#me dabbing into this thread like:

[nadvs]

cam girl (part ten)

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary you work two jobs. by day, you’re a maid for the cameron household, where rafe degrades you any chance he can get. by night, you’re a cam girl, hiding your face so nobody can recognize you. when you discover your new subscriber, the filthy-mouthed man obsessively paying you to do everything he can think of, is rafe, you’re not sure what to do next.

» masterlist

*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

Rafe is on your mind constantly. At this point, you’ve accepted it. There was something about the way he looked at you in his car last night. Possibly. Hopefully.

You stand in a quiet aisle, eyeing merchandise while you hold the charm on the necklace he gave you, the metal warm under your fingertips.

You’d never been in a sex shop before. The guys you hooked up with before Rafe were nowhere near as kinky as him and you bought all the stuff you needed to be a cam girl online.

But seeing all the possibilities makes your stomach twist with excitement. You want to try absolutely everything with Rafe.

You’ve been thinking about coming here throughout all your classes today with one thing in mind. Rafe loves to use toys on you, but you’ve never used anything on him.

With Rafe’s need for control, you assume he won’t be all that open to using a cock ring, but you want to do something special for him. Maybe you can introduce him to something for a change.

You find a vibrating ring that you know will fit him, then decide to send him a photo of the toys in the aisle behind you and text him: this is a great place to meet guys.

Before you’re even at the register, your phone buzzes.

Rafe: dont joke like that

Rafe: buying something for yourself princess?

He sends you $100.

You reply: something like that :)

You check out at the register and head home, already looking forward to tonight. Your phone buzzes again.

Rafe: when can i come over?

You smile at your phone.

You: what about our cam session?

You get a notification that he sent $1000. The alert makes you wonder if he thinks you’re just doing all this solely for the money and gifts.

You’d do it all for free.

Rafe: i won’t wait that long

Not just can’t. He won’t.

You reply: like 8ish?

Rafe: ok

It starts to rain close to 8 and when Rafe arrives at your place, his hair is wet and his face and jacket are peppered with raindrops.

“Is the valet not working today?” you joke, knowing full well he had to find street parking on your busy road.

He breathes a chuckle, stepping into your apartment with his usual ease. You’ve noticed that he walks into every room like he owns it.

Rafe shakes off his jacket and places it on the back of one of your kitchen table chairs while you grab a clean hand towel out of your hamper.

“Sorry this towel’s not a million thread count,” you tease, meeting him to dab the towel over his face.

His blue eyes search your face with a hint of something new. Confusion?

You realize you didn’t even think about it; you thoughtlessly started to dry him off. It was such a mechanical response. Your impulse is to take care of him, make him comfortable.

It’s official. This man is not just a fuck buddy to you anymore.

“What?” you ask, knowing you need to crack a joke to break the tension. “I’m just drying off my seat.”

“Oh, my God,” Rafe groans, trying to act annoyed, but you know he’s not. You laugh and lower the towel, squeezing the cotton in your hands.

“What’d you buy?” he asks, clearly eager.

“I’ll show you later. I wanna hear what you have planned,” you say. “You always have something planned.”

“You first,” he says.

“Rafe,” you whine, dropping the towel to rest your hands on his firm shoulders. “Can’t I surprise you for once? What do you want to do to me tonight?”

“I wanna see what you bought,” Rafe solidifies.

You suck your teeth in frustration, looking up at him with doe eyes.

“Please?” you breathe. “I’m always the one waiting. Why don’t you wait for once?”

Rafe’s jaw tightens and he shakes his head in disbelief like he can’t believe he’s giving in, but he gives in.

“You ever been tied up?” he finally asks, his voice so deep that it reverberates through you. The air is suddenly thick and any impression of humor that was floating between you has been dismissed by his words.

“Like… bondage?” you say in a short breath, mulling it over as blood rushes to your cheeks. “No. I haven’t.”

He closes the already minuscule distance between you, cradling your jaw in his cool hand.

“I want your hands tied up while I fuck you,” he says. Your mouth goes dry. Just when you think he can’t get any fucking hotter.

Rafe’s hand drops and you hear his belt unbuckling while his hot breath spreads across your cheek.

“Why the fuck are you still dressed?” he rasps. You’re reeling as you strip down to nothing but the necklace he gave you. You hear the clang of his belt buckle falling onto your kitchen table beside you.

Rafe’s hands drag over your hips, pinching down when he turns you to face the other way. He’s still in his boxers, his cock jabbing against your ass. His warm chest is pressed on your back, rising and falling.

“You’re always the one waiting?” he mutters. The belt buckle drags off the table top, and when you feel him roughly grab both your wrists and wrap the thick leather around them, the familiar need for him between your legs aches.

“You’re always waiting,” he repeats with a scoff. “I’m the one who’s always fucking waiting.”

You want to know what he means, but the belt is suddenly tight around your wrists, your chest jutting out. Rafe pushes you by the back of your neck so that your front is down on your table, your cheek flush against the hard plastic.

“Spread your legs,” he orders.

The muscles in your thighs are strained and your hips burn against the hard table from the way he has you bent over. He couldn’t even spare the few seconds to go to your bedroom.

You feel his tip press against you, making you wonder which hole he wants to fuck.

“Beg for it,” he orders. His fingers tighten around the back of your neck. Your arms are already burning from being bound like this.

“Please fuck me,” you moan, lips flanged from how hard your cheek is being pushed against the table.

“Say my fucking name,” he tells you.

“Please, Rafe,” you obey. He groans in response, hands settling on your hips.

He stretches your cunt out so fucking slowly that you want to scream. You push back against him, and you swear, he laughs at your desperation.

Rafe finally bottoms out in you, his hips against your ass. He puts his hand over your bound wrists, starting to drag out again.

“This pussy is fucking mine,” he says. As if you need the reminder. He owns you completely.

When he picks up the pace, driving into you, your breath hitches. With every thrust, your hips grind against the hard table, making you ache in pain.

“Ow,” you snip before you can stop yourself.

Rafe immediately pulls out of you, making you writhe in frustration.

“What hurts?”

“Nothing,” you lie, wanting him more than you want the pain to stop. “Keep going.”

“What hurts?” he repeats sternly.

“My hips,” you admit. “I’m fine, it’s just ‘cause of the table. Please just-”

“I’m not making you cry again,” he snaps. He cups a hand on your shoulder. “Go to your bed.”

“Rafe, it’s fine.” You feel oddly ashamed, like you’re not doing your job pleasing him how he wants you to.

“Go,” he mutters. His hand pulls you up and you have no choice but to let him push you into your bedroom.

Your wrists are still bound at your lower back when he bends you over your bed. You sink onto your stomach, feeling Rafe’s fingers spread you open before driving his cock into you again.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he relentlessly pounds in and out of you. Your arms strain against the constrictions of his belt, the sensations so fucking perfect.

“Shit, I’m…” he groans, and you know he’s close, so you try to tilt up your hips so he can get as deep as possible.

Rafe shakes through his orgasm and you think how you could never tire of this feeling, of being the one he finishes inside of and reaches this feeling with.

He’s panting when he pulls out of you. Your wrists burn against the belt as he loosens it. His hand smooths over your ass before he spanks you and collapses beside you.

“Show me what you bought,” he says. “It better make you cum.” You tilt your head to meet his gaze.

“Have an open mind, okay?”

“Damn, what the fuck is it?” Rafe asks with a curious laugh.

You’re sore as you get up on your knees and shift to grab the white ring you already took out of the packaging and placed in your nightstand.

When you settle back on the bed and hold it out in front of him, his brows furrow.

“Is that…?” He can’t finish the sentence, his tone apprehensive.

“It might feel really good,” you say with a small smile. “I got a vibrating one.”

Rafe sits up, glancing down at your purchase before looking up at you again.

“Come on,” you laugh. “You surprise me all the time. I can’t surprise you?”

He clears his throat.

“I don’t know,” he says simply, blinking fast. It sounds like a hard no.

“Oh,” you say. You’re shocked he’s not at least a little open to it, considering how kinky he is. “Okay. Sorry.”

You turn to put the toy away, but his next words stop you.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Fine.”

“Really?” you ask, meeting his eyes again.

“You just look so fucking sad,” he groans.

“You don’t have to do it.”

“Let’s just try it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “After everything I do to you…” You smile in response.

Rafe sits up against the head of your bed frame and you straddle him, dipping your head to kiss him. It’s strange how with him, making out feels more intimate than sex does. As good as the sex is, nothing gets your heart fluttering quite like when his lips are on yours.

Your hands settle on his shoulders and you tug at the ends of hair as you kiss him passionately.

Rafe smiles under the kiss, your lips molding together, his tongue tumbling with yours. You feel him getting hard again.

You pull back to slide the ring down his cock and he sighs in a way that tells you he can’t believe he’s actually doing this before he takes you in to kiss you again.

Rafe’s hands roll over your ass, squeezing and kneading as you sit on his naked lap. This is the longest you’ve ever kissed. It feels crazy to realize that, considering everything you’ve done together.

“Shit,” he shifts beneath you. His cock is growing, the ring starting to squeeze around him.

“How’s it feel?” you ask.

“Good,” he breathes, eyes low. It makes your heart swell with pride. “Ride me.”

You sink down on him slowly, feeling the ring against you once you’re fully seated. You find the button at the top of it to turn on the vibration.

You both exhale in pleasure at the same time. He skims his hands up to your waist, looking at you while you grind on top of him.

In the dim light of your quiet bedroom, the toy buzzing against your clit, how deep he is inside you, the way his eyes are locked on yours… it’s all so perfect. Everything with him is so fucking perfect that it can’t be true.

The fact that you ended up here all because of a part-time cleaning job and a cam website feels insane.

Your palm is against his hot chest. He looks down at it and his dimples dip into his cheeks as he smiles smugly.

“Your hands are so fucking cute,” he teases. The non-sexual compliment sends you into a tizzy.

“Yours are huge,” you retort, trying to keep cool.

“What else is huge?” he asks.

“Your ego.”

“Fuck off,” he laughs.

“Okay,” you tease, starting to sit up so he’ll slip out of you. He roughly pulls you back down by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Rafe mutters. You laugh and start to fuck him faster, your hips rolling in circles.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tilting back. “I… Fuck, I need to get on top.”

You shift to let him settle over you, your head resting on your pillow. Rafe’s hand runs up the side of your bent leg and he grabs your calf to pull it towards him, silently inviting you to wrap your legs around him.

You hook your ankles together, your entire body hugging him.

You fuck for at least twenty straight minutes, both of you sweating and panting and shaking. You knew he’d last extra long with the cock ring tight around him, but this is unbelievable.

You cum twice underneath him in the span of the session, earning a string of “good girl”s from him. By your third orgasm, he starts to tremble, too.

When Rafe cums inside you, his name tumbles out in his groan. Not princess, not baby, not good girl, but your name, and it gives you a knotted feeling in your stomach that you haven’t had with him yet.

Maybe it’s because he’s elated over coming down from a new level. Or maybe it’s more.

He pulls out, still dripping.

“So… you like my present?” you ask when he falls in your bed next to you.

“Fuck,” Rafe groans. “That was…” He doesn’t seem to have the words, but neither do you. How do you even begin to describe something this unreal?

“I need water,” you say, unsure of how you’re going to even stand up. “Want some?”

He shakes his head in response.

You stand at your kitchen sink, leaning against the counter and swallowing down cold water. On your way back to the bedroom, you notice a lit up screen on your kitchen table.

Rafe must have left his phone here before you moved to the bed. Through pure instinct, you look at the screen. By the time you realize you’re accidentally snooping, it’s too late.

You don’t see the contact name in time, but you do see the message.

bro where are you? too many bitches here for just me lol

A chill rushes through your body. It must be one of his buddies waiting for him at a party.

Of course. It’s a Friday night and you’re pretty sure all the rich people on the island have to do is party.

You feel like an idiot. Expecting exclusivity from Rafe in the arrangement you’re in was ridiculous. Of course he’s fucking around on the side. Someone like him, with his sex drive, can’t be satisfied by one girl.

At this point, you just want him to leave, so you collect his clothes off the kitchen floor.

Thankfully, Rafe’s already sitting up in your bed when you reenter your bedroom. Surely eager to go.

“Here,” you say coldly, handing him his jeans and t-shirt. You don’t look at him when he takes his clothes from you. “Are you gonna head out?”

You realize when you ask the question, it’s like a secret test you’re putting him through. If he stays, he gives a shit about you. If he leaves, he doesn’t.

“Yeah, I should,” he says. He should. Yeah, he really should go look at and flirt with and fuck other girls.

“‘Kay.” You start to collect some clean clothes from your dresser, covering your body with them, feeling strangely insecure around him now.

“You pissed off or something?” he asks behind you as he gets dressed.

You clench your jaw. Honestly, you’re more hurt than anything. But are you even allowed to be? Just because he acts like your boyfriend sometimes doesn’t mean he is.

“No,” you reply. You swallow down the painful feelings and turn to look at him. “Just tired.” You think back to your texts yesterday about how often you’ve hooked up. “Lost count, right? I might need a break.”

You don’t mean it. At this point, you’re just defensive. Wanting to hurt him like he hurt you.

Rafe’s face flashes in displeasure.

“What - why? What the fuck happened in the last fucking minute?” he asks.

“I’m not allowed to be tired?” you respond.

He dips his head, nodding as he buttons his jeans. He seems silenced by his own anger. Your eyes sweep down his muscled body, wishing he’d just hug you and ask you what’s wrong one more time and reassure you that you’re more than just sex to him.

You can tell he’s pissed off and you know you’re not being fair, but you let him leave without any more words exchanged between you.

After a long shower, you lie in bed and wish Rafe didn’t leave his smell on your pillow. You browse your phone, trying to distract yourself.

You tell yourself you’ll go to sleep in five minutes over and over again. You’re working at the estate tomorrow. You need to get up early. But you know the moment you close your eyes, you’ll be trapped in your thoughts. You don’t want to think about him.

It’s nearing midnight when a text comes in.

Rafe: princessssssdsssss

You look at your screen in confusion. Is this a drunk text?

Rafe: ur mean

Rafe: but ypur pussy is sooo niiice lol

Yeah. He’s plastered.

Rafe: ans you have cutehands

Rafe: you akwyas smell good how the fuck is fhat possibke

You hate that your heart warms at the fact that he’s clearly fucked up but his instinct is to text you.

You reply: i think someone’s drunk…

Rafe: yes iam

Rafe: idk what i’m gona do with yiu loool

You: what do you want to do with me?

You get an alert that he sent you $69.

Rafe: that

Rafe: looool

Sex. Of course.

You: are you going to make me do every position?

Rafe: you’r efreaky as fuck. i know youd like it

You: true…

Rafe: lowkey ur all i think about

Goddamn it. Your heart is pounding at this point. You try to play it off.

You: oh only lowkey. cool

Rafe: don’t be maddd

You: i’m pissed

Rafe: we should fuck aboutt it :)

You know the answer to your next question, that he sees you as a booty call and that’s all, but you know the confirmation.

You: is that all you want to do rafe? fuck?

Rafe: YES

Rafe: what if i come over again tonigjt lol

You: i work tomorrow. i need to sleep

Rafe: you need this dick

You: omg

Rafe: do you likw this skng

Rafe: song

You: ??? what song

You can’t stifle your laugh at how shit-faced he is.

Rafe: irs good

Rafe: u should giveme a lap dance

You: you’re drunk as hell. i’ll see you tomorrow, ok? goodnight

You think back to the way he looked when you snapped at him earlier and decide to send one more message.

You: sorry i was mean

He doesn’t reply. Maybe it’s better that way.

Your body is heavy the next morning. You barely make it to the Camerons’ estate. You don’t see Rafe at all in the morning. You’re guessing he crashed at whoever’s party he went to.

You wonder how many bitches, as he and his friends say, he talked to last night.

When it’s time to turn over his bedsheets, you take a moment to take in the familiarity of his bedroom. When you pull over a new fitted sheet, you realize just how exhausted you are.

There’s no reason for another maid to come into this room. It’s on your list only. And Rafe is gone.

So, what’s the harm in lying down to rest, just for a little bit? You’ll do a better job when you’re not exhausted.

You won’t close your eyes.

You lie on his pillow. Okay, maybe you can close your eyes for a minute. You’ll count to sixty then stand back up.

The numbers quickly melt away and you slip into a slumber.

When you wake up, nuzzling your face into the pillow, Rafe is in bed with you, his back to you.

It takes a moment to remember where you are. You sit up and he notices the movement, turning to look at you over his shoulder.

{ read part eleven here }

author’s note: shoutout to my readers for being so creative. thank you to this anon and this anon and to another reader (you know who you are) for your contributions to this chapter! ILY!

[wandaslovey]

cw: subspace, mentions of smut

✦✧✦✧

sugar mommy!wanda getting ready to take her little girl out for a fancy dinner.

you lie there, already ready to go, with your legs drapped over the arm of the small sofa across the room where she was sitting at her vanity. you kick your legs back and forth, antsy to be back in wanda’s arms.

she looked so perfect. you were mesmerized as you watched her do her makeup. her skin was flawless and she seemed to go through her routine seamlessly and gracefully. you start to become impatient the longer she sat in the chair at her vanity. you whine, the sound penetrating through the otherwise quiet room.

“i’m almost done, baby,” her voice was low and smooth—empathetic to your needy disposition. you sigh and stare up at the ceiling, counting each sound you hear as your swinging legs kick the back of the couch. once you got to 30, you whine again, making sure she knows just how much you need her. she chuckles, turning to the side to face you for the first time in 20 minutes.

“come here, moya lyubov,” she slides her chair out from under the vanity, beckoning you to come to her. you quickly stand up, padding over to her seat. she guides you into her lap, which you easily settle into.

“you wanna help mommy with her makeup?”

you nod eagerly. “help mommy,” you agree happily with a wide smile.

she prods through her makeup bag before retrieving what she was looking for. her pink lipstick. she takes the cap off, twisting the tube until there was enough product on top, and then she hands it to you. “you remember how mommy likes to put it on?” you nod your head, knowing that she liked just a little bit of tint on her lips. rather than smear, you gently dab the product onto her lips. after you pull your hand away, she rubs her lips together, distributing the color across her bottom and top lip. you smile, your eyes crinkling as you take in her now finished makeup. with and without it, she was ethereally beautiful.

“you’re so pretty, mommy.” she smiles at your compliment, her nose scrunching as she does so.

“thank you, detka,” she reaches her hand up and tucks some hair behind your ear before leaning in and gently pressing her lips against yours.

her kiss instantly made you want more and in your typical needy manner, you part your lips wanting to deepen the kiss.

you feel her thread her fingers through your hair as she gently pulls you back. “feeling a little eager, are we?” she teases. you pout, unleashing the full force of your puppy dog eyes. “awwh, well if that isn’t the cutest little pout i ever did see..” she coos and then taps your nose. “we’ll get to more… fun activities after dinner. if you’re good, we can try out the new toy mommy just bought. how’s that sound?” she tries to gently persuade you. you instantly perk up at the thought of using the new toy. “okay mommy,” you relent, your normal tendency to be stubborn seeming to be overruled with the promise of play time.

“do you want mommy to put some of her lipstick on you?” she changes the subject, wanting to fully re-route your attention elsewhere. you could be so one-track minded. she loved that about you though. “yes please!” you smile, shifting excitedly in her lap. she laughs gently, stilling your hips with her hands. “okay, pucker your lips a bit for me.” you do as she says, feeling her dab the lipstick on. you rub your lips together as she puts the tube of lipstick away. “oh, look at you!” she smiles brightly, her hand cupping under your chin as she examines your face.

“such a pretty girl for mommy… mommy’s pretty girl.”

✦✧✦✧

(drabble inspired by @lesbiansweet. as soon as i read your post, i had to write this <3)

[aozui]

“come here,” he pleads. “please.”

it was an accident, really — getting into boxing. being the adrenaline junkie that he is, itadori thrives in the ring. he never planned to make it this far.

his hair sticks up in places where he’s run his hands through during the day. an anxious habit. you like him this way. disheveled, clingy, maybe even desperate.

you give him an exasperated look.

“I’m sitting on your lap.”

“need you,” he mumbles, large palms absentmindedly landing on your knees, “need you closer.” he sports a lopsided grin as he plops his forehead onto your shoulder.

what started as a time-killing hobby turned into his very pride and joy. hours spent training in the gym multiplied over time, earning him win after win. the effort resurfaces as dark purple blotches on his cheekbones. your thumb grazes over the one beneath his eye, and his teeth catch on his bottom lip trying to bite back a groan.

“is that one new?” you shift your weight onto the floor, readjusting to fix the ache running down your back from cleaning his wounds while you sit together in the living room. yuji’s head tips back onto the couch as you continue dabbing a cloth at the fresh stitches lining his collarbone. “a lot of these are new.”

the saline-doused rag bites into the spot where the threads hang loose; if he wasn’t so determined to keep his eyes on you, they would be squeezed shut.

a lightheaded kiss hovers over your jaw, and when you swivel your head to meet his lips with yours, his brain goes static. losing is no fun. but itadori figures that letting himself get a little battered once in a while meant coming home and letting you take care of him.

he pulls away for a second, drowsier than he should be,

“hold me?”

you shake your head, moving towards the sink to run the rag underwater. “let’s get you cleaned up first.”

even with your back towards him, the disappointment oozing off of him is palpable. it’s no surprise that he gets handsy when he’s all roughed up.

itadori’s legs fell asleep a long time ago. he takes an unsteady step forward before making a dent in his nose with the kitchen cabinet.

you wince at the noise. he doesn’t.

there’s a small divot on his bridge where the blood starts to drip down to his chin. for someone who’s just broken his nose, he doesn’t look so glum. collecting the drops onto his pointer, yuji licks it off of his finger.

“don’t do that.” you scold, swatting his hand away and grabbing the washcloth. he’s laughing now, while you frown; it’s sort of weird, trying to keep a straight face while the person in front of you is losing screws.

it’s even more difficult trying not to smile when unoccupied, so you look to the fridge, busying yourself with leftovers instead of giving him the attention he wants. itadori, mistaking your indifference as invitation, slips into your space, his hands finding home around your waist. he nips at your neck, and just as he teases the hem of your shirt, your elbow unintentionally jerks up, clipping his jaw.

crack!

the shock on your face seems to act as some kind of reassurance that you do, in fact, still care, because instead of complaining about the pain, he’s grinning.

“guess you’ll have to fix me again.”

a/n: titled as ‘battered and blue’ for anyone who wants to find it in my masterlist. it feels weird coming back on here after being gone awhile 😵‍💫 heyyy

[ynsbarbbb]

tell me you love me | l. norris

hypothesis - on days like these, where everything just seems to go wrong, the uttered words from your boyfriend is the only cure.

pairing - lando norris x fem!driver!reader

[fic is inspired by “tell me you love me” by demi lovato]

“i need someone on days like this, i do”

“are you fucking kidding me right now?” you groan as your car’s engine died, right at the turn of the finish line. right at the turn of qualifying for the miami grand prix.

“come on, come on,” practically begging the car, trying to see if you could just get it back to life, to salvage the last bit of your pride that’s hanging on by a damn thin thread.

slamming your hands on the wheel, “son of a bitch!”

“lost power,” you sigh into your ear piece, defeated. laying your head on your hands that rested in the steering wheel.

this is really just what you needed.

another layer of cake on your already shitty day.

first the argument you had with lando this morning, really, about something so imbecile silly that you can actually laugh about it right now. running late, missing your shoe, bumping your hip on the counter - sure to leave a nasty bruise and lando not wanting to get out of the bed.

silly, right?

and now this.

“what happened?” zac questioned, concerned. the car was perfectly fine yesterday, practically soaring all over the track. you were sure that you’d start first pole by how the car roared.

“you fucking tell me,” you didn’t mean to be so harsh. zac’ question just scratched that itchy irritable spot that has been bothering you, all day.

zac sighed, not commenting on your response, sensing how it’ll make the situation worse.

knowing that if he said anything about your starting pole, which you already definitely knew, you’d blow your head.

smart man.

“sending tow, stay there.”

like you’d be going any fucking where.

~~

a coffee. that’s what you needed. a strong one at that.

with your suit arms tied around your hips you walk the way of the holy grail, not really observing your surroundings and stumbling straight into the blistering coffee cup of one of mclaren’s mechanics.

the liquid seeping through your shirt, burning your skin. his cup falling to the ground and shattering in hundreds of little pieces.

“y/n,” the mechanic was quick to react, grabbing napkins that rested on the edge of the table, dabbing at the material, pressing into your now third degree burn.

why didn’t you pay attention? why where you so wrapped up in your head?

why?

“just leave it,” hissing, you swatted the napkin from his hand, you take the route back to your room. the ceramic pieces crunching under your shoes.

with a hand pressed to your head, you can already feel the lump forming in your throat, eyes burning as tears well up behind your eyes. you bite your lip, you won’t succumb to today, you won’t show your white flag just yet.

you won’t acknowledge the pitying looks from everyone on your team.

you won’t acknowledge the murmurs on the paddock of mclaren’s worst starting pole.

you won’t acknowledge the desire you feel to be wrapped up in your boyfriend’s arms.

you just won’t.

another, beautiful layer of cake stacked.

~~

“really?” you whine as you pat your pockets, looking for the keycard that’s used to unlock the door, but it comes out empty.

damn zac for changing the locks. damn the security protocol.

you left, or more like forgot, it at home. on the counter, where you usually leave it. your shoulders sag and with your back turned to the door you glide down it. arms wrapped around your knees and head rested on it.

here it comes, the wall to the well finally comes crashing down and the first tear rolls down your cheek landing on the coffee stain.

you finally hoist your white flag, today won.

a pretty red cherry on top of your stacked cake. a delicious topping.

“there you are,” a muppet voice says, breaking you from the train of thoughts that’s currently speeding down the tracks in your mind.

you look up, and lando is peeping around the corner of the wall.

on every other day you would’ve laughed at the sight.

your lip trembles and a new wave of tears wells up behind your eyes. lando makes quick work to scramble towards you, crouching down in front of you.

“hey, hey, no, none of that,” he’s gentle. he brought his hands up to your face, wiping the stray tears that ran down your face. you lean into his touch, and finally, something that feels right for today.

“turn that frown upside down,” he says in a sing song voice, a smile creeping onto his lips. the gaps in his teeth more than welcoming.

you bite on your bottom lip, the corners of your mouth slightly lifting.

but lando takes that as a success nonetheless.

“there she is, my beautiful girl.”

a sob like snort leaves your mouth and lando can’t keep that muppet laugh of his in any longer.

hair that fell around your face, he pushed it behind your ears, “rumour has it that someone is having one hell of a day.”

you wipe your nose with the sleeve of your shirt, “really? who is it? max?”

“ah, sarcasm, it’s welcoming,” lando jokes.

rolling your eyes you look at his, wispy lashes, a light shade of red tint on the apples of his cheeks, “just tell me you love me, norris.”

“i love you.”

he leans closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“i love you,” a kiss to your brow.

“i love you,” a kiss to your cheek.

“i love you,” a kiss on your nose.

“i love you,” a final kiss to your lips.

“i love you.”

fin.

[selineram3421]

*spaced out*

Courting Pursuit

Part 1

Prologue

Alastor X Deer Reader

Warnings ⚠

⚠ (gn) gender neutral reader, mule deer reader, assuming alastor is a marsh deer, flustered alastor, Spanish translated, food mention-not specific, italics= thoughts, mentions of dismemberment ⚠

You had gotten Alastor's attention after that peck on the forehead.

It annoyed him though.

How dare some demon think to kiss him, the frightening Radio Demon, who slaughtered other Overlords to get to the top. He should be feared!

But after that day all you did was give him gentle smiles and what he assumes are compliments in Spanish. He's had to get a dictionary to translate them, not wanting to go to Vaggie every time.

After learning how to properly translate in his radio tower, he's left with a flushed face.

Damn that sleepy eyed deer- He huffs and tosses the book away.

Then he starts to notice more things about you. Mostly because he's trying to figure out a way to get you back for daring to touch him.

You look sleepy, almost all the time.

Noticing how strong you are when you lift one of the couches for Niffty to clean under it. How big your antlers are and how often you have to lower your head in order to enter a room without hitting your antlers on the door frame. Damn Angel for pointing out your big build and chest.

A button has shot out and broken a glass at the bar, the thread having finally snapped from the constant tension.

"Holy shit!", Angel laughed and turned to the white haired demon. "Hey vagina! You owe me a twenty!"

He learned the proper shirt size for you so that it wouldn't happen again.

Then he's noticed that you like to stand near him when given the chance. Sitting on the chair next to him when having dinner with everyone, sometimes following him to the bar, and then watching him cook.

It annoys him.

You still don't fear him.

Another night, another meal to be made and you're watching him cook again. The Radio Demon finally speaks up about your presence in the kitchen.

"If you aren't going to contribute in making the food, then leave.", he glances over his shoulder with a slight glare.

The mule deer stays leaning against the door frame for a second longer before pushing themselves off, walking over while rolling up their sleeves.

"Te ayudaré." (I will help you.)

It is quiet in the kitchen, save for the occasional ask for spices and other ingredients.

You are quite skilled with a knife.

He watches from the corner of his eye as you mince the vegetables.

After everything is done, you get the plates and set them down on the counter before starting to serve some the food one one of them.

"Who are you serving?", he questions.

You don't reply, instead you finish piling food on the plate before offering it to him with the same smile you always show him.

"Eat."

The Radio Demon was confused but took the plate anyway. It was the cook that ate last, it's always been that way.

"I don't really understand why you served me first. The others are in the dining room.", he said.

Before he could put his plate down, you stopped him and gave him a utensil.

"Please, eat. Has trabajado duro, así que come y relájate. Yo serviré.", you flashed another smile and gathered up the other food filled plates, balancing them on your arms as you made your way over to the door. (You have worked hard, so eat and relax. I will serve.)

He stood there as he watched you leave the room, taking a glance at the plate in his hands.

What exactly were you trying to do?

Later in the week, Alastor decided to pay a visit to Rosie and brought some food that you had made after finding out where he was going.

He sat on one of the arm chairs as the woman across from him complimented your food.

"I need advise for a problem."

The black eyed woman lifted a brow.

"You? Now this must be something good. You never ask for advise unless something has really stumped ya.", she said and dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

"It's about that mule deer I brought with me last time, the hotel guest.", his smile strained slightly. "I don't understand why aren't scared of me like other sinners. Hell, even the Princess knows to be wary of me but the damn demon just smiles at me."

This gets her attention and she sits up a bit straighter.

"Go on.."

"Not only that, they dare to peck me on the forehead.", he looks away. "I hate that they aren't afraid. They sit close to me, compliment me, follow me around sometimes, helped me in the kitchen just a few days ago. Served me a plate even!", he raised a hand up in annoyance. "I've ripped demons apart in front of them but they still act so strangely around me! I don't understand! Why are they so odd!?"

Rosie laughs as she places her elbow on the arm rest, leaning her chin in the palm of her hand, wearing a knowing smile.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're being courted."

Alastor turned to look at his friend.

"A what now?"

You..courting him?

How absurd! Laughable even.

"Hahahaha!", he wiped a tear away. "I didn't think you'd make such a ridiculous joke, ha.."

The woman crossed her arms and stared him down with a look.

"Surely you jest.", he says.

Rosie sighs and stands from her seat. "Dear old friend, what are the ways to court or show interest in a person?"

"Ah..well. You know I've never-", he begins but is cut off.

"The most popular ways to court someone are to give the person of their interest compliments, attention, gifts, acts of service, and often treated in a respectable manner.", she lists off and she walks over to stand next to his chair. "And the oh so famous line of reaching a person's heart is through their stomach.", she says and pokes his mid section. "It sounds a lot like what that big darling deer is doing for you."

Alastor left, not knowing what else to say after his friend laid out the evidence so plainly for him to see. Once he arrived back at the hotel, he noticed the mule deer sleeping in the lobby on one of the couches.

"Everyone else is asleep in their rooms.", Husk spoke up fron the bar.

The spider demon is at the bar drinking a maroon liquid from a martini glass in his hand.

"Why are they..here?", the Radio Demon gestures to you.

"Said something about making sure to welcome you when you got back. I don't know why they'd want to though.", the cat demon serves himself a drink.

"Gentle Giant is real sweet, that's why.", Angel places his cup on the bar counter. "Damn, I'd want some hot demon to welcome me back home.", he says before leaning closer to the bartender. "Oh Husk~"

Husk just rolls his eyes and drinks his alcohol.

"They gotta sleep in their room. The couch is not that comfortable.", Husk mentions.

Not too long later, the two demons at the bar leave to go to their rooms to retire for the night.

Alastor now left with the task of waking you up.

He goes over and places a hand on your shoulder, beginning to shake you slightly.

"Wake up. You have to go to your room.", he says.

You slowly blink your eyes open and stare at him for a second. Then that soft dopey smile forms on your face.

"Bienvenido de nuevo.", you mumbled out. (Welcome back.)

". . . . . . . . ."

Shit.

He made sure you didn't hit anything on your way back to your room. Immediately walking away after your door closes to think over a few things.

Fun fact: Female deer can also have antlers but it is very rare and only occurs when there is a hormonal imbalance of testosterone/regulation issues.

~Seline, the person.

Part 2

Taglist@

@c4rved-pumpk1n @scary-noodlesblog @stolas-thebirb @naelys-the-aster @biromanticboba @lbcreations-blog @ducky-died-inside @kiraisastay @pooplyface1423 @line-viper @117s-girl @spiderlegsling @alastorsgoldie @repentant-repeller @kcsketches @lofasofabread @kotaleee @im-coolrat @superzombiewho @speckle-meow-meow @jammcookie @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @trashbin-nie @koioli @fatherlesschild2 @mmik3yy @just-here-reading @nealeart @hudiexiaoying @crystal-multiplefandomlover @glowinggoldfish0 @tiredgamerhere @fluffy-koalala @valenfawkes @willowshadenox @aria-tempest @alastor-simp @nonetheartist @gallantys @i-3at-kidz @luxky-aish @wat4r @lustylita @sleep-7372 @+?

ML II Alastor🎙 | CP ChL🦌

[starofthesea7]

König~Worship the King

Your eyes traced the huge mass of muscle in front of you. Fresh from the field, he looked exhausted, primal- his canvas pants still splattered with mud and god knows what else. Arms shiny with sweat and rain, leg bouncing absentmindedly, his head was still a void, swimming with pictures of death and devastation. His eyes were focused on a bowl of stew, dwarfed by his huge, muscled hands. Pale fingers against white ceramic.

‘You can take the mask off to eat your food, I have to clean up your face anyway. In fact I should look at that first.” Your voice was soft, hesitant. Afraid of startling him, even though little could do so.

Dark fabric folded as he shook his head gently. “After. I don’t want it to…” he searched for the word in English, “to scare you. Yet” His voice was rough and tired, laced thickly with an accent, german. Your heart twinged at his words.

“You couldn’t scare me.” You attempted a reassuring smile. König. King. A very fitting name for the enigma in front of you, and yet in some ways not fitting at all. True he was imposing. Large. Stately. Yet he was gentle, anxious, even, when he was in close proximity to others. Under scrutiny. He was anxious when it came to people, most of all you. He was good at hiding it though, to you it seemed an aloofness, perhaps even a polite disinterest, that he felt towards you. A simple nod in greeting as he passed you was the most you could hope to receive.

Now you stood in between his enormous thighs which he’d spread just far enough apart to avoid grazing yours, the air between them thick with tension. You rolled up his dark sleeve, doing your best to ignore the rippling muscle beneath. They way it flexed which each ascent of his spoon, before it disappeared underneath black cloth, then reappeared, empty. He barely flinched as you dabbed an alcohol pad across the gaping wound on his shoulder. Blood glistened carmine.

Oxymoron was a more fitting name, you thought. Perhaps it was too long for a nickname. He truly was a paradox, though. So colossal, yet reserved. So immense yet quiet, even gentle. He was a man of few words. A wave waiting to crash, or a volcano waiting to erupt.

Your voice broke the silence, surprising you both. It felt small. “Feel okay?” He was nervous, although you couldn’t see it, underneath the mask. He wasn’t really afraid of you, more afraid of hurting you, or scaring you. With his weight. His scars, his is strength.

His eyes raised to meet yours. Although he was sitting, they were level with your own. A cold, pale olive green. “Ja. Thank you. I am sorry for waking you for this little scratch.” When you’d gotten a call that he’d needed a small patch job, admittedly you’d jumped at the chance to see him. You’d been drawn to the Austrian giant since you’d arrived a month ago. You liked his presence, it was safe, a shield to all else. Nothing could touch you with him there. No amount of horny jeering men, or loaded guns.

“It’s not a just scratch, König, its a big gash. And I haven’t even gotten to your face yet. Plus, I couldn’t sleep anyway, I’m happy to do it.” You rambled, feeling the burn of his eyes on yours, studying your face as you concentrated, threading a sterile needle. You stepped forward, into him, bumping his leg. He smelled like earth, and motor oil. Faintly of cigarettes and metallic blood. The heady odour was thick, collocating with the rubbing alcohol of your sterile office.

“Deep breath.” You felt silly, instructing a man who’d murdered countless men in the past week to do a breathing excersise, but he obeyed, the soft, raspy sound making your knees weak, and your imagination run wild. You blinked and regained focus, before puncturing the skin. His eyes fixed on your face, unwavering. You counted the stitches. Eleven, black and neat, in a row. “Aaand…done.” You cut the thread. “And not even a flinch.” You smiled at him, and his eyes crinkled, barely.

You gently rubbed it with ointment and wiped your hands on a towel, blood staining it crimson. You noticed his thighs now resting against yours. They were warm, and dirt from them stained your kaki pants but your hardly cared. “Ok. Ready for the mask?” You felt nervous, more nervous than he looked. It felt monumental, an enigma becoming real, smoke condensing into man.

You’d thought about what he looked like, but only in patches, certain features imagined while the rest of the picture was more of a blurred haze. Pale skin and light eyes. Dark or light hair? A sharp jaw or weak and soft? You couldn’t really imagine him being ugly, and truly, you felt you’d be attracted to him regardless, like opposite poles of a magnet. North and south. Dark and light, soft and hard.

He cleared his throat, and set the empty bowl down beside him. His eyes held yours vehemently, and large hands raised black cloth, revealing a pale, broad column of neck, a white scar gracing one side. You wanted to graze it with your lips. His lips were split, bitten and red. And inviting. A glint of teeth and a jaw, sharp with a whisper of stubble. The cloth clung to a splatter of blood and small cuts now integrated with old scars, and a few pieces of shrapnel that traveled up to a deep, glistening slice. Caked blood ran down his temple. His nose was sharp and slightly crooked, veering to the right in an endearing way, as if it had been broken when he was a child.

Then, his eyes, deep set and soft, framed with long lashes and crowned with sharp brows, one interrupted by a large, aged scar. Finally, hair, light, light brown, almost blonde, with a tinge of red, tumbled out. It was tied back with an elastic, but not long, as if he was in need of a trim, shorter pieces falling across his forehead. His head tilted back as he looked at you, silently, daring you to react to his intimate sign of trust.

You breathed out. It wasn’t what you had expected. His face was, interesting. Attractive. Younger than you’d imagined. A sharp canine pressed into his lip. You let out a breath, and raised a hand to his jaw, feeling it clench beneath your fingers, tilting his face up towards artificial light. His lips parted, adams apple bobbing. “You should’ve let me do your face first.”

“Sorry.” His voice was soft, ragged.

You reached for a pair of pointed tweezers and began removing each piece of shrapnel from his face. The night was quiet, save for for soft breaths. His was hot against your cheek. “König.” Chunks of metal and stone clanged into a small aluminum bowl. He hummed in response.

“You could never scare me.”

He smiled softly at you, slightly crooked.

Without meaning to, your thumb stroked the soft skin of his jaw. His legs tightened against you, barely, but your heart quickened against your ribcage.

Again, you soaked the wounds in alcohol. You could tell it stung. His fingers began absentmindedly drumming against your hip, leaving hot tingles in their wake. You moved to the cut on his lip, he hissed quietly as you made contact with the cotton pad. Your eyes were focused, pupils blown wide as you stared at his lips. His hot tongue peeking out from behind pink bloodied skin.

Your voice was quiet, distant, “You have a pretty bad split lip, I’m gonna put a little stitch in it.”

He swallowed hoarsely, “Okay.”

You were close, so close to him, breaths mingling in the hot air. His scent enveloped you. He enveloped you. You weren’t particularly small, but to him you were. Fragile. The needle ruptured his lip and his hand gripped at your waist, heavy and large. You leaned into him, lower stomach barely grazing the split of his pants. He shifted in thick canvas.

Your hand shifted, cupping his jaw as you cut the thread. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and something else. You looked at each other with neediness, both in awe of how the other contained all that they could ever want- him to satiate your emptiness, you to soothe his aching burn. A month of passing glances and unsaid words threatened to morph into action; spurred on by the arousal of seclusion and stagnation after the high of adrenaline, the heady scent of blood, metal, alcohol.

You leaned in and felt his hand tighten against you hip, You were inches from him, the air between you buzzed as opposites attracted, pulled you towards him. His mouth widened as he leaned into you. Your soft, plush lips grazed his, barely, and he pulled you into him, emitting a soft sound. Mouths opened wide with need. He was metal, cigarettes and gasoline, the taste and smell making you unsteady, faint. You gripped his shirt tightly, his mass keeping you from falling, or perhaps from floating away.

Deft, strong fingers found the back of your head. Scalp prickling as he pulled at your hair. You were slick.

He groaned slightly into your mouth, and your hands found his hair, fisting it free from the elastic band, copper locks brushing your forehead, stubble brash against your reddening cheeks.

His large warm hand traced from your hip down, raising your leg to straddle his thigh. Hot, hard muscle against your softness. You let out an involuntary airy moan as the seam of your jeans jabbed into your clit, cunt clenching around nothing, deprived and empty.

You lifted your other leg to straddle him fully, clothed cunt contracting at the friction against pelvis, you could feel him, large, hard, heavy and confined. It made you hot with need. You pulled back to stare at him, pupils blown, lips puffy. His hips bucked up into you, searching for friction and release, his brows furrowed. Colossal hands found your waist beneath your shirt, opposite fingers almost touching around your circumference. His fingers were calloused and rough. Feeling his hot skin against yours made you reel with thoughts of at the way he dwarfed you, dominated you with the simplest of actions. The fact that he could fill your emptiness, stretch you to the brink, overwhelm you, crush you- was inebriating.

“I-” he searched for the right words, “I want you. Ich brauche dich.” You smiled at his mother tongue appearing, as it often did in states of intoxication.

You pressed your mouth to his neck, with an open mouthed kiss, feeling the bump of his scar as he swallowed, and looked up at him through wet lashes. Grinding your hips against him, making him groan, cock twitching, hyper sensitive from months of neglect. You maundered, “Let me make you feel good, König.” Your voice was airy and laced with fervour. His eyes were glassy and lidded as he looked down at you, hair falling across his forehead, glistening with sweat. His head swam, the situation feeling far to good to be true, an intoxicated dream or adrenaline spurred hallucination. His blunt fingernails clutched at your waist harshly, leaving half moons in their wake.

Your eyes flickered to a stain of precum darkening the crotch of his thick pants as you rose to your feet, his hands gripped his thighs in restraint, watching you in anticipation. Then, you knelt to the ground to worship your king.

[steddielations]

Steve doesn’t know if he should say something.

He knows, he obviously knows that Eddie’s been taking his clothes.

It’s like a routine at this point. They’ll be hanging around Steve’s pool or up on his roof getting high, Eddie will say he’s cold no matter what he’s wearing or how warm it is. And if Steve’s not wearing a jacket to give him, Eddie will go ruffle through Steve’s closet and at the end of the night, he always “forgets” to give it back before he leaves.

Steve’s not sure if Eddie’s just doing it to fuck with him or if it’s an actual reason. Like Eddie doesn’t have clothes, or his washer is broken and he can’t afford to fix it, or he doesn’t have money for the laundromat or something serious that Steve does not want to be insensitive about, but he’s seriously running out of clothes.

For fuck’s sake, he’s wearing his Christmas sweater from two years ago, he literally had nothing else in his closet.

He’s starting to think that’s the endgame here, that Eddie’s just waiting until Steve shows up bare ass naked so he can laugh in his face.

Finally, Steve decides to get some answers while they’re hanging out in Eddie’s room, wearing his too-small Christmas sweater that Eddie’s already teased him about.

“Eddie, is… is everything like… okay?”

Steve asks carefully, picking at threads on Eddie’s comforter.

Eddie’s fingers pause on his guitar strings, joint hanging out of his mouth as he gives Steve a curious look.

“You mean just in general or…? Because I’m far from what someone like yourself would consider “okay” but that’s normal for me.”

Steve looks around the room, noting the usual piles of Eddie’s clothes, recognizing a lot of his own. Doesn’t seem like Eddie’s in any shortage of things to wear, and his laundry always piles up. Nothing looks out of sorts, maybe he just hasn’t felt like doing it lately, and Steve doesn’t want to be insensitive if that’s the case either.

He minds his words, “I mean like, are things okay for you? Like around the house, your refrigerator’s working, your washing machine isn’t broken or anything?”

Eddie smirks, “What if they’re not? Is Handyman Harrington gonna put on his little toolbelt and fix it all up?” He always makes light when he senses something uneasy coming.

“Real funny. I’m serious, Eddie. Is there a reason you haven’t done laundry? If you’re not feeling up to it or something, I don’t mind helping.”

Eddie sobers a little then, putting his guitar down and dabbing out the joint in the ashtray on the bedside table, “Yes my washing machine works. Yes I can do my laundry, I’m just lazy as shit and letting it pile up. What’s this about, Steve?”

“Because you—” Steve runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it, flustered, “I’m literally wearing my Christmas sweater in goddamn October because you have all my clothes, dude.”

Something registers in Eddie’s gaze but he quickly deflects, laughing, “Oh is that why? I thought you just pulled out that little number ‘cause it's skin tight, you minx.”

“Is everything okay?” Steve doesn’t let him change the subject, offering gently, “If you need to borrow some money or use my washer or something then—”

“No, no that’s not it,” Eddie shakes his head, smile gone, seeming kind of nervous now, “I don’t need anything like that, Stevie.”

Steve sighs, at a loss, “So why do you keep taking my clothes, Eddie?”

Eddie lets out a small laugh, almost sad, a little bitter, “You’re really gonna make me say it, Harrington?”

“Say what? You can tell me,” Steve scoots closer to him on the bed. He tries to meet Eddie’s gaze, to make sure he knows he can tell Steve. Fuck, they saved the world together, they almost died together, he knows he can tell Steve anything.

So it sort of hurts when Eddie won’t look at him, or answer him, but Steve tries to be understanding.

“Okay,” he sighs, resigned, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me, but I’m just gonna need some of them back if that’s alright—”

“God, you really are something,” Eddie gives that same bitter laugh. It hurts, mostly because Steve knows there’s something deeper here, something’s hurting Eddie and he won’t tell Steve. “Of course, it’s alright. They’re your clothes, it’s not even… Fuck, it’s not even about the clothes.”

“So you were just fucking with me then?”

Eddie shakes his head, hands tugging his own hair, the way he does when he’s anxious, “No, it wasn’t a prank Steve.”

“You’re trying out a different style?”

“Definitely not.”

“Dustin dared you, or something?”

“No, it’s not like that—”

“So then why did you do it? I don’t—”

“Shit, Steve, I’m— I took them because they smell like you, alright?”

Steve’s mouth opens and closes several times.

“I… You… What?”

Eddie won’t look him in the eyes, sighing sharply down at the bed, “Don’t make me say it again.”

Steve blinks, asking slowly, “You… like the way that I smell?”

Eddie finally looks up at him, a heavy cloud behind his dark eyes as he admits, “Yes I do and not in a friend sort of way. In a way that I’m literally stealing all your clothes like a fucking weirdo just to feel like I’m hugging you at night, or something— I dunno, Steve. It helps with the nightmares.”

Steve’s heart is sort of doing flips in his chest.

That’s another reason why he waited so long to say anything. He doesn’t mind Eddie taking some of his clothes. He likes the idea of Eddie wearing everything that’s his, and not just as a friend helping out another friend. In a deeper way, in a way that he’s been suppressing because he didn’t want to ruin things with Eddie.

“That could still be a friend thing,” Steve says carefully, hoping that Eddie disagrees.

“It’s not a friend thing,” Eddie shakes his head, starting to move away from the bed and Steve’s stomach drops, “I don’t have ‘friend’ feelings for you, Steve. So I get it if you wanna walk out that door and never talk to me again. I’ll give all your clothes back, I shouldn’t have—”

Steve’s hand shoots out to Eddie’s knee, stopping him, rushing to say, “I don’t like you as a friend either.”

Eddie quickly looks up, expression careful, confused, “You— huh?”

“Fuck, that came out wrong, I just…” Steve sighs, bolsters himself up and rubs Eddie’s knee softly but with intent as he asks, “Eddie, can I hug you in a not-friend way?”

Eddie’s eyes flick up and down between Steve’s hand and his face about ten different times, gaze utterly wild, “Are you saying you have feelings for—”

“Just get over here and find out.”

Eddie’s grin mirrors Steve’s as he crawls across the bed. He’s tentative still, careful, so Steve just goes in, wrapping his arms around Eddie and pulling him against his chest. Eddie goes willingly, sliding his palms across Steve’s stupid Christmas sweater, his nose at Steve’s collar, breathing in deep.

Steve chuckles as Eddie burrows in, mumbling something about how good he smells.

Steve loves the way Eddie smells too, nuzzling into his hair, breathing in a hint of shampoo, smoke and something earthy, something Eddie. Steve loves the way he feels too, wants him impossibly closer.

“So why did you need so many of my clothes?” He asks softly after a while.

Eddie doesn’t lift his head when he replies, “Works best when the Steve smell is still strong. Had to get more when I sniffed it all up.”

Steve rolls his eyes, something like fondness tugging at his lips.

“You said it helps with nightmares?”

Eddie nods against him, admitting quietly, “On nights when my uncle works, it gets kinda creepy being alone here. Just having something that smells like you makes it feel like— I dunno, like you’re here with me. It’s weird.”

“It’s not. I wish I would’ve thought of that when my nightmares were bad,” instead of just not sleeping, or calling Robin all hours of the night. “Your uncle works tonight, right?”

“Yeah, he… yeah.”

Steve feels like he should be more nervous than he is, but Eddie hasn’t let up since the second Steve pulled him in, so he feels like he’s on the right track here.

“What if I stayed over? I have a feeling you’ll like hugging my sweater even more when I’m inside it.”

That makes Eddie burrow further into his neck, pressing a smile there.

“Already trying to get into my bed, Harrington? Should wait until at least the third hug for that,” playfully, Steve gives his side a little pinch, both of them chuckling, “Yeah, I’d like it if you stayed.”

Satisfied with that answer, Steve takes a risk, carefully wraps his hand around the back of Eddie’s legs, tugging a little to pull Eddie into his lap. Thankfully, Eddie wants it too. He sits atop Steve’s thighs and just melts into him, both of them sighing against each other.

Steve rubs broad circles across Eddie’s back, soothing the fabric of his yellow sweater that seems to be Eddie’s favorite to steal. He smiles into Eddie’s hair, feeling so warm and buzzing pleasantly all over.

It could’ve been hours gone by, Steve basking in Eddie’s body heat, in the weight of him, condensation forming against his neck where Eddie’s breathing him in. He pulls back a little, studies the blissed out look on Eddie’s face.

He blinks slowly at Steve, “Hey.”

Steve shakes his head, chuckling softly, “Hey, dummy.”

“Dummy?” Eddie parrots, grinning.

“Yeah. You’d rather steal my entire wardrobe than just give me a hug?” Steve squeezes him a little, “What if you wanted to kiss me, hm? Would you steal my chapstick?”

He lets his eyes linger on Eddie’s lips, hoping he gets the hint, takes the subtle offer.

Eddie’s finger toys with his collar, brushing the bone there as he murmurs back, “If you’d just kiss me I wouldn’t have to steal your chapstick to know how you taste.”

Steve tips his head back with a soft laugh before cupping Eddie’s face, “God, c’mere, you idiot,” then leans in and presses their smiling lips together.

It’s sweet at first, just gently pecking each other. Then the kisses last longer, grow deeper, tasting each other. Steve’s mouth falls open in a sigh, letting Eddie lick inside, sucking lightly on his lip.

Kissing Eddie is everything, a deep warmth simmering in Steve’s bones that he can’t get enough of. He wants it all over him, wants to clothe himself in it, burrow inside Eddie and never come out.

He leans back against the pillows, taking Eddie with him in his lap. The movement makes them rub together in a way that has Steve humming against Eddie’s lips, gripping his hips as a new kind of pleasure lights inside him.

Eddie pulls back then, laughing breathlessly.

“Okay,” he nuzzles their noses together, grinning as he mumbles, “We gotta relax or I’m gonna have to steal another pair of your underwear too.”

Steve playfully rolls his eyes as he moves his hands elsewhere, wrapping them around Eddie’s back.

Then, a beat later, it clicks and his brows furrow.

“Wait, what do you mean another pair, Munson?”

Eddie laughs and quickly dives back in for another kiss, silencing any more questions from Steve.

Ao3 Link

[frankieburieshisdead]

ℬ𝓇𝓊𝒸ℯ 𝒲𝒶𝓎𝓃ℯ 𝓍 ℳ𝒶𝓁ℯ ℳℴ𝒹ℯ𝓁 ℛℯ𝒶𝒹ℯ𝓇

cw: NSFW

~ You liked modeling enough. It was exciting, and new, and you got to meet a bunch of people you otherwise wouldn't. For instance, if you could go back to the skinny, slightly effeminate brace face in rural Smallsville and tell him he would be hanging off the Bruce Wayne's arm at a promotional after party in Gotham he would laugh in your face. But here you were, and here he was, all 6ft (6'7? 6'8? God he was intimidating) wrapped around your shoulders, two of the girls from the shoot on his other side. You didn't know either of them very well, but they we're kind to you whenever you crossed paths, and it was always nice to see more black models in the industry.

~ So why did you feel so much vitriol towards them? This ugly feeling curling in your stomach every time Wayne leaned slightly towards them, slightly away from you. You chopped it up to star power, pure unadulterated charm that came with being one of the richest men in the Americas, but as long as it had been, you still remembered what it was like it have a crush.

~ It was hard to not have a crush on Bruce Wayne. He was confident, ridiculously so, but not the kind of confidence that made you feel small. When you arrived, he asked you "Do you like dark chocolate? I can't stand the stuff but for some reason people keep giving it to me." You could see he was lying, and that maybe he had just wanted to give you an expensive box of chocolate without making you feel like you owed him anything. It made you feel special.

~ It didn't take him long to invite the whole party back to his manor. His home was beautiful. Like a castle in one of the picture books your gran used to let you borrow from her job at the library. You told Bruce that, and he had smiled so genuinely you hadn't stopped blushing for the rest of the night.

~ You ended up asking yourself up to his bedroom. One of the bottle girls had popped the cork right over you, drenching your pants in sparkling cider. She had been so apologetic, and you hadn't wanted to make a scene, so you stumbled up the stairs in into the nearest unlocked door you could find. You closed the door behind you, stripping out of your soaked jeans to dab them clean in the joining bathroom.

~ "Not that I'm complaining, but I have to say it's not everyday I find pretty boys stripping out their clothes unprompted in my bedroom." You must have jumped about a foot in the air, hiding behind your thread bare trousers. "Oh god Mr. Wayne I'm so sorry, I just needed- there was this champagne girl- and well-"

"Relax, I'm just teasing." You looked at him properly now, his weary tone bleeding past your initial embarrassment. He was propped up against the bedpost, shirtless with one hand clamped firmly over his ribs. There was a mean purple blotch under his fingers, and his chest rose and fell in stutters. He was in pain.

"What happened?" You were across the room the next second, pants forgotten on the floor as you scooted next to him in your briefs. There was a slight blush across his chest and cheeks. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe you were.

"Got into... a brawl. Nothing serious don't worry." You got the feeling he liked that you were worried. You wondered how many people worried about Bruce Wayne. You had seen an older man in butler attire fussing over him when the party first got here. You hoped he was looked after.

"Well... I best get going." You were inches apart now, you could feel his harsh breath against your top lip.

"Best." He replied, curling his lip to mirror your Midwestern accent.

You fell into him first, crashing your lips against his as his arms came to grip your biceps. He lifted you with an insane show of strength, you squealed into his mouth, ending off in a giggle. He gave that genuine smile again.

~ You were straddling him now, grinding down on a ever hardening length. He gasped into your mouth, squeezing almost painfully as he pressed you firmer against him. He was massaging the v on your waist, teasing just above where you wanted him.

"Can I?"

You nodded manically against his shoulder, the both of you generating a frantic energy. He dipped down, palming you through your underwear.

"Protection?" You managed to pant out, remembering every talk your granny had drilled into you since you came out.

"Bedside drawer."

~ 3 hours. You kept going for 3 hours after that. He had taken you, knees pressed up against your shoulders, hitting all the right spots until you had come dry and untouched. He was still hard inside you, panting and you squeezed your way through your orgasm. He was kind, clearly straining to not thrust forward while you were so sensitive. You hooked your legs behind the dip in his waist and tugged him forward. A dare. The result of which had you on your hands and knees panting and keening after your third, fourth? climax. He was good afterwards as well. Sweet. He held your head up as he poured water from a sealed bottle down your throat, petting through your slim locs. You woke up tucked against his side, unsure if he had even slept a wink as he stared down at you. He had to go, but he had arranged one of the cars for you as soon as you wanted to leave. The butler, Alfred, had cleaned and dried your jeans while you were asleep, although Bruce had made it clear you were welcome to his extensive wardrobe. You giggled, imagining getting back to your apartment in a pair of 1000$ tracksuit pants with the ankles rolled up to your calves.

~ When you finally made it back to your apartment, you patted down your jeans, pleading to whoever was listening that you hadn't lost your keys in the chaos of the previous night. Instead, you pulled out a neatly folded parchment paper, thumbing it open to find barely legible handwriting reading:

555-0199

Call me if you liked the chocolate.

END

[sixpennydame]

Part One: The Feint

Pairing: Boxer!Choso Kamo x Fem!Reader [Jujutsu Kaisen]

Word count: 4.5k

Summary:

Choso's life is simple: eat, sleep, train, fight. But everything changes when a mysterious doctor comes into his life.

Author's notes: This is me, branching out and writing for something other than Attack on Titan! But I just love me a dark-haired, misunderstood man. Thank you to my beloved @littlerequiem for beta reading.

Series content/warnings: No curses AU, bare knuckle boxing, violence (in the boxing ring and out), mentions of blood and broken bones, eventual smut

AO3 | Playlist

Line dividers: @saradika-graphics

The first time you meet Choso, he’s covered in blood.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. You’re a doctor.

Or rather, you used to be. It was all taken away from you. Now you’re forced to treat fighters in an underground fighting ring, patching up broken bones and open wounds.

This was your life now, and you’d resigned yourself to that.

You hear your door slide open. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” you say, your back turned.

“Ok...” you hear a low voice respond, “but can I sit down? I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

You look over your shoulder to see a tall man, blood oozing from a wound to his head, the rag he has pressed against it drenched.

“Oh - yes, of course! Let me just...” 

You grab sterile gauze and your other instruments from the cabinet and run over to him as he sits down. He looks lethargic, and a little disoriented. You remove the soaked rag, assessing the large gash along his eyebrow.

“That’s deep,” you remark, “you must have been hit pretty hard.”

“Wasn’t too bad. I just bleed a lot,” he answers nonchalantly.

The blood from his head runs down and mingles with blood on his chest.

He notices your downward glance. “That isn’t all my blood.”

“Ah,” is all you can think to say.

You’d hate to see what the other guy looks like.

“Well, let’s get you stitched up then.”

He follows you to your examination table and sits down. You start by cleaning off the blood around the wound, gently dabbing the area while keeping pressure on it. His eyelid is already starting to swell, the deep purple bruising spreading under his eye and to his cheekbone. As you clean his face, you notice that he has a long, dark scar that goes across the bridge of his nose.

“Have you had any blurred vision? Vomiting?” you ask, going through the checklist of a concussion. 

He shakes his head. “Nope. I just need you to stitch me up and then I’ll be out of here.”

“There’s a bit more to it than that. I need to check that you’re ok.” You turn on your examination light and he squints, then you prepare a needle with local anesthesia.

“This might sting a bit,” you warn, and when the needle goes in, he winces for a moment, but his stoic expression soon returns.

You get right to work on the wound, silently putting in one stitch, then two, then another, concentrating on mending the skin together.

“I haven’t seen you before. You new?” His voice breaks the silence and your concentration.

“Yeah…I’m just here for a little while.”

He hums a response, and you can feel his eyes glance up at you. 

“That’s good. Nobody should stay around here for too long.”

“And how long have you been fighting here?”

He sighs. “Too damn long. But fighting is all I’ve ever known….I can’t really do anything else.”

There’s a tinge of sadness in his voice. You know what it feels like to be trapped, to not have any other recourse. It’s what got you here, afterall.

You make the final stitch, tie the knot, and cut the thread. 

He makes to stand up, but your hand on his shoulder stops him.

“I need to check for any signs of a concussion,” you say.

He sighs, but with a nod, he settles himself back down. You put your hands on each side of his head, turning it from side to side gently.

“Any pain?”

“N-no..” His dark brown eyes are looking everywhere but at you.

You go through the rest of the list, checking his vision, coordination, and balance—-he passes it all without a hitch.

This guy can really take a punch, you think to yourself.

“Am I good, Doc?”

“It would seem so, but you need to let that wound heal for a week or two before you fight again.”

“Nope, can’t do. I don’t get paid if I don’t fight.” 

He jumps down off the exam table and walks towards the door.

But you grab his arm, pulling the man towards you.

“Hey. You might not care what happens to your body, but I do. And if you’re going to be under my care then you’re going to follow my instructions. No fighting until you get the all-clear from me.” Your voice is forceful and authoritative, and the surprise in his eyes shows that it was not what he was expecting from you.

“Yes…ma’am…er, doctor…” His phrasing is suddenly polite. “I understand. No fighting.”

At that, you let go of his arm. “Good. Come by next week and I’ll see if I can take out those stitches.”

“Next week. Will do, Doc,” he says before walking out the door.

But the following evening, he’s back in your office, straddling one of your chairs and leaning on its back.

“I’m bored...” his low voice whines.

“And so you decided to come here,” you reply dryly while wiping down your examination area.

He doesn’t take the hint, merely watching you as you do your work. Last night, his hair was up in two pigtails that spiked at the top of his head; today, his black hair flows down, almost touching his shoulders. Cleaned up, he’s handsome, even with the swelling from the black eye.

You walk over to him with a small bag of ice. “Here. If you're gonna just hang around here, we might as well take care of that swelling.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He takes the bag, putting it on his still tender bruise. 

“I’m not a doctor.” 

He furrows his brow at your statement.

 “Not fully, anyway. I’m a doctor in residence.”

Was a doctor in residence, but you leave that part out. It’s better not to tell him too much.

Your words seem to be an acceptable explanation. He leans his arms on the back of the chair, then his head. “Well then…what’s your name?”

You tell him. There’s an awkward silence.

“And what’s yours?”

“Choso. Choso Kamo.”

Normally, you don’t bother learning the fighters’ names, or even asking. What would be the point? They’re either too punch drunk to answer you, or they’re in and out of your office without a backwards glance. 

But it wouldn’t hurt to get to know this guy a little more, right? The night’s been slow, and it doesn’t seem like he means to leave any time soon.

“And you said you’ve been fighting for a while?” you ask while attempting to grab a jar of cotton balls on a high shelf.

“Yeah. A couple years. I’m paying for my brothers to go to a boarding school outside the city. The public schools are shit here, and I want them to have better opportunities than I did.” He suddenly becomes quiet, contemplative. “I don’t want them to end up like me.”

That was not the answer you were expecting from him. You’d assumed all the fighters here were adrenaline junkies or extreme pain addicts, with overinflated egos to match. But Choso didn’t seem to fit any of your preconceived notions. He’s fighting for his family because he feels he has to.

So you’re not the only one who feels trapped in their circumstances.

He walks over to you, looking down and smiling. “Don’t feel sorry for me, though. I chose this life.”

There’s a silent energy between the both of you as you meet his gaze, but it’s gone in an instant when he looks away, reaching up and getting the jar.

“Did you need this?” he asks, his voice suddenly low and sweet.

“Yeah.... thanks.” 

Your fingers graze his as you take the jar and there’s a flutter in your stomach. For someone so beat up and bruised, there’s a gentleness about him; you can see it in his eyes.

The moment between the two of you, however, is cut short when the door is kicked open and a bloodied and bruised fighter is rushed into the room. 

By the time you get them bandaged and stitched, and your workspace clean, Choso is gone. 

Ah well, you think, better not to get too attached anyway.

But the next evening, he’s back in your office, just like clockwork, leaning in a chair or sitting on a counter, just ever so slightly in your personal space. You use it as an opportunity to check his wound, reprimanding him for not regularly putting on antiseptic ointment. 

Your leg brushes his as you dab the ointment on, attempting to ignore that he’s once again watching you silently. 

You clear your throat. “You need to take better care of your wounds, Choso, or the scar isn’t going to heal properly. Or worse, it’ll get infected.”

”I don’t really care about scars. I’ve always had them, it seems.”

You look into his eyes, then down at the scar across his nose.

”How’d you get that one?”

“That?” He points to his nose. “That was an unfortunate incident with my father and a metal baton.”

He then tells you about his life, about having an abusive father and an absent mother, and about raising his younger brothers practically on his own. As a teenager he’d given up on school but had found an aptitude for fighting, first in back alleys and parks, and  now, in his early twenties, in the underground bare knuckle boxing matches run by various shady gambling organizations. 

The gambling here was somewhat legal, but the matches were anything but, pitting fighter against fighter in a bloody free-for-all where the only rule was don’t hit them hard enough to kill them. The fact that Choso was still alive and fighting after all these years was impressive.

Slightly masochistic, but impressive. 

From here on, every evening, Choso would come like clockwork. He’d find his way to your office, where you’d assess his wound, put on more ointment (he would always forget), give him some ice for his bruising and just listen to him talk. The man was an open book to you, and after a few days, you felt you had a good idea of who Choso was and what made him tick.

Like how he hates confined spaces but has no problem with heights; that if he’d gone to college, he would have been a preschool teacher because he loves kids; how he likes board games but gets too competitive.

He was odd but sweet, carrying himself in an unassuming way that contrasted vastly from the other fighters that passed through your door. Even though he was part of such a cruel world, he seemed so… innocent, as if he was experiencing life for the first time. 

You, on the other hand, kept information about yourself general and brief during your talks with Choso. To tell him about yourself and your life would mean that you trusted him; that he was more than just another fighter coming through your door. 

Even moreso, you were afraid of what he’d think if you told him what got you here in the first place.

And so every question Choso asked was met with a quick answer or total silence; that didn’t seem to stop him from asking questions, however; the man was as relentless with curiosity as he was with fighting stamina.

And when seven evenings had passed, you could tell the man was aching to get back into the ring.

“It’s itchy,” he said, gently patting the healing wound with his fingers, just like you’d taught him to do when he felt the urge to scratch it.

The bruising and swelling around his eye and the side of his face had gone down considerably in the past week, faster than you were even expecting. 

Something else you didn’t expect was the fact that you really enjoyed his presence in your office every night, so much so that you felt a small pang of longing every time he left.

“Come here, then. Let’s have a look at it.” 

He walks toward you, reaching up to pull his hair back into a ponytail, his shirt raising just enough to show his toned stomach. You quickly turn away to reach for your glasses.

There’s a crinkling sound behind you as he sits on the tissue paper covering the examination table. You can feel his eyes on you and you take a few breaths before turning around, avoiding his gaze.

You’ve been this close to him countless times, but why does it suddenly feel different now?

There’s cheers coming from the arena down the hall, and that usually brings commentary from Choso about the fighters, but right now, he’s quiet. You wonder what he’s thinking about.

“You look cute in your glasses,” he says in a low voice that sends vibrations to your core. 

“Stop it. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“But it’s true.”

”Shhh...” you command, but his comment has you visibly flustered. You clear your throat as you assess Choso’s wound.

“I’m going to take out the sutures now. It shouldn’t hurt.”

Your examination light clicks on above the two of you and you tilt his head up slightly. He smiles boyishly before looking away.

Realizing it’s pointless to ignore whatever is happening between the two of you, you prod, “Was that your way of flirting?”

”I’ve never been very good at that,” he confesses. “Just stating the facts. One of my many observations of you this week.”

”Oh yeah? And what else have you observed?”

”You purse your lips when you concentrate.” 

You suddenly relax your lips as you start cutting the threads of his suture. “I don’t do that.”

 He smiles. “And you do this little throat clearing sound when you’re nervous.”

As if on cue, you clear your throat. He smirks triumphantly.

”See?”

”So you’ve discovered every one of my physical ticks. You have them too, you know.”

His eyes glance up to you. “And they are?”

”Well…you...” you snip a few sutures, pausing to pull them out and put on a tray, “...sigh loudly.”

”I… sigh loudly?”

”Yeah…as if you’re bored or tired or something.” Snip goes another suture. “And you have the most expressive face I’ve ever seen. I don’t think you’re physically capable of hiding any of your emotions.”

”Unlike you. You’re like a stone wall. You get defensive and distant every time I ask a personal question.”

“I do -” your words come out clipped and harsh, and he gives you a knowing look, “-not..”

Snip.

Silence.

“Ok, fine. What do you want to know?”

“You’re not wearing a ring, so you’re not married. Boyfriend?”

“No.” You want to leave it at that, but that would just prove him right. “I don’t really have time for…relationships.”

Desperately wanting to deflect, you ask, “What about you? I’m sure you have a hoard of fangirls.”

“Me? Fangirls?” He laughs at that and you give him a reprimanding look to keep still before you continue your work. “You clearly haven’t been to any of the matches. It’s mainly old men drunk off their asses. And I don’t really talk to…girls.”

You take out the last suture and dab at the slight bleeding. 

“I’m a girl.”

“Yeah, but you’re different.”

Your brow furrows at that, and so he adds, “I want to talk to you. And it’s a challenge.”

“A challenge? In what way?”

“No matter what I ask, you’ve barely told me a thing about you.  But there’s some things I can tell.” 

His hand reaches out and pauses for a moment, before his fingertips caress your face. 

“You seem sad,” he says gently, “and alone.”

“What does that mean, alone?” You back away from him. “I’m perfectly fine, and I don’t need you to pity me.”

“That’s not what I meant -” 

He walks toward you, but you turn away.

“Your wound is healed and your bruising has gone down. You should be fine to fight now, so there’s no more reason to come here.”  

You can feel his presence right behind you. He says your name but you don’t turn around.

It’s time to stop this. There’s no use in letting someone into your life.

There’s a loud sigh, and then you hear the door to your office open and close.

——

“Goddammit, Choso, why are your hands not taped? Where’s your head been lately?”

Choso stays silent. Was he really gonna tell his trainer that he’s been sidetracked all week because he was thinking about you every moment? 

That would get him a slap across the face, and he’d like to avoid that.

This is the first time he’s been back to the arena since that last night he saw you. And every day he’s thought about whether he’ll catch a glimpse of you walking to your office, or in the hallway. After things fell apart so terribly, he wonders if he’d even have the nerve to talk to you again.

Choso’s trainer pushes him out the door. ”Go to the doctor and ask to borrow their tape. Surely she has some.”

Shit. 

The cheers and boos of another fight echo against the brick and metal of the hallway as Choso makes his way to your office, each step making his heart beat just a little bit faster. 

Would you even want to talk to him? Maybe you’ll turn him away. 

(Of course, if he got injured tonight, you’d have no choice but to treat him, that thought had crossed his mind.)

Just as he makes it to your door, it flings open, nearly hitting him in the face. He stops it right as a man with long blue hair slinks out.

”Oh! Sorrrry man!” His voice is innocent, child-like. “You almost got knocked out before you could even fight.” He smirks while holding open the door ceremoniously. “The doctor will see you now.”

Confused, Choso watches as the man practically skips down the hall but his concern quickly changes when he sees you slumped over your counter.

”Doc…” 

He cautiously walks towards you.

”Go away.” The words are harsh but your voice is weak and defeated.

Choso gently puts a hand on your shoulder to turn you towards him, but you refuse to look him in the eyes. He lifts your chin up to look at him.”What happened?”

That’s when he sees it. Your bottom lip is split and bleeding.

Choso’s eye squint, studying the wound. “Who did this to you?”

You say nothing, but with the freshness of the wound, he puts it together. And suddenly, he’s seeing red.

He turns on his heels, ready to burst out the door and catch that blue haired bastard who hit you, but you grab his arm, pulling him back to your side.

”Don’t, Choso!” You plead. “Please...”

Your eyes well up with tears and Choso’s hand instantly cups your face.

“What happened?”

You hesitate, as usual, but then, “…I’m in trouble...”

”What kind of trouble?”

You look down, grabbing some gauze on the counter to put on your lip. Once again, Choso is met with silence to his questions.

”Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”

”Why do you keep coming here, Choso? No matter what I do…you just keep coming back. I don’t get it.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I like you.” The words come out of his mouth so naturally, words he’s wanted to tell you for days.  “You are one of the only people here who is kind to me. I could tell that you really cared. I don’t get that often, if ever.”

He moves closer, placing his hand on top of yours. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

Outside the doors of the office, the voices of the gamblers in the arena raise to a crescendo. A muffled sound announces the next fighters.

But here, it feels as if time has stopped. Choso can’t hear anything but the pounding of his own heart in his ears getting louder and louder. His focus becomes completely on you, as if the rest of the world has melted away. It’s the same feeling he gets right before a fight, but this time he’s not looking to conquer anything.

Or maybe he is.

He brings your hand off your face and leans down, his lips mere millimeters from yours. 

“Let me in.”

Your breath is ragged and uneven and if he closed his eyes, he swears he’d be able to hear your heart beating as well. But after a few seconds, when neither of you move, he begins to doubt himself. 

Then your voice - your sad, soft voice - breaks the silence.

”Choso...”

That’s all he needs to hear to have his lips crashing into yours. It’s a desperate kiss, a hunger arising in him that he’s never felt before. Your arms wrap around his neck and he lifts you up and onto the counter, pressing himself between your legs. He can taste the blood from your lip and it seems to spur a deeper want of you inside of him. His hands roam under your shirt and you moan into his mouth. He wants to touch you, taste you, know everything about you - 

“Choso!” A loud voice resonates outside the office.

Both of you break away from the kiss, breathless.

“Shit. I’ve gotta go.” He looks at the door, expecting his coach to barge in any second; when he doesn’t, he looks back at you. You look so vulnerable right now, he doesn’t want to leave you. He wants to see how much further this can go, how much more you’ll open up to him, but he knows he can’t miss a fight.

“Wait for me. It’s not safe for you to leave by yourself tonight. I’ve just gotta.…go do this real quick.”

This. As if his livelihood doesn’t depend on it. 

“Alright,” is your answer.

And with that, it feels like Choso has been hit with a shot of adrenaline. He kisses you again, maybe a little bit too enthusiastically, because he hears you suck in a breath. 

“I’ll be right back.” He looks down and sees some medical tape on the counter. “And I’ll return this.”

He runs out the door and down the hall, the tape in his mouth as he winds it around his palms and knuckles.

You’re gonna wait for him.

He’s never wanted a fight to finish so fast.

”Choso! Where the hell have you been? You’re up!”

He ignores his coach and starts warming up, jumping a bit and then throwing a few punches. Just outside the door beyond are the lights, the cheers, and his opponent.

But right now, all he wants is you.

”And weighing in at 187 pounds….the man who always brings a bloodbath…CHOOOOSOOOOO!!”

——

You hear the announcer scream Choso’s name and the cheers that follow. 

Let me in… he’d said.

You’re not sure if you’re shaking from being hit in the face or from the intense kisses that you shared with Choso just moments before. Maybe it’s a little of both. 

You wring your hands and pace the floor, your mind racing, trying to understand everything that just happened. Sooner or later, you knew the people you agreed to work for would come to collect - but no matter what you did, it never seemed to be enough. They take and take and take…

And that man with the blue hair - it seemed like he’d taken such joy in hitting you, seeing the fear in your eyes when he made his threats. 

Maybe you should just leave, right now. Pack up your stuff and get out of the city, leave everything behind. 

But it would be no use, you knew they’d eventually find you.

And Choso…he told you to wait for him. It felt so good to be in his arms, touching you, kissing you. He made you feel wanted and safe, something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You’ve never been interested in watching the matches before, but now you find yourself walking down the hall and into the dark and crowded arena. The crowd is lively, throwing out words of praise and curses at both the fighters. You stay in the back, and through the clouds of cigarette smoke, you see him. 

It’s only been a few minutes since the fight started, but Choso’s body is already coated in a layer of sweat. There’s a wild look in his eyes but his face is serious, almost calm. He weaves and bobs in between his opponent’s punches, getting his own punch across his cheek, then one to his chin. Choso takes a few steps back as the man ambles forward, shaking his head a few times while his trainer yells something to him from the ropes. 

The opponent lunges toward Choso but he puts him in a headlock and starts punching his face repeatedly. In an ordinary fight, a referee would break them up, but there are no referees that you can see. The man eventually works himself free from Choso’s grasp, his nose bloody and more than likely broken. He attempts a jab but Choso counters; he hits him hard across the cheek and the man falls to the ground.

”Finish him off!” “Beat him to a pulp!”

”Choso! Choso! Choso!”

The voices raise higher and higher, egging the victor on. But Choso merely walks to his corner, drinks some water, spits it out, and leaves the ring. 

In a matter of minutes, it’s all over, the loser in a pool of blood. 

You rush back to your office, knowing you’re going to have to set that man’s nose.

——

True to his word, Choso comes to your office at the end of the night. 

You’ve just finished treating his opponent and stitching up a cut on his right cheek before sending him away with his trainer and crew. You’d also noticed that the bruising on the man’s knuckles was deep purple and swelling fast; no broken bones, but it looked as if he’d hit something hard and immovable, not another human body.

When you look at Choso, who’s freshly showered and wearing a grey hoodie over a white t-shirt, leaning against your office door, he looks as if he’s just had a walk in the park.

You put on your jacket and grab your things before making your way toward him.

”Let’s go. I’ll take you home.” 

His hand, that just moments before had beaten someone to a bloody pulp, was now outstretched toward you.

An offering. And a surrender. 

You decide to accept.

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[katyawooga]

sevika week – day two, to fix you

sevika's been battered and bruised before, but not like this.

just for some extra money between the two of you living in the undercity together, you took up a simple bartending and waitressing job at the last drop. earlier tonight, a pink-haired girl with what looked like oversized hextech gloves walked into the bar, glaring at sevika. she ordered everyone out, including you. especially you.

hours had passed and she hadn't come home. to say the very least, you were worried. you anxiously looked out the window of your shared apartment, and you could've sworn that you saw silco's daughter dragging the now-unconscious pink-haired girl out of the bar an hour ago, but no sevika.

the only places she hung around was your apartment, the bar, or silco's office. that's the only other place she could be.

upon entering, doing everything you could not to be seen, you opened the door to the infamous office and saw sevika struggling to light her cigar while sitting in the corner of the couch.

"vika?" you murmured, padding your way into the musty space and getting a better look at your lover. sevika had scrapes and bruises already starting to form on her human arm and face, and the absence of her mechanical arm was what caught your attention.

"oh my god..." you covered your mouth, eyes widening at the torn wires, the scraped metal, and the bright purple shimmer dripping from the tubing and staining the couch and her clothes. you sat down on the coffee table in front of her and placed a hand on her knee. it made you tear up how she flinched from your gentle touch.

"what happened to you?"

her silence, apart from the quiet grunts of shifting on the couch and the clicking of her lighter sparking and failing, was heavy.

"what's there to say?" she mumbled, her soft-spoken side coming through in this vulnerable moment. "you can see what happened."

you knew you shouldn't the one shedding tears, sevika was the one that got her arm ripped clean off, not you. but you just couldn't help but feel everything for your lover.

"we don't have to talk about i–"

"yeah, an' we won't."

she finally got her cigar lit after her grand efforts and she dropped her lighter on the wooden floor with a thud. you looked down at the scarred metal zippo before looking back up to meet her eyes.

"can you at least lemme help you? i'm sure i can fix something."

you were no tech wiz, you were far from it, but because of sevika's habits, you had gotten pretty good with a needle and thread, disinfectant, and some hello kitty bandaids.

despite her shitty mood and terribly low morale, she gave a curt nod and groaned to sit up a little straighter. she gestured with her human arm to where the first aid was in the office, and you were surprised there was any first aid at all.

"where's the worst damage?" you sat back down on the coffee table between her legs, leaning forward while dabbing some gauze with alcohol. "besides the, uh... y'know."

sevika almost laughed, a slight smile gracing her full, dark lips for a moment.

"the gash on my good arm," she husked out, taking a lengthy drag from her cigar before setting it down so you could work your mediocre medical magic.

your lover hissed and swore and whispered many a profanity under her breath every single time something stung or pricked or bled. she was tough, but not immune to pain.

"you're about as fixed as i can get you," you murmured with a gentle smile after tending to sevika's every need, even the wounds she didn't want to bother you with. "what'll you do about the arm, though?"

she scoffed a quick laugh, your heart melting at the genuine smile from her. you'd never tell her how much you loved that teensy little tooth gap of hers.

"what are the chances i get silco's kid to tinker somethin' up for me?" she asked, moving over on the couch to make room for you. she slung her human arm around your shoulder and tucked you in close, pressing the smallest kiss to your temple.

"you're persuasive, mamí. i'm sure she'd cooperate."

@sevikaweek

[sanguineterrain]

Sanne I am BEGGING for “This is real. I’m real. Look at me.” with Dick 🥺🤍

SEXY! love this prompt, thank u for requesting 🥰

"this is real. i'm real. look at me." — dick grayson x gn!reader | tw: fear toxin, hallucinations, panicked reader | 500 words

prompt lists are here! i reblog all fics to @sanguinelibrary

****

"How long?"

"I don't know—"

"Well, how much did they inhale?"

"I don't know, Bruce!"

Everything is cloudy, warped. If you turn your head too fast, shadows loom over you. You cover your eyes and whimper, trying to shut out the monsters.

The Joker laughs, distantly, and you cry, thrashing. Someone holds down your shoulders and you cry louder. Your hand connects with skin. Someone grunts.

"Shit. Dick, come here!"

Cool hands rest on your face and pull at your hands. You scream and try to fight. The Joker laughs get closer.

"Don't let him get me," you beg. "Don't—he's here, don't... don't let him..."

"Baby, baby, I'm right here."

Your hands are pried off your face. You catch flashes of red, black, and blue. A familiar blue.

But then you meet milky white eyes, and in the haze of the toxin, the eyes turn sinister. You fight, pushing at the eyes, and another pair of hands holds down your legs.

"Let go, let go!" you scream. "Let go!"

"Tim, is it ready or not?"

"I'm going as fast as I can!"

The milky eyes suddenly disappear, replaced by blue.

"Honey, I'm right here," the blue eyes say, and you feel a hand on your cheek. "You're safe. It's me, it's Dick. Can you hear me?"

"Dick," you say, thrashing again. "Dick, he's here. You have to run, he's gonna—"

"No one's here, baby. You're in the Cave. You're safe, okay? I'm not gonna let anybody get you."

Your eyes scrunch up with tears, and the blue eyes blur. There's a pinch in your arm. You flinch and launch forward.

"I'm scared! I'm scared, don't hurt me—"

"Baby, hey. This is real. I'm real. Look at me."

Fingers brush away the tears under your lashes. The blue eyes come back into focus. They connect to a face.

"He's gonna get you," you say, chest aching with how shallow your breaths are.

Dick cups the back of your head. Behind him, you see Scarecrow himself. You start to wriggle, but Dick holds you tighter.

"I've got you. No one's there, baby. Close your eyes for me, okay, sweetheart? Listen to my voice."

"He-he'll kill you—"

"No one's gonna hurt me or you. I need you to slow your breathing. Come on, honey, slow breaths. Breathe with me."

You bury your face in a warm neck. He breathes and you breathe with him as best as you can, clinging to his suit. You close your eyes and cling hard. Dick rubs your back in circles.

"That's it. Good job. I got you. I'm here. No one's gonna get you."

"It feels so real," you whisper.

"I know, baby, I know. I'm sorry." Dick sounds choked, and he clears his throat. "It'll go away soon."

"Don't leave," you say instantly, hugging him tighter. Your eyes are squeezed shut so hard it almost hurts.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here the whole time. You still breathing?"

That reminds you to feel his breath and follow them. You thread your fingers through his hair. He smells like home. The gas can create a lot of things, but it can't take away the jasmine detergent Alfred uses, or the spiced cologne Dick dabs behind his ears.

"I'm-I'm breathing," you say.

"Good, you're doing so good. You're safe."

Dick doesn't leave your side for the rest of the night.

[sometimesiwrite13]

Could you please write Darry smut (if you are comfortable with that ofc) if not then just some fluff? Thank u!

Darry Curtis x Fem!Reader

warnings: smut, p in v, my writing! (again), not proofread, ooc darry ig?

author’s note: I decided to give the reader a nickname, which is baby (a wink to dirty dancing) but apart from that she isn’t really given any physical description. But Anyways to whoever requested it I hope you like it! pls have in mind this is my first time writing smut so I made it quite short! Let me know what you guys think!!

————————————————————————Darry sat on the bathroom sink, sporting a few cuts on his eyebrow and a bruise on his cheekbone from the ramble that had taken place a few hours prior. In front of him stood Baby, cleaning him up. His hands placed firmly on her hips, she dabbed alcohol soaked cotton balls on his cuts to prevent them from getting infected.

-You’re all done superman. She said as she finished.

-I’m Sorry. Darry said as he stood up. She let out a small chuckle.

-What are you sorry for Dare? She questioned.

-For you having to take care of me. He answered. All those years of being self-sufficient and never asking for help had really gotten to him.

-Hey, no, none of that, you always take care of me, it’s only fair if I do too, besides, I want to, okay? She set her hands on both sides of his face then placed a loving kiss on his lips. As she went to pull away, Darry chased after her, wanting more. This resulted in Darry wrapping his arms around her torso and kissing her deeply.

-Dare…The could hear us. She spoke between breathy moans as Darry began biting and sucking on her neck.

-You’re gonna have to be real quiet then. He answered, and even though she couldn’t quite see his face she knew there was a smirk on his lips. Although it was a poor answer it was enough convincing for her to slip her hand down Darry’s torso and onto his crotch, palming him through his jeans as he let out a low moan. Baby let out a yelp as he grabbed onto her thighs and carried her to the sink where he was sitting before.

-I sometimes forget how strong you are. She said laughing.

-I ain’t called superman for nothin’. He smirked. Baby laughed then placed light kisses on his collarbone as Darry undid his belt and pushed his jeans and boxers down, then proceeded to bunch up her skirt to her waist and pull her panties to the side. Without any warning he slid into her fully, making her let out a loud moan.

-Be quiet. Darry said with a light chuckle, placing his hand over her mouth. Baby nodded with wide eyes.

As Darry’s thrusts got faster and deeper, Baby grabbed onto his arms, digging her nails into his slightly tanned skin.

-Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Exhaled Darry

-Me too. Baby said between moans.

After they both came, Darry let his head fall onto the crook of her shoulder as she threaded her hands through his short hair. Suddenly, there was a rushed knock at the door.

-Can you two quit being gross in there, I need’a take a leak! Exclaimed a disgusted Steve Randle.

At his comment, Darry and Baby both lifted their heads in suprise. Baby’s eyes were wide with worry and Darry laughed at her expression.

-I told ya to be quiet. He laughed, which earned him a slap on the shoulder.

[sophswritingthings]

Mizu x Fem!Apothecary! Reader who is also her wife and she is bandaging up mizu after the fight in shindo dojo

pairing: mizu x apothecary!fem!reader

warning(s): mentions of blood/injury, swearing

a/n: YOUR MIND MY FRIEND. also that sceneeeeee….. 😳

summary: you've been staying at your shop, somewhere warm, somewhere safe. that’s when mizu stumbles in, your wife, battered and bloodied. 

word count, 751 words / 4,109 characters

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you were humming, softly, tapping your fingers to the beat of the music in your mind. you were mindlessly cooking something for yourself, between mixing up medicines and herbs.

everything was quiet; serene and simple.

you had settled down to eat, with a small cup of sake beside your table. you took one small sip, before the door to your shop burst open.

you flipped around, scared out of instinct.

but then.. there was mizu, your muscles relaxing. your wife—your lovely samurai wife who always managed to get herself into some kind of trouble.

and that much was true; because there she was, covered in blood, some of which you could assume wasn’t hers—with a deep gash on her shoulder.

you swiftly collected yourself, walking over to help her inside. you settled her against the wall, pressing your door shut to keep the warmth inside. you settled in front of her, gazing her up and down.

you removed her hat and glasses, placing them to the side to see those beautiful eyes you loved so much. with a soft smile, you placed a soft kiss on her lips, pulling back with narrowed eyes.

“what did you do?” you hiss, “you need to be more goddamn careful, mizu, or were seriously going to have a problem.”

“It was a simple duel, (y/n), I'll live,” she narrowed her eyes back.

“yet here you are, covered in blood.” you pulled yourself to your feet, collecting mixes of herbs. as well as a needle and thread, which you kept on hand, in case things like this happened.

“most of it isn’t mine, my love,” the faintest hint of a smirk crossed her lips. you roll your eyes, settling down beside your wife.

“I assumed as much, darling.” you grumble, pulling off her overcoat. you pull down the corner of her undershirt to reveal the deep wound nestled on her right shoulder. “did you at the very least get what you were looking for?”

she nods, adverting her gaze from the wound. “I have,” her voice is rather soft, like it always is with you. though it’s still raspy, and masculine, keeping up her appearance. “I will leave tomorrow to find him.”

“you act as if I am not coming with you,” you narrow your eyes again, dabbing a poultice to her wound. mizu hisses, the stinging pain causing her eyebrows to furrow.

“because you won’t be,” her gaze flicks to you, resting on your slim, brown eyes. “you must stay here, and stay safe.”

“no,” you finish cleaning her wound, turning to grab your needle and thread. you gently begin to thread the needle in her skin, “I’m not going to stay here while you're miles on miles away from me, doing who-fucking knows what. probably getting yourself killed—“

“listen,” she placed a hand on your cheek, turning your head to look at her. “I cannot take the chances that you will have even a hair on your head hurt. i will live, (y/n), and finish my task. that or be given death, so be it.”

“you cannot..” your words trail off, “you can’t do that to yourself, mizu. please, think about taking me with you.. if you are to die I want to die with you.”

she shakes her head, “I will not let you throw away the rest of your life because I am gone,” she hissed. “stay here, please, my love.”

you press your forehead to hers, shaking your head with tears in your eyes.

“I-I can’t, mizu, I can’t,” you stumble with your words. “I-I love you. take me with you, please.”

mizu searches your expression, wiping the tears from your eyes. she ponders on it for a moment; you weren’t going to back down until she agreed, she knew you. your determination is why she loved you so very much, why she married you.

“okay,” she finally conceded, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “okay. you—you can come.”

“r-really?” you sniffled, your eyes wide. you had basically forgot about stitching her up.

“I would not lie to you,” she hissed. “but you're going to listen to me. if I tell you to run, to leave me, you will. alright?”

you sigh, finishing stitching up her wound. “alright,” you whisper begrudgingly.

she pressed another kiss to your forehead, allowing you to finish stitching her up.

“I love you.” she whispered, her blue eyes locked onto yours.

you smiled softly, returning her kiss on her cheek. “I love you, too, my darling.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: it’s short but I enjoyed writing it <33

[mysterystarz]

black tie losers

geto suguru x f!reader

in which you’re at a charity gala and come to the realization that maybe being best friends with suguru is no longer an option

a/n: when i thought of this i ran to write bc geto in a suit

feedback is so appreciated <3

“stay still. if you keep moving, you’re going to look like a clown.”

geto sits in front of you on a stool, tie messily done up as he holds a lipliner pencil in his hands. he’s grinning at his work — because true to his words, you looked like a clown.

“suguru, you can’t line lips for shit.” you sigh, rummaging through your things to find some makeup remover. “remind me why i let you do this again?”

geto laughs, grinning at you in a way that was oddly wholesome. “because i wanted to help you get ready for tonight. there’s nothing better than taking credit for the date on my arm.”

date indeed—a platonic one.

you and geto were attending your university’s biggest charity gala tonight. as one of the most successful black tie events on campus, each attendee was required to look straight out of vogue magazine to ensure they raised enough money to make a difference.

geto—ever the gentleman—asked you to be his date. he wouldn’t get hounded by the customary droves of girls, and you’d have someone to match with.

of course, being your best friend, he decided to help you get ready.

he watched patiently as you dabbed the streak of lipliner away, smiling gently when you turned back to meet his eyes. he wordlessly moved forward to cup your cheeks, finishing up lining your cupids bow.

“there,” he said softly, “now some lipstick.” you gestured to the various tubes on your desk as you moved to dust some highlighter on your cheeks.

geto picked a particularly lovely shade and smoothly glided it across your lips. he seemed proud at his handiwork, beaming at you happily as soon as he finished.

“take a look,” he smirked, and you did just that. the mirror showed you someone beautiful.

somehow, stupid suguru had actually done a good job.

“nice job,” you mumbled, feeling oddly shy beneath his gaze. he cleaned up nice tonight—a bit too nice. so nice that you weren’t sure how to act around him when he attempted to tie his tie.

“you mean sensational job,” he laughed, flinging his tie around. “also please help. i can’t do this.”

you sighed as you moved closer to fix his tie. you could catch a whiff of his cologne — something fresh and oddly mouthwatering and it nearly made you screw up the final flip of the fabric.

suguru was acting a bit different, and it was driving you crazy. his presence was much closer than usual, and with every passing day, it seemed impossible to ignore the glaringly obvious fact that’d been looming over you for weeks.

geto suguru, your best friend, was an extremely attractive man.

you still weren’t sure how to handle this information. so far, it’d been unwarranted blushes and a whole lot of random butterflies where there shouldn’t be.

you supposed the gala would give you time to think—but you were wrong.

geto walked in through the ornately decorated doors with a smile, an arm threaded through his hair and the other wrapped around your waist. from this point, you could see all your fellow students interacting with the heads of various charities, and donations racking up by the second.

suguru stayed close, his touch firm and steady and searing and confusing in ways you couldn’t understand.

“would you like to explore a bit?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear.

too flustered to speak, you wordlessly nodded as he dragged you to the photo booth at the edge of the venue.

“these are awesome,” he laughed, holding up a particularly unclassy mustache prop. you cringed, distancing yourself as much as you good within the tiny space to show your disapproval.

suguru pulled you closer again, his hands caressing your waist in a way that was more reverent than anything you’d ever felt. he was too close…it was too much.

he leaned close to you, gently pressing his forehead against yours.

“maybe i did too good of a job tonight,” he said lowly, tracing your lips with his finger.

“suguru,” you breathed out, “what is going on?”

he pulled away grinning. “you had a dusting of highlighter a bit too close to this one spot of your nose. i had to distract you so you wouldn’t stop me from touching your face.”

you groaned in frustration while suguru posed jubilantly for the camera.

the gala was beautiful. the pictures with suguru were super candid. neither of those were your major takeaways.

as you returned to your room for the night, you knew one thing for certain. suguru geto had become someone more than a best friend to you and there was nothing you could do about it.

unknown to you, suguru fell asleep that night dreaming of you, and all the ways he’d kiss you if he had the chance.

[solbaby7]

Hiii, can I get a margarita with a salt rim on the rocks, please? Thank you!💕

[ “got a mouth on you. someone should teach you how to use it.” + smut + rhysand ]

-> BLURB BAR <-

Rhysand liked wild things—had this affinity for collecting strays; plucking them from their prisons and providing a life of freedom and luxury.

Maybe that’s why he’s so drawn to you. This rabid animal of a thing with a serious aversion to proper clothing and absolutely no regard for others personal boundaries. “Back for more charity work?”

“Is that how you think of my visits? I’m hurt.”

You look down at him with amusement, crouched low on a branch with a skirt so short it takes effort not to stare. “We both know you aren’t,” You make tree climbing look easy, bare toes trodding across branches that don’t look sturdy but hold strong bearing your weight. “What’d you bring me this time?”

Rhysand dangles the wicker basket before him with two fingers. He’s teasing, offering; luring you in closer as the laws of the Middle insists that its lands and the creatures in it must welcome you and not the other way around. “Come see for yourself, trouble.”

He’s grown fond of the wild way you move, confidently twisting and ducking through the forestry—the breathable linen of your strapless top flows with the breeze. Handmade necklaces kiss at your clavicle, all braided leather with bleached bones, carefully woven shells and shiny geodes. Once you get close enough he can see the neat braids peeking through loose strands, interwoven thread adding pops of color in haphazard places. “More naughty words on paper,” You chuff out when the weight of two books sits in your hands. The pages are pristine; probably first addition and perfectly cared for. “Always knew you High Lords were just pampered perverts.”

“Didn’t seem to bother you when you read the last two I brought you.”

Rhysand is sure he’ll have dreams about the pretty blush on your cheeks. He’s certain fantasies have planted their seed with intent to grow and grow like fucking ivy until nothing in sight could be see but you and that feisty furrow of your brow and the sharp roll of your eyes. Curious hands dig around the basket, sifting through cured meats and cheeses, parchment paper and oil pastels, rich fabrics and a case full of fresh sewing needles. “You trying to turn me into a fucking housewife or something? Charcuterie boards and fixing the buttons on your rich boy clothes.”

“Got a mouth on you.” Rhys chuckles in amusement, aubergine irises twinkling with silent adoration. “Someone should teach you how to use it.” You don’t seem the slightest bit ashamed when forcing him to hold onto your things, urging him to follow with a jerky nod of your head. “Could start by saying thank you.”

“Make me.”

Something in the air shifts. It alters the way he stands. Awakens a creature lurking in his shadow and its sights lock on you—the female with no fear of monsters. No, instead you hunt them, wrangle them up and tame them. Rabid beasts crooned into fucking house pets and Rhysand yearned to be the stray you took pity on. “Make you use your mouth properly? Or make you say thank you?”

“Both.” He’s hooked; shoes sinking into your footsteps until thick forestry breaks into a clearing with a house built smack dab in the middle. It’s surrounded by flowers, lavender and lemongrass guarding hand built basins labeled with fresh produce to fend off freeloading animals. Ivy creeps up one side of the greenhouse attached to the back. “Show me how to do it like they do in the books you bring me.”

Is it possible for a mouth to dry up and salivate at once? Because Rhys suddenly finds his in an odd mix of something in between. You barely notice the clumsy way he sets aside your basket of goodies but you’re fully aware of the eager way he pulls you in, stopping you from taking a step further. “You sure you know what you’re asking for?”

You scan the length of him, running over the strong set of his shoulders and the practiced ease in the way his arms rest at his sides. Every breath strains against the soft cotton of his shirt, solid muscle radiating warmth when you rest the palm of your hand against it. It’s a slow drag down and you feel no shame for your curiosity when exploring the length of his abdomen, fingers hooking in the loop of his belt. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.” The metallic click of his belt unbuckling, the sharp undoing of tied dress pants. “But, I’m a visual learner.” Rhys’ heart throbs in his chest when you sink to your knees, blood rushing lower until the true extent of his affection towards you is standing at attention in your face.

“I can help with that,” He’s already easing down the top of your shirt, groaning at the sight of bare breasts and pebbled nipples. “Though, my teaching style is a little more…hands on.”

You don’t have time to ask what that means when he’s giving you exactly what you asked for; tugging down his pants just enough to show off a throbbing erection, ruddy tip leaking pre-cum. Two fingers tap at your cheek twice and you have no control over the way your mouth drops open.

He knows he’s being a little rougher than he should—it’s probably your first time giving head and yet he can’t slow down his movements. You don’t even complain, breathing through the way his cock is fed to you, spit glistening along the length and dribbling down your chin. “Quick learner, aren’t you?” Rhys praises so prettily, such nice words spewing free as if he wasn’t rutting his prick down your throat.

Thumbs clear away the tears from under your eyes when you gag. The rasp of his voice urging you to work harder, to hollow your cheeks and run your tongue along that vein that has blunt nails digging into the nape of your neck. Swears spill in a sloppy slur, hands guiding the bob of your head until his release shoots down your throat with a choked grunt.

There’s no way you don’t look a mess when you peer up at him. Fucked out eyes. Tears tracking down your cheeks. Bruised lips. A wet patch dripping down your chest and still you utter the words, “Thank you.”

Just perfection and something inside him screams ‘mine’ the same time Rhysand replies with a breathless, “You’re welcome.”

[goose8791]

Space And Time

(Song by S.G Goodman)

pairing: luke castellan x AphroditeFem!reader

Warnings: Angst, kissing, death, description of death, spoilers for the end of the lightening thief

From the moment she stepped into the camp, her life became a tapestry woven with threads of fate and love. She was beautiful, a child of aphrodite would have to be. She met Luke the day he arrived, Luke Castellan, a year older but relatively new to the camp, entered her orbit as a lost boy with big brown eyes and curly hair that fell in front of his eyes, clothes drenched to the bone and accompanied by a little girl with a tight grip on his hand. He was fourteen and angry. 

Unclaimed by her godly parents, she sought a transient haven in the Hermes cabin. Positioned directly above Luke's bunk, she could practically sense the intensity of his gaze burning through the shitty mattress. She could feel his emotions, every stomach twist and finger twitch reverberating through the thin barrier between them.Curiosity got the best of her, prompting her to peer over the edge of the bunk, startling Luke from his thoughts. He snapped his head, obviously startled and scared. 

"Sorry, I just wanted to see if you were okay," her short hair barely touches her back when she stands but as she hangs her head off the top of the bunk, long strands fall over her ears. Gaining a clearer view of his face, she thought he was pretty for a boy. Her eyesight adjusted, and with a closer examination, she almost whispered in a yell, "You're bleeding!"

In response, Luke's hand instinctively rose to the top of his head, where the blood had begun to congeal and cling to his hair. His gaze lowered to his hand, the tips of his fingers stained with red. A hand places itself over his, holding it, when he looks up the girl has come down from her bed and is using an old top to dab away the blood. 

He hadn't uttered a single word, and yet she was already helping him, leaving him utterly perplexed. Her eyes, intensely focused on the task at hand, seemed to possess a magnetic quality. When her gaze shifted downward to meet his eyes, he felt a sensation as if Eros himself had unleashed an arrow, piercing straight through his heart.

"Than- thank you," he stammered, his words stumbling over each other. "Don't thank me, it's the least I could do," she responded with a smile, "God she’s gorgeous.” he thought.

Now three years later, and she found herself seated in the stands at the training arena, feet propped up on the seat in front of her, a bag of almonds in her lap. Her once-short hair had grown, now cascading over her shoulders and collarbone. Her mother said it suited her so she kept it. She was watching Luke train, he was cutting through practice dummies ruthlessly. 

Beads of sweat roll down his temple making his hair damp. His chest rises and falls as hot breaths escape his mouth, Her playful heckle cuts through the air, breaking the intensity of his focus. "Do you think you can hit that thing any harder?" she teased, a smirk playing on her lips.

Luke's head snapped in her direction, his intense gaze softening into a momentary smile. He wiped the sweat from his brow and shook his head, a playful glint in his eyes. "Maybe I should ask the dummy if it thinks I'm being too harsh," he replied. The end of his sword jabbing into it. 

Her laughter was like a melody, filled the air, and Luke couldn't help but revel in the joy of making her laugh. As she began tying her hair up, he couldn't help but appreciate the simplicity of the moment

She giggled, finishing tying her hair up. She gracefully hopped down a few steps before leaping down from the stands, landing gracefully onto the gravel ground. Dusting off her jeans casually, she sauntered over to where Luke was, an energy in her movements that drew his attention.

Walking behind Luke, she became the focal point of his gaze. Intrigued, he watched as she positioned herself in front of the training dummy, her hands resting on its shoulders as though the inanimate object were seeking her fashion advice. Luke tilted his head to the side, crossing his arms, a smile playing on his lips at the whimsical scene before him.

"Maybe it needs a break," she teased, a mischievous smile dancing on her lips when she looked back over her shoulder at him. 

Luke chuckled at her playful remark, the sound echoing in the training arena. He unfolded his arms, the playful glint in his eyes turning into a full-fledged grin. "Perhaps," he replied, joining in "I wouldn't want the poor thing to file a complaint with Chiron about the harsh treatment." 

"Oh, imagine the headlines: 'Camp Half-Blood in Disarray as practice Dummies Demand Justice!'" Her laughter danced through the air. She took a step back from the training dummy, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. "Well, Mr. Dummy, you've been spared for today," she declared with a mock-serious expression, earning another chuckle from Luke.

As if on cue, two younger kids burst into the arena, their presence announced by boisterous yells. "Chiron says you two are late!" Luke turned to look at them, a grin forming on his face. "Yeah, alright. We'll be there," he responded with an easygoing nod.

As the younger demigods scampered off to deliver the message, Luke began packing up his training gear. She observed him taking his armour off. He sharpens the blade of his sword, he pulls back the muscles in his arms tense and then releases for a moment before she starts to walk towards him. 

"Race you to the woods?" She proposed a challenge in her tone. Her eyes tracing him, he laughs and puts the sword on the rack. Luke raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk playing on his lips. "You're on," he declared, the familiar thrill in his voice. 

As they run out of the arena dust pools around their feet, Luke almost slips on the small rocks to try and catch up with her. leaving behind the fading echoes of their laughter. When the tree’s start to come into view their leaves fly over the top of them. He catches up to her. Just, he grabs her hand and she looks back. She pulls on his hand and he stumbles forward and her back foot catches on a root. As they stumbled as they a little the forest floor seemed to shift, and laughter turned to surprise as they tumbled down a hill.

As they tumbled down the hill, Luke instinctively pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her as they hit the ground with a thud. The world became a blur of leaves and twigs. 

When they finally reached the bottom of the hill, Luke looked down at her, his arms still encircling her. "Are you okay?" he asked, lifting himself up with his arms so that he could look down at her. His eyebrows furrowed with concern as he scanned her face for any signs of injury.

She laughed, the sound a melody of amusement that echoed through the woods. "I'm fine, just a bit shaken," she reassured him, her hand circling his upper arm with a reassuring touch.

"Are you sure?" Luke asked, his eyes still reflecting worry.

"Yes, Luke, jeez," she smiled, rolling her eyes playfully. Her hand moved from his arms to his face, her fingers gently tracing over his soft skin. Her gaze was fixed on her hand, but Luke found himself captivated by the delicate movements of her fingers.

As her eyes darted towards his, the world seemed to pause for a moment. In that suspended instant, their connection deepened, and he felt the magnetic pull drawing him closer. Before he could fully comprehend what was happening, she closed the distance between them and kissed him.

Time seemed to stand still as the forest around them held its breath, a witness to the unexpected turn of events. Luke's eyes closed instinctively, savouring the warmth of the kiss and the rush of emotions that accompanied it. He pulls away “your so pretty” she says, her breath coming back to her.  

His brain seemed to fail him, a cascade of thoughts and emotions rendering him momentarily speechless. His gaze drifted downward, but her fingers found his chin, gently lifting it to meet her eyes. “I don’t want to leave this world without saying,” she began, a breath catching in her throat, she knew that every day at this camp could be her last “I love you.” He finished her sentences, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

They lay on the grass for a while, the world around them fading into the background. Luke on his back, and she on her stomach, propped up on her elbows to gaze at him. The wind, a gentle caress, whispered through the leaves overhead.

"There's some who have loved me," he said, his fingers delicately playing with the loose strands of hair that danced lightly on her face. "Some who have tried." His touch shifted to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin. "They all have their grips on my heart and grips on my mind."

She stayed quiet, a pretty smile gracing her lips as her hand gently found its way to his. The tranquillity of the moment lingered between them, the soft rustle of leaves above providing a gentle soundtrack to their shared contemplation.

"That's poetic," she finally remarked, her light  laughter breaking the quietude of the woods.

"It's supposed to be romantic," he retorted with a playful grin, their hands entwining in a silent agreement that transcended words.

The sword slid between her armour and into her flesh, a burning sensation that seared through her. The edges of the blade stung, and tears welled up in her eyes, Her hand shakes as she brings it to his face. Her thumb runs over the scar that splits his face. She remembers when he came back with that wound. it was a quest he was sent on after that day in the woods. “Luke” she gasped, the pain sharp and agonising. But Luke wasn’t there. He hasn’t been there, not for a while.

He pulls out his sword and her body falls to its knees and then falls to her side her breaths stopped. Luke stumbled back, his gaze shifting upward to the sky. When his eyes returned to her, still and lifeless, he threw the sword aside, its metallic clang echoing in the emptiness of the battlefield. Tears streamed down his face, silent sobs escaping him as he dropped to his knees beside her.

His hands grab at her armour pulling her lifeless form close to him. She’s still, with little to no breath. Blood stained his hands as the deep wound bled through both sides of her body. Desperation etched across his face, he fought with her hair, pushing it back from her

"No... no no no no," Luke cried, the words escaping his lips in a tortured whisper. "I love you," he whispered, the sincerity of the words wavering in his own ears. He could only lie, that's all he was good for. He screwed his eyes shut not wanting to look at her. 

Soft fingers dusted over his face “that day in the woods” she coughed, her voice strained. “it was clear to me” she persisted, “you owe your life to even your  enemies” she coughed again, like her breath was catching in her vocal cords “To the ones who have loved you, to the ones who have tried” her hand slowly lowered, she knows he can see her.

"I want you to know, I'm not leaving this world without saying," she couldn't finish the sentence, her eyes falling back, her body growing still. Cold was all he could feel – her cold body in his arms.

He shot up, out of bed. Hot tears spilled down his face. He sobbed into his hands, curling his knees into his chest like he was a boy. He had lost her forever. He cried for her, he was inconsolable, not that anyone would be there to comfort him. Alone in the dark, he clutched at nothing, cursed at memories he could never replace and that he could never get back. In these moments, he was just Luke – a fractured soul, grappling with the enormity of his choices. He was Luke Castellan, a traitor. a killer.