#rust makes her soft ;;

[akuzeisms]

@pessimistics asked:

slap or kiss :)

“If he’s being a reckless idiot, of course I’m going to slap him. Doesn’t matter how damned cute he is. But most of the time… kiss. He deserves it. Hell, I think we both do, after all we’ve been through.”

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ! ❞

❝ I HEARD FROM A FRIEND OF A FRIEND, THAT DICK WAS A TEN OUT OF TEN !! ❞

✧ pairing: jjk au sorcerer! suguru geto x sorcerer! reader

✧ summary: geto's routine after a mission -- ingest the curses that he collects before his shower. but after he does, his body begins to burn and ache with lust to the point of pain -- and he can't get rid of the feeling alone. so what else can he do when you show up at his doorstep offering to help but accept it (aka a sex pollen / aphrodisiac curse fic).

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, so much smut, jjk compliant au, geto stayed a sorcerer and didn't defect, reader is one year younger than geto, (set during jjk s1), aphrodisiac curse (sex pollen), multiple orgasms, multiple positions (missionary, doggy, riding, other positions mentioned: standing, against the wall, spooning from behind, against the wall), masturbation (m), soft dom! geto, oral (m +f), handjob (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, cervix fucking, panty stealing, squirting, mutual pining, a little angst (discussion of star vessel / premature death arc), but a lot of comfort, cuddling, gojo hijinks

✧ wc: 8,180

Suguru was only sure of one thing, as he stared at himself in the mirror — cheeks flushed red, sweat nearly soaking through his black t-shirt, and a painful and glaring problem in his boxers—

This was a curse — literally. 

Curses were made up of different negative human emotions — from loneliness to grief to anger, these negative feelings would pool and create a curse. Sorcerers were made to exorcise these curses, and Suguru did so — but in a different way than the others. He had to consume them as part of his technique. And even with the hundreds of curses he’s swallowed over the years, he would never get used to the taste — a shit soaked rag used to clean up vomit was how he could best describe it, but even then, that didn’t come close to the indescribable act of swallowing the manifestation of the worst negative human emotions — at least for most of them. 

The one he had swallowed today was different — he was sent to exorcise a grade 1 curse in the heart of Tokyo that dwelled in an abandoned building — from the inside, he could tell that it was used as a strip club and possibly a bathhouse-turned-brothel, from the seedy mattresses left behind with dirty sheets and mussed covers, with rusting incense burners placed around the room, and the gaudy, fake jewelry that laid strewn about the place — assumedly any real jewelry picked clean. He swore he could have even smelt the ever lingering scent of cheap perfume in the walls and vents. 

But the greater concern was the curse he had found himself with — a grotesque creature that stared back at him — its body a deep maroon, many eyes dotting its back with a large pair of black lips that Suguru didn’t care to draw any closer to. It was more humanoid than most — its form showing a more sophistication than many curses did, muscles of its many arms contracted as it finally spotted Suguru, its many eyes settled their gaze on him. 

It was far too easy for him to take down the curse in hindsight — far too easy — and it seemed to watch him summon curses — and he swore it almost had seen a glimmer of recognition in its eyes and then it allowed him to deal the final blow. 

He had kept the curse on hand — he could swallow it later, when he was near a toilet and perhaps some mouthwash — though that barely did much to remove the taste from his mouth. He had returned to Jujutsu Tech to do his reports, and hopefully head back early — Satoru was out on another overseas mission and Shoko was busy tending to patients and bodies as always, but you— 

He wasn’t sure what you were doing, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to text you. Not after what Satoru said. 

“When are you guys gonna fuck already?” the strongest sorcerer asked, making Suguru choke on his Sprite  — strong in ability, but not in tact, “you and her have been eye fucking for weeks and you had such a thing for her before she decided to move to Kyoto—” 

“That was years ago—” 

“She has a key to your apartment—“ 

“So do you!” he glares. 

“Then what about last night at the bar?” Satoru leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground, as he pulled his sunglasses down, “you could have murdered the guy that was hitting on her with your look alone — and I think you did when you stuck yourself to her side with your arm around her waist, until he ran with his tail between his legs,” 

If looks could kill, Suguru would have surely murdered his best friend — infinity be damned, “She looked uncomfortable, what was I going to do—” 

“Well, she certainly didn’t look uncomfortable with you hanging all over her, now did she?” He raises an eyebrow, as he leans forward again, the front legs of his chair landing with a thunk, “what are you gonna do if a guy comes along that she falls for? You’re telling me you’re not gonna regret it, Suguru?” Suguru says nothing, unable to meet Satoru’s gaze, as Satoru crushes his own can into a ball, before tossing at Suguru, “You guys just got to hurry up and fuck,” 

Suguru swats the crushed can away, “You’re disgusting,” 

He grins, as his words seemingly only confirm what he assumes, “Disgusting, but correct, and if I’m right, you’re taking some of my missions off my hands,” he grins. 

And Satoru’s words had been running around in Suguru’s head — just like any annoying song on the radio — but he couldn’t let Satoru’s words stop from hanging out with you. He had just gotten you back in his life again — he couldn’t lose you, not again. 

Geto: Are you free to watch a movie and have takeout? 

You: sounds good - did you get back from your mission alright? No injuries I need to yell at you about? 

He snorts, as he types his reply: no, not this time. 

You: Let’s keep it that way! :) 

He bites back his smile as the two of you decide to have you head over in an hour to his place — you preferred it that way since you were still settling into your place, boxes still unwittingly everywhere there should be actual furniture. Last time he came by to pick a report up, he found you eating your meal on a packed box, instead of a table. 

And he catches himself smiling, before his face sours at the thought of Satoru again. 

Satoru was right — and he hated to admit it, his knuckles pressed to his lips. A year under him, you had spent days with him, along with everyone else — you always waited for  him with his favorite snacks when he would return from a mission. You sat with him sometimes when he would get sick from swallowing curses, helping him swallow some water and saltines after he turned his stomach inside out. You were the one that pushed him when he hid his disillusionment from everyone else — even from Satoru. You wouldn’t leave him alone, you wouldn’t stop dogging his every step with snacks and comfort and company, hounding him to sleep, to eat, to say something, anything. 

Until he did — one late night you spent up together — he didn’t sleep much those days anyway.  And he told you everything — the poison seeping from his body, and leeching onto yours, your frown and hurt was the whole reason he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone to begin with. But the frown wasn’t yourself — it was for him, as your arms only curled around him, and he let you hold him the entire night. 

“You don’t always have to pretend to be strong, Suguru. You’re allowed to be upset, you’re allowed to be angry, you’re allowed to grieve — but don’t bottle it up,” your fingers raked through his wet hair, undoing the tangles gently before running the comb through it, “don’t let it kill you from the inside out,” 

“I feel like I did die — along with Amanai,” and you pause, your arms curled around his shoulders, chin resting on his head before you pinched his cheek and he flinched. 

“There, you’re definitely not dead,” you say, “so don’t act like you are. And don’t act like you’re alone — because you’re not. You have me, you have Satoru and Shoko — even Nanami and—“ you voice cuts off at the thought of Haibara — “Haibara wouldn’t want you to hide from us, he looked up to you — more than anyone else, even Satoru,” 

“I don’t know why,” he mutters with a sigh. 

“I do,” your fingers guide his face to meet your gaze, your face an inch or two from his, “because you’re kind, you’re intelligent, and you’re strong,” 

He scoffs, “Satoru is the strongest,” 

“And you think Satoru thinks any differently of you? That any of us feel differently? You’re the only person who can understand him — and he’s the only one who understands you,” 

He gives a small chuckle, “not the only one,” and he tears his eyes away, hoping you don’t see the way his cheeks burned. 

And when he found those two sorcerer girls locked up — you were the one who called. The rage and anger had built into murderous intent, but he could hear your words ringing in his ears and before he knew it, he had called you to come to him. 

You saved them together — Nanako and Mimiko had fallen asleep in your respective laps after all was said and done on the ride back — without much bloodshed (not that the blood that was shed was worth much, in his opinion) — and with Gojo and you smoothing things over with the higher ups (mostly with veiled threats and petty remarks), you managed to allow the twins to grow up safe, under Geto’s care, and your own. 

At least for a time. After you graduated, Nanami left — and you were the only one of your class left — and the absence of your best friends weighed on you, even if you didn’t show it. 

“I’m leaving for Kyoto,” you told him one afternoon the two of you spent lazing around his dorm, you sat against the bottom of his bed, as he lounged on the mattress, his gaze snapping to you, only able to see the back of your head, “this place holds too many memories — i need perspective, I need space from all of this,” 

He wants to ask if you have to, ask you if he could convince you to stay, if he could do something, anything to make you stay — ask if he wasn’t enough to make you stay. But he doesn’t, because it’s the best decision for you. So he instead slips off the bed, sitting beside you, his hand ruffling your hair, “You’ll come to visit right?” 

He knows you’re blinking back tears, but he pretends not to notice, your lip quivering, and god, he knows he wants nothing more than to tilt your gaze toward him by your chin and brush his lips against yours, until every sad thought has evaporated under his touch. 

But he knows that would only be one more thought that would make things far more difficult — for the both of you. It was better this way. And it was. Years had passed, the two of you had become teachers at the Tokyo and Kyoto schools respectively — but as the years had passed, your relationship grew more distant, as it always seemed to with time and distance. 

But then you decided to come back to Tokyo, transferred over — Yaga explaining it was due to all the happenings in Tokyo with the special grades and emergence of Yuji as Sukuna’s vessel — and he found himself in your presence again. And it was as if no time had passed — your days off spent in his apartment — as yours had become a haven of unpacked boxes. And he couldn’t help but wonder — when he’d glance at you in the dark of his living room, the only illumination was the TV that played some shitty horror movie (your words not his) you had put on — if the special grades were the only reason you’d come back. Your fingers were so close to each other’s on the couch, but an inch felt like a ravine. 

One he couldn’t dare to cross. 

But It was fine, just as he told Satoru — you were just friends, until both of you decided otherwise. Not that it would ever happen — no, he thought that ship had sailed, even if his heart had stubbornly said that it hadn’t. 

Until he decided to consume the curse — and his heart was no longer the problem. 

Or at least, not his main problem. 

He sat in his bathroom, towel in the shower rack, ready to shower after he dealt with this. He had discarded his uniform jacket and pants — only in a black t-shirt and boxers. He stood by the toilet — as he learned his lesson the first few months swallowing curses — he never knows when one will turn his stomach inside out. 

He holds the balled curse in his palm — he could feel it squirm just underneath of his cursed energy — the thing keeping it contained at all, itching to be freed from his grasp — though it never would. He pressed the ball to his lips, bracing himself as he opened his mouth, nearly having to unhinge his jaw for how large this curse was and pressing it past his lips and into his mouth. His palms pressed against his mouth, as he swallowed, eyes squeezed shut. 

It…wasn’t as bad as he thought. He frowned, brow knit as he stared at his empty palm — it was still appalling to consume, but it was….sweet? But it burned as it went down, heat remaining in the pit of his stomach, even as it should have faded. 

That should have been his first clue. 

Either way, he turned on the shower before he shed the rest of his clothes, and stepped in. The water felt warmer than usual, as he washed his body first, letting his hair grow wet under the shower head. His fingers reached for the shower handle, turning it even colder, but his body barely reacted to the water — was it even cold? 

Even under the water, he felt like his body was burning — a slow fire that lingered under the surface of his skin, burning and aching, the frigid water barely doing enough to soothe it. Running his hands over his body seemingly helped, a shiver running down his spine as he washed himself, but he knew it would have felt even better if it was you. 

….what? He tried to shake that thought from his head — it wasn’t the first time he had thought of you like this. There were many times where his mind would drift to you at night, the warmth of your touch from a few hours ago still lingered, as his hard-on pleaded for his touch. Guilty gnawed at his conscious when he indulged, the first time being after a particularly vivid dream of you pinning him down while training — your mouth kissing down his body, eager fingers tugging at his shorts until that smirk met—

This wasn’t helping. 

The burning had traveled southward, as his blood did, and he glanced down at his raging hard-on. 

Fuck. 

No, he couldn’t. 

But his fingers were possessed, already reaching for his aching cock, large beads of pre-cum leaving his slit just as hand closed around it. He hisses when he does, a gasp ripped from his throat, as he braces himself against the shower wall with his other hand. 

He palms his erection, swallowing thickly, as he grunts, as he begins to pump his cock from base to tip, smearing his pre along his length. But his mind wanders to you, how pretty you’d look pressed against the wall of his shower, his hard cock dragging between your ass. Lovely moans parting your lips as his fingers would reach around to rub at your puffy clit. 

“Suguru, please—“ 

“Tell me what you want baby, gotta use your words,” he’d murmur, teasing your slick entrance with the tip of his cock. 

“Need your cock — need you to fuck me,” you would whine, words nearly enough to make him bust there and then. And he would sink into you just as he does his fist, but your sweet cunt would feel so much better than his hand does. 

Fucking wet and tight and just for him, as he works his dick deeper and deeper, until his tip is nudging your cervix. And he’d fuck you hard, just like he’s fucking his fist now, skin slapping each time his hips met your ass. 

You’d cum before he would, he would make sure of it — one hand rubbing harshly at your clit, the other toying with one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. And your walls would squeeze and wring him dry, just as he squeezed his own dick now. 

He spilled all over the wall of his shower, white spurts kept coming, as he grunted, imagining he was painting your walls instead. He panted, but as the afterglow ebbed away, the heat only came back tenfold. 

He panted, as his fingers left his cock, only to find it still hard — the tip red and angry, twitching as he stared back at it. 

What the fuck is going on? 

He finally left the shower, pulling on his shirt and boxers delicately — every inch of his body felt feverish and sensitive, even the rubbing of his clothes against his skin was almost too much for him. 

He stood in front of the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain as he tried to will his erection away, but each thought was only chased away with thoughts of you — of the dress you loved to wear riding up, of your legs spreading for him, of the wet patch on your panties— 

He was so fucked. Sweat dripped into the sink, as he glanced at himself in the mirror — skin a ruddy red flush, lips impossibly dry, pupils blown out with need — he was so fucked. 

He called Shoko — the embarrassment of this situation far gone at this point fading into plain need of wanting this situation to be over. One ring, two rings — finally five rings and she picks up. 

“It’s not like you to call—“ 

“I need your help,” he cuts her off, biting back the groan from his cock rubbing against his boxers the wrong way — “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” 

Her voice shifts from curiosity to concern, “Slow down, Suguru, tell me what’s going on,” and he tells her his symptoms — and she’s silent on the other line for a moment, “you have been a teenage boy before right? You’re not really calling me because you’re horny and you don’t know what to do—“ 

“It’s not that—“ he hisses, running a slow hand down his face, “I already tried…solving the problem myself but it didn’t work. And I feel weird — it only made it worse. I can’t stop sweating or thinking about—“ he cuts off — he couldn’t stop lewd thoughts of you from springing before his eyes, the thoughts of your moans, how soft your flesh would be under his fingers, how you’d look when he— “what is this, Shoko?” 

She pauses on the line for a moment, “When did it start?” 

“Right before my shower I think,” his mind foggy with need, he could barely even comprehend a coherent thought. 

“And what did you do before your shower? Anything different?” he’s swallowing the lump in his throat, as he resists the urge to brush his hand over his hard-on. 

He’s barely hearing Shoko at this point — “I took off my clothes, I got my towel, and then I—“ and the realization struck him — the curse, “I consumed the curse I collected today from my mission,” he mutters, “fuck—“ 

And then there’s a knock at the door, “Suguru?” He heard you call through the door. His dick throbs at the sound of your voice. 

Shoko’s voice cuts through the white noise, “Suguru, the curse you ate — was there something different about it?” 

“It was a grade one — it seemed a little too easy to defeat — it formed in—“ he swallows thickly, “in a brothel,” 

“I’ve heard of curses being lustful, but not of them becoming a stimulant,” she murmurs, and he can hear her sigh, “you could try extracting the curse from your body — I doubt that would be effective at this point. I assume the effects will linger until the symptoms pass — just as it does when you become nauseous or sick from swallowing other curses,” 

His phone buzzed with texts from you: 

You: I’m outside, I grabbed takeout for us this time since you always treat me! 

You: are you home? 

His mind swam, it wasn’t the takeout he was craving — it was you. But no, no — he couldn’t. Not like this, but he was fighting a losing battle and he just about lost the war along with it. 

“I don’t know, how do I get it to pass?” he was desperate, the sounds of your knocks and messages ringing in his ear, along with your sweet voice — why do you sound so good with his name on your lips? So sweet — his boxers grow even tighter — bet you even taste even sweeter. 

“If dealing with it yourself didn’t work, then,” she sighs, “you’re going to need a partner,” 

Another knock. 

“Shoko, I have to go,” and he hangs up before she can get another word — a thought to thank her and apologize shoved to the back of his mind, as he stumbles to his door, a thunk as he nearly tumbled into it, wood and hinges groaning under the force and weight. 

“Suguru?” you’re so worried yet his name on your tongue was nearly enough to have him cumming in his boxers then, the wet patch of his boxers nearly making the fabric translucent, “are you okay?” 

He says your name, “You should go home, I’m not feeling well—“ 

“What’s wrong? Do you need help?” And he’s biting his lip, teeth digging into his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood, “let me in,” 

“I can’t—I can’t let you help with this,” he’s shaking his head, “please, sweetheart, you have to go—“ And he hears the clink of your key going into the door — fuck, that goddamn key he gave you, and the door pulls open, just as he braces himself against the doorframe. 

Your brow furrowed in concern, takeout bag in hand, as your eyes examined him, until they found their way to his boxers. 

“Suguru—“ 

“You should leave — I can’t explain, there’s a curse inside me—“ 

Your eyebrows knit together, “Suguru, a curse did this to you? What happened?” And he’s shaking his head, mind far too gone, as he forces himself away, “let me help—“ 

“You can’t help. I have to get out of my system but the only way is—“ he cuts off, as he groans again, body and mind railing against each other, as his body just seemingly burns from even being near you. 

“There must be something—“ and you step closer, and he can barely hold back from grabbing you, fingers twitching to wrap around your waist, the other holding your neck, lips finding yours, as he fucking rips his own clothes off— “I want to help—“ 

He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt incessantly, as you step closer, closing the gap between your bodies, and he can only focus on the way your pretty lips part, the way your chest curves under your shirt, and the far too short shorts you choose to wear — fuck. 

He was so fucked. 

He can’t hold back, as he’s drawing close to you in a moment, his mind clouded with lust, the hitch of your breath only making him want you more — but he forced every muscle in his body to stop.  He couldn’t. Not until you agreed. 

“If you don’t want me to fuck you right now,” he says lowly, his lips nearly brushing your ear, “I want you — regardless of this, I’ve wanted you for so long,” the confession tumbles from his lips because he needs you to know, needs you know so you can either leave him to his fate or help him get through this, “but if you don’t feel the same—“ 

But to his surprise, you lean closer, breath warming his skin until it was left scalding, “who said I didn’t?” 

And he can’t hold back. 

His lips crash to yours, his hands holding your cheeks, as he grasps desperately to you, takeout boxes spilling from the plastic bag and your purse spilling your things when you drop it, your fingers grasping at his damp t-shirt. 

And your touch alone even through the fabric is nearly enough to make him bust a nut there and then — and his mind hadn’t even felt so clear until he felt your touch. He could notice every little detail about you — the way your breath caught when his fingers ghosted down your sides, the way your lips parted for his tongue without hesitation, and the way your knees shook when he squeezed your hips. 

“So pliant for me,” he murmurs, eager to touch more, to taste more, “such a good fucking girl, aren’t you?” 

And you’re nodding wordlessly — lips kiss ruined and red, saliva clinging to your lips when he parted from your lips — and he wonders which one of you swallowed a glorified sex curse. 

“Know how long I wanted to do this?” words said pressed with heated kisses down your neck — he was right, you tasted so sweet, he bet another part of you tasted even sweeter — “how many times I thought about this?” He nibbled at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, rewarded with a pretty gasp, “wanted to mark you up so many times — when that fucker tried to hit on you — I wanted to do more than just wrap my arm around you. Wanted to show him how he could never please you,” and he’s sucking a mark there, teeth grazing and pinching your skin before he soothes it with his tongue. He smiles against your skin, as he admires his handiwork. 

You whine when he drags a thumb down your puffy lips, “Sugu, please, more,” and his lips find yours again, swallowing your complaints and moans eagerly, as his large palms slide down your back to rest on your ass, squeezing as he presses you flush to his body, hard on pressed against your body. 

“Need my touch that much, Princess? Should’ve just fucked you in that club, huh? Let them see that you’re mine,”  And he’s walking you backwards towards his room, as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor of his living room. Your fingers running over his exposed flesh, thumbs teasing his sensitive nipples, pretty little lips pressing teasing kisses to both sides. 

Fuck, the need to bury his cock in you grew by the second. But he wanted to feel good first — been waiting too long. He had all night to fuck you — but he only had one time to do it right the first time. 

He’s walking you into the edge of his bed, as you both tumble onto the bed, his hands sliding under your shirt, tugging at the hem, and you help him take it off — and he hissed at the sight of nothing underneath. 

“Were you always coming to my place with no bra on?” his lips curl, as your eyes look away, embarrassment painted on your expression, “wanted this as long as I did, Princess? Don’t get so shy now — you’re the one who insisted on helping me, so aren’t you going to fulfill your promise?” His lips brush against your earlobe, lips wrapping around it and sucking lightly. 

You shiver, biting your lip, before you’re tugging him fully onto the bed, before slinking off of it and onto your knees for him, “Then let me help you,”

When your fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, he’s ready to cum right there — he’s so sensitive still, he’s sure he won’t last long, but fuck, he doesn’t care with how pretty you look between his legs. 

“Don’t be a tease, Princess, or I’ll pay you back later,” but your lips only curl, as you lean forward and press a kiss through the drenched fabric, tip of your tongue teasing his slit through his boxers.

“Oh I expect you to,” and you’re pulling his boxers down painfully slowly, letting the fabric of his boxers rub against his hard-on teasingly, a low hiss leaving the thin line of his lips, his balls aching with his release as his cock slaps against his stomach, “fuck, Sugu,” you murmur in almost reverence — he was thick, the tip flushed red with lovely beads of pre-cum already dripping down his length, your fingers already eager to trace those pretty veins, and feel the slight curve of his cock in your aching cunt, “how am I gonna fit you all in me?” 

And his cock twitches at your words, as you pity him with a chaste kiss to the top, “Please,” he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, fingers knuckles white as they fisted the now creased sheets, “fuck—“ as you blow air along his length, “I’ll cum all over your face at this rate,” 

“Oh I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sugu?” your point finger lightly follows the trail of his vein, as your lips continue to press butterfly kisses along his length, “paint my face with your cum,” 

And his fingers thread themselves in your hair, pressing his length to your lips, and you smirk, looking up at him with half lidded gaze, as your lips part and his length slides in — that’s all it takes. 

The coil in his stomach snaps, as he cums down your throat, hot seed spilling into your mouth, as his hips jerk against your mouth, his groans of your name sending a hot stripe of heat down to your cunt. 

Despite that, his cock only seems to grow larger, twitching against your tongue, as you part for a moment, a trail of saliva and cum dripping from your lips, “Taste so good, Sugu — gotta have you one more time—“ you envelop him with your lips again — and he’s a mess of moans, head thrown back, thick haze of lust as his eyes finally meet yours. You swallow around him, tongue wrapped around his length, as your sinful fingers touch whatever can’t fit in your mouth. 

“S’good baby, should’ve fucked this mouth a long time ago,” and he’s gone, as his hips begin to slowly roll against you, watching as you don’t resist, the tip of his cock brushing against your throat, “good fucking girl, never gonna go a day without these lips around my cock,” and god, he’s so close — twitching in your mouth, but what sends him over the edge is when he feels you moan, and spots your hand down your shorts. 

Fuck, he’s pulling out, “can I—“ and you pump him in response, a grunt of your name as you let him cum all over your face and chest, the sight enough to make him hard all over again — his thick release slipping down your lips, as your tongue darts out to taste it again. 

And he’s pulling you into a bruising kiss, tasting his own cum on your lips, before grabbing his discarded shirt to clean you off. His hand grabs your wrist and eases it from inside your cunt, tongue darting out to lick the release from your fingers, cleaning each of them. 

In an instant, he’s got you spread on his bed, legs parted for him, “where’s that attitude now, pretty?” And his lithe fingers sneak under the elastic of your panties and snaps it against your skin, making you squirm, “seems like all those words fell out of your head just from sucking my cock,” 

He’s slowly dragging your underwear down, before pulling at his bedside drawer to stuff your panties in, “for later use,” and you can’t managed a reply before his lips are pressing butterfly kisses up your thighs, before his teeth graze the soft flesh of your inner thigh, drawing a gasp from your lips, before sucking and soothing it with his tongue, “mine, all mine,” he’s already hard again — the feel of your soft skin under his lips was enough to have him cumming again like a virgin — the burning in the pit of his stomach only burned brighter for you — god, would he ever work his way out of this state? But as his gaze was met with your lovely dripping cunt with your puffy clit begging him for attention, he couldn’t seem to care. 

You hiss when his fingers slowly spread your folds, “So fucking tight, baby, how am I gonna fit in you?” he clicks his tongue, inhaling, as his nose brushes against your clit, making your hips jump, “patience, gotta take my time with this princess cunt, gotta make sure you’re ready for me,” his dick twitching at his next sentence, “because I sink my cock in here, we’re not stopping at one round,” 

Your cunt squeezes around nothing at his words, his breath warming your sensitive pussy, until he finally drags a stripe up your needy folds. 

“Sugu, fuck,” his arms brace your thighs and hips down, as the tip of his tongue drags teasing circles around your clit, your slick gathering on his tongue, as he tastes it with a groan. 

“Fucking, the best thing I’ve tasted,” and as much as he wants to bury his dick in you, he could live with his face between your thighs, “so perfect f’me,” and his tongue trails in tight circles around your clit, while his finger toys with your entrance, gathering your pre on his finger, teasing your entrance and delighting in the way your breath hitches. 

He looks up at your face between half lidded eyes, you’re too fucking pretty — your hair a mess from, a sheen of sweat on your body, the lovely way your nipples were erect, and your eyes — pupils lost to lust and need. And all for him. 

Fuck, he knows he won’t last long at this rate, he can already feel the urge to palm his raging cock, but he wants you to cum first, and he’s sinking a finger into your sweet cunt. He can almost imagine how your walls would feel fluttering around his cock — but he doubts his engorged tip would be even fit right now. 

No, he needed to make this good for you — he slowly starts to finger fuck you as his tongue circles your clit in tighter circles, even sucking on it, and by the way your fingers grasped at the sheets, crumpling under your touch — you liked it. 

Pretty moans left your lips, as your fingers found their way to his dark locks, still slightly damp from his shower — as he added a second finger inside. His name said between pants, as his fingers drag against your molten insides — the wet squelch rang in his ears as he fucked your cunt open. Knuckle deep in your sweet pussy, he knows he’s addicted — to the feeling of your molasses insides — warm and soft for him, his digits curling against your walls, looking for that one place that would make you fall apart. 

“Sugu, please, please ‘m close—,” and he knows you need a little more, and he’s obliging with a chuckle, a third finger joining the other two, and he’s fucking you in earnest now — lips closing around your clit and sucking mercilessly, as his fingers find that spongy spot that has you seeing stars. Your back arches, as your nails dig into his scalp, as you cum around his fingers — walls fluttering as he eats you out through your high, his name leaving your lips again and again, as you slowly come down from your high, thighs twitching and chest heaving as you do. 

As he finally pulls away, his chin and mouth glossy and drenched in a mixture of your cum and his spit — that he licks clean from where his tongue can reach, fingers collecting the rest, as he looks at your sticky cum gathered on his fingers. 

Fuck, he could live in your cunt. Your sweet taste was the only thing he’d crave now after consuming curses — he wondered if you’d let him eat you out for hours after the curses he ate — he was sure your taste was the only thing that would erase that disgusting like nothing else ever would. 

He’s giving you soft kisses after, dotting them up your body, murmuring praises, but you’re pulling him into a kiss, your fingers resting against the back of his neck, as your other hand finds his aching erection, swallowing his gasp with pleasure. 

“Want you, Sugu, please,” and your words are enough to make him cum right there, as he tugs your hand away, “Sugu—” 

“Won’t last long if you keep touching me and whining like that, Princess,” the heat only seems to lick at his skin like flames, engulfing him with every touch, and his cock was the epicenter of the wildfire, while you were the fuel that only made it consume you both to ash, “but I know it won’t be long until I’m fucking you again anyway,” Your cunt throbs at his words, as he draws close, dragging his weeping tip against your folds, watching his pre-cum smear against your slick with a grunt, “feels like you’re already trying to swallow me up, princess — you want this cock that bad?” fuck, he can’t hold back anymore, as he’s lining up himself up, and he’s sliding right into you with a groan, “know how long been waiting to do that?” his skin meeting yours as he bottoms out deliciously, stretching your walls out with his girth, pleasure ripping up your spine, “wanted to do this since the moment you walked through the door, but needed to do this right — when nothing about this was right,” he had so many things to say, while your mind had left you with not even a syllable, his cock twitched and pulsed inside your walls, dragging against it deliciously, “wish our first time wasn’t like this — but I’m so glad it’s finally happened, sweetheart,” 

And you can’t help but smile up at him, lips parted with a small moan, as tears burned at your eyes from his size, “Me too, Sugu, wanted you for so long, needed you—” and he’s kissing your tears and words away with his lips, 

Then he begins to fuck you — hard, the slapping of your skin and the wet squelch of your sex filling up most of the silence of the room, while both of your moans and grunts took up the rest. Your cunt was heaven to him — warm, wet walls wrapped around his aching cock — the slightest bit of relief was overcome with waves and waves of need — he needed to fuck you, needed to make you cum, needed to cum inside — he just needed you. 

“S’big, Sugu, too big,” you whine, he was almost too much for you, the way his dick fucked places you only could imagine reaching, as his mouth leaned down to take a pert nipple between his lips — sucking and licking, as he couldn’t have enough of you, while his hand toyed with the other, “feels too good,” 

“I know baby, gonna fuck your princess cunt so good — make sure its made just for me,” he’s murmuring, as his teeth graze your tit, as he pistons into you again and again, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix with each thrust, “all mine, baby, fuck — such a good girl for me,” and the praise has you keening against him, the knowing flutter of your cunt that tells him you’re all too close to the edge, as his hand reaches between your bodies to rub at your clit, “cum for me, pretty, need to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze me,” 

And you do, falling apart as he fucks you through your orgasm, again and again — fuck, you felt so good, as he watched his cock slip in and out of you, a white ring of your release forming around his base. He’s fucking close too — can feel his balls tense, eager to blow his load, “where—” 

You’re still moaning, eyes blown out in pleasure, as you watch him fuck you again and again, “Inside, Sugu, fill me up,” and that’s it, he’s gone — spurting his hot release, painting your walls, as he does, fucking it inside you — deeper, deeper, until he stills for a moment. And you’re twitching, eyes fluttering shut, when he pulls out, a groan parting his lips as he watches his seed spill from your cunt. 

But then silence for several moments, the soft pants of your breathing only, before you hear him swearing and grunting, as your eyes open, and your pussy twitches at the sight before you. Suguru’s hand slid up and down his still erect cock, his eyes squeezed shut, as he groaned, “Suguru—” 

“Wasn’t enough, need more,” he’s shaking his head, as his fingers squeeze around the base of his cock, “thought it would be enough to cum with you, but I can still feel it—” and he’s groaning, as you sit up, watching your mixed releases drip from you, “baby—” 

And your lips kiss the tip of his weeping cock, “I told I’d help you,” and you ease his hand away, as you lick up his length, your eyes fixed on his, “just because we fucked, doesn’t mean we’re done,” 

And in a moment, he’s got you flipped onto your hands and knees, as his cock slaps against your ass, his fingers squeezing the flesh, as he leans over to kiss your back, “Then I guess we’re gonna be up all night, sweetheart, because if you’re okay with this — I don’t think I’ll be satisfied with just a blowjob,” his tip drags against your messy cunt, “gonna need something a little tighter than your mouth,” and he’s sinking his thick cock into you again, balls slapping against your ass as he begins to fuck you, “better cancel any plans you have, pretty — because we’re not leaving this bed for a while.” 

“Don’t fall asleep on me, baby,” his fingers grab your chin, and force you to meet his gaze, as he fucks into you, as you sit on his lap, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, “almost gonna cum, and don’t want you to be asleep for it,” 

How many times had you fucked? You had lost count — but you knew you had done it in far too many positions — on your hands and knees, standing up, against the wall, from behind with his hand gripping your leg up, and far too many others — and now you were spread in his lap, cock deep in your pulsing pussy, his lips kissing your neck, as he fucked into you, his dick reaching a deeper angle from this position, easily able to hit the furthest parts of you. 

He had cum in you more than you thought was humanly possible — and you supposed it wasn’t — it was only the curse that enabled this — it was animalistic even, the way he rutted into you desperately. He grabbed a water bottle only to take a swig, and find your lips again, forcing you to swallow the water. 

“Good girl,” he’s grunting, his hips beginning to stutter, “I’m close baby, are you?” You hadn’t thought it was still possible to feel pleasure at this point, but it was — his cock dragged against your walls, his dark gaze finding yours, “tell me you wanna cum,” and your pussy twitches at his order, “use your words, pretty, or have I fucked them all out?” 

“Please, Suguru, I wanna cum on your cock,” and you’re so fucking close again — the all too familiar knot in your stomach ready to snap any moment. 

“Fuck, greedy pussy hasn’t enough of me? We’ve been fucking until the daylight now,” as his hand grabs your chin to make you see the first rays of light peaking over the horizon, and he’s making you bounce on him with each thrust of his dick — your orgasm building and building with every brush of his tip against your g-spot, “fuck, s’good for me, baby — been so good — just need one more and we can stop,” and tears stream down your cheek that only make him groan, his lips finding yours in a messy, sloppy kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth right as his cock hits at the deepest part of you— 

And you squirt all over him, drenching his cock and lap as you cum, your lips parting from him, as your head is thrown back, boneless, as he fucks into you, your spasming walls pulling him over the edge as he paints your insides with his release, fucking it into you, until he finally slows, your body draped on his, head resting on his shoulder. Bodies sticky with sweat and cum, his cock finally softens inside you, the heat finally beginning to dull, as he presses soft kisses and gentle caresses to every inch of your skin, as he lays you down carefully, pulling himself from you. 

“Thank you, princess, thank you,” and you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck, soft breaths cooling the sheen of sweat on his skin, “did so good for me,” and he slowly rises, grabbing his shirt and running it under water to clean you off, if only a little. 

You’re already half asleep, eyes only fluttering half open to watch him, and he can’t help but bite his lip,  “Sugu?” 

“Yes, princess?” And you nod, fingers twitching for him, and his lips curl as he obliges, wrapping you up in his body, “know it was rough on you baby, I’ll make it up to you — don’t worry, just rest,” he grabs a water bottle, and lifts your head ever so slightly and helps you drink some water. 

“I know you want to ask me something,” and he pauses, as he pulls the bottle away, “I can see the gears grinding in your head — you can ask me anything, y’know,” you had quite the way of embarrassing him, didn’t you? 

“I know, I just,” he swallowed, “was there any other reason you came back to Tokyo, aside from the threats, did you come back for anything else?” 

And your lips curl, raising an eyebrow knowingly, “Anything or anyone you mean?” and you chuckle when his eyes can’t meet yours, your fingers finding his again, “baby,” and your hand brushes against his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw, making his breath catch, “I did come back for someone — a very particular someone,” and he smiles, as your lips lean up to press a chaste kiss to your lips, “and my friends, of course,” you add, “I love Utahime, but I missed Shoko and Satoru, and you,” 

“You did?” he murmurs, and you giggle, kissing him again, melting into his touch again, as your foreheads brushed against the other’s, “Sugu?” and it’s your turn to ask something now, chewing on your bottom lip, “can we do this again?” you murmur, before adding, “not like this but—“ 

And he laughs, pulling you impossibly closer, lips finding your leaping pulse, “Yes, we can, if you want to — because I know I do, because,” his thumb brushing the length of your cheek, “but I want all of you — want your body, your thoughts, your time, your heart and soul—“ and his lips quirk at the sight of your eyes widening ever so slightly, “is that okay?” 

And your lips find his own as an answer, sweet kisses turn languid, heat stealing any doubts from either of your minds, “As long I have yours as well,” and the two of you share only a few more kisses, before you both finally drift off. 

“If he’s fine, and I’m checking on him, I’m kicking his ass,” Satoru grumbled, as he held his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, Shoko sighing as he rooted through his pockets for his keys. 

Shoko chewed her lip, she hadn’t heard from him in hours, “He was in bad shape, I can't find the time to go check and you were on your way home anyway,” Shoko says, wiping her brow, twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers. 

“Yeah, on my way home back from a mission,” he finally finds his keys, sticking Suguru’s spare key into the lock and turning it, “If I have jet lag, and all I find is him jerked off and sleeping, you owe me,” 

He twists the knob, and looks — he doesn’t see Suguru in the living room or kitchen — but he does see takeout containers spilled on the floor, along with a very familiar bag, and he blinks, before his lips curl. He asks if she’s heard from you, to which she says no, 

He walks silently to Suguru’s bedroom, opening the door a crack to see you and Suguru curled up against each other, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, the comforter strewn about and covering the rest of your bodies. 

Satoru only grins, before he pulls his phone from his ear and switches to the camera. 

“Never mind, Shoko, I owe you one,” and he snaps a picture of the two of you, wondering how many missions he could pawn off to Suguru now, “I’ll treat you to lunch.” 

✧ a/n: so this turned out way longer than i thought (story of my life). i had so much fun writing this - i've been writing this in conjunction with prof geto part 3 and its been funny darting back and forth between these two -- although the scenes i've been writing

✧ taglist: @peachyminx, @garfunklefield, @unicornqueen05, @hiyori-ii, @equikaz, @unoriginalidea, @forest-fruits-jam, @torusinfinity, @hellkaiserinphoenix, @loonimae, @gojoedd, @sugurufic, @glaceliy, @telvess, @kentocalls, @nayasch, @iluvvreze, @yamaguccitadashi, @faeismism, @hanxyy, @catsgomurp, @sukaibg, @sugurusdiscordmoderator, @gojorgeous, @getos-slvtt, @sirencholia, @teatreeoilll, @dewdropdive, @appysauc, @kobycetacean, @missroki, @fushitoru, @pricetagofficial, @that-goth-bisexual, @shoyosdoll, @regrettinglifechoices, @mostinsanegirl, @roseybean, @fayyyrieee, @gojobbg, @strangehuman101, @saccharine-nectarine, @i-belong-in-a-retirement-home, @spider-fan72

[rainrot4me]

Keep It Rolling

Summary: You and your friend decide to see if you can find ghosts in an abandoned asylum as you record the whole thing. When you run into Hoodie, he thinks it’d be fun to record you instead.

Characters: Hoodie x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Recording sex, bad blowjob, vaginal, threatening with a gun, pussy slapping, size difference, forcing, gagging, stretching, cream pie, size difference

Words: 3.9k

You spent your whole life filming everything. 

It didn’t matter what. Eating breakfast, going to the store, hanging with friends, everything was caught on your little camcorder. You had an internet personality to keep up with and feeding your viewers your personal life was a hefty job. But you loved it. 

So, of course, when your best friend messaged you about some supposedly haunted mental asylum twenty minutes off the interstate, you had to get it on camera. 

The mid-autumn breeze blew through your hair as you and your friend packed your filming equipment into the back of your car, shutting the trunk before climbing into the driver's seat. The asylum wasn’t even an hour away. But as you sped down the interstate, it was like the whole atmosphere had changed. The clouds were dark, the wind blew leaves from the trees, and this ominous darkness loomed around you. 

“Where did these rain clouds come from?” Your friend mumbled, scrolling through her phone and checking the weather which didn’t offer many answers. Brushing it off, you turned down an overgrown dirt road off the highway and searched for the building. If it did start raining, there was no way you were getting your camera out of the car. And if there was no camera, there was no reason for you to go inside. But as you drove further, an overgrown sign dangled on the side of the path. ‘State Asylum for the Mentally Insane.’ Charming. It was much farther after that that you could see the run-down building come into view, boarded up windows and patches of wall missing. The decorations of the building had all but disintegrated, but the foundation and skeleton of the building still stood strong minus the crumbling sections of walls. You pulled the car as close to the end of the path as you could before the overgrown plants stopped your path. Shutting the engine off, you sat and stared at the rolling clouds swarming overhead, judging if this was a good idea or not. Obviously, you knew it wasn’t.

“Shit, whole things coming down. Wonder how much longer it's got till it completely crumbles.” Your friends laughed, hopping out of the car and opening the trunk, slinging a bag full of voice recorders over her shoulder. “I hope we don’t find out.” You joked back, sliding to the back and grabbing your camera and backpack full of batteries and hard drives. The wind howled through the building, an eerie whistling noise echoing off the decaying walls that were visible from the outside. If you couldn’t find anything haunted in there, at least you’d get some good aesthetic shots. “I say we make a lap through the building and see if we can find any particular room that feels right to set up in. Y’know, see if it feels haunted.” They laughed, slamming the trunk shut and sauntering towards the entrance, a large dark door with shattered lanterns on either side. You flipped open your camera lens, filming a good shot of your friend shoving the door open and peeking inside. You quickly followed behind, skipping up the steps and peeking inside yourself.

The entrance was dark, furniture and paintings rusted with age and tossed around on the ground. Leaves and cobwebs accented the space, giving just the right amount of old and creepy as you filmed you both entering. The wind howled through the halls as you scanned each room, discovering abandoned medical supplies, facility rooms, and rows and rows of medical beds. All of it was caught on film, the dim lighting giving just the perfect balance with the soft glow of your flashlight. This had to get you views.

When you and your friend finally decided on a spot, a recreation room fit with a stage and tables, you set your audio recorders on the tables, little blinking lights illuminating the room as you pointed the camera. Your friend pulled out their flashlight, laying it on the table and flicking it on. You angled the lens, catching their face in the glow as they began to ask questions, the eerie quietness echoing their voice. “If there are any spirits here who are wishing to make themselves known, please do so now.” Silence. Besides the settling of the old floorboards, there wasn’t a movement or sound to be made. They tried again. “We’re here to do nothing more than talk. Please don’t be afraid to communicate.” Nothing again. You were growing impatient, switching your camera between your friend and the dormant recording devices, no lights signaling activity was being captured. Your friend groaned, holding out for maybe just some noise but ultimately flipping off the flashlight and scooping the recording equipment back into their bag. “Maybe we just picked a bad room. I want to try something though.” You flipped your camera shut, breathing deep and smelling nothing but mould and concrete. “And?” 

They shuffled the bag onto their shoulder, shining their flashlight around the disheveled room. “I saw on some ghost channel they split up and went to opposite ends of their hospital and got a lot of activity. Apparently, ghosts like it when you’re alone.” They smiled, shuffling back to the hallway. “Sounds good to me,” It didn’t, but who were you to say no to some good content? “Walk to opposite ends of the building and meet back in thirty minutes?” You both nodded, turning away from each other as you trudged your way to the farthest end of the asylum. 

You felt like you had walked forever, stepping down two flights of stairs until you ended up in what you assumed to be the basement. Random trash and unorganized medical equipment littered the floor but it was charming in a way, like the place was a relic of what it used to be. The damp air surrounded you, every step echoing off the concrete walls and recording beautifully as you flipped on your camera. Cobwebs hung in every corner, more afraid of running into one than running into an actual ghost, but content was content.

You set your camera on the ground, shining your flashlight at your face as you crisscrossed in front of the lens. The hall was silent, the dark corners sending chills up your spine as you couldn’t see past where your flashlight glow went. You settled yourself, breathing deeply before calling into the darkness. “If there are any spirits here who would like to communicate, please make yourself known.” Silence. The rhythmic dripping of water from the pipes offered some relief as you listened closely, but ultimately heard nothing. You sighed, trying again. “I am only here to talk. Please make yourself known.” Nothing still. It was relieving, sort of, praying internally that you’d find nothing as you stared into the camera’s lens. Shaking your head, you gave it one final attempt before you’d decide to head back upstairs. “If any spirits wa-” 

That was when you heard it. The loud thud echoed from down the dark hallway. Fear shot through you, quickly aiming your flashlight but seeing nothing that could have made the noise. “Hello..?” You called, picking your camera up and directing it the same way. There was no response. But as you went to stand, a very clear sound of someone clearing their throat echoed. You scrambled to your feet, realizing this wasn’t going to be paranormal, but some squatter you’d accidentally run up on. Your hands were shaking but relentlessly keeping the camera trained on the hall, staring intently for any sign of motion. Deciding not to press your luck further, you quietly stepped towards the stairs, barely reaching the railing before you saw it. The tall figure of a man resting his shoulder on the wall beside you and staring straight at you. 

A scream bubbled in your throat, panic building before he was on you in a second, his large hands shoving his over your mouth and holding your head still. You gripped your equipment tightly, panicking desperately as you tried to wiggle your way out of his grasp. That all stopped as soon as you felt the gunhead press against your ribs, nudging you to be compliant. “One word and I shoot.” He huffed, his deep voice reverberating against the walls. That’s when you could see him in the glow of your flashlight. He wore a ski mask that covered every feature of his face, but had a weird face drawn on. Tears rolled down your cheeks, realizing what a heap of trouble you were in. Whining, the man released your mouth but nudged the gun deeper into your rib, forcing you to the wall behind you. His gruff demeanor shakes you. “Explain yourself. Now.” He commanded, shoving the hilt further up. You panicked, quickly answering. “Uh- My f-friend and I came to see if we c- could find ghosts. I was making, uh, a video.” You cringed, holding the camera up as it was still rolling, capturing everything that had happened so far. The man jerked the camera out of your hand, examining it before tossing it to the floor, a whine escaping you as you watched it skid against the concrete. He leaned in close to your face, his breathing mumbled by the mask. “No ghosts, huh?” He towered over you, his large frame encapsulating you easily. You shook your head awkwardly, gulping as he pulled the gun from your side but quickly repositioned it under your chin, nudging it forcefully. “Sorry sweetheart, but I’m afraid this is as far as you’ll get.” He cocked the trigger, the noise sending a full-blown panic through you as you gripped his arm. “Please! Please- oh, God, I’ll do anything,” You huffed, tears pouring heavily. “Anything you want. Money, your dick sucked, food, anything!” You pleaded, face growing red as you shook with fear. 

The man leaned back, pulling his finger off the trigger as he chuckled. “What was that second thing?” He smirked, resting his hand on his hip but not letting that gunhead leave your chin. You blushed roughly, your words betraying you as you just word-vomited something to save yourself. “I said anything.” You huffed, gritting your teeth as you felt the cold metal leave your skin, sighing deeply. 

The man holstered his gun in the back of his jeans, sauntering over to your camera on the ground and scooping it up. He wiped it off, flipping the screen open before pointing it at you. You blushed, feeling awkward on the other side of the lens for once. He chuckled, stepping closer to you as he moved the camera to the side, staring at you directly. “Well?” He grinned, focusing his gaze back on the camera screen that captured your red face, the flash accentuating your features. His mask concealed his expression making you unsure if he was being serious or not, but you didn’t want to test those waters knowing full well he had a gun.

You awkwardly knelt in front of him, the concrete wall behind you cramping you. The truth was, you had no clue what you were doing. No boyfriends made their way around to lay you, so whatever you were about to pull out of your ass: your life literally depended on it. 

You fiddled with his belt, sliding it open before nervously pulling the zipper of his jeans down. He wasn’t even half-hard in his boxers. You palmed at the bulge awkwardly, glancing up as the camera stared at you, his face peeking behind and watching you closely. Growing in your hand, you tucked your fingers under his boxers and tugged them down, his large cock barely bobbing out. It was awkward, but you took the length in your hands and slowly began to stroke, feeling it harden slowly. This was good. Nervousness pricked at your stomach as you licked at the tip. You slowly pressed the now hard length into your mouth, getting as deep as you could before pulling back. Slobber coated the length, gleaming in the flash of the camera. You leaned back in, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock and taking the rest of what you could in your mouth. It wasn’t good and you knew it. Your teeth constantly scraped against his length. Not to mention any time the tip passed your tongue you were gagging back off of it.

He was growing impatient, the half-assed attempt at head making his head hurt. You felt his hand slink up the back of your head and grip a handful of your hair, slowly guiding your head back onto his cock. “Open wide.” He commanded, holding the camera lower to get a good shot. You hung your jaw lower, gripping his jeans quickly as you felt him press into your mouth further than you knew you could take. You gagged, straining to pull your head back but he wouldn’t let you, he just kept pushing your head further. You slammed your eyes shut, tears pricking as you wrapped your lips around the thick cock deep in your mouth. He finally pulled your head back, giving you a second to breathe before you snapped his hips back into your mouth quickly. You whined, throat choking as he thrust your head on his cock quickly. He held your hair tightly as he forced himself down your throat, practically face-fucking you and not giving you a second to adjust. 

“Damn, you got a mouth on you, huh?” He huffed, shoving the camera closer to your mouth wrapping around him tightly. You groaned, eyes rolling as you gagged each time his cock pressed against the back of your throat. It was loud and vulgar, the wet sounds echoing off the walls. He refused to let up though, groaning as he held your head back. “There you go. Keep that throat open, sweetheart.” He moaned deeply, pressing your head flush against him but not pulling away. You began to panic, gripping at his jeans as you choked, no air reaching you. He chuckled, cock throbbing in your mouth at the sound of drool gurgling in your throat. He finally pulled you off his length, a loud gasp escaping you as air filled your lungs. He pulled your hair back making you stare at the camera, your flushed face and slobber-covered lips shining brightly against the flash. “God…” He let go of your hair, pumping his cock into his hand before kneeling at your level. “Yeah, I’m not done with you.” He grinned, gripping your legs pulling them out from under you and landing you on your back. He crawled over you, nudging himself between your legs as he tugged at your shirt until it bunched above your bra. He hooked his fingers under the cups, pushing them up and exposing your tits. Hands were on them in a second, massaging and pulling at the mounds. 

Your whines echoed as he pinched your nipples, pulling them roughly and kneading the buds in between his fingers. “You’ve got such a nice body sweetheart. I can’t wait to ruin it.” He scaled the camera across your body and shot your curves well. It was incredibly embarrassing. 

He pulled his hands off your nipples, leaning back to set the camera on the ground and angle it between your legs, getting a good shot of your crotch. If anything, you were impressed with his familiarity with a camera. But the other half of you cringed as he unbuttoned your pants and slid them off your legs, giving the camera a clear shot of your damp panties. His fingers rubbed at the spot, his thumb pressing roughly against your clit and making you squirm. You reached down quickly, grabbing his wrist. That wasn’t going to happen. He immediately grabbed your wrists in return, pinning your hands above your head and relishing the way your body arched in defiance. “Calm down, huh? Relax…” He grinned, sliding your panties off your hips with his right hand and sliding his fingers up your folds, collecting your arousal. Pressing your legs open, he spread your folds the same, the cold air making your clit twitch. “Such a pretty cunt…” He groaned, spreading your lips and spitting against your hole, making you squirm.

He rubbed his fingers against your entrance, circling the area as you arched your back, silently begging for him to slide them in. That was when you saw his hand reach back and quickly slap down on your cunt, a sharp sting hitting you. You gasped, his hand slapping you again before you could even say anything. His palm continued to connect with your cunt, rubbing the area roughly before bringing his hand back to slap down again. You were a whining mess, every sting and slap making you so much wetter. The squelching sounds your cunt made every time his palm reached was embarrassing, your moans mixing and creating an insanely lewd noise. “God! Please…” You whined, squeezing your knees closer and trapping his hand against your cunt. He chuckled, giving in and pressing his fingers into your soaked entrance, a loud squelch echoing. You groaned, his fingers reaching deeply inside of you and curling just the right way. When he began to pump his fingers, it was all you could do not to scream your pleasure. Your throbbing clit ached as his fingers curled against your walls, each curl causing them to clench down. His thick fingers worked you open, your squirming body being easily held down by his muscled arms. Your orgasm came incredibly fast, your walls tightening around his fingers as they stretched your entrance wide and became soaked with your ecstasy. 

He pulled his fingers out sharply and brought them to the hem of his mask as he slid it up just above his nose. He licked his fingers of your arousal, smiling at you as he took them down to the knuckle. Your eyes frantically glanced at the camera lens, the flash blinding you as you begged the battery would magically die and none of this would be recorded. No luck. “Damn sweetheart, you think that cunt’s ready for me yet?” He grinned, pulling his mask back down and wrapping his hands around your ankles, pulling you quickly to rest your thighs on top of his. His cock was twitching and angry, the head pulsing as he pumped it in his hands. He let it rest on your tummy. You glance down, head spinning as you realize just how big he is. “Oh, I’m gonna be in there.” He chuckled, releasing your wrists to scoop his hands under your hips and angle them up. He nudged the head of his cock against your entrance, leaning down to meet his face with your as he breathed deeply. “Try to not scream, yeah?” 

Before you could question why, he slammed your hips down onto his length. The rough stretch and sting of him entering you so abruptly made you cry out, tears leaking down your cheeks. He didn’t wait. Either because he couldn’t or because he didn’t care. His hips snapped into you quickly, fingers digging into your bare hips as he forced your hips to connect with his. “Shit-” He was grunting with every thrust, heavily breathing behind the mask. Your moans and cries matched his, every nudge of his cock against your walls making your back arch and jaw hang open. It was dizzying. He was perched on his knees, holding your hips off the ground and fucking into you like some fleshlight. 

Every tug at his hands and pull at his jacket went unnoticed as you clawed against him, trying your hardest to find some stability as your body was being rammed against. Your cunt throbbed with every squelch and slap, your walls constricting around the thick length invading inside of you. The camera caught it all, angled perfectly to see every inch of his cock sink into your cunt as he thrust quickly. It caught every lewd moan, every slap of skin. The tears were rolling down your cheeks, the sting and stretch of him mixing with the absolute pleasure slamming into you. “Fuck, so tight. Gonna milk me dry, sweetheart.” He huffed, repositioning for a split second before angling his hips up to ram into your g-spot. You screamed out, hand reaching for your clit as you rubbed in pace with his thrusts up into you.

That’s when he grabbed the camera, angling it down directly at your cunt as he sunk into you quickly. “Cum on my cock. Yeah, let me see it.” He moaned, shoving your hand out of the way to press his own fingers against your clit, rubbing quick and rough. You slapped your hands over your face, eyes rolling as you felt your orgasm rushing against you. The masked man was moaning louder, little whines escaping his lips as his own pace became sloppy. “Cum all over me, sweetheart.” He groaned. It sent you over, waves of pleasure crashing into you quickly as he refused to let off of your clit. You screamed out, arching your back against his fingers as he rubbed your orgasm out. Walls around his cock constricted, milking him as he held the camera close, the flash catching every drop of sweat and arousal that mixed on you. He bottomed out against you, moaning loudly as he released deep into your cunt. 

The room went quiet apart from your panting. The camera caught it all, each pulse of his cock as he filled you full, your hands gripping tightly against his wrist as he held his thumb over your clit. He slowly pulled out, hissing as you felt the stretch of him. When his head popped out, he moved the camera down, catching every second as his seed leaked out of you. “Did so good sweetheart. Took me so good.” He huffed, sliding his fingers through your folds and spreading his release across your cunt, making you squirm. He pressed his fingers into your swallowed entrance, pressing his seed back in. When he pulled them out, he flipped the camera shut, turning the flash off and setting it back on the ground. 

Finding your panties, he slid them back on you and relished as he watched them soak darker. He helped you button your pants back, pulling your shirt down and helping you stand. Handing you the camera, he laughed at your hazy expression, your heavy eyes and swollen cheeks evident of your fucked out cunt. “Thanks, sweetheart, now run along before I change my mind.” He huffed, turning back to the dark hallway and waving you off. “Good luck with your ghosts.” You nodded, frantically turning back to the steps and rushing up to the fresh air. It hadn’t been long, but as you listened closely and heard the sound of heavy rain, you trudged to the other side of the asylum and found your friend just as hopeless as you left them.

“Did you find anything? I had a whole lot of nothing.” They sighed, leading you to the entrance and out to the car as you tried to hide your equipment from the rain. “Nah. Nothing interesting.” You sighed, climbing into the driver's seat and speeding off back down the dirt path. 

When you eventually made it home, you sprinted to your laptop and shoved the SD card in, loading up the video. Your hand covered your mouth as you watched the scene unfold, arousal growing in your pants again as you felt the leak of the masked man’s seed against your folds. 

The video played through, every squelch and moan sending shivers through you as your hand slid down between your legs, rubbing lazily as you rewatched his cock sink inside of you. 

You’d have to go ghost hunting more often.

Comments are reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

33 / 1.8k / shark mermen Gaz and Soap for mermay :)

...

You emerge from the cold saltwater with a gasp and cling to the only thing you can—a metal buoy, just as freezing as the ocean.

Something brushes your leg. Again. Then you feel a jolt of pain.

A moment later, he surfaces—the mer who cut you off from the boat and pursued you here. He looms closer, curious eyes fixed on you.

"Don't come any closer!" you tell him, half-strangled by seawater. You wish you sounded stronger. Your throat burns raw and your voice is choked. You press yourself up closer to the tower-shaped navigation buoy in a vain attempt to pull yourself away from him.

Gaz cocks his head to the side at the command, his black eyes flickering to your mouth in recognition. He treads the rough water effortlessly, lazily, the shape of his body under the water rolling.

He understands you perfectly. Then he moves closer anyway.

You sputter, fingers slipping as you scrabble for a better hold to—you're not sure, pull yourself to safety? There's nowhere to go.

He looms over you. You turn your face away and press into the buoy as tightly as you can. He rests his hand against the metal near your head, claws digging into the rust. His eyes rake over your body. You’re cold. Wet. Scared. Gaz can’t keep his eyes from moving all over you. From your wild, dripping wet hair down to where you disappear into the sea, thin human skin flat against curved metal. All the soft, exposed flesh in between.

Tentatively—when he doesn’t grab you—you steal a glance at him. His broad shoulders are bare, skin dark and smooth. Scars mark the sculpted muscles of his chest and forearms. Saltwater in the open cuts on your arm force your attention back to the situation at hand. He spots the bloody rivulets running down your forearm at the same time you do. It’s not just a series of cuts—it’s a bite mark. He bit you.

Then something big brushes your leg. You jolt, kicking, your shin banging hard against the base of your safe buoy. You nearly jump out of your skin when a second mer surfaces right behind you.

Gaz follows your stare back to the second mer. It’s Soap.

Soap grins, razor-sharp teeth flashing in the dim light. His dark hair is drenched, swept back from his face and away from his eerie all-blue eyes. When you don’t react immediately, freezing up instead, his hands crawl up your waist. You shriek. Soap laughs at your reaction. He tightens his hands on your waist and pulls you so easily from the buoy into the cage of his arms.

You struggle to keep yourself aloft without anything to hold on to. Soap seems blasé about keeping you high enough above the surface to breathe. He's more interested in your peculiar human features—your gilless ears, your flat teeth, the soft skin that extends well past your waist and hips. Even Gaz moves closer, enthralled with the sight of you wrapped up in Soap’s arms, your comparatively tiny human hands gripping and splashing around in a way they’d consider rather cute. Like a kitten curling its paws around a toy rather than someone fighting just to stay afloat.

Your lungs still burn with salt and your sparse clothes cling to you as you twist in the waves. Desperate to escape, you shove your left hand against Gaz's chest and your right elbow against Soap's, trying to make room for yourself between them and lift yourself away from Soap's curious, clawed hands. But there isn't much you can do.

Gaz stares down at your hand lingering on his chest. You have such short, blunt, thin claws. How are humans supposed to protect themselves with those? He looks up to see Soap attempting to wrestle your squirming, slippery little human body more securely into his arms.

"I had her," Gaz says in their mer language.

You can't understand it. To you, it sounds strange and half-muted, but you can feel the depth of the vocalizations in Gaz's chest and snatch your hand away as if burned.

“And now I have her,” Soap says.

"You shouldn't have grabbed her. She’s riled up now."

 “You just want to be the only one to see her up close. You can share." Not to mention he knows how Gaz can be. If Gaz were to get his hands on you first, Soap would be lucky to see a damn thing, much less touch you. Soap, on the other hand, knows how to share. “Have a look at the skin. Like an eel’s, but with little hairs.”

Gaz glares at him but obliges, dipping under the waves as he moves closer. He can’t resist the temptation of that soft flesh, so different from his own. Especially when Soap’s already got his hands on you and is feeling you up as much as he likes.

He circles you slowly as his eyes adjust to see you better in the low light. The rest of you is just as interesting as what's above water, if not more. You've got knees. Feet, even. He skims a claw from your ankle to your thigh. You kick in response, and Soap's long tail twists in the water to keep hold of you. Your feet, your legs—they’re so tiny. All flesh, no fins at all. Even when you kick, they just slide through the water so uselessly.

Above the water, you cry out at the sudden feeling. Cold dread settles into your gut as you recognize these two for what they are—not just mer, but sharks. Their size and sharp teeth give them away. Not to mention their skin. It looks like human skin, but it's smooth when rubbed in one direction and sandpaper-rough in the other. Exactly like the skin of the creatures they mimic.

You push blindly against Soap's chest, ignoring the bite of his claws as he holds on to you. You're certain they're about to pull you underwater and drown you. Maybe eat you. You've already been bitten.

Then, over the roar of blood in your ears, you hear the distant sound of a boat's bell. You swivel your head to see a small rescue boat. Someone must have noticed you were snatched overboard. Instantly, energy pulses into your limbs again. You push yourself up as far as you can, nails digging into Soap's shoulder, and you wave your arms and shout for all you’re worth to get the rescue boat's attention.

Soap whips his head around to follow the sound of the boat. He knows exactly what it is, and he doesn't like it one bit. The more he tries to hold you still, though, the louder and shriller your cries get. There's no chance the boat will miss you like this. Humans have really good eyesight even without their little lights. He could just let you go. He wanted to see you up close, and he did. But with Gaz circling below the water, and with every little touch reinforcing his curiosity about you, and with the smell of your blood filling his senses, he decides he and Gaz haven't had nearly enough time to study you.

With a beat of his tail, Soap pushes away from you.

You sink instantly, gasping in a mouthful of saltwater as you struggle to right yourself. You break the surface of the water one more time, but all that comes out when you try to call for help again is a watery choke.

A clawed hand wraps around your ankle and pulls you down. Your head submerges. Everything goes muffled besides the sharp stinging in your nose, eyes, and the bite on your arm. Soap's grip is like steel, pulling you down, down, down until the surface is just a glittering ripple far away. Your wild thrashing just tires you out, which makes keeping you under easier. He can only imagine the kind of panic that’s taking hold. Humans are notoriously poor swimmers.

Your vision spots as you struggle. Soap knows exactly what he's doing. His blood sings in his veins, the thrill of the hunt overriding everything. The moment is perfect: you under his control even as you fight like good prey.

The pressure of the water grows immense. It presses in on your eardrums and your chest cavity. You fight against the urge to breathe, but you are well and truly running out of oxygen.

Soap feels your struggling grow weaker. There's no way you're getting away now. You’re all his.

Suspended in the water above you both, Gaz understands exactly what Soap's instincts are telling him to do. His are saying the same thing: to strike while you're vulnerable, disoriented, desperate.

Instead, he dives to Soap and stops him.

"What are you doing?" he snaps. "Humans can't survive in the water."

Soap blinks like he’s turning his brain back on. "Aye. Am only hiding her."

"For how long?"

"Til the boat leaves. Morning, maybe."

Gaz grits his teeth. Before Soap can protest, Gaz darts up and grabs you with a burst of speed, ripping you right out of Soap’s grasp. The way he hooks you into the inside of his elbow knocks the last of the air out of you.

Your head spins. Your body is wracked by a dry, painful cough, and your mouth opens as your body instinctively tries to find air. Water fills your lungs. Gaz feels you convulse. He clamps his hand around your mouth. But it doesn't do you any good.

He propels you both up toward the surface. But instead of breaking through, he swims parallel, leaving the rescue boat behind.

You’re clinging to the final frayed threads of consciousness when you finally break the surface of the water. Your back hits sand. The impact forces your diaphragm to push a mouthful of water loose. That gets you coughing again. You flip over and cough what feels like an unsurvivable volume of seawater out of your lungs.

You cough until every muscle in your stomach hurts. You keep coughing as you get to your hands and knees and drag yourself up the rocky beach. Gravel cuts and burrows into your hands and knees. You don't have the capacity to notice anything besides the air you're desperately swallowing.

As soon as you're not completely convinced you'll die here, you collapse onto your side, curling into a fetal position. You don't notice the two lambent pairs of eyes watching you from the shallows.

...

[part 1] / part 2

more Gaz / more Soap / more mer au / masterlist tag

[pedrospatch]

weakness

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: An afternoon at Bill and Frank’s place takes one hell of an unexpected turn for you and Joel when hidden feelings start coming to the surface.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. BOSTON QZ ERA JOEL. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is in his early 50’s). mentions of reader having longer hair/her hair gets brushed, reader wears a dress, no specific mention of reader’s size, but there is a brief mention of the dress fitting loose on her, Frank is sweet and makes her feel pretty, Bill is a grump, Joel is kind of soft, hidden feelings. dashes of angst, fluff, and an abundance of Frank being an absolute angel.

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY. NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 5.7k

“Can you stop fidgeting for just one second, please?” Frank scolds you lightly, bringing down the palm of his hand onto your shoulder in a small, quick slap in an attempt to get you to stop squirming. He then moves his hands back up to your hair, which is out of its usual braid and towel dried after a much, much needed wash. The sickeningly sweet scent of the floral shampoo you’d used in the shower earlier that afternoon lingers deliciously in the air around you, a refreshing and welcome change from what your hair normally smells like—grime and smoke from hours of work detail in the Boston QZ. After coming out all of the stubborn tangles that he can find, Frank then picks up a boar hairbrush and he carefully begins to run it through your locks. He starts from the roots of your hair and brings the natural bristles down, all the way through to your ends. He chuckles and says, “You know, I would be done a hell of a lot quicker if you would just sit still.”

You sigh softly, but impatiently, allowing yourself one final, uncomfortable little shuffle in the white wicker chair he has you perched on before finally giving into his request. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” you mumble You bring your knees up against your chest and exhale another small sigh. You can’t see his face, but you can picture the smug, satisfied smile on Franke’s face as he continues brushing your hair. “So, tell me again why we’re even doing this?” you question him just a minute later, as if he hasn’t already explained it to you about a hundred times—he wants to do something special for you. “It kind of seems like a complete waste of time, don’t you think so?”

“We’re doing this because you deserve to get dolled up for once in your adult life,” Frank states in a matter of fact tone. The world had ended when you’d been about seven years old, and he’d imagined that since then, you’d never done a single damn thing for your appearance—besides the occasional at home haircut you would give yourself every few months with an old pair of rusted shears. He’d have been absolutely right about that. “And besides, it’s something of a special occasion today,” he adds. “It’s the first day of spring. The weather outside is stunning, our flowers are finally in full bloom, and we have a nice outdoor lunch planned to celebrate the new season.”

You can’t help the way the corners of your mount turn upwards into a small smile. One might think it was all rather silly, given it was the end of the world and all, but you have to admit, you admire the way Frank manages to find genuine happiness and joy in the little things, like warm sunshine on the first day of spring. Or showing a friend what a proper hairbrush looks like. He has such a beautiful soul, something that very, very few people in this new world possess. 

“Your hair is so healthy,” Frank observes a few minutes later, setting the hairbrush aside. Taking two handfuls of your hair from the front, he twists them gently and brings them around to the back of your head. He then secures them with a clear, elastic band and runs his fingers through your soft locks, maneuvering your hair until it cascades perfectly around your shoulders. Frank walks around your chair to face you, fussing until he makes sure that every stand is neatly in place. He smiles. “You should wear your hair down more often, you know. It really suits you.”

“Long, loose hair and work detail are a recipe for disaster,” you laugh, shaking your head at him. “Most of the work sites in the zone require anyone who has longer hair to keep it tied back, anyway.” You push your legs out away from your chest and plant your feet firmly on the floor. “Listen, Frank. I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. I really do,” you swear. “It’s incredibly sweet, but there’s really no point. In just a few hours, Joel and I are going to have to head back into Boston where my hair goes back into its braid and I have to change back into my normal clothes.”

“Exactly. So how about you just zip it and enjoy this while it lasts?” he suggests with a tiny, cheeky grin.

“But Frank—”

“Honey, this is a fight you simply aren’t going to win, so hush. Now, come with me.” He takes your hand, pulling you out of the chair and up to your feet. “Close your eyes,” he instructs, and with a reluctant sigh, you do as you’re told. Frank leads you over towards the full length mirror in the far corner of his and Bill’s bedroom. “Okay. One, two, three—open your eyes.”

Your eyes flutter open and your mouth parts slightly in surprise. 

“What the fuck,” you murmur underneath your breath, taken aback by the reflection in the mirror. The young woman staring back at you, she looks absolutely nothing like you. The hair, the hint of blush on your cheekbones—the color he’d found was one one that flatters the tone of your skin—and the thin coat of decades old mascara that he’d applied to your eyelashes; the tube had been bone fucking dry, but Frank used a few drops of water to bring it back to life, swearing up and down it was fine to put near your eyes. And then there was the dress, the goddamn dressed he’d force you into. His favorite part of the makeover and your least favorite. 

“Wait until you see what I found for you to wear,” he’d told you, giddy as if it were him who would be donning a new outfit. “You’re going to love it!”

Skeptical, you had asked, “Am I though?”

Frank had gone to the boutique and found you a dress to wear, and while it was just a tad loose on your frame, he insisted that it would look just fine on you with the help of a safety pin hidden at the back of it, pulling the fabric taut. It was simple enough, white with a subtle sweetheart neckline and thin straps that tied together at your shoulders. The delicate lace fell down in a flowing skirt to just a few inches above your knees and it itched like hell, especially at your sides. Wanting to add a finishing touch to the outfit, Frank had brought you a pair of brown, strappy sandals and he’d let you know that he had a couple of different color options for a cardigan in the event it became too chilly outside. 

“You look perfect,” he gushes. “Like a daydream!”

You look different. But that isn’t what brought on the shock. More than anything, you’re completely taken aback by how fucking normal you look. 

Sure, coming over to Bill and Frank’s always gave you a temporary sense of normalcy. They always allowed you to take a hot shower, gave you the opportunity  to properly wash your hair and change out of your dirty shirt into a new clean one. They always provided you with a warm meal presented on porcelain dishware that wasn’t stained or chipped like the shit you had back home in your crumbling apartment in Boston. You’d had several tastes of normal thanks to those two, but this drastic change to your appearance was overwhelming. Too overwhelming.

You’d never thought that you could look like this, not in this fucking lifetime. 

Frank immediately picks up on your emotions, senses how you’re feeling. Standing behind you, he places his two hands on your shoulders and leans his head forward, pressing his cheek against yours as his kind eyes meet your tearful gaze in the mirror. “You look absolutely beautiful,” he whispers, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I really hope you feel beautiful. You deserve it. You deserve so much more, but if I can at least give you this much, then my mission is accomplished.”

You open your mouth to speak, but words fall short. Afraid that you might burst into tears on the spot, you clamp your mouth shut and give him the tiniest little nod of your head accompanied by a quivering smile of gratitude. 

Frank smiles back. “Good. Now, come on, let’s go out front and have lunch.” His hands fall from your shoulders and he ushers you out into the hallway and towards the staircase. Looking over his shoulder, he gives you a wink. “I’m really eager to see what your man thinks of your new look.”

“What?” you sputter, almost tripping over your own two feet. “Who—you mean, Joel?”

Shit. You’d almost forgotten about Joel.

What the hell is he going to say when he sees you like this?

What’s he going to think?

Probably that you look utterly fucking ridiculous, that’s what.

“Who else would I be talking about? Bill?” Frank snorts. “Yes, I’m talking about Joel.”

You glare at his back. This isn’t the first time Frank has teased you about Joel Miller, and despite the countless times you’ve sworn to him that there was nothing going on between the two of you, he insists on believing otherwise, adamant that there has to be something more there. “Don’t start with this shit again. He is not my man, and you damn well know that.”

“He might as well be,” Frank shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly as he leads you down the staircase.

“Frank, I’m being serious,” you say. Normally, weren’t so uptight about it all, but today, you’re not finding his antics amusing in the slightest, not while you’re wearing goop on your face and sporting a fucking dress. “I’ve told you a million times that there is nothing going on between me and Joel. He’s my partner.” You pause briefly, realizing how that must have sounded, and add in emphasis, “He’s my work partner. We work together, Frank. We smuggle shit together. That’s it.”

Frank stops at the bottom of the staircase and turns to you, letting out a curious hum. “Hmm. And if I remember correctly, you two also live together, you sleep in the same bed together, you spend every waking moment from sunrise to fucking sunset together—I have never heard of two work partners being that close, sweetheart.”

Stubborn, you shake your head. “He’s like fifty!”

“The world ended and that’s your concern? An age gap?” he questions. “Really?”

“Frank,” you plead his name, groaning. “I swear it. We’re nothing to each other. Joel is—well, he’s Joel. He’s not exactly the type of man who does that. You know, feelings and shit.”

He throws his head back slightly, letting out a loud laugh that echoes through the foyer of his home. “Oh, trust me. I know that much. Between you and me, I have to say that he reminds me a whole lot of Bill,” he muses. He notices the horrified expression that crosses your face and laughs again, holding up his hands in defense. “Wait a minute, just hear me out. They’re polar opposites in some ways, but in most ways, they’re almost the same fucking person. Joel is just like Bill. Cranky. Grumpy. He hates everyone and everything. Kind of man who’ll stab someone if they so much as look at him the wrong way. Would you say that’s pretty accurate?”

“Yeah, sounds like Joel Miller,” you have to admit. As much as you did not want to think of Joel being the same person as Bill, Frank had a pretty good point.

“But Joel also reminds me of Bill because he’s the kind of man who means well when it comes to the people that he cares about. The kind of man who will do whatever it takes to protect what is his,” he further explains. He pauses and then asks, “Let me ask you something. You trust him, right?”

You don’t even miss a beat, answering, “Of course. With my life.”

He ticks his  index finger at you. “Aha! Exactly!” he exclaims. “You know that Joel would never let anyone lay so much as a finger on you. He’d never let anything bad happen to you. And why is that?”

You stare at him blankly, unsure of how to respond. “Is this a trick question?”

Huffing, Frank rolls his eyes and lets out a disappointed sigh, as if you’d missed the obvious. “It’s because you mean something to him, sweetheart. Whether you choose to let yourself believe it or not, you mean something to Joel Miller.”

For a moment, it feels like all the wind’s been knocked out of you. 

Could Frank actually be right? 

Do you actually mean something to Joel?

No, that was impossible. Joel Miller doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything—all he cares about is surviving long enough to find Tommy again one day, and even then, he never speaks of his younger brother too kindly. He’s been hardened by this world, closed himself off, put up a barrier around himself that nothing can permeate. Not even you.

“Under that tough, rugged exterior, there’s a soft spot. It’s there, for you and only for you.” Frank’s eyes glimmer, speaking a truth he’s been wanting to tell you for the better part of the last several months. “You might need to do some digging to find it, but it’s there.”

“I just don’t understand why you would think that,” you confess, shaking your head. “Joel has never said anything to me to indicate that I mean something to him. More often than not, I find myself wondering if even considering us to be friends is too generous.” You cross your arms over your chest, growing uncomfortable under his knowing stare. “Yes, Joel looks out for me, but that’s only because we work together so well. I know my way around. He needs me, especially if he plans on getting to Tommy.”

Frank bites his bottom lip, stifling another laugh.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Oh, sweetheart. You don’t even realize it, do you?”

Your eyebrows knit together, confused. “What? Realize what?”

“You are his weakness.”

He’d said it so simply, and yet there goes the rest of your air leaving your lungs, an invisible first driving itself right into your gut. 

“Of course Joel isn’t going to tell you how he feels about you. He’s afraid,” Frank remarks, sounding so sure as if he had been told that by Joel Miller himself.

“You’re wrong. Joel isn’t afraid of anything,” you counter in the steadiest voice you can muster. “You’re wrong, Frank.”

“He’s afraid because he knows how dangerous it is, having a weakness in the form of a person he cares about more than anything can be in a world like this.” Any trace of teasing or playfulness had disappeared from Frank’s expression. He speaks gently, but with purpose, with such seriousness that it makes your heart sink further and further down into the pits of your stomach.

When you speak again, your voice is strained, thick with emotions you’re trying so desperately to shove down. “Frank, you really need to put down the fucking romance novels.” Before he can say another word to you about it, you place a hand lightly on your stomach. “I’m really hungry. Can we go eat now? Please?”

Thankfully, he gets the hint to drop the subject.

“Of course. Come on” Frank takes your hand. He opens the front door and leads you outside and onto the freshly landscaped front lawn. He had been right, the flowers were in full bloom—the small, round table he’d set was positioned in a perfect spot so that no matter where anyone sat, they would have a view of the colorful roses and azaleas he and Bill had planted around the perimeter of the yard.

As soon as he sees you two approaching, Bill throws up his hands in a dramatic fashion. “It’s about goddamn time!” He grouches loudly. “Jesus Christ, Frank. I’m fucking starving!”

“Sorry, got caught up inside.” Frank tosses his partner a sweet smile as he releases your hand. “But look, I found myself something pretty!”

Heat floods your cheeks. You should have known better than to think he wasn’t going to make a fuss about your new appearance. “Frank, please. Don’t.”

“Oh come now, you know I have to show you off!”

Joel, whose back had been turned towards you, furrows his eyebrows and he glances over his shoulder, looking to see what Frank was referring to. His dark brown eyes widen just ever so slightly, the grip around his glass of red wine tightening in complete surprise at the sight of you. Frank had failed, quite miserably, to convince him to dress up for the occasion, but at the very least, he’d talked him into wearing one of the nicer shirts he'd found at the boutique, a neatly pressed, sage green button up with long sleeves that, much to Frank’s chagrin, Joel had rolled up to his elbows. His graying, dark brown curls  might have even had a comb run through them, but it;s  difficult to tell if the way his thick locks were effortlessly disheveled was natural or the result of his efforts to tame them.

“What do you think, Joel?” Frank beams proudly, as if presenting the man with one of his painted art pieces.

Joel doesn’t respond. His eyes remain glued on you, following as you walk around the table and take your usual place beside him.

“Way to put me on the spot, Frank,” you mutter, your face growing warmer and warmer with every second that ticks by. You silently urge yourself to get a grip as you reach for the crisp, white cloth napkin next to your plate and drape it over your lap. The smoked, wild rabbit Bill had cooked up for lunch  smells heavenly—Frank knows  it’s  your absolute favorite dish, and so he had made sure Bill put it on today’s menu, bless his heart. 

Joel still hasn’t uttered a single word. Part of you hopes he wouldn’t.

“Joel?” Frank prompts as he picks up his own cloth napkin. “Doesn’t she look pretty?”

You glare daggers at him from across the table and hiss, “Frank!”

Finally, Joel sets down his glass of wine and turns slowly, angling his body towards yours. When he speaks, his voice is low, but clear as day as he looks at you, “Yeah. She looks very pretty.”

His eyes flicker up to meet yours, causing your heart to skip a beat inside of your chest and a strange warmth to bloom in your belly. 

Had he actually meant that?

“You look real nice,” he adds, giving you a subtle nod of his head. He lets his sights linger on you for another moment before tearing his gaze away. He then turns back to the table, picking up his glass of wine once again, chugging what’s left of it before reaching for the bottle to pour himself another. 

Bill clears his throat roughly. “Well, if everyone’s done playing dress up, I’d really like to fucking eat now.”

Meals with Bill and Frank were always pleasant. 

Well, meals with Frank were always pleasant.

 Although Bill had gotten used to having you and Joel over as guests and didn’t see either of you as a threat anymore, he still preferred to keep you both at arm’s length, a choice you two respected. He hardly ever said much and often chose to let his partner do all the talking unless the conversation had anything to do with trading supplies. Only then would he step in. 

As you’d tucked into your meal of wild rabbit and garden vegetables, you could feel Joel throwing subtle glances your way every so often. It was half expected that he would, seeing as he’d never seen you like this before. He was so used to seeing you in tattered, dirty old clothes with dirt and grime caked onto your skin and in your hair. 

Surely, he must have felt like he was sitting next to a complete stranger, not his smuggling partner.

About an hour later, once everyone has finished eating, you offer to help Frank clear and clean up the table and wash the dishes. He settles for letting you help him bring everything inside, but shoos you away before you can even think about lifting another finger. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he says, waving you away from the kitchen sink with his hands. “You and Joel are taking off in just a couple hours, so go on and get some rest,” he suggests. “Oh, by the way, we found some new books to add to the collection. Might find something you like. Go ahead and check them out.”

“But I forgot my library card at home,” you joke lamely, although it earns you a sincere laugh from your friend. You pad out of the kitchen and into the living room, straight over towards a grand oak bookshelf that is packed tightly to the brim with dozens and dozens of books of various genres. You hadn’t been all that much of a reader before, but thanks to Frank, who always sent you home with at least two or three works in your pack, reading had become one of your favorite hobbies over the last few months, a sweet little escape that took you out of your shoddy apartment in the zone and into another world. You start searching the titles for the new finds he’d mentioned. Spotting one of them, you pluck it from the shelf, a paperback titled, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Opening it up, you begin thumbing through the pages, quickly realizing that it’s play—you’ve never read a play before. Still not convinced if it’s one you would like to take home with you, you flip back to the first page and start reading with a curious little hum. 

You had been so preoccupied with it that you hadn’t noticed Joel standing behind you, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest until he clears his throat, and asks, “Find somethin’ good?”

Startled, you whirl around, nearly dropping the book in your hands. “Jesus Christ, Joel,” you breathe out, clutching it tightly against your chest as your heart rate slows. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Not my fuckin’ fault you were too busy with your nose buried in a book,” he states, trying his hardest to fight the small smirk threatening to cross his lips. He uncrosses his arms and pushes himself away from the doorframe.

A chuckle escapes you, almost nervously, as he slowly starts walking over towards you, his brown boots heavy on the hardwood floor. He takes the book from your hands, humming as he reads the cover. “Shakespeare, huh?”

“You know Shakespeare?” you toss him a teeny, lopsided smile as you tease, “He from your time?”

Joel lightly smacks your arm with the worn paperback. “Yeah, I know Shakespeare and he was about four hundred fuckin’ years before my time, thank you very much.” He flips it over, eyes skimming the text on the back. “Had the world not gone to shit, you would’ve grown up and spent your entire middle school career being forced by English teachers to read all his shit and write essays tryin’ to interpret it all.” He hands it back over to you. “Here.”

“Sounds like a real fucking dream,” you deadpan. You glance down, running your index finger down the spine of the book. You’re trying, almost painfully, to ignore how Joel’s eyes glaze over you from head to toe. 

“Y’know, it’s kinda nice,” he remarks quietly, breaking the brief moment of silence that had fallen over the two of you. “Seein’ you like this.”

You keep your eyes fixed on the book and scoff. “What? In a dress?”

“When we’re here, you let your guard down. Ain’t always lookin’ over your shoulder. You smile a hell of a lot more.” He pauses, then adds, “You look happy here. Sure, this dress looks nice on you. Your smile looks even fuckin’ better, though.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. More than his words, it’s the genuine tone in which he had said them—you’d never even realized Joel noticed things like that. Whether you were happy or not, how often you smiled. Or didn’t smile.

You force a small chuckle. “It’s the only sense of normalcy that we get. Of course I look happy when we’re here. Because I am happy when we’re here.” Still refusing to meet his gaze, you turn around and walk over to the couch towards your pack. Opening the top, you quickly shove the book inside. 

When you hear Joel’s footsteps coming up behind you, you stiffen slightly.

“Frank, he adores the hell outta you,” Joel says. He seems to hesitate, but then continues, “You ever think of askin’ him to stay here?”

“You kidding?” You snort in response. “Bill wouldn’t allow that. Never.”

Joel’s hands go to his hips, knowing you had a point. “But you know Frank can convince him of almost anythin’, don’t you? And besides, believe it or not, Bill actually likes you. He loves Frank more than anythin’ and you make Frank happy.”

You finally turn around to face and find yourself caught off guard by how close he’s standing to you. “Joel, what exactly are you getting at?” You raise an eyebrow before playfully asking, “Are you trying to get rid of me or something, Miller?”

Joel quickly shakes his head. “Of course not. All I’m sayin’ is that—” He stops and lowers his voice, just in case Bill or Frank happen to be wandering nearby. “I like seein’ this side of you. The happy side. The normal side.” He shrugs his shoulders, the lean muscles of his upper body flexing with the movement against the smooth fabric of his shirt. “Seein’ you all cleaned up, well fed and content—” He trails off once again. “Shouldn’t be a rare occurrence, y’know? You’d clearly be better off here with them and you know that with Frank’s help, we could probably talk Bill into letting you stay.”

The second you realize he’s being serious, your smile fades.

“What? But what about you?”

“Darlin’, Frank’s good, but he’s not a goddamn miracle worker. Even if he tried, that’s not somethin’ Bill would ever go for,” Joel admits, lifting a hand and raking his fingers through his hair. “And even if he did, we’d fuckin’ kill each other by the end of the first week.”

Bill and Joel being neighbors?

Talk about a different kind of apocalypse, you think to yourself.

“I know that much,” you reply with a tiny eye roll. “What I mean is, do you honestly think that I would leave my life in Boston?”

“That ain’t no fuckin’ life—”

You hold up a hand, stopping him. “I know it’s not. But it’s my life with you, Joel.”

The rough creases on his forehead suddenly soften. That was the first time you’d ever seen that happen.

The scowl on his face wasn’t permanent after all.

“Yes, this is nice. This patch of town, this house, the running water, the food, the clothes—this is a decent life. More than decent. In this world that we’re living in, this place is heaven. But without you, all of it would mean absolutely nothing to me. I wouldn’t be happy here, not without you.”

Joel tilts his head back, shaking it lightly. “Think about what you’re sayin’ here.”

“I know what I’m saying.” Before your brain and your body can even make the connection, you find yourself taking a step towards him, shrinking the gap between your bodies even further. You glance up at him, somehow finally finding the courage to have your eyes meet his. “I refuse to leave your side, Joel. That’s never going to happen. Not if I can fucking help it. Do you understand that?”

Joel exhales the breath he’d been holding, his warm breath tickling your face.

“I mean it, Joel. We’re in this shitty ass fucking world, together. No little slice of heaven could ever get me to leave you behind, no matter how good it is,” you declare, silently wondering to yourself where the hell you were even finding the balls to confess all of this to him. “Okay?”

“You’d be safer here than in the QZ, with all that shit’s that been goin’ down—”

“I’m the safest when I’m with you, Joel. I know I am.”

You lift your hand to his face. At first, there’s minor hesitation on your part, but you will yourself to place it on his cheek. Although your touch is gentle, Joel can’t help but wince. Not because he doesn’t want you to touch him, but because it had been so fucking  long since anyone had ever touched him like that. 

Since he’d let anyone touch him like that. 

He closes his eyes and after a second or two of resisting, he finally allows himself to relax his tense muscles and he sinks  into your touch.

Joel lets himself savor the feeling of your hand on his face. His bottom lip gives a subtle tremble when you softly start to graze your thumb down along his jawline. His beard, which you often playfully tease him about now that it’s beginning to gray just like his hair, feels rough and scratchy, and yet somehow still soft underneath your fingertips.

“Hey,” you murmur, and he forces his eyes to snap open. “We’re in this together. That’s how it’s been and that’s how it’s going to stay,” you assure him. “My place is with you, Joel.”

Joel manages to speak through tight lips, his voice strained. “You really fuckin’ gotta stop talkin’ to me like that, darlin’.”

You carefully move your hand away from his face, letting it drop back down to your side. “Why?”

“‘Cause. Shit like that is dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” you repeat, almost laughing. “Of all the things—”

Then, Frank’s words from earlier come to mind.

He’s afraid because he knows how dangerous it is, having a weakness in the form of a person he cares about more than anything can be in a world like this.

Joel’s dark eyes flicker to the strap of your dress, noticing it had started sliding off your shoulder. Before he can even think to stop himself, he reaches out and pulls it up back into place, his rough, calloused fingers brushing against your smooth skin. “You’re so soft,” he murmurs under his breath. All those fucking years of working with you, even sharing a bed together, and he had no idea of what it was like to touch you.

“Joel…” 

Your heart had all but climbed up into your throat.

“Everythin’ you just said a minute ago, ‘bout not wanting to stay here without me,” he starts to say, “I know that it’s fuckin’ selfish of me, but I’m real glad you said it. ‘Cause no way in hell do I want a life without you. I know it’s wrong but—”

Placing your hands delicately on his shoulders, you lift yourself up on your toes and cut him off mid-sentence by pressing your lips softly against his. The clean scent of the soap Frank had given him to shower with fills your senses and you yearn to have more of him, you nearly ache to get a real taste of him—but your courage only went so far. Thankfully, Joel knows to take over from here. One of his arms snakes  its way around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest while the other reaches up, the warm palm of his hand pressing against your cheek. His tongue swipes lightly across your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore your mouth just a little bit further.

You eagerly grant him access, half expecting his mouth to ravage yours.

Much to your surprise, Joel remains gentle.

The way that he kisses you, the way he holds your body against his, the way his large hand—the same hand that slits throats and breaks bones—delicately cradles the side of your face like you’re made of porcelain. 

“Joel,” you nearly whimper his name when he breaks away.

His face remains just inches from yours.

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning his forehead against yours, fighting to catch his breath. “We’ll need to get goin’ soon.”

“I know.” You nod, hoping you don’t sound as disappointed as you feel. You can sense that Joel, much like yourself, is  at war with himself over what had just happened. Not that either of you regretted it, at least you certainly don’t, but the realization that you two have just crossed a line you’ll never come back from was daunting.

Joel lifts his head, lightly pressing his lips against your forehead. He then forces himself to release you from his arms and steps back, dropping them back down at his sides. “I need to, uh, I need to go get some things from Bill. Y’know, get my pack ready before we take off.”

You nod again. “I’ll start changing and get another pack of supplies ready as well.” You pause, clearing your throat awkwardly. “Joel, about what just happened—”

He silently shakes his head before leaning down, capturing your mouth with his.

This kiss is short and quick, and when he pulls away, he says nothing. He turns on the heel of his boot and disappears, heading out to meet Bill in the garage. 

Your hand flies to your mouth, your fingers lightly touching your lips.

“Well, well, well.”

Looking over your shoulder, your throat goes dry when you see Frank standing there, hands on his hips and a knowing, smug expression on his face. 

“How long have you been standing back there?”

“Long enough.” Even from a distance, you catch the amused twinkle in his eye. “What did I tell you?”

You turn away from him, biting your lower lip.

So maybe he’d been right after all.

Maybe you were Joel’s weakness. 

But he was yours too.

[ohproserpine]

vi. deer dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, heavy warning for violence and blood, overdose, murder, death, hunting, graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation, allusion to death, grey morality, references to alcoholism, twisted view of love, gorey descriptions of love, murder, heated scene (making out)

˚୨୧₊♱

You never really liked cars.

The first time you had ridden in one was in the 1930s.

It was after one of your shifts, the wet streets illuminated only by the flickering glow of the rusting lampposts. There you stood, still in your glad rags and wrapped in a coat, the misty drizzle kissing your face. Alastor arrived a few minutes later with a honk of his horn, surprising you with a ride home in his latest purchase—a stunning red car with a sleek roof that gleamed in the dim light, its long, sweeping fenders and rounded body cutting a striking figure against the darkness of the night.

As you got into the car, excitement tingled in your veins, eager to experience the wonders of modern transportation. However, the thrill quickly turned to fear as the speeds increased, and your husband, the ass he was, seemed to enjoy nothing more than pushing the accelerator and hearing your horrified screams. Each time the car accelerated, you found yourself clinging onto him for dear life, the rush of wind slamming against your flushed face, your heart racing in your chest.

Since then, you swore never to get into a car again, preferring the safety of solid ground beneath your feet, the memory of that terrifying ride haunting your thoughts whenever you heard the roar of an engine.

Now, standing outside and shivering in the cold, you watched as a long royal blue limo pulled up before you. The sleek vehicle gleamed under the streetlights, its polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding city. The doors, adorned with gold accents, were automated and opened up for you, revealing a plush interior illuminated by soft, warm lighting. Small steps extended gracefully from below, inviting you to step inside.

Velvette wasted no time and went in first, her stiletto heels clicking against the polished floor as she settled into one of the luxurious seats. Already engrossed in a phone call, her voice echoed faintly through the open doorway, mingling with the low hum of the engine.

Meanwhile, Vox stood by your side, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the pavement. You knew he was making sure you wouldn't attempt to escape, although the thought barely crossed your mind.

After all, where could you possibly run to now? Any endeavor in that direction would likely prove futile and possibly even fatal. The evidence of your soul being sold was clear, evident in the now black color of your sclera.

"Well," Vox drawled, his voice carrying a subtle edge of impatience as he gestured towards the open limousine door. "Aren't you going to go in?"

You hesitated, biting your lip as you reluctantly took a step back. Vox eyed your actions warily.

"Is it safe?" you found yourself blurting out, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

"Is it safe?" Vox repeated with a scoff, a hint of annoyance flickering in his eyes. "Of course it's safe! I made it!"

He pointed to the VoxTek logo on the car—as though he were a seasoned salesman promoting a product. The metal emblem gleamed under the faint streetlights. Yet, rather than assuring you, the sight of the branding only heightened your unease.

Vox noticed the lack of change in your expression and sighed, deciding to take a different approach. With a faint glimmer of empathy, he motioned toward a nearby building which had a large billboard featuring his face and image.

"See there?" he gestured, his tone adopting a persuasive edge. "See what that billboard says? VoxTek is a symbol of power and security. You're in the safest hands possible. This limousine is equipped with state-of-the-art safety features."

His attempt to reassure you only rang hollow in your ears, and despite his words, a sense of unease continued to gnaw at you. Yet, Vox still persisted, his voice softening as he stepped closer to you. You had to crane your head up to look at him while he stared down at you, his figure casting a shadow over your form.

"I assure you," he pressed, his tone gentler now. "You have nothing to fear."

With no other choice but to comply, you reluctantly stepped forward, your movements stiff and hesitant. Vox held your hand as he guided you towards the waiting limousine. As you entered the luxurious interior, the door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing your fate as the vehicle pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of color as the limousine sped through the streets. With each passing moment, the distance between you and Mimzy's torn-down lounge grew.

Lost in your thoughts, you barely noticed when the limousine finally came to a stop, the sudden silence jolting you back to reality. As the door opened with a soft hiss, you gazed out to behold the imposing V Tower looming before you.

Its grandeur was undeniable, with its towering floors and striking red windows gleaming in the night. At the very top, a massive antenna sat, reaching towards the sky like a beacon, while a studio sign was plastered along the building's front, featuring red lips nestled within the arches of the middle V, an iconic symbol of the entertainment empire housed within.

Vox and Velvette emerged from the limousine, their presence causing a few loiterers on the street to scurry away in fear.

Oh, how you wished you could do the same.

Inside the car, you hesitated, nerves coiling in your stomach as you fidgeted with your hands. Then, unexpectedly, Vox turned to you, his expression unreadable as he extended his hand.

Surprised, you paused for a moment before accepting his hand, allowing him to guide you down the steps. The chilly night air enveloped you as your feet touched the pavement, the distant sound of the limo's engine fading away as it drove off.

Seconds passed, and Vox still maintained his grip on your hand, his hold firm. Confusion flickered in your mind as you turned to him, noticing the irritation in his gaze as he eyed your wedding ring.

"Is there a problem, mister?" you asked as you followed his gaze to your ring.

Vox's expression remained inscrutable for a moment before he finally responded, his tone cool and detached.

"I suggest you ditch that," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It's a liability now. Doesn't do any favors for your image, doll."

"But I'm awfully attached. It's…" you began, your voice trailing off as you struggled to find a good enough excuse.

You knew all too well the consequences of revealing your connection, especially in your current vulnerable state. The mere mention of Alastor's name could unravel everything, plunging you deeper into this mess. With two powerful overlords and a soul contract hanging over your head like a guillotine, caution was not just a choice but a necessity.

"It's a symbol of your past life," Vox interjected, his voice cutting through your hesitation.

"And we're leaving that behind now." He extended his hand, the glint of his metal claws catching the dim light, mirroring the uncertainty in your expression. "Hand it over."

With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly slipped the ring off your finger, a pang of loss gripping your heart as you handed it to the overlord. Vox accepted it with a dismissive nod before tucking it into his pocket, his attention already turning back to the looming entrance of the V Tower.

As you entered the building flanked by both Vox and Velvette, you were immediately struck by the brash, modern atmosphere that engulfed you. The walls were painted in bold hues of pink and red, illuminated by the glare of oversized LED screens that flashed with images and advertisements for upcoming events. The floor beneath your feet was polished to a sterile sheen, reflecting the harsh neon lights that bathed the space.

Velvette, with her usual air of haughty superiority, led the way to your room, her steps brisk and impatient. She barely spared you a glance as she gestured towards the metal door that stood before you, its surface cold and unwelcoming.

With a swish of her fingers, she conjured an obtrusively bright star decoration on the wall, reminiscent of celebrity door decorations found in Hollywood, with your name scrawled in cursive on its surface.

"Right, if there's anything you need, you just go down to the lobby and find someone named Shalom," Velvette barked, her tone sharp and impatient, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

"Say, is there a chance I could lay my mitts on a radio?" you asked, hoping to grasp onto some semblance of familiarity in this alien environment, your eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them.

But instead of a response, Vox began to buffer, his screen flashing with bright neon glitches, while Velvette's lips curled into a sneer, her expression one of thinly veiled contempt and amusement at your request.

"Guess I'll take that as a no then?" you smiled tensely, your attempt falling flat.

To your surprise, Vox shook his head, and his screen flashed back to his face, the glitches disappearing as quickly as they had come.

The TV demon reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek smartphone. Without a word, he plopped it into your hand, and you turned it over, confusion evident on your face.

"A phone?" you said, flabbergasted, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. You blinked in astonishment, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you. You were more surprised by the fact that it came from his pocket. Does he keep random smartphones on him at all times?

"Yes, a phone," Vox confirmed with a smirk, a hint of pride dancing in his eyes. "Consider it a courtesy from VoxTek. No need for a radio when we have such sleek products. This is the future! You don't need old shit from the past. Those radios barely pick up anything worth listening to, just crappy, barely audible broadcasts."

"Oh," you said, the air deflating from your lungs as a pang of disappointment settled in your chest. The phone was a thoughtful gesture, but it wasn't going to fix your longing to speak to Alastor. "Well. I suppose I should thank you."

"Don't mention it," Vox replied casually, his demeanor shifting back to its usual aloofness, his tone devoid of any genuine warmth or concern.

With a resigned sigh, you turned and stepped into your new room. You looked around the décor curiously, taking in the sleek modern furniture and it's peculiar design.

Velvette followed closely behind you, her eyes, framed with smoky eyeshadow, narrowing as she regarded you with disgust. The glint of her perfectly manicured nails caught the harsh overhead lights as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Really? A hooverette dress?" Velvette sneered, each syllable dripping with disdain. "You're like a relic from the '40s. Outdated."

You felt a surge of anger at the comment. Sure, you died near the 1940s, but that didn't mean you were outdated. Before you could even muster a response, Velvette raised a hand, and with a flick of her fingers, she effortlessly transformed the fabric of your dress. It rippled and shifted, morphing before your eyes into a pink silk pajama robe, trimmed with a cream-colored fur. She stepped back, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips as she admired her handiwork.

"Much better," she declared with a clap. "Listen, you're representing VoxTek now. Even when sleeping, we can't have you looking like a washed-up has-been, can we?"

Swallowing your pride, you forced a tight-lipped nod, suppressing the urge to lash out in defiance.

"Yes, ma'am," you managed to grit out, your voice strained. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she retorted, her tone sharp and dismissive. "I've got a lot of work to do, and you've got a long way to go before I can get you stage ready."

With that, Velvette stormed out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor with each brisk step. As she disappeared from view, Vox leaned in, his shadow casting a long silhouette against the wall. He reached for the doorknob, his fingers gliding over the cool metal.

"Goodnight," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning. With a gentle pull, he closed the door with a thud, sealing you in with your thoughts and fears. The latch clicked shut, and you were left alone, enveloped in the eerie silence of the unfamiliar space.

With a heavy sigh, you turned to survey your room even closer.

Your eyes swept over the tall walls adorned with abstract artwork, bursts of vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the subdued hues of the furniture. The wide windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, with skyscrapers twinkling in the distance like distant constellations.

Approaching the plush king-sized bed, you sank into its cloud-like mattress, feeling its comforting embrace envelop you. It was definitely an improvement from Mimzy's lounge. And yet, despite the luxurious trappings, a sense of confinement lingered. After all, a gilded cage remains a cage.

As you assessed your situation, it became clear that you were going to be the star attraction in Velvette's upcoming fashion extravaganza. Her shows were always a hit, and this year's circus-themed spectacle had her buzzing with excitement. The lead model was a singer-actress you'd heard of; you'd seen her the day Mimzy dragged her into the lounge. Pity the poor girl died.

Given the circus motif, it was apparent why Velvette had chosen you. Your background as a singer, coupled with your doll-like appearance, made you the perfect fit for the role.

The best course of action now was to play it safe. Going along with her plan was sure to draw attention, from the lowest imps to Lucifer Morningstar himself. Your face was bound to be plastered on every screen in the infernal realm, broadcasted to demons and damned souls alike. Even with his hatred for the picture shows, Alastor would have to be both blind and deaf to miss this.

He would come for you, you knew it deep in your bones, and yet a pessimistic voice in the back of your head whispered doubts.

Did you even deserve to be taken back after all of this?

With these thoughts weighing heavily on your mind like an anchor dragging you into the depths, you closed your eyes, seeking solace in the darkness behind your lids. But sleep remained elusive, evading your grasp.

As the night wore on, exhaustion crept over you like a heavy fog, its tendrils enveloping you in a suffocating embrace. Despite the turmoil raging within, your body succumbed to weariness, and gradually, you slipped into your dreams.

˚୨୧₊♱

Both you and Alastor embarked on a slow journey through the darkened streets of Louisiana, the car's headlights cutting through the enveloping gloom like beacons. Carefully navigating the labyrinthine city, you avoided the occasional patrol car with its blinding flashlights, skirting through shadowed alleys and side streets to evade detection.

Finally reaching the outskirts of town, where the forest awaited, Alastor brought the car to a halt, the engine's low hum fading into silence. Turning to you, he noticed the fear etched on your face, your wide eyes reflecting the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

With a tender touch, Alastor took your face in his hands, calling for you. "Cher?"

You turned to him, your lips parting slightly as tears welled in your eyes. Alastor's touch was feather-light as his fingertips traced a delicate path along the curve of your cheek. With a gentle brush of his thumb, he coaxed your eyelids closed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving a trail in their wake. As you blinked your eyes open again, you were met with the tender press of his lips against yours.

"We did what we had to do," Alastor murmured against your lips, his voice a low rasp that sent goosebumps dancing across your skin.

With his eyes closed, he leaned in closer, his kiss growing more urgent, almost desperate. You responded in kind, the roughness of the kiss igniting a fire within you.

Feeling his fingers threading through the back of your hair, you whimpered and melted into his embrace, your hands clutching onto his broad shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Alastor groaned in response as he lifted you effortlessly from the passenger seat and settled you onto his lap. Your chest pressed flat against his, the rhythm of your heartbeat syncing with his own.

As the sky grew darker, the moon mingling with the fading hues of sunset, the wind whispered through the open windows of the car, carrying with it the promise of a new beginning.

Alastor eventually pulled away, his gaze lingering on your tousled hair and puffy lips as he leaned back in his seat, taking in every detail of your appearance. Seeing you in such a ruined state stirred something within him.

"Are you ready?" he asked. You nodded meekly in response, your heart racing.

Truth be told, you didn't think you could ever truly be ready for what you were about to do.

Your husband hummed in acknowledgment, allowing you to slip off his lap as he straightened his brown coat, the fabric rustling softly with each movement.

Guiding you out of the car, he then reached into the backseat, retrieving his hunting gun. The metallic click of the firearm being loaded echoed in the quiet night. And you damn near fainted when he handed it to you, the weight of it feeling heavier than you could bear. The metal surface was icy against your palm, and you fought the urge to recoil, but Alastor pressed it firmly into your hand, his touch reassuring yet commanding.

"You'll need this," Alastor spoke lowly, bending down to your height, his glasses slipping further down the bridge of his nose. "Use it for safety. There might be wild animals out."

You hesitated, the weight of the weapon heavy in your hand, but the urgency in his tone spurred you to nod in agreement.

"Do you remember when I taught you how to hunt?" he questioned, slipping on a pair of dark leather gloves he had pulled out of his pocket. His voice was low and smooth, laced with a hint of nostalgia. "You remember how to shoot, no?"

You nodded, eyes still glued to the gun, unable to tear your gaze away.

"Words, cher. Use your words."

"Yes, love," you whispered, finding your voice. Alastor smiled, the rough texture of his glove grazing gently against your cheek as he pressed his hand to your face one last time before stepping away.

Your husband made his way to the trunk of the car, the soft glow of the taillights casting long shadows across the forest floor. With strong pull, he opened it, revealing its contents. Your breath caught in your throat as he retrieved a shovel and a black body bag, the sight sending a sickening feeling through your stomach.

Alastor slung the bag over his shoulder and began walking, his steps confident, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The weight of the bag seemed inconsequential to him, swinging lightly with each stride. There was an odd, almost unsettling look in his eyes as he whistled a tune, the sound echoing eerily through the silent woods. A glint of something primal and untamed flickered within their depths.

Nonetheless, you followed him, drawn to his presence like a moth to a flame.

Trudging deeper, the shadows seemed to grow darker, more menacing. The silence pressed in on you from all sides, broken only by Alastor's whistling and the sound of your footsteps crunching on the forest floor. Each step felt like a descent into madness, the unknown lurking just beyond the reach of your flashlight's beam.

Suddenly, Alastor halted in a secluded corner, where the trees were decaying, their long branches resembling gnarled fingers reaching out for you in the darkness. He turned to you, the dim light of your flashlight reflecting off his glasses, giving his brown eyes an otherworldly glint.

In that moment, illuminated by the pale beam, he looked almost demonic, his features twisted by the play of light and shadow.

"I'll be back shortly, cher," he hummed with a smile, adjusting the bag over his shoulder. You couldn't help but notice a darkened spot on his brown coat, the collar of his white button-up now stained with crimson. "Stay here."

With that, he disappeared into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the forest, leaving you alone amidst the looming trees.

Time stretched on endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity as you stood alone. Faintly, you could hear the distant sound of Alastor's shovel breaking through the earth's surface, its metallic scrape and the muffled thud as it struck the soil sending another wave of nausea curling in your gut, each noise a grim reminder of the task at hand.

All you wanted was to escape, to return to the safety of your quaint house in the city.

More than anything, you longed to open a bottle of whiskey, to drown your fears and sorrows in its comforting embrace. Maybe have a second, or a third, and just forget.

Forget about all of this. Forget it all ever happened. But deep down, you knew that no amount of alcohol could erase the memories of tonight, each image now etched into your mind like scars on your soul.

All of a sudden, a rustling sound behind you sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins, followed by the distant but unmistakable bark of dogs. The sound seemed to come from all directions, surrounding you in a menacing chorus.

With a sharp gasp, you spun round and round in a whirl, your vision tunneling with fear as you scanned the darkness, eyes wide and frantic. Every rustle of the leaves, every snap of a twig, seemed to magnify the sense of dread that gripped you. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the cool night air burning in your lungs as you struggled to keep your composure.

And then, without warning, something lunged from the darkness, a blur of movement that sent your heart racing even faster. Instinct took over, and without thinking, you raised the gun and fired, the deafening sound reverberating through the silent forest.

You gasped for air, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you found yourself sitting on the damp, muddy ground. The recoil of the gun had sent you sprawling backward, leaving you disoriented and breathless.

With trembling hands, you clutched the gun closer to your chest, the cold metal providing a shaky sense of security in the darkness. Despite the fear coursing through your veins, a surge of determination propelled you forward, your muscles tensed and ready for whatever danger lay ahead. Scrambling to your feet, you pushed yourself onward.

Each step was punctuated by the crunch of underbrush beneath your boots, the sound amplifying in the stillness of the forest. Amidst the shadows and foliage, you caught a blur of brown, relief flooding through you like a wave crashing against the shore.

Oh, heavens, it was just a deer.

As you trudged towards the poor animal, your foot caught on a branch, and you stumbled, the unforgiving forest floor meeting your body with a painful thud. In the fall, your gun slipped from your grasp, skidding off into the shadows.

Wincing, you pushed yourself up to your knees, the earthy scent of decay mingling with the metallic tang of blood. You looked toward the fallen creature, its form now visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the trees. But as you crawled over, dread crept into your heart.

There, lying face down on the dirt, was Alastor, his once-immaculate brown coat now dirtied, blending seamlessly with mud. His glasses lay shattered and discarded in front of him, glinting faintly in the dim moonlight that danced across the forest floor. A pool of crimson blood seeped from his head, staining the earth beneath him.

Your eyes widened with renewed horror as the truth dawned upon you, and you fell onto your back, scrambling away from the corpse of your husband, the damp earth sticking to your palms as you clawed at the ground in your panic.

The bark of the dogs were louder now, closer. Ignoring the dizzy vertigo in your head, you pushed yourself to your feet, your senses on high alert.

You choked out a broken apology but found that you could not hear it, that you could not make any sound at all.

You breathed, it was all you could do, all you could manage at the moment, and with the terrible weight on your chest, even that was made difficult.

What have you done?

˚୨୧₊♱

"Salutations! It's Tom back on the airwaves! Hold onto your hats because we've got some news that'll knock your socks off! Alastor Caron, the big shot radio host and husband of underground singer Dolly, also known as Y/N Caron, has been found pushing up daisies out in the sticks of Louisiana!

That's right, folks, he's dead!

Word on the street is, ol' Alastor met our maker with a bullet to the head in what can only be described as a real tragic whodunit. Sources close to the case are whispering in the wind, suggesting that Dolly herself might be mixed up in this spicy little affair. The coppers found her fingerprints on the gun! Can you believe it?! Stay tuned as we peel back the curtain and spill the tea on this sto—"

You shut the radio off with a frustrated slam of your fist, the sound echoing through the desolate living room.

Eviction papers and newspapers, crumpled and worn from countless readings, are strewn haphazardly across the table.

"Gone Girl," "Husband-killer," "Missing Marionette," "A Doll's Vanishing Act," "Manhunt underway for Suspected Murderer," "Louisiana Radio Host dead; Wife blamed."

The headlines scream, each word a painful reminder of the nightmare engulfing your life.

Empty bottles litter around you, their contents spilled and forgotten, the sharp scent of alcohol mingling with the drowning feeling of grief that permeates the room. Sirens wail in the distance while red and blue lights dance along the walls, cast by the dim light filtering through tightly shut curtains.

As you reach for another bottle, the drinks blur into one another, their labels indistinguishable in the dark room. The burning sensation as the liquid courses down your throat offers temporary relief from the turmoil raging inside your mind, numbing the pain and grief threatening to consume you. Each sip takes you further into a haze.

The room spins around you, items warping and dancing in a twisted mockery of your predicament. There are whispers now, soft and insidious, slithering into your ears like serpents. You try to push away the accusing voices echoing in your mind, drowning them out with your bottle's numbing embrace. But with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations grows heavier, dragging you deeper into despair.

Nausea churns in the pit of your stomach, and you finally stop moving, the dizziness overwhelming you. A deathly coldness settles over you, seeping into your bones like icy tendrils, causing you to shiver involuntarily. Your fingers lose their grip on the bottle, and it crashes to the ground with a shattering sound that echoes in the stillness of the room, shards of glass scattering across the floor like stars falling from the sky. You follow suit, collapsing onto the floor, limbs heavy and muscles twitching.

You stare vacantly ahead, unable to move, your eyes glazed over with a hollow emptiness as a sense of dread washes over you, suffusing the air with an oppressive weight. Each breath feels like a battle, your chest tightening with every inhalation, as if your lungs were filled with water.

Your breaths grow more labored, each one shallower than the last, until they eventually cease altogether, leaving you gasping for air that refuses to come.

The world around you fades into darkness, the edges of your vision blurring as consciousness slips away, leaving you engulfed in a silence broken only by the faint echo of your last heartbeat.

˚୨୧₊♱

There was screaming.

Footsteps thudded along a path nearby, accompanied by the fluttering of wings as creatures soared overhead.

You awaken with a startle, disoriented and groggy.

Slowly sitting up, you find yourself surrounded by a crimson landscape, a pentagram shimmering ominously in the air above you. As you move, your hand sinks into something cold and wet, a sickening squelch accompanying the sensation.

Horror grips you as you realize your hand is touching a corpse, its monstrous form adorned with twisted horns, jagged tails, and rows of sharp teeth. The pair of lifeless eyes shift and stare into you, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Frozen with terror and panic, you scramble away from the grotesque sight, the ground slick with crimson ichor, each step leaving bloody handprints and footprints in your wake.

The evening light of this place reveals a grim environment surrounding you – a lumpy, uneven field of corpses and bones, a mass grave unlike any you've ever seen. But these corpses are not human; they are demonic, twisted and contorted in death.

Before you can even make sense of this grotesque scene, a spear slices through the air, its sharp tip gleaming in the dim light. With a thud, it embeds itself into the ground beside you. A sharp, stinging sensation follows as your cheeks burn, crimson liquid trailing down your skin.

Gasping for breath, you look up and catch sight of a figure soaring overhead, its massive wings spread wide against the crimson sky. Each beat sends a gust of wind rushing past you, whipping your hair around your face. The figure's single eye fixates on you, its gaze piercing through the darkness, the other obscured by a large 'X' mark.

Adrenaline surges through your veins as you run away, the cold sweat of fear prickling your skin.

Your surroundings blur into a chaotic whirlwind as you race through the labyrinthine alleys of Hell. With every stride, your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. Each footfall echoes in the narrow passageways, the walls closing in around you like a vice, but the chase of the angel behind you drives you forward, your muscles burning with exertion as you push yourself to your limits.

Suddenly, you're yanked to a stop, your body colliding with a stone floor as you're pulled into a hidden doorway. Pain shoots through your arm, and you wince, clutching it tightly against your chest. It throbs with a dull ache, bruised from the fall.

As you cautiously lift your gaze, you find yourself in a familiar setting—a speakeasy, though more rugged and rundown than you were used to. The air is thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. Mismatched furniture and a barely held-together bar give the place a sense of makeshift charm.

"Well, look who it is."

The voice freezes you in place, and your eyes nervously move upward to see a familiar blonde woman before you, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, her eyes dark and intense.

"Mimzy?" you whisper, disbelief coloring your voice.

"It's me!" she cheers, swinging her legs and jazzing her arms up in the air. With a jump, she plops onto the ground, circling your hunched-over form with a mischievous grin. "How you doin', Dolly?"

"How?" your mind scrambles. "You-You…"

"I know! You thought I was dead?" she snickers before knocking you upside the head playfully. "Welcome to the afterlife, you ditz!"

"What?" you rasp, eyes frantically darting from her to your surroundings. "What are you talking about? Why do you look like that?!"

"Look what? Adorable~?" Mimzy hums and waltzes over to a gramophone, inserting a disk and starting a scratching melody that fills the speakeasy.

Hello, Dolly! Well, hello, Dolly! It's so nice to have you back where you belong~

"Come on, Dolly," Mimzy says, her voice low and melodic as she sways to the music. The bedazzled fringes of her dress sparkle in the dim light as she twirls, her heels dragging along the floorboards. "You haven't been living under a rock, have you? Or did'ja just arrive?"

You're lookin' swell, Dolly I can tell, Dolly You're still glowin', you're still crowin' You're still goin' strong

"I don't understand," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to comprehend what's happening. Everything feels like a dream—a nightmare, more accurately. "Where am I? What's going on?"

"We're both dead," Mimzy chuckles, tapping her heels along to the beat.

We feel the room swayin' While the band's playin' One of your old favourite songs from way back when

"What do you mean?" you manage to croak out, the words barely audible over the music.

Mimzy pauses mid-twirl. "Oh, Dolly," she sighs, shaking her head. "Hell, darling. We're in Hell."

Your blood runs cold at her words, the reality of your situation sinking in like a heavy weight on your chest. The memories of that fateful night flood your mind, filling you with a sense of guilt and despair.

Before you can voice your thoughts, Mimzy grabs your hand and pulls you into a dance, the gramophone's melody swirling around you like a sinister lullaby.

"So, take her wrap, fellas," Mimzy sings along, her laughter echoing off the walls. Her eyes gleam with a mischievous light as she leads you through the steps of the choreography you once knew so well. She twirls you around and drops you into a dip. "Find her an empty lap, fellas!"

"Dolly'll never go away again~"

You feel a surge of frustration building within you, the absurdity of overwhelming your senses. With a shout of anger, you push Mimzy away, a scowl etched deep on your face. She stumbles back, nearly losing her balance in her heels, her smile fading into a look of annoyance.

"Will you cut it out!" you snap, your voice echoing in the empty speakeasy. "Tell me what's going on!"

"Killjoy." Mimzy rolls her eyes and lets out a scoff, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She moves over to the gramophone and turns it off, the melody abruptly silenced.

"I just told you what was going on, you doof!" Mimzy retorts, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The speakeasy falls into an uneasy silence, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint sound of distant screams echoing outside the building. You gesture toward the source of the noise with a look of shock.

"Alright, I know well enough why I'm here, but what is that?" you inquire, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"An extermination. Angels come here to rid of sinners and such," Mimzy shrugs, her expression nonchalant despite the gravity of her words.

"Well, what about Alastor?" you press, the worry evident in your voice.

Mimzy's expression darkens, a flicker of anger crossing her features before she quickly masks it with a smirk. "Oh, you mean your darling husband? He's probably causing chaos somewhere, as usual. He'll be fine."

"I don't think he even knows you're here," she adds on with a yawn. "He probably thinks you're up in the shiny gates of heaven with his momma or something."

"Al knows I'm already dead?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yup!" Mimzy chirps, her grin widening. "Your death came out in the news months ago. But only Lord knows why it took 'em so long to get you through purgatory."

The barrage of new information leaves you dizzy, your head spinning with the implications. "Wait—my death? The news?"

Mimzy moves over to the bar, kneeling down the worn floorboards as she digs through the bottom drawers.

"Didja know there's this little killin' business in Hell? I.M.P.—the Immediate Murder Professionals. And there's this cute little fella named Blitzo who does deliveries for me. I was his first costumer and poor guy needs the extra money so—"

"Mimzy, why are you telling me this?" you interject, confusion evident in your tone.

Mimzy's grin widens as she peeks at you from over the counter, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Well, sweetcheeks," she purrs, continuing to leaf through piles of paper, "if you paid attention to their name, they do murder. Murder in the human world, to be exact. And I hired them to go snuff you out!"

"But lo and behold, to my surprise," Mimzy continues, her tone laced with amusement, "you did their job for 'em! And this is what they brought back as proof."

With a flourish, Mimzy procures a newspaper from the depths of the cabident, her hands waving it around in excitement. She throws it to you, and you catch it, fumbling to see the headline. Your stomach churns as you take in the bold letters.

'LAST SWING: Speakeasy Star Suspected of Husband's Murder Dies in Alcohol Overdose.'

"Hi-larious!" Mimzy snorts as she presses a finger against the title, her expression gleeful. You hold the paper up, your hands trembling as you read through the article detailing your own death.

With a cackle, Mimzy jumps onto a nearby table, her movements lithe and energetic as she snatches the paper away from you.

"So, did'ja do it?" she taunts, leaning in close to your face with a devilish grin. "Didn't take you as the type. What was it? Poison? Housewife classic, I tell ya. Maybe a knife? Good ole push him down the stairs? Or was it a gun?"

You tense up at her last words, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. Mimzy smirks, her snicker ringing out like a sinister melody. Curls bounce around her face as she leans in closer, her lips practically ghosting against your cut.

"You shot him?"

"I—" you stutter, your breath catching in your throat as you run a hand through your frazzled hair, the disheveled strands tangling under your trembling fingers. "I didn't mean to! Heavens. I thought he was a deer!"

At that, Mimzy bursts out in loud laughter, tears streaming down her face as she clutches her stomach, doubling over with mirth. The sound echoes off the grimy walls of the speakeasy.

"Is that right?" she wheezes between fits of laughter, slapping her knee while still shaking with amusement. "No wonder he looks like a deer! Oh! The irony!"

"Deer?" you whisper out in confusion, your mind struggling to grasp the implications of her words amidst the chaos of her laughter. She laughs even harder at your response, kicking her feet in the air with unrestrained glee.

After a few minutes, she finally calms down. With a skip in her step and a glint in her eyes, she saunters over to you. Humming a tune, Mimzy twirls around you again, her movements fluid and graceful despite her earlier outburst.

"I know something you don't know~" she sings.

"What do you mean?" you frown, your voice trembling as you gaze at her, searching for any hint of what she's hiding.

"All in good time. I've told you a lot already, didn't I?" Mimzy replies cryptically, her tone snappy. "Let's see—I graciously saved you from that angel that was ready to spill your guts out, I've given you a wonderful welcome, helped you learn about your death, and, well, you were involved in my murder. I'd say the scales aren't balanced! You owe me. A lot."

Guilt churns in your gut as you nervously wring your hands. "Mimzy, no words can express how much guilt I feel about your—"

"Oh, cut the weeping dame bullshit. I don't care about that," Mimzy interrupts with a roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand. Her eyes gleam with a predatory intensity as she leans in closer.

"I'm feeling generous today," she purrs, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "So, I'll make you a deal."

You eye her warily, the guilt in your gut twisting into a knot of apprehension. Despite your unease, you nod, silently urging her to continue, bracing yourself for whatever devil's bargain she has in store.

"In exchange for absolving your involvement in my murder and providing information on your husband," she whispers, her voice dripping with malice, "you'll owe me a favor. A big one. I want you to work for me again."

You tense, your mind racing as you process her proposition, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. "What?"

Mimzy's smirk widens at your reaction, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she relishes in your discomfort. "That's right, sugar. I want you back on the job, working for me just like old times."

"Well I… I don't have much of a choice, do I?" you reply, clenching your fists in frustration.

Mimzy's laughter reverberates through the speakeasy, each chuckle sending shivers down your spine.

"Of course not! Would you prefer to go running to Alastor instead? Oh, dear hubby, please shield me from the consequences of my sins! My apologies for putting a bullet in your skull!" she mocks your voice, drawling the syllables out as she clasps her hands together and bats her eyes at you.

A surge of humiliation and guilt washes over you, weighing heavy on your shoulders as you struggle to come to terms with the choices before you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. Despite the overwhelming guilt and shame swirling within you, you know that you're cornered. Mimzy has you right where she wants you, and the only way out is to play her game.

"Fine," you say through gritted teeth, your voice tinged with resignation. "I'll work for you again."

Mimzy's grin widens, her sharp teeth flashed at you. "Excellent choice, darling. You won't regret it."

With a snap of her fingers, a contract materializes in her hand. She hands it over to you, and you read through it. Funnily enough, it looks almost identical to your previous employment contract in the living with her, but one detail catches your eye.

"To settle the debt incurred due to the aforementioned act, Y/N Caron, acknowledging the gravity of her transgressions, agrees to become a singer for Mimzy's Lounge for a duration of ten decades," you read the line in shock. Turning to Mimzy, you clutch the contract tightly, your nails threatening to break the paper. "Ten decades?!"

"What?" Mimzy scoffs, her voice dripping with derision. "You stuck here for all of eternity anyways, and so is your husband. Might as well do something."

With a theatrical flourish, Mimzy reaches into her chest and pulls out a pen, waggling it teasingly in your face. "So? What will it be? Are ya gonna sign the contract? Or am I gonna have to throw you out where those angels can tear you to pieces?"

You read through the contract again, your eyes frantically scanning the paper for any loophole or escape route, but you come up empty-handed. With a sinking feeling in your chest, you realize that you're in this for the long haul.

"But what about Alastor?" you pressed, urgency creeping into your voice.

Mimzy's laughter filled the speakeasy, bouncing off the walls like mocking echoes. "Oh, sweetheart," she cooed with faux sympathy, "haven't you read the fine print? Your dear Alastor is strictly off-limits. Can't have him interfering with our little arrangement, now can we?"

"But… I need to see him," you pleaded, desperation lacing your words.

Mimzy's smirk widened into a wicked grin as she leaned in closer, mischief gleaming in her eyes. "And I need to make sure my end of the deal is fulfilled," she countered firmly.

Glancing down at the contract, you saw her pointing to a specific section. "Y/N Caron's husband, Alastor Caron, is strictly forbidden from being physically present around her in any way, shape, or form for the safety and integrity of this agreement."

"But… can't we find some middle ground?" you asked, a sliver of hope lingering in your voice.

"Ah, I've got an idea," Mimzy grinned , reaching into her drawer and pulling out an old radio. She extended it towards you. "You can talk with him as much as you like. This little radio will be your hotline to him. But there's a catch: he stays far, far away from you and this joint. How's that sound?"

Twisting the radio in your trembling hands, you felt the weight of the decision settle heavily on your shoulders. The device seemed ancient, its surface worn and its knobs slightly rusted, yet it held the power to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between you and Alastor. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly brought the pen to the paper, the ink blotting the sheet as you signed your name away, sealing your fate.

"It's a deal."

[blueywrites]

u-haul 'cause I might let you move in it (1/2)

dom dealer!eddie x sub fem!reader Inspired by @2jihiir0's fanart 'make it quick... baby's sleeping'. leave them some love! read part two here.

2.5k

cw (both parts): 18+. smut, drug use (weed), situationship becoming something more (???), shame kink, praise & degradation, pet names, exhibitionism-adjacent, no y/n, no physical descriptors, eddie's still a fairly soft dom bc I'm just not hard like that 😭

an: this is just the start of the filth, y'all - most of it occurs in part two 😌 shout out to @munson-blurbs @hellfire--cult @word-wytch and @the-unforgivenn for their feral support and @fracturedarkness bc this wouldn't exist without her.

enjoy part one! 🩵

The afternoon sun hangs heavy in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow through the dusty blinds of the trailer. The air inside is thick with the scent of smoke and stale beer, a heady mixture that clings to the walls. It’s the kind of smell that seeps into your clothes, your hair, your skin. It should leave you feeling slightly suffocated, especially considering the oppressive humidity also clinging to every surface, but somehow, there's a measure of comfort in the acrid scent.

You’re sitting on the threadbare couch, the fabric worn with age creaking as you shift restlessly, trying to find a more comfortable position in the heat. The fabric scratches your soles as you prop your feet up, leaning against the couch arm, fanning the neck of your thin tank top to peel the dampness from your chest. Beneath the old coffee table, your flip-flops lay forgotten, abandoned on the threadbare carpet. A beer bottle sits nearby, sweating rings onto the surface of the table, a testament to the lazy haze of the afternoon.

On the other side of the couch, your dealer lounges against the cushions, his movements fluid and practiced as he rolls a joint with deft, inked fingers. You look over at Eddie as he watches the TV, his head lolled back against the couch, his eyes heavy-lidded, relaxed. He looks good. You can’t help but spend a long moment staring at him: the angles of his face, his big brown eyes and puffy lips, his long, shaggy curls that frame his high cheekbones. He’s pretty, and he’d look downright innocent if it wasn’t for the long nick of white scar tissue kissing the edge of his lip and the scruff darkening his cheeks and jaw. Your gaze dips lower over his tight black jeans, lingering where they meet his rust-colored tank. The shirt is caught up around his hip, revealing a strip of pale skin and a tattoo that you can just see the bottom of. You want to run your tongue over it, then keep mapping all his ink until your mouth has touched each bit of darkness on him.

This thing with Eddie started when you broke up with Trevor and lost your go-to source for getting high. When you’d asked around, a friend of a friend recommended Eddie Munson, saying he was the best you could come by in the area: decent product, reasonable prices, and not a total creep. The first couple times were quick transactions, and then you started hanging around because the girl who hooked you up also told you Eddie would likely offer to smoke you out if you did. He let you hang around because he didn't much care either way, and he didn't find you hard to look at. That led quickly to casual sex whenever you saw each other, usually when you'd come by a couple times a month to restock your supply. And the sex is great– better than the weed, and Eddie's weed is always high quality. He just has this ability to make you feel special in the moment without having any expectations about whatever-you-and-he-were as soon as you pull your panties back on, leaving you free to date whoever you wanted when you left his trailer.

It’s ecstasy to have all of his attention focused on you in those moments because, though Eddie looks like a mean bastard, he gets off on your pleasure. He's not one to make you feel used or neglected; he's a thorough lover. And he has a knack for straddling the perfect line between sweet and sour. He'd praise you then humiliate you in the next breath, and it drove you wild. Kept you coming back even though he never expressed interest in taking you out or doing anything with you other than just getting high, watching TV, and fucking you 'til you screamed.

And then, at some point, you find yourself declining guys' offers for dinner or drinks. You just don’t feel like going out anymore, because trying to find Mr. Right was getting exhausting— at least, that's what you tell yourself. And Eddie starts calling you sometimes to let you know he had a new strain he thought you'd like, some of Rick's fancy shit. Soon enough, you go from seeing him twice a month to twice a week, sometimes more. And slowly but surely, you begin to notice a change in yourself. You start staring at all his tattoos and wondering what the stories are behind them. Feeling an odd flutter when you flop down next to him and he'd sling his arm around your shoulder without a thought. Laying tangled in his musty bedsheets, and when he leaves to go to the bathroom, secretly burying your nose against his pillow because the smell of him has suddenly become... comforting.

Things are changing for you, and you really hope they are for him, too. 'Cause if not, it seems your traitorous heart has determined you'll be in for a world of hurt.

"Y'want some of this?" Eddie's voice cuts through the haze, drawing your attention away from the television. You glance over to see him holding up the joint, a lazy smirk playing at the corners of his lips. The glow of the joint illuminates his features, soft against the curve of his cheek.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your own lips as you shift closer to him. He pats his thigh, a silent invitation, and you don’t hesitate to straddle his lap, the heat of his body seeping through your pajama shorts. His jeans are rough against your tender inner thighs as you shift, grazing the hardening bulge pressing against his zipper; your stomach tightens with the first whispers of arousal as you feel it brush against you.

"Gimme a show then, kitten," he murmurs, his voice low and husky, making that arousal bloom fuller as you grow excited. It’s a playful taunt, a challenge, but beneath the teasing facade, you can sense something more—a hint of possessiveness, maybe even of longing. That could just be your wishful thinking, but nonetheless, your heart races at the prospect as you meet his gaze, accepting his challenge.

With a coy smile, you slip off the couch, settling on your knees and running your nails up his thighs on your way to his lap. You take your time unbuckling his belt, keeping your movements slow and unhurried, though you secretly throb as you begin to unwrap him. It’s crazy how quickly he turns you on— how all he has to do is smirk and pin you with a look, or murmur a few words in that low, husky tone, and you’re already wetting your panties for him. 

Eddie waits just long enough for you to shimmy his jeans and boxers down to his knees, and then he catches you by the jaw with a broad, rough palm. You look up at him as he guides you back up with his light grip on your face. His eyes flick down to your mouth as he leans forward, curls swinging to kiss his jaw. You brighten, eager to feel his mouth on yours, wondering what kind of kiss he’ll reward you with— something slow and sweet, or wet and filthy. But he leaves just a peck on your lips before drawing back, tightening his hold on your jaw to keep you firmly in place when you instinctively go to chase him.

You fall immediately into a pout, slumping back on your heels as he breathes a chuckle at you. Eddie bends to lightly pat your cheek a few times in consolation before settling back into the cushions, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He must know the gesture would rile you up, and it does— you feel your disappointment churn in your belly, turning to petulance. In retaliation, you clamber up to your feet, abandoning your position kneeling before his boots. With narrowed eyes, you drop your shorts and panties together without ceremony, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side, denying him the chance to enjoy watching you strip. You cross your arms when your bratting only makes him smirk even wider at you. He quirks an eyebrow as if to say, “Well?” 

You resent how much you like his stupid face.

The couch creaks its protest as you climb up onto it, slinging a leg over his lap again, this time with nothing separating your skin from his, which is hot and slightly sticky with the humidity. His cock kicks subtly when your pussy grazes him, and you bite your lip, feeling an answering pulse of desire within yourself. When you mount him, reaching behind to grip him at the base and notch his fat head at your entrance, Eddie prepares for your performance: draping his arms casually over the backrest, fingers idly tapping against the worn fabric, his other arm hinging to bring the joint lazily to his lips. 

He looks like such an asshole, waiting for you to service him. And you might've goaded him more because of it, but you forget about being bratty the second you sink down on his lap, taking him all the way into you. 

A quiet moan sighs from between your cracked lips when you sit fully on his cock, your eyes slipping closed as you get lost in that initial stretch. He's not the only guy you've fucked— far from it— but there’s just something about the way he slots inside, nudging against the end of you, that always leaves you feeling more perfectly filled than anyone else. Eddie watches with a sly glint in his half-lidded eyes as you start to grind on him, letting yourself drift into the space he always brings you into. With him, you can be soft, sensual, and needy, but also desperate and pathetic. You can act out all your secret desires, know that Eddie will flay you open and force you to acknowledge them, and let the shame of it get you off all at once.

Eddie lets you be a freak, and better yet, he likes it.

Desperate to earn his approval, you run your hands up your body, dragging over your hips and up to your neck as you ride him. Your abdomen rolls as you grind with fluid, sensual movements, doing your best to put on the show he’d requested. You look at him through your lashes as your wandering fingers catch on the hem of your tank top, dragging it slowly up to reveal your soft belly. You hold it just below your breasts so Eddie can watch the way your curves bend and move while you work his cock. 

In some respects, the dance is for you as much as it’s for him because the way Eddie watches you with rapt attention, his eyes devouring every inch of your body, really turns you on. You bite your lip, your clit swelling with anticipation as you tease him with a glimpse of the underside of your breasts. He hums approvingly, taking a leisurely hit from the joint. As the smoke curls around him in a tantalizing haze, you give in sooner than you’d been intending and ruck up your top to let your breasts fall out. You start to play with them, squeezing and kneading as you rock your hips harder, your own need mounting.

Gradually, your performance ceases being a performance. Your nipples begin to ache, begging to be touched, and a moan spills unbidden from your lips as you tweak and pinch them, sending pleasure zinging straight down within you. You close your eyes, a tiny frown forming as you try to concentrate on the low flame of your arousal, but it remains at a frustratingly low simmer. You rock faster, grind harder, pinch harsher, your movements a silent plea for the sweet relief only Eddie can give. You’ve built your own pleasure as much as you can on your own, and now, you need him. The coyness is wiped from your expression, replaced with a begging pinch in your brow, a needy, wet shine in your eyes as you blink unseeingly at him, all pretty and pathetic on his lap.

At the border between satisfaction and desperation— that’s where he wanted you. 

A hand at your hip stills your movements, and as your eyes snap to focus on Eddie's face, you see he’s leaned forward, his nose scant inches from yours. His other elbow is planted on the couch arm, the joint poised tantalizingly nearby in his ringed fingers. Eddie squeezes your hip firmly, then again more gratuitously, and when you obediently fall still to sit motionless on his cock, he lets his palm slide up the curve of your waist in a drag that makes you gasp, you're so wired and ready for his touch. You watch, rapt, as he brings the joint toward his lips, salivating as a swipe of his tongue moistens them.

“Look at me.” 

Your eyes snap up to his, captured completely by his unwavering gaze. As he inhales, those brown eyes glitter in the orange that flares bright at the joint’s end. And he keeps that point of contact between you as his broad palm travels up, up, up— over the supple heft of your breast, grazing the hard peak of your nipple, skimming the thrumming pulse in your neck, his thumb catching on the underside of your jaw as he cups your cheek. He closes those scant inches between you, and when the bulb of his nose nudges yours, your mouth falls open as your eyes slip closed. 

He exhales, you inhale. When the warm rush of Eddie’s breath kisses your lips, you take it into you, your chest expanding as your lungs fill with smoke. The taste of him mingles with a heady rush of arousal, and you continue to take, even through the twinge of discomfort as your lungs stretch to accommodate it all. As Eddie gives you the last of his smoke, you close your mouth, keeping it all inside.

“Hold it,” he murmurs against your skin. His lips trail kisses along your jaw as you obey, fighting your diaphragm as it hitches, wanting to cough. You make a little noise in the back of your throat when he nips you, the brief sharp sting soothed soon after by the flat of his tongue. You hold as long as you can, and when you finally exhale, Eddie rewards you by taking hold of your hips, pulling you into a slow, sensual grind as he kisses you sloppy, wet lips wide and devouring. The friction and fervor crash over you in an intense wave of pleasure, one that has you whining, twisting your fingers in his hair, pressing your tits to his chest, ready to ignite—

The front door shakes with the pounding of a heavy fist.

[fanfictionera]

My Queen (BuckyxReader) Smut

A/N: I have always wanted to write a Sex Pollen fic but every time I tried to write one it didn't feel right. Finally I started writing and the vibes started flowing. I wanted filthy smut but with emotion and feeling and I hope that I achieved that. Either way I am super proud of this and I hope readers enjoy!

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Synopsys: The reader and Bucky are sent on a mission where they are exposed to what is referred to as Sex Pollen. Their feelings for each other are forced to be faced.

Word Count: 6,218

Warnings: Sex Pollon, Friends to Lovers, forced sex (due to drugs), sprinkle of Angst, Bucky, SMUT, SMUT SMUT SMUT. SO LITTLE PLOT.

My Queen

Bucky stood in the back of the Quinjet, checking over his person. It was like a ritual for him, starting from the top he would check every strap and belt, double check each gun and knife blade. His body swayed, compensating for the slight lurch of the Quinjet before it leveled out.

“And we have touched down,” Y/N said from the pilot's seat, with a press of a button her chair spun around. She came up behind Bucky gently tugging on his back harness. The back of the Quinjet dropped down, revealing several structures in a clearing, surrounded by trees. They began to make their way to the larger building in the center. The clearing was shrouded in a dark gray filter as the misty fog creeped its way through the trees, under a sky blanketed by cloud cover, reclaimed by nature. A scan showed no signs of human life, which was little in the way of relief.

They silently approached the front door before stepping into the building. A home. The remnants of one anyway. They entered the kitchen, with a table still made. Flowers in a porcelain milk jug left dead, wilted and dried in the center. A plate sat next to a folded newspaper. Y/N could feel the shift in the air as soon as they walked in. The weight of the secrets of the house, hidden behind the semblance of a quiet life, mixed with the pure evil that seeped from its walls in tendrils made Y/N uneasy. 

They progressed through the first and second level of the home. Although every surface was covered in a thick layer of dust each room sat pristine, frozen in time as if the owner just ceased to exist. One of many of Hydra’s calling cards.

They made their way back outside and to the side of the house. Y/N turned scanning the tree line as Bucky yanked and cleared away brush that covered the storm doors nestled against the house. Nature revealed the chained and padlocked metal doors.

Bucky pulled the chain, breaking it in his metal hands. The parts slipped through his fingers like sand. The doors opened with a gut dropping creek revealing a set of stairs leading down into a dirt floor cellar. 

“Ladies First.” He waved his hand as he motioned his hand forward, his eyes scanning behind Y/N. 

She walked forward, “What a gentleman.”

The cellar was packed hard, the air was stale and stagnant. The wooden shelves that lined the stone wall held glass jars full of canned food. 

Bucky walked to the corner, moving a basket out of the way, revealing a hatch. 

The ladder led down to a concrete room, with the only doorway being a gated elevator shaft. An electrical box was mounted on the wall. Bucky opened it and began to check it over before pulling the large handle down. It made a large metallic thunk as Bucky forced the handle down. A soft wiring noise began to buzz.

Bucky pulled the metal gate to the side, ushering Y/N into the car, he closed the gate after he stepped on and reached for the hand crank on the side. Slowly the metal gears began to move and creak as the elevator descended. “Why does every Hydra base have a creepy elevator?” Y/N asked as she took in the rust-streaked walls of the shaft illuminated by dingy yellowing lights that flickered as they warmed up. 

“Günter did suggest rainbows and butterflies, but as you can see, he was outvoted.” Y/N tried to hide her smile as she rolled her eyes.

The elevator came to a stop as it reached the bottom of the shaft, pulling the gate aside again, they found themselves in a storm of destruction “What is this place?”

“It's a lab, was a lab.” Bucky looked around, “I don't believe I was ever here, but it's where they developed all kinds of fun.”

They began to clear the room, flashlight in hand. Tables sat disheveled and tipped over, their contents scattered. Papers littered every surface like confetti. Various medical equipment and hardware mixed and mingled with the papers, while every box of a computer was shattered or broken. As if someone punched every screen. Several lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling, attached by a few wires, while others found their way to the floor. Bucky held a dangling light to the side, letting Y/N walk through before following.

She scanned the room as she took another step, a loud popping crunch noise made her jump, she looked down, lifting her foot, to see the glass shards sprayed across the floor. 

Bucky laughed as he pushed past her. “You’ve been playing to many zombie games,”

“Shut up.” She walked behind him.

Bucky laughed again as he held his arms out, doing his best zombie impression, ‘Brainsss.” He turned to grab her head. “No brainsssss”

Y/N shoved him playfully, "Can we just do this and get the hell out of here?" Bucky chuckled as he clicked on his flashlight and continued sweeping the lab with a smug smile on his face. Y/N wasn't going to lie, nothing about this place made her feel good. She wasn't sure if it was because of its history or its current state, either way she was very much looking forward to leaving. 

As they continued into the next room, Y/N eyes came to rest on Bucky’s back. They trailed across his harness, how it spanned across his wide shoulders. The dim lights still highlighted the muscular lines built into the metal of his arm. Bucky paused for a moment, pivoting on his heel to double check a dark corner. His face was concentrated, eyes trained. She couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to have them trained on her. 

She shook her head, focus, she mouthed to herself. With the room cleared they were moving forward again; her eyes came to the back of his head and down his back. They slowly trailed down to his ass, framed perfectly in his tactical pants, the seams accentuating his curve. 

Suddenly Bucky stopped, looking up at a mess of chains, “Let’s see what's behind door number one.” He put his flashlight between his teeth as he began to roll his sleeve up his flesh arm. 

Y/N watched, entranced by the simple action, she glanced up to see Bucky watching her. He smiled around the flashlight; he reached up with this metal hand taking the source of light. He took several steps toward her before bringing his hand up to her jaw.

“That’s what does it for you?” he swiped his thumb against her bottom lip before swiping his thumb down, pulling her lip with it. “Is it my arm?”

She nodded.

“Or is it my fingers?” Her eyes dilated as Bucky chuckled leaning forward, “Do you want my fingers?” She could feel his breath against her skin as he walked behind her, his flesh hand reaching around, grasping the toggle of her zipper. She could hear each tooth unzip as he pulled the zipper down its full length. The coolness of the metal left a tingling sensation as he followed in the zipper wake, his palm slid down her stomach, closer to her aching core. Her breathing became heavy as her head began to spin.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice sounded firm, the look of concern evident “Are you okay?”

The world came crashing back in a blink of her eye. Her eyes snapped open to find Bucky standing in front of her, still messing with the chains. She shook her head trying to shake off the ghost feeling of his touch. Y/N took a deep breath, her brow began to pull together, "Do you smell that?” She takes another deep breath through her nose, “It's almost sweet, floral, its faint.”

Bucky looked at her puzzled, the air around them smelled musty and old. Then the realization hit him. "Shit.” With the chains forgotten, Bucky grabbed her arm and pulled her back down where they came, “Where is that vile you stepped on?”

His touch was distracting, “Over, over there, I think?" He let go of her, "What's going on?” Y/N asked as Bucky began searching the ground.

He turned still looking, “Just, please, we need to find it.”

She walked back over a row and kicked a pile of papers, a cracked vile rolled out, “It's right here.” The end was still intact, the label holding the shards together.

Copulation Stimulant 

Y/N’s eyes read over the label, “Is this?” She looked back down again hoping she read it wrong, “This is, oh my god--no-no-no-no.” She dropped the vile again, the realization setting in, her hands coming to her face as she rambled, “I can't do this, this has to be some cruel joke. Yeah? It’s labeled wrong? I can’t actually fuck my best friend…I can't--”

11-197020-43

“Oh, come on now,” As Y/N began to spiral Bucky knelt down to confirm his suspicion, "Best Friend!?" He tried to joke, to keep Y/N with him. "Nat might fight me for that title."

"Stop. I'm serious. You don't understand," She began shaking slightly, overwhelmed as the tears began to fall down her cheek. 

Bucky's smug smile dropped from his face as he took in Y/N’s state, his eyebrows knitted together.

Y/N's chest tightened as she looked up at him. “I can’t fuck my best friend because I’m in love with my best friend."

"Sweetheart" The word came out of Bucky’s mouth like an exhale as he took in her words. 

“Oh my god, am I going to fuck my best friend, who I’m in love with, for the first time in a dingy old Hydra base." Y/N's mind was moving a million miles a second. A heat began to spread from her core, she took a deep breath. 

“Come on,” Bucky gently grabbed her arm, "Not here, let's get back to the Quinjet, okay?”

Y/N shook her head as she let Bucky lead her out of the bunker. She could feel the heat spreading throughout her body, like water slowly trickling down through the soil, saturating each grain as it was pulled down by gravity. It felt invasive. 

The Quinjet bay door began to close as Bucky climbed into the pilot's chair. Y/N sat in the back, her breath becoming heavy. "I'm getting really hot." 

“Like little pin pricks of heat all over your skin?" The Quinjet shook slightly as it rose into the sky.

"Yeah-h" Y/N said as a sheen of sweat began to cover her face. 

"It's hitting you faster." He quickly flipped some switches before getting up out of the chair, he grabbed a med kit duffle bag out of the closet before kneeling in front of her.

Y/N's brow slowly pulled together, "Why?"

"It's designed for super soldiers." Bucky began as he pulled out and cracked a jelly ice pack, instantly making it cold before placing it on her neck. "Which means it's stronger for you."

Y/N felt the sting of the cold radiate, "Okay, okay…okay. What's going to happen?" Her head swirled as she placed her hand over his that held the ice pack, grounding herself. “Be honest.”

Bucky took a deep breath, unable to pull his gaze from her pleading one. "Your adrenaline will slowly rise, until your heart feels like it's going to burst and every cell in your body is vibrating." He flipped the ice pack to the other side of her neck. "It's going to alter chemicals in your brain, driving up your sex drive and arousal." His chest began to heave as he began to feel the effects. “At the same time, it will lower your inhibitions and block all sense of self control.”

Y/N took a deep breath through her nose. "And sex is the only way?"

"No, we can ride this out." Bucky said as he also breathed deep. "It will be torture, an ache of a pain that will thunder through your existence. Every second you resist will feel like one second closer to death, but it won't kill you."

Y/N fought through another wave of heat before responding, "I don't know what to do. It's getting hard to think."

"Yeah." Bucky knew what was to come. How many hours they would have to endure if they waited it out. He dropped the ice pack, now warm, before bringing his hands up to the sides of Y/N's face, pulling her focus back. "Listen to me," He took a moment, “Never in a million years would I have wanted this to be our first time." He let out another grunt as he fought another wave, a smirk appeared through it. "I planned on asking you out, on a real date, before I led you to my bed. To treat you like a queen. My queen.” Tears threatened the corners of Y/N's eyes. Her heart was beating in her ears, and it felt like years as they leaned forward, their foreheads resting against each other. “If we do this now, it won't be like that, you need to know once I start, I will not be able to stop. You will not be able to stop."

Her fingers came up dragging down the edge of his scruff-covered jaw line. “I understand. I trust you, please, I trust you.”

The moment his lips touched hers everything stopped. Bucky physically felt Y/N's body relax as her lips began to move against his. She snaked her hands up his chest and behind his neck before pulling herself off the back of the chair and as close to him as she could. 

Y/N got lost in the intense high created, everything slowed down and hazed over. A dull, mind numbing, wave of emotions swirled in her brain as all sense of time was lost till eventually it wound itself into a ball and exploded against the back of her eyelids. The heat began to fade, leaving a chill across her skin. Her head felt empty and tired. Mentally she couldn't string two coherent thoughts together. Her body felt loose, and her eyes watered as a tear slid down. 

"Hey, it's over." Bucky was catching his breath as he held her head in his hand, looking into her eyes, "it's over," her gaze was distant. 

"Shit." Bucky held onto her, held her close as he began rummaging through the duffle bag, "Come on, there you are." Bucky returned to Y/N, "Y/N, doll, I need you to take this. It will help, can you do that?"

Y/N Glanced down at the small syringe in his hand, "What is it?" The words slurred and tired.

"It will let you sleep till we get back and Bruce can help." Bucky replied softly. 

The tears began to stream down her face, "I'm feeling everything. At once."

“I know. It’s the drug, a side effect.” Bucky took her hand, “Sleep will help.”

“Okay,” Y/N shook her head as she sniffled. Within moments of the liquid entering her blood stream, Y/N's eyes became heavy, and her body relaxed as she drifted off. Bucky gently maneuvered her, placing her on her side across several seats. He fixed her suit, now ripped wide open from navel down to her exposed thighs, her breasts out on display. He pulled the sides of the fabric, covering her the best he could before he grabbed one of the packs of the on-board pillows and blankets, ripping it out of its packaging. He positioned the small pillow under her head and draped the blanket over her body before cleaning himself up and making his way to the cockpit. 

Bucky listened and waited for her to fall into a deep sleep before grabbing the headset. "Friday, please connect me with Steve and Bruce."

"Right away," Friday responded as two small transparent screens appeared in front of Bucky's face. 

Steve's face was scrunched as he slowly woke up, "Hey, what time is it?"

"Two." Bruce replied as he did a double take, pulling on his glasses, "In the morning."

"There's been a situation," Bucky's voice was low, Steve's attention was immediately caught, and he finally took in Bucky's appearance, "We came into contact…with a substance," Bucky looked back again making sure Y/N was still out, "It was developed by Hydra for their breeding program, they called it copulation stimulant, but everyone referred to it as sex pollen." As the Quinet silently made the trek back to the compound, Bucky filled them in.

Bucky tossed and turned in bed, he rolled over, sheets tangled around his legs and stared up at the ceiling. Taking a deep breath he reached over for his phone, the screen turned on showing it was only mid-morning. 

He rubbed his face before kicking his sheets off and sitting up on the edge of the bed. He stared down at his floor, his mind taking over sucking him back into that moment. Flashes of Y/N's face, filled with fear, overwhelmed with emotions and emptiness played on repeat. 

He blinked away the images as he made his way out of his room. Bucky walked down the hall towards Steve's room. 

Steve sat at his table; papers strewn about as he caught up on his paperwork. He heard the knock before Bucky walked in. 

"How are you feelin'?" Steve asked as Bucky slumped into a chair, aimlessly picking up a piece of paper, setting it back down, not interested. 

"How is she?" Is all Bucky asked. 

Steve pushed a tablet towards him, "Medically speaking, she's okay, nothing more than a few bruises."

Bucky looked down at the screen, a mission report, currently on the recorded incidents page. His eyes instantly skimmed and settled on Y/N's list of injuries before swiping through the rest of the report.

"I decided not to include the details." Steve continued as Bucky sat the tablet down with an exhale. Steve slowly set down the pen as he leaned back in his chair slightly. "Buck, how are you?"

"Angry." Bucky shook his head. "For me to go through it again, fine. But not her."

"Did Hydra use this stuff often?" Steve's brow pulled up softly. 

Bucky's lips flashed a sad smile with a huff of a laugh, "It cycled through. They called it a compliance tool." He looked at his friend, "Sometimes they would call it a reward." 

"Jesus." Steve let out under his breath. 

“They had an endless supply of compliance tools and rewards.” Bucky shrugged slightly, "I'm okay Steve, honestly.”

"I was going to go check on her in a bit.” Steve leaned forward and picked up his pen again as he glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Bruce gave her something to help her sleep more, rest is probably the best for her right now, so she probably won't be stirring for another hour or two." Bucky nodded his head slightly as Steve spoke.

Steve watched as Bucky began to slip back into his thoughts. "Hey," His voice pulled Bucky's eyes to him. "You guys will be dancing around each other again soon enough."

"I told her." Bucky's confession came out softly. "How I feel, right before I railed her brains out in a fit of uncontrollable horny rage." 

“I’m sorry, what?” Steve sat staring at his friend, “You thought, that after being exposed to a chemical weapon used to sexually exploit their victims, yeah this is a good time to confess my feelings to the woman I’ve been absolutely obsessed with since the first day I saw her?”

"Yup," Bucky popped the p, "In my defense she confessed first.”

“Unbelievable,” Steve pinched, “Why are you two like this?”

“In love? Or Insane?” Bucky asked back with a shrug,

Steve crossed his arms as he leaned back, “Go talk to her you jerk."

…

Y/N’s room was dark, every curtain pulled tight and not a single light was on. She had woken up several times only to roll over and fall back asleep, not wanting or ready to face the world yet. She lay on her belly, letting herself lay there, her head spiraling with thoughts. She grabbed for her phone, the brightness from the screen making her recoil, it was already close to two in the afternoon. She rolled back over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. 

“What's wrong with me?” She asked quietly to herself. 

She never wanted to experience sex pollen again, it scared her to her core to have her own free will taken away. Her heartbeat picked up as she thought about it, a panic slowly bubbling. She took a deep breath, “We can ride this out.” His words echoed in her head. “I wanted to take you out on a date. Treat you like a queen. My queen.” Her heart stuttered a moment as she took another deep breath. 

A knock at her door drew her attention. Slowly she rose from her bed, just as she approached the door another soft knock came. She reached for the handle and opened it to find Bucky standing with a paper bag in hand.

She stared at him, her words stuck in her throat, “Team ordered out, I got your favorite.” Bucky held the paper bag up. “I, um, I wanted to check in and.."  He paused as he shrugged.

Y/N could see the anxiety and pain behind his eyes. She stepped closer to him, her hands coming to the sides of his torso and sliding back, as she hugged him. 

As if on que Y/N stomach growled and she let out a small laugh. She pulled back, taking the bag from Bucky. “Thank you, I don't think I ate anything in the med bay when we got back.” She turned into the room, “Wanna come in?"

As Y/N walked back in, she flicked on a few lamps, creating a soft glow. Bucky closed the door behind him, unsure of what to do. Her desk was sitting just far away to be awkward but the only other place to sit would be her bed, somewhere he had never thought twice about before as he would just sit down or jump in. Now? He was acutely aware of his actions, and it created a ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

“Bucky, you're welcome to sit on my bed.” Y/N noticed his hesitation.

He shrugged. “I didn't want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You aren't” Y/N said as she pulled a plate down from a cabinet in her Kitchenette. 

Bucky paused for a moment before taking a deep breath, "What's going through your head?" Y/N stopped what she was doing, food forgotten as he continued. "Be honest."

Y/N turned, leaning against the counter, to face him. She crossed her arms as she took a moment to bring her words forward, "Did you mean what you said?" her question was soft and quiet. "Your queen." She blinked her gaze up to his.

Bucky let out a huff of a laugh, the corner of his mouth pulling up, “I remember the day you arrived at the compound.” He continued. “That morning Steve and I were set to leave to go on a recon mission. We were going back to the Siberian Hydra base; I hadn't been back since the airport incident. I was an absolute mess leading up to it.” Bucky looked down at his hands as he absentmindedly followed the lines and seams of his metal finger with this flesh. “I probably shouldn't have gone.” He paused again. “I had come so far, the words out of my head, a family around me and I had finally thought I found peace. Yet the moment I stepped back into that room, I looked upon that pit with that monstrosity of a machine still sitting there. I lost it. It instantly triggered a spiral of anger and I felt pushed right back down to my lowest existence.” Bucky kept his eyes trained on the floor. “Steve watched as I destroyed the machine, before helping me calm down. We got the answers we needed, well Steve got the answers we needed. When we got back, I was so far stuck in my head, but then I heard this laughter, it was light and contagious.” Bucky looked up at Y/N who was giving him her full attention. “Your laughter.”

“I followed that sound, until I saw you. Sitting at the counter, a smile on your face and I swear I had never seen anything more beautiful in my life. For the first time since I could remember I could feel this spark of a flame ignite inside of me.” Bucky continued. “This spark that created light and hope and feeling. It only grew. Day after day. It grew with your kindness and confidence. Your strength and your intelligence. That day you took Steve down, he played it off, but I knew that you had genuinely taken him by surprise, I could see it in his eyes. So, I let myself fall in love, I let that light grow into a raging blaze. Until I found myself trying to muster up the courage to tell you while simultaneously trying not to take you where you stood. Ask me again, ask me if I meant what I said.”

Tears were building up in Y/N’s eyes, “Did you mean it?”

"Every word." There was no hesitation in his response as he didn't look away. "I would worship every inch of your mind and body, if you'd let me."

The world began to fade away as Y/N's heart began to beat faster. Bucky's words swirled in her head as she tried to comprehend their meaning as if she couldn't believe them. Bucky sat patiently watching as Y/N slowly walked up to him. Her gaze uncertain, he could feel the tension in the air, as the line they both were hesitant to cross was quickly approaching.

Y/N tentatively stepped between his legs. She could feel the tug of war between her anxiety and adrenaline as she reached to touch his face. She moved her thumb across his jaw, Bucky could see her mind taking off.

He brought his hands up to rest on her hips, "Look at me." Y/N stood quiet for a moment as she took in his unwavering gaze. "What do you need?”

Y/N took a deep breath, "To be your queen.”

He gently pulled her closer. His lips pressed against hers, a tingling sensation ran through her body. Y/N felt Bucky’s hands gently slide down to the crook of her knees. He pulled her up onto his lap, sliding his hands over her thighs following the curve of her ass, before pulling her flush as he deepened the kiss. His lips moved against hers with a gentle urgency as they began to get lost in each other. In that moment, nothing else mattered - no worries or fears, no past or future. There was only the heat of the moment, the electricity between them.

Y/N let her fingers sink back into his hair, tugging slightly, as a low moan tumbled from Bucky’s mouth. “I need more.” Y/N said as Bucky kissed down to the nape of her neck.

He slid his hands up under the hem on her shirt, letting them slowly trail up her sides. Her chest heaved as his thumbs ghosted the underside of her breasts. 

She pulled herself off him, sliding herself back to stand between his legs again, slowly she pulled her shirt up and over her head. He reached up and pulled his own shirt over his head, discarding it. He leaned back, picking up his hips as he pulled his pants down, kicking them off. His length sprung up to full attention and Y/N’s eyes dilated. She stood back admiring Bucky, taking in his sheer size, she bit her lip as her core began to pulse. 

“Come here,” Bucky’s words pulled her in like a lure.

As she climbed back on his lap her hands came to the side of his face and pulled him into her lips. A breathy sigh of a moan escaped Y/N. She lifted herself up on her knees, pushing him slightly back to get to the right angle. She could feel his tip resting at her entrance.

Bucky nudged her nose with his, getting her to look at him. She held eye contact as she slowly slid down, feeling herself stretch around him until she bottomed out. A broken gasp fell from Y/N as the feeling of fullness made her body shutter, Bucky’s stomach twitched in response. She slowly began to roll her hips. His hands squeezed her thighs as he let out a swallowed moan. Her pace quickened until her hips began to fall out of rhythm as she desperately chased her release. 

"That's it sweetheart," His words of encouragement doused in an aroused tone. He felt her sides flutter. He could feel her pressing down on him. He kissed the edge of her jaw as his other hand cupped the back of her head before slowly sliding his lips down her neck. Grazing over her nipples. Another flutter. Her hand slid up into his hair and gently pulled him closer, pressing her nipple to his lips.  The way she took what she wanted made him feral. "Fuck" Bucky whispered. The sound was low and guttural, skittering over her skin like wildfire. 

With every heavy breath a moan escaped. With the last roll of her hips her orgasm exploded through her. Y/N's let out a choked moan as her knees clenched together on either side of Bucky. She felt his metal fingers splayed across her back and his flesh held onto her waist. 

Still fully seated, She let her head fall onto his shoulder as she attempted to catch her breath. Bucky pressed his lips to the other side of her neck before tipping her head back up to see her face. She felt like she was floating in euphoria.

"Feeling good?" Bucky's hand cradled her head. 

A smile spread on her face as she nodded into his hand. "I need more."

Bucky pulled her face to his, guiding her to his lips. Kissing her slowly as he reached his hands behind her, sliding them down her back. He began kissing down her neck and chest as she leaned back slightly. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, feeling Y/N pulse around his sheathed member. He let it fall from his mouth watching the soft skin bounce slightly before latching on again. Y/N squirmed, grinding down, desperate for any movement. 

Bucky gripped her hips and pressed her down further as he worshipped her chest. "James," His name came out as a broken whine. 

"Say that again." Bucky instructed, "Say my name."

"Ja-ahhhh-mes" He sucked her nipple again as she spoke. 

He smirked slightly as he slid his hands under her ass and stood up, Y/N held on as Bucky turned them around and dropped her on the bed. Y/N rubbed her thighs together from the loss of friction. Bucky watched for a moment before Y/N let her legs fall open. Splayed fully open for him, Bucky instantly crawled over, his breath against her sex making her shutter. His lips trailed kisses up her stomach. 

“How many nights have you imagined me like this?” A low chuckle came from Bucky, “Not just nights, and not just this.” He sucked her nipple between his teeth, making her gasp, before he soothed the shock away with his tongue. Y/N’s fingers ghosted over his hairline as she slid them back into his hair, he looked up at her and his eyes darkened as he sunk down and ran his tongue flat against her core. 

Her fingers curled, pulling his hair as her back arched off the bed. Electricity buzzed and exploded up over her body. His hands gripped her hips, keeping her from going too far.

Y/N fell further into bliss as Bucky explored her folds with his tongue. Soft moans spilled between her breaths. She gasped as he slowly inserted a finger, moving it in and out, then two, he felt her walls constrict as he slowly moved and curled his fingers. Y/N began to rock her hips against his face. His lips captured her clit sucking softly before pulling back, letting it fall from his lips. Y/N’s mouth fell open as the filthiest moan fell from her lips. 

He began rubbing his lips and tongue against her in a smooth pattern that felt like a love letter. Her hands gripped his, slipping back to his wrists as she writhed with him, completely letting him guide her over the edge. 

A choked moan came as Y/N’s legs squeezed Bucky’s head. She involuntarily curled up. Bucky wiped his mouth as he sat back on his knees, bringing his fingers up, sucking them clean.

He reached down and grasped her thighs, pulling them up and over his. He leaned back down, letting his hands slide up her torso, up and under her breasts, as his lips found hers once more. 

Y/N could feel his tip at her entrance, and it sent a shiver down her spine. 

She clung to his shoulders, nails dragging across his skin as he slowly pushed himself to his base. She felt the stretch as Bucky began to roll his hips, slowly dragging himself in and out. He began to pick up his pace, to read her body and follow her needs. Y/N hand snaked back around Bucky’s neck, as he sat back up on his knees, she clung to him as he continued his relentless pace. Y/N gripped onto the back of his neck with one hand as she found his knee with her other hand, propping herself up. There was no need however, as Bucky held her up, with his metal hand firmly on her ass and his flesh arm wrapped around the small of her back. He watched as her eyes rolled back into her head, his lips catch and dragged up her neck before sucking on her pulse.

Y/N’s body trembled as she fought to hold back, selfishly wanting more yet not knowing if she could take it. 

She felt her core wound as tight as it would go, unable to hold on to it any longer, she let go. Her body shuttered and Bucky could feel her orgasm pulse around him, squeeze him. He continued, fucking her through, dragging her out as far as he could. He was close and couldn't take it anymore. He let Y/N fall back onto the bed, as he pulled out and finished on her stomach. 

Their breathing was heavy as Bucky leaned over once more, bringing his hand up to Y/N face, her eyes glossed over in euphoria. “Are you okay?’

“Yeah,” She shook her head as she let out a sigh, “More than,”

A smile spread across Bucky’s face as he kissed her, “I am going to go get the shower ready for you, is that okay?”

Y/N Shook her head again before gently pressing her lips to his. “I need to lay here for a moment.”

“You just lay here and look pretty,” Bucky pulled himself off the bed.

Bucky walked into the bathroom, turning the water on to let it warm up. He quickly washed himself and cleaned up before setting up the bathroom for Y/N. He pulled a fresh towel out, placing it in the warmer next to the shower. A purchase that at first, he thought was ridiculous but has since rescinded that opinion. 

He heard Y/N soft pitter pats as she walked in, the steam beginning to form and build. “All set, towel is in the warmer.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said as she made her way to the shower.

“Don't be too long, your food will get cold.” Bucky kissed her forehead before he left Y/N to clean up as he went back out and continued to reheat the food, he had gotten for her. While the microwave hummed, he stripped the bed and stretched new sheets from corner to corner. Laid out the blankets and pulled them back slightly ready for Y/N to crawl in. 

He pulled down another plate for himself before playing up the food. Just as he finished cleaning up Y/N walked out. “Smells good.” She came up to Bucky’s side, wrapping a hand around his arm, leaning against his shoulder. “I am so hungry,” a laugh escaped Y/N, her head moved slightly as Bucky moved his arm. “Go eat, I’ll be right there with some water.”

“Thank you,” Y/N grabbed the plate and took a deep smell through her nose and smiled. “You really did get my favorite.” She said as she settled in on the bed and took a bite.

Bucky sat a cup of water down on her side table before crawling in to join her, “I know. I know all your favorites.”

“Oh?” Y/N asked as she took another bite. 

“And I have the rest of the night to figure out the ones I don't know.” A blush spread across Y/N’s cheeks. 

“I am looking forward to it.” She smiled as she glanced over at Bucky. “I could get use to this queen shit.”

“Oh, you just wait Doll,” Bucky replied. “I am just getting started.”

-End-

[writella]

Screwed Up and Brilliant

Synopsis: Negan is ready for you. Daryl isn’t; and maybe he’ll never be. Negan makes that clear to you tonight.

Details: Negan Smith x fem!reader, Daryl Dixon x fem!reader (mentioned), Negan is a bad guy but there is nuance— at least I hope I accomplished doing so, angst, guilt, forbidden love, probably super stereotypical, reader at the Sanctuary, moral dilemma reader (but you got to understand, they’re both so fine!!), I feel like I need more cws but I can’t think of them and of course, smut, 18+: consensual, unprotected, vague dacryphilia, soft? dom!Negan, lite daddy kink, fingerings, riding, and basically just Negan blowing your brains out… but not in the walker way— the good way, the way we like. Amen.

A/N: Could you believe I started writing this in October or something? This is my first time writing Negan and I’m scared I may not have gotten it right so definitely feel free to give notes! This is set during season 7/8, I’m picturing Negan at the end of 8 and later seasons but there’s something about him older that gives me heart eyes everywhere, but whatever you prefer makes me happy. Anyway, from my heart, and maybe somewhere a little lower, to yours; with love from writella. ♡

You’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million-dollar man; so why is my heart broke?

—— LDR, Million Dollar Man

The space was clean; minimal. The kind that let out no secrets of the owner that inhabited its insides. And of course there were the little things that let out some slight details: the ashtray on the nightstand— a smoking habit; a ring, a metal chain, another of black rope— an unsuspected, albeit small, interest in jewelry; the bottom nightstand closed by a lock—mysterious and cautious, though that was to be expected. It was only reasonable he’d have something he wanted hide. But other than that, Negan’s bedroom was quite unreadable; almost purposefully mundane.

There was a fireplace, a window at the corner, and a bed at the center. It had a dark, brass, rusted headboard that leaned against the wall. Two pillows at either side. The sheets were white, and the large blanket was of fur, a tan or medium brown, it was thick and heavy. Probably unnecessary for the approaching spring heat, but it adored the bed end well; matching the other bronze, or brown, wooden and darker aspects of the room. Even the light from the small fire, though you could see clearly, made everything mildly dim— the Sanctuary wasn’t known for its brightness after all.

And truly, nothing in this bedroom, or in this fortress of a place could be described as anything close to bright. Unless you counted the sun outside in the courtyard, or the largest fireplace that blazed in the main hall, or Negan’s piercing, priceless smile— so pristinely white, so wide it almost looked painful to perform. There was an eeriness to it as well. That was at the forefront, and everyone saw it. With the way he maintained their cleanliness, it was something that could look so pure, so put-together on any other; but on him, its power could scare you into worthlessness. It’s the one he used when he told someone what to do even if they hated it; it’s the one he used when killing someone’s best friend.

It’s also the one he used on the first day he ever spoke to you. The first time that truly mattered, really.

It was during Negan’s first supply gathering at Alexandria.

You still remember it well.

Your faces filled with desolation, but chins held high; you were strong— good at hiding the pain, the fear— only straight, pokered eyes and mouths allowed as everyone silently agreed with you. You had told Negan that Maggie was dead.

The Widow, he had coined her. The wife of your good friend that he killed— so generous a man was Glenn, even when he wasn’t trying to be. And she’s your friend too, brave Maggie. That’s the one he wanted, but as far as he knew, she was gone.

Thank God, you thought, Thank God, yes, indeed, until—

Negan’s eyes glazed over your frame for just a moment too long.

You weren’t speaking anymore. You kept it short enough. He should have turned his attention back to Rick but he didn’t.

Where there was sly roguery in Negan’s eyes, anxiety weld in the looks of all others: Rick’s throat tensed and tightened uneasily, sweat trailing down his curls and onto his forehead; Rosita’s jaw clenched with bitterness, brows furrowing under her green khaki cap with anger; and then there was Gabriel: his eyes turned from solemnity and pretend peacefulness to wide bewilderment. The plan you two exchanged had worked: you would tell Negan of Maggie’s passing, as per your idea, and Gabriel would swiftly solidified your lie by saying he was the one who officiated the short funeral. But then, another problem arose; one where he could be nothing else but helpless in aiding you. What was he, or anyone to do? It was easy to help Maggie, she was more than twenty miles away. But you, you were here. Right in front of him.

“Wait a minute…” Negan’s pointer shakes lightly by his temple, his mind turning curiously. “You.” He said, shooting his finger in the direction of your chest.

His smile, mischievous as ever, only grew wider as a moment passed and he made his realization: “You’re the one with that- tight- grip!” He balled his raised hand into a fist as he said it. A slight snicker came after, proud of his entendre. “My men were tryna put Daryl in the trunk and you latched onto his foot like it was your dying- act- which—” you attempt to lessen the startle in your eyes at his upward hitch in tone, “—it most certainly could have been.”

Negan comes closer now, his face nearing your own, “But you know better now, right?”

Obviously, you did not.

Or you would have stayed home, not given him the chance to remember you as he said he would after your nails could no longer claw into Daryl’s ankle. He was thrashing too much and Negan’s men pushed you away; they were too strong together against the two of you. They kicked dirt in your face for it, held a gun to your head until Negan told them to stop. His point was made with your two friends he had killed, no need for another— especially not one who amused him like you had just done.

‘DAYUM. She is surprisingly strong!’ He had yelled, ignoring the weeping faces of you and the group kneeling in a line on the ground; sweat, blood, and tears dripping everywhere. ‘And I do like ‘em loyal…’ He had given you a once over while telling his men, ‘Hands off, gentlemen,’ and before returning his attention back to Rick, he added, ‘I’ll keep my eye on you.’

And he did.

You made an impression.

Now you’ll pay.

Rick should have told you why he wanted you to stay with Judith. He remembered what Negan said too. He remembered what Negan said to everyone. He couldn’t forget. But maybe it didn’t matter. It was only the start of Negan’s day here. Maybe he would have found you anyway.

Rick would feel it was all his fault nonetheless, but all you could think about is how truly, it was your own, and no one’s at all.

The sun allows glints of wickedness to sparkle in the whites of Negan’s teeth as he continues imparts his demand, “From now on, don’t stop me when I’m giving an order, okay?” It’s like you can hear him underlining his words just with his darkened voice. Turning his waist, he extends his hand to everyone as he finishes, “And that goes for all of you.”

You force your face to remain leveled as he meets your eyes again, that cheshire look returning directly toward you. He curls his head to the side, whispering near your profile, “So… you’re his girl, huh?”

Your mouth becomes slightly agape. You don’t even realize it before you can try to close it. He asked the question of aversion, or at least that’s what you assumed it was to Daryl.

You knew it was just his way, that speaking about things like this might have not been his strong suit. Besides, there were more things to worry about almost all the time, but it still hurt to know that when asked, the only complete and honest answer there could be was no.

Your eyes trail down slowly, desperate to avoid his, and Daryl’s face— a few feet away from you— turning to the side, looking at nothing. He could not hear what was being asked, but maybe Rick did, Rosita and Gabriel too. It was unclear, but their eyes prodded with more tension, more worry, Daryl could register that, and even more so, he could not stand Negan’s face that close to yours; he was probably trying to make an advance on you, scare you, or both. He pretends not to care, but ultimately it’s useless. Negan detects your expression and turns to look at Daryl’s; he notices both failing attempts at impassivity.

“Oh,” he muses, voice returning to its normal volume, “or not, my bad…. I guess that does make more sense though.” He speaks louder now, casually, like he’s a close friend consoling you about your boy troubles, “I personally haven’t been able to hold a conversation with the guy either, and I’m just tryna be friends.”

Daryl was right. Negan was weaseling his way in. He snarls because of it.

Only Dwight hears this and sends him a warning glare.

You feel the sweat beading from your hairline to the nape of your neck. The danger felt from Negan’s presence was as thick as the sun’s heat that shone directly on the cemetery grove. It’s hard to look up and especially to look at him directly for that long as if he truly was the fire in the sky, so you look down again.

Negan pats your shoulder sympathetically, his hand then going to hold up your chin, his thumb tracing your jaw softly.

It makes Daryl’s arms twitch and his stance jerks forward, but he’s pushed back, Dwight beating him on the chest. It’s only once but you can hear it, everyone heard it.

It only makes Negan’s grin become more sly because— there it is— a reaction; an answer. It makes what he’s about to do that much more sweet: “Fuck, darlin’. I’m sorry. Idiot,” he tisks. Then more quietly he adds, “I’m not one though.”

This time it’s for sure: Rick caught that, and Rosita too. They give each other an alarming look as Negan continues to trail over your dispirited form, like a wilted flower. His hand lowers back down to your shoulder, then trails to your arm, to the elbow, and then off of you entirely.

Despite the feeling of Lucille under his grasp telling him he shouldn’t, Rick urges himself to speak before Negan says what they all know is coming. “Negan,” he starts, swallowing the slight shake in his voice, “would you like to see the pantry—”

“Did I ask you to speak, Rick?” Negan states, his frame still positioned in front of you. “I’m thinkin’ here… I’m thinkin’… particularly, that you should come with me.”

Daryl makes a sound that you couldn’t hear, for Dwight was already barking a “Shut up,” at him. Only the swat he gives to Daryl’s shoulder is what is once again heard by all.

You almost choke on your gasp, but you hold it in. Only letting out the faintest sound as you ask, “What?”

“You heard me,” he plainly says. “I mean, what do you even do here anyway?”

You almost felt embarrassed to answer.

“No, I’m askin’. Seriously. Does Rick actually utilize you?”

As you begin, your voice is still quiet, “I… I work in the garden, with the produce… I help tutor the kids… I go on runs, gather supplies. I cook. Help with weapons maintenance, I—” you stop, realizing your grocery list of jobs probably sounds pathetic to him, you’re like a chore boy, “— I do a lot. But everyone does.”

“Hm,” Negan responds, playing with his nails nonchalantly. Your thoughts come to fruition with his next words, “So you’re just everyone’s helper?”

He noticed the sad offense emanating from your eyes, so he raised his hands, “And those are important things to do, I mean it. It must mean you know quite a bit from everyone, that’s smart, and there’s no trouble in it. But… I saw you. I think you can do more.”

“How?” You can still only gasp out your words. “I’m not Maggie. And she’s not here.”

“No.” He brings up one finger, “But you’re clever,” you look at him confused as he brings up his middle finger to join the first, “and quick on your feet, that I now know.” A third and fourth finger comes up, “You’re strong, you’re loyal— things I’ve stated before.” Then the fifth he says with a smug smile, “And you’re a looker, I must admit.” He moves his hand to one side of his mouth, pretending to secretly tell you, “But that’s just a plus,” he winks. “And more importantly, it seems to me that just like most people in Prick’s community, you are undervalued and not paid attention to whereas I see potential.” He says it all so simply, he truly believes he’s offering you so much better that he finally ends by saying: “Hm. Yeah. I think you’ll be much better off with me.”

And so, with no true goodbyes said, in a van you went after Negan’s visit was done. A different one from Daryl’s, of course. Taken away from the first home you had in ages.

Before the trunk door closed, Negan gave you parting words: “You see?” He had said, “I told you I’d remember you, didn’t I?”

The words rang in your ears for the entire ride as they still do now, even more or less than two months later as you sit in his room.

Your heartbeat started to rise little by little as time went on and he hadn’t arrived. With the window allowing you to escape into thought, you were left to think about the last couple of days, and specifically, the last time you were in here:

You were sitting with him on his bed. You had asked if you could talk about anything other than the world you two lived in now, and surprisingly, he obliged. It was nice. Sometime later, he had finally opened that locked drawer.

You heard him suck his teeth, what he was getting seemed lost, which allowed you to take a closer peek inside.

There was a picture of a woman. The first wife? The only real one? You couldn’t tell and you wouldn’t ask, it would have been too much. You didn’t even get a good look at the woman anyway— part of her face was covered and he was fast. But he saw your eyes, so you decided to take note of the books you caught a glimpse of, pretending it was the only thing you saw. You try to think of something to say… It did make sense he was a reader, at least even mildly if that was all it was. The way he describes his ideals, his persuasiveness, his diction— it impressed you, even if you disagreed with a lot of it. It was almost ironic that the only cover you saw was of a dictionary, the more valuable ones probably hidden under. “Is that where you get all your big boy words from?” You asked.

“Some of them,” he joked back, composing himself.

It was strange to almost catch him off guard. It was so unlike him to allow it, but what happened next felt even more surprising.

Whatever he got from the drawer was enclosed in his hand. He put the free one on top of the other as he started, “Now… I don’t want you thinking I’m growing soft on you. I just thought you deserve it because—” and then his voice fades. Even Negan, the ever curse-filled wordsmith, was finding it hard to describe in any other way that he was pleased with something as absurd as you not trying to escape anymore. He knew you would probably think that was the only reason for a gift, but then he opted for something that even you couldn’t help but know was equally true, “You don’t seem to proactively hate me anymore. You’re here. I appreciate it, so I wanted to,” he says sincerely. “That’s all.”

Negan opened his hand, resting the piece in your palm— it was a locket; lovely and rusted floral engravings all over it.

You felt sad that you thought it was beautiful, and even worse for knowing the reasons why he was giving it to you. No wonder his voice had faltered.

You remember the soft shock and awe on your face, how you said thank you and how your face felt so hot when you said it, how he asked you to turn, and how you looked at him from behind you after he put the piece on. He was so close and it felt like he was coming closer. You don’t remember if that part was real, but you can see it so clearly that it must have been. Unfortunately, the only thing you remember for certain is that knock at the door that sent Negan away to handle whatever was going on downstairs.

Had you almost let him kiss you? Would you have liked it? Are you the most deplorable person for even thinking that while Daryl was somewhere else locked up at the time?

“I see they delivered my message.”

You return from your daze, your startle leaving as soon as it comes.

It was just him. There Negan finally was.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to just come in. The door was unlocked.”

“I knew the meeting was gonna go longer than expected; thought you might as well make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to you, “which I see you did, and no—“ you were getting up from his bed, “it’s fine.” Negan sets Lucille near the door. He walks over to you, sitting down on the edge of his bed as well. There is a bit of distance between you two.

“You know, I came back the other day,” he informs, “I was actually going to talk to you last night, but then I heard you tried to leave. Again.” His eyebrows furrow, “We still on that?” He asks. “Thought we had a breakthrough the other night.”

“But after Carl—“

“—Carl,” he interjects, “came here all by his badass self, and for that, I did not lay even my pinky fuckin’ finger on him.” His hand goes to his chest, “I even took him home like a gentleman. And after I got here and found out they put you in a cell without supper, I had you back in your bed before midnight yesterday, so I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”

“Seriously?” Your incredulity is hidden under the softness of your voice as you say it, but it’s cracking.

“As a heart attack. It’s your ex-people who don’t listen. At least I was nice this time.”

You sigh heavily, docility officially fading. You shake your head with a slight chuckle, “That’s hard to believe. Especially if you were gone for most of the day. I know what that means. You had whatever the fuck your version of fun is.”

He grits his teeth, holding his words back. You’ve gotten a little too comfortable with the back talk, and you especially shouldn’t be saying anything after the night you had yesterday, but he allows it.

This time.

Of course, he didn’t like you leaving, but he rather that it was Daryl who escaped than you. And based on the bruises: one on the side of your head, one high on your shoulder— he imagines you might have gotten pushed against a wall— and the light ones that littered in a couple of spots on both your arms— he could tell his men must have been rough with you as they brought you back. He didn’t like that; therefore, he lets you quip. Someone would be getting their own bruises for it some time later anyway. He would take your smartass mouth out on them to cover for it.

“Maybe,” he finally says. “Nothing was undeserved though.”

You breathe in, the back and forth was no use. “What happened yesterday?” You asked, losing the sarcasm. Your eyes peered into his for honesty, hoping to skip the sly replies and get to the truth. “Just tell me what happened at home.”

Home. You knew better than to use that word. In fact, you have just stopped using that word. He let out an exasperated laugh, but skipped the lecture. “You want the truth? Or just the SparkNotes?”

You roll your eyes lightly. You probably don’t even notice you did it. Despite the situation being discussed, it makes Negan’s head turn endearingly— your tone of voice, the things you say, the way you react to him… you still don’t realize how fresh you’ve gotten with him, how comfortable. But he sees it.

“Alright. Well, Spencer’s gone.” He reveals offhandedly, replying to your silence.

Your eyes do not widen, you know what gone means. You simply nod and try to not think about how the now-cleaned bat most likely looked before.

“And don’t tell me that you care,” he says, pretending to interject to your continuing silence. “You gotta know he was a small dick nepo-prick, right?”

You bite the inside of your lip, shaking your head slightly. You won’t give in to a cheap joke even if it was pretty accurate, so he beckons you by name, “C’mon, that was funny.”

Still, you give him nothing.

He sighs; taking off his leather; and sits near you on the bed, his hands cupping the ledge. “Thought we were finally over this quiet thing.”

“A lot has happened this week.”

“Like…” he prodes. He would only talk about it if you brought it up.

Your eyes shut tightly before opening again. You didn’t want to say it, but you had to. “You know what. Daryl.”

He states the fact plainly, “Daryl left you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Your voice is fierce now. You can’t believe it. You won’t. “He’s not that kind of person and this isn’t an easy place to get out of— I obviously know that— he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I know,” he jeers, “but he did and he didn’t bring you with him. Even though you were found trying to find his cell. That’s some real idiotic bullshit right there, isn’t it? From both of you.”

You glared at him hotly, you wouldn’t give it up, but unfortunately you had no rebuttal. Both of you would just continue on with the same argument, the conversation going nowhere. And not because either side knew they were completely right; in truth, neither of you actually knew what happened the other day. But in this regard, you felt there was no other choice: you believed in Daryl fully.

Because he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Right?

You continue shaking your head, trying to find something to say in retaliation as you feel your sureness withering. Separating you two was the smartest tactic. You now have nothing to hold onto. “He wouldn’t,” you repeat pathetically, “I don’t believe you.” Unfortunately it’s not quite enough, so he continues with a rant you know all too well.

“You don’t believe me?” He cups the ends of the bed more tightly, positioning himself closer to you. “When I’m the one who gave you the safest roof? Secure food, clean water, access to all these pretty dresses, which, I know you’ve become accustomed to—” and here it comes— “I saved you!”

Saviors and their “saving,” you sneered at it. What bullshit. “You didn’t save me.”

“But I gave you someone to talk to… Huh?” He taunts, waiting for your response but nothing comes. He uses it to his advantage, “You’re quiet cause you know it’s true.”

But you know something too. He says it before you can.

“Or fuck, maybe I just gave myself someone to talk to.”

You pretend you can’t hear the earnesty in it. “Stop,” you scoff. “Don’t treat me like I’m special. I was the second choice.”

“I think with my dick sometimes. You’re the only choice.”

You start to shake your head, your face is flushed; scared, hot, and a little bit of something else that you refuse to let out. Then the tears come— the room feels so big and you two are so close and there are so many feelings you’re trying to push down. “It doesn’t matter,” you say wearily, “You took me. And you took him. You hurt him, I saw his face.” Your voice begins to tremble, almost in unison with the tears that peak out on your eyelids. “And that outfit you put him in. He didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“Stop,” he warns.

“You didn’t even let me see him.”

“He doesn’t notice you.”

“You don’t know us.”

“I know you.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know you’re not happy… What about the other night?”

You ignore him, shaking your head: “You hurt my friends.”

“What about the other night?” He persists, his voice slowly growing louder. “What about every time I let you sit in on my meetings? What about how you have your own room? What about how I actually talk to you?”

“You let him get hurt—” the tears start to fall, there is a quiver in your voice but you still match his near shout, “And you almost killed Carl—”

“Shut up.”

“And you killed Abraham—”

He warns you by name.

“And Glenn! Maggie’s husband—”

“SHUT. UP.”

“The baby won’t have a father, Negan!”

His voice is low and grim as he demands you to “Stop. Now.” Negan grabs the sides of your neck as he says his next line, it comes out brisk and harsh and heavy like his touch as his hand wraps around your neck. “I knew you lied to me.”

Your voice is hushed, feeling his lightly pressed thumbs on the front of your throat as you speak shakily, “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Maybe not since you’ve been here, but did you hear yourself right now?” He pauses, allowing you a second to let it sink in. “You just fucking proved it.”

Your eyes widen at the realization. The baby, you had said. Fuck.

“See? Told you, you were smart.”

And he did. Brave Maggie. Clever you. That was his reason number one.

“You have to get why.”

His voice remains eerily calm. “I do.”

Another tear falls and his thumb presses its pad under your eye, spreading a tear on your face as the next one comes down.

“Negan…” you say. It’s a mix of a warning and a plea but you can’t tell for what, both fear and fire mix together because of his proximity. His touch and stare was dangerous, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was pleased he caught your slip up, thrilled to see you cry, but there was also something about it— his touch, his eyes— that was equally intoxicating. There was something more tender there as well, something you didn’t want to turn away from, he wasn’t as rough as you thought. Nonetheless, your answer to these conflicting feelings are ones of neglect, you stay your course. “You’re a bad person,” you tell him.

“Please,” he whispers back, “just stop.”

His eyes glaze over your features with an intent look you’ve only seen once before, it was that other night in fact. It’s almost gentle, but maybe it’s just pity, so you don’t let it stop you. “But you are.”

“Stop,” he pleads, then it’s hushed, “just stop…” he says, “just stop.” Then he starts coming closer. “Tell me to stop.”

And you know you should get up.

You should, you should, you should, you know it but— you don’t.

You breathe into it.

His lips latch onto yours; your heads tilt; you lock perfectly.

Everything after happens fast, the instantaneous mess of it all: he waited and waited, and of course he would. He was waiting for you to see it, to feel it. He thought the other night was the breakthrough, but no, it was tonight, it was how you didn’t back away just now.

His hand goes lower on your leg, nearing your knees so he can get under your dress, trailing up your thigh, reaching the inner side that’s pressed up to the other one.

His hand on your neck brings you in closer, traveling up to under your chin and jaw, holding you so tight, but so sweetly. All you felt was surprise. He slips his tongue in, it's deep and intense. He brings a velvet warmth that you’d never expect from him. It was paradoxical; a fiery heaven of a feeling.

He starts rubbing your clit over your panties, kissing his way up to your ear as he does so to ask, “When’s the last time someone’s fucked you?”

Your lips are parted, but you cannot speak, so he continues.

“Daryl never did, did he?” He asks in a muffle, continuing to kiss and kiss. “Who was before him?”

Again, no verbal response, but your breath does hitch at his touches. He continues to draw circles, your wetness now slowly dampening the material, making it easier for his finger to place itself between your folds, so he dips his hand under the band. That and his whispering makes you feel a kind of spark that shoots all the way down to where his fingers are touching. The first press of his thumb without any material in between forces a sudden heat to rise that instantly causes a flush of liquid to slip down your hole, it feels messier than it actually is until his fingers go lower spreading it everywhere. You were much wetter than you thought, and you can’t help how good it feels, how easily you’re responding to it.

Negan calls your name, holding in every cocky reply he wanted to give about how wet you are— he needed an answer to his question first. So he looks you in the face, making sure he has your full attention, “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” His words are meant more genuinely than his tone implies. “Not at all during any of this?”

You shake your head small and slowly. No.

He laughs pitifully, he doesn’t mean it rudely, but he just can’t help it. A touch-starved baby at the mercy of his fingertips? “Well, god-damn.”

He felt like a rich man.

He begins to kiss your lips again, now pumping his fingers into you. Your walls tighten. It’s only two, but they’re his. It’s new and exciting. His kiss makes you lean into the bed, the force of his head and tongue going deeper into your mouth guiding you to lay flat as his fingers still play.

“I hope you know how fucking soaked you are,” he finally says. “You need it so bad that it feels this damn good with me only touching you like this?” You can’t help the way your body jerks up and he can’t help but be smug about it. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Your eyes grow vicious at his grin, you almost want to hit him, but you can’t. All you can do is suppress your moan into a quiet whine. He’s so magnetic— his touch feels forbidden but so right; his voice so alluring; and his midas touch pulls you deeper and deeper into a trance, you might as well be turning into gold. Other than the involuntary reactions your body makes as his fingers continue going into your hole, now slowly going in and out as his eye gloss over your body in your favorite dress that you wore the most, you’re left paralyzed; subjected to following his lead. Wherever he wanted to go next, you’d let him.

He takes his fingers from inside of you and you look up quickly. You made sure not to whine at the loss of contact but your eyes couldn’t hide your dismay. All he did was smile and quickly lick away the wetness.

“Just takin’ this off,” he tells you as his hands cross over to the ends of his white t-shirt, slipping it off and onto the ground, one of those small rope chains hitting his chin as he does so.

It was only his shirt but you’re struck by him: to see more of his ever present sun-kissed skin felt almost godly. He was pretty lean, not too lanky like his stature, but not too broad either. Light curves of muscles adorned his chest and shoulders and arms. His chest and abdomen were slightly hairy, a tattoo placed on the upper right side and you finally saw the other tattoos placed on his upper arms more clearly. They looked nice on him. He was so handsome. You felt more wetness peeking out from down below. He looked so big above you.

“Like what you see, beautiful?” That typical snark still laced his voice, but there was a genuinity to it as well. He wanted you to like what you saw; to like him.

His words make your face hot, eyes casting off to the side. It was easier to talk to him when you were mad at him, when it was about home, even just small talk about the Sanctuary; this felt… different. Just like the other night.

You had almost already forgotten that his charm worked this way too; in a kinder way— when his eyes are wide, when his smile is soft, when he calls you sweet names without the irreverent, quip-filled pretenses.

It made you have all the words on the tip your tongue: how handsome and sexy you could say he is, how much you liked his tattoos, even all the greys that littered his hair and beard l, or how, if you had to admit it, you liked that dumb shit-eating grin of his, but all you can do is lightly smile, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at your bashfulness. You finally nod. “Yes,” you say, rolling your eyes, “maybe.”

He starts undoing his belt with a laugh of his own, “Oh I know you’re a fuckin liar if you think I’m a maybe.”

As his pants drop to the floor he takes each hand and places them over your shoulders on the bed to ask, “May I take off the lady’s dress?”

Your eyes widened, your open mouth only letting out a sweet, surprised, and whispered, “Huh?”

“What? Didn’t expect me to be a gentleman?”

You try to compose yourself, calm the fire you feel all throughout your body, and pretend you haven’t already given in completely right when he kissed you. “I just didn’t expect it would be all this slow.”

He laughs inwardly, glad to see the personality he came to know come back after all that happened these past two days. “Just give me a moment,” he jokes back. “You think I’m gonna waste seeing the reaction of you watching my cock spring out just so I can shove it in fast? ” He comes closer, his voice lowers now, “Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re just some doll or a fuck-piece.” The groundedness of his voice is something you’ve never heard before. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already stated that I see you. And truly, I think you’re damn gorgeous.”

Your eyes are stars. How can you even react? He thinks you’re gorgeous and you’re taken aback. “Thank you,” is all you can quietly say.

“You’re welcome.” He responds with eyes that have never looked so honest, so soft. You get lost in them and he has to pull you back, returning to his question, “May I?”

You nod, quick and excitedly, “You can take it off, Negan.”

He grabs your hands and stands you up. You look up at his face and his fingers move to the ends of your dress, pulling it over your head.

The tips of his fingers trace your chest and stomach lightly, delicately touching your skin as if it’s porcelain. He grabs your waist and travels up to take off your bra, then pushes down your wet underwear.

Negan’s cock stirs at the sight, you’re so pretty and so ready for him. “And I didn’t even need to see it to know I was right.” Just like he said, you’re gorgeous.

Negan pushes down his boxers. Cock springing up. Big and veiny with a red tip. He was itching to get inside of you.

And there you were, eyes and mouth open wide, scared and excited all at once. You were intimidated but surprisingly not scared if it would fit or not. You would let him do anything to get himself inside of you, even if it hurt.

“There it is,” he says, pleased with your reaction. He comes closer to your ear now, pushing you down by the hips against the bed once more. “And trust me, if you like that, you won’t fucking believe how I’ll feel inside of you. Just wait.”

“I…” He wanted to make you feel good, you’re almost speechless. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” He says, and then he places himself above you, admiring your glistening folds as he spreads your legs. He already lines himself up, he could look at you forever but he is in no desire to wait any longer. He pushes in. It’s a bit fast, a tight fit, it must have hurt you, but he’s too excited, he can’t help it. He lets out a hum and then a groan at the feeling of your walls enclosing him, and he hears you gasp at his size. He starts to pump into you immediately.

His face hovers over yours. His eyes study your features and he realizes he’s never been this close. Of course he hasn’t, he’s never fucked you, made love to you. He’s just now noticing the way your eyelashes curl, what birthmarks adorn your upper body or not, and how many earrings you may have, but most importantly, he’s noticing the way you react to him: the way your eyebrows might scrunch, or what elicits more pants and squirmings, the way your lips tug tightly against each other or open into ovals and circles depending on what he does, how he thrusts, where he touches, how he moves.

It all makes him slowly speed up. He can’t take it anymore. He kisses your neck and jaw— some kisses sweet, then others that are rough and he begins to pump and pump. Faster and faster.

“Oh,” you choke out before moaning, “ah.”

He continues, loving every facial expression you make until he finally speaks. “Alright. I gave you a break— now tell me how it feels?”

All you can do is whine incoherently.

“Excuse me?” He says more sternly. You know what he wants.

“Negan,” you whine again.

He stops. “Yes?” He asks all too knowingly. “Gonna use your words and tell me how it feels?”

You sigh, taking the hand placed on your hip and moving up toward the ends of your stomach, all the way up to your left breast. You let his hand rest there, feeling the heat and your quickened heartbeat radiating from the area. “You… you feel so good.” Your eyes are watery, “Amazing.”

You got him there, and he almost can’t help but start hammering it in, but then he remembers… he doesn’t have to help it. He could do whatever he wanted, so he does. He squeezes your breast, grinning wildly as he gives you one hard thrust. “Damn right,” he tells you, hearing your yelp before pounding fast.

You had always been quiet but he never quite saw you at a loss for words as you are now. Your mouth is completely open, your eyes threatening to roll back further, making sounds he’s sure you’ve never heard from yourself before. Have you even had it this fast? This big? This great? He knows it couldn’t be. And he’s the one who gets to show you. His eyes gloss over you with pride at the thought.

He grabs your chin to get you to look at him, “Who’s fucking you this good?”

You moan. You weren’t used to this. Your eyes roll back completely as he pounds into you with eye contact.

It makes him groan loudly, his jerks into you, letting out his own moan from the sight. “Oh fuck, baby. Don’t play with me.”

You give in, force yourself to speak, you can’t let this end. “You, Negan!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes!” It’s so hard to speak, it comes out so pathetically.

“Who's making you feel like no one else?”

“You, Negan, it’s you!” Your moan turns into a pant, “It’s you, only you.”

He comes closer, his nose touches yours. His movements slow, but they don’t stop. He’s rocking into you now. “Only me?”

You don’t even think, “Who else? It's only you.”

His teeth sparkle, “Only me.”

“Only you, daddy.”

He laughs cockily, “So Daddy’s making you feel this good?”

“Yes, daddy. So good.”

You feel the groan he makes travel right to your clit, making it throb.

He kisses you, the corners of your lips to your cheek and neck and collarbones and back up again.

He restarts his pumping into you but his head remains close to yours. You decide to wrap one of your arms around his neck, pulling his hair, and the other hand travels down his back, holding him close.

Negan breathes you in, his head near the crux of your neck, hearing every little sweet sound you make that he’s never heard before. It all drives him wild, but then his eyes open. A question comes out that surprises you both: “Am I ruining your life right now?” He quietly asks.

“That doesn’t matter,” you say, breathing heavily from his touches, your eyes are still closed.

“I think it does.”

“You make me feel like no one ever has…” The bliss you feel from his current soft strokes and touches making it hard to speak, your voice is so light. “At least I got to experience it.” You open your eyes now, fingers tracing the cross drawn into his arm, “At least I got to see the real you.”

Your eyes say more than your words do. There’s a yearning and a sadness, an answer to what feels right in this moment, but an insight that there are doubts that could creep up later the more that you think about it.

“Just keep going,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”

You want to see him, you do see him. His head connects with yours again, and you moan into each other's mouths as he keeps pumping. Your legs come up to his hips and you’re not afraid to be loud anymore, to tell him how good it feels, how much you like him.

He takes your hands and places them over your head, crossing his fingers with your. It’s so pure, so lovely even when he’s going so hard down below. You hear your breaths heavy and your bodies slapping and the bed shaking.

You think about his skin, and his scratchy beard against yours, and the way you hate how he can make you smile by making the most ridiculous and raunchy jokes, and the way you love his voice, the way you can’t help but to like the way he cares for you.

“Negan,” you say weakly.

“Yes,” he responds intently.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “I think I can.”

“Come for me,” he encourages, moving one of his hands down to rub your clit. “C’mon.”

“I’m gonna come,” you repeat, edging yourself on. Bucking up at his thrusts and his fingers.

“You can do it. Be a good girl. Do it for me.”

You swear the fireplace blazes louder and bigger, lighting up the whole room as you yell out, moaning once more as you orgasm.

Negan finally breaths out after, holding in for so long, and comes after you. His hands place themselves flat on the bed and he pushes in fast, riding out the high.

He scoops you up immediately, holding you in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go.

You two stay there for a moment until you look up. His hand caresses your face, “What is it?”

“I…” you were embarrassed to admit that you weren’t ready for it to all be over yet. “Can I ride you?”

A wiley smile appears on his face. He has to admit, he’s a little shocked you’re ready to go again, but he’d never turn it down. “Well, of course you can, babygirl.”

He flips you over, completely ready, but instantly, you become hesitant, almost overwhelmed. He was the world, not you, yet you were now above him. All the allowance to touch him anywhere you want at your disposal.

He puts his hands under his head, arms flexing. An ever wide smile present as he waits for you to begin. “You asked for it. Don’t get shy on me now.”

Your eyes grow excited again, deciding not to hold back, and you start to rock against him. You place you hands on his chest, feeling him up, touching his biceps, hands going over his tattoos— you could stare at them, at him, for hours. You honestly think you’d lick his whole body if he’d let you. And of course he probably would. To feel big and proud and irresistible while you look like a little desperate freak? You wouldn’t even have to ask him twice. Thinking about it and about how full his cock is making you feel, stretching and reaching all the right places, makes you moan and whine. You bucked your hips wildly, humming and giving him “mmms” because of how yummy it feels. You could do this forever.

“Ah- uh- Negan,” you moan and your stomach caves as you whine again and you hurl forward, continuing to rock but your pace is faltering. It’s becoming too hard and Negan can tell so he takes you by the hips, helping you move. First continuing to let your grind and then pushing you up and down his shaft so you can bounce on him. You push yourself up again, hand on his chest, pushing against it and you bounce along with his help. This was fun. You try to go faster and faster. It felt like being a kid on a playground.

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Look at who you’re fucking, sweetheart.”

So you do, and moan at the sight of him, “Ohmygod,” you say. “You’re so handsome, Negan.”

He's so proud of you. Enjoying your actions, enjoying your noises. He groans as he sees your breast bounce and it makes you squeeze against him.

“Good girl,” he coos, “finally listening when you’re spoken to, about to make yourself come on daddy’s cock again.”

He starts to rub your clit again and you continue to bounce. It almost hurts because of how overstimulated you’ve become but you don’t tell him to stop. Your hands come to reach the headboard, helping you bounce harder. He tells you again how much of a good girl you are, how he loves that you’re not stopping, then he tells you how dirty and desperate you are for wanting him again after he already made you come. But he’s obsessed. This is all he’s ever wanted since the day he brought you here. His hands trail up from your hips to your waist and breast and back down again. There is nothing more he wants than to fuck you or for you fuck him.

You look down. You both notice your necklace still wrapped around your neck, almost nearing between your breasts, bouncing along with all of you. It reminds you of why you're here, why he gave it to you. It makes you have the realization he had… Was he ruining your life? Were you ruining your own? But how could you be when it all feels this good? It was completely screwed up, but everything felt so magnificently brilliant. His touch is everything, his voice is everything, his body is everything. It makes your hips stutter, it makes you moan, and at last, it makes you come again. You ride your high, going and going and going until you fall into his chest. His hands come to hold you tight thereafter.

Unthinkable bliss is all that is felt for a long moment… then… your head turns to the window. You remember what is out there and what isn’t in here.

A tear falls down your cheek and he realizes what’s happening when it falls onto his shoulder.

It hurts him now. To see you cry. It’s not fun anymore. You feel it, yes. You see what he saw, it’s true. But you aren’t really his wife. You’re nothing that is his at all. You both know that as well.

It takes you a long time to speak, you have to force yourself, but you do. “You have to let me go now.” You say it sternly but there is a sadness to it; a small part of you wants to not mean it even though you completely do, even though you do wish to stay here, to be enveloped by his embrace— you simply cannot forget.

“Mm,” he shakes his head, remaining leveled, “you know too much.”

“I barely know anything,” you say. “And not that anything I do know matters. Knowing the way around the Sanctuary isn’t going to help anyone when I know there is no way we could actually get in…. And what’s more important anyway is that I’m not changing my mind and you’re not either.”

“I’m not.”

“And I can’t. I wouldn’t. And they’re not going to. Never…. And if some of them die…” A whimper almost leaves you but you manage to swallow it, “I have to be by their side, Negan. I can’t only hear about it. I… I can’t see it next to you.”

His lips are pressed firm, his jaw is fixed and tight, almost like he’s grinding down on his teeth. The breath he takes through his nose could be a heavy sigh if he opened his mouth, but he doesn’t. He keeps it all in.

You words and their weight hang in the air for a moment before he finally speaks: “One of my guys that watches the armory doors has a shift that ends at 6:00 am… but at 5:50 I’m going to come up to him and tell him he gets off 10 minutes early that day, that I’ll wait for the next person to come.” He lets his words hang in the air for a moment, your confusion spirals before he keeps going. “It’ll be fucking weird, but he’ll look dumb as shit if he questions me, so he won’t. Then when he’s out of sight, I’ll leave. The next person is coming right at 6. That’s all you get. 10 minutes. A little less really.”

Your eyes round slowly as the stun continues to sink in. He’s… letting you leave.

“You take one gun and one knife. Just one. Don’t make it noticeable. I’m going to check. Then you go out of the back door that’s inside.” He didn’t have to tell you the way. “It should be easy, I know you’ve tried it before.”

You look down, taking in all he says, but then he turns you face to meet his, “If anyone sees you, I’m gonna have to make a show of it when they bring you back. Not what I want. But if I get there before you get out, maybe 5:58, just cause I’m an asshole, just to see you one last time… And if I do, I’m gonna turn you around and you’re stayin’. Fair?”

You nod. It’s small and light. You don’t question any of it, you can’t. “8 minutes.” You respond.

“8 minutes.” His voice is neutral, but underneath there was a tinge of solemnity to it. “8 minutes,” he says under his breath.

“What about now?”

“Now?” He asks. He didn’t think about it. He assumed you would want to go after this, after you got what you wanted. “Well,” he turns to his nightstand, “right now it’s half past 10.” He stares at you for a moment, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. This whole moment has felt so quiet, both eerie and gentle. You still weren’t used to the latter from him, even after what just happened. “You can go if you want. Sleep in your bed for one more night, or…” he stops, “You can stay with me, if you’d like.” His sigh is short and whispered but you both hear it, you feel its weight. “It’s your choice.”

You stare at each other for a moment. Your eyes trail all of his face and the arm that is still holding your own, adorned with all the tattoos and skin you had just fallen for. You wanted to study them and hold onto him forever. And his eyes: they said so much— there were so many little inflections, ones that you had finally read, and so many others you’ve yet to decipher. You desired to know him, but you had to go, so all you decided to do was to hold him. For now, you chose to stay, and hoped that your embrace would transfer the fact that the only reason it would be hard to leave is because of him and only him. You would remember this forever. “8 hours till 8.”

“8 hours till 8, kid.”

You close your eyes tight and nuzzle into his chest, A peace you had never known in the Sanctuary finally subsumed you. You feel free to finally tell him, “Thank you. I really do miss home.”

Home. There it is again. There was no malice in the way you said it, but there was still a pang from your melancholy words that made his heart throb. You missed home. And as peaceful as you looked, and as safely as you held onto him, your words reaffirmed that home was not here and it was not with him— no matter how you looked, and no matter the fact that you were allowing him to hold you for the night, to call you his. In the end, you were not.

He had to finally accept it.

“8 hours till 8,” are your last words until you finally drift to sleep. This would be your last and most tranquil night here. To you, it felt right, almost harmonious, albeit sad. This is how it was and how it was meant to be. You needed it.

But to him, it’s shattering. He doesn’t repeat the phrase back this time because, for once, he has nothing to say. The fire glow of the night has now withered into darkness.

You won.

He lost.

But both your hearts broke.

[yannawayne]

ii. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Mild sexual jokes, Making out AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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“Hey, I’m Jason. Don’t freak out, but I think he’s cheating on you.”

Damian’s protest was immediate and alarmed. “I am not! Todd!”

Jason waved a dismissive hand, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Pretty sure I saw him with some redhead just last week—”

In the background, the distinct clink of Damian’s katanas being unsheathed was audible. The phone jerked violently as the struggle intensified, Tim’s voice cutting in with panic. “Alright, alright! Don’t stab him! Here’s your phone back.”

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Monday, 11:15 PM - ???, Gotham City.

THE METAL DOOR GROANED as it was forced open, releasing a cloud of dust that sent you into a brief coughing fit. Selina chuckled softly, her figure silhouetted against the dim light filtering through the grime-coated windows. She stepped inside, her movements graceful, each footfall echoing in the vast emptiness of the warehouse.

"One of my safehouses," she explained, the door clanging shut with a heavy thud behind you both. "Secluded, off the grid."

The walls were lined with old crates and rusting metal shelves, their contents long forgotten. Selina flicked a switch, and a single, flickering bulb sputtered to life, casting a dim, yellowish hue over the room.

"We can lay low here for a while. Think of this as your personal hideout," she added, brushing dust off a table. "No one knows about this place—not even Batman."

You hummed in acknowledgment, your eyes scanning the room. The space had clearly fallen into neglect, the floor scattered with debris, and the windows fogged with years of grime. The overhead light flickered intermittently, casting shifting shadows that danced eerily across the walls.

Selina leaned against a stack of crates, her watchful eyes following you as you explored. She gave you a moment to take in the space, the silence between you filled only by the soft creaks of the old warehouse. Eventually, she pushed herself away from the crates, her steps almost silent as they pressed into the thick layer of dust that coated the floor.

Her hand found your shoulder, firm but reassuring, guiding you gently to the side. "Come on," she said. "I want to see something."

You followed her through the cluttered space, weaving between old barrels and rusting equipment until you reached a clearing. Here, the walls were less covered by debris. The area was bathed in a slant of sunlight streaming through a dirty skylight, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air.

Selina stopped and turned to face you, pointing to a wide stretch of wall. "Show me what you can do. Use those hands again."

"Sure," you replied with a nod, a faint smile attempting to mask your nerves. You shook out your hands, trying to rid yourself of any lingering nerves. "Seems easy enough."

You approached the wall, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. You placed your hand on the cold, rough surface, feeling it grip back. With a careful lift, you brought your other hand up and pressed it against the wall, then followed with your feet.

Before long, you were clinging to the surface, limbs spread wide. You began to climb, your start slow and careful, but as you settled into the rhythm, your confidence soared. You ascended effortlessly, and with a final leap, you swung up to hang from the ceiling, a playful grin spreading across your face as you looked down at Selina.

Selina craned her neck to watch you, a glint of pride in her eyes as she applauded slowly. 

"Not bad," she called up, warm and approving. "Now, let’s see if you can get down."

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the jump. Channeling the superhero landing techniques you’d seen on TV, you leapt from the ceiling, aiming for a smooth descent on your knees. But reality had other plans.

SLAM!

You landed with a jarring thud, your knees slamming into the floor with a loud slam. The shock shot up your legs, making you wince as pain flared through your joints. You let out a half-groan, half-laugh, collapsing to the floor in a heap and clutching your knees. 

“Oww, damn it,” you muttered, wincing as you rubbed your knees, trying to ease the sting. “Okay, superhero landings: they look badass, but they sure as hell don’t feel badass.”

Selina stifled a snort, a smirk playing at her lips as she watched you.

"You know," she drawled, "in real life, landing like that is a surefire way to mess yourself up." She arched an eyebrow, raising a finger. "Lesson one: don’t slam all your weight on your knees or legs. Roll with it and spread out the impact. Trust me, your joints will thank you."

With that, Selina moved to demonstrate. She climbed onto a low shelf, her posture perfect as she stood poised on the edge. With a graceful leap, she descended smoothly, her landing controlled. She rolled into a crouch, looking ready to spring into action. 

"See?" she said, brushing off imaginary dust with a smirk. 

You shot her a glare from where you were still hunched on the floor. "Okay, okay. I get it. No superhero landings."

Selina gave you an approving nod. "Exactly. Now let’s see if you can pull it off without turning me into a laughing mess."

"Alright, I'll give it another shot," you said, pushing yourself up. "But if I end up in a heap of broken crates, it's totally your fault."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Training with Selina was a crash course in everything you thought you knew but didn't. 

Parkour was the first hurdle—literally. 

Each day kicked off with stretches and warm-ups before diving headfirst into rolls, jumps, and twists. Selina made it look like an art form, smooth and effortless like she was swimming through the air. You, on the other hand, had a style that was less about grace and more about grit—rough around the edges, but uniquely your own. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. The city started to feel like your playground, and with every jump and scramble, you got better at making it your own.

Once you got a handle on the whole not-falling-on-your-face thing, Selina moved you on to flexibility training. Yoga quickly became your new frenemy. On the one hand, it was the calmest part of your day; on the other, you didn’t know it was possible to sweat so much while standing still. Then came gymnastics. Flips, spins, and handsprings made you feel like you’d signed up for a circus performance. You found yourself attempting gravity-defying moves that left you either soaring through the air or tangled in a heap on the mat.

Web practice was a whole different beast, mostly because Selina didn’t have much advice for swinging around the city like a manic Tarzan. The first few swings had you gripping the sides of buildings like a terrified cat. But after a while, something clicked. You stopped worrying about plummeting to your death and started enjoying the ride. Swinging through the air started to feel natural—like you were born to do it. 

Then there was hand-to-hand combat, where Selina decided bare-knuckle boxing was the way to go. Turns out, punching things with super strength was way harder than it looked. You didn’t just hit things; you obliterated them—cracks in the floor, dents in the walls, and one unfortunate punching bag that went on a one-way trip out the window.

And, of course, there was that time you got a little too cocky, tried to throw a fancy combo, and ended up clocking yourself in the face. That bruise was a harsh reminder that super strength was great—until you’re the one on the receiving end. 

Every one of these skills was drilled into you, over and over, until it was muscle memory.

Of course, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. There were days when you felt like you’d made zero progress and nights when your body ached like you’d been hit by a train.

Selina had a knack for pushing you to your limits—right to the brink, but never over. It was like she had some weird sixth sense for when you were about to break—she'd pull back, giving you just enough room to catch your breath before diving back in.

There was something oddly comforting about it too, like she was slowly molding you into something more, even if she had to drag you kicking and screaming the whole way.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 4:01 PM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City.

5 Days Later.

Right now, you were in your bedroom, the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains and casting a warm glow across the room. The clock on the wall ticked towards four, and according to your new training schedule, it was time for yoga.

You found yourself in mid-crow pose, balancing on your hands with your knees resting on your upper arms. A YouTube video played on the floor nearby, the instructor’s calming voice offering a steady stream of tips and encouragement.

“Focus on your breath,” the instructor advised. “Keep your core engaged and your gaze forward.”

You exhaled slowly, settling into the pose with a growing sense of ease.

Just as you were beginning to settle into the routine, your laptop rang with a FaceTime request. With a quick shift of weight to one hand, you reached over and tapped the screen of your phone to answer the call. You nudged the video to full screen with your free hand, giving your full attention to the incoming call.

Damian’s face appeared on the screen, blinking in surprise as he took in the sight of you. His hair was tousled, and he was dressed in a fitted black shirt that accentuated his physique. He was lounging in bed, surrounded by the comfortable chaos of a well-lived-in space: rumpled sheets, a few scattered books, and a delicate, ornate cup of chai karak on the nightstand. 

“Habibti. Are you... doing yoga?” he asked, a slight red tint on his ears

You tried not to grin too widely as you held the pose. “Yeah, believe it or not. It’s part of my new training routine.”

Damian’s eyebrows shot up, clearly surprised. His eyes briefly traced over the tensed-up muscle of your arms, a hint of admiration flickering in his gaze. “Training? I wasn’t aware you had an interest in such pursuits.”

You hummed softly, stretching out your legs with practiced ease, each movement a dance. Your body, defined and taut, seemed like a sculpted work of art against the soft light filtering through your bedroom. Damian’s gaze followed the elegant curve of your back, lingering over every contour as if he were trying to memorize each detail.

“Well, Selina's been pushing me to get better. Uh... self-defense and all. It’s been intense, but I’m actually enjoying it.”

Damian nodded slowly, his eyes never straying from you. His usually steely gaze softened into something warmer, almost embarrassingly dopey, with hearts practically swimming in those steamy forest greens. He shifted on his bed, fingers drumming absently on the edge as he continued to watch, utterly captivated.

You followed up with a few air push-ups, grunting slightly as you bent your arms down.

The effort seemed to spur Damian more than you’d expected. His cheeks flushed deeply, and he quickly raised his phone's camera to the ceiling, desperately trying to hide his flustered face. He had always admired strength and discipline—traits he prided himself on and valued in others.

After a moment of awkwardly staring at the ceiling, Damian cleared his throat and adjusted his position, attempting to appear nonchalant as he lowered the camera back down. His attempt at casualness failed miserably. He was about as subtle as a brick being thrown into a window when it came to how much he thought you were beautiful.

“Well, I must admit, I’m rather impressed. I didn’t expect you to exhibit such dedication.”

You completed your set of air push-ups and settled back on your heels, a satisfied grin lighting up your face. “Thank you. It’s been challenging, but I’m making progress. Mom’s a tough coach, but her methods are effective.”

Damian’s gaze softened as he watched you ruffle your damp hair with a towel, the warmth of the setting sun casting a golden halo around you. The light painted your face with a soft, ethereal glow, highlighting the contours of your cheeks and the sparkle in your eyes. He shifted, lying on his stomach with his face buried in a pillow, but his emerald eyes peered out with a look of pure adoration.

"You're beautiful."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, but you quickly cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “Thanks,” you replied, your voice betraying a hint of the fluttering emotions you were trying to hide.

Just as the moment settled, a loud crash shattered the calm. Damian flinched, his phone tumbling sideways, leaving you staring at the ceiling. Incoherent shouting and raucous laughter spilled through the background, punctuated by the unmistakable sound of someone barging in.

“Grayson! You insufferable, blundering imbecile! How many times must I tell you to knock before you manage to comprehend basic manners? You’re a barely tolerable nuisance, a wretched excuse for a brother. Get out before I lose my temper!”

Oh.

You snorted and continued to listen as more voices joined in.

“Oh, Damian’s got himself a little video call buddy. I hope you’re making a fool of my little brother, whoever you are.” A tuft of dark hair with a white streak appeared briefly before the phone was yanked away, giving you a downward view of someone’s face.

Tim’s grinning mug filled the screen next, and he gave you a lazy wave. “It’s his girlfriend.”

Before you could react, Damian’s voice erupted from somewhere off-screen. “Drake, give me my phone back this instant!”

Dick’s head popped into view next, his blue eyes the only part of him visible as he peered at you with a mischievous grin. “Y/N! Give me the phone. I wanna say hi too!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, waving to the two of them. “Hey, guys. Glad you could crash my call.”

Tim shrugged, still holding the phone. “Sorry about this. You know how it is here.”

Damian’s voice grew louder and more insistent, practically vibrating through the phone. “If you don’t give me my phone back right now, I will—”

Before he could finish, the screen shifted again. The phone wobbled as Damian wrestled for it and Tim tried to pull it back. In the background, Jason’s voice cut through with a snarky tone. “No way she’s actually real. I thought she was just a figment of his imagination.”

“Stop! Unhand it! None of you insipid fools have any concept of how to behave with respect!"

Jason managed to snatch the phone away with a triumphant smirk, his eyes narrowing as he took you in. Among Damian's brothers, he was the one you saw the least. You wouldn't be surprised if he didn't remember you. 

“Hey, I’m Jason. Don’t freak out, but I think he’s cheating on you.”

Damian’s protest was immediate and alarmed. “I am not! Todd!”

Jason waved a dismissive hand, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Pretty sure I saw him with some redhead just last week—”

In the background, the distinct clink of Damian’s katanas being unsheathed was audible. The phone jerked violently as the struggle intensified, Tim’s voice cutting in with panic. “Alright, alright! Don’t stab him! Here’s your phone back.”

Just as Tim was about to hand it over, Dick swooped in one last time, his face filling the screen with a very unflattering close-up of his mouth. “Wait! I didn’t get my turn!”

Damian’s screams and the scuffle of feet continued in the background. The phone changed hands again, this time revealing Alfred’s face as he peered down at the screen with a raised eyebrow.

“Say hi, Alfred,” Dick’s face appeared beside him, and the butler gave a warm smile.

“Good afternoon, Young Miss Kyle. I trust you’re well? We were all quite concerned after the incident at prom.”

You managed a small, sheepish smile, running a hand through your damp hair. “Thank you, Alfred. I’m doing much better now.”

Alfred nodded, his expression softening. “I’m glad to hear that. Please take care, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything. Master Bruce sends his good wishes as well.”

Dick’s grin widened as he gently nudged Alfred aside and took back the phone. “See, even Alfred wants you to come over. It’s unanimous! Right, Cass?”

The screen shifted again, briefly showing Cass giving a thumbs-up and nodding. You signed a quick "hi," and she responded with a warm smile.

There was a final chaotic burst of shouting, tangled limbs, flying fists, and laughter before the screen spun once more, the sound of a door slamming shut echoing. Damian’s grumbling face reappeared, his expression a mix of frustration and relief.

“Apologies for the disturbance,” he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s fine, Damian. Your family’s just... lively.”

Then, squinting with a playful grin, you added, “Is your shirt... ripped?”

Damian glanced down, noticing the tear in his shirt for the first time. The rip ran diagonally from his shoulder down to his ribs, exposing the defined contours of his muscles beneath. The golden light from the setting sun danced across his form, casting soft shadows that highlighted the ridges of his physique. His cheeks flushed.

“Typical,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Damian set his phone down and moved to his closet. The aftermath of the earlier chaos was evident: a pillow half off the bed, books slightly askew on the shelf, and one of his katanas leaning precariously against the wall.

You whistled as he pulled off his torn shirt, admiring the way his back muscles shifted and flexed with the movement. Damian glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. After a moment, he retrieved a clean black shirt, slipping it on. He picked up the phone again, his face coming back into view. 

“Better?” 

“Much better,” you replied, still smiling. “Though I wouldn’t have minded if you took a little longer.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but his expression was warm. “Idiot.”

He settled back down, setting his phone on his lap, which gave you a perfect view of his arms as he leaned over. The muscles in his forearms flexed slightly as he adjusted the angle, and you couldn’t help but admire how his strength showed through even in such simple movements.

"So... Is it true? Do you really have a secret redhead on the side?" you teased, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

Damian's eyes widened, and he straightened up, instantly defensive. “What? No! Todd’s insufferable, and his only goal in life is to make me suffer. I would never—! I’m completely devoted to you. Their teasing is just a pathetic attempt to rile me up. I’m all in with you, no one else.”

You couldn’t resist, a cheesy grin spreading across your face. “All in, huh?”

“TT.” Damian’s face flushed even more, and he quickly hid his face from the camera, groaning in embarrassment.

You chuckled softly, deciding to shift the mood. “Are you going on patrol tonight?”

Damian’s face reappeared, more composed but still slightly flushed. “Yes, the usual rounds. Gotham never sleeps.”

You nodded, trying to sound casual despite the worry creeping in. “Just... be careful, okay?”

Damian’s expression softened. “I will. And if anything happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

You smiled, feeling a comforting warmth. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 2:20 AM - Catwoman’s Safehouse, Gotham City.

THWIP.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Selina taunted, her voice dripping with mockery as she effortlessly sliced through the webs you cast with a flick of her claws. “I thought you were better than this.”

The dimly lit warehouse echoed with the rapid sounds of your movements as you and Selina sparred. At 2 AM, the night’s calm had long since dissipated, leaving only the two of you engaged in a relentless back-and-forth. 

You grinned, focusing on your next move. “Oh, I’ve got plenty more. Just warming up!” You flicked your wrist, sending another burst of webs toward her, aiming to trap her legs.

Selina nimbly leaped over the webs, landing gracefully. “Warming up? You’re going to need more than that to catch me.” She charged at you, claws extended, slicing through the air.

You flipped away just in time, twisting mid-air to narrowly avoid her claws. You landed lightly on your feet. “You know, for someone who’s supposedly training me, you sure like to make things difficult.”

Selina smirked, turning to face you. “Aren’t you at least a little curious?” She teased. “Training isn’t supposed to be easy. If it were, it wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

You dropped into a boxing stance, fists raised and ready. 

“Easy? Who said anything about easy?” You shot back with a quick jab aimed at her midsection. Selina dodged with a bend. Unfazed, you followed up with a powerful cross, your fist just grazing her cheek.

 “Let’s see if your skills can match that mouth,” she sneered.

Frustration simmered, and you launched into combo of punches—left jab, right cross, left hook—occasionally shooting webs. Selina danced around them with cat-like grace. When you swung a particularly forceful uppercut, you shot a web at her feet. She leaped clear, laughing as she did.

“Getting better,” she admitted, landing a bit rougher than usual. “But still not quite there.”

You readied yourself again, stance firm. “Not yet, but I’m catching on.”

Selina lunged again, her speed almost blurring. You ducked under her swipe, but she adjusted mid-move and closed in with a sudden burst of speed. Her claws grazed your jaw, and you stumbled backward, trying to regain your balance.

“Damn,” you cursed, wiping a trickle of blood from your chin. 

“Learning yet?” she replied with a smirk. 

“Oh, you’ll see.” 

Charging forward, you fired a burst of webs that latched onto Selina’s torso. With a sharp yank, you reeled her in, closing the distance between you. As she was pulled within reach, you shifted your weight and threw a punch. 

JAB!

The force of your punch connected solidly with her chin, knocking Selina backward. She hit the ground with a grunt but was quick to recover. 

Huffing slightly, she sprang to her feet, brushing off the dust and massaging her jaw with a wry smile. “Nice hit.”

“Didn’t hit you too hard, did I, Mom?” you asked, genuine concern in your voice as you started to undo the wraps on your knuckles.

Selina chuckled, brushing off a stray web from her hair with an exaggerated flick. “Hardly. I’ve been hit harder by a wayward cat toy."—An obvious lie, you were a very heavy hitter—"But I appreciate the effort.”

You relaxed your stance, feeling a rush of accomplishment. “Just trying to keep up with you.”

"Is that so?" Selina said, gliding over to a table to grab a handful of ice, which she pressed against her jaw. She then slipped into a sleek, black jacket that accentuated her lithe frame. As she turned to you, her eyes sparkled with mischief, and a playful smile danced on her lips. “Still have some energy left?”

You rolled your shoulders, savoring the satisfying ache of a solid workout. “Yeah, I’m not quite ready to hit the hay yet.”

Selina gave a nod of approval as she bent to lace up her boots. “Good. We’re going out.”

Your eyes lit up, and you couldn’t hide your excitement. It had been days since she’d let you get out and test your new skills, and you were itching for some action. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yep,” Selina said with a sly grin, pulling a stray web from her hair. She tossed the ice pack aside, the cubes clinking as they hit the metal table. “Time to see what you’ve learned. Go get ready.”

You nodded and did as told. 

You slipped on a red varsity jacket—Damian’s from the school’s soccer team. He was the star player, but he never actually wore it, so you decided to "borrow" it for yourself. The jacket was oversized on you, but it offered that familiar warmth and carried the faint scent of his cologne. Underneath, you kept on your training clothes: leggings and a sports bra, still damp from the warehouse workout. On your feet, you pulled on your red, ratty Converse, their worn-out soles feeling oddly comforting.

It wasn’t long before you and Selina were leaping across Gotham's rooftops, the city below a sprawling tapestry of glowing lights and deep shadows. The cool night air rushed past you, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the occasional whoosh of a passing vehicle far below. Each leap sent adrenaline coursing through your veins, the thrill of the city’s pulse beneath your feet.

“Keep up!” Selina’s voice cut through the wind.

On cue, she vaulted off a high ledge, her body twisting mid-air like a dancer in flight. The moonlight glinted off her jewelry and caught the sharp focus in her eyes as she executed a flawless landing atop a streetlamp. The lamp swayed slightly under her weight, but she held her position with poise, a smirk playing on her lips.

With a grin, you shot a web at the streetlight, using it to swing in a wide arc around the pole. The momentum propelled you into a series of rapid spins, your laughter blending with the whistling wind as you twirled through the air. Releasing the web, you pulled yourself up and off the lamp, flipping effortlessly before landing in a smooth roll on the adjacent rooftop.

“Nice moves,” Selina called out. She leaped from the lamp with a fluid dive, twisting gracefully mid-air before she landed beside you, her boots barely making a sound on the rooftop.

Both of you continued moving, the exhilaration of the chase fueling your every step. The city lights streaked past in a blur of neon and shadow, each leap and swing a burst of adrenaline. As you bounded across another rooftop, something caught your eye—a large billboard, its bright screen flickering with the latest headlines. 

The text burned across the display. 

“Gotham High Senior Prom Interrupted by Villain Connected to Sionis Crime Family: Chaos Erupts.”

You came to an abrupt halt, your shoes skidding against the gravel roof. Breathing heavily, you tilted your head slightly and turned to face the billboard, your gaze fixed on the glaring headlines. The screen flickered to a live feed of a stern-looking news anchor. 

“Last Saturday, prom at Gotham High was disrupted by a violent attack. Eyewitnesses reported a scene of utter chaos where a villain equipped with mechanical arms infiltrated the event, resulting in a brief but intense altercation. Several students sustained injuries. The assailant, identified as Octavius Burton, was apprehended by Batman and his partner, Robin.”

Tucking your hands into the pockets of your jacket, you turned as Selina began to make her way to you, your brow furrowing with concern. You could see her fingers flexing at her sides, a telltale sign of her mounting frustration. She pulled her sleek, black jacket tighter around her, the fabric rustling softly. 

“Burton, a former professor at the academy, was terminated following inquiries into his activities connected with the Sionis Crime Family, an organization with known affiliations to the criminal figure known as Black Mask. Authorities are continuing to investigate the motives behind this incident.”

Black Mask was a touchy subject between the two of you, subtly pulling at threads of pain that neither of you fully addressed. His name seemed to drift into conversations like a ghost, stirring up the quiet ache of past losses—the kind that felt like a fresh wound, reopening old scars that neither of you had fully healed from.

“Have you seen anything strange lately?” you asked, trying to gauge her reaction.

Selina gave you a sideways glance, her expression thoughtful. “Funny you should ask. I’ve picked up on some strange shifts. The gang’s movements have been off—more frantic, almost like they’re gearing up for something.”

“And what do you think it means?” you asked carefully, trying to avoid pushing too hard.

Selina shrugged. “It’s hard to say. They’re usually pretty secretive, but something feels different this time. Like there’s a bigger play going on.”

You chewed on your inner cheek, feeling a familiar tightness in your chest. This was the most you’d managed to get her to talk about Black Mask or any of the darker aspects of her other life. It wasn’t often Selina opened up about such things, and the rare glimpses she offered were often fleeting, like shadows slipping through your fingers.

“Have you picked up any solid leads?” you asked, tugging at the sleeves of Damian's jacket. “Anything that might give us a clue about what’s coming?”

Selina’s expression grew more guarded. “Not much. Just fragments and whispers. But whatever’s brewing, it’s got those boys on edge. And when they’re on edge, you know something big is about to go down.”

You nodded, feeling a knot of anxiety in your chest. You shut your eyes for a brief moment, gathering the courage to voice your thoughts. When you opened them again, your gaze was steady. 

“I want to check this out,” you tell her. 

Selina froze. “I’m sorry, what?”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t shake the feeling that everything’s connected. There’s too much coincidence here to ignore.”

Selina’s eyes narrowed, her posture stiffening as she took a step back. “What are you getting at?”

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to keep your voice steady despite the knot in your throat. “Look, think about it. My parents died because of Black Mask. Then, this villain linked to him shows up at the prom. The next day, I wake up with spider powers, and my dad was working on spider-human DNA stuff. All these pieces—”

Selina cut you off. “You’re not seriously suggesting you want to dive into this mess yourself, are you?”

“I have to! It’s all connected somehow. I need to find out what really happened with my father. I need to piece it together myself,” you sputter.

Selina’s eyes widened slightly, and she let out a disbelieving laugh, her hand coming up to her forehead as if to steady herself. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Kid, don’t get ahead of yourself. Just because I trained you for a week doesn’t mean I’m about to let you go and get yourself tangled up with the Sionis Family.”

You bristled at her dismissive tone, stepping closer, you waved your hands around in desperation. “But you don’t get it. I can’t just sit back and ignore this!”

Selina’s expression hardened, her protective instincts flaring. “You think I don’t get that? I lost your mother—my sister—too. I know how hard it is. But rushing into danger without understanding everything is risky. The Sionis Family isn’t just a petty gang; they’re dangerous, with connections and resources that could put you in serious danger.”

You took a step back, feeling the sting of her words. “You think I’m too weak to handle it, don’t you? That I’ll just fall apart like everyone else you’ve seen?”

Selina’s eyes widened. “That’s not what I meant—”

“But that’s exactly what you’re implying!” you shot back. “You’re treating me like I’m still a kid like I can’t make my own choices.”

“You’re my daughter,” Selina said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. “You are a child whose whole world was turned upside down with no explanation. You were left there all alone, on my doorstep. And I took you in because I couldn’t stand to see you lost and alone. Now, you’re asking me to let you dive headfirst into a world that killed everyone I loved and nearly destroyed me.”

You shook your head, trying to protest, but she silenced you with a raise of her hand.

“I know you're confused. I know you're angry. So angry about your mother's death. And, baby, I am too,” she whispered. “But you have so much ahead of you, and I don’t want this world to consume you before you’ve even had a chance to truly live. This life, it’s... it’s not what I want for you.”

“But what if this is what I want?” you asked quietly, looking back up at her. 

“You’ll regret it,” she croaked. Her eyes were clouded with something you couldn't quite place—fear, maybe, or sorrow. As she pulled you into a tight embrace, her shoulders sagged, the tension seeping out of her in a slow, painful release. “I see myself in you, in all the ways I wished I could have been something different, something better. It scares me because I know all too well what this life can do.”

The news report had long since faded, replaced by a garish commercial that blared across the billboard. The vivid reds and yellows bathed both of you in an almost surreal glow, distorting the moment into something dreamlike and distant.

The relentless noise and flashing lights felt like they belonged to another world, far removed from the quiet tension between you. You simply nodded, your throat tight, and clung to Selina, the weight of her words settling into your chest as you hugged her back, holding on just a little tighter.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday,  3:43 AM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City.

The newly bought alarm clock, a hasty replacement after the old one met its demise the night after prom, glared at you with its green-tinted screen. Its bright blue neon numbers cut through the darkness, each digit pulsing with impatience:

3:43 AM.

You were seated at your desk, robin-themed socks snug on your feet and a green blanket draped around you for warmth. The soft glow of your laptop screen illuminated your face as you pored over a labyrinth of links and tabs, your eyes scanning for any scrap of information related to Octavius Burton. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the computer and the occasional click of your mouse.

Both you and Selina had returned from the run just an hour ago, the air between you still charged with unspoken words. Selina, visibly exhausted, had offered you a final, goodnight kiss on the cheek before retreating to her bed. The weight of your conversation had clearly worn her out, but you remained restless.

CLICK.

You clicked through a few more links on your laptop, but the information was frustratingly sparse—just fragmented reports and vague mentions that led nowhere. Restlessness gnawed at you, making the room feel too small, too stifling as if the walls were inching closer with each passing second.

Your gaze flicked to the window, where the city lights barely penetrated the thick curtains. The cool night air called to you, a whisper of freedom. An idea began to take shape, stirring a familiar itch beneath your skin—the urge to move, to escape, to find answers.

You grabbed your laptop and closed it with a decisive snap. The screen went dark, but the soft green light from your alarm clock still bathed the room in an eerie glow. You slid your feet into your shoes and approached the window.

Opening the window quietly, you peered out into the night, the cool air splashing against your face like a cold, refreshing wave. Using your spider powers, you crawled effortlessly up the side of the building. Once you reached the rooftop, you settled onto the edge, your legs dangling over the side. 

Cool and refreshing, a welcome change from the stuffy room. You pulled out your laptop.

As you continued your search for information, the quiet of the night enveloped you, broken only by the occasional distant sound of the city below. It felt like the world had opened up just a little bit more.

With a click, you redirected your search to something more personal. You began scrolling through the company pages of Oscorp Industries, the old company where your father had worked. 

You skimmed through employee directories, old press releases, and archived news articles. You paused at a page detailing the company’s history. Among the names and dates, you spotted a familiar one: Octavius Burton.

The text described him as a former lead researcher who worked at Oscorp Industries for a brief three years before his abrupt departure. Huh. 

Shaking off your unease, you shifted your focus to a research site where your father had published his work. Searching for his name, you navigated to his profile. 

Scrolling through his list of publications, you examined the coauthors and acknowledgments. Your heart skipped a beat when you came across a paper that mentioned Burton in its acknowledgments section. It read:

“Special thanks to Dr. Octavius Burton for his invaluable insights and technical expertise during the development of this project.”

A knot formed in your stomach as you closed the laptop, your head beginning to throb. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit together, but the edges were still blurred, the full picture just out of reach. 

Scowling, you rubbed your temples, trying to soothe the growing tension that had built up behind your eyes. But before you could find any relief, the unsettling tingle of your spider-sense flared to life. It started as a faint prickle at the back of your neck, quickly escalating into a sharp, insistent warning that sent your heartbeat into overdrive.

!!!

Your body reacted before your mind fully processed the danger. You snapped your head around, every nerve on high alert. A shadow moved in the corner of your vision, and in the next instant, a figure dropped down from above, landing with a nearly imperceptible thud just a few feet in front of you.

Without thinking, you sprang into action. Your laptop tumbled from your lap as you lunged forward, your fist arcing toward the intruder's face. The impact was solid, your knuckles meeting the side of their jaw with a satisfying crack. The figure staggered, but quickly recovered, straightening.

"What? Looking for some more?!” you growled, swinging another punch aimed at the intruder. But before you could connect, a gloved hand shot up, catching your fist with surprising ease.

"Beloved?" The familiar voice cut through the adrenaline-fueled haze, laced with both surprise and a hint of irritation.

You blinked and looked up to see Damian, clad in his Robin suit. His jaw was already showing a deepening bruise, a mottled patch of red and purple swelling rapidly.

"Oh my god!" you exclaimed, mortified. The realization of who you had just struck hit you like a wave, your cheeks burning with heat. "I—I'm so sorry! I didn’t mean to—"

Damian adjusted his stance, wincing slightly as he gingerly touched the sore spot on his jaw. “Really? Is this how you greet everyone who drops by? I’m both impressed and deeply insulted.”

He gave you a scrutinizing look, the white slits of his mask narrowing. “That punch—while forceful—was a bit too eager. A more controlled approach would be better. Precision and control usually work better than raw power.”

You stared at him, taken aback. “Are you... judging my punch?”

Damian’s lips curled into a smirk as he went on, clearly enjoying the moment. “And your balance was off. You need to keep your center of gravity more stable. Alignment and posture are key to effective strikes and maintaining stability.”

You rolled your eyes. “Brat.”

“Well, if the shoe fits,” Damian said with a self-satisfied smirk, adjusting his gloves with a flourish. “It’s only fair that I offer some guidance. A bit more finesse and you might have neutralized me more efficiently.”

Your eye twitched. Men and their egos, you thought, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. 

“Oh, sorry for not meeting your high standards,” you shot back, sarcasm lacing your words. “Maybe next time, I’ll make sure not to punch the person who’s here to give me tips.”

Damian chuckled, crossing his arms with a grin. “It was a decent hit. You’ve managed to impress me. Think of it as a compliment. Most people don’t even get the chance to lay a hand on me.”

“I hate you,” you grumbled, but the words lacked any real bite. Despite your irritation, you found yourself stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his torso, and burying your face into his chest.

Damian simply huffed, amused, and placed his arms over your shoulders, the warmth of his embrace comforting in its familiarity. Even when he was being insufferable, there was something about him that made it impossible to stay mad for long. 

“Why did you drop by anyway?” you asked, lifting your head to look up at him.

Damian’s arms tightened around you as he responded, “I was in the neighborhood. Curiosity got the better of me. And it seems I was right to investigate,” his gaze flickered toward your laptop, still lying on the rooftop.

You narrowed your eyes, not buying it. “Really? You just happened to be passing by? You know this is Catwoman’s territory, right? Seems a bit out of your way.”

“Tt,” Damian scowled, looking away as a faint blush crept up his neck. The tips of his ears turned a telling shade of red. “It’s not like I was actively searching for you,” he added, trying to sound indifferent. “Just a fortunate coincidence, I suppose.”

“Mhm. Sure, babe,” you murmured, reaching up to gently touch Damian's face. Your fingers traced a scar near his jaw with a tenderness that made him pause, his breath hitching ever so slightly.

“Idiot,” you said affectionately, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“Hardly,” he replied, a subtle warmth breaking through his tone. Before you could react, he scooped you up into his arms with ease.

“Put me down,” you groaned, half-heartedly resisting. “I’m heavy.”

Damian’s lips curled into a smug grin, his breath warm against your skin as he scoffed, “Beloved, my bench press warm-ups weigh more than you.” The gravel in his voice took on a teasing edge, smugness bleeding into your ear. “Watch.”

Before you could react, Damian’s arms tightened around you, and with a quick, effortless motion, he tossed you into the air.

A startled scream escaped your lips as you flailed, instinctively shooting out a web. The sticky thread hissed as it latched onto the rooftop edge, pulling tight and catching Damian’s attention. His head whipped around, confusion clouding his features as he tried to make sense of the sudden blur of movement.

In the split-second of panic, you plummeted back toward him, landing safely in his arms.

Shit. 

Without missing a beat, before he could fully look back, you grabbed his jaw and pulled him into a kiss. Damian’s eyes widened in shock, but as you deepened the kiss, his surprise gave way to something else. His arms wrapped around you, and he kissed you back with a fervor that matched your own. 

After a few minutes, Damian tried to pull away, his curiosity still evident in his eyes. But you weren’t having any of it. With a soft, pleading whine, you drew him back in, your hands sliding over the contours of his armor. You whispered his name against his lips, the warmth of your breath mingling with his.

Beneath the hardened exterior and the carefully constructed armor, Damian was achingly soft. The mere thought of kissing you, of feeling your lips against his, had managed to distract him so thoroughly that the facade he worked so hard to project fell away like fragile shards of glass.

Damian’s attempt to pull away was fleeting as if he were tethered by an invisible thread pulling him back to you. His hands tightened around you, one sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, the other pressing firmly against your lower back, drawing you closer. He swallowed the honeyed sounds slipping from your lips, savoring every breath and murmur.

Your hands roamed across the edges of his mask, fingertips tracing the ridges and contours, teasingly attempting to slip it off.

Damian’s groan of your name was a low, throaty rumble that vibrated through your chest. His lips followed a fiery path down to your neck, each kiss a heated brand that made your breath catch, as if he were etching his mark on you with every touch. 

Suddenly, the sharp crackle of Damian’s earpiece sliced through the intimate moment. His body tensed, and with a swift, almost robotic motion, he leaped several feet away from you, landing with a heavy thud. He straightened up, his posture rigid as he fiddled with the earpiece.

“Dam—Robin,” came Tim’s voice through the earpiece. “Eugh. What the hell is that noise? I thought you were on patrol. Are you seriously making out on the job? Redhood and I are getting an earful of... whatever that is.”

“Yeah, thanks for the front-row seat to the romance, demon brat. I’ll be sure to add that to my list of things I didn’t need to hear tonight. Next time, maybe give us a warning before you make me want to shoot myself.”

“TT,” Damian’s face turned a deep crimson as he yanked the earpiece from his ear with a grimace. In a burst of frustration, he slammed the device down, reducing it to a pile of broken plastic.

“Oh,” you said with an amused grin as he spun on his heel with a sharp, almost frantic movement and leaped off the rooftop in a swift, disappearing dive.

“Next time, maybe keep the earpiece off!” you called after him, the grin still playing on your lips. Damian responded with a speedier exit, vanishing into the night.

As the echoes of his departure faded, you let out a deep sigh, your grin slipping away. Turning around, you saw the web you had shot still clinging to the rooftop, its glistening strands catching the moonlight with an almost ethereal shimmer. Panic bubbled up inside you as you approached it, your hands trembling slightly.

Fuck. That was too close.

Taking a steadying breath, you carefully picked up the web, its sticky texture making your fingers feel oddly weighed down. With a swift motion, you tossed it off the roof, watching as it drifted into the darkness below. The night seemed to grow eerily quiet in the aftermath, each distant siren or rustle of leaves making your heart race with an anxious thrum.

You scanned the rooftop one final time, making sure no trace of the night’s events remained. Grabbing your laptop, you felt its reassuring weight as you turned and headed back to your room.

"I have got to be a lot more careful," you sighed to yourself, the words barely more than a whisper. 

 ༻⊰───⋅

Monday, 2:19 PM - Chemistry Lab, Gotham Academy.

“...and as you can see, the rate of reaction increases with temperature, which in turn affects the activation energy required. Remember, it’s crucial to maintain consistent variables to ensure accurate results. Any questions?”

The room buzzed with the soft rustle of papers and the occasional murmur as students exchanged glances and half-heartedly raised their hands. A question from one of the students prompted Dr. Foster to shift to a new segment of the lecture.

You slouched over your desk, trying to focus on the textbook despite the monotonous drone of the lecture. The room felt stifling, the endless rows of lab benches and flickering fluorescent lights adding to the sense of tedium. Your pen drifted absently across the paper in your notebook, sketching spiders—each more intricate than the last. It was the third-to-last class of the day, and you found yourself counting down the minutes until freedom.

This was one of the only classes you didn’t share with Damian, and his absence made the wait for dismissal feel even longer.

With a sigh, you sketched a detailed spider, giving it a little mask and cape for amusement. The classroom’s buzz of activity continued around you, blending into a dull hum as you lost yourself in your sketches.

“You like spiders?” came a voice, interrupting your idle doodling.

You turned to find your seatmate, Morgan, looking at you with a curious expression.

Morgan Stark—her full name rolling off the tongue like something out of a high-fashion magazine—was your lab partner in Chemistry class and a standout at Gotham Academy. Top student, robotics prodigy, and the heiress to Stark Industries

You blinked, slightly taken aback. “Oh, um... yeah. I guess so. Just an interest.”

Morgan leaned closer, her chestnut hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. “Really? Most people find spiders creepy. What got you into them?”

You glanced at your notebook, where intricate doodles of spiders and webs sprawled across the page. 

“I don’t know,” you began, pausing as you searched for the right words. “They’re just… fascinating. I like their webs.”

Morgan nodded thoughtfully, a small smile playing on her lips. "That's pretty cool.”

You couldn’t help but smile back, feeling a bit more at ease. As the bell rang, signaling the end of class, students began to gather their belongings with a collective sense of relief. The clatter of backpacks and the rustling of papers filled the room.

Morgan leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms with a small smile. She tilted her head, studying you with a curious gaze. 

“What’s your name again?” she asked, her hand moving to adjust the glasses perched on her nose.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. After months of sitting next to her, you'd assumed she’d have gotten it by now. Hell, you two did tablework assignments together, shared notes, and even collaborated on that tough group project last semester. 

“You... don’t know my name?” you asked, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Her eyes widened slightly, a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her notebook. The blush deepened, contrasting with the freckles dusting her skin.

“Oh, I know your name,” she lied horribly, her voice faltering just a bit. “I… just want to know if you know it.”

A smile crept up your cheeks as you gathered your notebook and packed it away, your movements slower and more deliberate.

“I’m Y/N Kyle,” you said, offering a gentle smile.

“Nice to meet you,” Morgan said with a smile, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe next time we can trade more than just doodles and spider talk.”

“Sounds good,” you replied, sliding your backpack over one shoulder and standing up.

As students filed out of the classroom, you and Morgan exchanged a final look. She gave you a quick, playful wink before turning to join her friends, who were already waiting by the door.

Walking out of the classroom, the hallway was alive with the usual end-of-day hustle. Students rushed to their lockers, chatted animatedly, or headed to their clubs. The walls were lined with lockers, some ajar and spilling over with books and personal items. Conversations and occasional bursts of laughter echoed off the walls.

As you pushed through the crowd, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, glancing at the screen. It was a message from Damian:

SUGAR DAMI:

Beloved, I'm afraid I can't drive you home today.

I have soccer training that will extend until 5 o'clock.

You sighed, a touch of disappointment creeping in. Selina was out on a heist for the whole day, leaving you to your own devices. The thought of spending the rest of the afternoon cooped up in your apartment didn't exactly thrill you.

With a quick huff, you typed a response:

YOU:

No worries, I'll figure something out. Good luck with training!

You hit send and slipped your phone back into your pocket. Adjusting the strap of your backpack, you made your way toward the back entrance of the school. As you pushed open the heavy double doors, the crisp afternoon air greeted you with a refreshing coolness.

Stepping outside, you were met with a clear blue sky, dotted with only a few wispy clouds drifting lazily. The sun bathed the school grounds in a warm, golden glow, while the distant hum of traffic blended with the cheerful chirping of birds. 

You made your way to a secluded corner of the school grounds, checking over your shoulder to make sure no one was around. With a nimble leap, you cleared the fence and landed lightly on the other side. Slipping into the narrow alleyway, your footsteps echoed softly off the brick walls as you made your way to the fire escape.

You scaled the metal steps with practiced ease, pulling yourself up to the rooftop. Once there, you rolled your shoulders, loosening up before taking in the expansive view. Your apartment was visible in the distance, but that wasn't your destination today.

With a final glance back at the school, you took off across the rooftops.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Monday, 3:25 PM - Catwoman’s Safehouse, Gotham City.

The journey to the safehouse was quick, the cityscape blurring by as you made your way. As you pushed open the heavy doors of the safehouse, the familiar scent of old wood and metal greeted you, a stark contrast to the crisp afternoon air outside.

With a tap on your phone, you opened Spotify and selected a playlist, the tunes soon filling the room from the speakers resting on a nearby table.

Don't wanna be an American idiot One nation controlled by the media Information age of hysteria It's calling out to idiot America

Still in your school uniform, you took off your blazer and tossed it somewhere on the floor, leaving you in your shirt and tie, slightly rumpled from the day's wear. The warehouse felt cooler without the extra layer, and the air against your skin was refreshing.

Using your shooters, you spun a hammock between a few panels of the wall. You jumped onto it, the webbed fabric creaking slightly as it adjusted to your weight. The hammock swayed gently as you settled in, the rhythmic motion easing the tension from your muscles.

As the music played on, you bobbed your head to the beat, letting the lyrics wash over you.

Welcome to a new kind of tension All across the alienation Where everything isn't meant to be okay Television dreams of tomorrow We're not the ones who're meant to follow For that's enough to argue

Settling deeper into the hammock, you pulled out your phone and began scrolling idly through the latest news reports. The headlines were grim, detailing the latest string of crimes committed by Black Mask. As a Gotham native, you were used to the constant stream of bad news, but it still made your stomach churn slightly.

One headline caught your eye.

"Multiple Tech Industries Robbed: Black Mask Suspected in High-Tech Heist Spree"

You click on the article, your eyes scanning the details.

"In the past week, several leading tech companies have reported break-ins and thefts, resulting in the loss of millions in high-tech equipment and proprietary technology."

The article detailed the affected companies and the nature of the thefts. Wayne Enterprises had reported missing nanotechnology components. LexCorp was missing cutting-edge encryption devices, while Queen Consolidated had reported the disappearance of prototype energy sources.

Your brow furrowed as you took in the list. Black Mask was stepping up his game. He was gutsy, you'd say that, targeting Wayne Enterprises when Gotham was practically owned by the company. Maybe you could ask Damian for info. He might have some insights that could help you in your personal little mission.

!!!

Then there was a tingling sensation, a familiar prickle at the back of your neck, like tiny electric currents dancing along your spine. It heightened your senses, sharpening your focus as if the world slowed down for a brief moment. You turned just in time to see Selina swinging in with her bullwhip, landing on the ground with a graceful yet forceful thud.

Smirking, you raised a hand in greeting. “You didn’t roll. You know that’s really bad for your knees.”

“Oh, please, honey. Turning my own words against me? I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you,” she said, rolling her eyes. She straightened up, her black leather suit catching the dim light that filtered through the dusty windows.

"Why so early?" you hummed. "Thought you were out for the whole day. Got caught by Batman again?"

"Caught? Please, I never get caught. I just let him think he has a chance," she scoffed, sauntering over to you, her boots clicking against the concrete.

She held a small, black bag in her hand and, with a casual flick of her wrist, tossed it your way. The bag flew smoothly through the air, landing with a soft thud against your stomach. You grunted slightly and caught it in your arms.

“What’s this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Just a little something I picked up on my way back,” she replied, leaning casually against a nearby crate. “Figured you could use a bit of excitement.”

As you opened the bag, you discovered a sleek, black suit inside. The material felt smooth and durable—definitely Kevlar. It was similar to Selina’s suit, but when you turned it around, a spider symbol was stitched onto the back.

“A suit?” you marveled, pulling it out for a closer look.

Selina smiled, lifting her goggles and moving to sit beside you. “I made it myself. Took a while to get everything just right, but I think it’ll suit you perfectly.”

You traced the spider emblem with your fingers. “I thought... you didn’t want me to go out into that world?”

Selina sighed softly, her expression softening as she watched you. “I was hesitant at first. You know how dangerous it can be out there. The streets of Gotham aren’t forgiving, and I’ve seen too many people get hurt—or worse—because they weren’t prepared. But I also understand why you feel the need to do this. It’s in your blood, just like it’s in mine. We’ve both got that itch.”

She paused, her gaze distant for a moment before focusing back on you. “When I first started, I was headstrong, eager to prove myself. I took risks, some stupid, some necessary, but I learned. This is my way of making sure you can learn the ropes without getting in over your head.”

"You're going to let me patrol?" you gasped out, a grin so wide it spread across the ends of your cheeks.

Selina’s tone sharpened. “Don’t think for a second this means I’m giving you free rein. I’ll be watching. One wrong move, and I’ll be right there to pull your little spider-butt back. But for now, consider this my way of making sure you’re ready.”

“Fuck yes,” you cheered, smiling as you hopped off the hammock.

She smirked, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now, get suited up. Let’s see how you look in action.”

You took the suit and headed to a makeshift changing area in the corner of the warehouse. The material felt surprisingly light and flexible, molding perfectly to your body. You glanced at yourself in a cracked mirror propped against the wall. The sleek, black suit clung like a second skin, with the spider emblem standing out against the dark fabric.

Stepping out of the changing area, you caught Selina’s eye. She circled you once, then twice, before nodding in approval.

“Not bad,” she said with a smirk. “You look like you mean business.”

You smirked cockily, crossing your arms over your chest. “I do mean business.”

Selina raised a clawed finger, her tone turning serious. “Now, before anything, let’s set some rules. First, no killing—under any circumstances. That’s non-negotiable.”

You nodded solemnly.

“Second, stay away from gangs. That means no getting tangled up with Black Mask or his crew. They’re trouble.”

You deflated a bit but agreed.

“Third, avoid the Bats. Don’t go near their patrol routes or get involved with them. No crossing paths.”

“No patrolling on school nights – your education is your priority..”

“No associating with Catwoman – you can’t be seen with me in costume. It raises too many eyebrows and could lead Batman or others to figure out who you are.”

“So... I get to go solo?” you grinned.

Selina rolled her eyes. “Yes, but I’ll be tracking your every move. Stick to small, street-level threats like muggings, burglaries, and assaults. No big jobs or anything that could draw too much attention.”

“After patrols, come to the warehouse first – don’t go straight to the apartment.It’s safer to lay low here.”

“And no mixing with civilians—keep your crime-fighting life separate from your personal life.”

You nodded, committing the rules to memory. “Got it. No killing, no gangs, no Bats, no school-night patrols, no Catwoman, warehouse first, and no civilians.”

“Good. Stick to those rules, and we might just keep you out of trouble. Any small slip-up or any inkling of suspicion from the Bats, and you're out. Got that?”

Her eyes bore into yours, glaring into your soul. You gulped and nodded again, more firmly this time. "Got it. No room for mistakes."

Selina gave a satisfied nod and tossed you a mask. You caught it and inspected it closely. The mask was sleek and full-faced, featuring large, white mesh eye covers bordered in black. Subtle, almost invisible web patterns were etched into the surface.

"You know, for someone who doesn't follow the rules, you sure do have a lot for me," you snorted, running your fingers over the webbing, appreciating the craftsmanship before slipping it onto your face.

“That’s because I’m Catwoman and you’re not. I know when to break the rules and play. You’re still learning.”

“Do I at least get a cool name?” you asked, adjusting the mask to fit snugly.

“The press usually decides that, honey. How do you like the sound of Spider-Girl?”

“Spider-Woman,” you corrected with a huff.

“Spidey might be cuter,” she teased.

“Spidey,” you hummed, rolling the name around in your head. “That has a nice ring to it.”

“Spidey it is, then.”

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

dududun there's a stark

surely putting this child into vigilante work is a good idea

i am very sure spidey will be responsible and not at all destructive like every other peter parker ever

also! you fight like spider noir because both of you use bare-knuckle boxing

[cherryredstars]

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x mafia!fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Penetrative Sex

Summary: Bad girl, good guy.

A/N: Requested by @shadofireshinobi! Thank you. love!!

Not Edited

Fuck, it's cold.

Miguel shrugs up the large bubble jacket higher up his body, the warm material meeting his chin as he turns into the narrow alleyway. His head is ducked down, yet white puffs of breath appear in front of his face. He sniffles as he looks behind his shoulder, the street lights getting dimmer the further he goes. He looks forward again with a sigh, stopping in the middle of the alleyway.

It's quiet. There aren't even any cars on the main road behind him. He can hear the dripping of water from earlier rain as it hits the ground, echoing against the brick walls. He looks up the walls, not spotting anything in the darkness, even with his enhanced senses. He shivers, shrugging in his jacket again. His lips thin, and he turns back around to the alley's entrance.

He doesn't get very far.

"Are you lost?"

The voice is silky smooth, and he can feel a pleasant feeling vibrate up his spine. He turns slightly, his head tilting up. She stands right above him on a creaky fire escape. He isn't sure how he didn't hear her, but he isn't surprised either. He turns fully to face her, his heart bounding.

"Yeah, think you can help me?"

He can hear her amused chuckle, watching her shadowed silhouette. She walks towards the end of the fire escape, a large groan sounding before rusted clicks fill the small space as the ladder falls. Miguel walks over, climbing it easily. She's waiting at the top for him, and he pauses to look up at her. A gust of wind blows, making her hair and nightgown sway. It makes Miguel's mouth dry and he swallows.

"I thought I told you not to wear that here."

Her voice disrupts his thoughts, and he huffs as he finally stands in front of her.

"Just got off duty." He says, shoving his hands in his pocket. "It's a bit cold to be wearing that out here."

He nods at her outfit, the end of his chin pointed at her. She rolls her eyes, her hand leaning on the railing as her hip juts out.

"It won't get me killed." She says in distaste, her eyes scanning his visible suit to signify the meaning of her words.

He chuckles at that, knowing how right she is. She pushes past him, going to the open window. She slips in, and Miguel bends down to follow her in. It's much warmer in the small apartment. It's not technically her's, just a small place she rents for these meet ups. The money she spends on it gets lost in the expenses of her shopping, but Miguel doesn't think her father or brothers would care too much if they found out she rents it. They would surely get mad if they found out why.

She closes the window behind him, and he takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around her. He leans down, trailing kisses along her shoulder as his hand slips to the edge of her dress. It ends up against her thigh, the soft skin melting into smooth silk and lace. She hums as she moves her head to the side, giving him room to explore her neck. His teeth nip lightly over where her pulse is, causing a pleased sigh to escape her lips.

"Missed you," He mumbles against her skin, his hand slipping under her dress.

His hand skims over her thighs and up to her stomach, resting against the warm skin. Her hand lands over his on the fabric, her body pushing back against his own. Her other hand finds it's way into his hair, pulling his head slightly so their face to face.

"Don't be cute." She smiles teasingly, "Don't think I didn't see you on that rooftop two days ago."

His cheeks flush at the mention. He wasn't trying to follow her, he just happened to stumble upon the scene. He didn't know all that noise was her and her brothers dealing with... business. But, it was good business! Honestly, the world could do without two corrupt CEOs. At least, that's what he tells himself.

Her nose bumps against his, and his eyes dart down to her lips. She has that pretty lipstick that he gifted her a few visits ago on, and he subconsciously licks his lips. Her smile widens, leaning forward to kiss him. He instantly moans, closing his eyes and holding her tighter. He only lets up when she moves to turn, wrapping both of her hands around his neck as the kiss deepens.

He almost trips when she makes him move backwards, walking him until the back of his legs hit the edge of the couch as he throws his coat to the floor. He collapses heavily onto it, tearing the two apart, He looks up at her as she goes to straddle his lap, his hands gripping her waist. She flips her hair to the side, smiling down at him before she leans down to his neck. He groans softly as he tilts his head back, his eyes closing as her lips suck and kiss at his neck. His brows furrow in a silent moan as she grinds against his already hard cock.

Even if his hands weren't under her dress before, he can feel the fact that she was no panties on. The warm mound of her heat rubs against the technological material of his suit, his hips bucking up to meet her moves. She giggles against his neck, pulling away as his lashes flutter open. He has that silly, hypnotized look on his face. She can't help but smirk down at him, the silly little spider that's absolutely smitten with her.

She cups his cheek, stroking the slightly stubble-graced skin. He leans into her touch, eyes practically glowing with hearts as he looks up at her.

"Get rid of the suit, Miggy." You whisper down at him, biting your lip as he gives you a small nod that turns into enthusiastic nodding as your words click.

It recedes in seconds, and both you and Miguel moan as his weeping tip just barely skims over your folds. His eyes drop down, huffing when the ends of your dress block his view. You smile slightly at the pout on his face, your hands slowly grabbing at the ends of your dress as your bring it up to your waist. The second your pretty pussy is revealed to him, Miguel's breath catches.

It rushes out of him instantly when you slowly sink down on him, a choked moan parting from his lips as your warmth pulsates around him. His hands grip your thighs tights, his eyes snapping up to your face. You're looking down at where you two meet, but you meet his eyes once you feel them on you. You smile lazily at him, smirking when his face contorts as you begin bouncing on his cock.

His mouth drops open in breathless moans, his eyes dreamy as he studies your face. You bite your lip as the tip of his cock presses against your cervix, your own moan filling the room. Miguel whimpers up at you as you clench around his cock, eyes rolling back with a groan as you buck your hips. You giggle at how easily it is to make him go crazy, leaning down to quite him down with a kiss.

He hums against your lips, eagerly returning the kiss as he squeezes your thighs tights. You can feel that pleasant burn of an orgasm forming in the bit of your stomach, and your trail your hands down until they land on top of his. You silently move his hands up to your waist, and he makes quick work of bouncing you on his dick, already used to the silent command. You moan against his lips, pulling away and throwing your head back as your hands land on his shoulders in support.

A pleased gasp leaves you as you feel Miguel's warm mouth wrap around your nipple through the silk, a desperate noise leaving him. He can feel your walls tightening around him, and he sucks harder on your covered nipple to distract himself from the twitching of his cock. He wants- needs- you to come first, his hips hammering up into you. You're surprised your lip isn't bleeding from how hard you're biting down on it, but it finds relief when the band inside of you snaps.

A loud moan is directed at the ceiling as you come, your pussy clamping down on him as he stills. He pants out your name as he spills inside of you, the feeling dizzying. You giggle at the fucked out look on his face, gently easing yourself off of him. He leans his head against the back of the couch, taking his time in catching his breath. You hover just over his lap, pushing the hair out of his face with a smile.

You have him right where your family wants him.

[euthymiya]

help me forget (until my only memories are you) ft. wriothesley

in which wriothesley is plagued with dreams of his past, tucked away in the quietest corner of the fortress until you find him. a thermos of tea, an ocean view, and a heartfelt conversation later, you both decide your memories only matter when they’re of each other

contains: 2.1k word count ; female reader ; established relationship ; hints at wriothesley’s backstory, including mentions of blood and murder ; nightmares and trauma (wrio) ; reverse comfort ; fluff and (cheesy) banter

“thought i’d find you here,” you say quietly as you walk up to wriothesley—it’s quiet enough that’s it’s almost as if you’re trying not to startle him.

(and yes, it’s a bit of a pointless gesture. you know he can hear your footsteps approaching him for a good distance before you even reach him, but, all things considered, you don’t think a little extra gentleness will hurt him.)

“well, looks like you found me,” he hums, legs spread out before him as he stares through the glass. he’s eyes the ocean, his pupils following the schools of fish and casts of crabs as they swim past the glass tunnel that separates you from the water.

the glass tunnel in the fortress is wriothesley’s favorite spot. for a number of reasons, really—first, the inmates aren’t allowed here without official permission, so he has the area to himself for the most part. second, there’s some sort of sign of life to witness, something breathing and moving apart from the rowdy bunch of prisoners he’s in charge of every day. and third, it’s nice to see colors, something vivid and lively outside of rusted metal and dingy lighting.

wriothesley loves this tunnel. it helps him appreciate his life, his home, when he’s especially regretful he doesn’t get to live up at the surface. that regret doesn’t come very often—he’s happy with the life he’s made for himself and the family he’s grown here, but he’s only human.

sometimes even the warden would like to know what it feels like to wake up under the sun, feeling the rays kiss the skin of his cheeks like a mother does her son, so warm and gentle and endlessly filled with love.

he supposes a mother’s love is as unreachable as the sun for him, a regretful conclusion he’s long come to since the tender age of early teen hood.

you plop down beside him, tucking yourself against his side as you hand him a small thermos, making him quirk a brow up.

“tea,” you explain, “i figured it would help.”

“aren’t you sweet?” he chuckles, unscrewing the top and pouring the warm, freshly brewed tea into the lid as he takes a slow sip. he turns, pressing the rim to your lips, letting you take your own sip before he sighs and wraps an arm around you. “did i wake you?”

“of course,” you huff theatrically, “i was so cold. do you have any idea how cold the fortress gets at night without a big, strong, muscled warden to keep you warm?”

he snorts, eyeing you with an amused glance as you bite back your own grin.

“well, my dear lady, i offer my sincerest apologies. you will never wake up cold again.” he indulges your banter with a tight grin.

wriothesley is good at that—good at pretending his feelings don’t exist, pretending he doesn’t feel them in favor of putting on a brave face. you see through the tiny cracks of his mask, though. you can see the tousled hair and bruised under eyes from his lack of sleep. you can see the sore knuckles of his hands from punching bags. you can see the distant, hazy look in his eyes as he stares off into the never ending sea ahead, not sparing you the usual soft gaze he sends your way.

wriothesley is good at pretending everything is okay. just as good as you are at knowing when it isn’t okay at all.

“i’d rather i don’t wake up alone,” you trace the scar along his chest with a finger, visible from the neckline of the tank top he wears to sleep. he doesn’t say anything, swallowing as he swirls the contents in his makeshift cup, purposefully avoiding your gaze. “wriothesley.”

“i’m sorry,” he mumbles, “i figured i’d let you sleep.”

“you don’t need to apologize,” you furrow your brows, hooking a finger under his chin and gently coaxing him to turn and meet your eyes, “i’m not mad, baby. it’s okay.”

“i know,” is all he says.

“will you talk to me?” your head lays against his chest, grabbing one hand and fiddling with his fingers, lacing them with yours as you compare the size of his rough, rugged palm against yours while his other hand lifts the cup to take a long, slow sip of the tea.

it’s hot against his throat, soothing the raw, dryness that builds.

“don’t i talk to your ear off enough through the day?” he tries to tease, deflecting the topic that you try to breach. but you’re good at following just as he is at running—you bring his knuckles up to your lips as you kiss them one by one, so gentle, so feather like in touch, he can’t help but shiver.

“so you’re tired of talking to me?” you tease back, making his lips twitch fractionally.

“nah,” he breathes a small laugh, “never tired of you.”

“that’s good to know,” you exhale a relieved breath, still playful and lighthearted as you add, “i thought you were running away from me while i slept.”

“i’d have come back.” his voice is low, barely audible—you hear it anyway, feeling the rumble of his words through the vibrations in his chest. “you kick the blanket off. someone’s gotta tuck you in.”

“well you didn’t come back before i had to come find you,” you point out. “so tell me, what’s on that mind of yours? can’t be nothing if you leave me cold and alone in our bed.”

“just a silly old dream,” he shrugs off, laughing dryly as he says, “nothing a tough warden like me can’t handle.”

“oh yeah?” you press gently, leaning up to kiss his jaw with a delicate, warm press of your lips. it makes him swallow thickly, inhaling a shaky breath as he nods.

“yeah.”

“you don’t have to handle it,” you offer carefully, “not alone, at least. you know that, baby?”

“do i look that troubled?” he smiles weakly, but it drops as soon as your hand cups his cheek, pulling him to lean in until his forehead is pressed against yours and his eyes can’t leave their spot of looking directly at you.

“do you trust me?” you whisper. he nods, unable to speak. “i love you, you know.”

“i know,” he croaks. “i love you too.”

“so then talk to me.” your hand falls from his cheek to his chest, laying right on his heart while your other hand squeezes his as it keeps it in its hold.

so he does. with a shaky sigh, he tells you about them, the things he sees in his sleep.

sometimes, wriothesley has dreams. dreams of his mother brushing back his hair with her fingers as she wakes him for breakfast. dreams of his father patting his back as he throws a ball to one of his brothers. dreams of childlike, gleeful laughter ringing through his ears in a muffled, distant sound before it morphs into pained, horrified screams.

his legs carry him down the hallway of his childhood home, bare feet pounding against the hardwood until finally, he turns to corner into his living room. and there he stands—face to face with himself. one version of him in crumpled pajamas and another in oversized, scuffed up clothes like he’s drifted from street to street. he stares at himself, only he notices he looks older, more distant, more tired.

and then he notices the blood. it’s everywhere—on his hands, splattered on his face, dripped onto his clothes, pooled on the floor.

blood is everywhere. it coats the same floors he ran on, stains the same walls his height was marked against. it dirties every happy memory of this house of his, no longer a home.

w-what have you done? he asks his older self.

the boy—the one with his own face—glares down at him, so angry and betrayed, so unlike his happy self as he mutters, what had to be done.

and then he wakes up. he’s always covered in cold sweat, panting, and shuffled far, far away from your peaceful and beautiful sleeping figure. how can he wake you? how can he disrupt your pure, sweet state to wipe the blood spilt on his hands? how can he ask you to carry the heaviness of his sins when you’re so free and weightless from that darkness that plagues someone like him?

you listen as he spills his heart, quiet and unmoving against his side as your palm never leaves his chest. his eyes follow the movement of the fish outside of the glass while he speaks, and your eyes trace over the new red, angry marks on the back of his hand.

“just thought i’d come down here to clear my head,” he confesses, “you looked like you were tired.”

“i’d have woken you,” you admit, looking up at him. he meets your stare, furrowing his brows in confusion until you add, “if i had a bad dream, i mean. because you’re the only place i feel safe.”

he breathes out a soft chuckle, cheek laying on the crown of your head as he whispers, “it’s ’cause of the muscles, right? years of boxing will do that to a guy.”

“so what i’m gathering is that i have to take up boxing for you?” you grin, nudging him with your shoulder playfully as he bites his bottom lip to fight back his grin, shaking his head at your antics.

“i just don’t want to wake you every other night.”

“i want you to wake me every night if you have to,” you frown, reaching over and giving his forehead a reprimanding flick with your fingers, “it’s what i’m here for. what’s the point of being together if you’re going to be all alone, wriothesley?”

“i’m not alone,” he argues, lifting your joined hands before his warm lips press a lingering kiss to the back of an equally as warm hand. “i have you.”

you blink, staring at him blankly. “you just kissed your own hand, you fool.”

“right,” he nods, flushing a slight shade of pink before he twists his wrist to kiss the proper hand, “it was on purpose. it’s self love and all that good stuff, you know?”

“uh huh,” you lift a brow, snorting as you shake your head. he gives you a sly wink, leaning down to kiss your lips briefly as you shuffle closer against his side. “you know,” you breathe against his lips, “sometimes we dream about our pasts because our minds want to change something about them.”

“oh? i suppose i could think of a thing or two to change about mine. maybe a happy childhood. maybe the ability to trust people. that’d be nice, don’t you think?”

“i would change mine,” you admit, making him stare at you for a moment as he ponders over your words.

“would you now? and what would you change?”

“i’d meet you sooner,” you hum, “we could be like the cute stories, you know? childhood friends turned destined lovers. wouldn’t that be sweet?”

he looks at you quietly for a bit—dazed, awed, slightly bewildered. you couldn’t possibly want to know a guy like him in your youth, he thinks. how utterly foolish. but there’s no denying that unbearable, pressured clench of his heart, right where only you can reach to squeeze.

“of all stories,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “that’s what you want for yourself? childhood friends to lovers with a premeditated homicide convict that reforms a prison in his adulthood?”

“a traumatized homicide convict,” you correct, “that’s the part that gives it nuance, you know?”

“oh, you’re right,” he nods sarcastically, “how silly of me.”

“don’t laugh at me,” you huff, pouting at him as you poke his chest, “i’m serious. i’d meet you sooner if i could.”

“me too,” he murmurs, pecking your lips in a wordless apology. you accept with a soft kiss of your own in return. “i’d have met you way sooner too, sweetheart.”

“maybe you’ll dream it some day,” you wink cheekily.

“let’s hope i do,” he laughs, pulling you to sit between his legs, your back to his chest as he rests his chin on your shoulder and sighs in content. “you’re the only place too, by the way,” he adds after a few moments, breath tickling the shell of your ear as he whispers the words.

“hmm?” you tilt your head in confusion, gasping when his arms wrap tightly around you, his face burying into your neck as he presses a tickling kiss into your skin.

“where i feel safe.”

“oh,” you breathe, smiling slightly in wonder, “good. then you’ll wake me next time?”

“will it keep you warmer in this cold, unforgiving fortress of ours?”

“oh yes,” you nod, giggling lightly. “very warm.”

he smiles into your skin, replacing the vivid images of blood in his mind with the soft hues of your eyes. “then i suppose i have no choice but to wake you.”

childhood friends to lovers with wrio where reader flips neuvillette off and marches down to the fortress and drags wrio back up to the overworld by the wrist when he’s convicted bc she makes the rules around these parts

jk i love you neuvi my sweet angel dragon

[bardic-inspo]

Dhampir Dreams

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F!Tav (Generic/Unnamed)

Part 1 of 2

Rating: Explicit (Smut)

Key Tags: breeding kink, pregnancy kink, body worship, light dom/sub, light bondage, light praise kink, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it dacryphilia, cunnilingus, PIV, Astarion’s past trauma, smut with so many feelings but nearly no plot, character introspection

Summary:

Tav saw beauty in Astarion he couldn’t have seen himself, even if he had a reflection to gawk at. She made love with a man who never thought he could have anything near it. Made all his red dreams come true, and then said: go on, make new ones, in whatever color you like. Astarion never thought about being a father. Not before her. Or: an angsty-turned-horny character study about the pale elf and his thoughts on creating new (un)life.

A/N: This is my first stab at writing a more generic Tav. Tav in this piece is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns. Most other identifying features are left out.

Click here to read on AO3 instead

Astarion’s never thought much about making another vampire.

In the rare moments the notion occurred to him, he shoved it to the far back shelf of his mind so as not to waste himself on an exercise in futility. What did it matter, after all, while Cazador still lorded over him?

More than anything, Astarion yearned to see Cazador’s blood spill. In his mind’s eye, he’d watch it pool across the floor, not unlike the way he'd seen so much clothing puddled at so many heels. The lake he’d make of his master would be wide enough to swallow the garments of all who’d stripped bare before Astarion. Every sweat-soaked night he found himself bound to another moldering mattress beneath someone else’s weight, rocking through the motions that left his stomach sour, he’d fill his mind with such sweet dreams as Cazador’s death.

Whether Cazador would allow Astarion to drink his blood before being relieved of it varied with the fantasy. The dream changed as often as the hands on Astarion’s hips. It mattered little to him whether Cazador’s end came with true vampirism or not. As long as he ended. 

As long as the vile river of shit that comprised Astarion’s life ended, one way or another. For better. Or for good.

Of course, he flirted with the fantasy of his own spawn, sent out like skittering spiders to dispense his will. Foul little monsters they would be. Fine tools to have in his arsenal; Astarion would only want such wretches of his own the way one might want a hammer to pound a nail. And what he wanted didn’t hold any weight while bound in Cazador’s chains.

So the idea recoiled into the dusty recesses of his mind, collecting cobwebs kitty-corner to such out of reach trophies as freedom from his servitude to Cazador and the sun itself. Both still gleamed, despite the tarnish of time and hope rusted over. Despite Astarion’s prayers, no heroes came to save him. No gods or slayers or saviors spared him from his servitude. 

Until the illithids did.

Despite everything -- the centuries of torment, the hollow where his heart should be, its silence in his ribcage, the scars on his back, the thousands of other lashes that Cazador let fade from his porcelain skin -- Astarion did the one thing Cazador could never.

He stood in the sun. And on the sands of that same beach, another miracle washed ashore. A contradiction. His counterweight to everything else he’d ever known.

Tav.

Astarion’s hands roam the supple shape of her nestled against his bare chest. Her breath crests and falls soft and rhythmic, like the gentle slap of waves against the cliffs where they first found each other. His darling is always so serene in her sleep. Astarion dips his head down, nosing her splayed hair on the pillow, drinking in the lovely scent of lavender that always lingers with his lover.

Often, he wakes before her, as he does now in the dim blue light of dusk. Not yet dark enough for him to step outside, but for the moment, there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be. Not even in the raw, rippling light of day.

The smell of her has his eyelids heavy again, the steady patter of her heartbeat hypnotic in his head. His hands curve over the flare of her hips before slipping beneath the hem of her tunic. He stifles the satisfied hum that bubbles in the back of his throat as his palm smooths down the lithe stretch of her stomach. He resettles with his nose in the crook of her neck, eyelashes grazing the twin puncture scars that mark her as his.

He’d thought, once, that he’d ascend and have her at his side for an eternity. He was scared. Frantic. Grasping. He thought he had to grasp at something, fashion some sort of tether, to have her. Thought he had to have power, and enough of it, to keep her. Now he holds her every morning in the bed they share, until day becomes night again. It’s as effortless as blinking.

Now, the thought of turning Tav into a vampire turns his stomach.

His lips brush, tender, to the flutter of her pulse in her neck. He loves those marks he gave her. He loves the way her fingertips tap against them when she’s lost in thought. He loves the way she arches into his arms as he feeds, the way her body gives and gives to him alone. That sleepy, slap-happy smile she has when he’s lapped his last for the evening. The way her eyes roll back, and she gasps, breathless, as he kisses a trail from her neck to a nipple and sucks fervently.

He loves that he’s marked her, but that it didn’t change her. He can still curl into the heat of her skin at night. Still watch her preen in a mirror. Still stare at those gorgeous eyes and know the shade of them is hers. Her cheeks still turn the shade of sunrise when he leans in with a lustful whisper, or grazes her waist with a feather-light touch.

Absently, his fingers follow the path of an old scar on her stomach. At its end, he finds the start of softness. Astarion loves that, too. She didn’t used to be soft there, when they were just surviving. They’re not just surviving anymore.

Perhaps he’s changed her after all. It’s not so scary anymore to admit she’s turned him, too. Not to the light, or anything so nauseatingly righteous. But rather, so Astarion could see himself in it. Even if his days of standing in the sun are done.

I’ll be your mirror, she vowed, what feels like another lifetime ago. She smiled in that fond way of hers that, at the time, hurt to look at too long. He scoffed at her poetic ruminations on his hair curling near his ears. The creases when he laughs. 

Tav saw beauty in him he couldn’t have seen himself, even if he had a reflection to gawk at. She made love with a man who never thought he could have anything near it. Made all his red dreams come true, and then said: go on, make new ones, in whatever color you like.

Astarion never thought about being a father. Not before her.

He’s thought of Tav as a mother before. It flitted through his mind when Astarion watched her ease Arabella’s pounding heart with the gentleness of her own. That feeling lingered when Yenna joined their camp, and Astarion caught Tav teaching her cards. Combing the snarls from the girl’s hair. Coaching her in the basics of swordplay.

She’d be a wonderful mother. Astarion has no doubts in that regard. And he, well…

He doesn’t have an example to look back on, or one to look up to. But he has his compass. Tav’s heart beats, sure and steady, in his ear. That sound’s guided him through so much else. How could he lose his way for long, if there were two pitter-patters to listen to? 

His palm paints cool over that blooming softness in her stomach. An ache burns in his own. The sort of hunger her blood won’t sate. Would she taste even sweeter, he wonders, with her body rounded and swollen? 

Of course she would. So hard to improve something so perfect already. But she’d be radiant, if she were ripe with their child.

And after, when their babe is born, and her body is new all over again, he'd love every line, every fold, every mark that came from their coupling. He’d worship every part of her that was remade by the two of them to make the three of them. Marvel at the way the same body that first truly fed him would feed their child, too. 

He’d help her find her way back to pleasure in her own way, in her own time. Just as she did for him. His Tav gives, and gives, and he’d give her anything, everything, for the rest of his days, if a wretch like him would be so stupidly blessed to be the father of her child.

Astarion pulls a breath between his teeth, his nose flooding with her floral scent again. That would change, too. She’d carry new notes in her sweat, in her slick, in her blood, while carrying their babe. Astarion wants to taste them all, to learn what songs she can sing while he does.

Instinctually, he presses to the plump of her ass to soothe the building stiffness in his cock. He plants a muted hum in the fabric of the pillow. His groin throbs to the thump-thump of his compass, beating oblivious beneath her ribs.

He pictures pouring into her, night after night, his spend spilling in little translucent rivers down her slicked thighs, overflowing from her cunt. Too much for her to hold in, but she’d take him as long as it takes until life sparks inside of her. Tav’s determined in all her undertakings. Resilient. 

And in his dreams, she’s pliant. Pleading. 

“Star, please.”

She’s trembling in that slinky, translucent nightgown she wears to bed sometimes. The one that hardly hides her skin, but cloaks it in a delectable, silvery sheen. He likes it too much to ruin it. Or at least, he has every other night. 

Oh, he’d like to ruin it, now.

Tav’s pupils are blown black with want. Sweat shimmers on her skin, spurring his tongue to swipe his own lips. Her shoulder peeks bare from her nightgown, and Astarion can see her pebbled nipples, dark beneath the sheer silk that separates them. Hardened with hardly a touch. A feeling he’s intimately familiar with. His cock twitches as he strokes the back of his hand over the soft swell of her breast. 

“Aren’t you sore, sweet thing?” He tries for tender, but it comes out coarse. Rough like the way he wants to grip her hips.

“So be gentle,” she says with a sultry smile, lips peeled apart and glistening just enough that Astarion can’t peel his eyes away. “I know you’ll take good care of me.”

Astarion slinks forward, crowding her against the edge of the bed. Careful, like cradling glass, his palm reaches out to cup the side of her cheek. She sighs into the touch, the curve of her smile reaching the heel of his hand.

“Always,” he says reverently, before his voice sinks to a growl. “You’re always so, so eager…for me.”

Her lashes flutter low over hungry eyes. All it takes is one little wordless bob of her head for Astarion’s own hunger to have the best of him. With a lazy roll of his wrists, he shoves her back with kind but firm force. The mattress bends with her impact, her breathless laughter nearly lost beneath the whine of the wooden frame. Astarion crawls after her, hands fisting in her nightgown, and pulling her free of it.

And then, she’s bare beneath him. Writhing from his tongue and teeth. Gasping out the best words he’s ever heard. Astarion downs them like a man starved, kissing her with the kind of fervor he thought reserved for bloodlust. But her lips, the promises they pour, are sustenance all on their own.

“I’m yours,” she whispers, “all yours. Always. All of me.”

Astarion can’t stifle the whine that drags from some hollow in his chest he never knew about before.

The bed creaks as he hitches one of Tav’s limber legs up over his shoulder and nips a path of sharp kisses from her ankle to the crux of her thigh. He pauses, sweeping a feverish gaze over the spread of her: legs parted in his grip, that perfect slit, already wet with want, the rest of her sprawled naked across the bed, at his mercy, at his desire, at her own. 

He leans down, tongue dipping leisurely through her cunt. Always, she swore. So there’s no hurry in how he takes apart the woman he loves so dearly, in one of her favorite ways to be unmade. No matter how many times she claws the sheets and hisses, “Please, Star. F-fuck, I need you inside of me.”

It turns something in the depths of him to hear his own name said as a prayer. It makes him want with a force and harshness stronger than any thirst he’s felt for blood. He wants to turn her. Change her. Forever, for good. For the life they could make from their bodies, bound as close as souls could be. He wants to see her swell with the love they make, with all the love he’ll leave inside her.

She’s so close, her legs quaking violently when her hand tangles his hair and yanks his head upright. She’s beautiful, flushed ruby red, taking her air in shallow doses. Her eyes burn with equal measures adoration and reproach.

Astarion smirks, unrepentant, lips smeared with devotion. “My love, any work of art takes time. And that’s what we’re making, you know. When others look upon our progeny, they will weep in the sight of such beauty.”

“If all it takes is time, dearest,” she says, with a smile just as filthy, “then I don’t want to waste one second of it lying here empty.”

“Mmm,” Astarion sighs, nosing down against her throbbing clit, eyes flashing back to hers as he dares another lick. Her fist tightens in his hair. Astarion only chuckles. 

“You’re right, of course,” he croons. “That won’t do, at all. I do recall promising to-- how did you put it the other night? ‘Fuck you full and senseless’? I’m more partial to what you begged me for a tenday ago, when I had you face-down and waiting for me as soon as the sun was set. Remind me again, my love, what you said when you weren't gasping my name?"

Astarion presses the tip of his tongue to her clit again and tastes her rapid, ravenous pulse in the heat of it. Tav’s hips jerk in response, but he holds her fast.

“I-I said I want-- that I want--”

“You want me to ‘breed you like a damn animal’," he finishes for her. "Oh, don’t be shy now, my sweet. We’re far past that. And we want the same things, after all. But," he sighs, letting his lips drag through her flushed folds, "I've another promise to keep, first.”

Astarion flicks his wrist, muttering magic beneath his breath. Tav’s sharp little yelp of surprise shoots heat straight to his groin. His cock throbs as she settles again, arms bound above her head by his mage hand, tits bouncing from the slightest struggle against her restraints. She smirks up at him, eyes aflame with fresh desire. Escape is the farthest thing from what she wants.

“You lie back now, dear,” Astarion drawls. “You’ll take me soon enough. You’ll be so good for me, like you always are, and take everything I give you. And I’ll take very, very good care of the woman I intend to make a mother.”

Astarion watches her keenly, tracing his forefinger down through her slick. He unfurls it, circling her cunt daintily, and watching her writhe for even the faintest promise of friction. He’s not sure if it’s his mercy or his selfishness that readily discards the thought of keeping her here, just like this, for the rest of the day. She’s mesmerizing, with the way her back arches from the blankets, and how her body strains towards any touch he’ll spare her. 

All mine, he thinks, with a smile that makes him feel weightless. He grounds his hardened cock against the edge of the bed, groaning. All yours, darling. Just for you.

Pride rumbles low in his chest as he sets his mouth back to work again and knows she can’t cover her own. There’s no muffling his name pouring from her lips. No hiding how she cries for him. Her whole body winds taut, shuddering with every stroke of his tongue. 

Finally, finally, he lets his finger slip inside her. Astarion sighs into a satisfied purr, letting the tremble of it soak into her sex. Her cunt’s a vice around his knuckle. Every pump of his finger feeds the building burn inside him, fanning the ache to be sheathed in that tightness. He only aches more, feeling her squeeze around his finger, and knowing she longs for him just the same.

He slips in a second finger to join the first, feeling her spread and then clench anew. Astarion ruts aimlessly into the mattress, in time with the thrust of his wrist. The head of his cock weeps anticipation with the rogue tear trailing down the side of her cheek. It’s only pleasure that makes her cry.

There’s only love in her heavy-lidded gaze as she pants, “Please.”

Mercy, then, Astarion resolves. For both of them.

Her thighs quiver against his ears like leaves in a breeze. Astarion swirls his tongue against the bud of her clit and sucks tightly. Tav stiffens abruptly. His arms hook firm around her legs as a shattered sound breaks from her throat,and a hard tremor courses through her hips. 

He holds her through it, pinning her to the bed until just the faintest brush of his lips has her shuddering. The start of her plaintive whimper has him easing back. A murmured word sets her wrists free of her restraints. Her heart still hammers, sumptuous, in his head, as he peppers her legs in kisses soft as velvet.

“Beautiful,” he whispers with each one, slinking up her body while she comes back down. “So, so beautiful.”

He thinks of new life, as his knee bends between her thighs and drags her open all over again. He thinks of the graveyard, where he had her freely beneath the stars, in the dirt where he woke centuries ago. He thinks he’d be happy to die again, this way, as he slides forward and buries himself inside her waiting heat.

Astarion grates out a long, low moan as he basks in the wrap of her arms and her cunt. Dimly, he feels her fingertips threading gently through his curls. He thinks of sunlight on his skin again as he sinks in fully, bracing his arms on either side of her head, letting his forehead tilt against hers. He can feel her pulse thrumming through her body, through his cock, through his fogged-over thoughts. His hips roll to the sound, as if it beckoned him to motion. Tav’s head drops back into the pillows. She lets out a long, contented hum, while her body rocks in time with his.

“Is this what you needed, darling?” He huffs a laugh, catching her lips in chaste kiss. It’s enough for her to taste her own sweetness. And one squeeze from her cunt is enough to cut his breath away all over again. 

“I think you needed me, too,” she purrs.

“Y-yes,” he stammers through bared teeth, his throat tied taut as she wrings him for all he’s worth. “Yes.”

She knows exactly what he needs, what he yearns for. He needs her, needs this, needs to see his seed seeping from her fucked-out hole, pink and puffy and leaking. He’ll know the rest of it was spent so deep inside her, her fertile womb is flooded. That’s his, too, with the rest of her. 

Hips high for me, beautiful, he’ll say, when his last thrust is done. And he’ll hold her legs up against his shoulders, kiss her heels, and slip the pillow beneath her pelvis. Just to be sure it takes. 

It’ll be another couple months before they’ll start to see the fruit of their efforts. Until Tav starts to bloom with it. And then, he’ll be hard pressed not to have his hands on her every hour. Cupping the fresh heft of her breasts as they grow with the passing days, heavy from him, for the babe growing in her belly. He’ll soothe her weepy eyes and tits alike, with a skilled tongue and sweet whisper. Rub her shoulders to ease the new weight her bones carry. Draw his nose down her neck and smell not just her, but himself, and the consequences of what they did, right here in this bed.

Feel her change beneath his hands and feel so fucking proud to be the reason.

Pleasure winds, binding, around his cock, and he feels that hunger snap its jaws around him all over again. His hips snap with it, jerking frantically. I need you, all of you, he thinks, and if he weren’t already fucking her, he’d be on his knees, begging for all he’s worth. Her cunt quivers, and he’s lost to the grip of her. Astarion shoves his own knuckles in his mouth to stifle a strangled cry. 

“Star?”

Astarion rips awake in a sweat. He sees familiar wooden beams above his head, above his bed. Sunlight streaks the floorboards, leaking from behind the curtains. Turning his cheek, he finds his lover peering at him from over her shoulder, concern wrinkling her face. Tav still lays on her side, and Astarion still presses against her back. But his hand clamps tight to her thigh, bare where he hiked up her tunic. And his cock twitches fitfully against her ass, unspent and painfully hard. 

Just a dream, then. For now, at least. 

He lets out a long, weary sigh, slumping back into the sheets. Tav tilts her head, the worry in her gaze gradually dissolving into a mischievous gleam.

“I thought you might--” she starts, snickering, “but you were having sweet dreams, weren’t you?”

“The best I’ve ever had,” Astarion mutters mournfully as he buries his face in his pillow. “You were there, of course.” 

Astarion rarely sleeps anymore. It’s not normal, not natural for an elf. But it was a trick he taught to dodge Cazador’s torment at least for a few hours a day. Reverie used to mean putting the horrors on repeat. He’d slowly eased from the habit, now that he has new memories worth seeing a second, third, or hundredth time. 

Still, occasionally, he drifts to sleep without meaning to. Sometimes, he wanders off into novel nightmares. Or, if he’s lucky, he dreams of making love to his wife and making her pregnant. Of making their own little dhampir.

His hips shift, and he hisses. Pre-cum seeps from the head of his cock, slickening the shaft. It’s not enough. Not after such a succulent fantasy. But one touch from his darling might have him sated, if not entirely satisfied. Pleasure stabs, sharp, through his groin as she shifts and brushes him with her motion. He grimaces. 

Just one touch alone could do it.

“I’m here now,” she smirks, twisting to face him. Her hand slips down between them. Mercy, he thinks, as her fingers wrap his length. He thrusts into her palm with a pleading whimper. “Tell me all about these dreams of yours.”

A/N: If you're yelling "Let him breed!!" at the screen just know I'm right there with you holding a megaphone about it 💜

If there's interest (from others & myself) perhaps there might be a part two where Tav takes matters into her own hands. Makes him say exactly what he wants, if he wants to have it so bad 👀

EDIT: This is now officially a part one of two 😉

If you'd like me to add you to a tag list for future one-shots, or all of my future BG3 fic (including multi-chapters), leave me a comment and let me know which you'd like!

& HUGE thank you to some lovely Discord and Tumblr friends/moots who cheered me on as I worked on this one! 💜

Tag List: @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate

[elliesmainhoe]

Sundress Season

Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader

NSFW imagine • 18+ ONLY

Summary: A picnic date can really only end one way~

Contents: Fluff, feminine reader, kissing, cuteness, hickeys, ✂️✂️✂️, Abby loves your tits, use of pet names (baby, sugar, doll, beautiful).

WC 1.1K

DAY 1 OF SAPPHIC SUMMER.

June was your favourite month by far. The sun beamed down onto the hillside, it's rays setting a gold hue across the grass , the wind still held a crispness to it that was not yet tainted by the humidity of late summer heat but still warm, the flowers began blossoming their buds and petals and the birds started to sing their songs.

You loved it. That's why, when the signs of early summer began showing you immediately knew that you had to celebrate the occasion. And what better way than a picnic with your favourite person in the whole wide world, your wife.

Sandwiches, fruit, lemonade and some homemade cupcakes were packed into a brown wicker basket, along with a cliche red and white chequered blanket to lay on the still slightly dewy grass.

"Are you ready beautiful?" You heard Abby's voice sound out from downstairs, like usual she put on her usual clothes and braided her hair without a bother in the world. You however, showered, did your skincare, dried and styled your hair, applied your make-up, and put on the prettiest dress you owned. A floral blue off the shoulder dress that draped down to your knees.

It was annoying, in all honesty. How effortlessly beautiful she was.

"Yes, Coming!" You yelled back, clipping the clasp on your necklace as you left your bedroom and running down the stairs excitedly. "I've packed all of the food that you told me to- it looks delicious" Abby told you, smiling at your excited form- as you hop up and down.

"Thank you Abs!" You smile in appreciation, grabbing her hand and ushering her out the door. A stupid lovesick smile plastered onto her features as she beamed at the nickname.

The old rust bucket truck purred into action as soon as Abby's key turned in the ignition, hand placed firm on your thigh. Thumb moving in a circular motion- before her arm moved over the back of the leather seat you were sitting in as she reversed out of the drive.

It took about ten minutes to get to the location you had in mind- living in the countryside definitely had its perks for sure. Soft music drifted out the cars speakers, filling in the comfortable silence that fell between you and Abby, the only noise other than the music being your quiet hums.

The riverbank was beautiful, with sound of rushing water, twittering birds and tall trees casting shade on the ground. You laid the chequered blanket by the tree, hoping to be kept out of view from the sun.

Abby kneeled down on the blanket, assisting you by unpacking the basket, humming in approval at the sight of the food. Once she'd emptied the wicker baskets contents she sat down, back resting against the rough bark of the tree.

"c'mere, sugar" she grinned, patting her thigh with a chuckle.

Of course you sat down, smiling sweetly as you picked up a cupcake from the spread of food, licking at the icing, earning an eye roll from Abby.

"Really?" She scoffed, with a smirk on her face.

"really."

Her hands grabbed your hips softly, kneading at the plush flesh over the thin fabric of your sundress. Her mouth connected to the naked skin of your collar bone, sucking and kissing leaving purple marks behind in her tentative wake and drawing soft whimpers from your lips.

Soon her mouth had travelled to your neck and then your jaw and then she eventually dipped down to the top of your boobs, her teeth nipping at the soft flesh of your cleavage.

"Aren't ya just so lucky to live in the middle of no where, so your girlfriend can play with your tits whenever the fuck she wants and no one can see ya?- lucky girl" she purred.

Her hands began tugging down the straps of your dress, breasts spilling out from the built-in cups of the floral dress. She left light kisses across the plush of your skin, slowly moving down the valley in-between your breasts before moving back up to slowly suck on your sensitive nipple.

As her tongue rolled over your sensitive bud, you felt her calloused fingers creep up your thigh, pinching at the fat before settling over your clothed cunt. Her fingers brushed over your sensitive spot, still shielded in thin fabric as you gasped at the sensation.

You cried out when her hand left your mound, the sound of a belt unbuckling with a clunk, as you felt Abby move from beneath you, shimmying out from her worn jeans and panties.

In a swift movement, you were now laying flush against the red and white gingham picnic blanket, Abby straddling your hips as her fingers fidgeted with the waistband of your pink panties, asking for permission which you quickly gave with a nod of your head. She tapped on your ass, signalling you to arch up a bit so she could take them off more easily.

"god you have such a beautiful pussy baby- fuck, could stare at it for hours." she hummed, finger creeping down to collect your slick. "All wet for me already baby? haven't even touched your cunt yet? god doll, gon' drive me crazy" she huffed, licking the slick from her fingers like a woman starved.

"fuck baby, you even taste sweet-" she praised, causing an impatient whine to leave your pouted lips. she laughs "alright doll- I hear ya' lift this leg up for me" she instructs patting at your right thigh, as you obediently follow.

she maneuvers so she now hovers on top of you, unclothed cunts centimeters apart from each other before she slowly begins to roll her hips. Moans leaves both of your mouths at the sensation of your clits rubbing together, over and over and over again.

"fuck baby~ God I love those pretty sounds you make~" she whines, head tilting back as your hips buck up into hers at the praise, cunts moving together as Abby grabs your tits in her palms, rolling your nipples in-between her index and thumb.

your hands reach up to cup Abby's cheeks, pulling her down into a sloppy passionate kiss, the bucking of your hips becoming faster as the feeling in your core tightens.

"gon' come abby~ wanna come with you" you whine into her mouth desperately.

"come with me baby- come baby- please" she grunts breathlessly, the moving of her hips becoming sloppier against yours, as the coil inside of you both snaps together, erotic moans leaving both of your lips as you ride out your high, mouths still interlocked in a desperate kiss.

Abby sighs, body lowering bedside you after a few minutes, catching her breath, a cheeky grin plastered on her face as she gazes at you, your tits covered in bites and your thighs coated with her cum.

and all she could think was 'i hope she wears that sundress again'

-------------------

can you tell I've never scissored someone before? 😞

not proofread

[beefboyandbabygirl]

Titty-Shirt! (18+)

pairing: pervert!rollercoaster operator!jeonghan x bigtiddie!fem!reader

genre: theme park au??? lmao, coworkers to lovers, kinda enemies to lovers, smut, fluff, lil crack, lil angst

description: you start your new job and your mentor, jeonghan, is the biggest piece of shit you've ever met. you swear you hate him. you swear. he's just also the most gorgeous man you've ever seen.

warnings: whew this requires a lot of warning, first of all a lot of DUBCON BEHAVIOR FROM JEONGHAN INITIALLY (we know she enjoys it to some extent, but he doesnt know), hes a sleazy perverted fuck, tiddie playing, tiddie sucking, tiddie fucking, fingering (f. receiving), dry humping, mirror sex, praise (f. receiving), dirty talk, FINGER SUCKING HNG, a lil degradation (f. receiving), meanie condescending jeonghan turning all soft for ur tiddies :(, V TIDDIE-CENTRIC IF U COULDNT TELL, belinda loves jeonghan, WEED LOTTA WEED, explicit depictions of smoking weed, high sex, this fic sounds rough but it actually has some really soft cute moments, im pretty sure thats it lmk if i forgot smth

quotes from babygirl (@joshibambi): "shove ur cock down my throat treat me like the whore i am", "FUCKING STEP ON ME", "omg hes so disgusting..... im so attracted to him"

wordcount: 13.2k

a/n: the way i raced 2 finish this before im actually moving out... ALSO thinking ab making this a series? like one for each member, the theme being "unusual jobs". like not stuff youd immediately think of like coffee shop or lawyer or ceo or whatever. like. strange jobs. would u guys b on board?

“We’re so excited to have you working with us.” 

She had a mole on her nose that was hard to ignore. It was big and exceptionally round - your thoughts flitted back to your dearest Discovery Channel, and how amazing it was that nature could create such perfect spheres. The thought of your couch and your blanket and your most cherished nature docs brought upon a wave of uncertainty. You could just be lying at home, you thought. 

“Happy to be here,” you smiled tightly. She was your new manager and she was short and stout and had gray hair and a lovely smile and a round mole on her nose. You tried not to make it obvious you were staring at it. 

You were standing in your city’s local theme park under a long path with flower archways. People, kids and parents and ninth graders, swarmed around like bees, standing at booths and in lines to old, janky, rusted roller coasters. It was summer and you were wearing the branded shirt they’d given you, slightly too small, and the matching cap. Insects buzzed past your stray hairs and you looked up at the bright blue sky. 

You needed a job, you had known, and your mom had certainly known it too, so you could only lounge around after graduating for a short while, before you opted to apply. This had been your last choice. You’d tried to become some sort of lobby-worker, tried makeup stores and even regular stores. You used to make fun of the people who worked here. But now that person was you, and standing under the archways in the summer sun slathered in sunscreen, you figured you would make the best of it until the busy season was over. 

“So,” your manager, Belinda, began after a brief pause of polite nods, “new employees such as yourself are required to be trained and surveyed by an existing worker for a two-week period, but after that you get to run the rides all by yourself.” 

She said it like it was something to look forward to. You tried to believe that it was.

“Of course,” you said, and once again the space between you was filled with polite and exaggerated nodding. “Need to learn first before you get to be the master.”

“Exactly!” she said. Her lipstick was barbie-pink and a little overlined on the right side. She smelled faintly of gasoline. “So we’re handing you off to one of our star-employees!”

You hummed and noticed her taking a step backwards, indicating you to follow. She began walking, trudging over the cobbled paths and shuffling awkwardly in between walls of people. You followed behind. “He’s been working here for the past two years, so he knows the place in and out.”

As you walked, passing twisting, gnarly tracks with screams emanating from them and stands with oversized, China-made plushies hanging from them, you tried to imagine what a star-employee at Caratland Theme Park looked like. 

It was probably someone that loved roller coasters, maybe someone like yourself, who strived for approval and perfection, maybe someone that found a certain joy in being a good service experience for guests. Someone who was good with kids? 

“So you’ll be training with him for a bit before we leave you alone with the coasters, of course, but it should be no trouble, he’s a fun guy!” 

You passed by a haunted house, where a group of kids psyched each other up in the queue. Dodging a tree, you finally came up on a certain blue ride where Belinda stopped and put her hands on her hips, power posing in front of the creaky, old machinery. 

The Pirate Swing. That’s what it was called, and it was a big ship attached to a huge, metal pole on each side, and it was currently swooshing up and down with a large, grating sound. You cringed at it. Belinda noticed and frowned, fingers fiddling with the edge of her shirt. “Maybe we should oil that one.” 

Kids and parents were lined up at the stairway leading up to it in a parade of artificial polyester colors, and on the edge of the platform where the ship was shoveling through the air, a little booth was sat. Peeking through the frankly grimy windows, you could see him. He was slumped back in a wooden chair, wearing the same shirt as you and Belinda, and wearing big, blocky, black sunglasses. 

“Jeonghan!” she called, and you saw the figure jolt. He looked briefly dazed, before he snapped his head up to peer through the glass, smiling and waving. The kids in line turned to glare at you. He scrambled up from his seat clumsily and with sporadic movement, and you both watched how he hunched over the door, shaking it in its frame before it finally let open. He took one long step out the door and was finally outside, looking down at you from the platform and leaning on the railing. 

“Belinda! Nice to see you,” he breathed, smiling in a way that seemed to indicate he did not find the prior sequence of events embarrassing. In fact, he seemed to think he had the upper hand - the confidence rolled off of him in waves. You grimaced. 

You could see him much better now that he was outside, not broken up by the greasy glass, and whatever you had envisioned the star-employee to look like, this was not it. He was young, maybe just a little older than you, and he was thin, with long black hair that just kissed his shoulders. About half of his face was hidden away behind the frankly humongous sunglasses on his face, but he had pale pink lips and a pronounced cupid's bow, and even though you were a little skeptical of him, the cockiness in his smile was well-received. 

“This is Y/n!” Belinda said (yelling to overpower the severely loud child glee), gesturing to you, and you almost felt self-conscious when he looked over at you and smiled. “She’s a new employee and you’ll be her mentor during her training period.” 

“Sure thing!” he said simply. Again with the polite nods, you thought, before you felt Belinda’s hand on your shoulder. You glanced over and she squeezed. 

“Good luck, Y/n! You’re in great hands!” Now that you weren’t so sure about. Had the two of you not seen the same thing? 

You mumbled a thanks and she padded away, once more dodging and weaving through huge chains of people, and you squinted after her, before you turned back to Jeonghan. He was already looking at you, a lazy smile on his lips. 

“Welcome to The Pirate Swing, matey! Get up here and let me show you the ropes,” he padded back to the booth, now visibly more relaxed, as his back returned in a hunch. “I should probably stop the ride,” he mumbled to himself, pressing a button on a long controlpanel with a grid of eight buttons. 

You climbed up the stairs unsurely, hand smoothing over the railing as you went. At the top you squeezed in beside Jeonghan. It was a fairly small space, just big enough for the two of you to stand next to each other. Jeonghan smiled a straight smile at you, before brushing past you to let out the dizzy guests. 

“Was it a good ride?!” You heard him ask distantly, while you studied the interior of the booth. 

It was reeking with a sweet herbal stench, and for a moment you might’ve chalked it up to sweat and cologne, but when your gaze danced over the grid, you became aware of a small, open ziploc of weed on the countertop, crumbs of it dotted by the opening. An energy drink, most certainly warm from the sun flowing in, was perched next to it, and you saw more cans by the foot of the wooden chair (it seemed like a chair that had been dragged in from somewhere else - it was almost reminiscent of the one from your grandma’s house).  

You grimaced, looking over to where Jeonghan was waving kids off and shuffling over to let in people from the queue, a big sign for checking heights in his hand. The sunglasses, of course, you thought and frowned at the room. Luckily it seemed pretty straight forward, so maybe you could escape this Jeonghan character earlier than two weeks. 

“Right,” Jeonghan clapped his hands together, pushing past you again. “This is how you turn it on,” he said and pressed one long, skinny finger to a black button that read ‘dispatch’. 

Sure enough, the huge metal set to work again, screeching as it lifted a boat-full of nuclear families through the air. 

“You turn it off with this other one. Usually rides just stop by themselves when they reach the end, but since we got a little shitty one today it’s manual.” 

“Okay,” you said, nodding along and watching when his hand danced and pointed to the set of buttons.

“That’s pretty much it!” he said, collapsing in his chair again, sunglasses sliding halfway down his nose and revealing his bloodshot eyes. 

“What about the other buttons?” you ask pointedly, arms crossed.

“Don’t worry about them, sweet cheeks,” he waved you off. “They don’t do much.”

The empty cans by his chair clattered when he reached down a hand for one, toppling over and hitting the metal flooring. You scrunched your nose in disgust. 

“I like your shirt,” he mumbled, nimble fingers picking up a particular empty can. It was bent on one side, little holes pricked in it - it was a makeshift bong. You scoffed at him. This was the star-employee?

“We have the same shirt,” you deadpanned. 

“Yeah, but I like yours better,” he grinned lazily, can now in hand, when he leaned forward to fetch the ziploc of weed. “Nice and tight.” 

“You’re gross,” you spat, brows furrowed. “This is a kid’s establishment, you know that, right?” 

“Ninth graders fuck here all the time,” he shrugged. You gasped, not only because it was an extremely gross fact, but also because that was not what you were suggesting. “I’m referring to the fucking weed in your hand, jackass!” 

“Woah, calm down!” He shushed you, and you might’ve genuinely scared him, because he looked around each window of the booth, light cascading down his tan skin. He was wearing a pair of shorts, and you saw his knee bounce. When he’d secured the area, he turned to you with a hiss: “That’s a secret, woman! You can’t just throw words like that around.” 

“Then maybe you shouldn’t smoke here!” You snapped, but Jeonghan was doing exactly the opposite. Ducking down so it wasn’t totally visible from the windows, he’d placed a little nugget of weed on the grate, and was now setting it alight with Transformers-print lighter.

“This is your first day, right? Trust, you’re gonna end up being high on the job too,” he ended his sentence by placing his lips around the mouth of the can, sucking in smoke.

“That’s such a safety hazard,” you murmured, looking down at him from where you stood. He pulled away, smoke still in his mouth and you saw a twinkle in his eyes from above his falling sunglasses. Then he lunged forward and blew it into your face, a concentrated stream of weed smoke bouncing off your shiny cheeks. “Hey!”

You sputtered and spat, shoulders tense and straining against the fabric of your shirt. Jeonghan settled back down in his chair, legs spread.

“The kids love me! With or without weed!” he said, voice a little groggy from the smoke. You coughed, discontent. 

“Maybe they love you because you get them contact-high,” you mumbled under your breath. Jeonghan grinned at that. 

Suddenly he leaned back in his chair to study you, one hand on the can, the other taking off his sunglasses. He stared up at you with fire-red eyes and soft, long hair and a bemused grin on his lips. Seeing his full face, you gulped under his intense gaze. He was really pretty. Annoying. More annoying than pretty. But still. 

Distantly, kids screamed and a constant buzz of countless conversations overlapped in each inch of the park. Jeonghan reached out a finger and poked your jean-clad hip once. 

“You’re funny,” was all he said, something resembling curiosity in his eyes. “Yeah. Funny girl with the tight shirt.” 

You were going to retaliate (they truly had run out of your size and had opted for this as a temporary option, it wasn’t your fault!), but Jeonghan coughed suddenly, eyebrows furrowing as he sat back up in his seat. 

“Oh shit, should probably stop the ride now.”  _____________________________

You thought about quitting. 

You could honestly say that Jeonghan made you think about quitting, and maybe you would even have brought the plan into action, had it not been for the fact that you had been rejected from just about every other job that you’d applied to. It seemed you were stuck. 

You showed up the next day in your shirt and it felt even tighter than the day prior, and the cap tightened around your scalp like you were a toy in a claw machine. 

Fortunately for you, the park seemed much less crowded today. It was a Wednesday, parents were still working and apparently no one sought out the thrill of scary, old, decaying rides on such afternoons. You admired how much lovelier it was when it was still, as you walked up to The Pirate Swing. 

“Hey, titty-shirt!” 

The loveliness was ruined. 

Jeongan was standing on the railing with someone else you didn’t recognize, long, black hair swaying out from the rim of his cap. He waved enthusiastically, watching your form slump at his words. 

“Hey, Jeonghan,” you muttered, approaching the steps. The boy beside him looked mildly uncomfortable at the interaction. 

“It’s a good thing you’re here, N/n - can I call you N/n?” he didn’t let you answer, simply continued talking like a telemarketer. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re here. Me and my buddy, Junhui, from the Beetle Bug ride were just discussing something that I think is extremely valuable to learn about this place!” 

“Are you gonna teach me about the rest of the buttons?” you drawled, eyes half closed in feigned boredom (as much as you disliked him, it certainly wasn’t boring). 

“No!” Jeonghan snapped his fingers at you. You noticed he had this way of smiling, that irked you. It was void of sincerity and was instead wolfish and teasing, something genuinely animalistic and mean-spirited. It was distasteful.

“On days like these-” he hovers and outstretched hand to gesture to the mostly bare land of the theme park, “- you can steal food from the restaurants.” 

After just one eight hour shift with Jeonghan, you find yourself not even remotely surprised at this. You cross your arms over your chest (Jeonghan’s eyes briefly flick down to them, and you think you might actually hate him): “I have a packed lunch.” 

“Packed lunches are for geeks and nerds,” he said, unbothered. “You can come along if you want to get some delicious, warm pizza, or you can stay here like a loser and explain to every kid that comes by, that you’re not allowed to give them a ride on the coaster and watch them cry until you get fired. Your choice, babe.” 

“Don’t call me that,” you snarled. Jeonghan shrugged with puckered lips and the Beatle Bug guy - Junhui - scrunched his face in disgust at the two of you. 

“Not gonna lie, I’m gonna go find Seungkwan,” he said, not even attempting to hide his dismay for your dynamic. He brushed past you on the stairs, hands buried in his pockets. “If you guys fuck, do it in the bathroom Chan uses!” he yelled, trudging past the pillars that held up the haunted house. 

“Sure thing, Jun!” Jeonghan smiled, and you could punch him. Again that animalistic, joyful, laughing-at-you-not-laughing-with-you smile.

“What if I snitch on you?” you asked, hoping it would knock some sort of sense into him, but he only shrugged.

“Belinda loves me. Whenever she works on Valentine’s day, she cries in her office and I let her rant about her shitty boyfriends,” the visual was somehow not hard to imagine. Belinda in her office chair (you’d seen it once, and all you could say was the interior looked like something from a log cabin) and Jeonghan, 19, feeding into everything she said. “You can say what you want, but she’ll just fire you for making up rumors.” 

Your brows furrowed. “That’s so concerning.” 

“Nothing about this place works right,” he admitted and it was maybe the only time you’d sensed an ounce of truth in his words. “So, are you coming?” 

You hesitated. You really were working up a real distaste for Jeonghan, but talking to spoiled, crying kids seemed worse than anything else at the moment. You decided you could live through Jeonghan’s lewd comments and maybe make friends with some other park workers. 

“Okay.” 

“I knew you loved me,” he teased, and then grabbed your wrist from the top of the steps, bouncing down and pulling you along with him. “Hey!” you yelped, but Jeonghan was, as always, unbothered. 

He pulled you by a narrow walkway into the toilets, passing by a single, confused family, as you stumbled behind him. There was a fountain with a hen figurine on top, which he steered around, your arm jerking limply, as he went down a flower-walkway. 

“You do this often?” you remarked, out of breath from jogging to match his strides. 

“Oh yeah. Mingyu works there and he’s like 16, he lets me do anything,” Jeonghan giggled evilly, glancing over his shoulder once, and you gulped, and hated the way his eyes were so big and pretty, and the way his hair blowed softly along carvings of his cheeks. 

“It’s great that you have so many people here to enable your bad habits,” you said. Whatever sarcasm you portrayed in your tone, Jeonghan ignored it, still smiling when he said: “Right?” 

When you stopped you were standing on the backside of a blocky building - one of the many offers of food you provided, prices marked up to drain the suburbs of their cash. You felt something underfoot, and looked down on the gravelly, rustic pavement, only to see circa 20 cigarettes jammed in between the rocks. You scrunched your nose. 

“What? You don’t like cigs?” you looked up at Jeonghan’s voice, to see him grinning cheekily at you. His eyes sparkled and for maybe just a second it was kind of attractive. 

“I don’t..” you broke off eye contact. “I don’t mind, it’s just.. Is everyone here like you?” 

“Sweetheart,” he tutted, and you nearly flinched at the feeling of his long fingers tapping your cheek, cool on the warming skin. You looked back up at him and he had tilted his head to the side. Why was he being attractive? Why were you finding him attractive? “There’s no one like me.” 

Before you could respond, Jeonghan pushed open the backdoor, the heat of the kitchen simmering out in one brief wind, before it slammed shut behind him, and you were left, alone and dumbfounded on the stones in a mountain of cigs. 

Then you scoffed.

You stood for a moment, letting the fresh air cool the inevitable warmth on your cheeks, huffing (because you were annoyed, you told yourself, not because he had just done something terribly, horribly attractive!) and puffing with your arms crossed over your too-tight-shirt. 

Then you pushed open the door and stepped inside the tiled kitchen. 

The room was filled with steam and it smelled like canned marinara sauce and fake cheese and most of all it was unbearably hot - so hot and humid, you felt the particles of water sitting on the fabric of your shirt. There was a decidedly oversize pot simmering with sauce on a stovetop, and on a hotplate three untouched pizzas sat; one with potato-topping, one pepperoni and one margarita. 

A very tall boy was running frantically around the kitchen, three different kitchen utensils in his clenched fist like claws. Sweat was dripping down the side of his frowning face and red speckled his shiny cheeks. Jeonghan draped himself against the counter lazily.

“It’s just me today,” the boy, Mingyu, cried, “Thomas sent home the other two because there’s no one in the park, but I can’t do this alone!” 

“Seems real stressful, Gyu,” Jeonghan mumbled, leaning on his hand. 

“Yeah, so if you aren’t too busy, maybe you could stir the marinar-” 

“That’s really great, man. You’re doing God’s work. But hey, we’re just gonna-” While Mingyu’s back was turned, the tall boy hunched over the sauce, Jeonghan limply pushed the pepperoni pizza to the edge of the hotplate with a pair of tongs. He winked at you, scooping the pizza into his open palm. “We’re just gonna head out now.” 

“Jeonghan, please help me out and don’t-” 

Mingyu turned around and his tortured expression dropped into one of shock, his tense limbs falling limp at his sides. Jeonghan stood, hand in the cookie jar and pizza in his palm, frozen in front of him with a sort of cartoonish ‘oopsie’-face. Steam clouded the room while you watched from the doorway.

Mingyu’s eyes narrowed and when he spoke again, his voice was lowered in warning: “Jeonghan. We’ve talked about this. Put. The pizza. Down.” 

There was a moment of indifferent silence. Jeonghan contemplated.

Then he nodded, lips pursed and eyes cast down to the pizza.

“You know… I would.. But. Y/N, OPEN THE DOOR OR KNOCK HIM OUT!”

“WHAT?”

“OPEN THE DOOR.” 

You did. Apparently Mingyu hadn’t seen you, because he jumped at your voice behind him, body twisting to see you just in time for you to open the door and Jeonghan came scrambling out of it like a rat. You cannot believe you just aided this man’s crimes, you think, Mingyu’s expression of horror forever imprinted in your retina, before you followed suit. 

However bad Mingyu’s puppy expression made you feel, the rush of adrenaline as you bolted down the pavement under row after row of flowers and sunbeams brought forth something sinister and mean that had you giggling at your evil-doing. Jeonghan was laughing as well, and his genuine laugh was bright and bubbly and very unlike him. 

Mingyu sprung open the door behind you, yelling over your shoulders: “HOODLUMS! THIEVES! YOU’RE LUCKY I CAN’T LEAVE THIS SAUCE.” 

This made the both of you laugh even harder, disappearing behind another building, leading up to the chicken-fountain. You caught up to him, still holding the pizza in his open palms, now sweating and panting in between bright, heart-thrumming giggles. 

“I thought-” you panted, bending at your knees and warding away the image of the betrayed Mingyu. “I thought you said he let you do whatever he wanted.” 

“Yeah,” Jeonghan heaved, cheeks rosy and shiny, as he gently padded over to a bench with the pizza out like the plate in the hand of Oliver Twist. “That’s my bad. I forget he was 16 two years ago and has since then lost all respect for me.” 

This made you laugh. This had your eyes squinting closed and a deep, ringing laugh bouncing up your ribcage and your throat and exploding into the summertime. Eyes closed, you missed the way Jeonghan’s face lit up at that.

“That made you laugh? Self-deprecation?” he asked incredulously, but somehow amazed. 

“Oh,” you cried, opening your eyes and willing your laughter to calm. “I think it’s just the first time you haven’t been baselessly confident and cocky.” 

“Baseless?” Jeonghan echoed, face screwed in poorly-concealed glee.

“Yeah,” you nodded, face also screwed in poorly-concealed glee.

“What? Am I supposed to collect, like, fuckin’ data?” 

“Yeah, evidence.” 

“EVIDENCE?” 

You and Jeonghan went back to The Pirate Swing, splitting the pizza in the booth and every 45 minutes or so, letting guests on when they came by. He was still annoying and in all fairness he’d dragged you into his crimes against humanity. But. He was also a little funny and sweet. 

And the pizza did taste better than your packed lunch. _____________________________

Two days of normal work followed. 

There were too many people to really fuck around, so you and Jeonghan stayed in the booth, and you even managed to pressure him into telling you about the rest of the buttons, as well as the mechanics of the bigger machines. 

Everytime Jeonghan saw you he greeted you with “Hey titty-shirt!”, equally enthusiastic each time. Everytime the clock hands read 8 PM he pulled out his weed and began smoking. Everytime he began smoking he snaked a hand on the back of your leg where you stood (still no chair!) beside him, rubbing the flesh under his palm. You shooed him away half-heartedly, then felt guilty for not meaning it. Jeonghan was a sleazy piece of shit, but his hand was warm and felt nice on your thigh. You liked to tell yourself you were just lonely or something. 

“TITTY-SHIRT!” 

That Saturday you came walking into work, still wearing your shirt and your cap, and was immediately alerted to the fact that something was off; Jeonghan was ecstatic. 

He always had this front of joy and constant bemusement, but you’d learned to read how he yearned for his shift to end - you saw it sometimes when he gazed out of the windows of the booth, thinking you were surveying the kids. That day, he was happy. Genuinely. 

“TITTY-SHIRT!” he called again, causing a family of blonde children to turn their heads in dismay. He paid them no mind, rushing down the stairs with loud, trampling steps, to meet you at the foot of the platform, before you could even settle down in the booth. He grabbed your forearms in his hands and grinned at you childishly. You couldn’t help the small, bemused smile that parted your lips.

“Great fuckin’ news,” he said, “Belinda is fucking gone. M.I.A.”

“Okay?” you grimaced, unsure of what he was getting at. 

“Okay?! Do you know what this means?” 

“No, not particularly,” you mumbled. 

“This whole fuckin’ area,” he let go of your arms to motion vigorously to your part of the park. "Unsupervised. Unaccounted for.” 

“Okay?” 

“Okay?! This means we’re gonna go shoot the shit at the arcade, come on!” He threw a hand over his shoulder to gesture to the arcade area. You frowned and crossed your arms challengingly. 

“Shouldn’t we go take care of our coaster?” 

“Are you kidding me? If no one is working it, people just assume it’s shut down for maintenance. Come on, this only happens, like, twice a year!” He whined, stomping his worn-down Nike sneakers into the pavement and pouting at you. You hated to admit it made your facade melt like an overpriced ice-cream in the hand of a child. 

“Alright, but-” 

“Yes!” 

Without further nonsense, Jeonghan grabbed your hand in his, and began to once more drag you through the park. As you ran behind him, you looked at your interlocked hands and thought, briefly, that it wasn’t too bad to look at. And it felt kind of good. 

“What happened to Belinda?” 

“God knows, I think it was something with her kids.” 

“She has kids?!” 

You and Jeonghan messed around at the arcade - Jeonghan miraculously had been granted the keys to the arcade by Belinda (something about her trusting him?), and unlocked the machines and you played games with already-used coins. 

First was Whack-A-Mole, then the boxing game, then those motorcycle races, and then you played the basketball game.

“I’m gonna beat you!” you squealed, throwing a miniature basketball through the hoop with a small jump. You grinned in triumph when it landed right, punching the air like a dork and turning to him with victoriously glean. 

Jeonghan wasn’t even played, you realized. You’d been so caught up in actually landing the ball in the hoop that you’d managed to forgo the way Jeonghan leaned against his lane, eyes half lidded and shadowed under his cap. You turned to him, now much more aware that you’d been acting like a dork. 

“Uh, aren’t you gonna play?” you asked sheepishly, blushing. You wished you’d missed how Jeonghan’s lips quirked upwards at the sight. 

“No,” he sang, “I think I’m just gonna stay here and watch you play.” 

You narrowed your eyes, suspiciously, and that was all Jeonghan needed before he sighed and shrugged in defeat, like a criminal caught for his crimes.

“Sorry, I just like watching your tits bounce when you get all excited,” he deadpanned. Your mouth gaped open and crossed your arm over your chest.

“You’re so gross, Jeonghan!” you said, now thoroughly uninterested in playing anymore. Jeonghan only scoffed though, to which you snapped your head back to him with an outraged expression. He smiled at you in that cheeky son-of-a-bitch way. 

“Oh, don’t act like that,” he said cockily.

“Like what?”

He laughed, rolling his eyes, letting a small pause linger in the space between you. You hoped he couldn’t see the way your eyes twinkled with excitement every time he said something like this. As hot as he was, Jeonghan was a cocky, sleazy piece of shit and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

“Like you’re scandalized,” he said simply. You wanted to respond, wanted to defend your honor, but Jeonghan saw right through you, and he took one step forward to speak again: “Like you hate the way I talk to you. You act all innocent and nice and so uptight, but you know what?” 

He took daring steps forward, one after another, until you were half-sat on the basketball machine and he stood, looming over you, surprisingly menacing despite the get-up. The air seemed to suddenly thicken and warm, tasting foul in your mouth. Then he leaned in, eyes glimmering brilliantly with amusement and that evil smile on his lips, breath hitting yours. 

“I think you love being treated like a slut.” 

Fuck.

He was so close to you, body heat rolling into you. You knew he saw the mechanisms of your brain turning behind your eyes, saw the fear when you realized he had seen right through you, and he smiled, and he might as well have had fucking horns.

He tilted his head, and, fuck, if every angle of his face wasn’t perfect. It was unfair. It was so unfair. 

“I-I don’t-” your voice was a meek, half-hearted protest, cut off before you could even begin.

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I think you do. You don’t just let any man massage your thigh, hm?” 

At those words, his hand dropped onto your thigh, finger digging into soft flesh. You mewled at the feeling, causing his grin to spread wider. 

“Oh, poor baby,” he pouted in fake-sympathy. “Am I making you wet?” 

“JEONGHAN!” 

Thank God for Kwon Soonyoung with the impeccable timing. 

Soonyoung was “the pool boy” - he did not work at the pools, but he was the victim of a dunking-machine that was set up in the summertime. Kids and adults alike paid to throw balls at a big, red button that would lower a trapdoor and dunk Soonyoung in ice-cold water. You’d seen it in action and it was pretty hilarious. 

At his voice, you and Jeonghan scrambled apart, his hand flying off your thigh and body twisting to back away from you, and you dropping off the machine and landing flat on your feet, blushing wildly and somewhat out of breath. 

Soonyoung, the poor boy, was sprinting through the park, stopping awkwardly where you and Jeonghan had been standing. He was out of breath and had a wild look in his eyes, like he was being chased by some supernatural monster. 

“Belinda is back! Get back to your coasters!” If he’d noticed your philandering he certainly didn’t mention it, breaking into a sprint again the second the words had left his lips. 

“Shit, thank you, Soonyoung!” Jeonghan yelled, receiving only a limp thumbs-up from the trackstar in response. Jeonghan grabbed your hand and the two of you ran back to The Pirate Swing as fast as your legs could take you. 

Your heart fluttered at your interlocked hands again, and you stared at them, focused on them, as the world became a blurred mess around you. His warmth streamed into you.

You couldn’t even look at him the rest of the shift. Something about his confrontation stirred a mimicking phenomenon in you. Did you want to fuck Jeonghan? You did, you realized, and thus you were unable to raise your gaze from the floor, pressing yourself against the wall to be far enough away from him, that he couldn’t touch your thigh again. He didn’t. He just let your cheeks blaze and pressed buttons and talked to kids, and he even waved at Belinda when she walked by, and she smiled wide and waved back. 

You went home at 9 PM, shirt too tight around your chest, and chest too tight around your heart. You simply couldn’t believe it, because not only did you want to fuck Jeonghan;

You had a fucking crush on him. _____________________________

Having a crush on Yoon Jeonghan was maybe the worst revelation you’d had in your life.

You’d kept all the things you admired about him hidden under the veil of your shirt; he was sleazy and gross and he smoked weed at work and had a certain disregard for child safety. But, and there was always a but, you realized, he was also witty and easy to talk to, and it was cute when he was happy or he got excited about something, and he was so damn charismatic, and you realized you would do anything to see him with that childlike joy again. 

The worst part was that Jeonghan did not like you back. In fact, you couldn’t even imagine him liking anyone. He thought you were hot and wanted to fuck and that was the end of it. All the ways you cared about him were unreciprocated. He did not care to see you happy. He did not care for the twinkle in your eyes when you were excited. He liked your tits in your shirt and was working his fingers up, day by day, to touch you. Yoon Jeonghan did not like you back. 

Three days of work passed, three days of being muted and awkward around him. Jeonghan’s shine was not dulled by your lack though. The kids loved him, Belinda loved him, and he didn’t love anyone back - just let himself be showered in admiration. He was greedy like that. He took all the love and gave none out.

On this particular day, all you did was lay in your bed before work, willing time to stop so you wouldn’t have to go. Legs flopped on top of your bedsheets, work shirt on and cap on your bedside. You waited.

You waited with a metal ball in your stomach, rolling around and causing a ruckus. It rested heavy there, rolling to and fro and grazing your heart from time to time, and it hurt. 

Maybe the reason it felt this bad was because you did it to yourself. Of course, Jeonghan wouldn’t like you back. He was Jeonghan. And yet, you’d had your guard down and his effortless charms had worked their way into your brain. You wondered how many girls had been in the same exact position as you; being graced with Jeonghan’s presence, being smitten by it, and now lying in bed, realizing the admiration would never be bounced back to them. 

You went to work. 

In the damn shirt, you walked in through the staff-door and journeyed towards The Pirate Swing. 

There were so many people that day, you could hardly believe your eyes. The queues were mile-long stretches, and every pathway was spotted with body after body, walls of families, crowds swarming like insects. It was enough to induce a slight panic. 

“It’s good that you’re here, Titty-shirt,” Jeonghan said, when you walked into the booth beside him. He had a bit of a wild look in his eye and he was chewing on a banana. You stood by the door of the booth, looking out at the queue - a genuine queue? To The Pirate Swing? - as the boat swung catastrophically behind you. “We’re fucking busy.” 

You hummed, then turned your head to him. He had sat down, seemingly exhausted and pouting a little. 

“You brought a packed lunch?” you asked, nodding towards the banana in his hand and he looked up at you. His cheeky smile made you want to die. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I stole this from Seungkwan,” he said and you laughed, and you hated that he made you laugh. The walls of the booth muffled the loud, indistinct buzz and shielded you from the chaos. The flimsy, windowed walls had never felt as intimate. 

“It’s gonna be a shitty day,” you declared ceremoniously. He grunted something in agreement, voice strangled by the now finished banana. Forever himself, he discarded the peel on the corner of the control panel, among his ziploc of weed and empty cans. 

It was a shitty day.

The constant swarming of people, crying children, the non-stop screech of rusted roller coaster tracks; everything brewed together into a pounding headache, as you and Jeonghan hunched together in the booth. Beads of sweat collected on your skin, where the unforgiving sun streamed through the windows. 

Around 8 PM you’d had just about enough. Your head was pounding, you were hungry, and most terribly you were sad. You were sad, sitting next to Jeonghan on the dirty, hard floor of the booth, and you could cry every time he said something snarky and lewd to you. He would never like you and you were a fool for ever letting yourself get attached. 

The day was constant work, constant talking to kids and putting on an energetic front. Finally the crowd seemed to thin out. Slowly but surely, the suburban families returned home and only a few people remained, and the night time glowed soft and warm. 

“Dude,” Jeonghan said, neck craned to look at his phone. With most of the guests gone, he’d finally gotten a chance to waste away on his phone, putting his mouth to his makeshift bong and smoking pot. You kept the booth-door open to let the smoke out. “Wanna go see a crowd of teenagers dunk Soonyoung? Junhui just texted me.” 

You were so tired. Every inch of your body yearned to relax where you sat, cross legged on the metal floor. With dark, sunken eyes and no courtesy left, you simply shook your head. 

“You sure?” he asked, eyebrows raised. You were just tired enough to miss the small frown on his lips. 

“I’m tired, you just go.” 

Jeonghan shrugged then and stood up. He left the bong on the floor and stepped over you to exit. 

“I’ll be back ASAP!” he yelled out, and you didn’t even try to look at him, to call something witty back. You just sat. 

And as if it weren’t the last thing you needed today, just thirty minutes before closing, a woman and her son strolled up The Pirate Swing. You saw them, eyes glazing with worry as you flickered your head to Jeonghan’s empty chair.

“We want a ride!” cawed the woman, holding her son by the hand. You scrambled to your feet, stuttering as you dusted off your pants. 

“Uh, I-” hopeful, you looked around, hoping to see Jeonghan and his long, poodle-y hair somewhere near. The pathways were deserted. “I-I actually can’t-” 

Not waiting for an explanation, the woman clucked once more: “You’re still open, aren’t ya?” 

You nodded, tiredness painted thick and greasy on your face. “Yes, we are, um, open, but I-” 

“Well, then give us a ride?!” 

This woman was going to be the death of you. Why were they even here now right before closing? You closed your eyes, collecting yourself and mustering each ounce of patience you had left. 

“I’m not allowed to because I’m new-” 

“Well, where is the operator? Why are you here if you don’t know how it works!” 

“He’s, uh,” your face fell, “He’s using the bathroom right no-” 

You’re not even sure why you lied. 

“Alright,” she huffed, strained and impatient. “Well, you just ruined me and my son’s night!” 

She tugged her blonde kid by the hand and began to turn around, grumbling with a red face. 

“I’m so sorry, but- it’s a matter of safety-” 

“Next time just say you don’t know how to do your job!” she yelled over her shoulder, mean glare coming out over her shapely glasses. Then she was jiggling away with a pouting child. 

Your mouth fell open in shock. A part of you wanted to be angry - a part of you was angry - but you found yourself weighed down and sliding down the wall of the booth with a much heavier feeling; you were exhausted. 

This was the last straw for tonight, you decided, resolve melting like a dropped ice cream. Booth door half-creaked open and weed vapor in the air, you buried your head in your hands and began to cry. It was small. It was not loud and sorrowful, it was small and petty. Nothing grand about crying on the dirty floor at your workplace. Sniffles and single, wet tears and a quivering lip, all dying out in the soft glow of the fairy light decorating the park.

“Y/n?” 

“Shit,” you lifted your head from your hands, wiping hard on your reddened cheeks. Jeonghan was standing in the open door, looking down at you on the floor.

“Sorry, uh-” 

“Why are you crying?” 

You paused, hands fiddling with the collar of your shirt and effectively covering your breasts. Your breath was shaky and snotty, eyelashes coated in tears. Red patches your skin around your puffy eyes, and your lips pressed into a thin line. 

Jeonghan did not look like himself when you looked up at him. It must have been a completely different person, you decided, because his features had  tightened and screwed into an expression you had never even seen a hint of before: concern. 

It looked so utterly foreign on his face - there was always a lightness to his expression, a joking, teasing look, but now he was frowning and his brows were furrowed and his eyes were big and red and round. It made  you feel small and frail. You didn’t like seeing him like that; unwell. But it seemed that feeling was mutual. 

“Um,” you began, voice hoarse and shuddering like a frail old fence-gate, that’s been slammed shut. “I’ve just had a shitty fucking day and- this woman came and wanted to ride and she was just so fucking mean when I told her I couldn’t..” 

Telling it all again made you feel so pathetic, it wracked another sob from you, hurdling past your lips. You caught it in your hand, pressing it to your mouth and squeezing your eyes shut up. 

God, you were pathetic. 

But your heavy, heavy eyelashes blinked open and you looked up to see Jeonghan’s expression softened into something else entirely;

Guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. 

“No, it’s fine-”

He dropped to his knees in front of you, now at your level and up close, so you could see every tensed muscle and every strain on his beautiful face. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he said solemnly and for the first time since you’d met him, Jeonghan was merely expressing his regret, not bartering for some sort of gain. His words were dripping with sincerity and it was so strange, you had to laugh.

“What?” he asked, a small grin growing on his face. That was more familiar. 

“I just- I’ve never seen you so serious, it’s okay, Jeonghan, I forgive you-” 

He broke into a laugh as well, rhythmic clucks dancing through the air from the booth, and it immediately cheered you up: he was beautiful and practically glowing, a small rim of light encapsulating him. 

“I’m very serious, I think,” he said. You rolled your puffy, old eyes. 

There was a significant pause. 

Your head lolled over and your gaze landed once more on the makeshift bong by the chair, now abandoned. It reminded you of how different you were. You tried too hard because you liked when people liked you, you were a hard worker, your shirt was too tight. Your shirt was too tight and that’s what had landed you in this situation. 

“Can I…” you trailed off, daring to look at him again. “Can I smoke some of your weed?” 

Jeonghan’s face was practically split in half the way he was smiling. There was something akin to triumph in his eyes, but it was almost fatally overpowered by sheer, bubbling, striking adoration. It made you blush. 

“Of course, babe, I thought you’d never ask,” he breathed, still smiling when he scrambled forward for the bong and stretched out his arm to finger at the control panel, finally feeling the soft plastic and snatching it down to the floor with you. 

“Just put your mouth to the can, baby, I’ll light it for you,” he giggled giddily, scrambling for the lighter in his pocket. 

“I know how it works,” you tried to sound stern, but you were smiling and your eyes were twinkling. 

Jeonghan messily pinched off a nugget of weed and placed it on the gridded holes in the can (which he had pricked with his work badge; “Hi, my name is Jeonghan!”), and you placed it to your mouth, while he held the lighter to it. 

“You’re so hardcore,” he said sarcastically, face close to yours as he flicked the lighter, sending a warm flame onto the can, so the nugget lit ablaze. 

“Shut up,” you said, and then you inhaled and the flame went out and turned into a glow, and warm, crisp smoke traveled down your throat, leaving it sore and burned. It felt great. 

You held it in for a moment, then exhaled, and Jeonghan watched eagerly as your chest rose and fell under the restricting fabric of your shirt. 

You and Jeonghan sat side by side for the last half hour, smoking together, eyes turning red and breaths turning sour and casting laughs into the night air. There was a warm buzz in your chest, a low drum, and you basked in the proximity to him, in how the heat of his body met yours in a fierce battle, at how he caught your eye when he joked, and how he smiled when you laughed. Your responsibilities melted away; your shirt felt looser. 

“We’re closing now,” you hummed after a while, somehow lighter and heavier at the same time. Your eyelids felt heavy and your cheeks were warm from giggling. Jeonghan placed his hand on your wrist, squeezing and tearing your eyes to his. 

“I have such a good idea right now,” he grinned lazily and you couldn't help but echo it. His eyes were red and half-lidded, and his voice was groggy from the smoke. He had run his hand through his hair one too many times and now it was puffier, poodlier than normal. He looked so handsome, you thought, studying the tan from many days in the sun. You figured he didn’t use sunscreen. 

“What is it?” you breathed.

“Come on, come with me!” 

Then the two of you were sneaking from building to building and giggling indiscreetly, two hunched silhouettes becoming one with the backs of buildings. Jeonghan insisted the two of you go to the toddler playground (Sunshine Dance Club, as it were called), because, in his words: “those dumb prick security guards never bother to actually check it”. He pulled you into the pastel green, red, blue, and yellow dreamscape, pulling you up a wooden tower, where you would be shielded by the railing. 

The two of you sat against the railing and waited while a security guard checked the place before closing. 

The mischief had made the two of you even more giggly, scratchy throats producing choppy snickering, as you leaned into each other on the wood, breathing in each other’s air. You liked being so close to him, you thought, and you were almost high enough to just spit it out. The distant stream of light overhead revealed his pores, but you liked those too. 

“Shut up, shut up,” Jeonghan whispered at one point. “I think he might be coming!”

“You’ve said that three times-” 

His hand clasped over your mouth and he fought not to laugh at the surprise in your eyes. Sure enough, this time he was right, as you heard booted footsteps in the distance, and the beam of a flashlight danced across the sloping and bouncing playground. 

You held your breath, not only because you feared, for the first time that night, getting caught, but also because Jeonghan had leaned so close to you, that you could see every stirred acrylic in his eye, every color of brown, swirly sundae. 

Both of you stopped laughing and stared at each other. 

His hand dropped from your lips. 

“I have cotton mouth,” he whispered, footsteps fading away. You couldn’t tell if it was the weed or what, but the air seemed thicker and you felt heavier, like imaginary hands were tugging you down. Jeonghan was no better - you couldn’t quite place the emotion on his glowing face. He almost seemed vulnerable.

“Me too,” you whispered, breathless. 

A pause.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, pink and plush.

“Can I kiss you?” 

You were almost bristling for a moment in pure surprise, before you recollected yourself and nodded eagerly.

“Yeah.” 

You thought his lips would smash into yours; you thought he would conquer you, because that would simply be the most Jeonghan-thing he could, to take what was his, to be cheeky and horny and sleazy.

To your utmost surprise, his hand was shaking when he lifted it, brushing so softly, so gently across the skin of your neck, resting on the back of it, cold from the icy, night breeze. His hand kissed the tips of your hair, and he gently slid it up, breath shaking, as he stared at your lips. Then he leaned in. 

His lips were soft like the bouncy castle on the edge of the playground, so impossibly gentle and flowing and warm. He breathed out shakily against your skin, eyes squeezed shut. Had you seen it, you would’ve almost believed that the kiss pained him, with the furrowed brows, but you didn’t, and it wasn’t painful at all, it was just that his heart was exploding and so was yours. Tender and slow, that was what it was, and you had never thought you’d use words like that to describe him.

A moment of entangled lips, slow making out and warm air covering your skin, his hand in your hair. The Sunshine Dance Club was filled with the sound of spit.

Then he pulled away, breath still shaking, but now, less vulnerable. His lips curled into a smile, spreading that childlike joy on his face. It made you smile as well. 

“That was-” he shook his head at himself, cringing. Then he restarted: “Can I show you something?” 

You chuckled, cheeks heavily flushed and eyes twinkling. “What is it?” 

The cheekiness returned to his eyes, as he scrambled to his feet: “A surprise.” 

And once again the two of you were giggling through the park, this time hand in hand, looking over your shoulders for the security guard that by this time had definitely gone home. The halted steps over the cobbled paths echoed in the dead, empty park. 

It would’ve been a strange feeling - seeing everything closed and dark and empty, every inch usually crammed with people strangely void - had you not been entirely consumed by Jeonghan’s presence. His hand in yours, his laugh, his starry eyes, his face softening when he looked at you.

Jeonghan led you into Belinda’s office (he had a key because he was her favorite, he said), allowing you to sit on the edge of her desk, while he sauntered off into an attached room. You sat there, overhead light dull and buzzing, and basked in the log cabin aesthetics. Your chest was warm.

Then, from beyond the other room, sounding much further away and thereby being much bigger than you had initially imagined the attached room to be, you heard the mechanical sound of several switches. They sounded heavy and important, having a sort of resonance that continued into your room, where Belinda’s desk chair was spun halfway. 

“Jeonghan?” you called, a twinge of worry in your voice. “What did you do?” 

He came jogging back into the office, all wide grinned and puffy-eyed. 

“You’ll see.” 

Once again he grabbed onto your hand, pulling you off the desk and barging out of the doorway.

The night air enveloped you completely, stealing you away from the warmth of the office, kissing your warm skin, as you stood on the cobble. The feeling was so great, you almost missed what Jeonghan had done.

It was beautiful. 

The switches had turned on the lights everywhere. In every color imaginable, illuminating dramatically sloping tracks in the distance, fairy lights on the pathways, signs re-lit, and the whole park before your eyes seemed to have become a disco-ball, sending faint streaks into the star-spotted sky like aurora borealis. 

You, now red and green and yellow and blue, let out a disbelieving laugh, smiling wide. You squeezed his hand, unable to communicate further. There was something about it that left you entirely speechless. It was an inability to overcome and conquer the lights before you - your eyes feasted on them much too eagerly. 

“What do you think?” 

Jeonghan was looking at you. 

“It’s-” you sucked in a breath, trying to compose a sudden sincerity you felt. You looked over at him. “It’s so pretty, Jeonghan. It’s really beautiful.” 

“I knew you would like it,” he murmured happily, body turned to yours. You turned to him as well. 

There was a moment of silence. The two of you basked in the light and in the gentle glow and the cool night, and in each other. 

“Thank you for cheering me up,” you said and pursed your lips. He smiled in a gentle way. It looked nice on him. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, “we were having fun.” 

The conversation lulled again, and while you turned your head back to the light show, the flickering lights and the ombre, Jeonghan continued looking at you. 

You felt his eyes on you, and you turned to him, shyly: “You should look at the beautiful lights.”

He shook his head, lips twisting upwards: “No.. Not right now…” And that was all he said.

The words left a bit of a void in you, like a black hole sunk in your stomach and you turned to him curiously. Jeonghan sensed your confusion, because he licked his lips and gave you a knowing smile, and then explained. 

“I wanna kiss you again, love.”

And his voice was so angelic, such a grave contrast to the boy you’d come to know, but he’d been so strange tonight. Your first kiss had been so tender, now he was looking at you and his pupils were dilated and a smirk spread across his face, and you needed to know something; just one thing, before you threw yourself at him, and gave to him, something you would not be able to take back. 

“Do you just wanna fuck me?” your voice echoed off the walls of the empty park, resounding accusingly. He laughed.

“Of course, I wanna fuck you, baby,” he laughed a little, shaking his head in disbelief. You stayed staring at him, bristling. “You’re hot as shit.” 

“No, I mean,” you paused, because suddenly your heart was climbing into your throat and it seemed like everything you’d worried about was true, that you were just another girl that was hexed by his charms. “Do you just wanna fuck me?” 

His smirk dropped. There was a moment where all you could hear was wind and the electrical whirring of the many, many lights, draining energy from the earth by the second. 

“Do you honestly think I’d do this for just any girl I wanted to fuck?” 

“I-”

“I thought you were smarter than that, N/n,” his lips spread once more in a smile, but this one seemed more fitting on his face - condescending and confident. Whatever vulnerability had hung in the air was replaced by warmer, thicker danger. Was it the weed making you feel this way? On edge or excited?

“I just-” you stammered, feeling bashful suddenly. Did that mean he liked you? Yes, that meant he liked you. You had truly not even considered the possibility, not really thought it through the way you had the negative outcome, so now you were standing and you didn’t know how to respond. A stuttering, blubbering mess of red cheeks and avoidant eyes. “I just- I thought you just- because you talk so much about my boobs-” 

“Shhhh,” he shushed you. The cocky motherfucker actually shushed you, staring you down in a way that made you feel like prey and taking two steps forward, and closing the gap between you. He was so, so close to you, chest inches away from yours and leaning his face down to tilt his head at you. 

“You’re so cute, baby,” he cooed, eyes dancing around your face. 

You and him watched it, as one lean hand lifted itself to your chest, tightly wrapped in polyester-fabric. You sucked in a breath. His fingers lightly grazed it, trailing over the soft plushness of it. Then he cupped it, experimentally, like feeling the weight of it in his hand. You whimpered pathetically. 

“Hm,” he hummed, ripping his gaze from your tits very briefly at the noise, “you sound so pretty.”

In an effort to steal more noises from your pretty lips, his delicate thumb rubbed over your nipple, watching it harden under the fabric with a bemused smirk. Your breathing became heavy and shaky. 

“Can we– please?” you whined, but he only tutted, watching the fat crook under his finger.

“Hang on, sweetheart, I’m having my fun,” he said, nonchalantly, another hand snaking up to your other tit. “Been waiting for this since the first time I saw you.”

You couldn’t help but whimper quietly, his caresses and his intense gaze sending electricity straight to your core. You fingers wrapped around his forearms where they flexed, as he kneaded your chest eagerly. 

“That’s right,” he whispered and leaned into you, eyes half lidded and lips wet from spit. “Be a good girl and let me play with your pretty titties.” 

Then he kissed you again, groaning into your mouth at the weight of your tits in his hands. His groping became more rough and hurried, as he bit your lip and slipped his tongue in your mouth. 

“Fuck, baby, need to get your shirt off, it’s so tight,” he groaned, licking into your mouth. You whined, back arching into his hand. “Poor baby, shirt so tight it’s strangling your pretty tits.” 

“Jeonghan, please!” You cried, putting one hand on his chest to push him away from you. He pulled away, lips red and swollen and cheeks delightfully flushed. 

“Okay, baby,” he whispered, comfortingly. “Okay, okay, I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.” 

You could cry. The way he was touching you so intimately, but refusing to snake his hand down to your burning core, where you could feel yourself fucking dripping. Your body was on fire and your voice was hoarse from the weed that still coursed through your body. 

“Please, please,” you mumbled, and it was desperate enough that Jeonghan pulled his hands from your chest (which took more willpower than he was willing to admit), sliding them over your back and pulling you into him. You nosed into the crook of his neck, sighing happily. 

“Alright, baby,” He breathed, hand in your hair. You felt his neck crane, looking around. 

“Come with me, baby, I know just where to go.” 

You didn’t even have time to whine that you didn’t want to go anywhere, you wanted him to touch you. Jeonghan grabbed your hand and crossed the pathway, and you saw the yellow, lit-up sign for the funhouse before you disappeared into the entrance. 

The first room had a large circular hallway, and when you stepped onto the red plastic, it rolled a little. You and Jeonghan both stumbled rockily, and you nosedived into his chest. He laughed, steadying you with warm fingers on your waist. “Silly girl,” his voice cooed in your ear. 

“Jeonghan, please touch me-” 

“We’re almost there, baby,” he said, and he was being a little annoying, because he’d just played with your boobs and made you so fucking wet that your panties were sticking to your folds, and now he was trudging you through the hallways of a funhouse. You both skiddered out of the circular hallway with much trouble. 

The next room was slanted, and in your intoxicated mind, this was more than a challenge. The whole room was blue and your knuckles became celeste, as you gripped the slanted railing. 

“Jeonghan, I can’t-” 

Not another word out of your lips, before Jeonghan was scooping you up in his arms, walking with seemingly no problem through the room. “Shit!” you yelped when he did so, but he only smiled at you, a mixture of adoration and teasing. He ran with you, his bride, through a black and white doorway. 

The next room was the mirror maze, and Jeonghan’s face lit up at the sight of it. 

“We’re here!” he panted giddily, gently lowering you. You found your footing and looked around, a little speechless at how quickly he’d constructed this plan. There were at least 20 different angles of you, and you cringed at your own disheveled appearance and how your tiny shirt dug into your skin. A hall of reflection, the roof and flooring was pitch black and only you and him existed in the void, copycats at every corner.

You saw Jeonghan in the mirror, walking up behind you. He was smirking, planting his head on your shoulder and peering up at you, as his hands caressed your waist, riding up your shirt and exposing your stomach 20 times over. You hated to say it, but seeing his veiny, big hands on you made your breath hitch. 

“Was it not worth it, hmm?” he sang innocently, blinking at you with a bunched up cheek on your shoulder. His sleazy hands worked the fabric upwards, just under the impressive bump of your chest. 

His eyes flicked over to the most nearby mirror. Breath becoming shaky, his hands lifted the shirt, finally, over your chest, exposing your simple, black bra and the soft skin of your tits. You could breathe easier, without the fabric digging into your chest. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, soft hands immediately dipping inwards to touch over the skin. “Shit, you’re so perfect,” his voice was strangled, all composure gone as he looked at your chest with something akin to wonder. 

You moaned, feeling his dick, fully fucking hard from just playing with your soft mounds, grinding into your ass. Like a horny teenage boy, he moaned shakily, big hands covering your boobs and squeezing, and rutting into you from behind. As much as you wanted him to touch you, you couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of Jeonghan so utterly fucked out, using your body to pleasure himself. It was so erotic, the way his pretty face twisted in place and his fingers dug into the fat of your chest, panting into your neck. Then the sight untangled itself from your body.

“Sorry, sorry,” he was out of breath, removing his hips from your ass. “I got too caught up.” 

“It’s okay-”

He spun you around, pushing your body against the mirror. You stood back to back with your reflection. 

“No, it’s not,” he breathed, working your shirt the rest of the way off hastily. You lifted your arms to help the fabric off. 

You very barely registered Jeonghan snaking your pants off, and then his own clothes. You leaned your head on the mirror and you could finally breathe without the tight shirt, and you somehow felt stronger, not vulnerable like you would have expected. And when your eyes flicked to another mirror and you saw Jeonghan shirtless too, you realized the two of you were much more similar now. 

Jeonghan was standing in his boxers now, and you in your panties. 

“You know, I always thought you’d be more composed during sex,” you mused, returning your focus to him and smiling teasingly, because even now he was transfixed on your bare chest, heaving for air. Jeonghan scoffed, seemingly genuinely offended by this. 

“It’s not my fault your fat fucking rack has been staring at me through that tiny fucking shirt every day,” he spat, and in a sort of retaliation he cupped your pussy through your panties. 

Finally, he touched your cunt, and God, was it worth the wait, because it shot straight through your stomach, even the slightest touch on the cold, wet fabric. Jeonghan grinned cockily at the state of your underwear. 

“You’re one to talk,” he teased. “Your pussy is fucking weeping for me.” 

You moaned and your back twisted against the cold surface of the mirror, as Jeonghan slipped his finger upwards to circle your clit slowly. 

“N-ngh, fuck..” 

“There you go,” he said in fake sympathy, pouting, and even with his hand on your clit, you could almost believe it, because he just looked that angelic and pure. “Finally your greedy cunt has my hand, hm? Bet you’ve been thinking about this since we met.” 

He couldn’t help himself. He trailed his free up to your chest again. It just looked so delectable, unblemished skin, jiggling at every twitch and shake from you, and nipples hardened to pebbles. “I’ve been thinking about you since we met,” he sighed happily, pinching the nipples between his fingers and relishing in your strangled whine. 

Jeonghan slipped his hand in your panties, scoffing to himself at just how fucking wet you were, leaking from your hole like a slut, when his finger prodded at it. 

“P-Please, Jeonghan, please, fuck-” 

Your plea was cut off by Jeonghan’s hand gripping your throat. He smirked at your tortured expression, one hand circling your hole and the other wrapped around your neck, thumb climbing up your chin to rest on your lip.

“What do you want?” he tilted his head challengingly. You gulped, face flushed and baby hairs sticking to your sweat-gleamy face. 

“I-I want you to finger me,” you mustered, building up all the courage you could to hold eye contact with him and his lopsided grin. He raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. 

“Really?” he sang, “you want gross, sleazy, perverted Jeonghan’s fingers up your tight, pink pussy?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. Of course, all those moments of shaming him for thirsting over you. Now you were basically fucking naked, tits perked up from your arched back and writhing under him for just a single finger in your glistening hole. 

“Jeonghan, I’m sorry-” 

His thumb on your lip tugged downwards, effectively muffling your words and shushing you. He watched your pretty lip bend to the will of his thumb, humming. 

“Then say it,” he shrugged.

“Wha?” your speech was slurred by his heavy thumb.

“Say you want gross, sleazy, perverted Jeonghan’s fingers up your tight, pink pussy,” he repeated, acting exasperated, like it was your fault for not being able to keep up. Legs spread and utterly naked, you flushed and felt dumb, and you felt even dumber when you began to speak, and his thumb stayed where it was, weighing down your lip.

“I-I wan’ gross, sleazy, perverted Jeonghan’s fingers up my tight, pink pussy,” you slurred. Somehow the embarrassment translated into a wave of slick exciting your hole and landing on Jeonghan’s hand. He grinned at your obedience, hand pushing up so his thumb entered your mouth, pressing down on your tongue and the rest of his hand cradled your face. 

“Good girl,” he purred, head craned down to look at you, suckling his thumb with wide eyes. He finally heeded your request, two fingers pushing into your sopping heat. “Now suck on my thumb like the good, big-titted girl you fucking are while I make you cum.” 

He was immediately bullying his fingers in and out of you, curling them. Drool escaped where your lips wrapped around his thumb, as you moaned on it, feeling him poke and prod at your tongue with an evil smirk on his pretty face. You saw his dick print straining against his boxers in the corner of your vision.

“Been waiting for this pussy to be mine,” hummed Jeonghan, long eyelashes coming over his eyes when he looked down at you. “You know, if you’d been a little more cooperative I could’ve had my cock in you everyday for the past week.” 

You sobbed around his thumb, panting for air through your nose. His fingers felt so good, pistoning into you and so thin you could feel the bulge of each crooking knuckle churning in and out. His thumb sneaked back up to rub your clit again, and you clawed at his shoulders, trying to stabilize your suddenly shaking legs. 

Jeonghan let out the most erotic, guttural moan you’d ever heard, when he watched drool slip from your swollen, red lips and languidly ooze on your trembling chest. His face twisted in pleasure at the sight of them, becoming all shiny and slicked up from your own spit. 

“Fuck, you’re so pathetic. Can’t believe you’re fucking drooling all over your tits,” he spat, cheeks flushed as he leaned back to look at them, all pretty and slick and glowing under the maze’s fluorescent tubes. He slipped his thumb from your mouth to begin smearing the spit all over your skin. 

Your cunt pulsed around his fingers, clenching and unclenching as something in your belly tightened. You heaved for air, moaning loudly into the maze and practically crying. 

“F-Fuck, Hannie, f-feels s’ good!” you whined, chest thrashing under his needy hands. He lifted his gaze to smile at you, where he was crooked over to look closely at your spit-slick boobs. 

“I know, baby, I know. Cum on my fingers, now, m’kay?” He smiled cheekily, pressing especially hard on your clit. You saw white, orgasm so potent, you almost didn’t even register how Jeonghan dived into your chest, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples 

The wet, smacking of his lips and his pleased humming into the soft skin only spurred on your orgasm, as your cum coated Jeonghan’s fingers. His nose, buried in the flesh of your tit, breathed out a dam of warm air into it. 

His fingers stilled within you, slowly pulling out, while he continued to lap at your chest, warm tongue on your areola. You tried to catch your breath, but it was hard with how he moaned around your fucking tit, sucking and smacking his lips, while holding you to him. You cried out softly when he nibbled at it, to which he finally pulled away, smiling teasingly. 

There was something about the way he was so shameless about it, that almost made you feel even more ashamed, especially when you saw your form in the mirror, and how wet and red your boob was from his insistent sucking. You blushed deeply. 

“You gettin’ shy on me now?” he tapped your cheek, eyes twinkling. 

“Not used to seeing myself,” you mumbled sheepishly. Jeonghan’s ever lust-filled gaze was overtaken with a very deep, fundamental adoration. His smile became genuine - not teasing nor in feigned sympathy. Despite being the sexiest person he’d ever met, Jeonghan found you so severely cute in that moment, all heaved breaths and glossy lips and rosy cheeks.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, tapping your nose. The action would’ve been annoying were not entirely too fond of him at this moment. His eyes wandered, trailing down your collarbones and back to your cleavage. Then returned the lust: “Beautiful, pretty, gorgeous girl with big, bouncing fuckin’ tits.” 

His fascination with them was genuinely insane, but you thought he was pretty and sweet, so you let him marvel.

As if he could never get enough, he reached out one hand and cupped your tit again. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl and let me fuck your pretty tits?” Jeonghan asked, experimentally pressing the mounds together and licking his lips at the sight. He had to swallow (and he would never admit this) because the idea actually had him salivating. 

“Yes, Hannie,” you said sweetly, because although you really wanted his dick inside you, he had that twinkle in his eye that made your heart burst, and, indeed, you would do anything to keep the starlight blazing in his pupils. Jeonghan looked up with raised brows - this time, the surprise was not feigned. Swiftly, he grabbed your head and kissed you, deeply and appreciatively licking into your mouth. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, rowing the two of you away from the mirror-wall with his tongue down your throat. “Good fucking girl.” 

He pulled away from you, frantically looking around, and you simply waited for his command. He began to crawl onto the floor, lying down on the hard, sleek black flooring, resting on his elbows. 

“C’mere,” was all he said, and you sat down on top of him, confused. He wantonly pushed you by your shoulder so you rested further down, while he lifted his hip to free his cock. 

It was long and right by your fucking face. 

Impossibly pretty and pink near the tip, it oozed sticky, white liquid, dripping down the veiny side, and now you were salivating, because you almost wanted to take it in your mouth and suck his soul out. 

“Shit,” he groaned, studying your face next to his hard, heavy dick with a tortured expression on his face. It seemed his thoughts had traveled the same road as yours, because when he spoke, he said: “There’s so much I wanna do to you, doll. Give me another couple shifts, I’ll have your cum all over the fucking park.” 

Without another word, he leaned forward and grabbed each of your tits, hovering just below where his dick extended out, proud and tall like a gothic church. You helped by crawling further over his tan body, lying down on your stomach with your chest raised up. 

Jeonghan enclosed your tits around his dick, breath shaking and eyes blinking shut. The sounds he released were angelic, wetting and rewetting his fiery lips, and he struggled to keep his eyes open from the pleasure. He didn’t want to close them though, because the sight of you was insane. 

You were so pretty, smiling in adoration where you laid between his legs. Prettiest girl in the world, he thought, just letting him bounce your fat tits up and down his shaft like a good, obedient girl. Your rack was like a fucking cloud around him, jerking him off and spurting pre-cum on the already slick skin. 

“S-Shit, you’re so fucking- pretty-” he stuttered, breath trembling and face flushed. From every angle he saw you, perfect, pretty, cute and sweet you. Every version of you in the mirror was perfect, he realized, every copycat a perfect picture. 

“You’re pretty,” you mused, wrapping your hand around the lower part of his shaft where your tits didn’t quite reach and squeezing it. Jeonghan moaned, stammering the breathy noise. He gulped then. 

“I-I’m gonna cum, shit-” he sucked in a harsh breath. He could not believe how lovely you were, how witty and funny and sweet and how big your fucking tits were bouncing up and down around his cock. “C-Can I cum on them, baby?” 

“Of course, Hannie,” you obeyed sweetly, watching how he desperately bucked his hips upwards. Squeezing your hand around the base of his cock, you let out a final admission to help him cum: “Want you to cum on my tits, Hannie, want it so bad.”

Sure enough, it was that easy, because without warning long ropes of thick, white cum spurted into the valley of your breasts and climbed up to your collarbones and neck. Jeonghan cried out when he came, eyes finally squeezing totally shut and hips stuttering into your chest. He sounded angelic, even with his voice hoarse from the weed and grunting. 

You let him calm down, waited until his pants turned into soft, regular breaths, and released his now flaccid cock from your cleavage. 

“Oh shit, baby,” he sighed happily. “Come up here.” 

You crawled up to his chest, curling into his open arms and feeling him under your cheek. Your legs entangled on the funhouse floor, mirrors a little foggy from the sweat and the sex. It was perfect, lying in his chest, having him, knowing he wanted you and liked you. Perfectly timeless, you draped over each other limply. 

Or almost perfect. 

You wiggled your hips away from his body, hoping then he wouldn’t notice how you were still leaking from your poor, puffy hole. Jeonghan frowned when you did so, though, both hands grabbing your waist and tilting his head down to look at you. 

“What is it, baby?” he asked.

You looked away bashfully, shaking your head, but Jeonghan gripped your face in one hand, just as condescending as his thumb had been earlier: “You’re covered in my cum, baby. You’re not getting shy on me now. Tell Hannie what’s troubling you.” 

His voice was stern. You tightened your lips the best you could with his hand squeezing your cheeks together.

“I just..” you were embarrassed again, with how your words became muffled and slurred by his flexed hand. He paid it no mind though, looking at you intently to continue. 

“YouweresoprettyearlierIgotwetagain.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. From beyond the dark void, you heard Jeonghan laughing. You opened your eyes and he removed his hand from your face, instead brushing it through your hair lovingly. 

You were gonna get whiplash with how lovingly he looked at you, how sweetly and with so much wonder and adoration; and how it stood in such a stark contrast to the words that left his mouth: 

“Baby, you just get up and bounce your fat tiddies around a little bit, I promise you, I’ll get hard in the next five fucking minutes. Then you can get my cock in your cute, greedy pussy. How’s that sound?”

Really fucking good.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

König is, obviously, a big little freak. Do you think he'd feel flattered/lovestruck if a cute girl stalked and was obsessed with him or would he be weirded out? I think the first: for once he gets pussy and love without having to do anything. Also it'd be kinda funny if he didn't even notice his little admirer at first cause she doesn't register as a threat and he's too busy being broody and depressed cause he's so alone (while reader is in her apartment fantasizing about their future kids and drawing little hearts on a pic of him)

Ohhh yes. König being oblivious af, thinks this is simply a joke.

It started out in school: cute little postcards that had bunnies or kittens or flowers or hearts on them, delivered to him by his mom who was smirking about how her boy had a secret admirer. There was nothing fancy scribbled on the other side, just soft, silly messages like: "I like you!" or "Your cute" or "Luv u ♡", and König saved them all.

…Until he showed the postcards to the wrong “friends”, who only made fun of them. One of the boys told him they sent those cards to him as a joke because no girl could ever want him, and König believed them. Allowed himself one, maybe two tears in solitude before he threw those cards away.

What was odd, though, was that the cards still kept coming. He always threw them in the trash, and at some point while growing up, they stopped arriving. No cats or hearts or cute mice illustrations for him anymore, just loads of video games and internet and a growing interest in war history and gym.

He didn’t think much of it after the age of 17, just went to the army to make a man out of himself. Got laid for the first time, got bullied some more, grew some muscle and grew some balls. Got kicked out of sniper training, his one and only dream, and went back home to brood for a few weeks.

That’s when he received the letter.

A 5 page love letter, written in beautiful, whimsical handwriting, smelling of something so angelic that it drove even the eternal stench of gunpowder and rust and military storage away.

König gets plunged into a whole world of soft feminine attention without even asking to, the letter now placed on his old desk that’s too small for him to sit at anymore. The fragrant sheets of paper are filled with confessions of adoration and love and… it would be a little bit creepy, were he a man who fancied so-called normal women.

He goes to the attic, searching his old cardboard boxes for the postcards to compare the handwriting, but can’t find none, remembering that yeah… he threw all of them away, didn’t he? The handwriting wouldn’t match anyway, that much he can remember, but then again it was a kid who wrote to him back then. Now, his admirer is a grown woman who apparently got back on her obsession train once he visited his childhood home after years of living abroad.

The hair on his shins, arms and at the back of his neck shoots up as he realizes some woman has a crush on him, some cute girl has been watching him since day one. Those postcards weren’t a joke, so she must have gone to the same school as him… She might be the daughter of some of their neighbors, living right next to him even now.

König goes door to door in search of her, but only wrinkly elders arrive to tell him that no, they never had a daughter or granddaughter or if they had, they have long since moved out to some big city.

He goes through the letter once again but finds no clues to who she is or where she lives. It’s just pages and pages of flattery about how he’s still the man of her dreams and so much more. How he’s even cuter now that he looks like someone pissed in his cereal. She wonders if he’s built the same everywhere, and if he is, then she should say her evening prayers… Too many impure thoughts going through her head already, why does he have to be so handsome?

König is in hell, as always, desperately trying to look for his admirer when he goes out to take the trash. Visions of some girl touching herself at the thoughts of him pester him from sunrise to sunset, and he has to take a cold shower every morning simply because one wank doesn’t seem to be enough to tame the big fellow downstairs.

He hugs his pillow and dreams of his girl, someone sweet to wrap his arms around and to protect. He fantasizes of someone cute waiting for him, someone he could surprise every time he gets home, someone adorable to eat out until they sob and squirm. Until he gets the stench of death out of his mouth…

A message arrives on his phone from an unknown number, and at first he thinks it’s spam.

But when he opens the message, he’s met with two perfect bare breasts. So fucking cute, especially when they’re accompanied by a set of fingertips grazing her soft skin; König even notices she has red nail polish on. So adorably, incredibly cute…

There comes a text that says: “I thought of sending you another postcard, big boy… But perhaps you don't care for kittens anymore. Hopefully this will do? ❤️”

There’s no face reveal, just tits and a cute female hand laid out there before him. Just a text that confirms that she’s the one. Typing a quick reply, he sends it to the unknown number: “This will more than just do 😳❤️❤️❤️”

Without thinking, like, at all, he pulls out his already hard cock and takes a hurried picture of it with a trembling hand. He usually knows better than to send a dick pic to a girl, especially after exchanging less than two sentences with them. But hey, she started this. The least he can do is give her something to pray about (and for)..

So he sends that horrid picture of his ugly cock to his cute mystery girl before she can even type a reply to the first message, and asks: “Are we praying tonight, my lady?”