. Not to mention his fingers— they’re long for a reason.

F = Favorite position  

Funny enough, Harry doesn’t have one. He’s spent so many decades cycling through every possible position in existence, it’s gotten to where he can’t pin-point a preference; all positions are unique, and they each have their own appeal. Reverse cowgirl is nice because he likes watching the way he stretches Y/N open with every plunge of her hips, and it also gives him the luxury of marking his rings across her ass in the process. Regular cowgirl is nice, too— having her chest bouncing in his face is nothing short of a divine miracle, in his opinion. Doggy style is a staple, and there’s always different add-ons he can apply to spice it up; for example, taking her from behind with her wrists tied to her ankles, or bending her over the kitchen counter with her face pressed into the marble, or fucking her against his glass wall with her hands and chest flushed to the cool surface as their breaths fog the floor-to-ceiling window. 

Missionary is a tried and true option, and just like it’s prior counterpart, it can be enhanced with a variety of extra tricks. Bondage is a good condiment, against the wall is always a nice touch, spread-eagle never goes wrong, and just having her legs wrapped around his lower back is more than enough. However, he does have two favorite variations of the position. The first is when he mounts her legs onto his shoulders or along the inside of his elbows to open her up more, and then just ramming his hips down at a very specific angle that hits her g-spot just right, pounding her into the bed so hard she tears the sheets off the mattress. The second is a cowgirl-missionary hybrid: he sits back on his heels and uses the steep downward slope created by his thighs as elevation, pulling her ass onto his tilted lap and swinging her legs over either side of his hips. He gropes her waist with his palms and yanks her forward, bouncing her against his cock and watching her completely dismantle as he nudges all the right places with as much speed and force as she deems fit. 

And then there’s fucking from the side, but that’s a whole other extensive conversation he doesn’t have time for. 

Actually, maybe Harry will entertain it for a minute or so. He usually throws one of Y/N’s legs over his neck to get a deeper range, manhandling her roughly onto her side and yanking her closer to his body by her waist, grasping it with stern vigor and holding her down against the mattress, grunting out a gravelly, strict command along the lines of, “Stay fucking still.” He’ll drill into her at a brutal, consistent pace, staining his fingerprints along the curves of her torso and sponging damp kisses onto her ankle, smirking into her skin as he watches her fist at the duvet in a futile attempt at maintaining her bearings. It’s pretty evident that she can’t, though; the way her eyes lull around their sockets from his harsh stride does a terrible job at hiding her lack of self-control, alongside the fragmented curses she gasps out whenever he nudges her g-spot with the head of his cock. 

“Oh, that was such a pretty noise. Did I hit that little spot you like?”

Her response will be begrudging, as always, which he thinks is ridiculously useless considering he can see her burying her face into the pillow to hide how her jaw drops open in sheer rapture. “No.”

“No?” The vampire leans forward, stretching her leg towards the headboard and preening at the garbled squeak that escapes her gritted teeth, plunging deeper as he lowers himself to her level. He knots her hair around his knuckles, tugging sharply until her face is tilted back enough to meet his fiery gaze. “Then why are you starting to shake?

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It depends on the mood, honestly. There are definitely serious moments, but Harry enjoys the humorous ones just as much. He already adores making Y/N laugh and smile on a regular basis, and that desire only grows when he’s buried between her thighs, simply because she just looks so fucking cute laughing with her hair splayed around the pillows in a messy halo, her sounds of glee stuttering due to how sharply she’s jolting against the bed. He loves feeling her giggle into his mouth as he cracks sarcastic jokes and makes stupid witty comments that break the intensity in the air, especially because she’s usually clever enough to return them with some of her own. Then they both end up snickering like idiots as he tries to keep a solid pace, which eventually tapers to a messy, haphazard stride as their laughter drowns out their goal to the point where he has to take a genuine break to collect himself. There’s tons of examples— how could there not be? Sex is hardly ever perfect, so awkward moments are not only expected, but guaranteed. What better way to handle them than with a bit of humor?

There was an incident once where Harry accidentally knocked their foreheads together so hard, they both bruised (which he responded to with, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Cosmopolitan meant when they suggested matching couples tattoos.”). Another time, he got so into the moment he didn’t realize he was jack-hammering the top of her head into the backboard until she brought it to his attention (and made a comment saying it sounded like a sped up version of the beat to We Will Rock You). A bad case of the hiccups. Y/N burping right in his face halfway through his orgasm. A random leg cramp that made him think he was going to need amputation to survive. Accidentally rolling off the bed or couch onto the ground and nearly dislocating both of their spines in the process, getting his cross earring tangled in her hair and nearly ripping off his ear trying to get it out, and the unfortunate collapse of a pillow fort he’d spent over an hour building. He even sneezed in her face once, and when she instinctively went to shove him back, she wound up slamming her palm into his nose so hard he nearly passed out. Nose bleeds aren’t necessarily sexy, per se, but he just dug blindly through her nightstand until he found two new tampons somewhere in that black hole she calls a drawer, shoved them in his nostrils, and kept going. No one can ever accuse him of being unresourceful. 

Queefing. Lots and lots of queefing, which he usually starts mimicking with his mouth, and then she responds to that by whining and telling him to cut it out, and then he takes to mocking her whining instead. It normally finishes with them laughing so hard that Harry’s cheeks hurt from smiling so big, but it’s a good type of pain. The best type of pain. 

H = Hair (how do they groom?)

Harry likes keeping himself neat and orderly, but he doesn’t enjoy going bare, so trimming is his grooming preference. There’s just something so unappealing about a completely smooth dick— it looks like raw chicken and it’s fucking disgusting. He doesn’t have anything against a good bush, but it tends to get unruly and he’d rather not have to overcomplicate his shower routine. And honestly, he can’t trust himself because last time he had a full front yard going, he got shitfaced and tried to braid it on a dare. Keeping the hedges trimmed is the ideal landscaping option, and it just looks way hotter— a uniform dusting of hair is a good accessory and it just makes everything look more cohesive, given that he also fancies keeping his happy trail thick. It’s all about aesthetics, isn’t it? 

I = Intimacy (the romantic aspect)

It’s no secret that Harry’s been somewhat detached from intimacy for the last two hundred years or so. Intimacy is reserved for genuine romance, and that’s something he hadn’t entertained since before the lightbulb was invented. But now that he has Y/N, intimacy has crawled its way back out from the deepest recesses of his subconscious, where it had been shoved into a bottomless pit with the rest of his trauma. He likes it— he likes opening up to her in any way he can, because sharing those obsolete parts of himself with someone again is more fulfilling than he ever imagined. He likes kissing her randomly when she’s halfway through a sentence, just to feel her words die off abruptly in her throat as she gives into his gentle gesture, a delicate smile spreading across her satin lips. He likes whispering sweet phrases of encouragement into her hair when they’re tangled amidst sweaty limbs and rumpled sheets, reminding her of how much he cares for her and how beautiful she looks when she’s so far gone and how she makes him feel like his entire body has been set alight. He likes sponging soft pecks across the stretch marks along her thighs and across the dimples on her belly, her skin candy and velvet on his tongue as she releases a watery sigh that lets him know he’s doing all the right things in all the right places. He just likes letting her know she's special to him, in any and every way he can. 

Intimacy forges timeless bonds, and he reckons that assumption is unarguable, considering he knows a thing or two about eternity. 

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Harry likes to jack off, obviously. Who doesn’t? It’s why he has an entire section of his toy chest dedicated to self-pleasuring tools. Vibrating cock rings, an array of lubes that range from temperature-changing to sensation sensitivity, and a few pocket vags that get the job done whenever Y/N is out of commission (usually because of work). His favorite one is an electronic sleek black model that is made of a premium silicone material and has a variety of massage settings, suction strengths, and internal textures. It’s designed to make the session feel more real, and yes, it was expensive, but self-love is always worth the splurge. 

The beauty of living on his own is that he can get off wherever and whenever he wants, without having to stress about someone interrupting an important step in his pampering routine. He usually does it in his room and on his bed, simply because Y/N’s pillow is close by and the experience is heightened when her scent is swimming around his hazy, bliss-drunken mind. If Harry is feeling particularly needy, he’ll ditch the toy all together and just hump one out against the mattress or cushion. If it’s a particularly restless day, he’ll take a toy downstairs and lazily play within himself on the couch while browsing through Netflix. Those instances usually average a few tamer orgasms rather than a single large one, but he’s not complaining; his stamina comes in unapologetic waves that stem from a never-ending supply, and he certainly has the time to kill. If Harry gets the sudden urge in the shower or while he’s relaxing in his jacuzzi, he won’t bother fetching a trinket; he’ll just stroke one out with his hand, using the cool metal of his trusty lionhead ring to tease the tip until he brings himself to orgasm. It turns out daylight crystals have more than one use. 

There is one common factor amongst all these different choices, though: Y/N is present in every fantasy. And if the vampire is feeling especially bold, he’ll grab his phone and take a video of whatever he’s doing to himself, and then she’ll have a nice little gift waiting for her once she gets out of the café for the day. That usually leads to him receiving a present in return later that evening, and then he’s dialing her contact before the clip is even done playing, and then what he does during his alone time doesn’t require him being so alone anymore. 

K = Kinks 

Harry has tons— in fact, he has so many, he can’t really keep track. And he also has the sneaking suspicion that if he were to ever jot all of them down, he’d end up locked in some type of sex addict rehabilitation center. Bondage is a big one, so he’ll start there. He’s great with ropes, given that he learned his way around them ages ago. Chains are nice, but they can be a pain to set up without the right equipment; he’s thinking of getting a reinforced metal hook installed into his ceiling, like the one in his storage closet, which he uses to keep his punching bag secure. Handcuffs, obviously— velvet-lined, straight metal, fuzzy coverings, he’s got it all. Dominance, degradation, Daddy, Sir, choking, brat-taming, spanking, flogging, slapping— impact play in general, to be honest— spitting, wax, praise, begging, masochism, branding (mild stuff, no molten metal shit), collaring, discipline, dirty talk, edging, exhibitionism, face-fucking, face-sitting (with him on the receiving end), giving oral (is that a kink? It is now.) gagging (both the action and using the actual object itself), breeding (he hates that term but that’s the official name, unfortunately), teasing, voyeurism, role play, and… he thinks that’s it. Oh, and blood, but that doesn’t really count for apparent reasons. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Y/N’s couch is sacred, at this point. Their entire relationship started on that lumpy, worn excuse of a sofa, and it’s seen them through their progression from strangers to friends with benefits to lovers to more. It’s comfortable enough, the dark color hides any explicit stains, and the cushions always smell of her signature mixture of honey and lavender combined with Snuggle fabric softener. It’s finicky, but irreplaceable. His kitchen counter is a close second. It’s provided a lot, taken a lot, been through a lot— through a lot of Lysol wipes, to be specific. If it wasn’t marble, it likely would have been reduced to chunks and rubble by now, courtesy of his enhanced strength gripping the edges as he slams her against the smooth surface. The backseat of his Cadillac is consecrated, as well; there’s just so much erotic appeal to fucking in a car with rock music blaring in the background, muffling the obscene sounds of bodies connecting and a mixture of fever-pitch moans. The couch, the counter, and the Cadillac— the Unholy Trinity. 

The jacuzzi is nice, too, but for the sake of his clever little “c” alliteration, he’ll leave that one as an implied token. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

As much as Harry claims he likes full submission in bed, he can’t deny that he loves being challenged. Delivering punishment and coaxing out an orgasm is so much more satisfying when he has to fight for it; it’s so fucking hot watching his girlfriend try to best him in a power struggle, especially when she finally— and undeniably, since he always wins— caves under his will and winds up begging him for what he otherwise would have gifted her freely. That’s where the brat-taming kink comes into play. He likes it when she mouths off and makes snarky digs, and he enjoys it even more when he tries to set her in place and she amps her disobedience as a result. There’s nothing more attractive than a battle of wits with someone who is a perfect match in every way. And when she channels her attitude into physical gestures, it riles him up beyond compare. For example, when she smirks and rolls her eyes, despite the fact that there’s trails of tears staining her cheeks and mascara smeared all over her waterline? Christ, he could go feral. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

No feet, no feces, no beastiality. There’s probably more, but those are the ones off the top of his head.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Receiving oral is great— he highly recommends it, solid ten out of ten— but giving it is so much better. Harry’s always been a giver, even when he was young and barely knew his way around a woman’s undergarments. The stereotypical expectation for a person who is beginning to explore their sexuality is that everything they do, they do for their own gain. It’s a selfish realization, yes, but it’s a primal type of selfishness that no one can truly be blamed for. It’s a simple concept: when you start having sex, you want as much personal benefit as possible. It’s only natural. But from the second Harry became sexually active, he came to find that providing release to his partner outweighed the bliss he could get from letting them pleasure him instead. It’s not direct pleasure, but rather cognitive, which more often than not translates itself physically. And when it comes to Y/N, that euphoria manifests tenfold. 

Nothing compares to having his face buried between her legs as she tugs and yanks at his hair desperately, her chest heaving and jaw falling open as he uses his tongue to unravel her from the inside out. Spitting sloppily onto her folds and hearing the raw gasp of aroused shock that escapes her sore throat, which causes his swollen lips to spread into a dirty grin as he latches onto the sensitive bud at the thick of her core, fiddling with it until her legs are trembling uncontrollably around his sturdy shoulders. Watching her features go slack as he bobs his neck fervently between her thighs, swiping the bridge of his nose across her clit over and over until the entire bottom half of his face is drenched in her excitement. Fucking his tongue into her and feeling her buck against his jaw as she holds him in place with her fingers tangled in his curls, whimpering his name repeatedly in a voice so shattered, he could probably build a mosaic with the fractures. Feeling her drip down his chin and into the collar of his shirt, savoring how sweet she tastes as he pins her hips down against the bed and groans feverishly into her cunt, his ego idolizing the image of her so disheveled under his influence. 

A measly blowjob is hardly any competition to that. Harry could very well cum just from eating Y/N out. In fact, he has, and that in itself is all the proof he needs. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

This is one of those other factors that depends on the mood. If Harry has been waiting all day for it, his impatience bleeds into his rhythm, which means he settles for fast and hard. It means he settles for bending her over the back of his couch with one palm around her throat and his other fingers in her mouth, pounding into her with so much force, the sofa starts shifting across the ground. If Y/N has been teasing him endlessly for a decent amount of time, it’ll be rough and deep, but not fast; he’ll drag it out for as long as possible, just to make her regret acting like such a spoiled brat. That’s when he brings out the paddle, or the crop, or just manhandles her across his lap and spanks her until she’s apologizing profusely through her whines. If he’s in a soft, romantic headspace, it’ll be slow and sensual, with lots of gentle caresses, giggly kisses dusted across eager lips and droopy eyelids, and penetrating strokes that make his toes curl and tummy clench. 

Pace is relative, but the message behind it is all the same: I want you more than anything, and I’m going to show you just how deeply I mean it. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are fun, Harry will admit. They’re filthy and messy, and they show just how far gone two people are for each other to the point where they can’t wait to feel one another at a later time; that they need to be together now, or they’ll go absolutely insane. Quickies are saved for when the urge strikes at random times. For when he’s out with Y/N at a park, sitting under the shade with his head in her lap as she combs his curls out of his eyes and thumbs over his chin affectionately, and the sun filters through the tree canopy just right to where it illuminates her lashes and the suppleness of her cheeks in a manner he deems ethereal. For when they’re at the mall, walking hand in hand and licking at ice cream cones as they survey the shops, and she reaches over to wipe a bit of Rocky Road off the corner of his mouth, replacing the stain with a soft stipple of her lips instead. For when they’re out eating dinner and playing footsie under the table like immature teenagers, and she’s trying to steal a French fry from his plate but he keeps fighting her off with his fork because, “I told you to order your own, but you wanted those disgusting potato skins instead!” And she’s laughing so brightly and unapologetically, giving him a look that so obviously tells him she can’t wait to get him alone, and nothing seems quite as flawless as that fraction in time, then and there and nowhere else.

These simple but memorable moments cause him to get love boners, which he jokingly refers to as “sniffy stiffies,” where “sniffy” has to do with being sentimental, and “stiffy”...well, that one is pretty self-explanatory, no? It always ends with them shagging in the car, or in the family bathroom of a diner, and in the case of the park, in an obscure area of the forest that lines the jogging trail. 

Quickies are just that— fast, but meaningful nonetheless, because they come from a place of genuine emotion. They’re fleeting, but unforgettable. Sniffy stiffy quickies, if you will. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Taking risks is the norm in Harry’s life, especially when it comes to his sex habits. He’s proven time and time again that he has no problem riding along the seams of a dare and just barely making it out unscathed, so experimenting outside of the bedroom is just another day in the life. Fingering Y/N in a music room in an antique shop, getting road head during a two hour drive back to Los Angeles, ripping his girlfriend’s panties out from beneath her dress at one of California’s most prestigious restaurants— the list is endless, really. Harry likes to think he has a gift for coming up with inspirational quotes on the spot, so he’ll lend his expertise here and now: “A life without risks is a life that isn’t worth shit.” It even rhymes, so he knows sorority pledges will have a ball putting it in their Instagram bios. A bit of charity work for the bird-brained. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Endless stamina. Literally. Vampires don’t stay tired for long, so he could be ready to go again within seconds. And he can last long, as well; his stubbornness and pride depend on it, and he likes making his partner cum first as an ego boost. He can go as many rounds as Y/N can and more, though he won’t push it. He doesn’t want her to end up in the ER with a bruised cervix. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Harry could run a sex shop from his closet; Y/N doesn’t take the piss by calling him “Fifty Shades” for no reason. He uses them on himself, he uses them on her, and he got high once and tried to sword fight Y/N with a dildo, so it’s safe to say he definitely uses them quite a bit. If his Lovesense Lush 3 vibrator could talk, he’d be drawn and quartered for excessive debauchery. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Harry loves teasing, that’s no mystery. Winding people up is one of his most practiced skills, so of course that would channel into his intimate life. He’s mastered it, though it’s not like it’s hard. A drawn out blink here, or a feathery touch there. An inch of space between his and Y/N’s lips to establish some tension, or squeezing her inner thigh with his palm hard enough to draw a tiny squeak from her chest. Touching her through her clothes, or leaving a trail of wet kisses down her throat and stopping right at her cleavage. Biting the sensitive skin along the inside of her knee, or dragging the tip of his cold nose down the center of her twitching tummy. Lapping slowly at her nipples until they perk up, or sinking a single long digit inside her and keeping it there just to feel her clench around it needily. And once he gets a pattern going, teasing molds into edging, edging molds into begging, begging molds into praise, and before he knows it, he’s hit four of his kinks with one roll of the dice. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Harry is very vocal in bed, and he’s not ashamed of it. He knows for a fact that Y/N loves it, and if him being loud gets her worked up, then he’ll let his throat go out in the process. He’s noticed that in different situations, he has an arsenal of sounds for each. If he’s being rough and dominant, he tends to groan, grunt, and growl. If he’s being desperate and needy, he turns to whines and whimpers to communicate how he feels. If he’s too zoned into the moment to distinguish all his emotions, broken moans and stuttered mewls are his default. No matter the circumstance, they all take the same route: they start low and soft, and escalate in volume proportional to the intensity of the moment. So what if half the building is hearing him orgasm for the third time as he mocks his girlfriends sobbing pleads and calls her his “dirty fucking whore”? Let’s be honest, it’s probably the highlight of their week. He has a great voice— a sultry, deep baritone that compliments his English accent nicely— and anyone would be lucky to hear it spew the filth it does. He’s yet to get many complaints, so he doesn’t intend on stopping. 

W = Wildcard (random headcanon)

An honesty hour moment seems interesting, so he’ll confess a few tales from his past. The first time Harry ever went down on a girl, it was against a tree in a garden and he nearly asphyxiated under all the layers of her gown. A couple of years later, he ended up getting oral from a reverend’s daughter against a tree, too, for the morbid irony and associated religious revenge. And to drive the point home, oral was only the beginning of what she gave him. His first decade as a vampire was definitely his pettiest. 

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

It’s not uncommon knowledge that Harry’s well-endowed. He remembers how insecure he was the first time he had sex— a shocker, he knows; he was insecure?— and how he knew barely anything regarding sizing and how to use his assets accordingly. But it’s been ages since then, and now he definitely knows his way around his own body (let alone his partner’s), and he most certainly knows that he’s above average not only as a person in general, but when it comes to what’s in his trousers, as well. Harry won’t specify inches— he loves how speculation drives others mad— but it was big enough to give Y/N a decent pause the first time she pulled down his pants, and it’s big enough to leave her absolutely fucked every single time, without a single miss. If that’s not credibility at its finest, then he doesn’t know what is.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Harry’s sex drive is insatiable, to say the least. His vampirism combined with his narcissistic tendencies makes the ideal cocktail— cocktail— for the constant fuse that’s always burning under his skin. He’s ready to go at all times; Y/N just has to say the word and he’s pulling on a pair of sweatpants as he grabs his keys, hopping down his complex’s corridor toward the elevator on one foot as he tries to get his last shoe on the other. Lazy morning sex is probably his favorite; he’s come to find it’s when he’s most pent up, usually after a sleepless night of feeling Y/N’s body heat radiating through all of his cold limbs. It also sets a great tone for the rest of the day, and he just loves seeing Y/N wake up to him lying on his side with his temple resting on his fist, his elbow propped against the mattress as he poses the other on his hip in a theatrical diva stance. He’ll smile at her giddily with all his pearly teeth, dimples twitching as his lashes flutter dramatically, dirty intentions written clear all over his face (“Good morning, hon—” “Wanna have sex?” “Harry, it’s ten in the morning.” “Is that a yes? Because it’s not a no.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth!” “That’s fine, I’m gonna stick my dick in there anyways.”) 

All in all, his libido is insane, and he’s lucky that Y/N’s is up to par or else he would have worked her into an exhaustion-induced coma by now. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Harry just...doesn't. Maybe once every few weeks, but definitely more often now than before he had his girlfriend. Sleeping just comes way easier when he has someone he cares about resting beside him, their inherent warmth thawing the stiffness from his muscles and putting his racing mind at ease. He feels safe enough around Y/N to let his guard down— both literally and metaphorically— and that seems to help with his supernatural insomnia; it sedates that nocturnal hyper-instinct in his brain that demands he be aware at all times, muffling the animalistic part of him that has been manning the reins for the better half of the last two hundred years. He doesn’t need to be so on edge anymore when everything he needs is just an arm-length away. Especially when she’s usually willing to lend her chest as a pillow, and who is he to neglect her wishes.   

[anonymousfiction211]

Give it time

Summary: Tony throws a party. Loki and you are in an established relationship. He watches the party and sees you and Steve getting too close for his liking. So, he decides to do something about it.

Word count: 3.185 words

Warnings: Angst, jealously, insecure Loki/soft Loki

Give it time He heard you laughing out loud again, from across the room. Loki was by the bar and already on his fourth, or fifth? no definitely fourth, drink of Asgardian mead. At least Thor was useful for something. He gulped down the rest of his drink and signalled the mortal behind the bar to pour him another. It looked like he was going to say something to him, but giving him his best death glare, to mortal held his tongue. He took a large sip and turned around eyeing the room. Tony was entertaining some of his friends, the widow was flirting with Banner who was oblivious to all hints and then he saw you with the soldier. The perfectly, honest, can do no wrong in his life soldier. He took another large sip. Thor was walking towards him.

‘Are you forgetting that you’re not drinking mortal alcohol, brother? Thor asked concerned.

‘No, of course not’ Loki replied irritated. I’m not like you. I’m only on my fourth drink, fourth right? Yeah, definitely fourth he thought.

‘Where’s your lady?’ Thor asked. Loki took another sip of his drink and gestured towards you and Steve.

‘Ah, at least she is in good company I see’ Thor said. Even tough Loki knew he didn’t mean it like that, the comment hurt him. But that was not something he would show. Before he could reply Thor was called by Tony, who probably wanted another attempt at wielding Mjölnir. Like that pathetic excuse of a man could ever wield it. Loki was distracted from his thoughts when he heard your laugh again. He heard it every time, it was the most wonderful and purest sound he had ever heard. He watched as you and Steve laughed with each other. Steve was getting a little too close for Loki’s liking, but he had learned not to disturb you. He was not in the mood to be having that fight with you, again. He is just a friend, he would never make a move knowing I’m with you, he isn’t like that, you had told him time and time again. Still, Loki never fully trusted Steve. When it came to you, he trusted no man.

He downed his drink and made a hand gesture to the mortal behind the bar, not caring to actually acknowledge his present this time. When his cup was filled again he took another sip. He watched as you told a story to Steve and saw your whole face light up. Maybe, you should be with someone like Steve. He is everything I am not. He is nice, polite, caring, courageous and he would treat you right. He was good, irritatingly good. In all the time Loki had known Steve he was waiting for him to slip up, make a mistake, but Loki was starting to think that day would never come. He tried to treat you like the queen you were, but he felt like he always comes up short with you. You had tried to reassure him that you loved him and would be his until the end of time, but Loki didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. It won’t be long before she realizes she can do better. Everyone eventually does. Loki started to wonder how much time he would have left before Steve, or someone else, would steal you away. His preference would be anyone but Steve, he really hated Steve. He needed to be careful, he couldn’t bare losing you. Not this soon, if ever. He took another large sip of his cup, but realized it was empty. Damn mortal bartender forgot to refill my cup, again.

He signalled the bartender rather angry, the man looked frightened at him. Loki gave him a wicked grin and he swore he saw the man tremble a little. He loved to scare people. Something a good man, a better man, one deserving of you, would never do he thought while his smile faltered. Loki grabbed his cup and turned around. He saw that your story was coming to an end. The look on Steve’s face made him sick. He took a large sip. I should distract myself he thought. He eyed the room again, but the only thing he could do was sit beside Thor, who was telling some war story. Loki wasn’t in the mood. Loki looked back towards you when he heard you laugh again. Steve said something to you, but you couldn’t hear him. Stark had turned the music up. Horrible loud music. That’s when he saw the soldier put a hand around you and place it on your lower back. He pulled you slightly towards you and you whispered something in his ear.

THAT’S IT! Loki didn’t care anymore. He would not stand for this. He smashed his glass on the ground behind the bar, making the bartender flinch. Normally, he would laugh, but he had to get to you as fast as he could. He took a few steps, his balance felt a little off, but he didn’t care. He walked towards you as fast as he could. He slapped the soldier’s hand from your lower back and put his arm around your waist. He pulled you flush against him ‘Darling, a word’ he hissed.

‘Loki, I don’t think..’ Steve started before Loki put his hand in the air to silence him. He quickly teleported the two of you back to his chambers. He let go of you and locked the door. When he turned around he saw the rather angry expression on your face. But it was nowhere near the angry expression you saw on his face. ‘WHAT THE HELL, LOKI!’ you yelled at him, startled from the sudden change in environment. He didn’t respond, maybe teleporting wasn’t the best idea I ever had. There was an awkward silence that lasted longer than he would have liked. He was still searching for his words. ‘Why?’ you asked him.

‘I didn’t feel like watching how the two of you were flirting’ he replied.

‘You honestly think I was FLIRTING with him?’ you exclaimed.

‘He had his arm around you’ he responded.

‘He just pulled me closer so we could hear each other. Tony had turned up the music so loud, we couldn’t hear each other’ you replied.

‘He kept holding you’ the anger Loki had first felt was ebbing away. He didn’t want to admit, he would never to anyone, but he was trying to keep his emotions in check. He was certain you were going to dump him and run into the arms of the soldier, and Loki felt like crying.

‘So? It was a friendly gesture’ you said. That fuelled his anger once again. He loved you, but you were rather naïve sometimes. Loki really didn’t want to have this fight, again. He needed you to stay with him, he couldn’t let go of you, he won’t do it ever. He walked a few steps in your direction and was relieved he didn’t see you back away. He put his arm on the lower of your back and leaned in ‘Is this a friendly gesture?’ he whispered. He noticed how your breath hitched a little, you leaned in a little closer and your lips were almost touching his. ‘I think you need a reminder who you belong to’ he said huskily. It was a bold move, but he hoped it would keep you from leaving him.

A sly smile appeared on his face as he saw you swallow hard at his words. He knew what buttons to push to get you there. He let his lips ghost over yours and held back the urge to kiss you again and again, until you were out of breath. He needed to hear you moan, feel you whiter underneath him and realize that you needed him, hopefully enough to stay with him. He slowly started to walk you backwards until your legs hit his bed. He laid you down and immediately crawled on top of you. He started to kiss your collarbone and made his way up to your throat and ear. Making sure to leave bruises and marks, he loved to mark you. That way everybody would know you were his, and only his. He felt your heartbeat increase and your soft gasps, making him smile against your skin.

‘You’re mine’ he growled lowly in your ear. He felt you shiver slightly and noticed goosebumps starting to appear on your skin. He got up and startled your legs. With one strong movement he ripped your dress right through. He couldn’t help but chuckle when he heard you gasp. Then he saw that you didn’t wore any underwear. He cocked an eyebrow to silently asked you why. ‘I thought this would be easier for you’ you smirked, answering his silent question. Loki felt his cock stir, but right before he could continue the thought of Steve being so close to you, without you wearing any underwear popped into his head. He tried to distract himself and latched his mouth to one of your nipples. He massaged the other one by rolling your hardened nipple between his thumb and index finger. Already gasping and panting for air, and I have barely begun. He started to feel a bit dizzy, but ignored it. Maybe I should have listened to Thor and ease up on the drinks next time.

When he was finished with your breasts he slowly trailed open mouth kisses down your body. Making sure to kiss every inch of your body. He hummed against your skin when he felt you spread your legs. He kissed you lower and lower, stopping right before he was at your clit. He was pleased to smell your arousal, a scent as divine as the finest flower on Asgard. He ghosted your clit, knowing that drove you crazy. He felt your hands in his hair, urging him to stop teasing you. Loki let his tongue slip out and give you a light lick on your clit. His plan was to have you begging for more, but when he heard the moan that left your lips, he lost it. He latched his mouth firmly on your clit and swirled the hardened bud with his tongue. You tried to buck away at the sudden stimulation, but pulled your thighs over his shoulders and hold you firmly in place. ‘O god.. o god..’ you started to chant. It was lovely to hear, but not enough. Loki upped his game and let two fingers enter between your folds. He felt the wetness between your thighs and his fingers met no resistance. He slowly started to finger-fuck you while swirling his tongue on your clit in the same rhythm.

After only a short time he felt your walls clench around his fingers and knew you were close. The thought to stop crossed his mind for a second, but he would hear you beg soon enough. ‘O god, Loki’ you cried out as he felt the wave of pleasure wash over you. Your walls clenched hard around his fingers and you tried to move his tongue away from your clit, but failed. He kept pumping in and out of you while slowly circling your clit with his tongue. He wanted to prolong the feeling of your pleasure as long as he could. Once he noticed you started to come down from your high, he shimmered your clothes away and kissed his way back up to your mouth.

He kissed you passionately while lining his hardened cock up with your entrance. ‘Hmm… Loki’ you moaned into the kiss. Right before he entered you he stilted and looked at you with a playful smile on his face. ‘Yes, darling?’ he asked feigning innocence. You tried to buck your hips so he would enter you, but Loki resisted.

‘If there is something you want, all you need to do is ask’ he mused while nibbling on your earlobe.

‘Take me’ you whispered. Loki kissed you eagerly again and entered you in one smooth motion. You gasped, you did it every time he entered you. It was his favourite part, every time. He felt your walls clenching down right away, and knew you still hadn’t come fully down from your orgasm. He didn’t give you time to recover and started to pound into you like this was the last time he would fuck you. Maybe it is. He tried to push the thought away and focus on your withering beneath him. He pulled your legs over his shoulder and leaned down to leave open kisses on your mouth. Sometimes he would slide his tongue in yours, exploring every inch and taking your breath away. He felt he was close and started to circle your clit with his fingers. He felt your walls clench and knew that if you came, he was done for. So, he stilted all movements and revelled inside when he hears a needy whine escape your lips.

‘Loki’ you panted, hoping that he would go on. But he made no movement.

‘Who do you belong to?’ he asked

‘You, I belong to you’ you said while catching your breath. Loki slowly started to resume his movements.

‘And who can make you feel like this?’ he grunted

‘God, yo- you, only you!’ you exclaimed when Loki picked up his pace.

‘Who’s this God you keep praying to?’ he mused, already knowing your answer.

‘You. God you. Please Loki, please let me come’ you begged him.

He snapped his hips as fast as he could and his fingers found your clit. He felt your walls clench. A feeling of pride went through him when he heard you chant his name so loud, the whole tower could probably hear it. In the middle of your orgasm, he felt his cock twitch and his seed spilled inside of you. Every time he came inside of you it felt like Valhalla itself. He pumped a few more times to ride out his own orgasm and pulled out. He laid down next to you, not wanting to collapse on top of you and crushing him with his weight. The feeling of dizziness grew and he even felt a little sick. Definitely drinking less next time. You crawled against him and he wrapped his arm around you. He was surprised when you kissed his cheek, not expecting the loving gesture.

‘You know, you don’t have to be jealous at Steve. There is nothing going on, I only want you’ you tried to reassure him. Loki just stared at the ceiling, he didn’t want to meet your gaze.

‘I don’t trust him’ he gritted through his teeth, trying to hold back his anger towards Steve.

‘Do you trust me?’ you asked him.

He was kind of startled that you asked him did. He looked into your eyes and saw a hint of hurt and desperation in them. He gave you a kiss on your forehead ‘With my life’ he whispered.

‘Then trust me, I will never leave you for Steve or any other man’ you tried to reassure him. You snuggled closer and kissed his chest. Loki wanted to tell you that you couldn’t possibly make such a promise, and that you shouldn’t. Not to him. But he was happy to have you next to him – for now - and didn’t want to spoil it. Not wanting to talk about it anymore he gave you a kiss on your head ‘We should clean up, you’re staying here tonight?’ he asked.

‘Of course, just like every other night this past week’ you giggled. You got up and went to the bathroom, while Loki cleaned himself with his seidr. ‘You need anything from the kitchen?’ he asked to you.

‘A water would be nice’ you replied from the bathroom.

Loki put on his sweatpants and went to the kitchen. He heard the party still in full swing on the floor above him. He opened the fridge to get a water bottle. When he closed he noticed that Steve had entered the kitchen, and he couldn’t give up his change to annoy him. ‘Sorry if we were too loud, I would tell you it won’t happen again tonight. But even I can’t tell that lie with a straight face’ Loki smirked towards Steve. He was a bit annoyed when Steve just shrugged ‘I barely heard the two of you’ he replied.

‘But I was a little concerned about you. You sure seemed a little intoxicated, you’re feeling better? Steve asked with genuine concern on his face. But Loki could see through the lie, he was actually mocking him. Knowing full well he drank too much, and why. Still, he played along.

‘Nothing a god like me can’t handle, mortal’ he replied rather dryly.

‘Good, for a moment there I was worried I had to take your lady home’ Steve said. This time making less of an attempt to show genuine concern.

‘You have nothing to worry about. I will always take her home’ he replied rather irritated.

The soldier just winked at him ‘Give it time’ he said while exiting the kitchen. Loki felt sick all over again and rushed towards the sink to vomit. When he was done he was scared that Steve had heard him, but he wasn’t there and didn’t hear him. He quickly cleaned the sink and his teeth with his seidr, while trying to figure out if it was Steve, the drinks, or a combination of both that caused him to vomit. I knew I shouldn’t trust him he thought. If Steve weren’t important to you, Loki would have killed him right now. Still, Steve’s intentions were very clear. Loki walked back towards his room and saw you already laying in his bed under the sheets. You were wearing one of his t-shirts and reading the book he had left there this morning. 

Only the light of the nightstand was shining in the room. You looked up and smiled at him when he entered. He got under the covers with you and handed you your water bottle. You opened it and took a few sips ‘thanks’ you said. You put the book back on his nightstand and turned of the light. Loki couldn’t hold it in anymore. When you laid back down he immediately grabbed you, pulling you as close as he could. Fearing that if he let go right now, you would somehow vanish. ‘Loki? You alright?’ you whispered. He nuzzled his head against your chest and did something he hadn’t done in a very long time. He cried.  

Tags: @delightfulheartdream​ @the-best-phineas​